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Chapter Text

The moon was hidden behind a thick blanket of black clouds, snuffing out the universe’s shimmering light. It was the kind of night people instinctively avoided—the kind where shadows stretched longer and silence settled heavier. The kind of night where magic could move unseen, undisturbed by prying eyes.

It was perfect for completing secret plans.

And that was exactly what he needed. To be unseen. To finish this quickly, quietly—before the ache in his chest grew too strong, before he could change his mind.

He didn’t want to do this—every instinct screamed against it—but the war had left him no alternatives.

His enemies were closing in. His vision for the future, for magical dominance, for order—was threatened. He didn’t yet have the power to win. Not as he was. Not yet. So he had to change his strategy. Gather more strength. Claim more magic. Rise until no one dared oppose him.

He would do anything to protect his legacy.

Manipulate.
Torture.
Kill.

He wore a black cloak, the hood drawn low over his face. In his arms, he carried a little girl, no more than five. Her wild brown curls spilled over his robes, her round eyes closed in innocent sleep.

She looked so much like him.

His daughter. His little girl.

All of this—everything—was for her.

The order had already taken her mother. Murdered her in cold blood. His wife, his match, gone. He would not lose his daughter too. He could not .

He held the child tighter, pressing his face into her hair, breathing her in as if trying to absorb her. A soft kiss to her forehead. A whisper—no, a prayer—against her skin.

He would miss her.

His Hermione.

But she had to be safe. That mattered more than anything. More than his war. More than his heartache. More than himself.

That was why he needed power. Why he had to win. Why he had to stand at the top of the world—alone, if necessary.

He walked through a quiet Muggle neighborhood, his grip tightening with every step. He’d chosen this place carefully. No one would look for her here. Among Muggles. So simple, so mundane. The perfect hiding place.

A rare, bitter smirk tugged at his lips.

Time would be on his side.

They might look for her—but none would find her. Because he wasn’t just hiding her.

He was hiding her in time .

The spell was his own invention. It had cost him—more than most could imagine.The runes burned on his skin, hot as betrayal. The spell he’d crafted was old magic—personal magic. Magic that demanded sacrifice. But he would have given even more if it meant her safety. She was all he had left.

One day, when the war was over and he stood victorious, he would bring her back. He would make the world safe again—for her.

But first, he would conquer the Ministry of Magic. Cleanse it of weakness. Purge the corruption. Rebuild it in her name.

At the end of the street, he stopped in front of a modest home. A small, neat house with freshly painted shutters and a flower box on the porch. His wand rose silently. The front door clicked open without a sound.

Inside, the air was still. Safe. Ordinary.

He gently set Hermione down on the couch, tucking her cloak tighter around her small frame. His fingers lingered on her cheek, trembling only slightly.

He turned. There was much to do.

The door closed with a whisper, and his wand moved in a swift, deliberate dance. Layers of enchantments settled over the house: concealment, protection, forgetfulness. Magic flowed from him like blood from a wound—steady, endless, exhausting.

He moved down the hall and opened a bedroom door.

Inside were a young couple, newly married. Asleep in each other’s arms.

With precise movements, he raised his wand over them. Complex, invasive spells flowed from his fingertips—altering memories, implanting love, rewriting the fabric of their reality. They would believe Hermione was their daughter. They would feel it. They would protect her with their lives.

By the time he was done, sweat dripped down his face. His limbs shook. He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling slowly.

There was still more to do.

In the spare room, he transfigured the space into a child’s bedroom—simple, warm, comforting. Toys in the corner. A soft blanket on the bed. The illusion had to be complete.

Magic pulsed through his veins until his shirt clung to his skin. He was at his limit.

But he could not stop.

He returned to the living room, knelt beside the couch, and stroked Hermione’s curls.

One last time.

He lifted her gently and carried her to her new bed. With a flick of his wand, her robes melted into a nightdress.

Then came the hardest part.

He stared down at her—this small, beautiful child who meant more than the world.

His wand rose again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words like ash in his mouth.

Magic swirled in the air as he buried her memories—deep, far beyond reach. She would not remember him. She would not remember the truth.

He paused, breath hitching. His face, so often cold and unreadable, softened with grief.

Another spell. New memories. A quiet life. Warm laughter. Safety.

A single tear traced down his cheek as he finished. He brushed a kiss to her temple.

“I will come for you,” he whispered. “One day. I swear it.”

He stared at her for a long time, memorizing her. Branding her into his soul.

Then he turned and walked away.

Outside, he raised a sandglass. Its contents—golden, glittering—began to rise in reverse, grain by grain, up to the top.

He watched the house.

When the final grain clicked into place, golden mist coiled around him, snapping tight like a whip. It crackled in the air—and then collapsed in on itself.

And he was gone.

The next morning, the sun did not rise.

It tried—pale light pushing weakly through the dense clouds—but the sky remained draped in gray, heavy with sorrow. Rain fell in steady sheets, cold and unrelenting, like the earth itself was mourning.

Like the heavens wept for what had been lost.

Thunder rumbled low in the distance, more felt than heard. The streets were slick with water, gutters overflowing with the tears of a grieving father.

Inside a modest house, far from war and secrets, a child’s laughter broke through the gloom.

Tiny feet pounded down the hallway.
“Good morning!” came the delighted cry, high and bright.

The bedroom door flew open and a small girl launched herself onto the bed with wild energy, bouncing between the tangled sheets.

“Wake up! Mommy, Daddy! Wake up!”

Her parents groaned theatrically, smiling even as they blinked sleep from their eyes.

Her mother yawned and opened her arms. “Good morning, little princess!”

Hermione squealed and dove into her embrace, snuggling under her chin, her curls tickling her mother's face.

Her father sat up with a tired laugh. “You’ve got a lot of energy today.”

“Yup!” Hermione beamed, her entire face lighting up. “I dreamed I was a dragon.”

“Oh no!” her father gasped, pulling the covers over himself. “Did you breathe fire?”

“I did!” she giggled, “but only on the bad guys!”

Outside, thunder cracked—sharp and sudden—echoing the heartbreak of a man now lost in time.

Inside, warmth.

Her father swung his legs out of bed and stretched. “Alright, you fierce little dragon. Let’s brush those teeth before you melt us with morning breath.”

Hermione reached up instinctively, and he lifted her into his arms, cradling her like she weighed nothing. She tucked her head under his chin and clung to his shirt.

Her mother followed, humming softly to herself, a picture of quiet contentment.

They crowded into the small bathroom, bumping shoulders and laughing as they fumbled for toothpaste and brushes. Hermione stood on a little stool between them, foam bubbling at the corners of her mouth as she scrubbed with the focus only a five-year-old could have.

Her father winked at her in the mirror. Her mother kissed her curls.

In this house, love lived.

They did not see the rain as tears.
They did not feel the storm’s grief.
They didn’t know what had been sacrificed to give them this joy.

Outside, the sky wept for the daughter he had lost—
Inside, Hermione Granger laughed with the only family she’d ever known.

Chapter Text

Fifth year had been a long, grinding slog through hell.

Hermione was tired. Not the kind of tired sleep could fix — no, this exhaustion lived under her skin, etched into her bones. And beneath the weariness simmered anger. At the Ministry. At the world. At herself.

Her fists clenched at her sides as she wandered the near-empty halls of Hogwarts, the echo of her footsteps sharp against the old stones. Summer break was just weeks away, and already the corridors had lost their usual noise — laughter dulled, urgency gone. For most students, the end of the year meant peace.

But Hermione Granger was not most students.

Her thoughts spiraled back through the months — bitter, breathless, bloody months — and the weight of everything she’d done in secret. The lies, the fear, the long nights alone with only her wand and trembling hands for company.

Fifth year had been a war.

She and her friends had built something quiet and defiant in the face of Dolores Umbridge — the pink devil who had tried to strip their magic down to theory and obedience. The woman had gutted Hogwarts, poisoned it from the inside. Her curriculum was a mockery, designed for blind followers, not thinkers or fighters. Hermione had hated her from the start.

It had taken nearly the entire year, but they’d won. Umbridge was gone. Finally.

And yet, the victory felt hollow.

Hermione walked slowly, her hand brushing the rough stone wall beside her, grounding herself. She had no real destination. The castle had become a kind of maze lately — a place to be lost in, to think in. The quiet let her sort through everything she couldn't say aloud.

She had worked harder than she ever had before. She had studied until her vision blurred and her fingers cramped. Not schoolwork — that felt trivial now. She had buried herself in books on spellcraft, dueling tactics, magical theory, defense, strategy, even forbidden texts she would never admit to owning. Dark magic wasn’t something she wanted , but knowledge of it? That was power. That was survival.

And Hermione wanted to survive.

She couldn’t rely on Harry’s luck or Dumbledore’s timing. Not anymore. Voldemort was back — alive, stronger, bolder. And that made her a target. Not just because of her friendship with Harry, but because she was Muggleborn. Because she was smart. Because she was visible. And somewhere deep inside, she suspected it was for some other reason she couldn’t quite name — a strange pull, a sense of being watched by something bigger than war.

And she hated it.

She couldn’t control prophecy or politics. But she could control herself. So she did.

She trained in secret.
Every empty classroom became a battleground.
She drilled wand movements until her wrists ached.
She practiced casting silently, over and over, until the spells cracked like whips through the air.
She read until her eyes stung and her mind buzzed with borrowed knowledge.

And none of her friends knew how far she went. Not really. Not even Harry.

She became precise. Fast. Ruthless.
Because she had to be.

It had paid off — barely — the night they stormed the Department of Mysteries to save Sirius Black. That night had been chaos: cursed halls, Death Eaters in black masks, screaming spells, and the white-hot terror of watching people she loved bleed and fall.

She’d fought like hell.
Her training had helped.
But it hadn’t been enough.

A curse had torn across her side — she still remembered the pain, sharp and electric, like being flayed open by fire. Madam Pomfrey had healed it as best she could, but the scar remained. A jagged purple slash across her lower abdomen. A reminder.

Hermione paused in the middle of the corridor, one hand absently ghosting across the place where the scar lay beneath her uniform. She swallowed hard.

She had come so far. And it still hadn’t been enough.

The silence of the castle pressed in around her. Somewhere far off, a door creaked. A clock ticked. Her breath came quiet and steady, but her mind screamed.

They didn’t understand.
Not Harry. Not Ron.
No one knew how much she feared what was coming.
How angry it made her — to be left out, to be overlooked, to be forced into silence while the adults whispered secrets behind closed doors.

She deserved more than that.
She needed to be ready .

Hermione squared her shoulders and started walking again. Wandering, yes — but not aimlessly. She was always learning, always watching.

Let them think she was just a tired student, taking a stroll before exams.

Let them underestimate her .

It would be the last mistake they made.

Hermione turned the corner—and froze.

Just ahead, a familiar head of platinum-blond hair glinted in the torchlight. Draco Malfoy.

Her eyes narrowed. Her steps slowed. Her fingers curled around the base of her wand, sliding it free without a sound.

Just in case.

Draco looked up from where he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, sneer already waiting like a shield. His upper lip curled, nostrils flaring like a feral animal. His voice hit the air like a slap.

“Oh, if it isn’t the famous little Mudblood ,” he spat, venom dripping off every syllable.

Hermione didn’t flinch.

She raised her wand smoothly, her voice cold and razor-sharp. “I’d be careful what you say. You can’t exactly go crying to Daddy Lucius for protection. He’s a bit... indisposed in Azkaban.”

Draco’s sneer faltered. His shoulders stiffened, and for a beat, there was fear in his eyes.

“You wouldn’t want to do that, Mudblood,” he snapped, stepping back a pace. “You might end up there yourself.”

Hermione tilted her head, deadly calm. “I’d take my chances.”

She smiled. “Go ahead. Call me that again.”

The corner of Draco’s mouth twitched. He puffed out his chest, as if daring himself not to be afraid. “ Mudblood. ”

Hermione cracked her neck, rolled her shoulders, and gave him a slow, satisfied smile. “Good choice.”

Her wand flicked upward.

“Avis.”

Golden birds exploded into being around her, fluttering and chirping in a chaotic cloud of feathers and glinting wings. They wheeled through the air, circling her like sentries.

Draco blinked. “Birds?” he said, bewildered, scoffing. “Is that supposed to scare—”

Hermione didn’t answer. She sliced her wand downward.

The birds shrieked.

They shot forward like arrows, a golden swarm of righteous fury.

Draco screamed— actually screamed —and bolted down the hall, flailing wildly as he swatted at the magical birds divebombing his hair and ears.

Hermione followed at a calm, measured pace, her footsteps echoing behind him.

“I warned you, Malfoy,” she called, almost sweetly. “Now I’m going to teach you some manners.”

“Get them off me!” Draco wailed, dodging wildly as the birds pecked and screeched and chased him like vengeful spirits. His hair was a mess, his robes flapping behind him like a deflated cape.

He sprinted blindly through the corridor, breath ragged, until—yes. There.

A door shimmered into being across from a faded tapestry of trolls in tutus. The Room of Requirement. Without thinking, he hurled it open and dove inside, slamming it behind him.

Silence.

The hallway went still, save for the soft flutter of feathers as Hermione dismissed the birds with a flick of her wand.

She stepped up to the door and exhaled through her nose, amused.

“The Room of Requirement,” she murmured, eyes gleaming. “Oh Malfoy... you’ve just made my day.”

Not many students even knew about this place. Which meant—

They would be completely alone.

Perfect.

A slow, predatory grin unfurled across her lips as she reached out and pushed the door open. The room responded instantly, revealing a vast, chaotic jungle of forgotten things: the Room of Hidden Things . Broken furniture, ancient cabinets, towering piles of neglected secrets.

And somewhere in that maze... a boy with more pride than brains.

Hermione stepped inside, closed the door gently behind her, and let her smile sharpen.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are...”

Hermione moved deeper into the Room of Requirement, eyes sharp, ears straining for even a hint of spoiled whining or expensive shoe leather against stone.

“Malfoy,” she sang sweetly, wand still drawn. “Come out and take your punishment like a pureblood.”

No answer—just the faint creak of something shifting in the clutter.

Hermione stepped carefully between towering stacks of dusty books and rusted cauldrons, ducking beneath the broken leg of a shattered piano. Her boots crunched on old paper and dry wood as she wove through the forgotten hoard of a thousand years’ worth of misplaced magic.

Somewhere in the distance, she heard a stifled sob and the unmistakable thump of someone tripping over a box.

“Are you crying?” she called out, delighted. “Oh Draco, you really are softer than your hair routine.”

A muffled scream echoed back. “This place is cursed! Something touched me!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It was probably guilt.”

She pressed forward through the maze, wand glowing at her side. But as she passed between two towering wardrobes, she felt it—a ripple in the air. Subtle. Electric.

She slowed.

The chase faded from her mind. Malfoy’s footsteps and wailing became background noise.

There was something here.

A strange hum thrummed beneath her skin, growing louder with each step. Magic. Ancient. Seductive. It pulled at her like a thread tied to her bones.

Her breath hitched.

Left. Her feet turned before she could question it.

Deeper. Her pace quickened.

The clutter began to part without her effort, objects shifting aside, clearing a path lined with glinting shadows and half-seen shapes. She didn’t notice her fingers lowering the tip of her wand, didn’t realize her lips had parted slightly, her eyes growing unfocused.

Then she saw it.

Sitting atop a high wooden bust, gleaming faintly in the dim light—

A tiara.

Delicate. Silver. Ancient. And carved with strange, curling runes that shimmered like starlight.

Hermione stepped closer.

Magic radiated from it in warm pulses, like a heartbeat. Golden strands of energy coiled through the air, threading between stacks of books and weaving into her skin.

She should’ve questioned it.
She should’ve been afraid.
But all she heard was a voice.

Soft. Hissing. Familiar.

Come home.
You’ve always belonged to us.
Take it. We’ll be whole again.

Hermione blinked slowly. Her eyes were glazed, her limbs weightless.

You are ours.
Ours.
Ours.

Her hand rose toward the diadem, fingertips trembling as the magic coiled tighter. Golden threads now bloomed in the air around her, glowing like sunlight on water, binding her wrist, guiding her closer.

Somewhere in the distance, Draco screamed again—panicked, echoing, ridiculous.

“THE BIRDS ARE BACK—WHY ARE THE BIRDS BACK?!”

Hermione didn’t hear him.

The magic sang. The hissing grew louder, wrapping around her spine, curling behind her eyes. It wasn’t painful. It was warm. It felt like arms around her shoulders. Like a memory she didn’t know she’d lost.

Yes.
Touch it.
Come back to us.

Her fingers grazed the cold silver.

The golden threads snapped taut around her hand, binding her wrist like a shackle made of sunlight.

And then—
The world exploded.

Gold mist burst outward in a spiral, sweeping through the room like fire through dry grass. It wrapped around her body in glowing bands, crawling over her shoulders, her face, her chest.

Hermione gasped—but she didn’t pull away.

The mist tightened. Cracked. Snapped inward.

And then—

She was gone.

The diadem remained, faintly glowing.

In the distance, Draco finally stumbled into a wall and collapsed, sobbing, “ I hate Hogwarts. ”

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy was tall for his age—unreasonably so, some might argue. His posture was so upright it might have been carved in marble, and his long, deliberate stride suggested someone who had never once tripped over a shoelace. He hadn’t, of course. Malfoys did not stumble.

He was a head taller than most of the other fifth-years, which only added to the sense that he was already halfway to adulthood while everyone else was still figuring out which end of the quill to use. His platinum-blond hair, always meticulously combed and charmed into place, gleamed under the flickering torchlight. Pale grey eyes surveyed the corridor with the polite disinterest of someone who had already decided nothing in it was worth his time.

Yes, he stood out. Always had. It was the Malfoy look—carved cheekbones, sharp jaw, a perpetual expression of faint disdain. A walking family portrait.

Which meant everyone always knew who he was, whether he wanted them to or not. Most days, he didn't mind. There was convenience in being instantly respected—or feared, depending on the crowd—but sometimes, just sometimes, it was exhausting.

He moved with precision down the corridor outside the Great Hall, robes swishing just so, not a pleat out of place. Every step measured. Every breath considered. He was on his way to meet his fellow Slytherins, where he'd spend the next half hour making small talk about exam results and who’d gotten caught hexing a Hufflepuff under the library table. It was the polite thing to do. Expected.

And everything was always about expectations.

Being a Malfoy meant never slouching. Never raising your voice. Never appearing too eager, too foolish, too anything. He didn’t have to be top of his class, didn’t need to be Head Boy. All he needed was the perfect appearance, the perfect reputation, the perfect mask.

One day soon, he would take over the Malfoy estate and all the responsibilities that came with it: ancient vaults, diplomatic ties, carefully curated power. He was betrothed to Andromeda Black—one of the few matches his father approved of—and he would marry her. He would become Lord Malfoy. He would do everything expected of him.

Lucius reached the tapestry of trolls in tutus and slowed his pace. Their embroidered limbs flailed in time to a soundless ballet, absurd and dignified all at once.

He glanced around. Empty corridor. No prying eyes.

Good.

He stopped and leaned against the cool stone wall—just enough to take the pressure off his spine without sacrificing decorum. His back still didn’t touch the wall. That would wrinkle his robes.

He exhaled. A small thing. A quiet sigh that deflated the perfect posture just slightly. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers parting the strands before smoothing them back down again.

He didn’t mind the pressure. Truly, he didn’t. He’d been raised to carry it—had been groomed for duty since he was old enough to walk without tripping on his dress robes. What bothered him was something else.

He was lonely.

Hideously, quietly lonely.

His mother had died giving birth to him—something no one ever spoke of directly but which hung around his childhood like the scent of old flowers. His father, when he was present, was a force of command and precision. Not warmth. Certainly not affection. And his governess, for all her lessons in posture and etiquette, had never once asked him what he wanted for his birthday.

Lucius tilted his head toward the trolls, watching their stitched tutus swirl. They danced on, oblivious and ridiculous.

He knew how he looked—how people saw him: cold, elegant, untouchable. And maybe that was true. Maybe that was who he had to be.

But it would have been nice, just once, to have someone look at him and not see a Malfoy.

Just Lucius.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let his shoulders drop a fraction further.

Then, with a breath, he stood upright again, smoothing his robes, brushing away the hint of humanity.

He turned and resumed his walk to the Great Hall, spine straight, footsteps precise.

Back to expectations.

Back to being who he was supposed to be.

Just as Lucius stepped toward the corner of the corridor, a loud creeeeeaaaak echoed behind him—followed by a door slamming violently shut.

He froze.

There were no doors in this hallway.

He spun on his heel.

A woman had appeared.

From nowhere .

Lucius blinked, thoroughly alarmed. She was not a student. Certainly not anyone he recognized. Her wild brown curls tumbled over her shoulders in an untamed mane, frizzing at the ends like she’d been struck by lightning—or had become lightning.

She wore a soft pink jumper. And trousers.

Trousers.

Lucius’s brain short-circuited for a moment. Women didn’t wear trousers. Not proper ones. Not in Hogwarts. Not ever .

“Bloody ferret!” she screeched, turning in a slow circle with wild eyes. “Malfoy! I’m not done with you!”

Lucius instinctively took a step back. She was armed. And loud. And dangerously unbothered by social norms.

Her gaze landed on him. She grinned.

Like a lioness spotting dinner.

“Oh good, you’re still here,” she said, tone falsely sweet. Her eyes sparked with manic purpose.

Lucius didn't even have time to open his mouth before she stomped toward him—loud, determined steps echoing in the empty corridor.

He took a reflexive step back. And then another. Until his back hit cold stone.

“Draco,” she growled, pressing her wand to his throat, “it’s time you learned some bloody manners .”

Lucius blinked, lips parting in confusion and—perhaps—faint panic. Her hand slapped flat against his chest, pinning him with shocking strength for someone so small. His heart jumped. He tried to raise his arms but thought better of it. His brain screamed decorum. His body was considering other ideas.

“I... am not Draco,” Lucius said carefully, his voice smooth and low, like speaking to an unstable hippogriff. “I’m Lucius.”

The woman narrowed her eyes.

Then leaned in.

Far too close.

Lucius’s breath caught. Her curls brushed his jaw. Her palm was still pressed to his chest, warm through the fabric of his robes. Her nose was almost touching his.

She squinted at him. “Hmm. Oh.”

Her lips quirked.

“Well, if it isn’t Daddy Lucius.”

Lucius audibly gasped.

A shudder shot down his spine.

And—Merlin help him—his trousers suddenly grew less comfortable.

He stared at her, appalled and fascinated in equal measure. “I... beg your pardon?”

She grinned wider. “Don’t play coy. Same blond hair. Same superior sneer. Same ‘I-own-ten-manors-and-a-dozen-house-elves’ vibe. Definitely Daddy Lucius.”

Lucius opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

“I assure you, Miss… whatever-you-are… I am not anyone’s—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” she said, holding up a finger. “You’ll ruin it for me.”

Her eyes flared again with righteous fury as she stepped back, only to jab her wand in the air. “Now tell me where your ferret-faced son is hiding so I can hex the smugness off his pointy little nose.”

Lucius stared. “I… do not have a son.”

The woman blinked at him.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “I’ve done something stupid, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” Lucius said immediately.

She pointed at him, eyes wide with dawning realization. “You’re young .”

He frowned. “I am fifteen.”

Hermione dropped her wand and clutched her head with both hands. “Oh my God. Time travel. Again?! Are you kidding me?! I told Dumbledore, no more mysterious magical objects without labels!”

Lucius tilted his head. “You’re mad. ”

“ Possibly. ” she said brightly. “I haven’t had tea yet, and I just chased your future son through a room full of cursed debris. And then got emotionally kidnapped by a crown. So honestly? Not my best morning.”

Lucius had no idea what to do with any of this.

“Also,” she added, “I think I might’ve insulted your fashion choices.”

He looked down at himself—crisp black robes, emerald green trim, pristine buttons.

“You look like you’ve never slouched in your life,” she added.

“I haven’t,” he said stiffly.

“Yeah. That tracks.”

She stared at him for a beat longer, then patted his chest absently. “You’re prettier than I expected.”

Lucius cleared his throat. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome, Daddy Lucius.”

Lucius whimpered.

Lucius was still frozen, his mind desperately trying to recalibrate, when a familiar voice rang out from down the corridor.

“Miss—oh dear, Miss—what is going on here?”

Hermione blinked and turned just as Professor Slughorn waddled into view, cheeks flushed and mustache quivering. His eyes darted between her and Lucius, who was now pressed against the wall like he’d been caught in a duel, or worse—an unchaperoned conversation with a girl.

“Oh thank Merlin, an adult,” Hermione muttered under her breath.

Slughorn adjusted his robes and approached cautiously, eyeing the scene like it might explode. “Miss…? I don’t believe you’re one of my students. Are you… a Beauxbatons transfer? Or perhaps—er—a misdirected apparition accident?”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it. “That’s... actually a fair question.”

“Do you have a name, dear?” Slughorn asked gently, but with a wary glance toward the still-stunned Lucius, who was blinking like he’d seen a banshee in lip gloss.

Hermione straightened her shoulders. “Hermione Granger.”

Slughorn went very still.

Lucius's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.

Slughorn cleared his throat. “Miss Granger. That is a… very unusual name. And you say you’re here for young Mr. Malfoy’s—er—disciplinary correction?”

Hermione glanced at Lucius, then back to Slughorn. “Temporarily postponed.”

Slughorn gave a nervous chuckle and patted her shoulder like she might combust if left unattended. “Yes, well. I think it’s best we get you to the Headmaster. Right away. This is... rather above my pay grade.”

Lucius finally spoke, voice faint and strained. “She called me Daddy Lucius. ”

Slughorn blinked, then looked deeply like he regretted asking questions at all. “Right. Right then. Headmaster Dumbledore it is.”

Hermione gave Lucius a cheery little wave as she turned to go. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll meet again. Daddy Lucius.”

Lucius made a strangled noise.

Slughorn gently steered her away, muttering under his breath about magic mishaps and why do these things always happen near exam season —

And just like that, Hermione Granger disappeared around the corner, leaving Lucius Malfoy alone in the hall with a heartbeat he didn’t trust and trousers he suddenly deeply regretted tailoring so snugly.

Chapter Text

Hermione followed Professor Slughorn through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, her boots tapping softly on the flagstones. The castle looked the same—eerily so. Same flickering torches, same floating dust motes in the light, same smell of old stone and parchment. And yet… it didn’t feel the same.

Her eyes darted to every portrait they passed, half-expecting them to shout something ridiculous like, “You're two decades too early, dear!” But they only yawned or dozed or offered lazy nods, oblivious to the wrongness humming through her.

Slughorn waddled ahead with a kind of awkward dignity, robes billowing slightly with each step. She didn’t trust him—not yet—but he felt like Hogwarts. That helped. She didn’t think she’d ever met him before, but he radiated that old-school “blustering-but-mostly-harmless” vibe that gave her enough courage not to bolt in the opposite direction.

Which left her alone with her thoughts.

And that was a problem.

She was trying to make sense of everything—how she’d gotten here, why she hadn’t imploded from paradoxes yet, and why Lucius Malfoy had looked at her like she was an unexpected equation rather than something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

And Merlin, he was pretty.

No. Bad thought. Dangerous thought.

She bit the inside of her cheek and kept walking.

He wasn’t Draco—not exactly. The resemblance was uncanny, but his face wasn’t twisted with contempt. Just cold. Polished. Like a statue that had never been kissed. Which, judging by his reaction, might very well be true.

She shivered slightly and wrapped her arms around herself.

Something was wrong inside her.

Ever since she touched that tiara— diadem, her mind corrected automatically—something had shifted. It was like there was a foreign pressure in her chest, not painful, but constant. A pulsing weight curled just beneath her ribs, like a second heartbeat that wasn’t hers. Emotions that didn’t belong to her surfaced in fits and starts—anger that came too fast, confidence that felt rehearsed, like slipping into someone else’s skin.

Her stride had changed. She walked with more certainty. Her hands moved differently, with control rather than habit. Her voice had held an edge with Lucius—sharp and effortless. Too effortless.

It scared her.

Not enough, though. That was the worst part.

She should be panicking. Screaming. Crying. She’d time-traveled, for Circe’s sake, and instead of having a proper mental breakdown, she’d flirted with Draco's father and threatened him at wand point.

She pressed a hand to her chest, fingers splaying across her jumper. The strange weight inside her pulsed once—warm and firm, like it approved of the chaos.

“Stop it,” she muttered under her breath.

Slughorn glanced back. “Did you say something, my dear?”

“No,” she replied quickly. “Just thinking out loud.”

“Ah,” he said, puffing with exertion as they ascended another staircase. “Thinking is good. But do try not to think yourself into a paradox. Very messy things, paradoxes.”

Hermione didn’t laugh. She wanted to. She even knew the joke was solid.

But her skin didn’t feel like her own.

You’re different now.

The thought came unbidden. Not her voice.

She tried to focus. She needed a plan. Needed to stay rational. She needed to find out when she was, how she could get home, and whether or not kissing Lucius Malfoy would destroy the timeline or just her soul.

Absolutely not, she told herself firmly. Not kissing him.

Still… he was very polite under pressure.

She shook her head to clear it, curls bouncing around her face. No more distractions. No more weird thoughts.

Especially not the ones that weren’t hers.

They reached the stone gargoyle sooner than Hermione expected. Professor Slughorn cleared his throat and offered a password with all the subtlety of a man trying to impress a carpet.

“Candied pineapple.”

The gargoyle sprang aside.

Hermione followed Slughorn onto the spiraling staircase, heart thudding with every step upward. That odd pulse in her chest stirred again, coiling low in her belly like smoke. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. But it felt… defensive. Coiled. Watchful.

He will not help you, the voice whispered. Not hers. Not in tone. But woven with a truth that made her spine tighten.

She shook it off.

She was used to trusting Dumbledore. Even when she questioned him, even when she disagreed, there was always the foundation of belief—faith, almost—that he had good reasons. That he was kind. Wise. Steady.

So why did this feel wrong?

The door at the top of the stairs creaked open, and there he was.

Albus Dumbledore.

He looked the same—half-moon glasses, long silver beard, swirling robes that managed to look both old and majestic. His blue eyes flicked over her with cool curiosity. There was no familiar twinkle. Just calculation.

“Ah,” he said softly. “You’ve brought me… a guest.”

Hermione opened her mouth to greet him, but Slughorn blustered ahead.

“Headmaster, this young lady claims to be a student, but not our student. She appeared rather suddenly in the corridor near the Troll Tapestry, and—well—she's made quite the impression already.”

“She called me Daddy Lucius,” came a faint voice from behind them.

Hermione turned to see Lucius lingering awkwardly in the doorway, looking like he’d aged five years in five minutes. He caught her eye and immediately looked away, ears pinking.

Dumbledore raised a single eyebrow. “How… curious.”

“I can explain,” Hermione said quickly. “I was in the Room of Requirement. I was chasing Draco Malfoy—long story—and I touched a tiara. Then there was this gold mist and… I ended up here.”

Dumbledore regarded her for a moment longer than was polite.

“A tiara?” he asked mildly.

“Yes. It looked—ancient. It was on a bust. I touched it and…” She gestured helplessly around the room. “Now I’m here.”

He didn’t ask any follow-up questions. Didn’t blink. Just folded his hands neatly on the desk in front of him.

“I see,” he said.

Hermione waited for something else—for the soft tone, the gentle twinkle, the offer of tea. But none came.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair and gave her a small, reserved smile. “Miss…?”

“Granger,” she supplied. “Hermione Granger.”

“Indeed. Miss Granger, while I appreciate your attempt to explain your appearance, you must understand that Hogwarts is not a playground. We do not tolerate uninvited intrusions, magical accidents or no. The castle is not a revolving door for wandering witches.”

Hermione blinked. “I’m not wandering . I told you, I was a student here—I am a student. Just… not in this timeline.”

Dumbledore’s lips twitched slightly at the word, but it wasn’t amusement. It was irritation.

“And yet, you have no proof. No Head of House. No wand registration. No guardian.”

“My guardian is in another time!” she snapped. 

“You’re still trespassing.”

Hermione recoiled slightly. “ Trespassing? ”

“I am very busy, Miss Granger. I do not have time to chase phantom claims and mysterious time travelers with questionable origins. So.” He stood slowly, robes swishing around his ankles. “Let us make things simple. We’ll determine your lineage, and then decide whether you belong here—or elsewhere.”

Hermione’s mouth opened. Then shut again. This wasn’t how Dumbledore acted. He was usually calm, yes, but warm . Kind. Comforting. Not like this. Not cold. Not clinical.

He is not your friend, the voice murmured again. Louder this time. Sharper.

Dumbledore raised his wand.

Hermione stiffened. “Wait—what kind of spell are you doing?”

“A simple genealogical trace. Nothing painful,” he added, as if that was supposed to help.

Dumbledore studied her as though she were a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

“Well, Miss Granger. If you are who you say you are, you shouldn’t object to a simple truth spell.”

His wand glowed faintly as he pointed it toward her heart.

“Invenire Originem.”

A golden thread of light wound outward from his wand, curling around Hermione like a ribbon. She watched, breath held, as it coiled tighter and tighter before snapping in the air with a bright, white pulse.

The light flared into letters, forming words above her head.

Hermione Riddle
Daughter of Tom Marvolo Riddle

The silence in the room was thunderous.

Hermione stared up at the glowing letters, chest tight, breath gone.

“No,” she whispered.

The pulse in her chest flared again—stronger this time. Not angry. Not scared.

Pleased.

There you are, the voice said. Warm. Possessive.

Dumbledore lowered his wand, gaze unreadable.

“Well,” he said coolly, “I suppose that answers that.”

Hermione stared up at the glowing letters—at the name Riddle burning in the air like it had been carved into her skin.

“No,” she whispered. “No, that’s—That’s wrong. That has to be wrong.”

But the letters didn’t change. They shimmered once more—final, absolute—and then dissolved into golden dust.

A strange, foreign warmth bloomed in her chest. Comforting. Safe.

Ours, the voice inside her cooed. You are home now. Breathe, little one.

But Hermione’s breathing was anything but calm.

Her lungs seized. Her chest tightened. Her knees gave out and she dropped into the nearest chair like her bones had liquefied. Her hands flew to her sternum, pressing hard against the rapid thump of her heart as if she could crush the panic before it consumed her.

Her thoughts raced.

Riddle?
Tom Riddle?
Voldemort?

No.” Her voice cracked. “That isn’t possible.”

Be still, the voice urged, turning sharper, trying to wrap her mind in velvet. You are safe. We are strong. We are meant for this.

“Shut up!” Hermione snapped aloud, voice high and cracking.

Professor Slughorn jumped, clearly uncertain whether she was yelling at him or the Headmaster—or perhaps the air itself.

Dumbledore, however, didn’t flinch. He simply turned away, moving to the fireplace with the same graceful calm he always used when preparing tea. Except this time, there was no tray. No offer. No gentle wisdom.

He reached for the small bowl of green powder on the mantle.

“I suppose there’s no point in delaying, then,” he said blandly, as if this were all terribly inconvenient. “Time is a valuable resource, and I imagine he will want to know.”

Slughorn blinked. “You mean—you’re going to tell him? ”

Lucius, still hovering awkwardly near the door, let out a disbelieving scoff. “Wait—you’re calling Tom Riddle ?”

“I see no alternative,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “It would be unwise to keep secrets from him. Especially ones that bleed.”

He tossed the powder into the fire and leaned forward.

“Tom?” he called into the flames. “It seems I’ve found your daughter. You’ll want to come collect her.”

Hermione gasped, breath hitching painfully in her throat.

No. No, no, not him. Not Tom. Not Voldemort. Not—

The voice inside her tried again, firmer now, wrapping invisible arms around her thoughts.

You do not need to be afraid. He will understand. He has always protected what is his.

“Stop—stop talking! ” she hissed through gritted teeth, clutching her chest harder. Her fingers curled into the wool of her jumper, nails biting through fabric into skin.

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Her mind was splitting —one part screaming in horror, the other calm, certain, wrong.

Across the room, Dumbledore dusted his hands and turned, watching her like she was an insect under glass.

“I had no idea Tom had a daughter,” he said dryly. “One would think that sort of thing would have come up sooner.”

Slughorn still looked faintly scandalized. “Merlin’s beard. A child? That can’t be right. He never mentioned—well, anything of the sort!”

Lucius moved slowly, almost cautiously, toward the chair Hermione had collapsed into. His usual mask of elegant disinterest had cracked—just slightly. His silver eyes were tight with confusion and something close to concern.

“Are you… alright?” he asked, voice low and unusually tentative.

Hermione didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her eyes were wild, unfocused, flicking between the floor and her shaking hands. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Just breath. Shallow, panicked, choking air.

The pulse in her chest throbbed again, but she shoved it down with sheer will. Her own voice— her voice—rose above the influence like a scream in a storm.

This isn’t right. None of this is right.

And still Dumbledore watched her, lips curled faintly. Like he already knew how the rest of this would play out. Like he enjoyed watching her come apart.

“Take your time,” he said silkily. “We wouldn’t want you to faint before Daddy arrives.”

Hermione looked up—eyes wide, stricken, shimmering.

And for the first time in her life, she was afraid of Albus Dumbledore.

The voice in Hermione’s mind curled tighter around her thoughts like smoke in her lungs.

Calm, little one. Breathe. He’s coming. He will protect us.

Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow bursts. Her fingers gripped the arms of the chair, white-knuckled. The world felt too loud—Slughorn chattering, Lucius shifting, the crackle of the fireplace echoing like thunder.

And Dumbledore. Watching her with those cold, glittering eyes like she was some experiment gone sideways.

Hermione stared at him, her terror blooming into hatred. This was not the man she’d grown up trusting. He felt… wrong. Like something had turned inside him and hadn’t turned back.

The voice whispered again, sweet and low.

He will come. You are not alone. You are never alone.

Lucius cleared his throat, awkwardly adjusting his cuffs as he shifted from foot to foot. His usual self-assured posture had wilted under the weight of the room’s tension. He looked at Hermione, then quickly away, unsure of what to do with the image of a girl unraveling in real time.

Professor Slughorn, on the other hand, seemed delighted.

“Tom has a daughter!” he beamed, stroking his mustache in fascination. “And such an intelligent-looking one, too! No wonder—well, of course, the talent must run in the family. I do wonder why she’s not one of my students. A true loss for the Slug Club.”

Hermione barely heard him. Her eyes were locked on the hearth, where the emerald flames had begun to churn, swirling upward like a whirlpool ready to spit something out.

He’s coming, the voice hummed. He is ours. We are his. Finally, we are whole.

Then the flames exploded outward in a flash of green, and a tall figure stepped through.

The room fell silent.

Tom Riddle emerged from the fireplace like a storm on two feet—polished boots clicking once against the stone, black robes sweeping behind him like a second shadow. His face was youthful still, no sign of serpentine features, no red eyes. Just a man in his prime. Handsome. Impossibly composed.

He looked at Dumbledore first, expression unreadable.

“Albus,” he said, voice like velvet over glass.

Then he turned his head slowly, scanning the room with measured interest—until his gaze landed on Hermione.

He stopped.

His eyes—dark, bottomless, terrifying in their intensity—narrowed just slightly.

Hermione went still.

Her stomach dropped straight through the floor. The voice in her head surged, panicked now, insistent.

There. He’s here. Safe. Ours. Calm—calm—calm—

But she couldn’t calm down.

She couldn’t move.

Every hair on her body stood on end. Her blood ran cold. Her lips parted in a silent, shattered gasp.

Tom’s gaze sharpened.

He moved toward her with unhurried grace, his steps precise. Calculated. His expression betrayed nothing, but something flickered behind his eyes. Recognition. A question he hadn’t expected to ask himself.

Hermione pressed herself deeper into the chair, her body rigid. Her heart thundered against her ribs, loud enough to hear. The voice inside her grew desperate, a whispered chant—

He will protect you—he will—he will—

Then Tom reached out and placed his hand gently on her shoulder.

And everything shattered.

A pulse of magic burst through Hermione’s chest like a breath of wind.

The blue mist coiled out of her—a glowing orb, soft and spectral, spinning slowly between them. It hovered for a heartbeat of impossible stillness, pulsing like a star caught mid-birth.

Tom inhaled sharply, his eyes widening a fraction.

Then the orb shot forward, straight into his chest.

Tom flinched—his eyes snapping shut for the briefest second, his entire body tensing as the magic slid into him like a forgotten memory returning to its source.

Hermione gasped.

Their eyes locked.

And in that single instant, they both knew .

A piece of him had lived inside her.

And now it was home.

No one else moved. No one else saw. To Slughorn and Lucius, it was just an awkward silence, a girl trembling, a man standing too close.

But to Hermione—it was everything.

Too much.

Her vision blurred. Her ears rang. Her body betrayed her, the adrenaline giving out all at once.

She swayed.

Tom’s hand barely twitched, like he might catch her.

But it was too late.

Hermione collapsed backward into the chair, unconscious, a breathless whisper falling from her lips as she fell—

“…no…”

The room went still again.

And Dumbledore’s smile, sharp and thin, returned.

Chapter Text

Tom did not move at first.

He stood still as Hermione collapsed into the chair, her breath a broken whisper. His hands twitched at his sides, aching to reach for her. But he didn’t. Not yet.

He couldn’t.

Albus was watching.

Tom schooled his features into neutrality, not allowing a flicker of emotion to betray him. But inside—inside, he was burning.

She shouldn’t be here.

He had hidden her ten years ago, folded her into a safer time, locked her childhood away behind layers of protective wards and spells most wizards would never comprehend. She was his secret. His reason. His weakness—and his greatest strength.

And now she was back, thrown before Dumbledore like some lost parcel.

Not part of the plan.

Not safe.

Tom’s jaw clenched as he glanced around the room. The tension behind his eyes sharpened when they met Albus’s smile—smug, cruel, a little too pleased with Hermione’s collapse.

Disgusting.

He would deal with him. Later.

For now—his daughter.

Tom stepped forward with deliberate calm, every motion smooth and composed. He crouched and gently lifted Hermione into his arms, cradling her like something sacred, something breakable. She sagged against his chest, unconscious, light as a secret.

Her hair smelled the same.

He turned to the fireplace, adjusting her weight with careful precision.

Lucius Malfoy lingered near the edge of the room, uncertain. Tom met the boy’s pale eyes for a split second and filed him away like a stray bookmark: curious. Observant. Possible.

Slughorn shifted his bulk nervously. “Headmaster, is she—?”

Tom cut across him with a polite nod and a flat smile. “Thank you for informing me of her.”

Dumbledore’s voice was mild, but the steel beneath it was obvious. “Should I expect her back next term?”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” he said quietly. And nothing more.

He turned his head, pressing his cheek to Hermione’s curls for the briefest second before reaching for the bowl on the mantle. He took a fistful of Floo powder, stepped into the hearth, and tossed the words into the flames.

“Riddle Estate.”

The fire flared green—and they vanished.

The room was quiet when they arrived.

Tom stepped out of the fireplace into the receiving chamber of Riddle Manor—spare, elegant, cold in its perfection. The floors gleamed obsidian beneath his boots; the air smelled faintly of polished wood, parchment, and lavender.

He inhaled once, deeply. Not to calm himself—but to remember.

Ten years.

He had almost convinced himself he would never see her again.

He pulled Hermione tighter against his chest and bent his head, resting his chin on her hair.

Mine.

Then he straightened, his mask of calm slipping slightly at the corners. His steps were brisk as he moved through the manor. Past the quiet library. Down the long hall lined with silent portraits—blank canvases enchanted to hide from guests. Past locked doors.

Into his bedroom.

Here, the cold elegance softened. There were shadows in the corners, books stacked in strange order. The bed was too large for one person. The curtains were always drawn.

Tom laid her gently on the coverlet, adjusting her limbs like he was handling a spell too delicate to speak aloud. She didn’t stir. Her face was pale, lashes dark against her skin. Older than he remembered. But still her.

Still his.

He sat beside her and reached out, brushing a trembling hand against her cheek.

She looked so much like him. And yet… not.

The questions began to swirl.

How had she come back?

How had she found the diadem?

Had she been alone all these years?

His expression didn’t change, but his chest ached. Somewhere beneath the years of war and strategy and careful detachment, something small and furious and human twisted.

She brought my soul back to me.

His fingers curled loosely in her curls. She hadn’t even known what she carried. And still she had protected it. Kept it safe inside her, like a heart within a heart.

And she was afraid of him.

That thought nearly undid him.

She shouldn’t remember.

He had ensured that.

And yet… the way she’d looked at him—wild-eyed, pale with fear—he would never forget it.

He lay down beside her, careful not to touch her. He stared at her face in the quiet, letting his mask fall away for the first time in a decade.

The real Tom. The father.

He drank her in with reverence.

She was beautiful. Not just pretty—extraordinary. Her presence filled the room in ways that frightened him. He had always known she would be powerful. How could she not be?

She was his daughter.

His heir.

His reason for everything.

“I’ve missed so much,” he whispered, almost soundlessly. “But I have you now.”

And he would not let her go again.

Ever.

He watched her breathe until dawn.

Tom hadn’t slept.

He sat in the armchair by the bed, unmoving, watching as morning crept through the tall, arched windows of the manor and painted Hermione’s face in gold. The fire in the hearth had long since burned low, casting only the faintest warmth across the stone floor.

Her breathing had steadied hours ago, but her brow remained furrowed in sleep.

Even unconscious, she was afraid.

He had not touched her again. Could not bear to. The weight of her fear pressed against him like iron chains. It was the one thing in this world he had never wanted from her. Never expected.

She stirred.

Tom sat up straighter, breath catching, hands tightening where they rested against the arms of the chair.

Her eyes fluttered open.

For one perfect moment, she looked confused—young, dazed, soft with sleep.

Then recognition dawned.

And everything shattered.

Hermione bolted upright, scrambling backward across the bed. Her breath hitched as her eyes locked onto him, wild and wide, her hands shaking violently where they gripped the bedclothes.

“No—no, stay away from me,” she rasped, voice raw with fear.

Tom rose slowly, palms visible and unthreatening. “Hermione,” he said, soft as silk. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

She flinched at the sound of her name on his lips, as though it had burned her.

“You’re him,” she whispered, curling away. “You’re him .”

She moved quickly—far too quickly. She nearly tripped as she flung herself toward the door, her bare feet hitting the stone with frantic urgency.

Tom’s wand was in his hand before he even thought.

A silent flick.

The door sealed with a click.

Hermione threw herself at the handle, yanking and pounding with all the strength in her small frame.

“No, no, let me out—please—”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Tom said gently, stepping closer but keeping a careful distance. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Don’t touch me!” she sobbed, sliding down the door into a heap on the floor, her arms wrapped tight around her knees.

Tom’s breath stuttered in his chest. Something inside him cracked at the sight—his daughter, broken and trembling, afraid of him .

The worst thing he had ever seen.

He crouched slowly, level with her but still feet away. “Hermione,” he said again, softer this time, careful not to crowd her. “I would never hurt you, Hermione. You have always been safe with me—even when you didn’t know it.”

Her eyes flicked toward him, still wild. Still guarded. But she didn’t run again.

He exhaled.

“I didn’t want this,” he said, voice steady despite the ache behind it. “You were never supposed to be in this time. I hid you—I sent you somewhere far from this war, far from me, where no one could find you. Because it wasn’t safe.”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t even blink.

So he kept going.

“Your mother… my wife… was murdered. And after she died, I realized there was nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe. So I did the only thing I could. I sent you away.”

He watched her eyes as he spoke. Watched the way her breath hitched, the way her nails dug into her arms.

“I loved her,” Tom said quietly. “And I love you. More than anything.”

Hermione blinked rapidly, and her lip quivered. Her head shook in small, trembling motions, like she couldn’t decide whether to believe him or to break.

“I am not here to hurt you,” he said again. “I never have been. You are my daughter , Hermione. My blood. My legacy. But more than that—”

He pressed a hand to his chest, eyes soft.

“You are mine . And I will never let anything happen to you.”

Hermione looked away sharply, curling in tighter. Her mouth opened, but no words came.

Tom ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “I don’t expect you to trust me. Not yet. I can’t imagine what they’ve told you about me. Or what you’ve seen. But I swear to you, I am not the monster you believe me to be. Not with you.”

His voice cracked—just once—and he swallowed it down.

He moved to sit on the floor near her, still keeping a respectful distance. “You are all I have left. All that ever mattered.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the hiss of the hearth and the quiet echo of breath.

Tom didn’t reach for her. Didn’t press. He merely sat there—unguarded, vulnerable in a way no one else had ever seen him. He let her see the man beneath the ambition, the love beneath the mask.

“I know I can’t ask for forgiveness,” he said finally. “But I hope I can earn your trust.”

Hermione was trembling. Her arms were still wrapped tightly around herself, her eyes still filled with wary terror.

But she didn’t run again.

And for Tom—for now—that was enough.

Hermione hadn’t moved, but the tremble in her limbs had slowed. She watched him through wary eyes—still scared, still cornered, but no longer on the edge of flight.

Tom stayed where he was on the floor, his posture carefully composed despite the ache in his chest. He couldn’t reach for her. He wouldn’t.

Not until she came to him willingly.

Still, he saw it—that flicker in her gaze. A thread of curiosity tangled with the fear, “Why would they kill her?” she questioned softly. 

Tom's breath caught. She was listening. Not just out of fear—but need. Need for truth.

So he spoke. Soft. Honest.

“I met your mother at the Ministry.”

Hermione’s gaze narrowed slightly, but she didn’t look away.

“She was a revolution in a teacup,” Tom said, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Brilliant. Fierce. Far too kind for someone who worked in Magical Law Reform. She challenged everyone. Including me.”

A flicker of memory danced behind his eyes—her laughter, bright and sharp as windchimes; her hands ink-stained and trembling with purpose. He remembered the day she stormed into the Wizengamot in dragonhide boots, calling the ancient blood laws ‘rotting relics of cowardice.’ She’d smiled at him afterward like a battle won.

“We didn’t agree on everything. I wanted power. She wanted change. But together, we found something rare. A shared dream.”

He shifted, folding his legs beneath him, the tension in his shoulders softening.

“We were trying to rewrite the future,” he continued. “We fought to dismantle laws that kept bloodlines divided, that punished Muggleborns, that upheld the old families’ grip on control. We believed it could be better. For you . For all of us.”

Hermione blinked. Her arms were still tight around herself, but her expression had cracked. Just slightly. Confusion, now. Conflict.

And that meant she was listening.

Tom exhaled slowly.

“But not everyone agreed. The Order of the Phoenix… they believed we were dangerous. Idealistic. Naïve. They saw us as radicals who threatened the status quo.”

His jaw clenched.

“They didn’t come to debate. They came to end it.”

He stood then—slowly, deliberately—and crossed the room to a small drawer in the sideboard. He retrieved a pressed, white pocket square from its depths. With a flick of his wand, the fabric shimmered and lengthened into a soft, elegant dress in a shade of heather gray.

He turned and laid it gently on the foot of the bed.

Tom met Hermione’s eyes, and for a moment, his mask threatened to return. But he held it back. She deserved truth—not the persona the world had made him wear.

“I can’t prove who killed her,” he said softly. “But she died alone. And they left only one thing behind.”

He looked down, voice like a frayed wire.

“A single phoenix feather.”

Hermione’s breath caught audibly.

“I never found out who,” Tom said. “But I didn’t need to. I knew the message.”

He stepped back toward the door now, giving her room again, retreating with care.

“I’m going to give you some space,” he murmured. “There’s a washroom through there.” He gestured gently to the adjoining door. “Take your time. Clean up. Change, if you like.”

She looked down at her rumpled, soot-smudged jumper as if only just realizing it clung to her like a memory.

Tom paused at the threshold. The words came out quieter than he intended.

“When you’re ready to talk… I’ll be here. I’ll answer anything you ask.”

He held her gaze for a heartbeat longer, then turned and left.

The door clicked softly behind him.

Outside the Room

Tom leaned against the closed door, one hand braced against the wood.

His chest was tight. Too tight.

She hadn’t screamed again. She hadn’t run.

But she hadn’t reached for him either.

He dragged a hand down his face and let his head fall back against the wall with a hollow thunk .

She was here. Alive. In his house. In his life again.

And she was afraid of him.

That truth pressed down on him harder than any war, any curse, any prophecy.

I failed her.

He had done everything to protect her. Sacrificed everything. And still the world had found her—had twisted her against him before she ever had the chance to know him as anything but a legend wrapped in blood.

Tom swallowed hard and stared at the ceiling.

I’ll earn her trust, he thought. I’ll prove she’s safe. That she’s wanted.

That she is loved.

He pushed off the door and walked away, steps silent on the marble floors of the manor.

He would wait.

He would give her the space she needed.

And he would rebuild the bridge, no matter how long it took.

She was his.

And he would never let her feel alone again.

Chapter Text

Hermione slowly uncurled from the floor, her limbs stiff and trembling. Her joints ached from crouching so long, but she ignored the discomfort as she pushed herself upright, one shaky breath at a time. The silence in the room rang louder than any scream. Her hands fisted at her sides before she forced them to relax.

She sniffed. Then winced.

The scent of soot, sweat, and fear clung to her jumper like smoke after a fire. Her eyes watered.

“Right,” she whispered hoarsely. “Shower first.”

She crossed to the bed on unsteady legs and picked up the soft gray dress folded at the foot. It felt like silk under her fingers—too fine, too clean. Too… kind. She clutched it to her chest and made her way to the adjoining washroom, pausing only once to glance back at the room. It was still empty. The door hadn’t moved. No one was coming after her.

The bathroom was as elegant and precise as the rest of the manor—pale stone walls veined with silver, polished fixtures, and an enormous clawfoot tub alongside a walk-in shower enclosed in frosted glass. A basket for laundry sat near the vanity, and a set of soft towels was folded neatly on a chair.

Hermione peeled off the soiled jumper, her nose wrinkling as she dropped it into the basket. She twisted the silver tap, and water sputtered to life, steam rising like breath in winter.

She stepped into the shower, and the warmth hit her all at once—soothing, almost overwhelming. For a moment, she stood there frozen, letting the water beat against her spine, her eyes closed.

This was real.

It wasn’t a nightmare. It wasn’t some cruel hallucination spun from magic or grief. She was here, in Voldemort’s manor. In his home. And somehow—somehow—he was her father.

Her hands rose, bracing against the cool tile.

She had screamed. Panicked. Run like a child.

But she wasn’t a child.

She was Hermione Granger. Time-traveler. War survivor. Gryffindor.

And she needed to pull herself together.

She exhaled slowly and reached for the soap, scrubbing herself clean with methodical movements. The grime came off easily. The fear did not.

Her mind churned beneath the spray of water. When she had seen him—really seen him, not in the shadowed pages of textbooks or on the battlefield but up close—something primal had flared in her. That old instinct: run.

But he hadn’t hurt her.

He hadn’t even raised his voice. He’d spoken softly. Calmly. Even when she’d tried to escape.

He’d stopped her, yes. But not to punish. Not to harm. To protect.

Her breath caught as she rinsed shampoo from her curls.

No one had ever described Voldemort as gentle.

And yet…

She scrubbed harder, then forced herself to stop. She was spiraling. She was trained better than this. Her emotions didn’t get to rule her—she did. Panic had nearly ruined everything. If she let fear take the reins again, she’d lose whatever slim advantage she had.

She pressed her palm to the cool tile and steadied her breath.

What do I know?

She began listing it out in her mind like she was back in the Hogwarts library, preparing for exams.

One: He says he’s my father. Two: He says he sent me to the past to protect me. Three: My mother—his wife—was killed. Four: He thinks the Order did it. Five: He’s… not what I expected.

Not the cold-blooded killer from her childhood nightmares.

But still dangerous. Still Voldemort.

She rinsed the last of the soap from her skin, her expression tightening.

He won’t let me leave. Not yet. That much is clear.

But he’s not hurting me. He could have—he didn’t. Maybe he’s telling the truth.

And if he is…

Her thoughts hit a wall, then pivoted.

Can I change the future?

The idea struck like lightning.

She froze mid-motion, water pouring down her shoulders.

Could she rewrite everything? Save lives? Stop the war?

A warmth bloomed in her chest, brighter than the shower’s heat. Hope. She hadn’t dared to feel it since the moment she’d grabbed the diadem.

Maybe this wasn’t just survival.

Maybe this was a second chance.

She finished rinsing, stepped out onto the marble floor, and wrapped herself in one of the thick, slate-colored towels. It was soft against her skin, too elegant for her.

She dressed slowly, slipping into the heather-gray gown he had left her. It fit perfectly—not too tight, not too loose. She didn’t want to think about how he knew her size.

She found a hairbrush in a drawer near the vanity and worked it through her curls. She paused to study herself in the mirror.

The girl staring back wasn’t the one who’d collapsed in that chair yesterday. Her cheeks were still pale, but her jaw was set. Her shoulders squared. The fear hadn’t vanished, but it had been layered over with something sharper.

Resolve.

Be the Gryffindor you are.

She drew a breath and nodded to herself in the glass.

“You can do this,” she whispered.

She stepped into the hallway barefoot, the cool stone sending a jolt through her spine. The manor was quiet, too quiet. No portraits watched her. No footsteps echoed.

She started forward anyway.

Time to find him.

Time to get answers.

And maybe, just maybe—rewrite fate.

The hallway was long and quiet, the marble floors gleaming like ice beneath Hermione’s bare feet. A faint breeze whispered through it from somewhere—cool and crisp, carrying a trace of lavender and parchment, and something deeper, older. The stillness felt enchanted, like the entire manor was holding its breath.

She turned a corner and froze.

A serpent lay coiled just a few paces away from the door she’d left. Its scales shimmered an iridescent black-green, too smooth, too perfect. It raised its head and fixed its golden eyes on her.

Hermione jumped back, heart lurching.

Of course he had a snake. Of course.

One could never be too careful in Voldemort’s house.

The serpent blinked. Then hissed something softly—language winding and low, incomprehensible.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Right. Parseltongue. Of course.”

The snake uncoiled slowly, gracefully, and slithered around her feet. It didn’t strike. It didn’t threaten. It simply glided past her, down the corridor. Halfway down, it stopped. Turned. Blinked at her again.

She had the distinct impression it was… waiting.

Hermione exhaled and tightened her grip on the dress’s soft skirt. “I’m following a snake through Riddle Manor,” she murmured to herself. “Brilliant. Perfectly sane.”

But she stepped forward anyway.

Because she was already in the serpent’s den.

The snake led her to a tall, arched doorway, already ajar. Warm morning light spilled through it, softened by sheer curtains drawn wide across the tall windows. Inside was a dining room—simple, elegant, quieter than she expected.

A table of rich mahogany stood at the center, set with two places. A silver teapot steamed gently beside a platter of golden eggs in toast, a bowl of berries, and a basket of fresh bread. Everything was neat. Minimalist. Nothing garish or opulent.

Tom Riddle stood beside the far chair, his robes tailored and dark, his expression unreadable.

At the sight of her, he murmured something in Parseltongue. The snake hissed back and curled itself beneath the table, a sinuous shadow beneath the polished wood.

He turned to Hermione and—unexpectedly—smiled.

“I made eggs in a basket,” he said softly, gesturing to the seat across from him. “You loved them when you were little.”

He pulled out her chair, not waiting for her to respond, then seated himself with careful grace.

Hermione hovered for a moment, eyes flitting between the food, the snake, and him. Her stomach betrayed her with a loud growl, and she flushed.

“…Thanks,” she muttered, sitting down stiffly.

He gave her a small nod and began cutting into his toast without further comment.

Hermione glanced down at her plate. The food looked… normal. Homemade, even. She eyed the crisp edges of the egg nestled inside the toast, the sprinkle of salt, the slice of orange on the side. Nothing suspicious. Nothing obviously cursed.

And she was starving .

She picked up her fork and took a cautious bite.

It was warm. Buttered. Perfectly seasoned. Familiar in a way that made her chest ache.

She didn’t speak as she ate, and neither did he. He watched her for a few moments—not rudely, but attentively, like he was cataloging her reactions. Then, as if sensing she was halfway through, he set down his utensils and folded his hands.

“I imagine you have questions,” he said.

Hermione paused, chewing slowly. Then nodded.

“I do.”

“I’ll answer them,” he said, tone even. “But first, I want to remove the memory blocks I placed on you. I believe that will help everything make more sense.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. Her fork hovered in midair. “You—what?”

“I tampered with your memory when I sent you away. Not to hurt you,” he added quickly, “but to protect you. From the truth. From me.”

She stared at him. Her fingers clenched slightly around the handle of her fork. The instinct to fight—to resist—rose, sharp and bright.

But she pressed it down.

She had agreed with herself in the shower. She needed answers, not impulse.

And she couldn’t accuse him of violating her mind while she was still living in his house, wearing a dress he’d transfigured for her, eating eggs he’d made.

“You’ll explain everything first,” she said slowly. “Then I’ll decide.”

His head tilted slightly. “That’s fair.”

Hermione studied his face. Pale. Composed. Eyes like old ink, black and deep, but no longer sharp with menace. There was something else in them now. Not kindness—but maybe patience. Or restraint.

She set her fork down. “Why do you want me to remember?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I want you to know me. Not the myth. Not the mask. Me.”

Hermione’s throat tightened slightly.

She picked up a piece of toast and chewed silently for a moment more. Then sat back and folded her arms.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s start with the truth.”

He gave a faint smile. Not triumphant. Almost… relieved.

“I’ll show you to the sitting room after breakfast,” he said. “And we’ll begin there.”

The sitting room was quiet and sun-washed, with high ceilings and tall windows framed by long, velvet drapes. The furniture was elegant but lived-in—books stacked on side tables, a throw blanket draped across a tufted settee, shadows softened by amber light filtering through glass.

Hermione hovered near the doorway, uneasy.

Tom gestured to a high-backed armchair in the center of the room. “Sit,” he said gently. “This might feel intense. The spell opens your mind—memories flood in all at once. You may feel disoriented.”

Hermione’s brows drew together. “Will it hurt?”

“No,” he said. “But it may overwhelm you.”

She hesitated.

Then, with a quiet breath, she moved to the chair and sat down, spine straight, fingers clenching the fabric of her dress.

Tom moved with slow, deliberate grace—more like a dancer than a warlord. His wand slid into his hand as though summoned by thought alone.

Hermione watched him from the corner of her eye.

He wasn’t tense. His face was calm, focused. His magic moved with him—subtle, coiled, waiting. When he raised his wand, it was without threat. Just purpose.

“Close your eyes,” he said softly.

She did.

A breath passed between them.

Then he spoke—not in Latin, not in Parseltongue—but something older. A thrum in the air, a hum of meaning and memory. His voice laced through her mind like water seeping into stone.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

And then—everything cracked open.

Inside Her Mind

She gasped—but her body didn’t move.

Her eyes fluttered beneath closed lids. Her hands twitched against the chair. And slowly, her head tipped back against the velvet cushion as the spell took hold.

Memories surged.

A rush of warmth. A familiar voice. A fire crackling low.
She was three. Curled in a nest of pillows, her little legs tucked under a blanket with stars embroidered at the hem. A book rested in her lap— Beasts of Britain, second edition—and her father's voice rose and fell beside her.

Tom.

Not Voldemort. Not the name whispered in terror.

Just Tom . Her dad.

He was reading the chapter about thestrals, and he paused to explain the difference between grief and understanding. His fingers carded gently through her curls as he spoke. She leaned into him without thinking, breathing in the scent of parchment, firewood, and something darker—clove, maybe.

She giggled and turned the page before he was done. He clicked his tongue and pretended to scowl. “Impatient,” he murmured. “Just like your mother.”

Her heart ached with something she didn’t yet have the words for.

The memory rippled—shifted.

She was four, crouched in the hallway with a chipped porcelain teacup and a snake coiled across her lap. It flicked its tongue at her plate of imaginary biscuits.

She hissed a greeting, the way her father had taught her.

::Hello, little one.::

She beamed with pride. “His name is Sir Slithers,” she told the snake solemnly. “And he loves Earl Grey.”

Tom’s voice echoed from down the hall. “Careful with him, dove. He’s not as refined as you are.”

She turned to beam at him. “He’s practicing!”

More memories poured in.

Her mother’s laughter on a picnic blanket. Dandelions between her toes. Tom sneaking chocolate frogs into their basket, pretending he had no idea where they came from.

Warm arms lifting her out of a thunderstorm. Her mother wrapping her in blankets and her father drying her hair with a murmured charm, both of them kissing her temples as she cried from fear. “You’re safe,” her father whispered, over and over. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

A birthday with enchanted paper lanterns. Her mother singing while her father lit candles with his wand. A silver locket around her neck, Tom’s initials engraved on the back.

A garden filled with laughing serpents.

A library that was hers to explore.

A home.

She was loved.

She had been loved .

And she had loved them back—completely, without fear.

Tears slipped down Hermione’s cheeks, unnoticed.

In the chair, her body sagged.

Her fingers loosened.

Her head lolled slightly to one side as the spell carried her deeper.

A last flicker of memory shimmered like gold behind her eyes:

She was five. In her father’s lap. He looked tired. Paler than usual. His hand trembled as he turned the page of her book. Her mother was gone, nowhere to be seen. Something heavy hung in the air. Hermione didn’t understand it yet—but she felt it.

“You’ll always remember this,” Tom whispered into her hair. “Even if one day… you don’t remember me.”

She frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

He smiled without teeth. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

The spell lifted like a tide receding from shore.

Hermione jolted forward with a sharp breath, eyes snapping open.

The sitting room swam before her, blurred and too bright. Her fingers clawed into the arms of the chair, anchoring her to something solid. Her dress clung to her back with sweat. Her legs trembled. She felt unmoored—like her body had been dropped back into a world it had forgotten how to hold.

The light through the windows had shifted. Time had passed. How much, she didn’t know.

Across from her, Tom sat perfectly still.

His eyes were fixed on her. But his face—so often unreadable—was pale, quiet. Almost… afraid.

“Hermione?” he said softly, as if afraid the sound might break her.

She blinked. Her breath caught.

Her throat worked around words she didn’t have—until one surfaced, raw and instinctive, slipping from her lips like something half-remembered from a dream.

“…Daddy?”

Chapter Text

Tom sat with his hands steepled beneath his chin, elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the girl before him.

No—his daughter.

Hermione sagged into the armchair, her body limp under the weight of the spell. Her face was slack but not peaceful. Her eyes fluttered rapidly beneath closed lids, the telltale twitch of memory reawakening. A muscle in her jaw flexed. Her fingers spasmed once, then stilled. She looked too small for the chair, too fragile in the soft gray dress.

Tom didn’t breathe.

He couldn’t.

She was watching the film of her childhood unfold behind her eyes—years of warmth, of books and bedtime stories, of laughter in sun-drenched fields and snakes curled beside teacups. Years he had given her. Years he had lost.

His hands trembled. He folded them into fists against his thighs.

What if she didn’t remember the way he hoped she would? What if those memories, so warm in his own mind, were cold in hers? What if she woke up and still looked at him like a monster?

What if she said nothing at all?

He couldn’t endure that silence again.

The seconds stretched.

And then—she jolted upright with a sharp inhale, as though surfacing from deep water.

Tom flinched.

Her eyes snapped open, dazed and glassy, searching the room as if the walls had changed. Her fingers gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to whiten her knuckles. Sweat plastered the dress to her back. Her curls were damp against her cheeks. She looked shaken. Staggered. Haunted.

His throat closed. He couldn’t speak.

Then her gaze found his.

And in her eyes—something shifted.

Recognition.

Not just awareness, but something older. Deeper.

“...Daddy?”

The word landed like a blow.

Tom fell to his knees.

The floor was cold against his legs, but he didn’t care. His arms opened without thought, without hesitation, reaching—not commanding, not coaxing—but offering.

“Yes,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Daddy’s right here.”

His eyes burned, and he let them. He was past the point of pride. He knelt in front of her, every line of his body soft with hope, with longing, with aching relief. He waited, terrified she might flinch again. That she might pull away.

But she didn’t.

She stared at him for half a heartbeat, her bottom lip trembling. Then a choked, ragged sound burst from her—half-sob, half-sigh—and she surged forward into his arms.

Tom caught her like something holy.

She threw her arms around his neck, fingers twisting into his robes with desperate strength. Her face buried itself in his shoulder, and she clung to him like gravity itself had turned traitor.

He wrapped himself around her, one hand splayed protectively over the back of her head, the other pulling her against his chest as if he could shield her from the past, from the present, from everything. She was shaking. So was he.

He pressed his lips to her curls and rocked her gently, the way he had when she was small.

“I’m here,” he breathed into her hair. “I’m here, dove. I’ve got you. I’m so sorry. I’m so—so sorry.”

Her sobs came in hiccupping gasps. “Daddy… why…?”

Tom’s chest cracked open.

He tightened his grip, voice thick. “I had to,” he said, barely audible. “They killed your mother. I couldn’t lose you too.”

A tear slipped down his cheek and soaked into her hair.

“I did what I had to,” he whispered. “But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

She didn’t answer—not with words. But her arms tightened around him, trembling and fierce, and he felt her breath hitch against his neck.

They stayed that way on the floor, knotted together in silence. His robes puddled beneath them. Her bare feet pressed into the rug. The only sounds were her soft sobs and his broken reassurances, whispered like mantras.

He stroked her hair, pressed kisses to her temple, murmured her name like a prayer.

Time passed unnoticed.

Eventually, her breathing slowed. Her body, still curled in his lap, began to settle.

Tom didn’t move.

He would not be the first to let go.

Because this—this moment, this weight in his arms, this word on her lips—was everything he had given up power for. Everything he had fought to protect.

She was home again.

She remembered.

And she had called him Daddy.

He closed his eyes and held her tighter.

At last.

Hermione pulled back from his embrace, her breathing still ragged. She shifted until she sat on her knees in front of him, their knees almost touching. Her small hands braced against her thighs, and her eyes searched his face as if trying to map out the man before her—overlaying him with the other version of him she had once known.

Tom let her go. He didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Every muscle in his body resisted the urge to reach for her again. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap and watched her like one watches a candle in a strong breeze—terrified it might flicker out.

Hermione tilted her head slightly, considering. Then she drew a breath, her fists clenching once before relaxing.

“Daddy,” she said quietly, “you need to know what you become in the future… why I was so scared of you.”

Tom’s breath caught.

That wasn’t what he had expected her to say.

But he nodded once, slowly, and answered in Parseltongue, voice a silken thread of sound. ::Go ahead, my dove.::

Hermione raised a brow, dry amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth. ::Checking if I can still speak snake?::

His lips curved into a grin before he could stop himself. ::Guilty.::

She gave a soft chuckle and tucked her legs beneath her, crossing them as she settled onto the rug. Tom mirrored her, sitting directly across from her, the thick velvet of his robes spilling around him like smoke.

“It’s hard to explain,” she admitted, frowning slightly as she stared down at her hands. “The you I knew—before—is nothing like the man sitting in front of me now.”

He nodded again, his expression carefully neutral, though his heart thudded heavily against his ribs. He reached out, slowly, and rested his hand on top of hers, his thumb brushing small circles across her skin.

“Take your time, dove,” he murmured. “There’s no rush.”

She glanced at his hand, then back at his face. “I… think the best way for you to understand is to see it yourself.”

Tom blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

Her voice softened but didn’t waver. “I know you're a Legilimens. I want you to look through my memories.”

His eyes widened, breath catching in his throat. “That’s—Hermione, that’s extremely invasive magic.”

“I know.” She lifted her chin, resolute. “But I trust you.”

The words landed like a weight in his chest.

“I remember you. I love you,” she said, her voice cracking. “You’ve already had chances to hurt me. You didn’t.”

He exhaled through his nose and ran a hand through his hair, tension threading through every movement.

“How can I say no when you put it like that?” he said weakly.

::You can’t,:: she hissed, lips quirking.

He barked a laugh. ::Cheeky. You remember I love hearing you speak Parseltongue.::

The warmth between them bloomed again. For a flickering moment, it was like the war, the years, the grief—all of it—had folded away.

She was still his daughter.

Still that bright, stubborn child with a fire in her eyes and a mind that would not yield.

“Are you certain?” he asked, more gently now. He reached up to cradle her cheek, his fingers brushing her curls away from her face. “Absolutely sure?”

She nodded, pressing her face lightly into his palm. “Yes.”

Tom moved closer, carefully kneeling so they were at eye level.

“Alright,” he whispered. He drew his wand and held her gaze. “Look into my eyes. Don’t fight me.”

Hermione nodded once and stilled.

“Legilimens.”

His magic slipped into her mind like smoke through cracks. Slow. Gentle. No force, no pressure—just presence. He didn’t push. He followed.

And what he saw gutted him.

He saw her life unfold like pages in a book. A thousand moments, layered one over another, and all of them without him.

He watched her smile at two strangers—a Muggle couple who’d raised her with laughter and warmth. He saw her playing in autumn leaves, making crafts in a classroom, hugging a stuffed bear with his old locket tied around its neck.

She was happy.

And it burned.

Then came Hogwarts—the train, the Sorting Hat, the Gryffindor common room blazing with light. He saw her in classes, hand always raised, eyes alight with discovery. He watched her make friends. He saw the way she clung to Potter and Weasley, the way she tucked her intelligence beneath a brittle shell of confidence.

But then—shadows lengthened.

He felt her fear.

He felt himself .

Not as he was. Not as Tom.

But as Voldemort.

A creature in black robes. A thing with eyes like wet coals and a face twisted into something nearly inhuman. A voice like a blade dragged across bone. Magic that choked the air with malice. He saw this other version of himself stride through the Ministry, raising his wand to strike, lips curling into sneers.

This creature had no mercy. No tether. No soul. It was him—but hollowed, scorched. The name Voldemort rang through the memories like a curse, but it felt like it belonged to someone else entirely. A parasite wearing his skin.

Hermione was there, young and terrified, hiding behind rubble with blood on her robes. He looked right at her—and didn’t see her.

Didn’t recognize her.

Didn’t know her.

Tom recoiled.

He stumbled out of the memory like he’d touched fire, nearly gasping aloud. His wand dropped from his fingers, clattering quietly onto the rug.

Hermione’s hand caught his before it fell.

Tom’s face was pale. His jaw clenched. He drew in a trembling breath as if trying to steady the shudder running through him.

“That—” His voice cracked. He swallowed. “That wasn’t me.”

“I know,” Hermione whispered, eyes wide. “But it was.”

“I didn’t even see you,” he rasped. “You were right there , and I—”

“You were gone, Daddy,” she said softly. “The real you. The man in the library. The one who made me tea and told me I was clever. He was gone.”

Tom closed his eyes.

He’d thought he could bear it. Thought he wanted to see what she saw. But to witness it—to feel the sheer, animal terror in her young mind, to see himself as nothing more than a shadow cloaked in cruelty—it turned his stomach.

He had become the nightmare.

A monster his own daughter feared.

Tom pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard, hands still gripping hers like lifelines.

“I will never become that thing,” he said, voice like cracked porcelain. “Never again.”

Hermione's fingers curled tightly into his.

“I know,” she whispered.

He exhaled slowly, chest trembling. There was no undoing what had been. No erasing what she’d lived through.

But now—he could choose what came next.

And maybe, if he held her tightly enough, if he built a new life carefully enough, that future might never come to pass.

He had a second chance.

Because she had given it to him.

And he would never waste it.

Tom eased back, just enough to study Hermione’s face. Her cheeks were damp, lashes still wet with the tail end of tears. She looked tired. Raw. But not afraid.

That was everything.

He gently wiped a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Dove,” he said softly, “we need to talk.”

Hermione’s brows pinched slightly. “About the future?”

His expression shifted—sharpened just a bit. Still gentle, still warm, but laced now with a kind of quiet steel.

“Yes. The war. The timeline. All of it.” He reached down and picked up his wand, setting it neatly in his lap. “I know you want to help. That’s who you are. But this war… it’s not your burden.”

Hermione straightened. “But I can help. I know what’s coming—”

Tom shook his head slowly. “No. You’ve done enough.”

Her mouth opened. Closed.

He leaned forward and cupped her face again, not with power, but with reverence. “Hermione, I didn’t bring you back so you could bleed for this world again. I brought you back to keep you safe. ”

She bit her lip. “But—”

“No,” he said gently, but firmly. “You were a soldier once. Too young. You fought, and you lost too much, and I will not ask you to do that again.”

“I’m not a child,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, thumb stroking her cheek. “But you're my child. And for once, I get to be your father. I get to protect you.”

Hermione looked down. Her hands curled into the folds of her dress.

Tom watched her, eyes softening.

“This summer is not for war councils or strategy. It’s for you and me. We’ll rebuild what was lost. Get to know each other again.”

She looked up at him, lip trembling slightly. “And when summer ends?”

“Then,” he said, “you go back to Hogwarts. You finish school.”

She frowned. “But I don’t even know what year I’m in. I don’t know how—”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said simply. “You’ll return for your sixth year. Under your true name.”

Her breath hitched. “My true name?”

He gave a faint smile. “You’ll be introduced as Hermione Riddle. Pure-blood daughter of Lord Slytherin. You’ll be given the protection—and respect—that name deserves.”

Hermione blinked. Slowly.

“You expect me to act like a proper pure-blood now?” she asked, not quite teasing.

Tom chuckled, low and warm. “Not act , dove. Just… learn what’s expected. I’ll help you navigate it. Mannerisms. Politics. Bloodlines. Everything they expect from a young lady of your station.”

“And if I hex someone for being a bigoted idiot?” she muttered.

“Then I’ll quietly cover it up and tell the press they deserved it,” he replied dryly.

Hermione snorted.

Tom reached out and brushed a stray curl from her forehead. His touch lingered, light and fatherly. “Let me give you this. Let me give you a life that isn’t defined by war and loss.”

She looked at him, gaze softening. “Alright,” she said, after a long pause. “Summer, school, and manners. No war. Not yet.”

He smiled, something bright and unguarded breaking across his face. “That’s my girl.”

They sat in silence for a moment, letting the weight of everything settle. The past. The future. The quiet, flickering possibility of peace.

Then Tom rose to his feet and extended a hand.

Hermione took it.

“I’ll help you fit in,” he promised, his voice low and steady. “We’ll make this world one where you belong.”

She squeezed his hand.

“I already do,” she said.

And for the first time in ten long years, Tom Riddle believed her.

Chapter Text

Lucius stood frozen, spine rod-straight, hands curled at his sides, watching as the girl collapsed.

One moment she was standing there, trembling like a leaf in the wind, and the next—she crumpled like parchment, her body folding into itself before hitting the back of the chair with a soft, sickening thump. Her curls spilled across her face, her limbs limp and awkward.

He didn’t breathe.

His eyes darted to Mr. Riddle, who moved without hesitation—calm, precise, unnervingly fast. The older man swept forward in a few long strides, crouched smoothly, and gathered the unconscious girl into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all.

Lucius’s jaw tightened.

He was vaguely aware of the blood rushing in his ears, of the dry chill crawling down the back of his neck. Hermione Riddle—because of course she was a Riddle, wasn’t she?—looked utterly wrecked. Pale as bone. Lips-tinged gray. Her fingers twitched faintly where they brushed Mr. Riddle’s collar.

She’d been terrified. Not just surprised or alarmed, but raw-nerved and panicked. Lucius had seen war orphans with that look. Traumatized creatures who flinched at shadows.

But why?

Why would anyone look at Mr. Riddle that way?

Lucius’s mind spun. The man was a figure of legend—elegant, intelligent, impossibly composed. He held power in the palm of his hand and wielded it like a scalpel. His voice never rose. His temper never flared. He had been in the Malfoy drawing room more times than Lucius could count, speaking quietly with his father over whiskey and tomes of long-forgotten magic.

Lucius had grown up admiring him. Modeling himself after him, even.

And yet… Hermione had looked at that man as if death had walked through the door.

He barely registered the swirl of Mr. Riddle’s robes as the man turned and left the room, Hermione limp in his arms. No questions. No farewells. Just silence and departure.

Lucius’s heart beat too fast.

That girl is his daughter.

The words rang strange in his mind. Jarring. They didn’t match what he’d seen. They didn’t match what he knew. Tom Riddle had no family. No weaknesses. No softness. He was a man of mystery and ambition, and yet…

The way he held her.

The way his hand had curved around the back of her head—protective. Gentle.

Lucius swallowed hard.

“She was… afraid of him,” he muttered aloud, barely aware he’d spoken.

A quiet throat-clearing made him jump.

“Mr. Malfoy,” said Dumbledore smoothly from his desk, the blue of his eyes oddly dull, “I believe it’s time you rejoined your classmates in the Great Hall.”

Lucius turned slowly, every nerve still buzzing. His body bowed slightly at the waist. “Yes, Headmaster.”

He exited the office with clipped, efficient strides, his cloak snapping faintly behind him. But as soon as the heavy door closed behind him, his pace slowed. He drifted, unseeing, down the staircase, footsteps muffled by stone.

His thoughts circled like vultures.

Hermione Riddle.

She was a Riddle. Mr. Riddle’s daughter.

Lucius pressed a knuckle to his lips.

That changed everything.

And yet—he couldn’t forget the fear in her eyes. The tremble in her fingers. The way she’d collapsed like the world had ended.

Why?

He didn’t know. But he would find out.

For Mr. Riddle. And maybe… for her.

Lucius walked briskly down the winding staircase, shoes sharp against the stone. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, posture impeccable as ever. But inside, he was a slow-swirling storm of thoughts.

Hermione Riddle.

The name settled strangely in his mind—familiar, but foreign. A paradox, like the girl herself. The fear in her eyes when she looked at Mr. Riddle had been real. So had the way her magic cracked the air like a whip. And yet, despite it all, Lucius couldn’t quite forget the image of her standing there—wide-eyed, breathless, curls tumbling down her shoulders like a storybook painting come to life.

She had been beautiful.

No. Not beautiful. That wasn’t the right word.

Striking.

Compelling.

Dangerous.

He frowned and pressed his fingers tighter behind his back, as if the tension in his spine could force the thought away. She’d been afraid. Nearly fainted. This wasn’t the time—or the context—for thoughts like that. She was a stranger. Mr. Riddle’s daughter. Likely older than she looked. And deeply, clearly… fragile.

Still, he couldn’t help it. The picture of her lingered behind his eyes—the curve of her cheek, the trembling of her hands, the fierce way she had stood her ground before Professor Slughorn arrived.  

A curious creature.

And somehow, she would be coming back to Hogwarts next year.

Lucius’s jaw tightened slightly. He would keep an eye on her. For her safety, of course. She would need support adjusting. Protection, even. The school could be cruel to new blood—especially when that blood came with as many secrets as she did.

And truthfully, Lucius wanted to understand. The whole thing was a mystery. Why would Mr. Riddle, of all people, have a daughter no one knew about? Why had the girl reacted like that?

He descended the final step, the hum of the Great Hall filtering through the stone archway. Candlelight flickered. Silverware clinked. Laughter rose and fell like waves. As he crossed the threshold, heads turned—first-years and seventh-years alike swiveling to look.

It took only a moment for him to realize why.

Whispers swirled.

Lucius Malfoy, hexed.

By a girl.

Of course.

His mouth tightened into a thin, aristocratic line as he approached the Slytherin table and took his usual seat. He had barely unfolded his napkin when Bellatrix Black leaned across the table, a wicked grin curling across her face.

“Tell me, Lucius,” she purred, “do you often faint in front of girls, or was today a special occasion?”

Lucius arched a brow with cool indifference. “I did not faint.”

“No, no,” Andromeda chimed in, eyes alight with amusement. “He swooned. There’s a difference.”

Several students chuckled. Even Evan Rosier was smirking behind his goblet of pumpkin juice.

Lucius straightened his back, spine like steel. “A proper gentleman does not hex a woman. No matter how she behaves.”

Bellatrix gave a mock gasp. “Oh, how chivalrous! How noble!”

Andromeda leaned her chin into her hand. “It’s rather romantic, actually. Being struck dumb by a mysterious girl.”

Lucius resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He would not give them the satisfaction.

Across the table, Narcissa Black, the youngest of the sisters and far quieter than the rest, glanced up from her plate.

“She must’ve been scared,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone. “Maybe she thought she was in danger.”

Lucius blinked.

For a moment, the teasing halted.

Bellatrix gave her sister a sideways look, but said nothing.

Lucius inclined his head toward Narcissa with a touch more warmth than usual. “Thank you, Miss Black. I quite agree.”

Narcissa ducked her head, cheeks faintly pink.

The conversation drifted away after that—toward Quidditch, homework, gossip about Slughorn’s latest dinner party. Lucius returned to his food, silently grateful for the reprieve.

He ate slowly, the usual sharpness of his palate dulled by distraction. The candlelight blurred faintly in his periphery, and the sound of chatter faded into background noise.

Hermione Riddle.

He didn’t understand her.

But he wanted to.

He hoped—though he would never say it aloud—that he would see her again. Not because she almost hexed him. Not because she was strange or frightening or full of secrets.

But because there was something about her.

Something worth watching.

He sighed, cut a piece of roast with clean precision, and brought it to his mouth.

Maybe next year would be interesting after all.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat curled in a high-backed armchair in the Riddle Manor library, her legs tucked beneath her, toes wiggling absently as she read. A massive tome rested across her lap—a volume on the theoretical mechanics of wandless casting that her father had personally selected for her. The spine crackled every time she shifted, and the faded pages smelled of time and dust and ancient magic.

She smiled faintly, tracing a line of text with her finger. Her curls, still damp from her morning shower, clung lightly to her cheeks, and her cardigan slipped from one shoulder. The late-afternoon light from the tall windows painted golden bars across the floor, catching in her hair and glinting off the edge of the silver bookmark.

Across the room, seated at a grand desk carved from black walnut, sat Tom Riddle—her father. Still an impossible truth, even now.

And yet… not so impossible anymore.

A week ago, the idea had made her physically ill. The man she had feared—rightly feared—had filled her nightmares with dark robes and lifeless eyes. But now, with her memories restored, that version of him seemed fractured. Distant. Unreal.

This man—the one hunched over correspondence, sleeves rolled to the forearms, brows furrowed in thought—was not the monster. He was her father. Her real father.

And he was trying.

So was she.

They had settled into an oddly comfortable rhythm over the past month. She'd risen early every day, often finding fresh tea waiting for her on the side table—honeyless, just how she liked it. She spent her mornings reading, her afternoons with her father in the garden or debating magical theory in the drawing room, and her evenings sprawled on the rug with enchanted puzzle boxes while Tom worked silently nearby.

It was… peaceful. No war. No looming danger. No need to hide her intelligence or restrain her curiosity.

Tom—her dad—never flinched at her questions. He never rolled his eyes when she went off on tangents or ranted about poorly constructed magical laws. In fact, he encouraged it. He answered with precision and challenged her assumptions. Once, they’d argued for hours about the ethics of memory charms and soul magic until they were both laughing and out of breath.

It was strange, how alike they were. The same hunger for knowledge. The same night owl tendencies. The same quiet loathing for mediocrity.

He hovered, of course. Always near. Watching. Protective. But he never pushed too hard, never scolded or snapped. When she needed space, he gave it. When she needed quiet, he matched it. When she wanted to talk, he listened with an attentiveness that was rare and reverent.

Hermione turned a page, smiling softly to herself.

If her friends from the future saw her now, they’d think she was under the Imperius Curse.

But she wasn’t.

She was just… home.

And that word—home—had begun to feel less like a betrayal and more like a truth she didn’t have to fight anymore.

She was Hermione Riddle.

She wasn’t afraid.

A yawn snuck up on her, long and lazy. She stretched her arms above her head, arching her back, sighing through the tight pull in her side—

Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate, just above her hip.

Hermione flinched and gasped, her hand flying to the scar across her lower abdomen.

Across the room, Tom’s head snapped up like a predator catching scent.

He was on his feet in an instant, crossing the floor with long, silent strides.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low but urgent. His hand reached for her face, fingers brushing a damp curl behind her ear.

“I’m okay,” Hermione said quickly, wincing as she straightened. “It’s just the scar. It still pulls when I stretch too much.”

Tom’s gaze dropped to where her hand pressed against her side. His expression darkened. “A scar?” he echoed, quiet and lethal. “Show me.”

She blinked, startled. “No.”

His brows arched. “Why not?”

“It’s across my hips,” she said, blushing furiously. “I’m not showing that to anyone—especially not you.”

Tom looked unimpressed. “I changed your nappies. I doubt there’s anything I haven’t seen.”

She gaped at him. “That was when I was a toddler! I’m almost sixteen!”

He crossed his arms and raised his wand.

“Don’t you dare—”

Her dress shimmered and shifted into soft cotton trousers and a simple t-shirt.

“Now you only have to lift the shirt,” he said smugly.

Hermione glared at him, cheeks scarlet. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” he replied evenly. “We’re well matched.”

Grumbling under her breath, Hermione reluctantly lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing the angry, purpling scar that stretched low across her belly—ugly and raised, evidence of a wound that had nearly killed her.

Tom inhaled sharply.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, as if the sight had physically struck him. One hand hovered, hesitant, then gently touched the edge of the scar with two fingers.

“Hermione…” he whispered. His voice cracked. “I’m so sorry.”

She looked away, suddenly overwhelmed. “It wasn’t you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said hoarsely. “You should never have been anywhere near that kind of danger.”

He stood abruptly, fists clenched at his sides. His eyes burned with something primal.

“You are not allowed to fight,” he said, tone like iron. “You will never be put in a position to earn a scar like this again.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already turning away.

“I’ll brew something for the pain,” he called over his shoulder. “And a salve to reduce the scarring.”

And then he was gone, robes billowing behind him like a closing curtain.

Hermione groaned and let her shirt fall.

She leaned back in the chair, exhaling through her nose, and rubbed her temple.

He was overbearing. Controlling. Arrogant. Dramatic.

And she adored him.

There was comfort in his consistency. In the way he refused to compromise when it came to her well-being. It was infuriating, yes—but it was also… love. Fierce and unyielding and unapologetic.

She smiled faintly and sank deeper into the cushions.

She was Hermione Riddle.

She had a father who brewed pain relief potions when her scars ached and debated magical ethics with her until midnight.

She didn’t know what the future would bring. But for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t afraid of it.

Not with him beside her.

Not in this new life she was learning to claim.

Over the next few mornings their routine changed. 

Tom—Dad—taught her magic the way someone taught their own language: patiently, precisely, with the kind of joy that came from sharing something sacred. They spent hours in the dueling room, the library, the garden. Some days were lessons on wandless magic or advanced dueling stances. Others were long discussions about the theory of magical inheritance or the ethics of blood rituals over tea.

He never raised his voice. Never made her feel silly for asking questions. And he didn’t hold back—he taught her the way he might train an heir. Because, she realized with an odd, warm twist in her stomach, that’s exactly what she was.

“You don’t focus hard enough when you shield,” he said one afternoon, casually ducking a Stunner she sent his way.

Hermione scowled. “I’m focusing plenty. Maybe you’re just being annoying on purpose.”

Tom’s mouth twitched. “That’s not mutually exclusive.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I am,” he said, deflecting another hex with a lazy flick of his wand. “You’re good. But I’m better.”

“I’m catching up.”

He gave a soft laugh and lowered his wand. “That’s what terrifies me.”

Hermione beamed.

They ended the lesson like always—breathless and sweaty, sprawled out on the floor of the practice room, limbs aching but minds buzzing. It was... perfect.

Which is why the next day, when Tom called her into the library with that carefully blank expression on his face, she knew something was wrong.

He gestured for her to sit, then sat across from her, fingers laced tightly on the desk.

“I need to leave for a little while,” he said.

Hermione stilled. “What do you mean leave?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. I have some… obligations.”

She narrowed her eyes. “War obligations?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I’m not telling you,” he said finally. “Because you are not involved in this war.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he raised a hand. “I mean it, Hermione. You don’t need to know. You’re not a soldier. Not anymore.”

Her shoulders tensed. “And I’m just supposed to wait here while you run off and possibly get hexed to death?”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being reasonable, ” she huffed. “You’re the one being cagey.”

Tom sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. I won't be gone long. But I won’t leave you alone here either.”

Hermione folded her arms. “So what, you're leaving a house-elf to babysit me?”

“No,” he said, lips twitching faintly. “You’ll be staying at Malfoy Manor.”

She stared. “With the peacocking hex-victim?”

Tom blinked, then actually laughed. “Yes. Lucius.”

Hermione groaned. “He’s going to be unbearable.”

“He’s polite. And you did try to hex him in front of half the portraits at Hogwarts.”

“In my defense,” she said, raising a finger, “he deserved it.”

“I’m sure he did.” Tom’s eyes gleamed. “Regardless, he’s young, clever, and not nearly as annoying as his father.”

“While you are there Walburga Black will teach you etiquette and pureblood culture,” he continued, informing her of their plans. 

Hermione muttered something under her breath in Parseltongue, and Tom’s brow arched.

::What was that, dove?::

::I said this is stupid. I met Walburga Black’s portrait and she was vile. You're leaving me with her too?::

Tom snorted. ::You’re not wrong. She is vile. But she’s also effective. She’ll teach you how to present yourself in pure-blood society. Etiquette, family trees, appropriate wand posture, how not to insult someone’s great-grandfather by accident—::

::Why is everyone in this timeline so obsessed with grandfathers?!::

::Because,:: Tom said dryly, ::that’s how old grudges get passed down. Welcome to the noble houses.::

Hermione groaned dramatically, flopping back in her chair. “Can’t you just stay and let me keep being uncivilized?”

“No.” He leaned forward, amused. “You’ll need this if you're going back to Hogwarts in the fall. Better to be prepared.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “But if Walburga Black starts quoting etiquette at me before breakfast, I’m putting salt in her tea.”

“I’ll allow it.”

They both laughed. The sound was light, easy.

Tom rose from his seat and walked around the desk. He rested his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“You’ll be safe. And I’ll be back soon.”

Hermione looked up at him, quiet for a beat. “Promise?”

His fingers brushed her curls. “On my life.”

She leaned into him without thinking, resting her head against his side. “I’m still mad.”

“I’d be concerned if you weren’t,” he murmured, kissing the crown of her head. “But you’ll be alright. And so will I.”

Hermione closed her eyes.

She believed him.

Even if she was already plotting what kind of chaos she could inflict on Lucius and Walburga while he was gone.

Tom and Hermione stood before the grand fireplace in the drawing room, her packed trunk levitating neatly behind them. The fire already crackled with Floo flames, green and greedy, licking at the stone hearth like it couldn’t wait to whisk them away.

Hermione crossed her arms and gave her father a dubious look. “Dad, I don’t think I need that many clothes. You made me pack like I’m preparing for a fashion duel.”

Tom didn't even look up from adjusting the drape of his cloak. “You’ll need them,” he said calmly. “Wearing the same dress twice during etiquette training would be… uncouth.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Seriously? Isn’t that a bit much?”

“No,” Tom said, turning to face her. “It’s about status. Appearance is a weapon. The right clothing says, ‘I’m better than you,’ without having to speak. Which, in your case, will help considerably.”

Hermione groaned. “I’m not going to enjoy this, am I?”

“Not at all,” Tom deadpanned, with the faintest smirk.

She sighed again—deep and dramatic—crossing her arms even tighter. She could already feel the ghost of a headache forming behind her eyes. Walburga Black , with her shrill voice and obsession with ancestral tree branches, was going to be insufferable.

Tom stepped closer, his expression softening. He cupped her cheek with a surprisingly gentle hand, thumb brushing along her cheekbone. “It will help you in the long run,” he murmured, then leaned down to kiss her forehead. “If you behave yourself, I’ll bring you back a present.”

Hermione tilted her head and gave him a knowing look. ::You’ll bring me something whether I behave or not.::

Tom’s eyes gleamed. ::Guilty.::

He offered his arm with a small, courtly bow. Hermione rolled her eyes but tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow anyway. With a sweep of his wand, the trunk followed them like an obedient puppy.

Tom tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the flames. “Malfoy Manor.”

They stepped into the fire—and the world spun green.

When they stepped out into the ornate hearth at Malfoy Manor, the air was immediately cooler, the silence more expectant. Marble gleamed underfoot, polished to a mirrored sheen. Every corner of the entrance hall seemed precisely symmetrical—like even the shadows had rules.

Waiting for them were two blond figures: one tall and wiry, the other broader and warmer.

Lucius and Abraxas Malfoy bowed in perfect sync, crisp and practiced.

“Welcome to our home,” Abraxas said, beaming like they were old friends. “Do make yourselves comfortable.”

Hermione blinked. This was a Malfoy?

He was large—built like a brick wall wrapped in fine robes—and smiling. Smiling . No sneering. No haughty tilt of the chin. Just… friendliness?

It threw her off completely.

Tom returned the greeting with a polite nod. “Thank you, Abraxas. This is my daughter, Hermione.” He turned slightly. “And I believe you’ve already met Lucius.”

“Hi,” Hermione said slowly, eyeing Abraxas. He had the same pale hair and sharp cheekbones as his son, but his eyes crinkled when he smiled. There was a warmth there that felt utterly un-Malfoy-ish.

Abraxas stepped forward and took her hand with surprising gentleness. “Delighted, truly. You and Lucius can look after one another while your father and I are away. Better than rattling around alone in these cold halls, no?”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but the words got lost somewhere between what the hell is happening and why is he so charming . “Umm… yeah?”

“Excellent!” Abraxas said, already turning. “Lucius?”

Behind them, Lucius gave a stiff bow. “Of course, Father.”

Hermione’s gaze flicked to him. His posture was ramrod-straight, jaw tight, not a single blond strand out of place. So tense , she thought, her curiosity piqued.

Her lips curled into a smile. How long before I can make him crack?

Not cruelly, of course. But the boy looked like he ironed his emotions flat every morning. She couldn't resist the urge to see what might ruffle that perfect composure.

Tom leaned toward her and whispered, “Play nice.”

“I always play nice,” she whispered back, then added innocently, “in my own way.”

He gave her a long-suffering look.

Hermione stepped forward and kissed his cheek quickly before anyone could comment.

Tom chuckled, then turned to Lucius and murmured, “Good luck.”

And with a soft crack , he and Abraxis were gone.

“Well then, Daddy Lucius ,” Hermione said sweetly, hands folded behind her back.

Lucius visibly flinched.

“That is not my name.”

She grinned at his reaction. Oh, this was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

Lucius had never been this unsettled by a house guest.

It had been a week since Hermione Riddle arrived at Malfoy Manor, and Lucius felt as though he were slowly losing control of his mind, his body, and—worst of all—his composure. He was currently hiding in his private rooms, slouched inelegantly in an armchair, his legs stretched out, his spine curved like a common layabout. One hand clutched the armrest; the other covered his face in something between despair and arousal.

She was stunning.

Not just pretty—not the well-groomed, cultivated beauty of his fiancée, Andromeda. No, Hermione was something else entirely. She had the kind of presence that clung to the air, something fierce and luminous, like lightning bottled in a jar. Being near her felt like standing too close to a fire: warmth and danger in equal measure.

She was clever, too. And sharp-tongued. And utterly maddening.

And he had no idea what to do with himself.

Lucius leaned his head back against the chair, exhaling through his nose. A week. Just one week, and he was already ducking behind curtains, fleeing rooms mid-sentence, and dodging the most innocent of touches like a man being hunted.

Well—perhaps not that innocent.

Hermione had a way of saying his name—well, not his name, precisely. “Daddy Lucius.” Always in that singsong voice, sweet as sin. She would reach out, fingers light against his arm or shoulder, her expression pure mischief. Every time she said it, something in him short-circuited.

And she knew it.

She had to know it.

He swallowed hard and tugged at his collar.

This wasn’t just frustrating. It was dangerous.

He was engaged.

Andromeda was beautiful, poised, and exactly the sort of wife a Malfoy heir was meant to have. Their engagement had been arranged since second year. It was politically sound, socially acceptable, and strategically beneficial.

And yet…

Hermione. Hermione, with her wild curls and unruly laughter. Hermione, who flirted like it was a sport and teased him as though they were equals. Hermione, who had somehow convinced Walburga Black—the most difficult woman in England—that she was worth teaching.

Lucius had expected fireworks. Hexes. An inevitable blow-up.

Instead, Hermione sat through etiquette lessons with a level of grace and wit that should have been impossible. She listened. She asked questions. She played the perfect pure-blood student—except for the moments when she glanced sideways at Lucius with a smirk and said something utterly unhinged just to make him squirm.

It worked every time.

“Stop thinking about her,” he muttered aloud, squeezing his eyes shut.

But it was no use. His mind betrayed him, conjuring memories of her bare feet on the manor’s marble floor, her laughter echoing through the halls, the sly way she bit her lip when she was about to cause trouble.

Lucius groaned quietly and shifted in the chair, crossing one leg over the other to hide the very real physical response her image stirred in him.

This wasn’t what she wanted, he told himself sternly. She was doing it for the chaos. For the power of it. She wanted to rattle him—and it was working far too well.

She didn’t want him.

…Did she?

He groaned again and buried his face in his hands. This was a disaster. A nightmare wrapped in silk and sarcasm and soft hands that brushed his sleeve just a little too long.

He needed to get a grip.

He needed distance.

He needed—

A knock at the door made him flinch.

“Daddy Lucius?” came her voice, muffled through the wood. “Are you alive in there, or did the wallpaper finally suffocate you?”

Lucius went still as marble. Then he slowly, silently, laid his forehead against the armrest and whispered to no one in particular:

“Merlin help me.”

Because he was utterly, hopelessly, and very inconveniently enchanted.

Lucius didn’t answer her.

Didn’t even breathe until her footsteps retreated down the hall.

Then, cursing softly under his breath, he bolted to the bathroom.

They were scheduled to begin ballroom lessons that morning—something about posture, grace, and “respectable proximity.” With Walburga Black watching like a hawk, there would be hands on hips, fingers entwined, close breathing. There was no way he could endure that in his current condition without making a complete spectacle of himself.

He slammed the door behind him, peeled off his robes and shirt in a frenzy, and stepped into the shower before the water had even warmed. A hiss escaped his lips as the cold spray hit his back, muscles tensing. He let it freeze him for a few seconds before twisting the knob hotter. Steam began to rise.

He leaned against the tile, chest heaving. His cock was painfully hard, flushed red and angry, pulsing with need. Just the memory of her voice— Daddy Lucius —made him twitch. Merlin, he was in trouble.

With a shaky breath, he wrapped one hand around himself.

The first stroke made his knees nearly buckle.

He braced one arm against the wall, the other working slow, deliberate motions over his length. His breath hitched. He squeezed tighter. Heat licked up his spine. Every muscle in his abdomen clenched.

And then—he let himself imagine her.

Hermione. Wild hair damp from the steam, cheeks flushed with mischief, breasts pressed against his chest as they moved to the rhythm of a slow waltz. Her lips trailing along his throat, fingers sliding down his belly, curling possessively around his cock. She’d look up at him, those clever eyes dark and daring, and say it again. Purring. Teasing.

“Daddy Lucius.”

His rhythm faltered. He groaned aloud, forehead knocking against the cool tile.

His hand moved faster now, slick with water, thumb grazing over the head just the way he liked. His breathing grew ragged—harsh, broken. He imagined her voice in his ear, her breath hot against his neck, her body squirming against his, laughing and whispering things no proper girl would say.

He wanted her. He needed her.

Not just her body, but her chaos. Her brilliance. The way she made him feel like the center of something unpredictable and wild.

A sound tore from his throat—half growl, half moan—as pleasure surged through him.

His hips jerked once, twice—

And he came hard, spilling across the tile in thick pulses, vision hazing with white-hot release.

He sagged forward, panting, his palm pressed to the wall. Water thundered around him, washing everything—evidence, shame, thought—down the drain. But his chest still ached.

He looked down, still breathless, heart hammering. The image of her biting her lip and watching him unravel haunted the edges of his mind. The worst part? He didn’t want it to stop.

His cock twitched in his hand.

Lucius swore under his breath and forced himself to step back, to rinse, to breathe.

This was not sustainable.

She wasn’t even trying—and still, she haunted his thoughts, curled like a curse around his every breath.

He had to survive this. Somehow. Without disgracing himself. Without betraying the quiet promise he’d made to Andromeda.

But as he toweled off and dressed for the lesson, one thing was horrifyingly clear:

He was already hers.

Body and breath and treacherous heart.

And they hadn’t even danced yet.

Lucius adjusted the cuffs of his robes and stared grimly at the polished floor of the ballroom. Morning light streamed in from tall arched windows, casting a golden sheen over everything. It felt like standing in a cathedral—solemn, echoing, sacred—and he was the sacrificial offering.

Hermione Riddle stood across from him in a pale blue gown that caught the light like icewater. Her curls were pinned half-up in a soft twist, loose strands framing her face. She looked… elegant. Unreasonably elegant. Lucius swallowed.

She caught him staring and arched an eyebrow, lips quirking at the corners. Not a smile— not quite —but close enough to be dangerous.

“Good morning, Daddy Lucius,” she said sweetly, folding her hands in front of her.

Lucius stiffened. “You may call me Lucius. Or Mister Malfoy, if you insist on being formal.”

She tilted her head. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Before he could reply, Walburga Black swept into the room in regal navy robes, her sharp eyes scanning both of them like a military commander surveying new recruits.

“Posture,” she barked immediately. “Lucius, straighten your spine before it curves like your grandfather’s nose. Miss Riddle—perfect, as usual.”

Hermione beamed. “Thank you, Mrs. Black.”

Lucius ground his teeth.

Walburga clapped her hands. “Today, we will begin with the basic waltz. Lucius, you lead. Hermione, follow.”

Hermione offered her hand gracefully. “Try not to step on me, Daddy Lucius.”

“I—” Lucius faltered, biting back the groan that threatened. Her fingers were warm in his. Slim and soft and wholly unthreatening. And yet the moment she touched him, his pulse spiked like she’d hexed him.

He placed a hand at her waist—an entirely appropriate distance, thank you—and tried not to notice how small she was under his palm. Or how close. Or how very golden her brown eyes were when they looked up at him like that.

“Focus,” Walburga snapped. “The woman is not going to eat you, Lucius.”

He wasn’t so sure.

They began to move. Hermione followed effortlessly, floating more than stepping, her gaze thoughtful, amused. Every time he stumbled, she let out a polite little “Oops” like it was his shoelaces’ fault, and not his own increasingly frayed nerves.

She leaned in slightly as they turned. “You’re very stiff.”

He grit his teeth. “Posture is important.”

“Mmhmm,” she murmured, brushing his shoulder lightly with her fingers. “Well, you certainly mastered something rigid.”

Lucius nearly tripped.

“Careful,” Hermione said sweetly.

He coughed and tried to will his face—and other parts—into stillness. She’s not flirting, he told himself. She’s just being clever. Playful. She’s a child. Well—not a child, she’s fifteen, that’s nearly—no, no. Stop thinking.

“You’re flushed,” she said, peering up at him. “Are you warm?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, voice slightly higher than usual.

Walburga sighed dramatically. “You’re dancing like you’re afraid of her, Lucius. What did I tell you? Confidence. Miss Riddle is flawless—elegant, poised, naturally graceful. You, on the other hand, look like someone shoved a broomstick up your spine and forgot to remove it.”

Hermione laughed quietly. It was the most delightful sound Lucius had ever heard and he hated it. Hated how much he liked it.

They danced again. Walburga made them switch partners, critique posture, practice the rise and fall. Lucius kept catching the scent of Hermione’s perfume—soft and floral, something like lilac and ink. It drove him mad.

Finally, Walburga called for a break. “We’ll continue tomorrow. Miss Riddle—exquisite work. Lucius—better, but you’ll need more practice. You’re too stiff.”

Lucius choked.

Hermione hummed behind her hand.

Walburga continued, “If either of you dares slouch at the Yule Masque, I’ll feed you to your ancestors. Dismissed.”

Lucius bowed stiffly and excused himself as quickly as decorum allowed.

He made it three steps into the hallway before having to press his back against the wall and take a very deep, very desperate breath.

Hermione Riddle was going to kill him. Or worse—he was going to embarrass himself to death.

And gods help him… he wasn’t entirely sure he’d mind.

The house was quiet for once. No echoing lectures from Walburga, no footsteps clicking across marble, no flurry of owls delivering correspondence.

Just stillness.

Lucius found her outside, tucked beneath the old magnolia tree at the edge of the garden, half-shadowed by its wide, drooping branches. She was sitting on the low stone wall with her knees drawn up, her head bent over a book.

Of course she was reading. Of course her hair was a tumble of curls lit gold by the afternoon sun. Of course she looked like something out of a fairytale—some old tale of witches and princesses spun together.

Lucius lingered for a moment, watching her. Then—heart inexplicably thudding—he approached.

She looked up, blinking at him, and offered a soft smile. Not mischievous or mocking. Just… warm.

He cleared his throat and nodded toward the book. “Taking advantage of the reprieve?”

“Always,” she said, flipping it shut with a soft snap . “It’s about time travel theory. I found it in your library. Not bad, but the Arithmantic equations are all wrong.”

“Of course they are,” he murmured, easing down onto the wall beside her, careful not to get too close.

They sat in companionable silence for a long moment, the magnolia leaves rustling gently above.

Then Lucius spoke, the words low and careful. “May I ask you something?”

She glanced over, curious. “You already are.”

He smirked faintly. “It’s something I’ve been wondering since the day you… appeared. At Hogwarts.”

She waited, patient.

Lucius hesitated, then finally said, “Why were you so afraid of Mr. Riddle when he came for you?”

Hermione’s smile slipped. Not entirely—just enough to show the truth beneath it.

“I didn’t know who he was,” she said quietly. “Not really. My memories were blocked when I landed here. I had no idea he was my father.”

Lucius blinked. “Landed?”

She nodded. “I’m not from now. I’m from the future. Thirty years ahead, give or take.”

Lucius went still.

Hermione kept her gaze on the horizon. “Where I came from… my dad wasn’t a kind man. He wasn’t even a man, not really. He was a monster. Everyone feared him. I feared him.”

Lucius didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. Every part of him was listening— Time travel? A future where Tom Riddle was a monster?

Lucius kept his face composed, but inside, his thoughts twisted like smoke.

“I came back by accident,” she continued. “Touched something I shouldn’t have. Ended up here—confused, terrified, without my memories. When I saw him… I thought I’d been captured. I didn’t know I was safe.”

She exhaled slowly, eyes thoughtful. “But I have my memories back now. The good ones, from before things went wrong. I remember him holding me. Singing to me. I remember being loved.”

Lucius studied her, the way her hands rested gently in her lap, the way her lashes cast delicate shadows across her cheek.

“I’ve decided to stay,” she said. “Maybe I can change things. Maybe if I’m here, it’ll be different next time.”

Lucius turned his gaze forward, into the soft, green distance.

He didn’t know what to say to that. That her words felt too big for the moment. That he suddenly understood the sharp thread of sorrow woven into her laughter. That the weight she carried wasn’t something he could imagine.

So instead, he said, “It must be lonely.”

Hermione blinked.

Lucius kept his voice quiet. “Being here. Knowing everything’s changed. That no one really knows you.”

She was silent for a beat.

Then she gave him a soft, sad smile. “Yeah. It is.”

Lucius looked down at his hands. Then, softly, “Well… you could think of me as a friend. If you’d like. I’ll be here. When you need someone.”

He didn’t look at her as he said it. Didn’t trust himself to.

But then she let out a quiet, delighted laugh—and when he finally glanced over, she was beaming at him, eyes bright.

“Thanks, Daddy Lucius,” she said, voice sweet and warm and teasing.

Lucius forgot how to breathe.

Her smile lingered for a moment longer, then she turned her gaze back to the garden, content.

Lucius, on the other hand, stared straight ahead, mind swimming with thoughts he should not be having.

He would love for her to make him a daddy.

Not just in jest. Not in teasing. But in truth—in some impossible, forbidden future where he was hers.

He shut his eyes.

He was so, so doomed.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat curled in a ball beneath the magnolia tree, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, chin resting atop them. The wind was soft today—just enough to make the tall garden grasses sway and the petals of the flowers tremble. She watched a cluster of blooms shift together in the breeze, their colors bright and cheerful, huddled close in their bush like gossiping old friends.

They weren’t lonely.

Not like her.

A few days ago, Lucius had said something that burrowed deep into her chest and stayed there.

“It must be lonely. Being here. Knowing everything’s changed. That no one really knows you.”

She had smiled, soft and sad, but it was his eyes that undid her. The quiet way he looked at her, like he saw past the snark and sarcasm to the truth she kept hidden under jokes and perfectly lifted eyebrows.

He was right.

She was lonely.

Hermione exhaled slowly through her nose, pressing her forehead to her knees. Her curls tumbled forward, catching on her lashes. The silence settled like a blanket around her, heavy but not unwelcome. She hadn’t realized how hard she was working to pretend—to perform this version of herself that was clever, composed, untouchable.

But Lucius had noticed. Even when no one else did.

That shouldn’t have mattered.

It did.

She glanced up again, watching the flowers bob gently. They had each other. She had… a ghost of a father who’d vanished without warning and a boy with pale hair and stormy eyes who didn’t run when she snapped or teased or prodded too far. Lucius had stayed. Quiet, awkward, surprisingly kind.

And now that she was sitting here, letting herself feel for the first time in days, she realized something else:

She didn’t want to use him anymore.

Lucius had started out as a convenient target. He was uptight, formal, too easy to poke and prod. He reacted to her chaos like a violin string—quivering, tense, on the edge of snapping. It was entertaining. Distracting. Safe.

But that was the thing.

She wasn’t angry at him .

She was angry at everything . At her father, for leaving. At herself, for needing him. At the universe, for taking her out of her timeline and giving her back memories that made her ache with longing.

Lucius had nothing to do with that.

And still, he offered her friendship.

Hermione’s chest tightened. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt.

He hadn’t asked anything in return. He hadn’t tried to fix her. He hadn’t even tried to understand everything she was—but he saw her. Maybe just a glimpse, but enough to break the surface of her carefully managed façade.

She smiled faintly, thinking of the way his face flushed when she teased him. The little twitch of his jaw when she called him Daddy Lucius . The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t watching, like she was some kind of mystery he hadn’t yet solved.

He really did look like he was going to explode the last time she pinched his arm and whispered sweet nonsense in his ear. Steam. Out the ears. Like a teakettle in human form.

She laughed under her breath.

Maybe she’d gone a bit far.

Maybe… she could ease up. Just a little.

She wasn’t ready to stop teasing him entirely. Where was the fun in that? But maybe she could try treating him like a friend . Because that’s what he was now, wasn’t he? Her first, real friend in this time.

Her smile faltered as she thought of her father.

She was still angry. Still hurt. He said this summer was meant to be theirs —for rebuilding what was lost. For learning how to be family again. Instead, he disappeared. No warning. No apology.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said.

“On my life.”

Hermione pressed her forehead harder against her knees.

Liar.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could catch it. She sniffled and wiped it away quickly, glancing around as if someone might have seen.

No. She couldn’t fall apart. Not here. Not now. Purebloods didn’t cry in the garden. They didn’t fall to pieces just because their father vanished like smoke. She had to hold .

She was a Riddle now.

She had to look the part. Even when it hurt.

Still… the next time he showed up, the gift had better be spectacular. Like a time-turner or a hippogriff or the bloody crown jewels.

Hermione sniffed and rubbed at her eyes.

The wind blew again, scattering petals across the grass.

She sat in the hush of the garden, feeling just a little less alone than she had that morning.

Because someone had seen her.

And, for once, stayed.

By the time Hermione wandered back inside, the breeze had worked most of the knots from her thoughts.

She wasn’t going to sulk.

Well—she was , but she could do it with dignity. And tea. Preferably with some jam tarts and a boy who looked like a statue carved out of anxiety.

The ballroom had been cleared and repurposed again, the tables set with delicate china and linen napkins in the Black family colors. Walburga stood at the far end like a military general disguised in lace, her wand already pointed at a tea set floating mid-air.

Lucius was already there, sitting ramrod straight at the long table, a hand fidgeting near his teacup. He looked up as Hermione entered—and paused.

Her steps were calm. Her eyes bright. And when she slid into the seat beside him, she didn’t smirk or elbow him or make any snide remark about how tightly he clenched his teacup.

Instead, she said gently, “Morning, Lucius.”

Just Lucius.

No ‘Daddy.’ No sing-song taunt.

He blinked at her like she’d cast a Confundus.

“Are you well?” he asked warily.

Hermione smiled as she unfolded her napkin. “Perfectly. I’ve decided to be kind to you.”

“Kind,” he echoed, skeptical.

She reached for the silver spoon and stirred her tea in precise, careful circles. “Mmhmm. We’re friends now. You said so, remember?”

Lucius stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “And friends don’t… torment each other?”

“They don’t intentionally torment each other,” she said sweetly. “Minor emotional chaos is still allowed.”

Lucius muttered something under his breath and reached for a biscuit.

Walburga clapped her hands sharply. “Sit up straighter, Lucius. The Pureblood table does not welcome slouching.”

Hermione sat straighter immediately, hands folded, posture impeccable. “Of course not, Mrs. Black.”

Walburga gave her a nod of approval. “Very good, Miss Riddle. Your manners are improving rapidly.”

Hermione shot Lucius a look across the table. Her eyes sparkled, but she didn’t say a word. That, perhaps, was even more unnerving than her teasing.

“Today,” Walburga continued, pacing the length of the table like a lioness, “you will learn the expectations of a formal tea and dinner party. Proper etiquette is what separates nobility from mud. We will cover posture, speech, utensil use, conversation pacing, and above all— restraint. ”

Lucius swallowed stiffly. Hermione rested her chin in her hand and looked almost well-behaved.

Walburga waved her wand, and the tea service began. Plates appeared, sandwiches floated, and a slightly aggressive teapot tried to pour itself into Lucius’s lap before Walburga flicked it away with a scowl.

Hermione reached for a cucumber sandwich with dainty fingers, pinky arched just enough to impress and irritate Lucius simultaneously.

“You're terrifyingly good at this,” he murmured.

“I pay attention,” she whispered back. “Also, I’m terrified of disappointing her.”

Walburga snapped her fingers. “Lucius, stop mumbling.”

He cleared his throat and folded his napkin precisely—then glanced sideways at Hermione.

“You’re… different today.”

She sipped her tea with impeccable grace. “Am I?”

“Less chaos,” he said.

She smiled—not smugly this time, but genuinely, soft and warm. “Friends, remember?”

He didn’t reply, but his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur of strict instructions, floating cutlery, and Walburga’s increasingly biased praise.

“Miss Riddle, excellent placement of your fork. Lucius, no one wants to watch you dissect a pheasant.”

“Miss Riddle, your posture is divine. Lucius, that’s a butter knife, not a wand.”

“Miss Riddle—flawless, again. Lucius, have you ever hosted a tea?”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She leaned slightly toward him and whispered, “You’re doing fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m trying to be a good friend.”

“By lying.”

“By… softening the truth,” she offered, dabbing her lips with her napkin.

He rolled his eyes, but there was a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth now.

Walburga finally stopped pacing and declared, “You two are nearly prepared. But etiquette must be tested under pressure. Therefore, for your next lesson, you will host a trial tea party.”

Lucius looked like she’d stabbed him in the ribs.

Walburga continued, “My nieces—Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa—will join you for tea tomorrow afternoon.”

Hermione’s smile froze. “All three of them?”

“Yes. You will demonstrate what you’ve learned. You will charm them.”

Lucius looked as if he were calculating how long it would take to fall out the nearest window.

Hermione gave him a reassuring nudge under the table. “We’ll survive. It’s just tea.”

“With Bellatrix.”

Hermione nodded sagely. “Andromeda’s lovely, at least.”

“And the younger one?”

Hermione gave a half-shrug. “She looks like she might bite. Could go either way.”

Lucius groaned quietly.

Hermione leaned in, her voice conspiratorial. “Don’t worry. I’ll be nice to you at least.”

Lucius gave her a sideways look, soft and suspicious. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

By the time the Black sisters arrived, Hermione felt ready.

She had spent the morning rehearsing small talk, posture, and how not to stab someone with a dessert fork.

Lucius had tried to reassure her. Sort of. Mostly by saying things like “They smell fear” and “Don’t look Bellatrix in the eye.”

Encouraging.

The drawing room had been transformed into a portrait of refined civility: sunlight pouring through sheer curtains, delicate china arranged with military precision, and a tower of suspiciously perfect pastries stacked high on a silver tray. Walburga stood in the doorway like a malevolent gargoyle, arms crossed.

Then came the knock.

Hermione straightened her shoulders. Lucius made a faint noise of resignation.

The door opened.

Bellatrix Black swept in first like a thunderstorm in velvet. Her curls bounced with attitude, and her smile was all teeth.

Andromeda followed, elegant and amused, eyes sharp with curiosity.

Last came Narcissa, delicate and pristine, like she’d been carved from porcelain and would break you if you looked at her wrong.

“Ladies,” Hermione said, rising with flawless grace. “Welcome to Malfoy Manor. Do come in. I promise the tea only looks poisoned.”

Lucius choked on air. Bellatrix grinned like a shark. Narcissa blinked.

Andromeda outright laughed .

Promising start.

They settled at the table. Hermione poured tea without spilling a drop. Lucius, seated beside her like a silent support system, was already halfway through a lemon tart and watching the proceedings like a man at a duel.

“So,” said Bellatrix, sipping delicately, “you’re his daughter.”

Hermione smiled brightly. “Yes. But don’t hold it against me—I had no say in the matter.”

Andromeda snorted into her cup. Narcissa narrowed her eyes.

“You don’t look like him,” she said.

“I moisturize,” Hermione replied serenely.

Lucius dropped his fork.

Bellatrix leaned forward, voice like honey laced with venom. “And what, exactly, are your intentions with our dear Lucius?”

Hermione tilted her head. “Teach him how to dance, critique his posture, and slowly drive him insane. You know—standard friendship things.”

“Friendship?” Andromeda arched a brow. “How scandalously platonic.”

Lucius turned red.

Narcissa spoke up, voice icy. “Do you even know how to host a proper tea, or did you just read about it in one of your future books?”

Hermione smiled, lips sharp. “Oh, I read five books. Took notes. Cross-referenced them. Also hexed a teacup by accident—but in my defense, it did insult my lineage.”

Bellatrix barked a laugh. “You’re funny.”

“Dangerous thing to tell a Riddle,” Hermione replied sweetly. “We take that as a challenge.”

And then the real chaos began.

The sugar bowl exploded.

Not violently—but with intent . Powdered sugar everywhere. Hermione blinked calmly as it dusted her curls like snow.

Narcissa sniffed. “Sloppy.”

Hermione daintily stirred her tea, unbothered. “I like to keep things festive.”

Then the pastries began floating. Bellatrix reached for one—and it dodged her hand. So did the next one. They began orbiting the table like mischievous satellites.

Bellatrix was reaching for another tart when Lucius, very calmly, flicked his wand. The tart lifted itself, floated over her hand, and hovered just out of reach.

She narrowed her eyes. “Really?”

Lucius didn’t even look up from his tea. “If the pastries must orbit someone, I’d rather it be me.”

Hermione blinked. Bellatrix’s hand twitched, but the tart spun lazily out of her grasp again, like a smug little moon.

Andromeda covered a laugh behind her cup. Narcissa’s brows rose ever so slightly.

Lucius, for once, looked perfectly at ease. “Restraint,” he said smoothly, glancing at Bellatrix, “is a cornerstone of noble conduct, is it not?”

Even Walburga looked begrudgingly impressed.

Hermione stared at him, torn between awe and betrayal. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Lucius arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been monopolizing the chaos.”

Bellatrix huffed but grinned. “Fine. Point to the ice prince.”

Hermione hid her smile in her teacup. Well played.

Even Lucius laughed at that one.

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. “You’re unflappable.”

Hermione took another bite. “Oh no—I’m flapped. You just can’t see it.”

There was a long pause.

Then Bellatrix smiled. “I like you.”

Hermione blinked. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“Everything I say is vaguely threatening.”

Andromeda leaned back, grinning. “Alright, Riddle. You passed.”

Hermione froze with her cup halfway to her lips. “Passed what ?”

“The test,” Narcissa said primly, dusting sugar off her sleeve. “We were instructed to evaluate you.”

“Stress test,” Bellatrix said with a smirk. “See how well you hold up under fire.”

“By attacking my etiquette?” Hermione asked flatly.

Andromeda shrugged. “Pureblood tea parties are bloodsport.”

Hermione set down her teacup. “You could’ve just… asked.”

Bellatrix grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Lucius, who had been mostly silent until now, cleared his throat. “She did remarkably well.”

Hermione glanced at him in surprise—he looked deadly serious.

“She handled you three better than I ever have,” he added.

Andromeda tilted her head. “Awfully loyal, aren’t you?”

Lucius straightened stiffly. “I promised to look out for her.”

“And now you’re… friends?” Andromeda asked.

Lucius nodded. “Yes. Friends.”

Bellatrix raised both eyebrows. “Lucius Malfoy, befriending a girl? Scandalous.”

Lucius ignored her and poured Hermione another cup of tea.

Hermione tried not to smile.

Andromeda leaned across the table and offered her hand. “Welcome to the mess.”

Hermione shook it. “Happy to be included.”

Narcissa gave a tiny, reluctant nod. “You’re not entirely insufferable.”

Hermione grinned. “High praise.”

Walburga swept into the room again at that moment, scanned the sugar-covered table, and said in a tone of sheer disbelief, “Is that scone hovering ?”

“No, ma’am,” Hermione said cheerfully. “It’s asserting itself. ”

Lucius buried his face in one hand.

As the Black sisters gathered their things and swept out in a flurry of laughter, smirks, and crumbled sugar, Hermione sat back and let herself breathe.

She hadn’t cracked. She hadn’t snapped. She hadn’t cried or run or hexed anyone under the table. She’d faced chaos with a smile, and for once… she hadn’t been alone in it.

Lucius—of all people—had stepped up. Not just to endure it with her, but to help.

And that changed something.

She glanced at him, the edge of a smile still tugging at her lips. He was quietly finishing his tea like the whole ordeal had been nothing more than an afternoon stroll through decorum and death glares.

For the first time since waking up in this fractured past, Hermione didn’t feel like an intruder.

She felt… included. Maybe even wanted.

Maybe she didn’t need to perform so much. Maybe she could just be.

Maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t as alone as she thought.

Chapter Text

Tom didn’t like leaving Hermione alone. Not after he’d promised they would spend the summer together. Not after she’d finally started to trust him again. But her memories still haunted him.

He had watched them all—every flickering thread, every flash of horror, every quiet moment of heartbreak. But it wasn’t just her life he saw. It was his failure.

His downfall.

His empire—ashes. His knights—dead, imprisoned, or broken. Even those most loyal had scattered like frightened dogs. That was not what he had promised them.

He had promised power. Prestige. Immortality. Knowledge. A new world forged by magic and ruled by strength.

Instead, he gave them ruin.

Tom sat stiffly in the wingback chair, hands steepled beneath his chin, staring at the dark hearth. Firelight had long since gone cold. He didn’t move to reignite it.

He had gone too far. That much was clear.

The memories Hermione returned to him—fragmented, raw, but vivid—had confirmed what he had suspected deep down for some time now: he had made too many Horcruxes. Shattered his soul past the point of recognition. Each piece twisted him further, made him more paranoid, less human. And in the end, he became unkillable but not undefeatable.

A child had brought him down.

His jaw tightened. Even now, the thought stung.

But Tom Riddle did not waste pain. He learned from it.

First , he would not make another Horcrux. Not now. Not ever. With the Diadem’s piece restored, he had two left—and they would suffice. Any further division would only increase the madness, the instability. The price of immortality had been too high, and he would not pay it again.

He leaned forward, hands clasped, elbows on knees. His face, carved in perfect, aristocratic lines, was unreadable—but behind his stillness, his mind churned.

Second , he would abandon the brute-force path. The Dark Lord persona. It had worked—briefly—but it hadn’t endured. Fear burned bright, but it burned fast. And the world Hermione came from had feared him, yes… but it hadn’t respected him. Hadn’t followed him willingly. Even those who served him had done so with desperation, not loyalty.

He sneered. That sort of power was brittle.

Politics, then. A subtler game. He hated it—loathed the crawling pace, the false smiles, the posturing. But he was no stranger to masks. He could build a reputation the Ministry would welcome, not fear. He would play their game, speak their language, wear their robes.

And then change the rules from within.

He already had the pedigree. Tom Marvolo Riddle—the last Gaunt. Pureblood, orphaned noble, war hero-in-waiting. The Gaunt family seat on the Wizengamot had long gone unused. It was time to claim it. Strategically. Elegantly.

He could reshape the wizarding world with parchment instead of fire. One law at a time.

Third —and most important—he would protect Hermione.

His expression softened.

The cold sharpness behind his eyes gave way to something far older. Far deeper.

It wasn’t just the memories of her pain. It was the way she had clung to that stuffed dragon when she was small. The way she sang off-key when she thought no one could hear. The way she reached for him now—uncertain, hesitant, but willing.

Hermione had saved him.

She’d returned a piece of his soul, yes—but more than that, she reminded him that he once loved. That he still could.

These weeks with her had been… intoxicating. A balm he didn’t know he’d needed. She challenged him. Trusted him. Made him laugh. And in return, he gave her everything he had never given anyone: honesty, patience, gentleness.

She was his daughter.

And for her, he would raze the world or rebuild it. Whatever she needed.

Tom exhaled slowly, fingers running down the polished armrest of the chair. The wood was smooth and cold, but his skin still tingled with the memory of her hand in his, the soft weight of her head against his shoulder.

This wasn’t just about legacy anymore. Or dominance.

This was about her future.

Her safety.

Her happiness.

And for the first time in his life, Tom Riddle had something more than ambition.

He had a reason.

He stood, cloak rustling, spine straightening as he walked to the window. The garden below lay empty, the swing swaying gently in the wind. A trace of her laughter still echoed there, like magic clinging to the air.

Tom pressed a hand to the glass.

The old plan had died with the Dark Lord.

A new world was waiting.

And this time, he would build it for her.

After leaving Hermione at Malfoy Manor, Tom wasted no time.

The memories she had shown him still burned behind his eyes—visions of ruin, of death, of his empire shattered by children and sentiment. It wasn’t just a defeat. It was a humiliation.

Unacceptable.

He and Abraxas Malfoy arranged the gathering within hours. A meeting of the Knights of Walpurgis—those loyal few who had pledged themselves to the future he promised.

Nott Manor was chosen deliberately. Not his own estate. Never Riddle Manor. That was hers now. Sacred ground. None of the filth who still relished cruelty for its own sake would set foot near Hermione.

Tom stood in the drawing room, watching dusk bleed across the wide glass windows. He wore deep green robes tailored like armor, his wand hidden beneath the fold of one sleeve. The room was quiet save for the tick of a black-lacquered clock and the low, cold throb of his own magic curling beneath his skin.

They would not like what he had to say.

He didn’t care.

One by one, they arrived. Rodolphus Lestrange first, eyes gleaming with bloodlust barely contained. Then Rosier and Mulciber, exchanging a knowing smirk. Nott trailed in behind them, his expression unreadable. Avery followed—greasy, sharp-eyed, twitching with anticipation. And finally, Abraxas, as composed as ever, gliding to the chair on Tom’s right with the ease of a man who knew his place.

Tom let the silence stretch until even Lestrange shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

He sat in the tall green wingback chair at the head of the table, one leg crossed neatly over the other, long fingers resting lightly against his chin. His eyes, flat and fathomless, moved from face to face.

Then he spoke.

“I have seen the future.”

The words dropped like lead. A ripple of unease passed around the table.

“I have seen what happens if we stay this course. What becomes of you ,” he added coolly, eyes lingering on each of them. “Dead. Imprisoned. Forgotten. Our cause—lost.”

He let that settle. Let the silence wrap around their necks like a noose.

“Your daughter,” Rosier ventured, uncertain. “The girl?”

Her trust gave him access to what no spell ever could. Tom nodded once. “Her memories showed me a war. One I lose .”

A beat. Then Avery scoffed. “Then we change tactics. Hit harder. Take the Ministry by force—”

“No.” Tom’s voice cracked like ice. “You don’t understand. The more we fight, the more they resist. I become a monster in their eyes. The wizarding world unites against me. Children rise to oppose us—and win.”

“You’re saying we surrender?” Mulciber sneered.

“I’m saying,” Tom said softly, “that we adapt.”

He stood.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“From this moment forward, the Knights will abandon brute force. We will discard the image of rebels, of terrorists, of murderers. We will become statesmen . Influencers. Policy-makers. Every one of you will build a name that is unimpeachable.”

Murmurs broke out at the table.

“We are going the political route now,” he continued, cutting across them. “You will take your family seats in the Wizengamot. You will sponsor bills. Forge alliances. Fulfill favors. We will earn their trust and use it to bend them to our will.”

Rodolphus slammed a hand against the table. “You want us to play nice ? With those half-blood cowards—”

Tom didn’t move.

He didn’t have to.

The power that rippled through the room was suffocating. The air turned thick with magic, chokingly heavy. Rodolphus paled as his chair rattled beneath him, pinned by invisible force.

Tom’s voice dropped to a hiss. “You forget yourself, Lestrange. I am not asking.”

Rodolphus stilled.

Tom waved a hand, and the pressure vanished.

“You will do as I say,” he continued, deadly calm. “You will build reputations so pristine they gleam. When they call us forward, we will already hold the levers of power. We will not fight for the throne—we will already own it.”

Nott leaned forward slightly, voice cautious. “And… your daughter?”

Tom’s face shifted—just slightly. The cold edge dulled into something darker, quieter, more dangerous.

“She is the reason we must succeed. And the reason we will .”

He circled the table slowly, robes whispering against the marble floor.

“With her memories, we have an advantage no one else in history has ever had. We know the battle. The terrain. The outcome.”

He paused behind Avery, resting a pale hand on his shoulder.

“I have rewritten the ending.”

He turned back to face them. “This is how we win.”

A long, tense silence.

Then, reluctantly, they nodded. One by one.

Tom returned to his seat, posture once more composed and elegant. His tea—still untouched—had gone cold.

Abraxas gave a faint, knowing smile. “What’s our first move?”

Tom’s eyes gleamed.

“We begin collecting favors.”

Tom Riddle entered the Ministry of Magic not with a bang, but with a bow.

He arrived in elegant robes of deep emerald trimmed in silver thread, a polished smile, and eyes that gleamed like wet ink—dark and watchful beneath charm. People turned when he passed. Doors opened without touch. He moved with purpose, with grace, with the calm authority of someone who knew he belonged.

He did not storm the gates.

He walked straight through them.

The Gaunt family seat in the Wizengamot had remained vacant for decades—tainted by madness and lineage, avoided even by vultures. But Tom claimed it with ease, his pureblood ancestry undeniable, his presentation flawless. He gave a speech on tradition and reform. On healing old wounds. On vision.

And the Chamber applauded.

In public, he was radiant. Controlled warmth. Charisma tempered with humility. He shook hands. He spoke softly. He remembered names. Even the most jaded of his opponents found themselves caught by his gaze and lulled by his voice.

Behind closed doors, he worked like a machine.

Over the course of the month, Tom mapped out the Ministry like a strategist before a war: who had debts, who had secrets, who had ambitions easily redirected. He attended charity events and funeral banquets, hosted exclusive gatherings at Lestrange’s estate, and sent custom-tailored gifts to key committee members.

He leaned into the game.

And he played to win.

When gold didn’t sway someone, information did. And when that failed, favors worked wonders. There was no task too small or distasteful if it gained him leverage—arranging a discreet annulment, tampering with lineage records, un-cursing a daughter’s suitor, delivering the recipe for a fertility potion discreetly to a childless couple. Every debt became a string he could pull later.

His Knights followed suit.

Abraxas revived several dormant family alliances and threw two strategic galas that netted them five new allies. Nott began backing legislation on magical artifacts, earning him favor with the Department of Mysteries. Mulciber and Avery, though not graceful, had their uses in handling problems others wanted to disappear. Rosier charmed half the Wizengamot’s junior members. Lestrange kept his violence hidden—barely—and handled messes no one else dared touch.

They all worked.

Quietly. Relentlessly.

By the end of the summer, Tom had what he needed:

A foothold in the Ministry.

A growing reputation as a brilliant new face of the Wizengamot—well-bred, thoughtful, powerful, and idealistic.

He had thirty-two favors owed. Eleven votes he could count on. Four committee appointments.

And not a single public misstep.

He returned to Riddle Manor that night long after the moon had risen. His robes were immaculate, but his magic was tired—coiled tight beneath his skin from weeks of patience and maneuvering.

He stepped into the drawing room and exhaled slowly.

A silence met him. The house was dark. Still.

Tom let his eyes close.

It was working.

He was building something that could not be burned down by schoolchildren or prophesied toddlers. He would rise quietly, from within, and remake the world as it should be.

He crossed the foyer slowly, then paused near the stairs. His fingers brushed the banister—warm from the sun’s memory. His gaze drifted upward, toward her wing of the house.

His expression softened.

All of this—every word, every lie, every favor bought with charm or threat—was for her.

For Hermione.

So she would never again be hunted. Never again be scarred. So she would never know the taste of exile, of loneliness, of terror in the night.

He would make this world safe for her.

He would make her untouchable .

And they would never see it coming.

Tom smiled faintly to himself—something rare, private—and continued up the stairs.

Tomorrow, the real work began.

He crossed the foyer slowly, then paused near the stairs. His fingers brushed the banister—warm from the sun’s memory. His gaze drifted upward, toward her wing of the house.

It was quiet now.

She wasn’t here.

She was safe at Malfoy Manor, surrounded by ancient walls and irritating blondes and everything he’d deemed necessary to protect her.

But in the hush of the manor, her presence lingered.

Tonight, he let himself think of her laughter echoing through these halls. Bright. Effortless. Alive.

His thoughts clung to her like sunlight—warm, golden, and impossible to forget.

And for the first time in weeks, Tom Riddle let himself feel peace.

Chapter Text

Over the rest of the summer, Malfoy Manor changed.

Not physically—the marble floors still gleamed, the tapestries still brooded, the portraits still judged. But something in the air had shifted. It was warmer now, lighter. Like sunlight breaking through a perpetual overcast, even the East Hall’s ever-sneering Lady Araminta seemed less grim. A brightness that reached the corners of rooms that hadn’t known laughter in years.

Hermione had brought it with her.

Lucius hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t expected much of anything, really—not when Tom Riddle had appeared like a thunderclap and upended his already carefully regimented life. But he certainly hadn’t expected her. Or this.

The manor no longer felt like a tomb.

Hermione filled it with motion—gliding barefoot down the corridors in silk, curling on the library sofa with a book twice her size, spilling laughter like candlelight. It was infuriating. It was intoxicating.

It was not good for him.

Lucius found himself drifting toward her without meaning to. Not just when duty demanded it. Not just when Walburga insisted he escort her during tea. No. He sought her out now. Lingering in the library longer than necessary. Finding excuses to walk through the gardens when she was out there humming to herself, utterly unaware of the effect she had on him.

She still teased him, of course. Occasionally called him Daddy Lucius just to watch his ears go pink. But something had changed.

She was gentler now. Softer. Real.

They would have tea and talk—just talk. Hours would pass, the light changing across the tablecloth as they covered every subject from politics to potions to whether the Falmouth Falcons had a hope in hell this season.

Lucius had never talked so much with one person in his life. And he’d never wanted to.

She would laugh—head tipped back, curls catching the sun—and he’d feel something awful and wonderful happen to his heart. Something fluttering. Unstable. A little like flying and a little like falling.

He was smiling more. Everyone noticed. He noticed.

Even Andromeda noticed.

The Black sisters were over again. They had, apparently, adopted Hermione. Which meant endless visits, rapid-fire gossip, and long walks through the gardens when the sun cooperated.

It was on one of those walks, under the warm blue sky, that Andromeda fell behind and tugged Lucius’s arm to keep him back.

He raised a brow. “Something wrong?”

She didn’t answer at first. Just studied him with the quiet precision of someone who knew him too well.

“You like her,” she said flatly.

Lucius froze.

He kept his face still, schooled into the familiar blankness that usually worked on strangers. Unfortunately, Andromeda was not a stranger.

“I don’t—”

“Oh, don’t insult my intelligence,” she said, folding her arms. “We’re engaged. We’ve known each other since we were three. I know what your neutral face looks like. This isn’t it.”

Lucius shifted his weight, suddenly very interested in the laces of his boots. “I haven’t done anything inappropriate.”

“No,” Andromeda agreed. “You’ve just fallen for her like a Regency hero with a tragic secret and no clue how to process feelings.”

He gave her a sharp look.

She smiled faintly. “Relax. I’m not angry.”

That startled him more than an accusation would have.

“You’re… not?” he asked carefully.

She shrugged. Her eyes were on Hermione up ahead—where she was walking beside Bellatrix, gesturing animatedly at something. “She’s good for you.”

Lucius blinked. “That’s not the point. We’re—”

“Engaged,” Andromeda finished for him. “Yes. And if this were five years ago, I’d remind you that honor demands you stay that way. But it’s not five years ago. Things are changing. The world is shifting. And I—”

She stopped herself. Took a breath.

“Look. I’m not saying you should go sweep her off her feet in a dramatic declaration of love. But if— if —a chance ever comes… take it. She makes you better. Lighter.”

She touched his arm. Briefly. Sincerely.

“Love is worth taking chances for.”

And then she turned and walked off, skirts swaying, joining the others like nothing had happened.

Lucius stood there, wind tousling his hair, and tried to make sense of what had just occurred.

Had his fiancée—cool, clever Andromeda—just given him leave to... fall in love with someone else? It felt wrong. It felt dangerous. It felt like hope

That couldn’t be right. Could it?

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the implications. There were rules. Boundaries. Responsibilities. And Hermione—Hermione was his friend. His very confusing, devastatingly beautiful friend. Who smiled at him like she saw through his every defense and liked what she found anyway.

He scowled at the hedges.

There was no way he was going to do anything reckless. He was a Malfoy. He was engaged. And Mr. Riddle had a very particular look that suggested he could end Lucius with a thought.

Still…

His eyes drifted to Hermione ahead, laughing at something Narcissa said, her curls catching gold in the sunlight. She was golden in the sun, all warmth and motion.

And for one foolish second, Lucius allowed himself the thought:

What if…?

Then he exhaled sharply, shook it off, and hurried to catch up.

The last days of summer clung gently to the windows, casting warm amber light through the breakfast room. Soon it would be September, and Hogwarts would reclaim them both.

Lucius stirred a spoon absently through his tea as a pair of owls soared past the glass. A second later, two thick envelopes dropped neatly onto the table—parchment crisp, wax still warm.

Hogwarts letters.

Hermione reached for hers immediately, but her excitement faded the moment she opened the envelope. Along with the usual supply list was another letter—longer, darker parchment, the seal unmistakable.

Her father.

Lucius watched her eyes narrow, watched her curls begin to rise with static agitation. She hadn’t even touched her fruit. Her brows were drawn tight, lips pursed, and the very air around her seemed to bristle with irritation.

He didn’t know how she managed it—being absolutely incandescent even when glaring at inanimate objects—but somehow, she did.

Salazar help me, Lucius thought grimly. Why does she have to be so bloody beautiful when she’s upset?

He cleared his throat. “Is there something wrong? Has the letter offended you in some unprintable way?”

Her glare snapped from the parchment to him. Sharp. Focused. Fierce.

“Obviously,” she said crisply.

Lucius blinked. All right then.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked, aiming for lightly sympathetic. He tilted his head, tried not to look too concerned.

Hermione sighed. The fight drained out of her in a single breath, and her shoulders sank.

“I… I don’t know how I’m going to get everything,” she murmured, voice small. “Dad won’t be back until right before the train leaves. And I don’t have any money.”

She crossed her arms, looking down and away, lashes low. Her whole posture folded in on itself. Lucius felt something tight coil behind his ribs.

Ah.

That, at least, was easy.

He smiled—soft and confident. “The house elves will collect everything and have it delivered. It’s already taken care of. Your father arranged it before he left.”

Hermione looked up, blinking slowly.

Lucius pressed on, pleased at the flicker of surprise in her expression. “Besides,” he added loftily, “we’re not allowed to leave the manor without an adult. So neither of us could go even if we wanted to.”

He paused, letting his smug grin creep in. “This is much more efficient. Now we can focus on other things instead.”

Hermione didn’t look nearly as soothed as he’d hoped. She frowned again, softer now, her voice quiet.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s how it is.”

Lucius’s smile faltered. That… wasn’t the radiant, sunshine-filled thanks he was expecting.

He studied her carefully—the set of her mouth, the way her fingers fidgeted against her sleeves. Something else was wrong.

“Was there something you wanted to do specifically?” he asked gently. “Something about the trip?”

She hesitated, then looked up and met his eyes. “It’s just… this is a different time for me, right? I thought maybe I could find some books—older editions, reference materials, anything that could help me compare the curriculum.”

Her voice dropped. “I don’t want to fall behind. Or be caught not knowing something I should.”

Lucius stared at her.

She hadn’t been worried about robes or potions ingredients. She was worried about knowledge . About keeping up. About fitting in, in a world that was, to her, both familiar and entirely new.

His chest ached.

She really is brilliant, he thought, a little stunned. She doesn’t think like anyone else.

And gods help him—he loved that about her.

His grin returned, slower this time. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

Hermione’s glare returned in full force. “Why not, exactly?”

There was no heat behind it now, just habit, and Lucius found it… adorable.

He leaned back in his chair, smug again. “Because,” he said, drawing it out, “you can use my old books. I kept all of them. Even the annotated ones.”

Her expression shifted—guarded suspicion giving way to surprise, and then a touch of something softer. Curiosity. Wonder.

“You’d let me use your books?” she asked, blinking.

“Of course,” he said, trying for casual, even though his heart was galloping like a hippogriff. “What are friends for, Sunshine ?”

He winked as he tried the nickname aloud.

Hermione’s eyes widened. She glanced down, cheeks turning a warm, unmistakable pink.

Lucius froze.

She’s blushing. Because of me.

His pulse surged. She liked it. His brain short-circuited with triumphant panic. His cock twitched traitorously beneath the table, and he nearly upended the sugar bowl.

Down, you disloyal bastard, he hissed internally.

Hermione shook her head—still blushing—and smiled at him, eyes shining.

“Thanks… Daddy Lucius.”

He choked.

Literally choked on air.

He coughed, tried to disguise it with a napkin, and absolutely failed to stop his ears from turning red.

Salazar be merciful. The woman was going to kill him with pet names.

“Af–After breakfast,” he managed hoarsely, “I’ll show you where they are. The books. You can use whatever you like.”

Her smile lit up the whole room. His entire soul turned to pudding.

Lucius watched her return to her fruit as though nothing had happened, curls bouncing, sunshine practically trailing in her wake.

He bit the inside of his cheek and whispered to himself,

“She’s going to be the death of me.”

And somehow, he wasn’t sure he minded.

Over the next few days, Hermione lived in the library.

Once Lucius had shown her the tall shelves where his old textbooks were kept—organized alphabetically by subject and year, of course—she’d claimed the space like she’d been born to it. Piles of books sprouted like ivy around her favorite armchair, parchment littered the floor beneath her feet, and the scent of parchment and citrus ink clung to the air.

And so, by extension, Lucius now lived in the library too.

He had no reason to be there, not really. His summer essays were done. He’d reread Magical Law: Precedent and Rebuttal twice out of boredom. But none of that mattered, because Hermione was there.

Hermione was sunshine, his sun, and he followed her orbit like he was the moon.

So when she read, he did too. Or at least, he made it look like he was reading. What he was actually doing—what he spent hours doing—was watching her.

It was shameless, probably. But he couldn’t help himself.

She was expressive in a way that defied logic. Every flicker of emotion painted across her face with no filter or control. She bit her lip when she was confused, tapped her fingers when annoyed, smiled softly—so softly—it made his stomach flutter when she found a passage she liked. Her brow furrowed in disbelief when she came across what she deemed “lazy” magical theory, and she’d mutter under her breath with the conviction of someone who’d already bested the authors.

Lucius couldn’t look away.

He’d always thought beauty was best admired in still portraits, behind glass, composed and pristine. But Hermione wasn’t still. She was kinetic. Living. Art that breathed and burned and pulsed. 

She wasn’t a still-life in a museum—she was wild brushstrokes and living color, a sun-drenched symphony of motion. And he was a boy standing in the doorway, afraid to blink in case she vanished.

He was utterly captivated.

One lazy afternoon, sunlight slanted across the parquet floor in long golden bars, and dust danced in the air like magic barely remembered. Hermione was on tiptoes, reaching for a thick, aged volume far above her head.

Lucius, watching from the armchair, felt his breath catch.

She was grumbling under her breath— “why are they always just out of reach” —as she stretched higher. Her shirt rode up just a fraction, revealing a sliver of soft skin at the small of her back. The sight made something in his chest twist.

He was on his feet before he could think better of it.

His shoes were silent on the rug as he moved, stopping just a breath behind her. She was so small, he realized—not fragile, never fragile—but compact and fierce, like lightning bottled in glass.

Lucius reached up smoothly and plucked the book from the shelf. His hand brushed hers as he passed her the book, and it was ridiculous—unbearably, unreasonably ridiculous—how that simple touch made his breath catch. Hermione startled, then turned—and smiled at him, glowing.

Lucius forgot how to breathe.

“Thanks, Daddy Lucius. You’re the best.”

That voice. That name. Merlin save me.

He couldn’t help it—he reached out and brushed his knuckles down her cheek, letting his fingers pause to cup her chin gently. Her skin was warm. So warm.

“Anything for you, Sunshine.”

Her eyes widened. Her cheeks bloomed red.

Hermione fumbled with the book in her arms. “Right,” she squeaked, glancing away. “I—I should get back to it.”

She turned and hurried off, curls bouncing in her wake, and sank into her chair with exaggerated focus. Her face was still pink, and she clutched the book like a shield.

Lucius remained where he stood, smug satisfaction rising in his chest.

She blushed. She wasn’t indifferent. He didn’t know what it meant, not exactly—whether she liked him back, or simply didn’t hate him anymore—but he knew he’d made her blush, and that was enough for now.

They fell back into their rhythm after that.

Hermione read. Lucius read. Or tried to.

Then, several days later, she slammed the final book shut with a huff so dramatic it made him jump.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, sitting up from where he’d been half-dozing with a copy of Wizarding Contract Law .

Hermione groaned and flopped back against her chair. “Yes and no.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow, waiting.

She didn’t make him wait long.

“I know all of this already,” she said, frowning at the thick textbook like it had personally offended her.

“Isn’t that… good?” he ventured.

Hermione sighed. “Technically, yes. But it also means this year is going to be so boring . Everything I just read—it’s basic. Simplified. Watered down.” She threw her hands up. “This curriculum is so much easier than the one from my time. It’s not fair!”

Lucius stared at her, incredulous. “You’re… upset because school is going to be too easy ?”

Hermione scowled at his amused tone. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

But it was too late. Lucius was already grinning. “Most people complain that Hogwarts is too hard. You’re the only person I’ve ever met who thinks it’s not hard enough .”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Only you, Sunshine.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes but failed to suppress the twitch of her lips. “I am a bit odd, aren’t I?”

“More than a bit,” he teased, leaning back. “But I—”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“—I love you the way you are.”

Silence.

The word hung in the air like a spell gone wrong. He wanted to snatch it back, stuff it down his throat, pretend he hadn’t just doomed himself

Hermione blinked.

Lucius froze. His brain screamed. Love? You just said LOVE, you absolute idiot—

He darted a look at her. Was she blushing again? Laughing? Had she heard it?

No. She was shaking her head, curls flying, giggling like he’d said something teasing.

Lucius slapped on a sheepish smile, praying she hadn’t caught the slip. A faux pas, as his father would say. A spectacular one.

Hermione leaned forward, elbow on the armrest, chin in her hand, eyes glittering with amusement. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, you keep me around.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Lucius blinked. She thinks I’m cute?

Hermione went back to her notes, unbothered, unaware that Lucius’s entire internal monologue had dissolved into fireflies.

He let out a slow breath, watching her from across the room.

She was sunshine. His sun.

And he would orbit her forever, even if she never realized she was the center of his world.

She smiled—bright and unbothered—and Lucius felt it like a punch and a prayer.

Merlin help him. He was completely, irreversibly gone.

For a girl who called him “Daddy Lucius” and didn’t even know she was breaking him.

His smiling sunshine. And he was doomed. Utterly, pathetically doomed.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat curled on her bed at Malfoy Manor, tucked beneath a quilt the color of faded roses, but no warmth reached her chest. The sheets were impossibly soft, the mattress plush, and the curtains of her canopy bed drifted gently in the breeze of a cooling charm. Everything around her was built for comfort—but her heart was cased in cold iron.

She was only days away from returning to Hogwarts, and her father still hadn’t shown up.

She hugged her knees tighter against her chest, her chin resting on flannel pajama legs, eyes staring blankly at the far wall. The room was quiet, but not peaceful. It rang with absence. Every tick of the antique clock seemed to echo louder than the last.

Was he coming at all?

The thought pricked at her like a thorn. She pressed her lips together and turned her face into her knees. She didn't want to cry. Not yet. Not again.

Lucius, perceptive as ever, had noticed the shift in her mood and gracefully given her space. He hadn’t pressed, hadn’t lingered, just offered her a lingering look full of questions he didn’t voice, and left her to her silence.

She was thankful for that. Being sad was exhausting—especially when surrounded by people trained to pretend emotions didn’t exist.

Not that Lucius was cold or indifferent. He wasn’t. Quite the opposite, really. He had become… wonderful. Patient, thoughtful, funny, even charming—though she would never tell him that to his face. He’d get smug, and she’d never hear the end of it.

A small, reluctant smile curved her lips. Merlin, he was so smug.

But gods, he made her laugh. When he wasn’t trapped in his head about decorum and the “proper way of things,” he was fun. He teased her now—properly teased her—and sometimes even caught her off guard with a clever remark that made her cheeks burn.

Worse, it wasn’t just his words that undid her.

Sometimes, the way he looked at her… like she was the sun and he’d never seen daylight before… it made her chest flutter and her pulse trip. She let out a soft, exasperated puff of air and flopped back onto the pillows.

“I’m being dramatic,” she muttered to the ceiling. “Just like him.”

And yet—her breath caught—the memory still haunted her: that day in the library, when his fingers brushed hers, then cupped her cheek with reverence, like she was something sacred. Her stomach had flipped, heat had bloomed low and sharp, and she had stumbled back to her seat barely able to think straight.

Even now, remembering it made her shiver.

Her thighs pressed together on instinct, her body responding faster than her logic could catch up. Her cheeks flushed. No. No, no, no. She couldn’t think like that. She shouldn’t think like that.

They were just friends .

He was engaged. Andromeda was kind, elegant, and smart—someone Hermione genuinely liked and respected. There was no way Hermione would ever hurt her. She wouldn’t be that girl.

Besides… this was Lucius. Draco’s father. If she wasn’t careful, she could unravel the timeline completely. One misstep could unmake entire futures. Her eyes widened as the thought hit her like a blow to the chest.

What if she’d already changed things too much?

She sat upright in a jolt, her curls flying in a messy halo around her head. Her heart pounded.

“I’ve already changed the future,” she whispered.

The truth of it vibrated through her bones. She had. Her presence, her choices—everything she’d done this summer—none of it belonged in the original past. And there was no turning back.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Once. Twice. In through her nose, out through her mouth. She couldn’t dwell on hypotheticals. She’d already made the choice to stay. To live. To build something new.

Still… the present had its own complications.

Namely: Lucius Malfoy.

She flopped back again, covering her face with a pillow and groaning. This was just proximity, surely. He was one of the only people she’d seen all summer. Once she got back to Hogwarts, once she was surrounded by other students—other distractions—her feelings would fade. They had to.

She was just… lonely. And he made the loneliness bearable.

He was her anchor in the storm. When her thoughts spun too fast or her heart ached too sharply, he would sit beside her, offer a quiet comment or a clever smirk, and just be there . He made her feel seen. Like she wasn’t just some stranger out of time.

Hermione blinked back the sting in her eyes and turned onto her side, fingers fisting in the edge of the blanket.

She missed her dad.

She hated that she missed him.

He’d broken his promise. Said they’d have the whole summer. But he’d been gone the first chance he got—off doing Merlin-knows-what for “her safety.”

She let out a shuddering breath. “I didn’t want safety,” she whispered. “I wanted you .”

Tears welled and fell. Slow, warm, and unwelcome. She swiped them away with the back of her hand, sniffling softly into the pillow.

She had written to him. Again and again. Letters filled with tiny details of her days, funny things Lucius had said, questions she wanted to ask. He never replied. Not once.

So she’d stopped trying. What was the point?

Maybe he had abandoned her. Maybe not physically, but emotionally? He had shut her out. Again.

And if it weren’t for Lucius—silly, smug, thoughtful Lucius—she might have spent the whole summer wrapped in that grief, drifting further into herself.

She didn’t know what she’d say when Tom Riddle finally returned.

Would he even see her off?

He’d said he would, but…

Her eyes drifted to the window, where the evening sun cast long shadows over the trees. The light was gold, but it felt far away.

“Where are you?” she whispered, not expecting an answer.

The silence, heavy and soft, swallowed her whole

That night, Hermione tossed and turned in her bed, limbs tangled in the sheets, heart pounding despite the silence. Her mind was a storm—circling memories, half-spoken hopes, and the echo of unanswered letters. No position felt right, and no thought gave her peace. She pressed her eyes closed until they ached, but rest never came.

By the time the sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains of her window, she felt scraped raw and brittle. Her body ached with exhaustion, her head heavy, her heart heavier still.

She groaned and pulled the pillow over her face, breathing in the faint scent of lavender detergent and old parchment. It would be so easy to stay hidden. To bury herself under blankets and forget the world. But she knew Lucius would worry—would hover outside her door like a very well-dressed governess, trying not to seem concerned while radiating quiet panic.

With a sigh, Hermione rolled out of bed, the cold floorboards stinging against her bare feet. She dressed without thinking. The first dress her hand touched was tugged over her head. She ran a brush through her curls just enough to tame the wildness, slipped on her worn flats, and called it done. There was no point in trying. Not today.

Her feet dragged as she walked the now-familiar path to the breakfast room, her limbs moving on autopilot. Her body was there, but the rest of her lagged behind—caught in that strange emotional limbo where grief and disappointment settled like fog in the bones.

She pushed open the door to the breakfast room.

And froze.

Her father was sitting at the head of the table, perfectly composed as always—his dark robes immaculate, his hands folded loosely near his coffee cup. Abraxas Malfoy sat beside him, looking far too comfortable. Lucius was beside his father, posture straight, expression unreadable.

Only one chair remained. The one directly to Tom’s left.

Hermione stood rooted for a second too long, her fingers clenched in the fabric of her skirt. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart thudding dully.

He was here.

After all this time, after weeks of silence and broken promises—he was just here . Like it meant nothing.

Her limbs felt sluggish as she moved forward. Each step took more effort than it should have. It felt like walking into a dream she didn’t remember choosing.

Tom stood as she approached, smile smooth and practiced. He pulled out her chair with a warm, “Good morning, Dove,” and pressed a kiss to the top of her head as she sat.

Hermione’s body moved mechanically, her face blank. She forced herself not to flinch.

She didn’t look at him.

Inside, she was reeling. Screaming, maybe. But it was all locked behind her ribs, held together with brittle control. How could he do this—act like everything was normal, like he hadn’t disappeared for two months without a single word?

She stared at her plate, jaw tight.

Across the table, Abraxas was already buttering toast. Lucius spooned porridge into a bowl, completely composed. They were acting like this was any other morning. As if the parents in the room hadn’t abandoned their children for the summer without explanation or apology.

She stabbed at a piece of melon with her fork. The motion was sharper than necessary.

Her eyes flicked toward Lucius. He didn’t look angry. Just… calm. As though this was expected. Routine.

Was it?

Was this normal for him?

Their eyes met. He raised a brow in quiet question.

Hermione shook her head, barely a movement. Then forced herself to eat.

Lucius’s spoon hovered for a second. His brow furrowed faintly, just for a moment, before he looked down again.

Tom cleared his throat. His voice was soft, casual. “How did you two find your summer? I see you are both alive and unhurt.” He smirked faintly, turning his eyes toward Lucius. “So clearly my Dove deemed to spare your life, Lucius.”

Hermione blinked slowly. Was that… a joke?

Lucius placed his spoon down with careful decorum. “We had a good summer, Mr. Riddle.”

Abraxas gave a short laugh and clapped his son on the back. “Of course you did. You’re just like your father.”

Hermione’s chest ached. She wasn’t sure why that made her feel worse.

Tom turned to her then, one brow raised, his expression expectant. “And you, Dove?”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around her fork.

Her voice came out low and flat. “Lucius has become a really good friend to me.” She turned her head toward Lucius and tried— tried —to smile. “He stayed by my side all summer.”

Lucius smiled softly in return.

Abraxas chuckled, thumping his son’s back again. “That’s my boy.”

Tom nodded once. “Good.”

He sipped his coffee and added lightly, “After breakfast, we’ll say goodbye and head home.”

Home.

Hermione looked back down at her plate. Her stomach twisted. Her eggs had gone cold.

She nodded wordlessly and didn’t speak again.

The trip home passed in silence.

Tom didn’t comment on Hermione’s stiff posture or the way she stared out the window without speaking. He seemed content—or perhaps oblivious—to let the quiet stretch, a gentle hand resting on her shoulder as though nothing had happened.

But everything had happened.

When they arrived at the Riddle Manor, Tom set his gloves aside and gestured toward the sitting room.

“Come, Dove. Let’s talk.”

Hermione followed on autopilot, her heart leaden. The room was just as she remembered—rich velvet curtains, dark wood paneling, the heavy scent of old magic and sharper cologne. Everything untouched. Everything wrong.

She sank into the corner of the velvet sofa and stared at her knees.

Tom poured tea as if they hadn’t been apart all summer. As if he hadn’t left without so much as a proper goodbye.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, voice calm, conversational. “About your classes this year. I think—”

“I don’t care,” Hermione said flatly.

Tom paused, teacup suspended midair.

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked up, eyes cold and tired. “I said I don’t care.”

The silence between them vibrated with tension.

Tom set the cup down slowly. “You’re upset.”

Hermione laughed—a single sharp sound that didn’t reach her eyes. “You think?”

“I told you I was working. I did this for your safety.”

“You keep saying that,” she snapped. “But you still left. You still disappeared the moment you had an excuse. No letters. No visits. Nothing.”

His expression cooled. “You knew where I was.”

“That’s not the same and you know it!”

“I needed to lay the foundation. I had to move quickly.”

“You didn’t write to me!” she shouted, standing suddenly. “Not once!”

Tom stood too, his tone sharpening. “You didn’t write either.”

Hermione’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “That is such bullshit.”

“Language,” he snapped.

“Oh, bite me.”

Tom’s eyes flashed. “Hermione—”

“I wrote to you every single day for a month!” she screamed, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it at his chest. “Every! Single! Day!”

The pillow bounced off his robes. He didn’t flinch.

“And you never replied,” she choked. “Not one owl. Not one bloody note. I kept hoping. And waiting. And then I just… stopped. I gave up.”

Her voice cracked. The rage broke with it.

She stood there, trembling, tears slipping freely down her cheeks.

Tom went still. Something dangerous and cold flickered behind his eyes—but it wasn’t aimed at her. His voice dropped to a whisper, but it vibrated with fury .

“You wrote to me?”

Hermione nodded, sobbing, shoulders shaking.

He stepped forward, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His jaw clenched. “I never received a single letter.” A long pause. “Someone tampered with your owls.”

She blinked up at him, blinking fast as if trying to make sense of his face. “You didn’t?”

“No.” His voice was low. Deadly calm. “And I will find out who tampered with your owls.”

But Hermione wasn’t hearing him. She flinched away, her body vibrating with emotion. Her sobs were picking up, and when Tom reached for her, she shoved him back with both hands.

“Don’t touch me!”

He froze.

She beat at his chest with her fists. “You abandoned me!”

He let her. Her small fists struck his ribs, his arms, his sternum—furious and clumsy and full of grief.

“You said we’d have summer,” she sobbed. “You said you’d be there.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

She collapsed into him then, all her weight suddenly leaning forward as though the fight had drained from her.

Tom caught her.

He wrapped her up without hesitation, strong arms around her back, one hand pressing gently to the back of her head. He rocked her slowly, like she was small again, brushing her curls down, holding her tight.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry, Dove.”

She sobbed harder. “You left me.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t come back.”

“I was trying to make the world safe for you. I thought—I thought you were angry. That you needed space.”

“I needed you.”

He exhaled, heart cracking at the sound of her voice.

“I’m here now,” he said softly. “I love you. I will always come back to you.”

It took time. But eventually, her tears slowed. Her breathing evened.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face.

“Why didn’t you write?” she whispered again, exhausted.

He cupped her cheek.

“I never got your letters.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

“Someone tampered with them. I promise you, I’ll find out who. And they will regret it.”

Hermione swallowed hard. Her eyes searched his, wide and red-rimmed.

“Really?”

“I swear it.”

She nodded, pressing her forehead into his chest.

And for a while, neither of them said anything more.

Chapter Text

Tom held Hermione against his chest, her weight small but solid in his arms. He moved one hand slowly, rhythmically, in circles across her back—calming, anchoring. The other stayed cradled at the base of her neck, fingers gently threading through her curls. Her breathing was uneven, each hitch in her chest a knife to his own.

He pressed his cheek to the top of her head and closed his eyes.

She had written to him. Every day. Thirty letters. Maybe more. And he’d received none of them.

He pictured her alone in Malfoy Manor—sitting at a writing desk, pen in hand, face hopeful. Or maybe desperate. Maybe hurt. Each word she had written, folded neatly into parchment and sent out into the world, only to be swallowed by silence.

The thought clawed at his ribs.

She must have believed he didn’t care. That he had cast her aside again, without a second thought. The trust he had begun to rebuild—delicately, painstakingly—it had crumbled beneath her feet while he remained unaware.

His arms tightened around her unconsciously. A silent vow.

Mine.

No one harmed what was his.

The breach in security chilled him to the bone, even as Hermione’s warmth seeped through his clothes. It was more than an inconvenience. More than insult. It was a message. A quiet attack.

Someone had intercepted her owls. Someone had monitored his daughter’s mail—watched her, tracked her. He breathed in slowly, deliberately. Whoever it was had known exactly where she was, and had found a way to reach in, despite the protection of the Malfoy ancestral wards.

That, at least, was some comfort.

The wards had held.

The child—the girl, his girl—had been untouched. Shielded. Hidden inside the fortress of Malfoy blood. No one could get to her physically. So they had reached for the only thing they could.

Her letters.

They wanted to isolate her. Or use her. Possibly both. The Order of the Phoenix, perhaps. Or Dumbledore directly—paranoid, manipulative bastard that he was. The man had always liked to test people’s loyalties by breaking their hearts.

His fingers curled against Hermione’s spine, careful not to dig in.

She knew nothing useful, of course. He had ensured it. She had no access to his political maneuvers, no knowledge of his plans, no leverage that could be used. Her letters, even if read, would have yielded nothing of strategic value.

So.

The enemy had stolen from her purely to sever the bond between them. To make her question his love. To undermine her faith.

Cowards.

But if this was just the first move?

Tom’s mind snapped forward like a steel trap. If interception failed to sway Hermione, would they escalate? Send false replies next time? Misinformation? Lies meant to manipulate her?

He wouldn’t allow it.

No.

He would not lose her again. Not to fear. Not to anyone’s hands but his own. This time, she would not doubt his love. He would write to her daily—whether she responded or not. He would flood her with affection and presence, until there was no room for lies between them.

Hermione shifted slightly in his arms, the last of her sobs tapering into quiet sniffles. He felt her lashes brush against his collar. Her tears had soaked into his robes.

Gently, he pulled back.

He set his hands on her small shoulders, thumbs brushing over the fabric of her dress. She blinked up at him, eyes red and raw, lashes clumped together. Her lower lip trembled once before she caught it between her teeth.

His stomach twisted.

How much damage had his absence done?

He leaned down, bringing his forehead to hers. “We need to talk before you leave for Hogwarts,” he said softly. “I won’t let this happen again.”

Hermione gave a small, tired nod, her arms still loosely wrapped around his waist.

He didn’t let her go.

Tom guided Hermione to the velvet sofa with a hand lightly pressed to her back. She moved quietly, the tremble in her limbs mostly stilled, though her lashes were still damp and her cheeks blotched pink from crying. She curled into the corner of the couch, drawing her legs beneath her, arms hugging a cushion to her chest like armor.

Tom sat across from her, hands steepled in front of his mouth, eyes sharp and calculating.

“Your owls were intercepted. That’s no longer a theory—it’s a fact,” he said softly, but there was a steel thread in his voice, cold and unbending. “And whoever did it wanted you to feel exactly what you felt—alone, abandoned, forgotten. They didn’t just steal information. They stole comfort. They stole me from you.”

Hermione lowered her eyes, fingers tightening on the cushion.

His expression softened as he looked at her—just a fraction. His voice gentled.

“We need a new method of communication. One they can’t intercept. No more owls.”

She nodded, lips pressed tight.

For a long moment, silence stretched between them. The only sound was the soft ticking of a mantel clock and the distant rustle of wind against the manor’s windows.

Tom leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, brows drawn. His mind was already branching into possibilities—enchanted mirrors, blood-bound tokens, wards nested in wards. But each carried risks. Traces. Costs.

Across from him, Hermione shifted.

“I… might have an idea,” she said, voice quiet but steadier now. “In fourth year, the rules at school got too restrictive… my friends and I needed a way to send each other quick updates without getting caught. So—I made a Protean Charm.”

Tom’s head tilted, interest immediately piqued. “A Protean Charm?” His voice was low, dangerous with sudden focus. “ You created one?”

She flushed but nodded. “Well—I modified it. Used it on enchanted coins. Each Galleon was linked. When I changed the date or message on mine, it reflected on all the others. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.”

He stared at her for a beat too long.

Then he smiled—slow and razor-sharp. Not the charming mask he wore in public, but something fierce and proud.

“You are—” his voice dropped, reverent and full of heat, “—brilliant.”

Hermione blinked. “It wasn’t that hard.”

Tom scoffed softly. “Do you have any idea how complex a Protean Charm is? Even N.E.W.T. -level students struggle with it. And you were what—fourteen? You recreated and applied it to currency without help?”

He leaned back, still watching her, something dangerous and delighted flickering in his eyes.

“They don’t deserve you,” he said, almost to himself. “Those people. They don’t see you. They never did.”

Hermione looked down, tugging the cushion closer.

“Could we perform it on something larger?” Tom asked, voice cooler again, sharp with strategy. “A mirror, perhaps? Or a book?”

“Maybe,” she said, thoughtful. “It would need to be magically compatible. Stable. But if we reinforced it with Arithmantic structure and calibrated for magical intent, it could work. We could even build a trigger phrase into the spell matrix.”

He stared at her like she was a masterpiece he’d carved himself.

“Yes,” he murmured. “That’s what we’ll do. A set of books, perhaps—linked across a Protean web. Small, discreet. Carried with you at all times. Ward it to your blood.”

He stood and began pacing slowly, his hands behind his back, the shift in him like a thundercloud rolling in—quiet, charged.

“But that won’t be enough. If someone has tampered with your mail once, they will again. They may escalate. Plant lies. Send false threats or pleas.” His voice grew colder with each word, his posture sharper, more rigid. “They want to isolate you. Use you. Or break you.”

Hermione watched him, brow furrowing slightly.

His eyes glittered with restrained fury as he turned toward her. “I will not let them.”

The room felt darker for a moment—denser with magic, as if the shadows leaned in closer.

Then he looked at her, and it all evaporated. His expression softened with the flick of a switch, the dangerous edge tucked away behind a warmth reserved only for her.

“You shouldn’t have had to cry like that,” he said softly, kneeling beside her now. “You shouldn’t have been left wondering if I cared.”

Hermione reached out, hesitant, and brushed her fingers along his sleeve. “I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

He caught her hand in his, holding it between both of his palms like something fragile. “You’ll never go unheard again. I’ll speak to you through fire if I must. I’ll hex the very air if that’s what it takes.”

She smiled faintly, tired but touched. “You’re dramatic.”

Tom’s lips twitched. “And you are mine.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the possessive weight of the words, but she didn’t pull away.

He kissed the back of her hand.

“Let them come,” he said quietly. “Let them try to take you from me again. I’ll burn the world before I let that happen twice.”

Tom smiled softly at her, thumb brushing along the back of her hand.
“I never want you to feel alone again,” he murmured, voice low with promise. He gave her hand a final squeeze. “So with that in mind… I believe it’s time I show you the gift I promised.”

He stepped back, dark eyes alight with something mischievous and proud. “Or—gifts, rather. Plural.” His lips curled. “Wait right here.”

Hermione blinked. “Dad—”

“I’ll be quick,” he said, already turning on his heel and striding from the room, his robes whispering at his ankles.

She watched him go, still stunned from their conversation, emotionally wrung out. Her limbs were heavy with the aftershock of her earlier tears—but something curious fluttered in her chest, a spark of anticipation she hadn’t expected.

Meanwhile, Tom moved swiftly through the halls, footsteps echoing in the quiet manor. He pushed open the door to his private office and flicked his wand. A dozen neatly wrapped boxes rose in the air—some modest, some extravagant, all painstakingly curated over the summer while she was away. Jewels from ancient vaults, heirlooms recast for her, small enchantments stitched into silk and silver. He hadn’t known what would cheer her up—but he had bought everything, just in case.

She deserved everything. And more.

She was worth more than gold and blood and kingdoms combined. And he would show her—every day, if he had to—until she never again questioned her place in his world. His family.

His expression warmed as he returned, a rare, genuine grin spreading across his face as he entered the sitting room again—arms outstretched, gifts floating obediently behind him in an elegant procession.

Hermione’s mouth fell open.

He looked so proud of himself. Like a child showing off a perfect school project, chest puffed out and eyes twinkling.

The gifts floated down in a neat pile between them. Boxes in emerald and pearl, silver ribbons curling in delicate spirals.

Tom sat cross-legged on the floor across from her, his long robes folding around him like dark water. “Go on,” he said, gesturing with a flick of his hand. “They’re yours.”

Hermione gaped. “Dad… this is—” she pointed helplessly at the mountain of gifts, “this is a lot . You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I did ,” Tom said firmly, his voice soft but resolute. “You should be spoiled. You deserve to have what you want, and more. I want you to feel free to want things. To ask for things. To feel whatever you feel and say it.” His eyes gentled. “You never have to hide from me.”

Hermione swallowed thickly. “I don’t know what to say.”

Tom tilted his head. “That’s a first. Are you ill? Should I summon a healer?”

“Dad!” she choked out a laugh, her eyes brightening for the first time that day.

He beamed, utterly pleased with himself. Her laughter—that was the sound he wanted to hear. That was worth more than any strategy or spell.

He inclined his head toward the pile. “Start opening them.”

Hermione hesitated, then set the pillow aside and reached for the smallest box—wrapped in green and silver with elegant corners and a black ribbon tied just so. She peeled it open with careful fingers, one brow arched in curiosity.

Tom leaned forward, hands resting on his knees, watching her face with hawklike focus.

She lifted the lid—and gasped.

Inside, nestled in dark velvet, lay a pair of earrings: tiny golden serpents, coiled into elegant loops with emerald eyes that glittered like fire. Each curve was delicate, deadly, beautiful.

“Oh—” Hermione’s mouth fell open. “They’re…”

“Everyone will know who you are,” Tom said, voice low with satisfaction. “You are the daughter of the Heir of Slytherin. Let them see it.”

She looked up at him, stunned. Her cheeks pinked faintly. “They’re beautiful.”

He was already handing her another box.

“Dad—really—”

“Never too much.”

One by one, the boxes revealed a carefully curated collection of gifts: a matching golden snake hair clip, elegant and sly; a pendant with a single large emerald, nestled in claw-shaped prongs; robes stitched with thread-of-gold; enchanted gloves that shimmered with hidden runes.

Then a dagger.

Hermione blinked down at it, cradling the velvet box in her lap.

Its hilt was wrapped in diamond scales. The blade gleamed with a faint magical pulse.

“Daddy,” she said faintly, “this is a weapon.”

He smiled, perfectly serene. “Indeed. Every proper young witch should have one.”

She looked halfway between horrified and impressed.

He continued handing her gift after gift, watching with bright eyes as she opened each one—every shocked expression, every shy smile, every burst of laughter like a balm on his soul.

When the last box lay discarded and she sat amid the spoils, stunned into silence, Tom felt triumphant . Her shoulders had relaxed. The shadows behind her eyes had faded. For the first time in weeks, she looked happy .

But he wasn’t finished yet.

With a wave of his wand, one final box soared into the room, wrapped simply in brown parchment with holes punched in the top.

Hermione raised a brow. “You’ve given me too much already.”

“Not enough,” he said smoothly. “This one is special.”

He set the box gently in her lap.

She sighed—then lifted the lid.

And froze.

She stared for a long second, blinking rapidly. Her hand rose to her mouth, fingers trembling. She looked at the box. Then at him. Then back at the box.

And squealed .

Her hands reached in, gentle and reverent, and lifted a tiny, golden-hued snake with a blunt shovel-shaped nose. It curled instinctively around her fingers, flicking its tongue as if greeting her.

“Oh Merlin , she’s perfect —”

Tom’s smile was soft and proud. “ Serpens aureus ,” he explained. “A rare breed. Venomous, yes, but not fatal—paralysis only. She’ll serve as your familiar. She’s small enough to hide in a pocket or sleeve. She’ll travel with you. Protect you. And bite anyone who dares to get too close.”

His expression darkened with satisfaction.

“I trust her more than half the professors at Hogwarts.”

Hermione was still cradling the tiny snake like a living jewel. Her eyes shimmered again—but this time with something warm, full, and overwhelming.

Her voice cracked.

“Thank you, Dad.”

Tom shifted closer, one hand reaching to gently tuck a curl behind her ear.

“You never need to thank me,” he said, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “You’re mine. And I protect what’s mine.”

Hermione cradled the tiny golden serpent in her hands, heart full and eyes glassy with wonder.

“She’s… she’s perfect,” she whispered, voice catching on the edge of emotion.

Tom watched her with soft satisfaction, his expression gentled by her joy. “She was bred for you. She imprinted the moment she smelled your magic.”

The snake flicked her tongue out, brushing Hermione’s wrist. Hermione responded automatically, slipping into Parseltongue with practiced ease.

::Hello, little one. Do you like your new home?::

The snake coiled tighter around her fingers, nestling into her warmth.

::It smells safe. You smell like old sunlight and deep roots. I will stay.::

Tom’s smile grew—quiet and proud. It still struck him sometimes, watching her speak Parseltongue so fluently. It was uncanny, how naturally it came to her, how easily the ancient language of their shared bloodline rested on her tongue. But then, she was his daughter. Born of magic and legacy. And she wielded both with elegance.

“What will you name her?” he asked softly, his tone almost reverent.

Hermione glanced up at him, then back down at the small creature coiled around her wrist.

“I’m not sure,” she said aloud. Then, in Parseltongue, she asked:

::Do you want a name?::

::A name would be good. If it comes from you.::

Hermione bit her lip, thinking. Her fingers brushed gently over the sleek little head. “She’s gold like sunlight. Sharp but soft. And she moves like a ribbon in water.”

“Something elegant, then,” Tom offered. “Fitting of a familiar to a Riddle.”

Hermione rolled her eyes playfully. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Tom said dryly.

She smiled, then looked back at her familiar. “Aurelia,” she said aloud. “It means golden. I think it suits her.”

The snake lifted her head, tongue flicking.

::Aurelia,:: she hissed, testing the sound. ::Yes. I like it. It sings.::

“She approves,” Hermione said softly.

Tom leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees, and gave a slow, approving nod. “A beautiful name. And a powerful creature. You’ll need each other.”

Hermione looked up at him, something deeper than gratitude shimmering in her gaze. “Thank you, Dad. For everything. The gifts… Aurelia… all of it.”

“You are my everything,” he said simply. “And I will give you everything I can.”

Hermione’s eyes softened. Slowly, she reached out with her free hand and took his, squeezing his fingers. Aurelia slithered up her arm and curled around her wrist like a bracelet, content and glowing.

“You spoil me,” Hermione said, smiling faintly.

“I intend to,” Tom replied. “You’ve earned it.”

They sat there in companionable silence for a moment—Hermione leaning against the armrest of the sofa, Tom still on the floor, knees drawn up, watching her with quiet reverence. The snake shifted slightly, her scales catching the light like fire.

Then Hermione let out a soft laugh. “Mum would’ve freaked out.”

Tom’s brow quirked. “At the snake?”

“At the snake, the jewelry, the dagger… probably all of it. She’d have taken one look at me and gone, ‘what in Merlin’s name is this?’”

Tom’s eyes dimmed for just a breath at the mention of her mother, but then he smiled—soft and wistful. “And you would’ve rolled your eyes and done it anyway.”

Hermione grinned. “Obviously.”

He reached up then and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. “You’re stronger than anyone I know, Hermione. But you don’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me.”

Hermione blinked, and for a moment, her breath caught. She nodded slowly.

“I know.”

And in that golden quiet, with Aurelia curled protectively around her wrist and her father’s steady presence by her side, she believed it.

Later that evening, the sitting room had transformed into something softer—more domestic than dark. The fireplace glowed gently, casting amber light over the furniture, and Aurelia lay coiled like a glimmering bracelet on Hermione’s wrist, perfectly content.

Tom sat at the tea table, sleeves rolled up, wand balanced across two fingers as he watched Hermione with quiet amusement. She was cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by scraps of parchment, half-drunk tea, a tiny bottle of bloodroot ink, and two leather-bound journals no larger than a deck of cards.

“I’ve narrowed it down to a charm array that combines Fidelius-style concealment with a location-specific trace rune,” Hermione muttered, flipping through one of her notes, brow furrowed in thought. “We don’t need secrecy from each other, so the trust anchor doesn’t need to be keyed—just locked to our blood. Oh, and maybe a dampening ward to keep them from showing up on detection spells…”

Tom, who had been following along with interest, let out a soft chuckle. “Are you absolutely certain you weren’t sorted into Ravenclaw?”

Hermione grinned. “I’m a Gryffindor. I just read a lot.”

“And you’re far too dangerous to be a bookworm,” he said fondly, reaching for his journal. “So, blood ward first?”

She nodded and reached for a silver ritual blade. “A drop each. On the cover’s inside clasp.”

Without hesitation, they each made a tiny cut on their index fingers. Hermione hissed softly at the sting but didn’t flinch. Tom tilted his head, watching as she pressed her blood to the inner cover of both journals, eyes narrowed in concentration.

A soft red glow pulsed from the leather as the enchantment sealed itself with a faint sizzle.

“No one but us can open them now,” she said, satisfied. “If anyone tries, the journal will refuse to respond.”

Tom twirled his wand once and murmured a preservation charm over the blood. “Nicely done. What next?”

Hermione sat back on her heels, looking far too pleased with herself. “Now for my favorite part.”

She picked up her wand and tapped the journal once, muttering under her breath. A series of tiny runes appeared in faint silver ink along the spine. Her eyes gleamed mischievously.

Tom raised a brow. “What did you just do?”

“Cursed it,” Hermione said sweetly. “If anyone tampers with it—tries to force it open or dispel the charms—they’ll break out in horrible, itchy boils all over their face. Big ones. Oozing.”

Tom blinked. Then slowly grinned. “You cursed it?”

“Mm-hmm. With a particularly nasty variant of a Bubotuber hex.” She looked far too proud of herself. “The boils won’t respond to any standard healing spells. And they’ll spread if you try to scratch them.”

Tom let out a breath of delighted laughter, low and genuine. “You wicked little thing.”

Hermione looked up at him through her lashes. “I learned from the best.”

He laughed again, the sound rumbling in his chest, warm and full. “I was going to suggest a basic retaliatory charm, but no—yours is infinitely more satisfying.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“I love it,” he said with conviction, reaching across the table to ruffle her curls. “Merlin help anyone who tries to mess with your things. You’re terrifying.”

She preened. “Thank you.”

Together, they finished the charm work: Hermione carefully embedding the ink-binding spell that allowed messages to appear between journals, and Tom reinforcing the security matrix with shielding glyphs that would sever communication if either of them were under duress. It was delicate, precise work—but it flowed naturally between them, each anticipating the other’s movements like a dance.

When they finally tested the enchantment, Hermione wrote in hers:

Dad, if this works, you owe me chocolate cake.

A moment later, the words shimmered into existence on Tom’s page.

He smirked, dipped his quill in ink, and wrote back:

Chocolate cake and a library tower, my Dove. You’ve earned it.

Hermione giggled and clutched the journal to her chest. “It’s perfect.”

Tom sat back in his chair, arms folded, watching her with something close to awe. Her eyes sparkled with triumph, her curls slightly mussed from where she kept pushing them back, and her golden snake had begun to doze in the crook of her elbow.

She really is mine, he thought, heart swelling, sharp, cunning, clever, and vicious when she needs to be.

And somehow still so soft.

“You’re brilliant,” he said quietly, voice rich with pride.

Hermione looked up at him, surprised by the softness in his tone.

“So are you,” she replied. “We’re a good team.”

Tom smiled, rare and warm. “The best.”

And for the first time all summer, with their matching journals tucked safely into their pockets and laughter lingering in the air, it truly felt like they were home.

Steam hissed around their feet as Tom and Hermione stepped onto the platform. The red engine of the Hogwarts Express loomed ahead, glittering in the morning sun, students swarming around its doors like bees around a hive. Owls hooted irritably from their cages. Cats weaved between trunks. A few early first-years clung nervously to their parents.

Hermione stood still, her hand clasped in Tom’s.

He watched her quietly, taking in her newly sharpened school robes, the perfect braiding of her curls, and the practiced calm she wore on her face. His little girl, standing tall. Composed. A Riddle in every sense.

“Well,” Hermione said with a sigh, “here we go.”

Before Tom could answer, a familiar voice cut through the din.

“There you are.”

Lucius Malfoy approached, his stride confident and smooth, Abraxas only a step behind. Both Malfoys were immaculately dressed, of course—Abraxas in deep green robes embroidered with silver thread, Lucius in tailored charcoal with a forest-green cravat. Lucius’s gaze flicked to Hermione and something softened behind it.

“Riddle,” Abraxas greeted, offering Tom a curt nod. “Looking healthy.”

Tom smiled coolly. “As ever, Abraxas. And you?”

“Alive.” Abraxas clapped a hand onto Lucius’s shoulder and gave it a firm shake. “And my boy here is ready for another year. He’ll be Head Boy soon enough.”

Lucius blinked in dignified exasperation.

Tom let his eyes drift to Lucius. “I trust you’ll keep an eye on my Dove.”

Lucius straightened, chin lifting slightly. “Of course I will, sir.”

Abraxas gave Lucius a hearty pat between the shoulder blades that nearly made him stumble. “Of course he will! My son’s a good boy. Very loyal.”

Tom’s lips twitched faintly. Hermione coughed into her hand to hide a laugh.

He turned to face her fully, brushing a curl from her cheek with surprising gentleness. “I know you were sorted into Gryffindor before,” he said quietly, so only she could hear, “but that was a mistake.”

Her brows rose.

Tom gave a short nod. “The hat will resort you properly this time. I’ve arranged it.”

Hermione blinked, stunned. “You… arranged it?”

Tom smiled. “It listened to Dumbledore once. It will listen to me.”

Hermione swallowed hard, but said nothing.

From his inner pocket, Tom drew a small, black velvet box and placed it in her hands. “After the resorting, open this. Wear what’s inside.”

She opened the lid a crack. Inside lay a pin made of gleaming silver and carved emerald—the crest of the Gaunt family, coiled with a serpent, inlaid with runes that shimmered faintly.

“It will mark you as an heir of Slytherin,” Tom said. “No one will mistake who you are.”

Hermione stared down at it for a long moment. Then she nodded. “Thank you.”

His voice softened, low and final: “You are not to hide who you are anymore.”

Hermione looked up at him, eyes round and solemn, and gave him the smallest smile.

Abraxas and Tom turned to the trunks. Between them, they made short work of loading the luggage with a few flicks of their wands, careful to keep the steam from scalding their robes.

As the final call for boarding rang through the air, Tom crouched slightly to draw Hermione into a firm hug. She melted into it, arms around his middle, head against his chest.

“I’ll write,” she whispered.

“I’ll reply,” he promised.

He pulled back just enough to press a kiss to her curls. “Be clever. Be safe. Don’t let anyone tell you who you are.”

She nodded against him.

Lucius stepped up, his hand brushing her elbow with a light, practiced touch. “We should find a compartment.”

Hermione looked up at Tom one last time. He met her gaze—proud, steady, and filled with something ancient and cold and tender all at once.

“I love you,” she said softly.

“I know,” Tom replied, his voice low. “I love you too.”

Lucius guided her toward the train, a subtle hand at her back, and Hermione didn’t resist. She looked back just once before the door shut behind them.

Tom remained still as the whistle blew. Steam engulfed the platform once more.

The Hogwarts Express began to move.

And Tom Riddle stood tall among the swirling mist, watching his daughter leave—his heir, his legacy—wrapped in magic, steel, and green velvet. A quiet pride curled in his chest, sharper and deeper than any he had ever known.

They would never see her coming.

Chapter Text

Hermione let Lucius guide her up the train steps, his hand warm and steady on the small of her back. She was a little nervous and very glad he was there—like a stylishly aloof human battering ram clearing a path through the crowd. Without him, she probably would’ve stood frozen on the platform like a confused duckling and missed her chance at a good seat.

Lucius paused, looked down the corridor with sharp calculation, then opened a compartment door like he owned it. Honestly, he probably did. He gestured her in with a little flourish, like a gentleman escorting a lady to a carriage.

“Thanks, Daddy Lucius, you're such a gentleman,” Hermione said sweetly, fluttering her lashes in exaggerated swooning. She even added a dramatic sigh, hand pressed to her heart.

Lucius smirked as he slid into the seat across from her. “Careful, Sunshine. Keep batting those lashes and I might start thinking you mean it.”

He winked—actually winked—and Hermione had to cover her mouth to hide a snort. Merlin help her, he was leaning into it. The worst part? He was good at it.

She settled next to the window, curling one foot under her leg and resting her chin in her hand as she peered at him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Lucius gave a half-laugh, half-sigh and reclined lazily, arms stretching along the seat back like a smug cat. “I live for validation from brilliant witches. Especially dramatic ones who swoon in gratitude when I open doors.”

Hermione giggled, but before she could shoot back a reply, his expression shifted. The humor softened into something almost hesitant.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice lower now. “You didn’t look too good when you left the manor the other day.”

Hermione blinked. Oh. Right. That day.

“I’m okay,” she said quietly, running a hand through her hair. It caught on a curl, and she tugged it loose with a grimace. “I was just really upset at Dad.”

Lucius raised one elegant brow.

“We worked it out,” she added quickly.

He nodded, relaxing again. “Good. I don’t like it when my Sunshine is gloomy. It ruins your whole aesthetic.”

Hermione laughed—actually laughed. “My aesthetic?”

“Mmm.” Lucius tapped his chin, considering. “You’re all curls and cleverness and sudden violence. You should always be sparkly and terrifying, not sad.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. He was becoming such a flirt. Or maybe he’d always been one, and she was only just learning how to enjoy it.

Reaching into her pocket, Hermione pulled out the little velvet box her dad had pressed into her hand at the station. She flipped it open and stared at the pin nestled inside—silver and emerald, the Gaunt crest coiled like a secret promise.

Her thumb traced the serpent’s curve.

Her dad wanted people to know whose blood she carried. Whose daughter she was. That used to terrify her. In her time, the words “Heir of Slytherin” were whispered like a curse.

But here, now—it felt different. Not like a warning, but a banner. He wasn’t hiding her. He was claiming her.

The memory of his voice echoed softly in her mind: “You are not to hide who you are anymore.”

The ache that had lived in her chest all summer—the silence, the unanswered letters, the yawning space of abandonment—it had vanished like smoke the moment he hugged her. All of it gone, replaced by warm certainty.

She pulled out her pocket journal and quill and wrote quickly:

Thank you for the pin. I will wear it with pride. I miss you already, Dad.

The ink shimmered, then vanished. A heartbeat later, new words bloomed across the page:

You will do great things, my Dove. I am already so proud of you. And I miss you too.

Hermione bit her lip. Her fingers traced the edge of the page before she closed the book and tucked it away again.

“Look at what my dad gave me,” she said aloud, smiling as she held out her arm to Lucius.

He looked up lazily from his seat. “That’s a lovely bracelet. Didn’t think you were much for jewelry.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled.

“It’s not a bracelet.”

Lucius raised a brow. “It’s not?”

She leaned closer, her voice dropping into something soft and serpentine. She hissed.

::Aurelia, say hello to my friend.::

The golden coil around her wrist stirred. Slithered. Uncoiled itself with a sinuous stretch and lifted its tiny head. Lucius blinked once. Then twice. Then visibly stopped breathing.

“Not. A. Bracelet,” he wheezed.

The snake flicked its tongue toward Lucius and tilted its head.

::Master, do you want me to bite him? He is very pale. I do not think he would fight well.::

Hermione choked on her laughter, slapping a hand over her mouth.

::No! No biting! He’s my friend. We like him.::

Aurelia slithered a bit higher, adjusting herself like a living bracelet again—but this time with her head angled regally, basking in the window light.

::As you wish, Master. I shall not bite the pale one.::

Lucius was still frozen. “You—you hissed at it. And it hissed back. I—what—Hermione, you’re speaking snake.”

Hermione smirked. “It’s called Parseltongue. Heir of Slytherin, remember? Talking to snakes is kind of a family trait.”

Lucius rubbed at his temple like he was developing a migraine. “Right. Right. I knew that. I definitely—yep. Knew that.”

Aurelia flicked her tongue at him again.

::He is twitchy. I think he smells like anxiety and expensive soap.::

Hermione burst out laughing, practically falling sideways into the window.

Lucius scowled, pulling his legs up onto the seat and sulking like a moody Victorian heroine. “Wonderful. Judged by jewelry and insulted by a reptile. What a morning.”

“She likes you!” Hermione insisted between giggles. “She didn’t bite you, did she?”

“Oh yes. The very picture of affection. She only threatened to paralyze me.”

Aurelia hissed again. Lucius flinched. Hermione waved a hand.

“She’s just dramatic,” Hermione said with a grin.

Lucius looked at the snake, then at Hermione. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Hermione beamed and flicked her hair over her shoulder like the diva she was. “Flattery will get you everywhere, daddy Lucius.”

Lucius groaned and dropped his head back against the seat. “I regret everything.”

“You do not.”

“…No. No, I don’t.”

Lucius had just accepted that being insulted by Hermione’s snake was his new normal when the compartment door slid open with a cheerful bang .

“Well, well,” drawled a voice, “if it isn’t the elusive Miss Riddle.”

Narcissa Black swept in, her platinum curls gleaming under the carriage light, followed closely by her sisters—Bellatrix, all dark eyes and feral grins, and Andromeda, who looked like she had only just tolerated being dragged along. Behind them trailed a fourth, thinner figure, half-obscured by books and hair: a young Severus Snape.

Hermione straightened instinctively, Aurelia coiled loosely around her wrist. “Hi, Cissa,” she said warmly. “Ladies.” She nodded to the others. “And—oh.”

Her eyes landed on the boy standing awkwardly behind them, his too-large robes swallowing his thin frame, a textbook clutched like a shield to his chest.

“You must be Professor—” she blurted, then froze. “I mean—not Professor. Definitely not a professor. Student. You’re a student. Sorry.”

Severus stared at her, utterly baffled. “What.”

Lucius snorted into his hand.

Hermione waved frantically. “Sorry! You just look like… someone I knew. Very... serious.”

Severus narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “I’m fourteen.”

“And very mature for your age,” Lucius offered solemnly, like a courtier praising a visiting diplomat.

Hermione kicked him under the table.

Bellatrix plopped into the seat beside Lucius without asking. “What’s this about professors? Did we get a new one already? Merlin, I hope it’s not another babbling idiot. The last one tried to teach us Latin and fainted at a live Boggart.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes and took the window seat. “He had a heart condition, Bella.”

“Whatever. If he can't handle a Boggart in a tutu, he shouldn't be in the classroom.”

Snape remained standing, staring at Hermione like she was a crossword puzzle that wouldn’t solve itself. “You called me Professor. ”

“It was a slip,” Hermione said, cheeks faintly pink. “I’m very sleep-deprived.”

“She thinks you’re intimidating,” Lucius added with a straight face. “It’s the tragic hair curtain and deep, haunted eyes.”

“Lucius!” Narcissa smacked his arm with her bag. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not. It’s a compliment. Girls like that sort of thing.”

Hermione snickered. “It’s true. I did go through a ‘brooding intellectual’ phase.”

“I’m standing right here ,” Severus muttered.

“Would you like to sit?” Hermione asked politely, gesturing to the last open seat beside her.

He looked at her suspiciously again, then sat stiffly, like she might explode into more compliments.

Narcissa took the seat across from Andromeda and leaned toward Hermione with a conspiratorial smile. “What a lovely snake!”

Hermione held out her wrist like a queen showing off a new piece of jewelry. “Say hello.”

Aurelia flicked her tongue and tilted her head.

Bellatrix’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, she’s beautiful . May I pet her?”

“Do not encourage her,” Lucius muttered.

Aurelia responded in Parseltongue. ::The wild one has good instincts. Let her approach.::

Hermione relayed the message.

Bellatrix immediately reached forward, cooing. “She likes me!”

“I’m concerned,” said Andromeda flatly. “I’m also 85% sure snakes don’t coo.”

Narcissa was watching the snake with faint wariness. “It’s venomous, isn’t it?”

Hermione smiled sweetly. “Only if she doesn’t like you.”

Snape made a low, surprised noise—like a laugh caught before it could escape. Hermione glanced sideways at him and caught the barest twitch of a smirk before he scowled again, as if physically allergic to joy.

Lucius was watching the entire exchange with a faintly smug air, as if he had orchestrated the moment himself.

As the train rumbled to life beneath them, the group settled into a comfortable, chaotic rhythm: Bellatrix arguing with Andromeda over whether Hogwarts ghosts could be used as spies, Narcissa braiding tiny green ribbons into Hermione’s curls, Lucius quietly hexing a first-year’s paper plane back out the door, and Severus pretending not to listen while absolutely listening to everything.

Hermione leaned back in her seat, Aurelia curled around her arm, the laughter of her friends echoing in the compartment.

For the first time since she’d landed in this strange past, it felt like something real had formed—a circle, a bond. These people, this odd, snarky, brilliant collection of Slytherins—they might not be exactly what she’d expected.

But they were hers. And she was theirs.

Not just Riddle’s daughter.

Not just the heir of Slytherin.

Hermione smiled faintly, watching the countryside blur past the window.

She was home

The train ride blurred into steam and conversation, laughter caught between the carriages. By the time they arrived at Hogsmeade Station, the chill of the Scottish air curled under Hermione’s cloak like a breath of winter, bracing and familiar.

The first years were already being herded toward the boats bobbing near the lake’s edge, their wide eyes drinking in the silhouette of the castle. Hermione lingered with her group as the older students made their way to the carriages, drawn by invisible Thestrals.

As she stepped into the entryway of the castle, the scent of waxed stone and warm torchlight wrapped around her like an old memory. The high arches, the echoing footsteps—yes, she remembered this.

A familiar figure in emerald robes bustled toward her, round-bellied and beaming.

“Miss Riddle!” Professor Slughorn greeted, his cheeks rosy with enthusiasm. “Your father wrote ahead—said you’d need to be sorted properly. Quite exciting, really. If you’d be so kind as to follow me, we’ll slip you in before the first-years finish crashing into the Black Lake.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh—of course.”

She turned to glance back at her friends.

Andromeda smiled, bright and warm. “Go on. We’ll see you inside.”

Lucius gave a shallow bow of his head, eyes unreadable but steady. “We’ll save you a seat near us.”

The group of Slytherins swept past, their robes sharp with pressed lines and quiet power. Hermione straightened her back.

Slughorn clapped his hands together, jowls bouncing with cheer. “I must say, I’m simply thrilled to have you here. Brilliant lineage. I expect I’ll collect you into my little club before the week’s out. Your father, of course, was one of my shining stars.”

Hermione quirked her brow. “Collect me?” she echoed dryly.

“Oh yes,” he chuckled, patting her arm. “I gather the promising ones—guide them toward success, opportunity. Influence. Doors tend to open when you're under the right wing, Miss Riddle.”

He winked.

Hermione gave a tight, polite smile. “Time will tell if I’m winged or clawed.”

Slughorn let out a delighted chortle, clearly thinking her charming. “Very sharp. Very sharp indeed.”

They reached the doors to the Great Hall, and Slughorn paused with a glance at her.

“You ready?”

Hermione nodded, hands curled into fists just beneath her sleeves. “As I’ll ever be.”

The great oaken doors creaked open.

Warmth hit her first—the radiant heat of torches floating high above, mingled with the buttery smell of roast meats and the sugary promise of pudding. The ceiling above reflected the stormy sky beyond, dark clouds rippling with magic. Candles hung suspended in the air, casting golden light over hundreds of faces.

A hush fell the moment she stepped in.

It hit like a wall. The Great Hall was full—four long tables of students and staff—and all eyes turned to her. The whispers started instantly, snaking from one end of the room to the other.

“Who’s that?”
“Did he say Riddle?”
“Is she new? She looks older than the first-years—”
“No, no, I heard she’s from the future—”

Her palms dampened. Shoulders stiffened. She could feel her heartbeat behind her eyes, loud and fast, like it wanted to flee before her feet did.

Hermione drew a breath, subtle but steady, and swept her gaze across the room.

She found them at the Slytherin table—Andromeda grinning, Bellatrix whispering with gleaming eyes, Narcissa poised like ice and diamonds. And Lucius, leaning back with a smirk that curled at the edge like smoke. He met her gaze and dipped his chin, just slightly.

The knot in her chest loosened.

She wasn’t alone.

Slughorn ushered her forward, his robes brushing against the polished floor, and led her toward the front where a single stool stood beneath the ancient Sorting Hat. Its brim curled like a sneer.

Slughorn turned to the crowd, projecting his voice. “We have a transfer student joining us this year—Miss Hermione Riddle, sixth year. A rather unique case. She’ll be resorted now to ensure she’s placed in her… proper house.”

The hall buzzed louder.

Hermione sat with practiced grace, schooling her features into calm. The stool wobbled slightly beneath her weight.

The hat came down over her curls, and the world fell silent.

⟪Ah. Back again, are we?⟫ the Sorting Hat whispered in her mind. ⟪You’re a long way from Gryffindor Tower.⟫

“I’m not that girl anymore,” Hermione thought fiercely. “Not just a Gryffindor. Not only brave.”

⟪No,⟫ the hat agreed, voice thoughtful. ⟪You’ve grown. Learned who you are. Who you belong to.⟫

A pause.

⟪You are an heir of Slytherin. And this time, no one is here to override me.⟫

Hermione held her breath.

“Slytherin!” the hat bellowed.

The Slytherin table erupted into applause—cheers, catcalls, and the rhythmic pounding of palms on polished wood. Bellatrix shrieked with laughter, Narcissa clapped politely, and Lucius offered a single, approving nod.

Slughorn plucked the hat from her head, chuckling with open delight. “I knew it! Just knew it. A Riddle through and through.”

With a flick of his wand, her robes shimmered—scarlet bleeding into emerald, gold threads twisting into silver serpents that slithered along the hem. The weight of the fabric felt different now. Heavier. Truer.

Hermione rose, chin high, and walked toward her new table.

The Great Hall watched.

She didn’t shrink.

She smiled.

As Hermione reached the Slytherin table, a dozen students shifted aside to make space for her—some out of curiosity, others from caution. But her friends were not among them.

Andromeda beamed and patted the seat beside her. “Welcome to the snake pit,” she whispered, tugging Hermione down beside her.

Narcissa offered a graceful nod, elegant and aloof as ever, but her tone was gentle. “About time.”

Bellatrix gave a wide, unhinged grin and elbowed her with far too much force. “You’re one of us now. Try not to ruin our reputation by doing anything noble.”

Hermione laughed, the tension finally bleeding from her shoulders.

Lucius sat across from her, chin propped on one hand. His smirk was smaller now—subtle and pleased. “The hat finally came to its senses,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Hermione smiled at him—real and warm—and it reached her eyes this time.

“I’m glad, too.”

The bustle of the Hall resumed around them—first-years still being sorted, professors leaning in to whisper behind goblets of wine, floating candles bobbing gently overhead. It was loud and full and warm, but for once, Hermione didn’t feel lost in the noise.

Her fingers slipped into her pocket.

She drew out the small black velvet box her father had given her, opening it with quiet reverence. Nestled inside, the Gaunt crest gleamed in silver and emerald—coiled serpent, ancient runes, lineage etched in every curve.

Hermione took a slow breath.

Then she pinned it to her cloak.

Lucius met her eyes across the table, and something passed between them—pride, maybe. Or relief. Something unspoken and real.

The weight settled over her heart like a promise.

Aurelia shifted slightly beneath her sleeve, the little golden snake curling tighter around her wrist in approval.

Andromeda, watching from the corner of her eye, leaned in. “That looks lethal on you,” she said approvingly.

Hermione chuckled softly, fingers brushing the pin once. “That’s the idea.”

She reached into the inner pocket of her robes and withdrew the journal—the one she and her father had enchanted. No one else seemed to notice as she opened the slim book, pressed her quill to the page, and wrote in neat, careful script:

I’m in Slytherin.

The ink shimmered and sank into the page.

A beat passed.

Then her father’s reply curled across the parchment, elegant and unmistakable:

Of course you are. You’re mine. I’m proud of you, Dove.

Hermione pressed her lips together to keep the smile from blooming too wide.

She shut the journal gently, tucking it close to her chest for just a moment before sliding it back into her robes.

Her eyes drifted over her table—Andromeda chatting with Bellatrix, Narcissa inspecting her cutlery like it might insult her, Lucius watching her with something unreadable but soft at the edges.

She was exactly where she needed to be.

For the first time in a long time, she felt like she belonged.

Chapter Text

Over the past two months, Lucius had borne quiet witness to a slow and dazzling conquest—one accomplished without a single spell or drop of blood.

Hermione had not taken Slytherin House. She had charmed it.

It began subtly, like sunlight slipping through the cracks of a shuttered room. She moved through the common room with the careless grace of someone who did not need permission to shine. Lucius watched her the way one might watch an eclipse: captivated, but careful not to be obvious about it.

She had become—utterly without trying—the unofficial princess of Slytherin.

A strange title, for a strange girl.

She gave her attention freely: to purebloods and half-bloods, to first-years trembling under the weight of their robes and to seventh-years so jaded they barely looked up from their books. Blood status, family name, social standing—it meant nothing to her. She helped whomever she pleased. And she pleased often.

This, more than anything, unsettled the snakes at first.

Slytherins did not do things without reason. Kindness was currency, and every smile came with strings attached. But Hermione offered her help like it cost her nothing. She floated from group to group with a casual sort of brilliance, explaining theory in terms even the densest student could grasp, transfiguring frustration into understanding with a flick of her wand and the tilt of her head.

Lucius would pretend to read while watching her across the room, half-listening to the hum of her voice. He found her intellect more intoxicating than any firewhisky.

And still—she never asked for favors. Never called in debts. Sometimes, she didn’t even remember the names of the students she helped.

At first, they were suspicious.

Then one evening, a seventh-year—Rosier, perhaps—asked her outright: “Why do you do it, Riddle? You’re not gaining anything.”

She blinked at him, utterly unbothered, and replied, “Because it’s more entertaining than watching paint dry.”

And that was that.

They believed her.

Because it was true.

She helped because she could. Because she found minds more interesting than politics. Because cleverness deserved to be cultivated, regardless of whose veins it flowed through.

Lucius had never seen anything like it.

She was not loud. She was not flamboyant. She did not demand loyalty or command fear. She simply gave—and in doing so, earned the one thing Slytherin House rarely offered freely.

Respect.

Now, no one dared speak against her. Not because she was Riddle’s daughter—that alone would have been enough—but because she had become theirs . The snakes had taken her into the fold, not as a pawn or prize, but as something rare and revered.

Lucius watched it all unfold like the slow turn of a constellation.

He’d seen the way the younger students looked at her—like she might save them from drowning if they flailed too loudly. He’d seen the upper years ask her opinion, unprompted, as if her answer might shift the balance of the conversation. And he’d seen her brush it all off with a little smile, oblivious to the quiet revolution she’d wrought.

She called it boredom.

Lucius called it brilliance.

And though he would never say it aloud—not yet—there were moments he looked at her and thought: There she is. The future of our House. Not the throne. Not the crown. But the sun around which we all orbit.

Even snakes need warmth, sometimes.

And yet, for all her brightness, Hermione belonged to everyone.

That, Lucius found, increasingly intolerable.

It was a strange thing—jealousy. Not loud, not hot. But cold. Sharp. Like the sudden ache in your chest when you realize the sun is warming someone else’s skin.

She had time for everyone. She offered help with a smile, a quip, a gentle touch on the arm. Lucius watched it unfold daily—her soft patience, her quiet competence. She tutored three first-years in Charms, edited the sixth-years’ Arithmancy essays, and seemed to spend half her life in the library, tucked into a corner like a well-read secret.

He began making appearances there.

At first, it was incidental. Then… not.

He would stroll in as if on business, books cradled in his arms like props. But his eyes always sought her. There she’d be, head bent over parchment, curls cascading like honeyed ink across her shoulders, wand tapping lightly against her chin as she thought.

Lucius would hover. Just close enough to be noticed.

“Are you actually studying,” she asked one day without looking up, “or are you here for the ambiance?”

He smirked, sliding into the seat beside her. “I find the ambiance quite… educational.”

Hermione glanced at him, eyes twinkling. “Do you need help again?”

He managed a long-suffering sigh, as though reluctantly admitting defeat. “Sadly, yes. Runes continue to be a cruel and unforgiving mistress.”

She leaned in, the scent of ink and spearmint clinging to her. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re so pretty.”

Lucius choked on nothing.

“I beg your pardon?”

Hermione only grinned and began to explain the intricacies of Old Norse root structure, her hand gesturing lightly through the air as she drew imaginary runes. Lucius didn’t hear a word. He was too distracted by the way her mouth moved when she said ‘bindrune’ —too undone by the thrill that bloomed in his chest every time she leaned a little closer.

He nodded dutifully at her explanations, occasionally asking a question he already knew the answer to. Anything to keep her gaze on him. Anything to hear her call him “Lucius” with that infuriatingly sweet voice, as if he wasn’t unraveling beneath it.

Once, she passed him a note during breakfast— “You really don’t need this much help. You just like it when I pay attention to you.”

He still carried it in his pocket.

Time moved forward and Lucius found himself following Hermione wherever she went. He couldn't bear to be far from her, so he didn’t. That's how he learned of the vile bastards that bullied her. 

It started with whispers.

Low, biting things passed in the corridors. Snide remarks tucked between laughter like needles in a cushion.

“Little snake in a lion’s mane.”

“Riddle’s mutt. Bet she speaks Parseltongue to her own reflection.”

Lucius knew the source before he ever turned to look. Gryffindors. Of course. But not just any. Potter and his rabid little pack.

The so-called Marauders.

They trailed behind Hermione like flies to honey—buzzing, biting, belittling. Younger than her, yes, and unworthy of her time, but loud and relentless. James Potter especially—bold with Quidditch bravado and twice the arrogance of anyone who’d earned less than a C in Ancient Runes. And Black. Sirius Black, Lucius’s own cousin in blood but no kin in soul. He laughed the loudest when they insulted Hermione. Lucius itched to hex him into silence.

But she always stopped him.

“Leave them be,” she said once, brushing invisible dust from her cloak. “They’re children.”

“You’re only a year older than them,” he had muttered.

“Yes,” she had replied, “but emotionally, I’m a millennium.”

He had wanted to smile. He hadn’t.

But now—now he stood with Bellatrix at his side, watching Hermione bend down to retrieve her scattered books from the floor where Potter had knocked them with a flick of his wand.

“You should crawl back to your father’s crypt,” Sirius sneered. “Oh, wait. You probably live there.”

“Is this why you’re so good at magic?” James added, circling her like a vulture. “Studied from the womb? Or did Daddy Riddle brew you in a cauldron?”

“Get back in your box, Frankenstein,” Peter piped in, snorting.

Lucius stepped forward.

But Hermione rose first.

Slowly. Gracefully. Hair falling in thick curls down her back, shoulders straightening with an elegance that made her seem carved from something older than stone. She looked at the boys not with anger, but with pity.

“I see why Gryffindors need swords,” she said calmly. “It’s the only way you’ll ever feel like men.”

There was a flicker in James’s eyes—something stupid and impulsive.

He pulled his wand.

Hermione barely sighed. “Don’t,” she warned.

But he did.

The spell he cast was messy—too fast, too hot—and she deflected it with a flick, letting the energy scatter harmlessly against the stone.

And then Sirius joined.

And Remus.

And the hallway erupted into magic and chaos .

Bellatrix shrieked with laughter as she sent a bone-jarring hex through Pettigrew’s defenses, sending the boy tumbling into a suit of armor. Lucius moved beside Hermione, his wand moving like a blade—defensive spells, retaliations, and calculated strikes. He wasn’t trying to kill them. Yet.

And Hermione—

Hermione was radiant.

Her hair whipped around her face, wild and luminous, her wand blazing with power. She moved like a storm incarnate—elegant, furious, efficient. Every spell was precise. She didn’t waste motion or energy. She didn’t scream or rage. She simply unleashed .

Remus dropped first, disarmed and stunned.

Then Sirius, flung into the opposite wall with a sharp bark of pain.

Peter fled.

Only Potter remained.

He was furious—embarrassed, outmatched, bleeding pride more than blood—and he screamed something wild, something Lucius couldn’t quite hear—

—and Hermione cried out.

A line of red bloomed across her cheek. A curl of her hair fell , severed mid-flight, drifting like a burned feather to the stone floor.

Lucius saw red .

He stepped forward with fury in his wand, but—

“ENOUGH.”

The magic died midair .

Dumbledore had arrived.

His presence stole the heat from the room. Eyes sharp beneath half-moon glasses, robes as still as fog. The scent of lemon drops and old paper followed him like rot.

Lucius hated him on instinct.

“Mr. Malfoy. Miss Black. Miss Riddle,” Dumbledore said with icy calm. “A hallway brawl? How very disappointing.”

Hermione touched her face, fingers coming away crimson. She stood tall despite the blood, despite the curl lying at her feet like a broken vow.

“They attacked her,” Lucius said, chest heaving.

Bellatrix hissed, “We were defending her!”

Dumbledore turned to Hermione.

Without a word, he reached into his robes and retrieved a handkerchief . Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward. Hermione froze.

He reached out.

Lucius saw it in her— the flinch . Subtle. Involuntary. But real.

She stepped back.

Too late.

Dumbledore touched the cloth to her cheek. Wiped gently. Then pulled it away and examined the blood like it was wine in a crystal glass.

He smiled. Not kindly.

“You should go to the infirmary, Miss Riddle. We wouldn’t want you bleeding on the floor.”

He folded the handkerchief and slid it back into his pocket.

Lucius’s hand twitched toward his wand.

“Detention,” Dumbledore added. “For all three of you. A week’s worth. Do try not to start another war, won’t you?”

And then he turned. And walked away.

Lucius stood frozen for a heartbeat, then surged forward.

“Hermione—” he caught her elbow as she wobbled slightly, blood still trickling down her jaw.

Bellatrix darted to her other side. “You’re hurt, sunshine, don’t be stubborn. Come on. Let’s go.”

Lucius pressed a handkerchief of his own—clean, embroidered with a silver ‘M’—against her cheek, guiding her with shaking fingers.

She didn’t argue.

As they walked toward the infirmary, Lucius’s thoughts raced. Guilt, sharp and bitter, churned in his gut.

I should have protected her. I should have stopped it sooner.

But pride twisted through the guilt like ivy. She had held her own. She had eclipsed them all.

He glanced down at her, at the blood on her jaw and the fire still burning in her eyes.

And for the first time since he’d met her, Lucius Malfoy knew what it meant to admire someone utterly.

The walk to the hospital wing felt longer than it was.

Bellatrix was practically vibrating with rage, her movements sharp and too fast as she flanked Hermione’s right. Lucius stayed at her left, steadying her when she stumbled slightly, though she insisted she was fine.

"You are not fine," Bellatrix hissed, eyes gleaming. "You’re bleeding and that mongrel carved your face like a pumpkin."

"You're dramatic," Hermione muttered, wincing.

"You love it," Bellatrix snapped.

They turned a corner and were immediately joined by Andromeda, who took one look at Hermione’s cheek and paled. “Merlin, he cut you?”

Lucius saw her hands curl into fists.

Then came Narcissa, trailing like a pale wraith from the shadows. “Is it true?” she asked quietly. “Potter hexed you?”

“Yes,” Hermione said calmly. “And it’s nothing—”

“It’s not nothing ,” Severus interrupted as he strode toward them from the end of the corridor, his robes flapping like angry wings. “It’s Potter. It’s always Potter. And Black. They torment everyone they think they can get away with. And they always get away with it.”

He sounded bitter. And younger than usual.

Narcissa touched Hermione’s arm gently. “It’s disgusting. They strut around like they own the school. If we pulled half of what they did—”

“We’d be expelled,” Andromeda finished.

Hermione exhaled as they reached the infirmary doors. “I don’t want to talk about them anymore.”

Madam Pomfrey fussed immediately. “On the bed. Now. Let me see that cut—gracious, was that a Slicing Hex ?”

Hermione climbed onto the nearest cot, brushing curls away from her face with one blood-streaked hand.

Lucius finally sat.

Or rather— fell into the nearest chair, the stiffness draining out of his limbs as the adrenaline bled away. He took shallow breaths as the sound of his heartbeat drummed in his ears. His eyes wide and unblinking looked at her. 

He could still see the curl falling. Still see the line of red. Still see the way she’d flinched when Dumbledore touched her.

His hands trembled slightly.

Hermione was talking softly with Madam Pomfrey. Narcissa and Andromeda hovered nearby, speaking in clipped, furious whispers. Bellatrix paced the far wall like a caged wolf, muttering hexes under her breath.

Lucius didn’t hear any of them.

He just watched her.

The girl who called him Daddy Lucius when she wanted to fluster him. The girl who read books faster than he breathed. The girl who laughed like the war hadn’t touched her yet.

He wanted to kill James Potter.

And he wanted to pull Hermione into his arms and never let her walk down a corridor alone again.

She caught him watching and smiled. She looked him in the eye and softly whispered, “I’m okay.”

It was a small thing—tired, blood-smudged, and aching at the edges—but it undid him.

Andromeda noticed.

Her gaze flicked between Hermione and Lucius, sharp as flint. Then she turned, said something to Narcissa, and motioned for the others to start walking back.

“We’ll take her to the dorm,” she said. “Come on, Hermione.”

Lucius stood automatically when they all moved. Hermione leaned against Bellatrix, who grumbled but steadied her with unexpected gentleness. Severus offered to carry her bag, and she allowed it with a teasing smirk.

Lucius began to follow—

“Wait,” Andromeda said softly, tugging his sleeve. “Walk with me.”

He blinked. The others were already ahead, voices fading as they turned the corner.

Andromeda pulled him behind a stone statue of a nymph mid-laugh, her curls bouncing with the movement. She looked up at him with serious eyes.

Lucius raised a brow. “What?”

Andromeda stepped closer. Her tone was low, but fierce. “You love her.”

Lucius went utterly still.

“I—”

“No.” She put a hand on his chest. “Don’t deflect. Don’t lie. I see you.”

He opened his mouth again, but she surged on.

“She got hurt. And you look like you’re about to vomit. You can barely speak. That’s not just affection, Lucius. That’s love .”

He stared at her, wide-eyed and breathless. “Andromeda—”

She shook her head. “Let me say this. Over the summer, I told you to take your chances. Remember? I said love is rare. Powerful. Worth it.”

He swallowed. Hard.

Andromeda’s hand slid from his chest to his shoulder. “I support you. All of us do. Hermione is one of us now. She belongs here, and with you—she fits . Don’t let your fear stop you from trying.”

He couldn’t speak.

She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Think about what you want. Then go get it.”

And then she was gone—her robes vanishing around the bend.

Lucius leaned against the wall, still trembling slightly, the stone cold beneath his palm.

She was hurt.

She could’ve been hurt worse.

And he had almost lost the only thing that made the world feel bearable lately.

The ache in his chest bloomed again.

But now it had a name.

Chapter Text

A few days had passed since the fight with the Marauders.

Detention still loomed—unassigned, unspoken, but inevitable. Hermione knew, instinctively, that when it came, it would not be fair. And she would not like it.

Dumbledore had not summoned them. Not yet. But he watched her.

She could feel it. That flicker of pressure between her shoulder blades when his gaze touched her in the corridors. The hum of wrongness in the air when he entered a room. The man she had once followed without question—who offered lemon drops and gentle wisdom like a grandfather—was now something else entirely.

Younger, yes. But also colder. Sharper. Cruel in a way that didn’t quite show, but slithered beneath every word he spoke.

He made her skin crawl.

Hermione sat stiffly on the edge of her bed, fingers curled in the hem of her robes. Her breath came shallow, uncertain.

She didn’t understand why this version of him unnerved her so completely.

It wasn’t just discomfort. It was fear. Real fear. The kind that rooted in the bones and refused to let go. She hadn’t felt that way since—God, since the war.

And it was instinctual. That made it worse. Because Hermione had learned—painfully, repeatedly—that she should trust her instincts.

She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to banish the growing throb behind her eyes.

Why did he look at her like that? Why did he smile when she bled?

Her stomach turned.

Did he know who she was?

The thought hit like a curse. She tried to brush it away, but it burrowed deeper.

He must have known. He’s Dumbledore.

He always knew more than he said. Always a half-step ahead, always nudging people into place like pieces on a chessboard. And if he knew who she was—if he had known the first time they met in the future—then...

Then he had trained her to kill her own father.

Hermione’s breath caught.

Her heart began to race, erratic and sharp, like it was trying to escape the cage of her ribs. Her vision swam for a moment. She stood—too fast—and the floor tilted beneath her feet.

Her knees buckled. She reached blindly for the nearest chair and collapsed into it.

She bent forward, hands trembling, head low. The room spun.

Breathe. Just breathe. In. Out.

She counted—four seconds in, hold for four, exhale for four. Again.

Slowly, the panic began to ebb, like waves retreating from a cliff.

There’s nothing you can do, she told herself. Not now. He’s still powerful. Still Headmaster. And you're still just... a girl.

She swallowed the taste of bile in the back of her throat.

All she could do was avoid him. Stay out of his reach. Keep her head down and hope his interest in her waned.

Eventually.

Her gaze drifted to her satchel on the floor. The corner of her black-and-gold pocket journal peeked out, the familiar threads of its spine slightly frayed.

She didn’t want to think about Dumbledore anymore. Her thoughts, already fragile, snagged on the memory of blood on stone—her own blood—and the Marauders’ sneering faces.

She curled in on herself slightly, hugging her arms.

Why did they choose me?

She still couldn’t answer that.

She had avoided them. Purposefully. They were fourth-years—two years below her—and she had no classes with them. No reason to cross paths. And yet... they had hunted her. Like sport.

She’d known them in the future. She’d trusted them.

They had laughed and told her stories of their youth—of mischief and rule-breaking and wild nights. They’d joked, called themselves “little shits” and “hellraisers.” She’d laughed with them then.

Now the words rang hollow.

She hadn't expected cruelty. Not really.

And even though she had heard about the pranks and the bullying—especially toward Snape—she hadn’t expected this . Not the hexes. Not the blood. Not the slicing curse across her cheek from a boy with her best friend’s face.

James Potter. So like Harry, it hurt to look at him.

That had been her mistake.

She’d hesitated. Just for a moment. Just long enough for the resemblance to confuse her body into stillness. And James had taken advantage.

The cut had been clean. Sharp. Efficient.

Hermione touched her cheek unconsciously, fingers grazing the faint line that Pomfrey had healed. It barely hurt now. But she still felt it.

Harry would never hurt me.

She knew that.

But James wasn’t Harry.

And that—more than the pain, more than the blood—was what hurt the most.

She leaned back, boneless with exhaustion, and stared at the canopy above her bed. The green velvet felt suffocating today.

She didn’t want to fight them again. She wasn’t afraid of the spells. She was afraid of her own hesitation. Her inability to separate memory from reality. Harry from James. Trust from danger.

Hermione let out a shaky breath and reached for her journal.

Her thumb brushed the cover. She hadn’t written in it since the fight.

She hadn’t told her father.

And that—maybe more than anything—made her stomach twist with guilt.

He would want to know. He should know. This was exactly the sort of thing he warned her about. The reason he trained her. Protected her. Hid her away.

But she didn’t want to see what he’d do to them.

Because... she knew them. She remembered them as grown men. Teachers. Mentors. Friends. Flawed, yes. But changed. Better.

If he knew...

She didn’t want their future rewritten in violence.

So she closed the journal. Slowly. Carefully. As if even that motion might betray her.

She tucked it back into her bag with fingers that trembled.

It was a lie of omission.

But she would carry it.

For now.

****************************************************************************************************************

Detention came three days after the fight.
Dumbledore delivered the assignment with his usual gentle cadence, as if he were assigning an essay and not orchestrating psychological torture.

“You’ll be helping the school,” he’d said, “by restoring some of our… more difficult historical artifacts. No magic. No shortcuts. Just hard work and reflection.”
Then he smiled. “Think of it as a chance to scrub away some of the blood on your hands.”

Hermione’s stomach had curled at that. She hadn’t realized, until then, how much a smile could sound like a threat.

The dungeon was colder than it had any right to be.
Not the ordinary sort of Hogwarts chill—this cold was ancient. Deep. The kind of cold that lingered inside the lungs and wrapped around the spine like a second skeleton.

Hermione’s boots echoed dully as she followed Dumbledore down the narrow stone corridor. Lucius walked just behind her, silent and tense. Bellatrix lagged behind, her fingers twitching at her sides, hungry for a wand she wasn’t allowed to use.

They reached the door.

It was made of black iron, etched with runes Hermione didn’t recognize. They pulsed faintly as Dumbledore whispered a spell in a language that didn’t sound human. The door creaked open like something in pain.

The room inside was… wrong.

Stone walls wept moisture. The torches flickered even though there was no breeze. The air itself seemed thick, like it had been breathed a thousand times and never released.
And everywhere—stacked high on dusty shelves, laid out on cracked stone tables—were objects.

Not treasures. Not relics.

Things.

A cracked monocle stained with something dark and flaking. A child’s rattle carved from bone. A jar filled with hair—human, she was sure. An astrolabe that spun despite having no axis. Books bound in material that looked too soft to be leather. Wands. Dozens of them, snapped and burnt and still humming with residual pain.

Hermione froze.

“These,” Dumbledore said softly, “are the remnants of magic that went too far. Ambition without boundaries. Knowledge without conscience. A fitting lesson for the three of you.”

She turned to him, heart in her throat. “What are we meant to do?”

“Clean them,” he said simply. “Without magic.”

Bellatrix laughed once, sharp and high. “You’re joking.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, no. And do be careful. Some of them… bite.”
Then he turned and left. The iron door groaned shut behind him with the sound of finality.

The silence that followed felt sentient.

Hermione stared at the collection in front of her. None of it made sense, and yet her body reacted like it knew exactly what these objects were. Her skin prickled. Her pulse thudded in her throat.

She moved forward carefully and picked up a rag from the basket left at the center of the room. It was damp and smelled faintly of copper. She chose the smallest object she could find—a tarnished silver hand mirror.

The moment her fingers touched it, she gasped.

A scream. Inside her head. Distant but real.
It was hers.

She dropped the mirror.

Lucius caught it mid-air. His hand shook. “Did you hear—?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Put it down.”

Bellatrix had already grabbed something larger—a marble bust with blank eyes and a cracked nose. She wiped it with careless force, muttering curses under her breath.

Lucius set the mirror down gently, then turned to Hermione, jaw tight. “What is this place?”

“I think,” she said slowly, “these are the magical equivalents of cursed paintings. Objects that remember. Maybe even… relive.”
She didn’t want to say “haunted,” but the word clung to the back of her throat.

Hours passed. Or minutes. Time bent here.

Hermione worked methodically, wiping grime from a puzzle box that tried to open itself every few seconds. Each object whispered. Some begged. One—a quill—wept.

Lucius worked silently beside her, face pale, hands steady. But Hermione noticed the way his shoulders flinched every time something creaked. The way he kept glancing at her, as if to reassure himself she was still real.

Bellatrix, at first, had treated the whole thing like a game.

Then she touched a ceremonial blade.

Hermione heard her scream from the other side of the room.

It wasn’t a fear scream. Not exactly. It was… confused. Wounded. Familiar.
Like Bellatrix had just seen herself bleeding, and didn’t know if she liked it.

When Hermione rushed over, Bellatrix shoved the blade away, her breathing ragged.
“It was mine,” she whispered. “In a different life. I— I used it.”

Lucius stared at her. “What do you mean?”

Bellatrix shook her head violently. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”

Later, Hermione found a book.
No title. The cover pulsed beneath her fingers like skin.

When she opened it, the pages were blank—except for one line that wrote itself as she watched:

"He will never love you more than he loves power."

She dropped it. Her hands were shaking.

Lucius took her wrists gently. “Don’t touch anything else.”

“I’m fine,” she lied.

“You’re not.”

He was right. She felt frayed. Like a thread being pulled too tight.
Her stomach churned. Her hands were numb.

Hours later, Dumbledore returned.

He did not ask how they fared.

He simply surveyed the room, hands clasped behind his back, and said, “There. That’s better, isn’t it? Sometimes, all it takes is a little polish to reveal what’s been hiding underneath.”

Hermione didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.

Her palms were blistered. Her mouth was dry. She could still hear the echo of that damn mirror screaming in the back of her skull.

Lucius’s robes were smudged with dust and something darker. He stood very still, like if he moved too fast, the room would reach for him again.

Bellatrix leaned against the far wall, eyes glazed, lips slightly parted in what might’ve been awe or despair.

Dumbledore smiled at them. “Excellent work. Same time tomorrow.”

And he left.

Outside the dungeon, the torches seemed too bright. The air too clean.

Hermione took a step forward and stumbled. Lucius caught her. She didn’t pull away.

“I don’t want to go back there,” she whispered.

Lucius didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

The silence between them was full of everything they couldn’t speak aloud:

That Dumbledore was playing a long game.
That the artifacts weren’t just cursed—they were mirrors.
That this was punishment designed not to wound the body but the soul.

They didn’t separate after detention.

They couldn’t.

The moment the door closed behind them, something unspoken welded them together—like survivors pulling warmth from the same fire after crawling out of wreckage. Bellatrix hovered at Hermione’s left. Lucius at her right. No one touched. No one spoke. But they moved as one.

That night, they slept in the Slytherin common room. Not in beds. Not in their dorms. Just curled in cloaks and silence beside the dying hearth. Bellatrix’s eyes never closed. Lucius flinched in his sleep every time the fire cracked too loud.
Hermione didn’t sleep at all.

The next morning, they sat at the far end of the dining hall—away from the other students, away from the light. They hadn’t spoken since leaving the dungeon.

They didn’t need to.

Every clatter of silverware made Lucius twitch. Every scrape of a bench had Bellatrix reaching for a wand she hadn’t yet reclaimed. Hermione tried to drink tea and found her hands were shaking too hard to lift the cup. The scent of cinnamon porridge made her nauseous.

Severus approached cautiously, his tray in his arms.
He sat.
Looked at them.

“…Are you okay?” he asked.

Three pairs of eyes turned to him at once.

Too fast.
Too still.

Something about the way they looked at him—wide-eyed and pale and utterly silent—made Severus’s shoulders go rigid.

Lucius leaned forward, barely moving his lips.

“Just four more days,” he whispered.

Bellatrix blinked slowly, like someone coming down from a fever.

Hermione didn’t blink at all.

Andromeda appeared next, dropping into the seat beside Bellatrix and placing a hand on her shoulder. “This is insane,” she muttered. “We should write to our parents. Or Tom. Someone needs to know—”

“NO!”

All three of them said it at once.

Too loud.
Too fast.
Too final.

Andromeda jolted. “Why not?” she asked, voice soft.

Lucius opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Hermione stared at her spoon, the warped reflection of her face bending in the metal. “We just… can’t.”

No one could explain it. Not properly.

It wasn’t just fear. It was something else. A pressure in their chests. A heaviness in their throats. Like the dungeon had reached inside and stolen their words, replacing them with warnings written in a language they couldn’t translate.

Across the hall, Dumbledore sat smiling at the head table, chatting politely with Professor Sprout. His napkin was embroidered. His teacup didn’t shake.

Hermione’s hands curled into fists beneath the table.

She didn’t look away.

What We Don’t Speak

(Four more days.)

********************************************************************************************************************

Chapter Text

The nightmares didn’t stop, not right away.

Hermione still woke up gasping some nights, her fingers aching from gripping a rag that wasn’t there, the sound of whispers still curling around her spine like smoke. She wasn’t the only one. Bellatrix sometimes jolted awake with her wandless fingers twitching, mouthing spells she couldn’t cast. And Lucius—Lucius never spoke of his dreams, but Hermione noticed how he kept flinching at shadows and how his shoulders stiffened every time someone touched him unexpectedly.

They didn’t talk about the dungeon.

Not really.

But they found other ways to stitch themselves back together.

One morning in the common room, when someone dropped a book a little too loudly, Bellatrix reached out without a word and grabbed Hermione’s hand in one and Lucius’s in the other. She didn’t look at them. She just squeezed.

Neither pulled away.

Later that week, when Peeves exploded an inkwell above their heads, Lucius instinctively stepped in front of both girls like a shield, arms out, jaw clenched. He stayed there for three full seconds after the chaos ended, as if expecting another blow.

Hermione touched his arm gently. “It’s just Peeves,” she whispered.

Lucius didn’t answer. But he didn’t move either, not until Bellatrix tugged his sleeve and muttered something about ghosts being overrated.

And when Hermione found herself shaking behind a bookcase during a storm, thunder cracking too much like screaming metal, it was Lucius who crouched beside her and Bellatrix who yanked her into a hug so tight it squeezed the fear right out of her lungs.

“I hate storms,” Hermione whispered into Bellatrix’s cloak.

“We know,” Bellatrix said, voice gruff and unusually soft.

Lucius didn’t say anything, but he slid his hand over hers and didn’t let go until the thunder stopped.

They were quiet, the three of them.

Quieter than before. Drawn in. Tense in ways only they understood.

But they were together. Always.

People began to notice. And whisper. But they didn’t care. They took up a corner of the Slytherin common room and claimed it like a little sanctuary. They studied there. Ate there. Sat in silence there.

Sometimes they didn’t speak for hours. Sometimes they laughed too hard over something that wasn’t that funny. It didn’t matter. It helped.

Hermione felt it like a slow thaw—that aching, reluctant warmth of healing. It wasn’t fast. And it wasn’t whole. But it was something.

They became a trio.

An odd one, maybe. But theirs.

And over the next few weeks, people stopped calling them “Riddle’s daughter,” “the Malfoy heir,” and “the mad Black girl.”

They just said: them.

Lucius, Bellatrix, and Hermione.

Three shadows stitched together by something darker than childhood should have known—but standing still.

Eventually, things began to shift.

Not all at once. But in subtle, almost imperceptible ways.

Bellatrix started to crack jokes again—dry, biting ones that made Lucius roll his eyes and Hermione snort into her tea. Lucius resumed grooming his robes with unnecessary precision and criticizing everyone else’s table manners. And Hermione found herself humming under her breath again while brushing her hair, soft and tuneless, but hers.

They still flinched at sudden noises. They still avoided looking up at the Head Table. But their laughter started sounding real again. The tightness in their chests loosened, just a little. They held hands less. They sat apart now and then. That, more than anything, told Hermione they were healing.

Hermione curled up in the corner of the common room one evening, a soft throw blanket pooled around her shoulders and her potions text open in her lap. She wasn’t reading it, though. Her gaze was fixed on the floor, where her sleek golden familiar coiled lazily in the firelight.

Aurelia lifted her head.

::You are too quiet, master.::

Hermione smiled faintly and slipped into Parseltongue. ::I’m thinking.::

The snake’s tongue flickered. ::You are remembering. That is not the same.::

Hermione didn’t argue. She reached down and gently stroked Aurelia’s smooth head. The familiar coolness of her scales grounded her.

::You could tell him,:: Aurelia said, winding a loop around Hermione’s fingers. ::Your father. He would protect you. He would make sure it never happened again.::

Hermione’s throat tightened. ::He would destroy them.::

::They hurt you.::

::They are children.::

Aurelia hissed softly. ::Irrelevant. Pain is still pain.::

Hermione swallowed. “I know.”

She looked down, her voice a whisper even in Parseltongue.

::If I tell him, I won’t be able to stop what comes next. And I don’t want to see what he becomes for me.::

Aurelia tilted her head. ::He is already that. You are his reason.::

Hermione didn’t reply.

Instead, she leaned down and rested her forehead next to Aurelia’s coils. The serpent pressed close, curling against her cheek.

They sat that way for a long time.

By the next Hogsmeade weekend, the three of them were nearly themselves again—if a little paler, a little quieter, a little more tightly woven together.

The Slytherin common room had grown used to their trio. No one questioned it anymore. In fact, it had started to feel… comfortable. Safe. Hermione still avoided Dumbledore’s gaze like it was fire, but when the world wasn’t watching, she could almost forget.

She and Bellatrix braided each other’s hair in front of the hearth. Lucius tutored Severus in Ancient Runes while occasionally flicking ink at Narcissa when she got too smug. Andromeda had taken to sitting near Hermione during meals, their shoulders brushing. 

At lunch one day, Lucius dropped a tart on Bellatrix’s plate just as she opened her mouth to insult him. “You’re less cruel when you’ve had sugar,” he muttered.

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. “I’m never cruel. I’m efficient.”

Hermione laughed. An actual laugh. And Lucius blinked at her, startled, before giving her the smallest smile in return.

Even Severus looked up from his soup.

“See?” Narcissa said brightly, nudging Andromeda. “Told you they’d recover eventually. Trauma doesn’t stand a chance against Slytherin pettiness.”

Bellatrix held up a fork. “Do you want to test that theory?”

Andromeda leaned over to Hermione and whispered, “They're fine. We’ve got them back.”

Hermione didn’t answer immediately. She watched Lucius and Bellatrix bicker with matching grins and felt the warmth settle in her chest like honey.

Maybe they weren’t entirely fine.

But they were finding their way.

Together.

The sun was out, warm and golden over the courtyard stones, and the breeze carried the crisp scent of early autumn. Students had spilled into the open space during their short break between classes, laughing and gossiping in huddled groups, basking in the rare moment of calm.

Hermione, Lucius, and Bellatrix sat together on a low stone bench near the fountain. They weren’t saying much—still learning how to speak again—but they were close. Bellatrix’s shoulder brushed Hermione’s. Lucius had one leg crossed over the other, arms folded neatly, his wand tucked in his sleeve like a promise.

They were whole. Not healed. But whole.

The scream shattered the moment.

It wasn’t loud. Not really. But Hermione knew that voice. She turned sharply, eyes scanning the courtyard.

There—across the flagstones—Severus Snape hung suspended in midair, robes flapping around his head, his wand nowhere in sight. James Potter stood below him, laughing with his wand raised, while Sirius Black doubled over clutching his side.

Hermione shot to her feet.

“I hate this spell,” Bellatrix muttered. “It’s not even creative.”

Lucius was already moving.

Students turned to watch the spectacle, most of them amused. A few looked uncomfortable. Not one lifted a wand to intervene.

Hermione’s stomach turned.

James flicked his wand, making Severus spin, and something fell from his pocket—books, quills, a few scattered notes. And then a silver pin caught the sunlight and clattered to the stone.

Sirius picked it up with a mocking whistle. “What’s this?” he said, turning it over in his hand. “The Prince crest? Are you kidding me?”

Severus’s face had gone white.

“You’re a half-blood, ” Sirius sneered. “What right do you have to carry this? Can’t believe your precious family hasn’t disowned you yet.”

Across the courtyard, Lily Evans stood frozen. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t cheer. She just… did nothing.

Hermione saw Severus look at her.

That broke something open.

They weren’t fine. But they stood up anyway. And this time, it mattered.

“Put him down,” Lucius said, his voice like a blade.

James turned lazily. “Oh, hello, Malfoy. Want to join him up there? We’ve got room.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Lucius said, and his wand was out.

James’s smile faltered.

Hermione and Bellatrix moved beside him, a wall of green and silver. For the first time in weeks, Hermione didn’t feel tired. She felt right.

“You really don’t want to pick this fight,” Bellatrix purred, cracking her knuckles. “You remember what happened last time, don’t you? Or do you need help remembering?”

Sirius stiffened.

Hermione’s voice was calm, cold. “You’re cowards. Four on one. And you’re not even clever about it.”

Sirius scowled. “He deserves it.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she snapped. “He never did. But maybe you do.”

Lucius didn’t give them a chance to reply. With a flick of his wand and a muttered counter-curse, Severus dropped to the stone in a heap.

He scrambled up, furious and humiliated, brushing at his robes and avoiding everyone’s eyes.

Lucius bent, plucked the Prince family crest pin from where Sirius had dropped it, and handed it to Severus without a word.

Severus didn’t take it. He turned sharply and stalked off, fists clenched, shoulders tight with shame.

“Snape—” Hermione started, stepping after him.

“No,” Bellatrix said quietly, catching her arm. “Let him go. For now.”

Hermione looked after him, her chest aching.

Her eyes landed on Lily Evans, still standing by the wall, pale and silent. “Some friend,” Hermione muttered, loud enough for her to hear.

Lily flinched.

Hermione turned away.

Lucius slipped the crest pin into his pocket for safekeeping. “He’ll want it back when he stops shaking.”

Bellatrix snorted. “We all shake. Doesn’t mean we don’t still bite.”

Hermione smiled faintly.

And just like that—just for a moment—they felt whole again.

Not because they were fine. Not because the pain was gone.

But because they chose who to be, in spite of it.

Because they fought for someone else.

Because they remembered who they were.

Chapter Text

Lucius looked at Bellatrix and noticed how relaxed she seemed. Her arms were loose at her sides, her eyes not wild or haunted for once, just… focused. She hadn't looked like that in weeks.

Good. That was a good sign. She was returning to herself.

He turned his gaze to Hermione.

Her lips were pursed in a firm frown, her hands planted on her hips like she was ready to argue with the sun itself. She wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. She was angry—righteously, beautifully furious.

And that was good, too.

It meant his Sunshine was still in there. Beneath the shadows and silence and brittle pauses, she was still her . Lucius exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back for the first time in what felt like days. That strange low tide in his chest—less pressure, more breath. A trembling kind of peace. As if the dungeon’s walls had stopped clinging to his skin.

He rubbed at his forearm absently. The ghost of a burn wasn’t there, but he remembered the heat anyway. He had started waking up in cold sweats, unsure if he was screaming or if it was only the fire crackling in his memories.

But here, in the bright courtyard, with Bellatrix standing firm and Hermione scowling at injustice, something eased in him.

They were all still here. Bent, but not broken. And that was something, like, good.

Only good things, he told himself. I only want good things now.

He looked at Hermione again—at the way her curls frizzed in the sun, at the stubborn curve of her mouth, at the fire in her eyes. She was a good thing. She would always be a good thing.

Lucius waved his wand and silently summoned the rest of Severus’s scattered possessions—quills, ink pots, a dog-eared Potions notebook—and levitated them neatly into a stack. He placed them all in his pocket with the small Prince crest.

He knew Severus was embarrassed and wouldn’t want company, but once he calmed down, he’d want his things back. Lucius would return them. It was the sort of thing a good friend did.

He could be that.

Hermione turned toward him, eyes bright with thought. “Have you noticed Snape’s crush on Lily Evans?”

Bellatrix let out a dramatic groan. “ The whole school knows about it. Why does that matter?”

Hermione folded her arms, thoughtful. “She didn’t help him. She just stood there and watched . I think Snape deserves better than that.”

Bellatrix tilted her head, considering. “He’s the heir to the Prince family. He should be with someone just as noble. Someone powerful.”

Lucius blinked, gaze bouncing between the two of them. “I don’t think—”

“I agree with you totally,” Hermione said, beaming. She clapped her hands, curls bouncing.

Lucius opened his mouth. “Ladies—”

But Hermione had begun to bounce on her toes now, all gleaming excitement and innocent chaos. Lucius’s eyes dropped to her chest before he could stop them—just for a second—then snapped to the sky as he cleared his throat and adjusted the front of his robes. His cheeks were definitely warm.

Bellatrix’s eyes gleamed. “We should set him up,” she said, licking her lips like she was about to cast an Unforgivable for fun. “Someone dark. Brooding. With a spine. Who?”

Hermione was bouncing again. “Who would be a good match?”

Lucius had a very bad feeling about this.

They turned to each other at the exact same moment and said in perfect harmony:

“Narcissa.”

Lucius sighed through his nose. He pinched the bridge of it between two fingers and muttered, “Of course.”

He already saw the madness forming—Hermione’s hopeful idealism, Bellatrix’s gleeful scheming, and somewhere in the middle, his own surrender.

Because he couldn’t say no to Hermione.

Not when she was finally smiling again. Not when she laughed like she meant it. Not when her eyes were starting to sparkle like stars instead of burning like battlefields.

He clenched his fists at his side.

Maybe helping Severus wasn’t just for Severus.

Maybe it was another step forward—for all of them.

That was good.

The three of them tackled the mission like a group project from hell.

Bellatrix had flopped into the library chair like a queen on a faded velvet throne, twirling a quill between her fingers and announcing, “We wing it. Love is chaos. Let’s weaponize it.”

Hermione, in stark contrast, had arrived with four books, two scrolls, and a very serious glint in her eye. She set up like a general preparing for battle, stacking her tomes with aggressive precision and flipping to chapters titled "The Psychology of Affection in Adolescents" and "Twelve Fail-Proof Courtship Strategies (and Why Most of Them Fail)."

Lucius? Lucius sat between them, straight-backed and resigned to his fate.

He didn’t quite know how it happened, only that somehow he had agreed to participate in romantic espionage. For Severus Snape. With these two.

Because he was a good friend.

And good friends did good things.

And this, apparently, was a good thing.

He shifted slightly in his chair, resisting the urge to straighten his already-straight tie. The Slytherin table in the library was tucked in a dim corner, near the enchanted window that glowed faintly with illusory moonlight. Books lined the shelves like silent sentinels, and Madame Pince had already given them two glares and one verbal warning.

He tapped his thumb against his wand twice. A grounding rhythm. Only good things. Only good things.

Hermione flipped to a new page, curls bouncing with enthusiasm. “Okay, according to Hogwarts: A History of Romantic Fiascos , the best way to form a lasting connection is through shared intellectual passion.”

Bellatrix snorted. “I think you mean: shared physical passion.”

“Merlin, Bella,” Hermione groaned.

“What? He’s a fourth year, not a baby. Let the boy get snogged!”

Lucius coughed loudly, trying not to picture anything . “Perhaps we could keep it to—ah—respectable matchmaking?”

Bellatrix leaned across the table, eyes gleaming. “Lucius, darling. You are the respectable one. That’s why you’re in charge of the boring part—talking to Severus.”

He nodded solemnly. “Because we’re both boys.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound thrilled.”

“I’m delighted, ” Lucius said tonelessly. “Absolutely thrilled to ask a fourteen-year-old if he’s emotionally prepared to engage in long-term partnership with my future sister-in-law.”

Bellatrix kicked his shin under the table. “You’re helping, and you’re happy about it.”

“I am happy,” he said through clenched teeth. “Because this is a good thing. I help my friends. I am doing good things.”

Hermione beamed at him like he’d just recited poetry. “Exactly, Lucius! This is a kindness. A healing gesture.”

“Yes,” he muttered. “Healing. Through forced romance. Perfectly normal.”

Hermione scribbled something in her notebook with furious precision. “Now, Narcissa—she’s proud, elegant, very well-read, and ambitious. She’ll respond best to sincerity, politeness, and someone who respects her mind.”

Bellatrix leaned in. “Or… she’ll respond best to knowing she could help reform a reclusive alchemist with trust issues and cheekbones sharp enough to cut a man.”

Lucius winced. “That’s not helpful. ”

Hermione hummed. “Actually, it kind of is.”

Lucius sat stiff-backed, watching Hermione color-code a matchmaking flowchart and Bellatrix balance a self-inking quill on her tongue like a sword. He wasn’t sure which one terrified him more. He gave them both a look—long-suffering and vaguely alarmed.

“And if all else fails,” Bellatrix added with a wicked grin, “I’ll owl Mummy and Daddy and suggest an arranged match. The family would eat it up. Glory, power, mystery, tragic dark-eyed romance—it’s peak Black family propaganda.”

Lucius buried his face in his hands. “Please don’t marry off your sister by owl.”

“No promises,” Bellatrix said sweetly.

Lucius peeked through his fingers at Hermione, who was now sketching some kind of matchmaking flowchart that included “Snape's Best Qualities” and “Narcissa’s Probable Romantic Type.” Her tongue poked out the corner of her mouth in concentration. She looked alive.

Whole.

She looked like his Hermione again.

And Bellatrix, for all her chaotic energy, was laughing. Really laughing. Not like someone trying to outrun a nightmare.

Lucius leaned back in his chair and let himself smile.

He still flinched at loud noises. Still woke up too early and breathed too fast. But this—this absurd, ridiculous plot— this was good.

And he wanted good things.

Even if it meant becoming a teenage Cyrano de Malfoy.

They split up like seasoned operatives.

Lucius straightened his tie with the solemnity of a man marching to the gallows and veered off toward the Potions corridor to find Severus. Hermione grabbed Bellatrix’s hand and dragged her toward the girls’ common room where Narcissa usually held court, brushing her hair like a tragic Victorian heroine.

They didn’t look back.

Operation: Get Snape Laid was officially underway.

Target: Severus Snape
Lucius spotted Severus in a quiet alcove near the dungeons, hunched over a thick Arithmancy text like it owed him money. His hair was even more tragic than usual, and his robes had an ink stain on the collar. Lucius approached slowly, like Severus was a cornered thestral.

“Snape,” Lucius said.

Severus didn’t look up. “I’m studying.”

Lucius cleared his throat. “I need to speak with you about… a matter of the heart.”

Severus finally looked up, deadpan. “Are you dying?”

“What? No. No, of course not. It’s about you. Specifically… your tragic, misplaced affections.”

Severus scowled. “If this is about Lily—”

“It is about Lily,” Lucius said, feeling like he’d just stepped into a battlefield. “She’s not good for you. She watched you get humiliated and did nothing. She only talks to you when she needs help with her Potions essays.”

“That’s not true.”

Lucius gave him a flat look.

“…Mostly not true,” Severus muttered.

“She’s a Gryffindor, Severus. They don’t understand us. You need someone who sees you. Values your intelligence. Your legacy. Your—err— nose. ”

Severus blinked. “My what ?”

Lucius flushed. “Forget I said that. The point is, Lily Evans is a bad investment.”

Target: Narcissa Black
Meanwhile, in the girls’ dormitory, Narcissa was seated like a marble statue on her chaise, brushing her hair and pretending to be too bored to exist.

Hermione leaned in like a detective breaking the news. “Narcissa. Severus Snape is in love with you.”

Narcissa didn’t even blink. “I doubt that.”

“Well,” Hermione said brightly, “he should be.”

Bellatrix flopped onto the bed and crossed her legs. “He’s from an old family. The Prince name still has pull, and they’re filthy rich. You could swim in cauldrons of galleons and never see the bottom.”

Hermione nodded. “And he’s clever. Quiet. Mysterious. The kind of man who reads poetry and owns a haunted piano.”

Bellatrix added, “Big nose.”

Narcissa gave her a blank stare.

Bellatrix smirked. “Big nose means big—”

“ BELLATRIX! ” Hermione yelped, nearly tripping over her own feet.

“What? It’s anatomical common sense.”

Narcissa stood and walked to her vanity, inspecting her reflection like she didn’t have time for this nonsense. “He’s not my type. I like someone else.”

“Who?” Hermione asked, suspicious.

“None of your business.”

Bellatrix cracked her knuckles. “Okay, Plan B.”

Hermione blinked. “What’s Plan B?”

Bellatrix smiled with all her teeth. “Mum and Dad are arranging a betrothal. With Severus. It’s happening.”

Narcissa spun around. “They’re what?! ”

“You’re being married off to a broody potion-making sex wizard with a trust fund,” Bellatrix said sweetly. “Congratulations.”

Narcissa stared. “What is wrong with you?”

Bellatrix just grinned. “Where should I start?”

Back to Severus
“I—uh—don’t know what to say, ” Severus muttered, face flaming.

Lucius nodded gravely. “It’s a lot. But you deserve someone who actually defends you. Who appreciates the power of your brain. Your ambition. Your… nose.”

Severus squinted. “Why do you keep mentioning my nose?”

“No reason,” Lucius said quickly. “But it’s a very aristocratic nose.”

“You’re acting really weird.”

“I’m doing a good thing, ” Lucius muttered under his breath. “Good friends do good things.”

“…What?”

“Nothing. Look—just think about it. Narcissa Black. She’s poised. She’s elegant. And she won’t flinch when you talk about the ethics of using unicorn blood recreationally.”

Severus looked thoughtful. “She did once correct Slughorn in class…”

“There you go,” Lucius said, relieved. “A woman of quality.”

Back to Narcissa
Bellatrix held out a wedding planning guide she’d somehow conjured from her bag.

Hermione had her notebook open to a page titled “Operation: Snape Bride.” There were hearts drawn on it. And diagrams.

“YOU CANNOT PLAN MY MARRIAGE,” Narcissa snapped, red-faced.

Bellatrix shrugged. “Too late.”

Hermione added, “We’ve already picked out the invitation fonts.”

Narcissa stared at them both, equal parts horrified and impressed. “You two are insane. ”

“Thank you,” they said in unison.

Reunited
The three of them met back at the library an hour later.

Lucius dropped into his chair, pale and dazed. “He said he’d think about it. ”

Hermione flopped into the seat beside him, flushed with success. “She threatened to hex us, so that’s basically a yes.”

Lucius sank into the library chair, rubbing his temples. “He asked if this was a prank. I told him no. Then he asked if I was possessed.”

Hermione grinned. “That’s basically a yes.”

Bellatrix stretched and cracked her neck. “Mission accomplished.”

Lucius looked at his hands. They were trembling slightly.

“I did a good thing,” he murmured. “I deserve tea. Possibly a lie-down.”

Lucius looked between the two girls, still not entirely sure how they’d pulled it off, but knowing in his heart that it was good.

They were back.

Alive. Whole. Meddling.

And Severus Snape’s love life didn’t stand a chance.

Chapter Text

Two days later Lucius cornered Severus in the Library. Hermione and Bellatrix sent him on another mission. One he would execute with grace and aristocratic charm.

Severus was hiding behind a bookshelf in the potions section, trying very hard to disappear. He gripped his textbook like a lifeline.

Lucius stood across from him, holding out a wrapped gift box.

“It’s a cauldron-stirring wand,” Lucius said, dead serious. “Self-cleaning. Gold-plated. From Narcissa.”

Severus stared at it like it was cursed. “Why?”

“She thinks you’re... fascinating,” Lucius lied smoothly. “Emotionally repressed. Morally grey. Girls like that.”

“I’m not emotionally repressed,” Severus said flatly.

Lucius just raised an eyebrow.

Severus opened the box, suspicious. Inside was a small note, written in graceful cursive:

“To Severus. A potion deserves a wand worthy of its maker. –N”

He blinked. “Did she write that herself?”

“No,” Lucius said. “Hermione did. Narcissa edited the punctuation.”

Severus blinked again. “Why do I feel like I’m being hunted.”

“Because you are,” Lucius said, clapping him on the back. “But in a noble, romantic way.”

Severus looked like he might pass out. Or hex something.

Lucius offered him a calming toffee.

Later that day during fourth years potion class things began to change.

Narcissa Black was a composed girl. She did not giggle.

And yet.

She found herself watching Severus during Potions class, and—not that she’d admit it—but the way he glared at the cauldron like it had personally insulted his mother was… oddly compelling.

Then he did something unforgivable.

He corrected Slughorn.

With sources.

Narcissa’s quill snapped.

She told herself she was furious. Obviously.

That night, she found herself doodling little potion vials in the margins of her diary. One had greasy hair and a nose.

She threw the diary across the room.

It bounced off the mirror.

Her reflection looked smug.

Location: The Hogwarts Library. Lighting: moody. Energy: absolutely unhinged.

Severus and Narcissa sat at a quiet table in the corner of the library. A stack of dusty Potions volumes lay between them. Neither spoke. They stared at the same diagram of a bezoar like it owed them money.

Finally, Narcissa broke the silence.
“You smell like alchemy and despair.”

Severus blinked. “Thank you?”

Narcissa tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re not entirely unpleasant.”

“Neither are you.”

They lapsed into silence again.

Three shelves over, Hermione peered through the History of Magic section like a war general.

Bellatrix crouched beside her, whispering, “They’re talking! He’s not crying, and she’s not hexing him. That’s practically love.”

Lucius stood behind them, arms crossed, whispering like a hostage. “This is deranged. You’re deranged.”

Hermione grinned. “Shh. I’m collecting data.”

Bellatrix chewed on a sugar quill she’d absolutely stolen from a first-year. “Ten galleons says they’re married by next Yule Ball.”

Lucius hissed, “They’ve spoken three words. This is not normal courtship.”

“They’re Slytherins,” Hermione whispered back. “We don’t do normal. We do tense eye contact and shared trauma.”

Back at the table, Narcissa finally said, “Do you want to dissect a flobberworm together sometime?”

Severus blinked once. Slowly.

“…I would… like that.”

Bellatrix quietly screamed into a book.

Lucius stared at the ceiling, muttering, “At least it’s a good thing. We are doing good things. We are normal people doing good things.”

Hermione leaned her head on his shoulder. “See? Matchmaking is easy.”

“Please never make me do this again,” Lucius whispered.

Bellatrix was already pulling out a parchment labeled "Next Target: Andromeda."

Lucius almost fainted.

Andromeda was already his fiance, he did not want to know what Bellatrix had planned.

Location: Girls' Lavatory, post-study date. Bellatrix has cornered her sister.

Narcissa crossed her arms. “Why were you watching us in the library?”

Hermione didn’t even try to look innocent. “Field research.”

Bellatrix beamed. “We’re helping you. You’re welcome.”

Narcissa glared. “I didn’t ask for help.”

“No, but you need it,” Hermione said sweetly. “You’re emotionally constipated, and Snape has all the social grace of a pickled flobberworm.”

Bellatrix added, “Also, I heard you say he ‘wasn’t entirely unpleasant.’ That’s practically a confession of love in Slytherin.”

“I said no such—” Narcissa stopped. Blinked. “…I did say that, didn’t I?”

Hermione nodded, smug. “So we’ll keep helping.”

Narcissa’s face turned red. “I hate you.”

“That’s fair.”

Location: Dungeon Corridor. Severus pulls Lucius aside like a man planning a murder. Or a proposal.

Lucius raised a brow. “What.”

Severus shifted awkwardly. “…What do I…do? With her?”

Lucius blinked. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“With Narcissa. She invited me to flobberworm dissection on Sunday. Does that mean she likes me or wants to test poison resistance?”

Lucius sighed. “Both, probably.”

Severus looked faint. “Oh.”

Lucius rubbed his temples. “Here’s what you do: don’t insult her shoes, offer to carry her books, and for Merlin’s sake, make eye contact. Just not like you’re dissecting her. ”

Severus nodded solemnly. “I wrote her a poem.”

Lucius choked. “Don’t.”

“But it rhymes.”

Lucius grabbed his shoulders. “Burn it. Immediately.”

Location: Slytherin Common Room, after dinner. Fire crackling. Homework abandoned. Chaos imminent.

Narcissa sat reading in the corner, elegant and aloof as always. Severus lurked nearby, clutching a parchment like it might explode.

“Do it,” Bellatrix whispered. “Go. Now.”

“I swear to Salazar,” Lucius muttered, “if this poem ends with a metaphor about potions, I’m going to hex myself unconscious.”

“I edited it,” Hermione said proudly. “It now includes a line about her hair being like a ‘silken potion of nightshade and moonlight.’”

Lucius made a noise like a dying owl, “Why are you like this?”

“Creative vision,” she chirped.

Severus took a deep breath, marched stiffly to Narcissa’s chair, and held out the parchment. “This is for you.”

She raised a single arched brow. “Is it another warning about Peeves?”

“No. It’s… poetry.”

There was a beat of silence. The entire common room went quiet. Someone gasped.

Lucius buried his face in his hands.

Narcissa took the parchment. Read it. Blinked once. Then, to everyone’s shock, smiled —the kind of smile that hinted at doom, power, and possibly marriage contracts.

“This is… not bad,” she said, folding it neatly. “You may court me.”

she said coolly, “You’ve earned one chance. Use it wisely.”

Severus blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I said yes. You’re my boyfriend now. Congratulations.” She stood, kissed him on the cheek, and floated away like a smug swan in Gucci boots.

Severus stared after her, stunned.

“…I don’t know what just happened,” he said faintly.

Hermione leaned over the back of the sofa and patted him on the head. “You got promoted.”

Bellatrix whooped and did a little victory lap around the room. “Another successful mission, ladies and Lucius!”

Lucius, deadpan: “You terrify me.”

Hermione sat back, smiling wide. “We are geniuses.”

Severus, still frozen, “I think I’m going to vomit.”

Lucius patted him on the back. “That means it’s working.”

Bellatrix threw confetti. No one knew where she got it.

Lucius whispered, “This is not a good thing.” But Hermione smiled, so he swallowed the lie and whispered instead, “This is a very good thing.”

Chapter Text

Tom sat in the quiet glow of his study, the soft scratch of quill against parchment long since faded into silence. The fire burned low, casting amber light across the dark wood of his desk and the spine-worn books stacked neatly along the walls. A faint scent of old vellum and sandalwood lingered in the air.

Nagini lay coiled nearby on her silk-draped pillow, content in the warmth. Her scales caught the firelight, glinting like polished jade.

Tom twirled a quill between his fingers, absently, the motion fluid and silent. His posture was relaxed for once—no sharp tension in his shoulders, no furrow in his brow. Tonight, for once, he allowed his thoughts to drift untethered. Not into strategy or politics, but to her.

To his daughter.

His Dove. His Hermione.

She had been sorted into Slytherin. Of course she had. A small smile tugged at his mouth. The proud, secret kind that no one but Nagini would ever witness. His daughter, sorted into the house of ambition and legacy. Of cunning and strength.

Of protection.

She had written to him immediately after the Sorting—he’d known it was coming based on the time of day and the hurried handwriting in their shared journal. She’d practically vibrated off the page with excitement. Tom had reread her message more times than he would admit.

He had been relieved. Not just because Slytherin was where she belonged, but because it meant she would be among kin.

Slytherins, for all their pride and pettiness, protected their own. Even if they squabbled, even if they eyed each other like rivals in a serpent’s nest, there was a code. There was loyalty.

That meant she was safe.

Tom’s gaze flickered to the small leather journal resting on the edge of his desk. He reached for it with careful fingers, brushing the cover with a thumb before opening it. The ink had long dried on their last exchange, but just seeing her handwriting calmed something ancient and fanged in his chest.

He wrote to her every day. Without fail. Sometimes she responded immediately, other times hours passed. He hated the hours.

Patience had never come naturally to him. He was a man of action, of immediacy. Waiting chafed against his instincts like sand in a wound. Still, he restrained himself. She was at school, after all. She had classes, responsibilities. A life he had worked hard to return her to.

He imagined this was how she must have felt during the summer, when he was gone for long stretches, consumed by plans and security concerns. The thought tightened something in his chest.

A mirror. A lesson.

He leaned back in his chair, letting his head rest against the plush upholstery. A deep breath stirred in his lungs, steady and full. She was happy. Her messages, no matter how brief, told him as much.

Little stories about her day. What she ate. How the Black sisters were like a walking tragedy with a laugh track. How stiff Lucius was—Tom smirked faintly at that—and how she teased him for it. The weather. The view from the Astronomy Tower. A funny thing a portrait said.

And then there were her questions.

His favorite.

When she asked him about magic, about strategy or lore or ancient spells—his heart burned with quiet, unspoken joy. She trusted him to guide her. He loved sharing his knowledge with her. When he knew the answer, he replied immediately. When he didn’t, he researched until he did.

That, more than anything, grounded him.

He pulled the journal close and wrote with a flick of his wand, his handwriting neat and precise:

Hi, my Dove. Tomorrow I’ll be busy with work. Don’t worry if I can’t respond quickly, but I will write before bed. I’m proud of you. Always.

He let the ink settle before gently closing the book. Instead of returning it to the desk, he slipped it into his pocket, over his heart. A quiet habit. A small ward against worry.

She likely wouldn’t reply tonight—it was late, and she should be asleep in her dorm, curled under emerald blankets with a protective ward or two tucked beneath her pillow.

Tom rose from his chair with quiet grace, joints loose, movements smooth. He let his palm linger briefly on the edge of the desk. It had been a good day. A rare day. A day of peace.

He turned toward Nagini and hissed softly, ::Bed time.::

Nagini uncoiled languidly, stretching with a low, pleased sound before slithering after him, her movement fluid and unhurried.

He waved a hand, wandlessly dimming the sconces and extinguishing the hearth. The fire sighed into darkness, shadows stretching across the room like silk.

They moved together through the quiet corridors of the manor, Tom’s robes whispering against the marble floor, Nagini a steady presence at his side.

Tonight, there were no ghosts on his heels.

Just warmth. And the steady echo of parchment-thin love resting in his pocket.

Tom stood in the marbled corridor outside the Wizengamot chamber, the echo of footsteps and murmured politics curling around him like smoke. A small smile touched his lips—not the cold curve of menace he’d once worn, but something quieter. Sharper. Earned .

Politics, he had discovered, was not so different from war.

It was slower, yes—dragged down by parchment trails, public speeches, and the fragile egos of men in powdered wigs—but underneath the ceremony, it was all blood and power.

And he was winning .

The Gaunt family seat had given him legitimacy. His name, once whispered in fear, now commanded formal greetings and deferential nods in the corridors of the Ministry. His robes bore no crest, but everyone recognized the cut. They bowed to it, even if they didn’t know why.

He had drafted eleven bills since taking his seat. Seven had passed. Four more were being negotiated behind closed doors with whispered promises and quiet threats. Educational reform, security restructuring, family inheritance law—he had touched it all. Bent it. Improved it. Claimed it.

There was satisfaction in the game.

Not just in the victories, but in the dirty business in between. The bribes that weren’t bribes. The favors that came with invisible chains. The way a carefully placed word could topple a committee vote without raising a wand.

Tom had once believed power came from fear.

Now he saw how much cleaner it was to own a man not through terror—but through debt, influence, reputation.

His followers adapted quickly.

Avery handled finances. Rosier, the press. Mulciber haunted the regulation subcommittees like a curse in a suit. And Dolohov, of all people, had become disturbingly adept at “casual” hallway conversations that ruined careers.

They had found a new battlefield. One with scrolls instead of spells. And they were good at it.

Tom’s eyes flicked to the vote tally board just outside the chamber. Red runes blinked beside the name of his most recent proposal.

The Educational Relief Grant for Magical Orphans – FAILED

By two votes.

He knew who had swung them. Of course he did.

Right on cue, the lift chimed behind him.

Tom didn’t turn. Not yet.

Albus Dumbledore’s footsteps were soft but unmistakable, and the scent of lemon drops and sanctimony filled the air.

Tom slowly faced him, posture regal, expression pleasant.

“Chief Warlock,” he said silkily. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Albus smiled, all beard and benevolence. “Ah, Tom. Lovely to see you. How is the legislative life treating you?”

Tom’s smile held the softness of polished steel—pleasant, but honed to cut. “Like most worthwhile things—slow, maddening, and ultimately obedient .”

“A poetic take,” Albus replied mildly. “Though some might say today’s vote was less… obedient than expected.”

Tom’s gaze didn’t flicker. “A minor setback. But I’m sure you had your reasons.”

“I always do,” Albus said lightly. “One must be vigilant , after all. Power tends to gather moss if left unchecked.”

“And I suppose you are the gardener?” Tom asked with faint amusement. “Trimming back dangerous growth?”

Albus’s eyes twinkled. “Just a humble caretaker of what’s good and green.”

“And here I thought you ran a school,” Tom said, voice smooth as smoke. “It seems your interests have… expanded.”

Albus stepped closer. His smile never wavered. “Quite right, Tom. I do run a school. And it keeps me very busy.”

There was a pause.

“I have so many students to look after.”

The words landed like a knife drawn slowly across velvet.

Tom’s fingers curled once at his side before he forced them to relax.

A beat of silence stretched.

Then Tom inclined his head, eyes hooded.

“Then I suggest,” he said softly, “you stay focused on that. The Ministry is no place for sentimental men.”

“Sentiment?” Albus mused. “Oh, no. I assure you, Tom. I’m quite serious.”

He turned, his robes swishing in a practiced arc, and disappeared into the lift with a parting nod.

Tom stared after him, jaw tight.

The air around him crackled, not with magic—but with promise.

Dumbledore had shown his hand.

And Tom would make sure the next game was played on his board .

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting long golden shadows against the dark wood panels of Abraxas’s study. Tom stood by the window, perfectly still, his reflection ghosting in the glass as storm clouds gathered outside.

Nagini lay coiled beside the hearth, her tongue flicking in and out in slow, wary pulses.

Abraxas poured two glasses of brandy, his fingers steady despite the tension humming in the room like an unspoken curse. He handed one to Tom, who took it without looking.

“I assume the vote didn’t go your way,” Abraxas said quietly.

Tom didn’t answer immediately. He swirled the drink in his hand, watching the amber liquid catch the light. Finally, he spoke—softly. Too softly.

“Dumbledore.”

Abraxas exhaled through his nose. “That old bastard is always in the way.”

Tom turned from the window. His face was calm, but his eyes were burning.

“It was an orphanage bill,” he said. “Funding for children. Basic supplies. Robes. Wands. Food. And he blocked it.”

Abraxas sat down, legs crossed, and gestured loosely with his glass. “So we try again. Another angle. Another vote.”

Tom’s mouth twisted into something almost like a smile—but far too sharp. “You think I’m angry because the bill failed?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No.” Tom took a slow sip of the brandy. “I’m angry because he used her. He turned my daughter into a threat.”

Abraxas went very still. “He mentioned Hermione?”

“Not by name,” Tom said. “He didn’t need to. He reminded me that he runs the school. That he’s watching. That he knows exactly where to press.”

Nagini lifted her head, sensing the shift in her master’s mood. Her tongue flicked, slow and searching. Tom didn’t look at her, but hissed low and sharp in Parseltongue.

::I will not be threatened.::

Nagini hissed back, more softly. ::He is afraid of you. That is why he bites.::

Tom’s fingers clenched around the glass. The brandy rippled.

“He’s trying to make me react,” Tom said. “To lose control. To show the monster.”

“And you won’t,” Abraxas said firmly. “You’ve already won more ground in one summer than most do in a decade. He can’t touch you without making himself look like the radical.”

Tom finally sat down. Slowly. Deliberately.

“He’s clever,” Tom said. “I underestimated how much he enjoys the game. But so do I.”

He ran a hand down the arm of the chair, the motion smooth, precise—controlled. Every inch of him was still coiled, like a snake just before it strikes.

“I will not start a war,” Tom said. “Not yet. Not while she’s there.”

Abraxas nodded. “Then what will you do?”

Tom looked up. His smile returned—this time, colder.

“I will give him exactly what he wants,” he said. “The calm, respectable Lord Gaunt. The benevolent reformer.”

He set the glass down on the table with a quiet clink .

“And when the time comes, I will bury him so deeply in his own rules that he won’t even see the knife.”

Nagini hissed in approval.

Abraxas raised his glass. “To patience, then.”

Tom didn’t toast. He simply sat back in the chair, the firelight flickering across his sharp cheekbones and colder thoughts.

“Patience,” he said softly. “And positioning.”

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.

Tom apparated directly to the gates of Riddle Estate with Nagini coiled tight around his shoulders like a velvet noose. The instant his boots hit the gravel path, he knew.

Something was wrong.

The air smelled off —not just magic, but something burned , rotted , warped . The hedges were scorched, the iron gates twisted open like snapped ribs.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t breathe.

Nagini hissed low and murderous. ::Wards are gone.::

Tom raised his wand and strode forward, shoulders like iron.

The front door was ajar.

Inside, it was carnage.

The grand foyer—the heart of the house—was torn to pieces. Chandelier glass crunched beneath his boots. Wallpaper hung in bloody strips, clawed through with violent spellwork. His library doors were blasted open, books shredded and burned, their pages flaking through the air like blackened snow.

And in the center of it all, near the staircase where light once poured through the windows, the portrait of her—his wife, his beloved—was slashed to ribbons.

The canvas hung in limp curls, the frame scorched, as if someone had taken a whip made of fire to her face.

He stared at it.

Not blinking.

Not breathing.

The silence rang louder than screaming.

Nagini let out a hiss so sharp it rattled the windows. She slithered through the wreckage, gliding over broken furniture and debris, her tongue flicking madly. Tom followed, step by step, his wand gripped tight, his magic crackling in the air like stormlight waiting to strike.

They passed shattered potions, mutilated heirlooms, a caved-in parlor wall.

Every room was a message.

Every broken thing whispered we were here.

And then—they reached the sitting room.

Tom froze in the doorway. His heart didn’t stop—it plummeted, deep and sharp, like something pulled it out of his chest and tossed it into the void.

On the table sat a box.

A small, black gift box, tied in a burgundy ribbon.

It looked so… neat.

Like it had been placed there with care.

Nagini coiled beside him, her tongue flicking toward it. ::Magic. Old. Blood.::

Tom stepped forward. His fingers trembled as he untied the ribbon—one slow pull. The lid creaked.

Inside, nestled against white velvet, was a bloodstained handkerchief.

And a single brown curl. 

Damp.

Small.

Familiar.

Fresh.

Still holding the scent of lavender.

Tom’s vision tunneled. The sound drained from the room, leaving only the thunder of his heartbeat.

His fingers curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white.

His breath turned ragged.

Nagini let out a sound that wasn’t a hiss—it was something lower, older, a growl dragged from the bones of serpents and sorrow.

Tom closed the box.

He stood very still.

And then he whispered, almost gently—so soft it was terrifying:

“They made a mistake.”

He looked up, eyes cold and wide and full of something ancient and unstoppable.

“They touched my daughter.”

The manor shook beneath their rage.

Chapter Text

Tom stared down at the black box in his hands, wide-eyed, breath shallow, the corners of his vision closing in. His fingers clenched around it, trembling with rage and something worse—something colder.

Fear.

A fear so sharp it lanced through his ribcage and rooted into his spine.

The curl. The blood.

Hermione.

A sound built in his throat—not a scream, not a spell, but something primal. He threw his head back and ROARED, the cry shattering the silence like a war horn.

The walls answered.

Magic exploded from him in a violent, unnatural pulse—wild and ancient and wrong. The air cracked and screamed. Windows shattered, doors splintered, portraits burst into flame. The ceiling groaned overhead. The chandelier fell from the rafters like a broken star and crashed to the floor in an explosion of glass and brass.

The floorboards buckled. The stone beneath the manor groaned under the weight of his fury.

This was no spell. This was a detonation of soul-deep wrath.

Nagini curled tighter at his feet, coiled like a serpent of vengeance, hissing in time with the pulse of his magic. Her scales sparked with energy, her body tense and furious. The room became a storm, and she was its silent eye.

Tom staggered back a step, chest heaving, hands still locked around the box like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Tears spilled unchecked down his face, hot and furious, carving trails through the ash on his cheeks. Not the tears of sorrow.

The tears of a god betrayed.

They had desecrated his home.

Not broken into. Desecrated.

The wards—obliterated.

The heirlooms—shattered.

The painting of his wife— violated .

And now, this.

A curl of his daughter’s hair. A handkerchief soaked in blood. Left like a gift. A message.

His magic pulsed again, this time reaching—not destroying, but searching, scanning every beam, every brick, every shattered inch of the manor for threats. The very bones of the house trembled under his command.

Nothing answered.

That made it worse.

Nagini slithered in frantic circles, her long body weaving through debris like a war specter. ::Where are they? Where did they go? Let me kill them, let me bite them blind.::

Tom said nothing. His jaw was clenched so tight, he might have broken bone. His mind was fire and fury and the shape of her face in the light of their last conversation.

They had already intercepted her mail. They had already tried to isolate her. That was why he’d made the journals—to protect her, to keep her close even from afar.

And now this.

They knew where he lived.
They knew how to hurt him.
And they knew exactly what to threaten.

The house—his stronghold, his sanctuary—was no longer safe. Not for him. Not for her.

She could never come back here. Not as long as this rot festered in his walls. The manor would take months to rebuild, years to feel secure again. And he would never forgive himself if—

His throat seized. A thought too terrible to finish.

He stared down at the box once more. His hands were shaking so hard now the velvet lining trembled inside. Blood on fabric. Brown curl, still fresh.

A trophy?

Or a promise?

The bile rose in his throat, bitter and electric.

He wanted to kill. He wanted to flay the world open until it bled truth. He wanted to go to the castle, find her, hold her, never let go.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not while they watched.

Not while she was still safe for now.

Unless she’s not.

The thought struck him like a blade to the spine.

His breathing quickened. His magic sparked again—an involuntary surge, like a muscle seizing. Light fixtures cracked above him. A wall groaned under pressure. Blood pounded in his ears.

Tom closed the box with shaking fingers, the lid sliding into place with a soft click that sounded too final, too much like a coffin shutting.

He placed it gently on the ruined table before him.

And then he went still.

Utterly, terrifyingly still.

The only movement in the room was Nagini, wrapping herself slowly around one of the fallen beams, her eyes locked on him.

::What do we do?:: she asked, barely above a breath.

Tom’s voice was cold iron, forged in fire and grief.

::We find out who did this.::

He turned toward the blown-out doorway, the ruined corridor beyond, every inch of this place screaming of betrayal and war.

::And then,:: he added, voice softer now, almost reverent, ::we teach them what it means to touch what’s mine.::

Tom would not tell her.

Hermione did not need to know.
She was not a soldier in his war.
She was his daughter.

He had already sworn she would remain untouched by the filth of what he had built—the war with Dumbledore, with the Order, with every fool who believed in softness over strength. He would keep her out of it, even if it cost him everything else.

It was his mistake to think Albus wouldn’t dare. That the man would hold to the illusion of civility. That he wouldn’t move against her at school, where prying eyes could see.

He was wrong.

Very, very wrong.

With shaking fingers, Tom reached into his robe and withdrew the small leather-bound journal—the one she carried a copy of, the one that linked them no matter the distance between them. His hand trembled.

He opened it with care, forcing his magic into stillness. His quill scratched across the page in a hand that was perfectly legible, perfectly steady.

She could not know.
She was not allowed into the war.

Hello my Dove, how are you doing today?

His penmanship was meticulous, deliberate. He kept the loops even, the spacing exact.
Control. He needed control.

The ink glowed faintly before vanishing—threading through the wards, through distance, through the bond only blood and runes could create.

And he waited.

He sat there in the ruins of what had once been a home, surrounded by the remains of memories and walls carved with spells older than the country—and waited.

Two minutes passed.
Every second was an eternity of fire beneath his skin.

Then the reply appeared, ink blossoming across the page like breath after drowning.

Hi Dad, Lucius, Bella and I are having so much fun. We just performed a romantic coup between two younger students—Narcissa and Severus. They are now dating!

Tom released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His chest rose and fell in one long, shaky exhale.

She was fine. She was alive.

He blinked hard once, grounding himself in her voice, her cheer, the absurdity of teenage Slytherin matchmaking.

His response was short. Normal. Deceptively calm.

How fun. Stay safe, my love.

He closed the journal with reverence and slid it back into his pocket, tucking it over his heart like a ward. His mind, however, was not calm.

They had not touched her.
But they could.
And that was enough.

He stood, shoulders straightening, spine taut with purpose. His sleeve rolled back easily beneath his fingers, revealing the inked brand that bound him to his knights—a serpent twined through a skull, slumbering on his skin like a promise of death.

Tom drew his wand and pressed it hard against the mark. His wand hand trembled for the first time in decades.

The skin shimmered, then burned with light.

He summoned them.

The ones who had followed him from darkness into politics. The ones who had left blood behind for gold and robes.
The Knights of Walpurgis.

His magic pulsed outward like a shockwave.
It was time for war.

The answering cracks of Apparition echoed like cannon fire across the ruined bones of Riddle Estate.

One by one, the Knights of Walpurgis appeared in the foyer—black robes, polished boots, and wary expressions shifting to shock as they took in the destruction.

Glass crunched beneath their feet. The chandelier hung in a splintered heap. Books bled ash from the door of the shattered library. And at the center of it all stood Tom Riddle, framed by ruin, Nagini coiled at his side, still as death.

No one spoke.

Until Tom lifted his hand—calm, slow, commanding—and the silence broke.

“Spread out,” he said. His voice was low, but the air around him shimmered with power. “I want every inch of this estate combed for magical residue, trace signatures, broken wards, foreign spells. If there is even a whisper of who did this, I want it dragged into the light.”

His knights moved like a shadowed tide.

Rosier murmured detection charms beneath his breath, his wand glowing violet at the tip. Avery knelt near a collapsed archway, examining the residue of burnt sigils in the floor. Mulciber vanished deeper into the corridors, the sound of his steps swallowed by the ash-thick air.

Antonin Dolohov remained beside Tom, silent, until the silence was unbearable.

“My Lord,” Dolohov said carefully, “we could involve the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Just enough to be seen. A formal investigation, reported to the Prophet.” His mouth twisted into something dry and calculating. “Public sympathy could be… useful.”

Tom’s eyes flicked to him, unreadable.

A pause.

Then: “Yes.”

Dolohov inclined his head. “I’ll ensure it leaks to the right people.”

“Do it. Make them weep for my loss.”

The knights returned over the next half hour, one by one, empty-handed.

No evidence. No trace. Whoever had done this had covered their tracks immaculately—either someone from inside the Ministry, or someone with a very old kind of magic.

Tom stood perfectly still in the center of the room, the black gift box still sitting unopened on the table behind him. The room felt colder now. Quieter. Like it knew it had become a grave.

He turned.

“Abraxas.”

Abraxas Malfoy stepped forward immediately, silver hair immaculate, his expression taut with fury barely restrained.

Tom’s voice was quieter now, but it carried like steel through the silence. “I need you to host my daughter and I over her next break. I will not allow her to come here and see this.”

Abraxas bowed low, perfectly. “Of course, my Lord. It will be my honor.”

Tom nodded once, then turned his gaze to the others.

“Avery. Begin background checks on all recent hires in the Department of Magical Security and Transportation. Quietly. Rosier, prepare a statement for the press and leak it to Skeeter—she’ll twist it the way we need. Mulciber, return to the artifact vault. Ward it. No one goes in or out without my express permission.”

“And Dolohov,” he said, his voice going colder, “continue to hunt. Quietly. I want eyes on every former Order member not accounted for. I want them shadowed, studied, and watched. We will find who did this.”

Each knight bowed. Each vanished with the telltale crack of loyalty.

Tom stood in the silence they left behind, the edges of his vision still stained with red.

Nagini slithered close to his boots and coiled tightly, her body warm and grounding against the cold floor.

He didn’t move.

She was still safe.
But for how long?

He wanted to scream her name, just to hear it.

Tom closed his eyes, just for a moment. When she returned for winter break, she would want to come home.

But this was no longer a home.
It was a ruin. A battlefield. A promise of vengeance.

Malfoy Manor would be safer. Shielded by ancient bloodlines, by politics and pedigree and the kind of wealth that made people disappear without a trace. She would be untouchable there. Caged, yes—but safe.

He needed to make that permanent.

Somehow.

Abraxas would never deny him this request. Not directly. But Malfoys did not do charity. And hosting Hermione beyond a single break—making her residence there formal, possibly permanent —would cost him.

Maybe in favors. Maybe in power.

Maybe in something more.

Tom stood in the ruin of everything he had built, and wondered what he would have to give up to keep his daughter alive.

He just needed to find the price.

And then decide how many bodies he’d leave behind to pay it.

He closed his eyes.

And saw the black box.

Her blood.

Her curl.

Chapter Text

The end of November had settled over Hogwarts like frost over glass—quiet, creeping, and impossible to ignore. The air inside the castle had taken on that biting chill that not even enchanted fires could chase from the stones. Robes were thicker. Gloves and scarves littered the common rooms like autumn leaves, and breath clouded the air even in the corridors.

All anyone could talk about was winter break.

Plans. Presents. The great exodus home.

Lucius Malfoy was getting dressed in the quiet corner of the Slytherin boys’ dormitory, smoothing out his gray school jumper with practiced fingers while his roommates chatted around him. 

He listened—half-heartedly—as they traded stories and anticipation like children bartering Chocolate Frog cards. Skiing in Switzerland. A gala at the Greengrass estate. A hunting trip with Thaddeus Travers’s unreasonably large family.

It all sounded perfectly lovely.

Lucius wanted none of it.

He stood before the tall mirror near his bed, fastening his silver cufflinks with care. His expression was unreadable, but his movements were unusually slow, like a man preparing for a long march rather than a holiday.

He would be returning to Malfoy Manor soon. That, in itself, was not the problem.

His father would be there, as always—elegant and sharp as a cut diamond. Abraxas Malfoy knew how to craft a holiday: exquisite meals, classical concerts in the parlour, game nights arranged like battles of wit, the manor dressed in silver and evergreen. They always got along well enough. There would be no arguments. No screaming. No tension.

No, the manor would be perfect.

And that was part of the problem.

Lucius adjusted the knot of his tie and pulled his jumper down over it. His reflection stared back—flawless, composed, polished within an inch of his soul.

Andromeda’s birthday had just passed. Seventeen.

That meant changes.

The engagement contract between their families would shift from betrothal to formal preparation. She would move into the manor over the holiday. Her trunks would be sent ahead. Her bedroom would be arranged—the one connected to his, through a door he used to think was ornamental.

He sat down and laced his polished black shoes with slow, precise fingers.

It wasn’t that he disliked Andromeda. Quite the opposite.

They had grown up side by side, familiar in the way cousins often were—well-mannered, aligned in breeding, clever enough not to step on each other’s ambitions. She was beautiful, too. Raven-haired and quick-tongued. He had admired her once.

But he did not want her.

Not now.

Not after her .

Not after sunshine.

Lucius straightened, smoothing the front of his jumper with one palm.

He didn’t want to leave Hermione Riddle behind. The thought of going days—weeks—without hearing her laugh or watching her eyes flicker gold with mischief made something twist in his chest.

There was nothing he could do. The contract would be honored. He would not shame his name. The Malfoys did not breach oaths. He would marry Andromeda. He would smile in portraits and produce heirs and build a future carved from obligation.

And yet…

He wanted Hermione.

He wanted her the way poets wanted muses. The way dying men wanted gods.

She made him feel something. Warm . Something bright and flickering and alive.

And now that he knew what sunshine was like, he did not want to return to the gloom of darkness and its mistress of loneliness.

He let out a breath, slow and practiced.

He would manage. Of course he would. His mask had never cracked in public, and it would not start now. He would return to the manor, entertain his bride-to-be, and smile politely during endless courses of perfect food.

And when he came back, he would simply pick up the pieces and love Hermione the only way he was allowed to: from across a room, through lingering glances and guarded words.

He rose, stepped into his robes, and pinned the Malfoy family crest to his chest—silver and green, gleaming like armor. He squared his shoulders.

It was time to face the day.

As he stepped out of the dormitory, a small voice piped up behind him: “Excuse me, Lucius Malfoy?”

Lucius turned, brow arching with effortless grace.

A tiny first-year Slytherin stood there, all nerves and oversized robes. The child held out a letter with trembling fingers, eyes on the floor. “I was asked to deliver this to you,” they mumbled. “Miss Black said to give it to you as soon as you came out of your dorm room. So I have.”

Lucius accepted the letter without expression, turning it over once in his hand. “Thank you,” he said, voice smooth and low.

The child nodded quickly. “Bye!” they chirped, then scurried off like a startled mouse.

He didn’t open the letter.

Not yet.

He slipped it into the inside pocket of his robes and took a steadying breath.

First, breakfast.

And sunshine.

He needed to see his Sunshine smile.

Even if he couldn’t hold the light.

The corridors leading to the Great Hall were quieter than usual—hushed, heavy, as if something thick and unseen swam in the air.

Lucius stepped into them without hesitation, his shoes clicking cleanly against the flagstones, his posture perfect, every movement smooth and deliberate. Malfoy did not slouch. Malfoy did not rush. The world adjusted itself around Malfoy, not the other way around.

And yet, today, something felt… off.

It began as a ripple.

A subtle shift in the atmosphere as he passed a group of fourth-years huddled near a window. Their conversation halted mid-sentence. One girl elbowed the other. Eyes flicked toward him, then away. Whispered voices filled the gap he left behind.

Lucius kept walking.

But then it happened again.

Two Ravenclaws—upper years, by the look of them—spotted him from across the corridor. One muttered something to the other behind a raised hand. They both turned to watch him pass with strange, sympathetic expressions.

The hall curved. He descended the first staircase, cape billowing softly behind him like a shadow with pride.

More students now. More whispers. More stares.

A Hufflepuff prefect had the gall to point .

Lucius’s stride faltered for half a second.

The movement was almost imperceptible, but he felt it.

He drew himself up straighter.

Let them whisper.

Let them gawk.

Perhaps the school had finally grown tired of idolizing Potter and Black and turned its attention to someone worth the ink.

And yet—

And yet, there was a tone to the whispers he didn’t like.

Not scandal. Not envy.

Pity.

He passed a Ravenclaw girl, no older than a fifth year, perched beneath a suit of armor. She didn’t look at him—just shook her head and whispered to her friend, “Poor guy.”

The words slid into his ear like ice water.

Poor guy?

Lucius’s jaw tightened.

There was nothing poor about him. His family was the oldest and wealthiest in magical Britain. His lineage unbroken, his vaults ancient and deep. His wardrobe was bespoke. His wand hand steady.

Royalty in all but name.

There was nothing poor about Lucius Malfoy.

And yet, the whispers followed him like ghosts.

They clung to the back of his robes and stirred around his ankles like smoke.

By the time he reached the antechamber outside the Great Hall, the tension had grown almost physical—like a storm gathering behind glass. He could feel their eyes on him. Gryffindors whispered behind goblets. Hufflepuffs leaned toward one another with conspiratorial expressions. Ravenclaws tilted their heads like they were watching a tragedy unfold on stage.

Lucius’s heart beat louder in his ears than it had any right to.

The double doors to the Great Hall swung open, and he stepped inside.

The whispers grew louder.

A surge, a swell, a crescendo of murmurs and stares and turning heads.

And then—
Silence.

A horrible, sudden silence that pressed down from the enchanted ceiling like snow.

Sirius Black’s voice shattered it a moment later.

“Well, well,” he called across the hall, smirking with cruel delight. “Seems someone couldn’t keep a witch after all!”

James Potter snorted. “Guess the Lady of Black slipped right through his aristocratic fingers.”

Laughter rippled through the Gryffindor table.

Lucius’s face did not change.

But his ears flushed red—furious, hot, unmistakable.

His spine stiffened.

He said nothing.

Not because he had nothing to say, but because silence could sometimes cut deeper than any retort. Especially from someone raised to turn his enemies into shadows, not sparring partners.

He turned his gaze away and walked down the Slytherin aisle with the grace of a crowned prince descending marble steps—each footstep measured, balanced, proud.

Inside, however, his mind was spinning.

What were they talking about?

Lucius's thoughts churned, but his expression remained composed, marble-smooth.

He strode down the aisle of the Great Hall as though nothing were amiss, ignoring the persistent sting at the tips of his ears and the smug laughter ringing from the Gryffindor table. His shoes clicked softly against the stone, his posture straight as a wand, cape whispering behind him like storm clouds trailing nobility.

He would not give them the satisfaction of reacting.

And yet his pulse thrummed with unease. The eyes still followed him—watchful, wide, filled with something just short of horror. He hated it. That particular blend of pity and amusement. It didn’t belong to him. It belonged to people who had failed. People who had fallen. Not to Lucius Malfoy.

Without breaking stride, he reached the Slytherin table and took his usual seat beside Hermione.

He didn’t look at her yet.

He couldn’t.

He folded his hands carefully on the table instead, porcelain calm over boiling confusion.

The whispers behind him dimmed but didn’t vanish.

He sat in silence, heart ticking with slow, deliberate panic.

What were they talking about?

Lucius looked around the Slytherin table, eyes gliding over his housemates—his so-called equals, his friends.

They all wore the same strained expression—tight around the mouth, softened in the eyes. Pity. It sat wrong in his gut, like spoiled wine. Lucius Malfoy did not wear pity.

 He was wealthier than most of them would ever dream of becoming. His family’s name was older than most of their bloodlines. He had been raised in silk and power and divine certainty. What, exactly, did they think he lacked?

And then he looked at her.

Hermione.

She sat beside him, her posture uncharacteristically small, hands fidgeting in her lap, her face shadowed with that same sympathy. Her eyes flicked to him like a candle flame—soft, sad, full of unspoken sorrow.

He frowned. Deeply. He hated that look on her. It didn’t suit her at all. She was strength, curiosity, and flame. Not this mournful stillness.

That was the final straw.

“What is going on?” he snapped, his voice cold and sharp. “Why is everyone looking at me as if my ancestral home were burned to the ground?”

His words cut through the air like a blade.

Severus’s head jerked up, his dark eyes scanning Lucius’s face, then flicking toward Narcissa, who sat beside him, ghost-pale. She didn’t speak. Neither did Bellatrix. Both had their heads bowed like marble statues in mourning. The corners of Narcissa’s mouth trembled, just slightly.

Then Severus muttered, almost like an apology, “He doesn’t know.”

Lucius turned more fully now, searching their faces, his own patience unraveling like thread. “Would someone,” he said through clenched teeth, “tell me what is going on?”

Hermione flinched beside him. He immediately regretted the sharpness in his tone. But she didn’t recoil—she steadied herself. Took a breath. Raised her chin.

Her hand found his arm, and her fingers curled gently around his sleeve. A grounding touch. Her voice was quiet but firm.

“Lucius,” she began, slow and careful, like she was dismantling an explosive.

“Andromeda has run away,” she said softly. “She… she’s eloped with a Hufflepuff. A man named Ted Tonks.”

A stillness swept through his chest—first blank, then heavy, then oddly hollow. Hermione gave his arm a little squeeze, probably thinking he was breaking inside.

Lucius blinked once. Then again. Her words settled in his bones like snow melting into spring.

She ran away.

The words felt like an echo at first—strange, distant, impossible. But then they bloomed, unfurling in his chest like firelight catching kindling.

He exhaled, slow and thoughtful, gaze drifting across the Great Hall as if seeing it anew. The whispering made sense now. The looks. The pity. The way even the Gryffindors hadn’t smirked too hard at him this morning.

They all thought he had been abandoned. Left behind. Jilted.

Andromeda Black had vanished in the night like some gothic novel heroine, and poor, poor Lucius Malfoy had been left with nothing but the ring and his pride.

They think I’m heartbroken.

He stared blankly at the silver platter in front of him, his own reflection faint and warped in its polished curve. Then something flickered across his expression.

Something like light.

His back straightened.

His lips twitched.

He wasn’t heartbroken at all.

Inside, he felt incandescent. A quiet, euphoric bloom of heat spread through his chest, warming every frozen doubt. The path was cleared. The road he'd been forced to walk since boyhood—the marriage contract, the carefully planned rooms, the bloodline politics—had cracked right down the center.

And through it, sunlight was bleeding in.

He closed his eyes and, for a moment, thanked her. Wherever she was, whatever ridiculous adventure she had flung herself into, thank you, Andromeda.

He remembered the letter.

Of course.

He reached into his inner robe pocket and withdrew the sealed envelope. The parchment was warm from his body, the wax seal slightly softened.

His fingers trembled—not with grief, but anticipation.

He recognized the handwriting before he even opened it.

This is your chance, you fucking idiot!
Don’t waste it.
Love is worth the risk.
—A. Tonks

Lucius barked a laugh. A full-bodied, startled sound that echoed across the table like a dropped goblet.

Every head turned.

The whispering stopped.

A boy two seats down muttered, “Poor guy’s lost it.”

Lucius smirked at the comment.

He wasn’t losing it.

He was finding it.

Another whisper floated by, this time from a third-year in Hufflepuff: “He’s smirking. Nothing good ever comes when Malfoy smirks.”

Lucius stood.

Abruptly.

Chairs scraped. Students jumped.

The smirk deepened, elegant and unreadable. The tilt of his jaw sharpened with resolve.

“I beg your pardon,” he said calmly, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve, “but I must write a letter to my father.”

And then, with smooth, deliberate steps, Lucius Malfoy swept from the table, cloak billowing behind him, heart beating like the drum of a new beginning.

Because for the first time in his life, the future was unwritten.

And he would be the one to carve it.

He closed his eyes as he reached the stairwell, and saw a face.

Not Andromeda.

Hermione.

Smiling, eyes alight with mischief and moonlight.

This time, he would not walk the path laid before him.

This time, he would run—head high, heart open—toward the sun.

Chapter Text

Tom paced the guest suite, each step silent but heavy with calculation. The carpet beneath his boots muffled the sound, but his movements still echoed with purpose. He moved like a chess piece sliding into place, already tasting checkmate. 

The room was stately—ornate crown molding, a hearth trimmed in obsidian, drapes the color of deep wine—but he barely noticed it. He had been living here since the desecration of Riddle Estate, and though the manor had once made him uncomfortable (too rich in inherited pride, too old in magic not his own), it had grown tolerable. Useful.

Riddle Estate was being restored—stone by stone, curse by curse. Workers toiled under strict orders, around the clock. But that wasn’t what kept him pacing.

No, what stirred beneath his skin, sharp and electric, was the rumor currently racing through the pureblood world like Fiendfyre on dry parchment.

Andromeda Black had eloped.

Run off. Vanished. Fled her contract and her name and her carefully arranged future.

With a Hufflepuff, no less.

Tom’s lips curled at the edges, not in mockery—but in wonder.

It was a gift.

He paused mid-step, eyes narrowing as he turned the implications over in his mind like a jewel in the light. The gossip would be halfway to the Prophet already. Every parlor, every breakfast table, every owl in the sky would be ablaze with the same story before the hour turned.

Lucius Malfoy was no longer betrothed.

Unclaimed.

Unbound.

And that presented Tom with the opening he’d been waiting for. The door had not just opened—it had been blown off its hinges.

Hermione could become a permanent resident of Malfoy Manor.

She could become a Malfoy.

The thought made something tighten in his chest—not fear, not rage, not even possessiveness.

Something quieter.

Satisfaction.

Peace.

If she married into that family—if she took Lucius’s name—then Tom could move forward with his war, his politics, his chessboard of nations… without that gnawing vulnerability in his gut. She would be protected. Honored. Sheltered behind the iron-clad walls of Malfoy legacy.

The Malfoys guarded their own. They protected blood and name like dragons did treasure.

And Lucius… Lucius already looked at Hermione like she hung constellations in the sky.

Tom resumed pacing, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. His mind leapt three steps ahead—mapping contingencies, counter-offers, the whispers of rival houses who might make their own proposals. He needed to act now, before Abraxas was bombarded by opportunistic suitors.

But not too quickly. Not like a man desperate to marry off his daughter. No. That would lose him the edge in negotiation.

This had to be done like everything else in his life—with subtlety, with foresight, with the elegance of a blade sliding between ribs.

He paused in front of the mirror above the fireplace. His reflection stared back: sharp cheekbones, black robes, storm-colored eyes that gleamed with calculation. His expression was perfectly composed, but beneath the surface—

He was thrumming.

Every inch of him coiled like a serpent preparing to strike. There was no anger in his limbs, no grief in his blood—only clarity. A plan. A path.

His legacy would be secured.

And Hermione would be safe.

He took a breath. Deep. Slow. Centering. Then he turned from the mirror and strode for the door.

The time for pacing was over.

He left the guest room and moved through the halls of Malfoy Manor with purpose. The portraits watched him pass, their silken robes rustling as they whispered to one another behind gilt frames.

He ignored them.

He had a contract to secure.

And a future to claim.

Tom arrived at Abraxas Malfoy’s office and let himself in without knocking. He rarely knocked—especially not here. The heavy oak door opened with a smooth creak, revealing a richly appointed study bathed in morning gold. Light filtered through tall mullioned windows, gilding the dark walnut bookshelves and the massive desk that dominated the center of the room.

Abraxas sat behind it like a king at court, a letter held delicately between his fingers and a knowing smirk stretched across his patrician face. His blond hair was immaculate as ever, and his eyes—clever, steel-blue, and dangerous—sparkled with a kind of suppressed amusement that put Tom immediately on edge.

Tom stepped in without a word and crossed the room, cloak whispering behind him. He lowered himself into the chair opposite Abraxas and folded one leg over the other at the ankle, reclining like a man who owned the place.

“You look far more pleased this morning than I expected,” Tom said smoothly, one brow lifting as he studied the Malfoy patriarch, “especially with that rather insistent rumor about Andromeda running wild.”

Abraxas laid the letter on the desk with elegant finality, his smirk intact and his eyes bright with mischief. “Indeed, my lord.”

Tom said nothing. He simply stared—still, unblinking, patient. He knew Abraxas well enough to recognize a dramatic pause when he saw one.

“This is quite the strange situation I find myself in,” Abraxas said at last, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

Tom’s lips twitched with calculated sympathy. “I imagine young Lucius is quite distraught at losing his bride-to-be.”

But Abraxas’s smile only deepened. He leaned back in his chair with lazy confidence and tapped the letter in front of him. “Quite the opposite, actually. My son has already written to me requesting permission to pursue a new match.”

Tom blinked once. His pulse sharpened. “Oh?”

Abraxas inclined his head. “I approve of his choice.”

A flare of irritation lit in Tom’s chest.

The scheming wench!

Who?

Which little, loose witch had caught Lucius’s eye? What upstart family was making plays behind his back? His mind rifled through potential names like a strategist pulling knives. Lucius was supposed to be infatuated with Hermione—had been, for months. Surely he hadn’t grown bored. Surely he hadn’t— 

His gaze dropped, narrowing at the letter.

Abraxas’s tone shifted—gentler now, uncertain in a way that made Tom’s spine stiffen. “She’s a perfect match, in truth,” Abraxas murmured. “She’s brilliant, poised, magically gifted, with ideal bloodlines… but I’m unsure how her father will respond to the offer.”

Tom’s brow twitched. “Overprotective, is he?”

“Quite. Fussy, even. Possessive. She’s his only child. His heir. I imagine he’s not eager to let her go.”

Tom’s anger slowly unwound. That was better. If the father was a fool, then the contract might fall apart before it began. And Lucius could… recover. Refocus. Remember what mattered.

Tom allowed a smirk to form. “Well, that’s simple. Ask him,” he said airily. “If he accepts, you proceed. If not, you know where you stand.”

Abraxas leaned forward, hands flat on the desk, the shift in posture slow and deliberate.

Tom tilted his head in question, mildly amused by the theater of it.

Then Abraxas spoke.

“How would you feel about a marriage contract between Hermione and Lucius?”

Tom froze.

There was a full breath of silence.

Then—

Oh.

Oh, Merlin.

Abraxas had been talking about Hermione this entire time.

Tom’s brow twitched. His lips parted, then pressed flat again. He closed his eyes for a long, mortified beat. The loose witch was Hermione. The overprotective idiot—himself.

He had just spent the last several minutes internally ranting about some “loose witch” meddling in his carefully crafted plans.

That loose witch was his daughter .

And the overprotective idiot of a father?

That would be himself .

Tom very nearly laughed aloud. It came up like a bubble in his throat and had to be forced down with an iron will.

He had insulted himself—called himself foolish and possessive—and called his daughter a scheming wench. Brilliant.

He deserved to be slapped.

He opened his eyes slowly and found Abraxas still watching him with raised brows, obviously trying to measure his reaction.

Tom composed himself instantly, all amusement hidden behind a neutral mask. He allowed the barest flicker of a smirk to appear, like a man intrigued by a curious offer—not like a man who had just been handed everything he wanted on a silver platter.

“Interesting,” he said, voice a low purr, as if tasting the word.

He leaned forward now, resting his elbows on the chair’s armrests, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“And what would this contract entail?”

It wouldn’t do to seem too eager. Abraxas might be his friend, but in all things Malfoy negotiations were sacred duels. Tom would not yield ground just because the match was perfect.

Internally, however?

He was giddy.

Hermione Riddle. Lady Malfoy.

Safely ensconced in the one place in Britain that could surpass Riddle Estate for magical security and political protection.

She would have a husband who adored her. A family who revered her. A fortress around her name.

And Tom would be able to wage his war, strike his enemies, and shape the future without the shadow of worry for her safety darkening his every step.

He had won.

And this time, he hadn’t even needed to draw blood.

Abraxas didn’t flinch beneath Tom’s gaze, though few men could hold it for long. The room seemed to still around them—the air thick with unspoken calculations and the subtle scent of parchment, ink, and lingering magic.

Tom folded his hands over his knee, spine straight, posture deceptively relaxed. The kind of relaxation that made weaker men sweat.

“You’ll understand,” he said smoothly, “that I am not in the habit of marrying off my daughter lightly.”

Abraxas inclined his head once. “Of course.”

“Nor do I consider her a bargaining chip.” His tone cooled slightly, words sharpened like a blade against silk. “She is not a vault to be merged, nor a title to be traded.”

“I would never suggest it,” Abraxas replied without hesitation, voice even. “Lucius’s desire for her is his own. And my desire is to see him happy, aligned with a witch who strengthens his future rather than merely decorates it.”

Tom hummed at that, watching him closely. “Very well.”

He shifted forward slightly. The room seemed to darken around his form, as though the shadows themselves leaned closer to listen.

“These are my terms.”

Abraxas straightened attentively. His fingers curled faintly against the arms of his chair. He did not interrupt.

“First,” Tom said, voice calm and crisp, “Hermione remains my legal heir. That is not up for discussion. She will carry the Riddle-Gaunt line forward, and nothing in this marriage shall interfere with that.”

Abraxas nodded immediately. “Understood.”

“Second. I will have unrestricted access to her. No barriers, no scheduled visits, no conditions. If I wish to see my daughter, I will. At any time.”

Another nod. “Agreed.”

Tom’s expression did not change, but he felt the faintest flicker of satisfaction stir beneath his ribs. Abraxas was agreeing too quickly. He would push a little further.

“Third,” he said smoothly, “they will be equals in name and power. There will be no subordination clause, no expectation of Hermione relinquishing authority or title. She is not to become ‘Lady Malfoy’ in name only. Her voice will carry equal weight in all estate and bloodline matters.”

Abraxas blinked—just once—he stiffened, but his expression remained calm. “That’s acceptable.”

“Fourth. Children.” Tom’s tone did not shift, but his fingers drummed once against the chair’s arm, the only sign of the tight calculation behind his calm. “There will be heirs—at least one. Preferably two. One to carry the Malfoy name, and one to carry mine. More, if Hermione chooses. But there will be no time constraints placed on their conception. No fines. No fertility penalties. Do I make myself clear?”

“As glass,” Abraxas said, a hint of amusement breaking through. “Lucius has no desire to pressure her. I imagine she’ll give him more than enough children in her own time.”

Tom did not dignify that with a response. He moved on.

“Fifth,” he said, “her education is to continue uninterrupted. If she wishes to pursue mastery in Potions or Law or War Magic, you will see that she has the finest tutors and resources available.”

“Of course,” Abraxas replied smoothly. “That’s expected of any Malfoy bride—especially this one.”

Tom gave a single, cool nod.

Abraxas steepled his fingers, watching him carefully now. “Anything else?”

Tom’s eyes glittered like volcanic glass.

“One last thing,” he said, voice quieter, darker.

Abraxas waited.

“If any harm befalls her—any slight, any injury, any attempt to undermine or shame her within your house—it will be considered an act of aggression against me. And I respond to aggression… thoroughly.”

A beat of silence followed that promise. The magic in the room pulsed faintly, as if the very stones of the manor understood the terms.

Abraxas didn’t hesitate.

“She will be the most protected witch in Britain,” he said evenly. “More than that, she will be loved. Lucius is already halfway ruined for anyone else. He chose her of his own will.”

Tom’s lips curved—not quite into a smile, but close. “Then we are in agreement.”

“I’ll draw up the contract today,” Abraxas said with a smile, reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment.

Abraxas tapped the parchment lightly, then looked up with something calculating in his gaze. His smirk was gone—this wasn’t amusement now. This was legacy.

“There are two conditions I would ask in return,” he said smoothly, tone neutral but edged with steel.

Tom didn’t move, but the room seemed to shift around him. The fire at the hearth flared just slightly.

Abraxas continued. “First—Hermione will move into the Malfoy estate immediately. This school year. I will not risk what happened with Andromeda happening again. The idea of a Riddle heir eloping in the night with some mudblood rebel—no offense, my lord—is simply not tolerable.”

Tom’s jaw tightened, just slightly. His expression turned cold, cutting.

Abraxas didn’t flinch.

There was a long silence, the kind that felt brittle with tension. A weaker man would have backpedaled.

Tom tilted his head, voice like a falling blade. “You believe my daughter would flee?”

“I believe,” Abraxas replied carefully, “that she’s bold, powerful, and young. And that your bloodline does not take well to confinement.”

A sharp flash of anger lit behind Tom’s eyes—a reaction he did not fake. But only because it served his purposes. He let it simmer just long enough.

Internally, though?

He was nearly giddy.

Yes. Let her move in now. Let her sleep in the manor she would rule. Let her adjust to silken sheets and polished corridors and the weight of Malfoy legacy draped over her shoulders like a queen’s mantle. Let her be surrounded by Lucius—his Lucius—and no other.

Tom folded his arms slowly across his chest, lips pressed in a line. “Very well. I will speak to her. She will move in during the holiday.”

Abraxas nodded, satisfied. “Thank you.”

Tom narrowed his eyes, posture still sharp. “And the second condition?”

Abraxas met his gaze fully. “The bonding ceremony. I want it held as soon as she comes of age. The day she turns seventeen, if possible. Before she returns to Hogwarts for her final term. No delays. No postponements. If this match is to hold weight, it must be bound magically—and publicly.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed to slits. His fingers twitched once at his side, the only sign of the white-hot thrill surging in his veins.

Yes. Perfect. A binding. A magical seal that would fuse her to Lucius and to the Malfoy estate. It would protect her more than anything else he could craft. And if anyone ever dared question her position again—student, heir, wife—she could raise her hand and burn them down with her name alone.

But outwardly?

Tom’s face remained cold, impassive. He studied Abraxas like a hawk considers a wolf—acknowledging the threat, but unimpressed by it.

“She will finish school,” Tom said coolly. “That is non-negotiable.”

“She will,” Abraxas said, “as Lady Malfoy.”

A beat.

Tom gave the smallest of nods. “Then we are agreed.”

Abraxas leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile returning. “I’ll have the quillwrights draft everything by evening.”

Tom turned, cloak flaring behind him like smoke. But at the threshold of the door, he paused once more.

He didn’t look back.

“You’ll see to it that she’s treated like royalty,” he said softly, dangerously. “Every hour she is under your roof.”

Abraxas’s reply came without hesitation. “I would not dare do less.”

Tom left the office in a blur of dark robes and dangerous satisfaction. He strode down the corridor with a mind alight in fire and triumph.

Soon, his daughter would be untouchable.

Bound to power.
Safe in name.
Held in love.

The war could come now, and he would not tremble—not for her.

She would live. She would rise.

And she would never run.

He descended the marble stairs of Malfoy Manor like a king returning to a war won in silence. The corners of his mouth curled, faint and restrained, but his eyes burned with satisfaction. Hermione would be protected now—wrapped in the strongest name magic old Britain could offer, guarded by the only boy who had ever truly earned his trust. She would not be left to flounder in a world that chewed up clever girls and spat out corpses. Not his daughter. Not his legacy.

Tom Riddle did not know what the war would bring. But he knew this much:

His legacy would not fall.

She would carry it forward—brighter than flame, sharper than his name, and untouchable.

Not his weakness.

His legacy.

And no one would ever lay hands on her again.

Chapter Text

Hermione felt bad for Lucius.

She hadn’t brought it up—not directly—but she’d heard the whispers echoing through the castle all morning. Andromeda Black had run off. Eloped. Vanished.

With a Hufflepuff.

It was shocking enough to stop hallway conversations mid-sentence and turn breakfast into a silent war zone of glances and raised eyebrows. But Hermione’s first thought hadn’t been about scandal or politics. It had been about Lucius.

They had been engaged for years. Groomed for each other like pureblood showpieces—one day, they would inherit wealth, titles, power. And then in one morning, all of it was gone. Years of planning, of expectation, unraveling like a thread pulled too fast.

She expected him to be gutted.

And so, Hermione did what she always did when someone might be hurting: she stayed close. She followed him around the edges of the day like quiet sunlight, offering her presence but not her questions. If he needed her, she would be there.

But that was the strange part.

Lucius didn’t look hurt.

If anything, he seemed... energized. Unsettled, yes, but not with grief. He was practically vibrating as he walked beside her through the corridors, his hands twitching with unused energy, his thoughts clearly miles away.

Hermione tried not to stare, but she caught herself watching him. Frequently. He moved like he was made of restless magic—sharp-eyed, lit from within. Occasionally, she’d glance over and find him already looking at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher.

It wasn’t sad. Or pained.

It wasn’t even distant.

No—if anything, it was intense. Focused. His gaze felt like a touch she couldn’t explain, like his eyes were trying to memorize her.

At first she thought he might be angry—at Andromeda, at the betrayal, at the loss. But when she really looked, the expression wasn’t bitter.

It almost looked... hungry?

Hermione blinked, flustered. No, not hungry, she thought quickly, shaking her head. Hopeful?

She wasn’t sure. But something in her belly curled tight every time he looked at her like that.

She tucked her confusion away and offered him quiet company instead. That's what friends did, right?

Later that evening, the Slytherin common room glowed with firelight and soft murmurs, its green-gold enchantments casting shadows along the carved stone walls. The warmth of the hearth seeped into the plush armchair where Hermione sat, needles clicking softly in her lap.

She was knitting—slowly, carefully, a warm wool scarf in silver and forest green.

It was for Lucius.

He didn’t know. She hadn’t planned to tell him. It was just something she wanted to do—to offer something comforting, something handmade, something soft. She’d already finished one for her father, and another for Abraxas to thank him for the summer holiday invitation. But this one…

This one mattered more.

Across the room, Lucius was pacing. Again.

He’d been doing it for the past twenty minutes—back and forth in front of the hearth, his posture rigid, one hand clenched and unclenched at his side. Every now and then he would stop abruptly, stare into the middle distance as if someone had hexed him with a Confundus charm, then start pacing all over again.

Hermione watched him over the rim of her needles, silent and still.

What are you thinking, Lucius?

His brow was furrowed, but there was no trace of heartbreak. No slump in his shoulders. No signs of mourning. If anything, he looked like someone who had just made a decision and didn’t know what to do with the adrenaline.

She bit her lip and lowered her eyes to her knitting. The yarn brushed warm against her fingers, the motion repetitive and soothing. But her thoughts kept drifting.

Why would anyone leave Lucius?

He was… well, he was Lucius. Sharp and elegant, poised and clever. But more than that—he was kind. At least with her. He could be snide and dramatic and absurdly proud, yes—but he always showed up when it counted. He listened. He protected. He made her laugh when she forgot how.

He was her friend.

And lately… he’d become something more than that. Not officially. Not even consciously. But she could feel it blooming under her ribs like a secret. Like a spell she hadn’t meant to cast.

Lucius Malfoy was kind of amazing.

And—if she dared think it— loveable.

The thought made her cheeks flush. She glanced up again, heart giving a single, stupid flutter when she caught him looking at her.

He looked away quickly this time, jaw tight, pace resuming.

Hermione smiled softly and focused on the scarf. She was almost done now—just a few more rows. It would be neat and warm and exactly his shade of green.

She hoped it would cheer him up.

Maybe she’d give it to him for Christmas. Maybe with a joke. Or maybe not. Maybe just… something real. Something from her hands to his.

Thread by thread.

Hermione’s knitting slowed as the fire in the hearth flared unexpectedly, bright and green .

Every conversation in the Slytherin common room stopped mid-sentence. Heads turned. Books were lowered. Even the shadows seemed to pause.

The flames danced higher, whirling like a summoned spirit—and with a sharp whoosh, a large envelope shot out and landed on the flagstone floor.

Lucius froze mid-step. His body stiffened, eyes locked on the envelope like it was a cursed object. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Bellatrix, ever the brave one—or just dangerously curious—strode across the room. Her black curls bounced as she bent and picked up the thick parchment. She turned it over, eyes scanning the crest.

Her brows rose.

She looked directly at Lucius.

Without a word, she walked over and placed the envelope gently in his hands, then gave his shoulder a pat and whispered, “Good luck.”

Hermione set her knitting aside, heart thudding. What is that?

Lucius was pale—palpably, blindingly pale. His fingers trembled as he stared at the envelope like it might explode. A slow, shaky breath left his lungs as he carefully opened the flap.

The thick parchment crackled slightly as he drew it out.

Hermione leaned forward in her chair, hands gripping the arms. She couldn’t see the letter, but she could see Lucius’s face. And she watched, spellbound, as the fear in his eyes melted into something else entirely.

Confusion. Realization. Awe.

And then—pure, unfiltered joy.

His lips parted, a slow smile blooming across his face like sunlight after stormclouds. He closed the letter, slid it carefully back into the envelope, and looked straight at her.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

The expression on his face made her heartbeat stumble. His eyes were lit with something fierce , something uncontainable—wild and warm and wanting all at once. There was a hunger there, but not the cruel kind.

A devotion.

Her breath caught, and a flicker of heat curled low in her stomach. Her legs clenched instinctively at the fire kindling inside. What was going on?

Lucius licked his lips, took one slow step forward. Then another. Then another.

She stood up without meaning to, heat flooding her cheeks. “Lucius—are you—what—?”

But she didn’t get the words out.

He cupped the back of her head and kissed her —right there, in front of the entire Slytherin common room.

The world went utterly silent.

Hermione’s eyes widened in shock as his mouth met hers, his fingers threading into her curls. Her gasp was muffled by the sudden press of lips—warm, firm, real. Lucius deepened the kiss immediately, parting her lips with his and groaning softly into her mouth.

Her brain short-circuited. She wasn’t kissing him back—not because she didn’t want to, but because her body hadn’t caught up yet.

But when his tongue swept gently across hers, slow and reverent, something inside her cracked open.

She kissed him back.

Slowly. Carefully. Curiously.

Another soft groan slipped from him as he sucked her lower lip into his mouth. Her knees wobbled.

Somewhere in the room, someone whistled. Someone else clapped. It broke the spell.

Hermione pulled back, panting, face burning hot. “Lucius—what the hell —”

He didn’t let go. One hand remained tangled in her hair, the other gently caressing her cheek as if she were made of glass.

He smiled—soft, thrilled, tender.

“Our fathers just signed a marriage contract,” he said, breathless, as though the words were too good to be real. “Between you and me. You will be moving into Malfoy manor, and staying there when not in school.”

Hermione blinked, her mouth opening and closing. “I—What?”

Lucius nodded, golden hair mussed and eyes so unbearably soft. He lifted the envelope slightly. “This is the contract. You can read it. I—I’d like you to. But, Hermione—Sunshine—we’re going to get married.”

Her jaw dropped.

In front of everyone.

And she hadn’t even been told.

Heat flooded her ears and her chest. Every eye in the room was on them. Some were amused. Some were stunned. Bellatrix was grinning like a shark.

She cleared her throat. Her voice came out faint. “I… I would like to read it. The contract. Please.”

Lucius nodded, still smiling as he gently placed the envelope in her hands. “Of course.”

She clutched it awkwardly to her chest and looked up. “I’ll, um… look it over. In my dormitory.”

And before he could say another word—before anyone could—Hermione whirled around, scooped up her knitting, and fled the room with her heart still pounding in her throat.

Hermione slammed the dormitory door shut behind her, the echo ringing off the stone walls.

She threw the thick envelope onto her bed like it had personally offended her.

Then she bent over, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding like a war drum in her chest—thump-thump-thump—as if trying to make sense of what had just happened.

She pressed a palm flat to her sternum, willing her lungs to calm down. “Okay,” she muttered to herself. “Okay. That was… That happened.”

A soft rustle of scales made her glance down.

Aurelia was curled around her wrist as usual, her golden coils warm and drowsy. She blinked up at Hermione lazily, tongue flicking out once.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She hissed in Parseltongue, sharp and accusatory:
::I can’t believe you did nothing. Aren’t you supposed to bite boys that get too close?::

Aurelia didn’t flinch. She rose up slightly, lifting her elegant head with regal indifference.
::You said he was your friend,:: she replied, voice silken. ::You told me to be nice to him.::

Hermione frowned, dropping down onto the edge of her bed with a groan.
::I did say that…:: she admitted, rubbing at her temples.

Aurelia uncoiled and slithered up the duvet, gliding toward the letter she’d just flung down. She circled the envelope once, then settled herself on top of it like a sleepy guardian snake.

She lifted her head again and scented the air with her tongue.
::Besides,:: she said, ::you like him. Your scent gets spicy when he’s close.::

Hermione’s eyes went wide.
::What?! I do not get spicy! Aurelia—:: she spluttered, face heating up all over again, ::—what is that supposed to mean?!::

The golden serpent blinked slowly. Her scales caught the light like polished metal.
::It means what it means,:: she replied with a flick of her tail. ::Your scent changes. You smell like… cinnamon and sparks.::

Hermione gaped at her snake. She pressed the backs of her hands to her cheeks, as if she could physically push the blush away.
::Sparks?! Merlin—:: she groaned and flopped backwards dramatically onto the bed. Her knees drew up, arms thrown over her face. ::This can’t be happening.::

Aurelia gave a small yawn, then rested her head on the contract again.
::I don’t know what’s happening either. But your father might. He smells like old power and secrets.::

Hermione peeked from beneath her arm.
::Right. Good idea. Dad.:: She sat up, dragging a deep breath into her lungs. The panic was starting to ease, replaced now with a buzzing sort of confusion—and the lingering ghost of Lucius’s kiss.

Her lips tingled. Her heart fluttered. Her mind whirled.

She reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out the little black journal—the one with silver-edged pages and runes along the spine. The one that connected her to the only person who might make sense of this madness.

She flipped it open, grabbed her quill, and began to write across the top of the page:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione
Dad???
WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!
Lucius kissed me—in front of EVERYONE—and then said we’re ENGAGED??
He said there’s a CONTRACT??
And that YOU AGREED TO IT?!?
Why didn’t you warn me?! Am I hallucinating?! Am I unconscious somewhere?!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom
Ah. There it is.
The shrieking begins. 😊

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione
I am NOT shrieking! I’m—
Panicking! Quietly!
This is a lot, Dad! I thought Lucius was sad about Andromeda! And then he KISSED ME!
In front of the entire Slytherin common room!

With tongue!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom
Yes, I heard.

Bellatrix is still laughing about it in the common room.
You’ll be pleased to know your surprise engagement was quite the social event.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione
STOP BEING SMUG. I AM IN CRISIS.

Why didn’t you TELL ME?!
Why are we just ENGAGED now?!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom
Because if I had told you, you would’ve argued with me for days, stalled the contract, then eventually agreed just as Lucius had a nervous breakdown from pining.
This way was faster. 😊

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione
I am going to scream into a pillow.

Lucius said I’m moving to Malfoy Manor?!
WHAT?!
I still go to Hogwarts! Right?!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom
Of course you do, little one. No one’s dragging you from school.

You’ll simply reside at Malfoy Manor during holidays and breaks, instead of the Riddle Estate. It’s safer, more appropriate—and frankly, you’ll be happier there.

The elves are already transferring your things.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione
YOU’RE MOVING ME WHILE I’M STILL PANICKING?!

Dad!! You can’t just rehome me like a kitten!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom
You’re not being rehomed. You’re being upgraded. 😊
To a manor.
With your own wing.
And a fiancé who adores you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione
…I hate how that sounds like a bribe.
Also— my own wing??
You purebloods are all unhinged.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom
Possibly. But efficient.

Hermione, I understand that this is overwhelming. Truly. You’ve had a chaotic year—time travel, memory restoration, new bloodlines, the works.
But this? This is good. This is your life beginning to settle. You’re being claimed, protected, and positioned exactly where I’ve always hoped to see you: surrounded by people who will love and honor you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione
…I didn’t say yes yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom
And you don’t have to—not until you’re ready.

Read the contract. Ask questions. Curse into your pillow. Process.

But Hermione…
I’ve watched that boy look at you for months like he’d die for the chance to kiss you once.
He’s already halfway ruined.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione
I don’t even know what I feel!
I just know when he kissed me, my heart tried to evacuate through my spine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom
That’s promising. 😊

I love you, my girl. I’m proud of you. And I’m here, always.

Read the contract.
And if you need to hex Lucius later… well. I imagine he’ll enjoy it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione
You’re awful.
And I love you too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom
Sleep well, little legacy.
I’ll see you at King’s Cross in a few days.
We’ll bring you home for the holidays—
to Malfoy Manor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione
…You mean your daughter is going to be escorted home by her fiancé and his terrifyingly fashionable father ?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom
Yes.
Dramatic, isn’t it? 😊

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione
This is actual madness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom
And yet, somehow—still better than the orphanage.
Goodnight, Dove.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione groaned and threw her arms over her face. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. She didn’t even know what she wanted.

But she did know this—Lucius Malfoy had kissed her like she mattered.

And that, terrifyingly, was starting to matter to her too.

Chapter Text

Hermione groaned and threw her arms over her face.

The journal lay shut beside her on the quilt, its silver-edged pages still faintly humming with the last of her father's words.

We’ll bring you home for the holidays—
to Malfoy Manor.

She made a strangled sound and curled up tighter on the bed, like maybe she could vanish into the blankets. Her brain felt like it was still rebooting. Her lips still tingled from the kiss. And somewhere beneath the confusion and panic was the unbearable knowledge that—somehow—everyone else had seen this coming before she had.

Aurelia, still sprawled across the marriage contract like a smug little golden sentinel, flicked her tongue at her in mild judgment.

“I am not spicy,” Hermione muttered to no one in particular.

She had just begun contemplating whether she could hex herself unconscious when the dormitory door slammed open with all the grace of a Bludger to the face.

“HERMIONE RIDDLE,” Bellatrix shrieked gleefully, her wild curls bouncing. “YOU WICKED LITTLE THING!”

Hermione sat bolt upright just in time for Bellatrix to launch herself onto the bed like a deranged pixie, bouncing the mattress and knocking Aurelia into a coil of indignant hissing.

Narcissa followed more gracefully, her dressing gown a soft seafoam silk, her pale gold hair neatly tied back in a ribbon. She didn’t say anything at first—just closed the door behind them and surveyed the room with that elegant, unnerving calm that made Hermione feel very much like a rabbit being politely studied by a hawk.

Hermione stared at them both, wide-eyed. “How—how did you—?”

“We were waiting,” Bellatrix said with a satisfied grin, flopping onto her stomach beside her. “Thought we’d give you time to scream into a pillow first.”

“I didn’t scream,” Hermione said weakly, though her face was already burning red.

::She did, actually,:: Aurelia chimed in Parseltongue from her perch.

Bellatrix cooed. “I don’t know what she said, but I love her.”

Hermione groaned. This was exactly what she didn’t need—teasing from her father’s most loyal devotees about something she barely understood herself.

Narcissa climbed onto the bed more carefully and settled near the foot, crossing her ankles with practiced poise. “We came to check on you,” she said gently. “After… well. Everything. ”

Hermione flopped back with a sigh. “Oh, you mean my surprise engagement?”

Bellatrix let out an undignified cackle. “To Lucius Malfoy! In front of everyone. With tongue, no less. Scandal of the season!”

Hermione threw a pillow at her. Bellatrix caught it and snuggled it like a prize.

“I did not start that kiss!”

“No,” Narcissa said mildly. “But you definitely finished it.”

Hermione buried her face in her hands. “I’m going to evaporate. Just—cease to exist. Turn into a vapor and never be seen again.”

Narcissa’s gaze slid toward the thick envelope on the bed. “Have you read it yet?”

Hermione peeked through her fingers. “No. My brain is still buffering. One second I’m knitting him a scarf, and the next, he’s kissing me like we’re already married. And apparently we are, almost. That—” she pointed at the letter, “—is the contract.”

Bellatrix rolled onto her side like a lazy cat, propping her head on her hand. “Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so surprised. Lucius has been hopelessly in love with you since you spent the summer together.”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “He has not! ”

“Oh, Sunshine,” Narcissa said, smiling with the patient grace of someone who had been watching this unfold from a safe distance. “He absolutely has.”

“No, no, no,” Hermione said, waving her arms like she could bat the idea away. “He’s my friend. We talk about books. We argue about bloodline policies. I hexed his kneecaps! ”

“And he liked it,” Bellatrix chimed, far too cheerfully.

Hermione made a strangled, inhuman sound and pressed a pillow over her face.

This could not be happening.

If they were right—if Lucius had liked her from the start—that meant this hadn’t been some sudden, shocking shift.

That meant he’d always felt this way.

That meant… the way he looked at her wasn’t new.

Narcissa reached out and gently patted her arm. “We thought you might need some girl talk. Or at least someone to stop you from panicking alone.”

“I am not panicking,” Hermione muttered from under the pillow.

“Liar,” Bellatrix said fondly. “You’re absolutely panicking.”

“You like Lucius,” Narcissa said gently. “That’s all this is.”

“I’m not ready to like him like that,” Hermione said, muffled and miserable.

“But you do,” Narcissa said. “Maybe just a little. Maybe a lot. You don’t have to be ready. You just have to be honest with yourself.”

Hermione peeked up at her, expression uncertain. Something in her chest squeezed.

They weren’t being cruel. Not even Bellatrix, for all her theatrics. They weren’t mocking her—they were trying to help her see what she couldn’t say aloud. That she’d been tiptoeing toward this without even noticing. That her feelings had been creeping in like ivy, slow and quiet and stubborn.

Hermione lay back on her bed and stared at the canopy above.

She’d known Lucius was beautiful. That had always been a given. But over time, that beauty had turned into something dangerous—not because he changed, but because she had. His sharp wit had stopped irritating her. His dramatics had started amusing her. His loyalty, his fire, the way he looked at her…

It had made her feel wanted. Safe. Seen.

“I don’t know how to act around him now,” she whispered. “What if I ruin everything?”

“You won’t,” Narcissa said with quiet certainty. “You’re his person. Everyone can see it.”

Hermione’s heart fluttered again. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Bellatrix leaned in, all sharp teeth and soft laughter. “You’re so doomed.”

Hermione groaned.

But despite the embarrassment and the panic, she didn’t feel alone anymore. The warm weight of Narcissa’s hand on hers. Bellatrix curled like a smug cat against her side. Aurelia curled softly beside the contract.

They weren’t judging her.

They were holding space for her.

Letting her feel overwhelmed and flustered and messy—and still reminding her that maybe… this wasn’t a disaster.

Maybe this was the beginning of something.

Hermione bit her lip and looked toward the letter. She still wasn’t sure what she’d do next.

But for now, wrapped in friendship and blankets and confusion, she let herself lean into the warmth.

Just for tonight.

Hermione didn’t know how long they lay like that—Bellatrix curled into her side, Narcissa smoothing a wrinkle from the blanket, Aurelia flicking her tongue lazily in the corner—but eventually, the quiet grew thoughtful.

Narcissa was the one to break it.

“Do you want to look at it together?” she asked, nodding toward the letter.

Hermione hesitated. “I can read it,” she said softly, “I just… might need help not spiraling while I do.”

Bellatrix rolled over and sat up, legs crossed like a chaos gremlin about to be helpful in the most unhinged way possible. “Excellent. Let’s unravel this little scroll of doom together.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Hermione reached for the envelope and pulled out the parchment inside. It was heavier than it looked—thick, layered, and sealed with magic. As she unfolded the pages, a faint shimmer rolled down the surface: anti-forgery spells, familial oaths, and bloodline protections woven into the script.

Her eyes scanned the opening clauses. “Okay… this is the usual lineage declaration stuff. Riddle family, Malfoy family, intent to join lines through marriage. Mutual benefits, alliance, resource sharing…”

Bellatrix gave a theatrical yawn. “Boring. What about the juicy clauses?”

Hermione flipped the page, brow furrowing as she read on. “Oh. Oh… wait a minute—this isn’t a traditional patriarchal contract.”

That got Narcissa’s attention. She leaned in. “What do you mean?”

Hermione traced her finger down a paragraph. “There’s no obedience clause. No formal dominance assigned. It’s worded as an equals’ contract. Both parties retain legal rights to their inheritance, assets, magical holdings…”

Bellatrix blinked. “That’s… rare,” she looked at the contract curiously, “why would Lucius agree to this?”

Narcissa frowned, taking one corner of the parchment as Hermione angled it toward her. “That’s extremely rare. Most marriage contracts expect the bride to forfeit most personal holdings to the husband’s control—especially if the groom’s family is older nobility.”

Hermione kept reading, voice soft with disbelief. “This says I retain complete intellectual property of my spellwork, and full academic autonomy. It even guarantees me access to an independent Gringotts vault. And—wait— Lucius forfeits his right to deny me travel permissions?”

Bellatrix’s mouth fell open. “Lucius agreed to that?! My gods, he’s in love. ”

Hermione flushed and gave her a look.

Narcissa hummed, her tone more thoughtful. “This is practically unheard of. It’s not just generous—it’s protective. This contract gives you more freedom than most pureblood wives dream of. It’s almost like…”

“Like my dad wrote it,” Hermione finished, blinking down at the parchment.

Because he probably had.

Of course he did.

That sly, meddling, overprotective maniac.

Bellatrix snorted. “If I didn’t love you, I’d say you bagged the best contract of the decade.”

“Honestly,” Narcissa murmured, “I’d marry you for this.”

Hermione smiled in spite of herself. The tight coil of anxiety in her chest had started to loosen.

It didn’t fix everything—not the timing, not the suddenness, not the kiss in front of everyone —but at least it didn’t feel like a trap anymore.

It felt like… something done for her, not to her.

“That’s the part that keeps getting me,” Hermione said, quietly. “It’s just moving so fast. I thought we were friends. I mean, I know we’re friends. But then suddenly he’s kissing me, and there’s a contract, and I’m getting a wing of a manor and a fiancé, and it feels like I blinked and my whole life changed.”

Narcissa reached out and gently touched her hand. “That’s how pureblood families operate. Fast. Decisive. Formal. We’ve all been raised that way.”

Bellatrix nodded. “But it doesn’t mean you have to rush your heart.”

Hermione looked between them, both so poised in their own ways—Narcissa calm and regal, Bellatrix wild and loyal—and felt something warm and strange settle in her chest.

Support.

Sisterhood.

Understanding.

She folded the contract carefully and slid it back into its envelope. “Thank you. Both of you.”

Bellatrix grinned. “Of course. We’d never let you survive your engagement meltdown alone.”

Narcissa tilted her head. “Do you feel better?”

Hermione took a deep breath. Her thoughts were still racing, her heart still unsure. But yes. She did.

“A little,” she admitted. “I’m still overwhelmed. But I don’t feel like the world is spinning off its axis anymore.”

Bellatrix leaned back on her elbows. “Good. Because tomorrow, you’ll see Lucius again. And you’ll have to decide whether to hex him, kiss him, or both.”

Hermione made a strangled noise and buried her face in the quilt again.

Narcissa just laughed softly and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’ll be fine,” she said. “You always are.”

And despite everything, Hermione believed her.

Bellatrix eventually drifted off first, curled at the foot of the bed like a smug cat, one arm draped over a pillow she'd stolen mid-tussle. Narcissa followed not long after, slipping into sleep with a sigh, perfectly composed even in unconsciousness.

Hermione stayed awake.

The dormitory was quiet now, dim save for the soft flicker of candlelight and the low embers in the hearth across the room. Aurelia had slithered up to her shoulder and tucked herself beneath Hermione’s hair like a golden scarf, warm and quiet.

Hermione sat cross-legged in the center of her bed, the marriage contract beside her again. Folded now. Neat. Contained. It looked so simple—just parchment and ink—but it meant everything had changed.

Only… maybe not in the terrifying way she’d first thought.

She traced her finger over the envelope’s wax seal, then glanced toward the two girls sleeping near her. They hadn’t come to mock her or gloat or treat her like some social prize. They’d just… shown up. Offering comfort. Helped her understand.

And in doing so, they’d helped her start to see something else.

Lucius wasn’t just her friend anymore. She couldn’t pretend not to see it. Not after the kiss, not after the way he’d looked at her, like she was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

And she wasn’t immune. Not really. Not when his smile made her stomach twist, or when the memory of his hand in her hair sent heat crawling up her neck again.

She still didn’t know how to act around him. Didn’t know how to be anything other than what they already were. But… maybe that didn’t have to change all at once.

Maybe this wasn’t a disaster.

Maybe it was a beginning.

The thought scared her more than she liked. But it didn’t feel bad. Just uncertain. Like standing at the edge of something vast and glittering, not quite ready to jump—but not running away either.

Aurelia stirred slightly against her neck.

::You are calming down,:: the snake said simply.

Hermione smiled faintly. ::I guess I am.::

::Good. I like him. He smells like rain and thunder.::

Hermione huffed a small laugh. ::I don’t know what I’m going to do.::

::You don’t need to know. You just need to be.::

She let the words sink in. For a creature who spent most of the day napping and stealing sunbeams, Aurelia had an unnerving knack for saying the right thing.

Hermione leaned back against her headboard and closed her eyes. She could feel the soft weight of her familiar on her shoulders, the steady rhythm of her breath, the distant crackle of the fire. The storm inside her had begun to settle.

She wasn’t ready to say she wanted this.

Not yet.

But maybe—just maybe—she could see herself growing into it.

Maybe someday soon, she wouldn’t panic at the idea of Lucius Malfoy being hers.

Maybe someday, she’d even be glad.

And with that terrifying, tender thought curling in her chest, Hermione drifted into sleep.

The contract lay beside her—sealed, signed, and waiting.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a cage.

It felt like a key.

Chapter Text

It was dark in the Slytherin common room. It was almost always dark there—lit only by green-tinted sconces and the flickering sheen of magic-infused torches. True sunlight never touched these stones, but that was all right. Their windows looked into the depths of the Black Lake, where pale tentacles drifted lazily and silver-scaled fish moved like thoughts—hidden, elusive, glinting in the half-light.

Lucius paced.

He had not slept. He could not sleep. His limbs were full of storm light and tension, his mind a relentless wheel. His steps were measured but ceaseless, polished shoes whispering across the ancient rug like a serpent’s hiss. He moved with the elegance of a court-trained noble, but his composure was threadbare—his thoughts frantic beneath the surface.

His hands were clasped behind his back, knuckles white from pressure, shoulders stiff with tightly-wound purpose. Every so often, he would mutter aloud to himself—half-incantation, half-confession—before falling into silence again.

Last night, when his father had sent him the contract, he had felt it—not pride, not satisfaction— triumph. The kind that burns in the blood and makes the world sharper.

He had taken what he wanted.

Hermione Riddle —would belong to him. Soul and body. Bound by magic, law, and fate.

His.

Lucius stopped pacing, his head tilting slightly to stare up the staircase toward her dormitory door. She hadn’t come down yet. Not since she’d left him in the common room last night, after the kiss.

His fingers twitched behind his back.

Was she all right?
Did she read it?
Had she deciphered the layers of legal runes, the protective clauses, the blood-binding subtext buried beneath centuries of pureblood etiquette?

Did she understand what it meant—that he had offered his name, his inheritance, his very life—to tie her to him?

His jaw tightened.

He turned and began pacing again.

The hour was early still. The other students slept behind velvet curtains and muffling spells. The fire in the hearth had burned down to soft embers, glowing like the eyes of some ancient, watching beast.

He just wanted to be the first one to see her this morning.

She would wake up soon. She had to.

Lucius still could hardly believe it. Mr. Riddle— Lord Riddle—had agreed. His father had managed the impossible.

And he—Lucius Abraxas Malfoy—had dared to reach for the sun.

And the sun had not burned him.

It had kissed him back.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly at the memory of her mouth on his. He had kissed her without permission. He had touched her without words.

Like a thief.
Like a dragon discovering its first gold coin.

What if she was angry?

The thought cut like cold iron. He had been so elated, so possessed by the certainty of her—of them —that he hadn’t even considered her feelings. The contract, the kiss, the claiming—he had simply acted, driven by an ancient instinct he hadn't known lived inside him.

She hadn’t known what he had done. She had no idea he had orchestrated it all—that he had told his father to agree to any and all terms Mr. Riddle demanded. That he would have given up his name, his title, his wand—if that’s what it took to make her his.

He looked again at her door.

What if it had been too much? Too sudden?

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow, and he felt the first prick of panic beneath his ribs.

But—if she was angry—he would fix it. He would earn her forgiveness. He would kneel, beg, offer up his heart in penance.

He would never let her go.

His fists curled.

She was his. His Sun. His life and light. And no one—no one—was allowed to touch her.

At the thought, something primal stirred in him. Ancient. Reptilian. The fury of old bloodlines and dragon-blood oaths. If anyone dared to lay a hand on her, to so much as breathe too close, they would meet the full weight of the Malfoy name.

He would guard her as dragons guard their eggs—obsessively, violently, tenderly.

She didn’t yet understand what she had done to him.

What being loved by him meant.

But she would.

Just as his thoughts threatened to spiral again, he heard it—soft footsteps on stone.

Lucius stopped pacing.

His breath caught like silk in his throat, and he turned slowly, reverently.

There she was.

She descended the dormitory stairs in a simple school jumper and pleated skirt, curls pulled half-up, half-down. Her eyes were still hazy with sleep, but even in the gloom of the common room, she glowed. Not with firelight or candle flame—but with something innate, something only he could see.

Like a star come down to earth just for him.

She paused when she spotted him, her hand tightening on the banister. Her body tensed, her mouth parting in hesitation. A flush of uncertainty colored her cheeks.

Lucius’s heart clenched. He had frightened her. Of course he had.

He took a cautious step forward, then stopped himself. His fingers twitched at his sides with the desperate need to touch her—hold her, claim her—but he curled them into fists. He could not rush her. Not now.

“…Good morning,” she said quietly. Her voice was careful. Polite. Not cold—but not warm, either.

Lucius bowed his head slightly, his voice thick with emotion. “Good morning, Hermione.”

She came down the last few steps and hesitated near the hearth. He watched her every move—memorizing the hesitant way she held her arms, the way her eyes darted toward him and away again. She was nervous. That much was clear.

“Would you… sit with me?” he asked, gesturing toward one of the tufted green velvet settees near the fire. It was a strangely formal request, considering all that now bound them.

Hermione nodded. “All right.”

They moved together to the couch and sat—not touching. The inches of space between them felt as wide as a battlefield. The silence stretched. Lucius stared at the fireplace, then at his knees, then at her hands folded neatly in her lap.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

“I need to know,” he said at last, voice low, rough. “Are you… are you angry with me?”

Her eyes widened, then softened.

“No,” she said gently. “I’m not angry. Just… overwhelmed. It happened so fast, Lucius. The contract. The kiss. All of it.”

Lucius exhaled a trembling breath, his entire frame sagging with relief. His hands immediately reached for hers—he couldn’t help it. He grasped them with a fervor that bordered on desperation, bringing them to his lips.

“I thought I’d ruined everything,” he whispered. “I was so afraid you’d wake up this morning and hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” she said, pink blooming across her cheeks. “I just didn’t expect any of it. I didn’t even know I wanted it until it was already happening.”

He gave a soft, disbelieving laugh—shaky, almost tearful. “And do you want it now?”

Her eyes met his, solemn and unsure—but open.

“I think I do. I just need a minute to catch up.”

That was all the permission he needed.

Lucius surged forward with a strangled sound, catching her face in his hands like she was something precious—fragile, radiant. He kissed her again. Like last night. But different. Reverent. With a dragon’s longing and the worship of a boy who had dreamed of this for far too long.

Her mouth was warm and startled beneath his—but she didn’t pull away. Not at first.

She softened—hesitantly, slowly—her hands rising to rest against his chest. That single touch unraveled him. He kissed her harder, letting his hands slide into her curls, down to her waist, gripping her like an anchor. He needed her closer. Needed her real in his arms.

Hermione gave a quiet noise of surprise as his lips trailed to the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, and lower still. Her fingers fisted in his robes as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her like a drowning man.

“Lucius…” she murmured.

He didn’t stop.

Her hands came up to his shoulders, and she gently pushed.

“Lucius—wait. Just… slow down.”

He froze. Pulled back a fraction. His breathing was heavy, his eyes dark with longing and restraint. He searched her face, trying to read what she wasn’t saying.

“I—I’m not saying stop,” she added quickly, cheeks flushed scarlet. “I just… It’s a lot. I need to breathe.”

Lucius closed his eyes and nodded once, forehead resting against hers.

“Of course,” he murmured. “Anything you want. I’m yours, Hermione. I’ll wait forever if I have to.”

Lucius didn’t move far. He kept his hands loosely at her waist, grounding himself in the feel of her—warm, solid, his. Her breath fanned against his neck, still a little uneven, and he forced himself to soften his grip, to ease the tightness in his shoulders.

He lifted his head slowly, brushing a brown strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’ll be moving into Malfoy Manor soon,” he said quietly, as though speaking the words aloud might make them more real. “There’s a room already being prepared for you. East wing—morning light, enchanted windows. The walls are blue. Your favorite, I think?”

Hermione blinked at him. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t. She just nodded—polite, composed. She wasn’t pulling away, but she wasn’t melting into him either.

Lucius pressed on, trying to fill the silence with hope.

“I can’t wait to get on the train tomorrow,” he said, voice dipping into something lighter, almost playful. “I’ve never looked forward to the holidays in my life, but now I find myself counting hours. Minutes. Just to take you home with me. Imagine that.”

Still, she didn’t laugh. Not even a smile with teeth. Just a soft little curve of the lips, delicate and noncommittal.

Lucius stared at her.

No teasing glint in her eyes. No smug little smirk. No “Daddy Lucius” on her tongue, which usually arrived whenever she wanted to drive him mad. Nothing.

She was here, yes—but she wasn’t herself. Not all the way.

And he hated that.

Something dark stirred in his chest—jealousy not of a person, but of a mood, a moment lost. He would rather she yell at him, hit him with a book, or hex his tie into knots than sit beside him this way— present but distant. His sunshine, dimmed.

“…You usually tease me by now,” he said, attempting a half-smile. “Where’s my shameless little menace who calls me Daddy just to watch me suffer?”

Hermione flushed again and looked away, fingers tightening slightly on his robes.

“I—I’m still here,” she said softly. “Just… catching up.”

Lucius tilted his head, studying her like an ancient puzzle. His fingers ghosted along the back of her hand, but he didn’t speak for a moment. The fire crackled gently behind them. In the distance, somewhere upstairs, a door creaked.

“I can wait,” he said at last, voice low and serious. “But I want all of you, Hermione. Not just your promise. Not just your politeness. I want you. The girl who stomps through the common room and bosses everyone around. The girl who makes my head spin and calls me names she shouldn’t. The girl who kissed me like she meant it last night.”

Her cheeks darkened. Her fingers loosened.

Lucius reached out and gently cupped her face again, thumb brushing her cheek.

“I can be patient. I can be soft. But I’m also selfish, Hermione. I want your joy. I want your laughter. I want the mischief in your eyes when you’re about to say something wicked and brilliant.”

Hermione looked at him then. Really looked. And though she didn’t say anything, her body relaxed just enough—shoulders lowering, eyes softening.

He exhaled slowly, his own tension easing just a fraction.

“There you are,” he murmured, not pulling her closer, just resting their foreheads together again. “You don’t have to be fine right now. Just… don’t disappear on me. Not you.”

Hermione didn’t pull away.

Instead, she took a slow breath, steadying herself—and him with it.

“I meant what I said,” she whispered, her eyes locked to his. “I’m not angry. Just…” She paused, searching for the right words. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything. One day I was at Hogwarts, teasing you for fun—and now I’m engaged. My life just… shifted overnight. And I need time to catch up to that shift.”

Her fingers lifted, light as air, and brushed down the sharp line of his cheek. The touch was feather-soft, but it anchored him more surely than any chain.

Lucius closed his eyes, inhaling like that simple gesture was a balm on his soul.

“I understand,” he murmured, barely above a breath. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

Hermione gave him a small, tired smile—not playful, not mischievous, just real. She leaned forward with quiet intent and settled herself against his chest, curling slightly into his side. Her hand remained near his heart, palm resting over the steady rhythm of his pulse.

Lucius froze—only for a moment—and then wrapped his arms around her carefully, reverently, like she was spun of moonlight and threadbare starlight. He tucked her beneath his chin and pressed a kiss to the top of her curls.

They sat like that in silence. No games, no pretense. Just warmth. Just breathing. Just a boy holding the girl who had bewitched his blood and stolen his name before he’d ever had the courage to speak it aloud.

And for the first time since seeing that sacred piece of parchment, Lucius Malfoy didn’t feel triumph or panic.

He just felt peace.

Because she was here.
Because she let him hold her.
Because she hadn’t let go.

The next morning arrived with a flurry of activity. Trunks levitated down staircases, owls hooted in protest as they were stuffed into cages, and prefects barked orders across the corridors in vain attempts at order.

Lucius didn’t care for any of it.

His only focus was Hermione.

He trailed after her like a knight in ceremonial armor—immaculate, proud, and burning inside. She still wasn’t teasing him. Still not looking at him the way she used to. Her glances were polite, her smiles restrained. She sat beside him on the train but didn’t curl into him or tuck her feet beneath her robes in that familiar little way that used to make his blood run hotter than it should.

She was here, yes—but not fully with him.

And it was driving him mad.

The train rolled through the countryside in slow, lulling motion. He’d secured them a private compartment, naturally—no one else would dare intrude. Still, Lucius couldn’t rest. Not with her this close and this distant.

She stared out the window, curls falling in front of her face, lost in some thought she hadn’t shared with him.

He wanted to touch her knee. He wanted to pull her onto his lap and coax the warmth back into her voice. He wanted to remind her that she belonged to him now, that the ink had dried and the stars had shifted and this— them —was real.

But he stayed seated.

Barely.

His restraint was a thread drawn too tight.

Especially when others passed their door. Other boys. Other eyes.

Lucius’s jaw clenched every time he heard laughter in the hallway—too loud, too familiar, too male. He didn’t like the way a seventh-year Ravenclaw glanced inside when Hermione stood to stretch. Didn’t like the way Avery had commented on her hair that morning. Didn’t like anything that pulled her attention away from him.

He was possessive by blood, by nature, by design. Malfoys were like dragons with their treasures—and Hermione was the rarest jewel he’d ever seen. And he would guard her with claws bared and wings outstretched if he had to.

The train finally began to slow, the distant hiss of brakes breaking through the tense quiet.

Lucius stood first, lifting Hermione’s trunk with ease and ignoring her small “thank you” that was too careful, too formal. He hated the way she was still tiptoeing around him, as if he might break. Or worse— as if she might.

They stepped onto the platform at King’s Cross into the sharp chill of winter.

Then everything in him twisted.

Because she saw him.

Her father.

Tom Riddle stood near the barrier, tall and sharp and unmistakable. And Hermione—his quiet, reserved, cautious girl— lit up.

She ran.

Lucius watched helplessly as she launched herself into Riddle’s arms, buried her face in his coat, and clung to him like a child who had finally come home. Tom’s arms wrapped around her with practiced ease, one hand coming up to cradle her head, his expression unreadable.

Lucius felt something bitter and wild twist in his chest.

He had never once been embraced like that.

And when he turned, he was rewarded for his thoughts with a firm smack between his shoulder blades.

“There’s my boy!” Abraxas Malfoy bellowed, a triumphant smile on his face. “Engaged by sixteen! A Malfoy through and through.”

Lucius managed a smile, shallow and tight. “Hello, Father.”

Abraxas gave Tom a knowing nod and clapped him on the arm. “Riddle. Quite the contract. Our bloodlines will be unmatched.”

Tom gave a faint smile, chin tipping once in acknowledgment. His hand was still resting on Hermione’s shoulder, thumb idly stroking her collar.

Lucius itched to pull her back to his side.

He didn’t. Yet.

They Flooed home from the private station fireplace, and Malfoy Manor bloomed into view like a frost-laced painting: marble white against the snowy hills, silver wards shimmering faintly in the air. Home. Fortress. Tomb. Sanctuary.

Hermione stepped onto the black-and-white marble of the foyer with cautious steps. Lucius reached for her suitcase again.

“I’ll show you your room,” he said, voice soft enough that only she would hear.

She followed him through the arched halls and shadowed corridors, her gaze drinking in the massive portraits, the floating lights, the soft hush of endless space. Her silence was contemplative, not afraid—but not easy, either.

Lucius opened a tall door with a sweep of his hand.

The room inside was elegant and warm: high windows enchanted to let in sunlight filtered through illusioned clouds; velvet drapes in sapphire and silver; a writing desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl; shelves already stocked with books and spare wands; a four-poster bed draped in moon-colored linen.

“It’s yours,” he said quietly. “Everything in it. I told them blue was your favorite.”

She stepped inside slowly, wonder softening her face. Her fingertips trailed over the carved edge of the bedpost.

“There’s something else,” he added. “Come here.”

She followed him to the far wall, where a tall bookcase stood beside the hearth.

Lucius reached forward and tapped one carved panel. It slid open with a quiet click, revealing a narrow, elegant door.

“That leads to my room,” he said softly. “We can see each other at any time.”

Hermione turned to look at him, startled.

“I’ll wait for you, like I promised” he said, offering her the faintest, saddest smile. “Whenever you’re ready.”

He didn’t kiss her. Didn’t touch her.

He simply stepped back, gave her a low, formal bow, and turned away.

“Take your time settling in,” he murmured. “Dinner is at seven.”

And then he left her standing there—alone in her new world, with the door to his heart already carved open and waiting.

Lucius closed the door to her room with aching precision, the soft click of the latch echoing louder in his chest than it did in the hallway.

He didn’t move.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, facing the tall oak panel between them, staring as if sheer will alone could make her reach for the hidden handle and open that door to him. Let him in.

Let him stay.

He exhaled shakily through his nose, jaw tight, hands twitching uselessly at his sides. The silence of the Manor pressed in around him—cold stone and soft magic, centuries of duty weighing heavy on his shoulders.

She was behind that door. Just a few feet away.

And yet she felt miles from him.

Lucius lifted a hand—slowly, reverently—and brushed his knuckles across the carved wood, as if touching the door might bring him closer to her warmth. His heartbeat hard against his ribs, aching with how much he wanted her. Not just her body—though yes, gods, he burned for that—but her gaze, her trust, her laughter. The little glint in her eyes when she teased him. The curl of her smile before she called him something wicked just to watch him fluster.

She was driving him mad. Absolutely mad.

And the worst part? She didn’t even know it.

Lucius let his hand fall to his side, curling into a fist. He turned, leaned back against the door, and tilted his head to stare up at the ceiling—at the arched vault above, lit by floating candelabras and starlight-charmed crystal. His chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths.

He had promised to wait.

He would wait.

But Merlin—how long could he?

He already felt stretched too thin, like a bowstring drawn to its very edge, humming with tension, waiting for the arrow to release. Not to lash out—not at her—but for her. For the moment she realized what he already knew down to the marrow of his bones:

That they were fated. Meant. Woven together by something older and stronger than magic itself. That she was the sun around which his entire existence now revolved—and he would gladly burn for her, again and again.

Lucius swallowed, hard, and let his eyes drift shut.

His patience would be a love letter. His restraint, a vow.

But gods, it hurt.

And still, he would endure it. For her.

Always.

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle did not care for Malfoy Manor.

It was beautiful, yes—opulent in the way ancient things are, with its soaring ceilings, enchanted windows, and walls lined in silk and ancestral ambition. But there was something decadent about it. Too grand. Too smug.

He preferred elegance with purpose.

Still, the manor had one undeniable draw.

It was safe.

His daughter would be safe here.

Tom followed a house-elf through the east wing’s breakfast salon—one of five, if he remembered correctly—and took in the tableau with the lazy precision of a predator cataloging prey.

Abraxas was already seated, robes perfectly pressed, a silver ring glinting on one long finger as he buttered toast like it was a ritual. Lucius sat to his right, tense and pale in a sharp-cut frock coat. His spine was too straight, his jaw clenched with too much effort.

And at the far end, curled up like a question mark in one of the high-backed chairs, was Hermione.

His daughter.

His girl.

She looked neat, as always—curls half-tamed, posture respectable—but there was a stiffness in her arms. A restraint in her expression. Her smile flickered too quickly when she noticed him.

Tom’s chest tightened—but he smiled, slow and deliberate.

“Forgive my tardiness,” he said, sweeping into the room like he owned it. “The elves didn’t wish to be seen in daylight.”

Abraxas chuckled, gesturing to the place opposite him. “Riddle. A pleasure. We were just beginning. Sit, sit.”

Tom inclined his head and took his seat, careful to brush his hand against Hermione’s shoulder as he passed her chair. She leaned into it just slightly.

Good. She still needed him.

He took his time selecting tea and pastries while the others made polite murmurs. His eyes flicked to Lucius—who had gone utterly still the moment he entered.

Interesting.

The boy looked starved . Not in body—gods no, he was the picture of health—but in soul. He kept glancing toward Hermione when he thought no one noticed. Fingers twitching. Shoulders drawn tight. Legs crossed with too much precision, like restraint cost him pain.

Tom watched for another few minutes while the conversation turned to school—Abraxas asking about grades, professors, Slughorn’s latest club invitation. Hermione answered politely. Lucius said little.

Eventually, Tom spoke.

“How has the common room adjusted?” he asked mildly, sipping his tea. “To the announcement?”

Lucius’s jaw flexed. “They know better than to say anything.”

Abraxas grinned. “That’s my boy.”

Tom hummed, eyes on Hermione now. She lifted her teacup but didn’t drink.

“And you, dove?” he asked, voice soft as charmwork. “Adjusting well?”

She glanced at him over the rim of her cup, eyes guarded but not cold. “It’s… been a lot to process.”

Tom nodded once, accepting the answer for what it was: careful honesty. Not complaint. Not rebellion. Just a girl walking on unfamiliar stone.

“Change always is,” he said, with the tone of someone who’d reshaped nations. “But change with purpose is easier to endure.”

She didn’t reply.

He turned his attention back to Lucius, watching the way the boy’s eyes had drifted to Hermione’s mouth when she lifted her fork.

Yes. Hunger.

Tom had expected it—but seeing it this raw, this barely leashed , made something ancient and satisfied unfurl in his chest.

Good.

Lucius would guard her like a dragon. There would be no safer place for Hermione than in the claws of someone who burned for her.

Still… too much hunger could be just as dangerous.

He filed it away to address later.

“Speaking of purpose,” Abraxas said, setting down his cup with a flourish. “We’ve begun preparations for the Christmas Eve ball.”

Tom arched a brow. “Ah. The announcement.”

Abraxas nodded, clearly pleased with himself. “Formal and magical. Invitations have already been sent. I expect the entire Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

Hermione’s fork paused mid-air.

Tom didn’t look at her. He kept his expression neutral and sipped his tea again.

“The engagement will be blessed by tradition and sealed by witness,” Abraxas continued. “Quite the event, really.”

“Will there be a duel?” Tom asked, lightly amused.

“Only if someone’s foolish enough to question your daughter’s worth,” Abraxas said, smiling. “Which would be suicide.”

Lucius still hadn’t spoken.

Tom glanced at him, then at Hermione, who had resumed eating—mechanically, almost out of duty.

Too stiff. Too quiet.

She wasn’t teasing anyone. Not even her usual jabs at Lucius.

Something had to be done.

“We’ll be out most of the day,” Abraxas said, brushing crumbs from his lapel. “Lucius and I have matters to attend to. Registry approvals, ward renewals, ring consultations—"

Lucius flinched at the mention of rings.

Tom smirked.

“You and Hermione will have the Manor to yourselves,” Abraxas added, with a little nod toward him. “Feel free to explore the library or sit by the fire like two little introverts.”

Tom raised his glass. “Much appreciated.”

The rest of breakfast passed in gentle rhythms—Abraxas waxing poetic about seasonal contracts, Lucius picking at his eggs, Hermione politely silent. Tom played the part of cordial guest and devoted father, but his mind was already at work.

She needed normalcy.

She needed warmth.

She needed him.

When the table was cleared and everyone rose, Tom stepped beside Hermione, offering his arm. She took it, silent.

Lucius’s eyes flicked to the point of contact—and darkened.

Yes, Tom thought. Stay hungry, boy. But don’t starve her in the process.

The house-elf closed the breakfast salon doors behind them with a soft pop .

Tom didn’t speak right away.

He simply walked with her through the grand east wing, letting their footfalls echo beneath the marble arches. Her hand rested lightly on his arm—detached, not tense, but not quite clinging. She was present, but not anchored.

She felt… distant. Like a bird resting on his wrist, ready to fly at the first wrong move.

He hated that.

But he understood it.

So he adjusted his pace, slowed his breath, and shifted his tone—dropping his voice into the register he used only for her. The one she’d always leaned into. The one that meant safety.

“You’re not happy.”

It wasn’t a question.

Hermione’s fingers twitched faintly against his sleeve. She didn’t look up. “I’m… adjusting.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” he said lightly, gently. “I was beginning to think I’d lost my daughter and gained a porcelain doll.”

That earned him a look. The smallest glare. The tiniest pout of her lips.

Progress.

They entered the library—one of the smaller ones, sunlit and smelling faintly of chamomile and old paper. He’d already chosen this room. Quiet. Familiar. Warm.

She liked the chair by the hearth. He guided her to it without words.

“Sit,” he said, and it came out more like a spell than a suggestion.

She did.

He conjured tea. Not the formal, over-brewed nonsense Abraxas preferred, but hers —floral, just a bit sweet, with a hint of clove. The kind she used to share with him when she was small enough to sit on his knee and make up stories about the books she couldn’t yet read.

He handed her the cup.

Then he sat beside her—not across, not looming, but near. Equal. Present.

For a moment, they just drank.

She softened. Slowly. The stiffness in her shoulders gave way to breath. She curled one leg beneath her and let the heat of the fire touch her cheeks.

Tom didn’t speak until he saw her thumb absently circling the handle of the cup.

Then, quietly:
“You’re scared.”

She didn’t deny it.

“I didn’t plan any of this,” she whispered. “One minute I’m teasing Lucius in the common room, and the next I’m promised to him.”

Tom nodded once. “Yes. Life does that. Especially ours.”

Hermione stared at the fire. Her lips parted. Closed.

“It wasn’t a punishment,” he said, his voice gentle, “if that’s what you thought.”

She flinched.

Ah. There it was.

“I didn’t give you away, little one,” he murmured. “I placed you somewhere safe.”

Her gaze flicked to him, fast and wounded. “Safe from what?”

He could have lied. Could have spun a story about society expectations or magical alliances. But she wasn’t a fool. She never had been.

So he told the truth. One version of it.

“From me,” he said.

She blinked.

Tom looked at the fire. “From my enemies. From my future. From the blood that will be spilled when this world finally breaks.” He paused. “I don’t want that to touch you.”

Silence.

He felt her shifting beside him. Processing.

Then, softly: “You always told me I’d have a choice.”

Tom turned to her. “You still do.”

She frowned, skeptical.

He smiled.
“You could run, if you wanted to. I’d never stop you.”

He would’ve.
If she ran, he would tie her up—kicking and screaming—and lock her away in a gilded cage or iron bars—it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t get far.

She didn’t need to know that.

“But you haven’t,” he continued, setting his teacup aside. “You’re still here. And I think…”
He glanced sideways at her. “I think it’s because you know this is where you belong.”

She looked away. “It’s just… so fast.”

“Everything worth having is.”

He reached out—slow, reverent—and tucked a curl behind her ear.

“I watched Lucius this morning,” he said. “He’s a wreck.”

That startled her. “What?”

“He could barely think straight. I think he stopped breathing when you walked into the room.”

Hermione flushed.

Tom smirked faintly. “He wants you more than he knows what to do with. That hunger you sensed? It’s not dangerous. Not to you. He’ll destroy himself before he ever lets anything near you.”

Her brow furrowed slightly.

“And you,” he added softly, “you may be scared. Overwhelmed. But I’ve watched the way you look at him when you think no one sees. There’s fondness there. Affection. Maybe even the start of something deeper.”

She looked down into her lap. Didn’t deny it.

He let the moment breathe. Let her settle in it.

“I want you to be free, Hermione,” he said. “But I also want you safe. Loved. Protected. If I can’t give you all of that…”
His voice dipped. “Then I’ll make sure you’re with someone who can.”

Her lips parted. “You think Lucius can?”

Tom nodded. “In the ways that matter—yes. He’s already half-mad with devotion. And Abraxas won’t let you become some forgotten wife in a tower. You’ll have your name. Your voice. Your power.”

She closed her eyes.

And when she opened them, they were wet—but not from grief.

From something gentler.

He shifted closer, drawing her in until her head rested against his shoulder—the way it had when she was small and still thought he was unshakable.

“You don’t have to love him yet,” he murmured, kissing the top of her curls. “Just don’t close the door before it opens.”

She exhaled softly, the sound more like a child’s sigh than a girl nearly grown.

“I still hate balls,” she mumbled.

Tom chuckled. “Good. That means you’ll survive them.”

She drifted beside him in the quiet, her breath soft against his coat, and he let himself pretend—for just a moment—that this was enough. That she wasn’t growing older with every hour, that the world wasn’t waiting to tear her from his reach.

He stared ahead, gaze distant.

He would not let it.

He would burn the world before he let it touch her.

Let them whisper about bloodlines and old magic. Let them call it manipulation or madness—he didn’t care. Hermione was his daughter. His only softness. The only proof that something human still lived inside him. And he would kill to keep her whole.

To keep her safe.

Even if it meant binding her to a Malfoy.

Even if it meant giving her a future she hadn’t asked for.

He had chosen well. Lucius would guard her with teeth bared and wand drawn. Abraxas would raise her name beside the Malfoy crest and dare the world to defy her. And Tom—Tom would still be close. Still able to watch her. Still able to keep her from the war that would soon bleed across the country like rot.

She would hate him for it, one day. Maybe not today. Maybe not even tomorrow.
But when the fighting began—when the world began to break—she would understand.

She would see that everything he did was out of love.

Twisted, dark, possessive love.
But love, nonetheless.

Tom closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her curls.

She would be safe.
Even if he had to wrench safety from the jaws of fate itself.

Even if it wasn’t what she wanted.

Because her wants were not more important than her life.
And he would protect her— always —even from herself.