Chapter Text
Hermione did not sleep well.
That, in itself, was not particularly unusual.
Between Hogwarts, memories that did not fully belong to this life, dreams that sometimes tasted like smoke and blood, and the unfortunate habit her mind had of turning every unanswered question into an entire research project, Hermione had long since accepted that sleep was not always something that came easily to her.
Still, this had been different.
This had not been the restless sort of sleeplessness that came from nightmares or fear or the lingering ache of old memories pressing too closely against her skin.
No.
This had been the kind of sleeplessness that came from seeing a dead man standing beneath a snow-covered archway at a Malfoy New Year’s Ball, looking far too young, far too handsome, and far too aware of her existence.
Which, in Hermione’s admittedly complicated experience, was rather worse.
By the time morning light crept softly through the curtains of her bedroom, Hermione was still lying awake beneath her blankets, staring up at the ceiling with the sort of intense concentration that would have worried anyone who knew her well enough to recognize when her silence meant danger.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
The name alone sat strangely in her mind.
In her other life, it had belonged to terror.
To whispers.
To war.
To Horcruxes and murders and a snake-faced monster who had torn the wizarding world apart because nobody had stopped him before cruelty had become destiny.
But the man she had seen last night had not looked like that.
He had looked young.
Alive.
Whole.
Beautiful in the way dangerous things often were, with midnight-dark hair and eyes that had seemed almost blue beneath the silver light of the fireworks, though Hermione had no intention of trusting anything about him merely because time had not yet carved him into the nightmare she remembered.
And yet he had seen her.
Not glanced.
Not noticed.
Seen.
As though he had been watching her for far longer than the few seconds in which their eyes had actually met.
Hermione turned onto her side and pulled the blanket tighter around herself, though the warmth did very little against the cold unease coiled somewhere beneath her ribs.
She had known, of course, that he existed here.
Somewhere.
Somewhen.
This entire world was full of people who should have been names in books, ghosts in memories, graves waiting in the future.
But knowing that Tom Riddle existed and seeing him watching her across a moonlit garden were two very different things.
One was theory.
The other had smiled at her.
Hermione shut her eyes.
That was the worst part.
The smile.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Knowing.
As if he had recognized something in her.
As if he had found her interesting.
Hermione had lived enough of one lifetime to know that being interesting to Tom Riddle was rarely a good thing.
For several more minutes she remained exactly where she was, tangled in blankets and unanswered questions, before the solution arrived with such sudden clarity that she sat up so quickly her curls fell across her face.
Lucius.
Of course.
Who else was she supposed to ask?
Regulus would try, certainly, but he knew less about the adult guests at Malfoy Manor than Lucius did, and Barty would either turn it into a dramatic conspiracy or ask if they were planning murder before breakfast, while Pandora would probably say something terrifyingly accurate wrapped in a metaphor about shadows and moth wings.
Lucius, on the other hand, knew things.
Lucius always knew things.
Worse, Lucius had been there.
He had stood beside her last night.
He had watched the guests, understood the politics, noticed who mattered and who did not, and if anyone knew why Tom Riddle had appeared at Malfoy Manor, it would be the insufferable, perfectly groomed heir currently residing inside it.
Hermione threw the blankets off herself and climbed out of bed with enough determination that the cold floor beneath her feet barely registered.
Her desk stood near the window, still scattered with parchment, quills and the remains of several unfinished letters from the holidays, and Hermione crossed the room quickly before dropping into her chair and pulling a clean sheet toward herself.
For a moment she stared at the blank parchment.
Then she dipped her quill into the ink.
Lucius,
I need to speak with you.
Preferably today.
Preferably without half of Pureblood society listening.
Hermione paused.
Then, because she knew Lucius and did not trust him not to be dramatic about it, she added:
No, this is not about your hair, your robes, or your unbearable ego, so you may save yourself the trouble of pretending to be offended.
It is important.
Hermione
She stared at the letter for a moment longer, then folded it carefully and sealed it with a quick tap of her wand before calling for Mipsy.
The little house elf appeared with a soft pop, dressed in a clean tea towel and looking as though she had already been expecting Hermione to cause trouble before breakfast.
“Miss Hermione is awake early,” Mipsy said, her large eyes immediately flickering toward the sealed letter in Hermione’s hand.
Hermione tried not to look guilty.
She failed.
“I need this sent to Malfoy Manor as quickly as possible.”
Mipsy took the letter with both hands, her ears twitching. “Miss Hermione is writing to the Malfoy boy very early.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Do not say it like that.”
“Mipsy is saying nothing.”
“You are absolutely saying something.”
“Mipsy is a loyal house elf and would never gossip about Miss Hermione’s letters.”
“That means you are going to tell Mother, doesn’t it?”
Mipsy blinked.
Hermione sighed.
“Of course it does.”
Mipsy hugged the letter to her chest. “Mipsy will take it to one of the owls, Miss. Fastest owl.”
“Thank you, Mipsy.”
The elf disappeared with another soft pop, leaving Hermione alone again in the pale morning light.
Only then did Hermione realize that she was still standing in her nightdress, her hair a mess around her shoulders and her heart beating a little too quickly for someone who had merely sent a letter.
Brilliant.
Absolutely brilliant.
She had seen Tom Riddle once and was already behaving as though she had misplaced her entire common sense.
With a muttered curse that would have made Bellatrix proud, Hermione made her way toward the bathroom to get ready.
By the time she reached breakfast, freshly dressed and with her hair braided in a way Narcissa would hopefully not find offensive, her mother was already seated at the table with Charlus, though James was notably absent.
Hermione’s gaze flickered toward his empty chair before she could stop herself.
Dorea noticed.
Of course she did.
“He is helping in the kitchens this morning,” Dorea said lightly, taking a sip of tea. “Apparently Mipsy decided he needed to understand the emotional weight of improperly folded linens.”
Charlus coughed into his cup.
Hermione sat down slowly.
“I see.”
Dorea’s eyes gleamed over the rim of her teacup. “Do you?”
Hermione looked down at her plate before her mother could see her smile. “Deeply.”
The meal continued with surprising peace after that, though Hermione had only managed three bites of toast before an owl tapped sharply against the window.
Her head snapped up.
Dorea’s gaze followed hers.
The owl outside was sleek, pale and far too elegant to belong to the Potters.
Hermione immediately stood.
“I will get it.”
Dorea’s brows rose.
Charlus looked between his wife and daughter with the expression of a man who had already accepted that he would understand only half of whatever was happening at any given moment in his own home.
Hermione opened the window, and the owl swept inside with the kind of offended dignity that suggested it considered breakfast rooms beneath it.
Very Malfoy.
A cream-colored envelope was tied to its leg, sealed neatly with the Malfoy crest.
Hermione untied it quickly.
Little Serpent,
How wonderfully alarming.
You do realize that sending vague, ominous letters before breakfast is usually considered my role in this friendship.
Come to Malfoy Manor after breakfast.
Mother insists you are welcome, Father is amused, and I am, apparently, in desperate need of being rescued from what he calls “necessary education” and what I call parchment-induced suffering.
Use the Floo.
Lucius
Hermione read the letter once.
Then again.
Then slowly lowered it.
Dorea watched her very carefully.
“Malfoy Manor?” her mother asked.
Hermione looked up.
“Lucius invited me.”
Dorea’s expression remained composed, though Hermione saw the questions gathering behind her eyes. “Did he?”
“Yes.”
“For tea?”
Hermione hesitated.
“Not exactly.”
Charlus lowered his paper.
Dorea placed her cup down.
Hermione sighed, because she knew perfectly well that avoiding the conversation would only make her mother more determined to have it.
“I wanted to ask him something about last night.”
Dorea said nothing for a moment, and Hermione braced herself for questions, for concern, perhaps even for a refusal, but instead her mother only studied her with the quiet, searching gaze that had always made Hermione feel as though Dorea could see every thought she tried to hide behind her eyes.
“Is this something I should be worried about?” Dorea asked eventually.
Hermione thought of a young man beneath a snow-dusted archway, dark hair, blue eyes and a smile that had made the world feel suddenly colder.
“Yes,” she said honestly, because lying to Dorea had gone terribly last time. “But not because of Lucius.”
Dorea’s expression sharpened.
Charlus sat up properly now.
Hermione folded Lucius’ letter carefully between her fingers. “I need to understand something first. Then I will tell you.”
Dorea looked as though she disliked that answer very much.
Hermione could hardly blame her.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Dorea exhaled softly and leaned back in her chair. “Very well.”
Hermione blinked. “Very well?”
“Yes,” Dorea said, though her tone suggested that her agreement should not be mistaken for surrender. “You may go to Malfoy Manor, but you will return before dinner, you will stay where Lucilla or Abraxas know where you are, and if at any point you feel unsafe, uncomfortable or even mildly irritated beyond your usual tolerance, you will come home immediately.”
Hermione stared at her.
Dorea raised an eyebrow. “Do we understand one another?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And Hermione?”
“Yes?”
Dorea’s voice softened, though her eyes did not lose their edge. “Do not make me regret trusting you.”
The words struck more gently than Hermione expected.
Perhaps because they were not a warning only.
They were trust.
Carefully given.
Still fragile in places.
But there.
Hermione nodded. “I won’t.”
Dorea held her gaze for another long moment before finally nodding back. “Good. Then finish your breakfast before you rush off to the Malfoys and give Lucius the satisfaction of thinking he is important enough to make you skip a meal.”
Hermione smiled despite herself.
“Merlin forbid.”
When Hermione stepped out of the Floo into Malfoy Manor a short while later, she had barely brushed soot from her sleeves before Lucilla Malfoy appeared from somewhere near the grand staircase as though she had been waiting for her.
“Hermione, my dear,” Lucilla greeted warmly, moving toward her with a smile that made the grand entrance hall feel a little less intimidating than it had the night before. “How lovely to see you again so soon.”
Hermione curtseyed automatically. “Lady Malfoy.”
Lucilla gave her a look.
Hermione tried again.
“Lucilla.”
“Much better,” Lucilla said, looking pleased as she gestured for Hermione to follow her. “Lucius has been unbearable since your letter arrived.”
Hermione fell into step beside her as they began walking through the Manor, past tall windows, silver-framed portraits and corridors that seemed to stretch farther than they logically should. “Only since my letter arrived?”
Lucilla laughed.
“Oh, I do like you.”
Hermione smiled.
“I like you too.”
The words slipped out before she could think better of them, but Lucilla’s expression softened so quickly that Hermione could not bring herself to regret it.
“Well,” the older witch said lightly, though her voice was a little warmer now, “then I suppose we are both fortunate.”
They continued through the Manor at a comfortable pace, and Hermione found herself looking around despite her best efforts not to appear too impressed.
In daylight, Malfoy Manor felt different than it had during the ball.
Less glittering, perhaps, but no less grand.
The walls were lined with portraits whose eyes followed them with varying degrees of interest, and every so often Lucilla would point out a piece of art, an old family tapestry or a room with a history so dramatic that Hermione wondered whether Pureblood families collected scandals deliberately.
“My husband is in his study,” Lucilla explained as they turned down a quieter corridor, her tone becoming faintly amused. “With Lucius.”
Hermione glanced at her. “That sounds ominous.”
“It is educational.”
“Lucius said it was parchment-induced suffering.”
Lucilla’s smile widened. “Both can be true.”
They stopped before a heavy oak door carved with intricate patterns that looked almost like vines curling around serpents, and Lucilla raised her hand to knock twice.
A moment later, Abraxas Malfoy’s voice came from inside.
“Enter.”
Lucilla opened the door, and Hermione stepped inside after her, prepared for many things.
She was not prepared for Lucius Malfoy looking bored to the point of death in the middle of what appeared to be an ocean of documents.
Parchment covered the desk.
Parchment covered the side table.
Books were stacked in careful piles around him, several ledgers lay open in front of Abraxas, and Lucius himself sat in a chair with perfect posture and the expression of a boy who had been forced to endure the slowest form of torture known to wizardkind.
Hermione pressed her lips together.
Hard.
Lucius saw her.
His eyes lit up.
Abraxas saw that too and sighed as though the entire situation pained him deeply.
“I had hoped you would not be here quite so soon, Hermione.”
Hermione dipped into a polite curtsey, though she was fairly certain amusement was written all over her face. “My apologies, Lord Malfoy.”
“No,” Abraxas said dryly, closing the ledger in front of him. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Lucius looked seconds away from vibrating out of his chair.
Lucilla stood beside Hermione looking far too pleased with herself.
Abraxas turned his gaze toward his son.
Lucius immediately attempted to look composed.
He failed.
“Tomorrow,” Abraxas said, with the tone of a man who knew perfectly well that he was losing the battle but intended to win the war, “we will continue our discussion regarding the family’s investments, trade agreements and the importance of understanding how wealth remains wealth instead of becoming decoration.”
Lucius looked as though the word investments had physically wounded him.
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek.
“For today,” Abraxas continued, “you are free to go.”
Lucius was out of his chair so quickly that several parchments fluttered dangerously.
“Thank you, Father.”
Abraxas raised an eyebrow.
Lucius slowed at once, gathered the last remains of his dignity, and bowed his head. “Thank you, Father.”
“Better,” Abraxas said.
Hermione looked down before she laughed.
Lucilla did not bother hiding her smile.
Lucius took Hermione by the wrist the moment they were outside the study and tugged her down the corridor with the kind of urgency one usually associated with escaping a burning building.
The oak door had barely closed behind them before he spun toward her, wrapped his arms around her and lifted her clean off the floor.
Hermione shrieked.
“Lucius!”
“You saved me,” he declared, spinning her once, then twice, while Hermione clutched at his shoulders and laughed so hard she nearly forgot to be offended. “You saved me from ledgers, Little Serpent, from ledgers.”
“Put me down.”
“Never.”
“Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.”
He immediately set her down.
Hermione stumbled slightly, still laughing, while Lucius looked far too happy for someone who had just been scolded like an overexcited child.
“Again,” he said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart, “I owe you my life.”
“You are dramatic.”
“My father wanted to teach me about the family businesses.”
“That sounds useful.”
“It was horrifying.”
“It sounds useful.”
“Hermione,” Lucius said, looking at her as though she had betrayed him on a spiritual level, “there were numbers.”
Hermione laughed again.
“Poor Pretty Boy.”
“And Father,” Lucius continued, already beginning to walk, “is a terrible teacher.”
Hermione followed him through the corridor, still smiling. “Lord Malfoy seems very intelligent.”
“Oh, he is brilliant,” Lucius said immediately. “That is the problem. Brilliant people often forget that the rest of us require explanations before they begin discussing five generations of investments and why Great-Grandfather nearly bankrupted a branch of the family over enchanted glass.”
Hermione blinked.
“Enchanted glass?”
“Do not ask.”
“I very much want to ask.”
“Do not.”
Naturally, Hermione made a mental note to ask Abraxas later.
Lucius, perhaps sensing betrayal, narrowed his eyes at her before gesturing grandly toward the corridor ahead. “Since you have so heroically rescued me, I suppose I shall reward you with a tour.”
Hermione looked around at the marble floors, the long windows and the portraits pretending not to listen. “A reward?”
“Yes.”
“Of your house?”
“My magnificent ancestral Manor.”
“Which I have already seen parts of.”
“You saw the ballroom and entrance hall during a crowded event. That hardly counts.”
Hermione smiled. “Fine. Impress me.”
Lucius’ expression sharpened with immediate purpose.
That, Hermione decided, had perhaps been a mistake.
For the next hour, Lucius showed her through Malfoy Manor with the pride of someone who had been raised to understand every portrait, every corridor and every artifact as an extension of his family’s power.
They passed rooms filled with old books and older magic, drawing rooms arranged with frightening perfection, a gallery of portraits who watched Hermione with undisguised curiosity, and windows that overlooked snow-covered gardens stretching far beyond the Manor itself.
Lucius spoke easily as they walked, pointing out family histories, old wards, hidden doors and at least three rooms he claimed were cursed, though Hermione suspected one of them was simply where his mother stored furniture she disliked.
For a while, she allowed herself to enjoy it.
The tour.
The Manor.
Lucius’ company.
The fact that he, for all his arrogance and dramatics, seemed genuinely pleased to show her his home.
Eventually, however, as they walked through a quieter corridor lined with old portraits and silver sconces, Hermione found herself thinking back to the ball.
To the faces.
The voices.
The feeling of being watched.
She slowed slightly.
Lucius noticed at once.
Of course he did.
“I think,” Hermione began carefully, keeping her gaze fixed ahead, “that I really did know almost everyone yesterday.”
Lucius glanced at her.
His mouth curved faintly, though his eyes remained attentive. “You did know an alarming number of guests for an eleven-year-old.”
Hermione ignored that. “The Blacks, obviously. The Malfoys. Barty and his father. Evan, Pandora, Narcissa, Andromeda, Bellatrix. Even some of the families your mother and mine were gossiping about.”
Lucius gave her a look. “Educating you about.”
“Gossiping.”
“Pureblood social education.”
“Gossiping.”
He sighed. “Fine. Gossiping.”
Hermione smiled briefly, but it faded quickly.
Lucius waited.
He did not prompt her.
Not yet.
That was how she knew he had realized there was more.
Hermione drew in a slow breath. “There was someone I did not know.”
Lucius stopped walking.
Not abruptly.
Not enough to startle her.
But enough.
His gaze shifted toward her, and the expression on his face said very clearly that he wished she would be more direct before he decided how concerned he ought to be.
Hermione met his eyes.
“But he seemed to know about me.”
Lucius’ face changed.
Only slightly.
Only for a second.
Then he turned his head, looking down the corridor in both directions before glancing toward the portraits along the walls.
Hermione followed his gaze.
Several painted Malfoys suddenly became very interested in their own frames.
One pretended to adjust a glove.
Another turned away too quickly.
A third elderly wizard attempted to look as though he had not been leaning closer.
Hermione rolled her eyes.
Lucius’ mouth tightened.
“Would you like to see the stables?” he asked, his voice suddenly pleasant in a way that did not match his expression at all.
Hermione looked at him.
Then at the portraits.
Then back at him.
“I would love to see the stables.”
“Excellent.”
They turned without another word.
Only once they had left the main body of the Manor and stepped through a side passage leading toward the grounds did Hermione allow herself to speak again, though she kept her voice lower this time.
“Your portraits are nosy.”
“They are Malfoys.”
“That explains far too much.”
“It truly does.”
The stables were unlike any Hermione had ever seen.
Calling them stables at all felt almost insulting.
The long building was made of pale stone and dark wood, warmed by magic and lit by floating lanterns that cast soft golden light over polished stalls, each large enough to house creatures far more impressive than ordinary horses.
And inside stood Abraxans.
Hermione stopped just inside the entrance.
For a moment, every thought she had carried with her from the Manor faltered.
The winged horses were enormous, their bodies powerful and pale, with feathered wings folded neatly against their sides and intelligent eyes that watched her with calm, ancient patience.
One of them lifted its head as she entered.
Hermione forgot to breathe properly.
Lucius, seeing her expression, looked deeply satisfied.
“They are beautiful,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
She looked at him.
He smiled.
“I am allowed to say it. They belong to us.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, though she was still staring at the nearest Abraxan. “Of course they do.”
For a while, neither of them mentioned Tom Riddle.
Lucius led her deeper into the stables, introducing the horses by name and explaining which ones belonged to his mother, which were used for formal carriage travel, and which one had once bitten a visiting French diplomat so badly that Abraxas had sent flowers to apologize while privately declaring the horse an excellent judge of character.
Hermione laughed at that.
She could not help it.
But eventually the quiet returned.
And with it, the question.
Lucius stopped beside a stall where a pale Abraxan with dark eyes lowered its head toward him, accepting his touch with clear familiarity.
Hermione watched him stroke the horse’s nose.
Then Lucius said, without looking at her, “Yes. That was Lord Riddle.”
Hermione nodded slowly, though the name still felt wrong in daylight.
Lord Riddle.
Tom Riddle.
Lord Gaunt.
Voldemort.
Too many names for one man.
“He is a regular guest here,” Lucius continued, his voice carefully even, “and a good friend of my father.”
Hermione snorted.
Lucius turned to look at her.
She raised an eyebrow. “Good friends?”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
Lucius narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”
“It means nothing.”
“It very clearly means something.”
Hermione leaned against the wooden edge of the stall and looked at him with as much innocence as she could manage. “He seemed rather young to be such a close friend of your father, and I do not recall ever hearing much about House Riddle.”
Lucius sighed deeply.
Then he looked more closely at her.
Properly looked.
And apparently he saw whatever had slipped past her mask, because his eyes narrowed and then widened slightly as understanding dawned.
“You little minx.”
Hermione smiled.
Lucius stared at her. “You already knew who he was.”
“Of course I knew who he was,” Hermione said, waving one hand as though that had never been the important part. “Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Gaunt, if the rumors I have heard are to be believed.”
Lucius looked both impressed and vaguely betrayed. “Then why ask?”
Hermione tilted her head. “Because what I do not know is why he was so interested in me.”
At that, the humor drained from Lucius’ face.
He looked back toward the Abraxan, his hand still resting against the creature’s pale coat.
For a few seconds, he said nothing.
Hermione waited.
She was not patient by nature, no matter what some people thought, but she knew when silence meant someone was choosing their words carefully.
Lucius exhaled.
“You have to understand,” he began, then stopped as though already regretting the conversation. “He is a very powerful Legilimens.”
Hermione’s stomach tightened.
The word hung between them.
A lifetime of Occlumency lessons she had never properly received but desperately wished she had.
Lucius did not look at her.
“And I,” he continued, sounding deeply uncomfortable now, “could not stop thinking about you.”
Hermione raised one eyebrow.
Slowly.
Lucius looked at her expression and blanched. “Ugh. Not in that way.”
Hermione laughed despite the tension in her chest.
“I know.”
“You clearly did not.”
“I did.”
“You looked as though you were about to accuse me of something horrifying.”
“I was enjoying your discomfort.”
Lucius glared.
Hermione smiled faintly. “You are like a brother to me too, Pretty Boy.”
His expression shifted at that.
Only a little.
Enough.
Then, because apparently emotional sincerity pained him, Lucius reached out to pat her head.
Hermione pinched his side immediately.
Hard.
“Ow!”
“Do not pat my head.”
Lucius laughed under his breath, rubbing his side as though she had mortally wounded him. “Violent little serpent.”
“Dramatic peacock.”
“That was cruel.”
“Accurate.”
For a moment, the familiar teasing settled between them and eased the edge of the conversation.
Only for a moment.
Then Lucius’ smile faded again.
“I was thinking about what Dumbledore did,” he admitted quietly, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond her now. “About how he treated you. About what you told me after that day, and what I saw on your face when you spoke of him.”
Hermione’s fingers tightened around the wooden railing.
Lucius swallowed.
“Lord Riddle sensed that I was thinking of Dumbledore.”
Hermione went very still.
“And he became curious.”
She understood before Lucius finished.
The idea uncurled coldly in her stomach.
“So he searched your memories,” Hermione said, her voice far calmer than she felt, “found me, and became even more curious.”
Lucius looked ashamed.
That, more than anything, unsettled her.
Because Lucius Malfoy did not do shame gracefully.
He wore arrogance beautifully, annoyance naturally, amusement like a weapon, but shame sat awkwardly on him, heavy and ill-fitting.
“I did not intend for him to see so much,” he said.
Hermione believed him.
That did not make it better.
“So the two of you gossiped about me like old hags?”
Lucius shook his head immediately. “No.”
Hermione looked at him.
He looked back.
She did not blink.
He lasted perhaps three seconds before sighing.
“No,” he repeated, then grimaced when she continued to stare, “not just the two of us.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed.
Lucius looked even more guilty.
“My father was also there.”
For one long second, Hermione simply stared at him.
Then all the air seemed to leave her at once.
Her shoulders dropped.
Her entire body followed.
She turned and sat down heavily on a nearby bale of hay, ignoring the way Lucius winced at the sight of her fine robes against it.
“My life,” she said flatly, “is a nightmare.”
Lucius sat down beside her a moment later, though he did so with a grimace that suggested the hay had personally insulted generations of Malfoys.
Hermione almost appreciated the sacrifice.
Almost.
“You have to understand, Little Serpent,” Lucius said, his voice softer now, “he became interested in the first place because-”
He stopped.
Hermione slowly turned her head toward him.
“Because?”
Lucius dragged one hand over his face.
Hermione’s patience snapped.
“Out with it, Pretty Boy.”
He looked at her, and for once there was no teasing in his expression at all.
"Because Dumbledore's pattern is repeating itself," Lucius said quietly, and Hermione's thoughts stumbled.
For a moment, she could do nothing but stare.
The words did not fit easily into the shape of the story she knew.
Yes, Dumbledore had been manipulative.
She knew that now.
She had felt it herself in the office, in the way he had looked at her, in the way he had spoken as though being different made her something to be studied, guided, controlled.
But this... this was different.
Because Tom Riddle had always been the monster in every version of the story Hermione remembered.
He had been cruelty sharpened into purpose, ambition rotted into hunger, brilliance stripped of mercy until nothing human remained.
And yet Lucius was looking at her as though there was another piece of the puzzle.
One older than Voldemort.
Older than war.
Older even than Hogwarts.
Hermione looked down at her hands.
Dumbledore had treated her like something dangerous because she was a Potter in Slytherin, because she had knowledge he did not understand and a mind he could not easily shape.
If he had looked at Tom Riddle the same way when Tom had been only a child...
No.
Not the same.
Worse, perhaps.
Because Tom had been alone.
No Dorea.
No Charlus.
No Regulus.
No Lucius, no Narcissa, no Bellatrix, no one to stand beside him and say that he was not evil merely because someone powerful had decided he could become so.
Hermione swallowed.
The thought was deeply uncomfortable.
More than uncomfortable.
It was dangerous.
Because pity, when attached to Tom Riddle, felt like stepping onto thin ice and hearing it crack beneath her feet.
For several long seconds, Hermione said nothing.
Dumbledore had been the wise man who had seen the danger before anyone else.
But what if that had never been the whole truth?
What if Dumbledore had not seen a monster and tried to stop him?
What if he had seen a child and decided, long before anyone else had been given the chance to know him, that a monster was all he could ever become?
The thought made Hermione’s stomach twist.
Because it did not excuse what Tom Riddle had done.
Nothing could.
Not the war she remembered, not the murders, not the terror, not the pieces of soul hidden away like trophies because death had frightened him more than damnation.
But it changed the beginning.
And beginnings mattered.
They mattered terribly.
A gentle nudge against her shoulder pulled her out of the spiral before it could swallow her whole, and when Hermione looked up, Lucius was watching her with an expression far too careful for someone who usually preferred hiding concern beneath arrogance.
“He wanted me to teach you Occlumency,” Lucius said quietly.
Hermione blinked.
Once.
Then again.
“What?”
Lucius sighed, turning his gaze back toward the Abraxan in front of them as though the winged horse might somehow make the conversation easier. “Lord Gaunt. He told me I should teach you Occlumency and keep an eye on you.”
Hermione nodded slowly.
It seemed like the correct response.
The problem, however, was that she did not even pretend to understand.
Not truly.
Not in any way that mattered.
“Right,” she said carefully.
Lucius glanced at her.
Then laughed.
Not loudly.
Not cruelly.
Just enough to make it clear that he knew exactly how little sense any of this made to her. “You have no idea what to do with that information.”
“No,” Hermione admitted immediately, because lying would have been useless and she was far too tired to attempt dignity. “I really do not.”
Lucius’ smile lingered faintly before fading into something more serious. “I do not fancy myself important enough to know what Lord Gaunt does or even the reasons behind it, Little Serpent.”
Hermione’s eyes found his as he continued, and for once his expression held none of the easy superiority he wore so often, none of the polished confidence of the Malfoy heir, only an uncomfortable sort of honesty that made him look younger than he usually allowed himself to appear.
“I only know that I am not stupid enough to ignore him.”
Hermione nodded again, though the motion felt slow and distant, as if her body had accepted the information before her mind had managed to arrange it into anything useful.
Occlumency.
Mind magic.
Protection.
Tom Riddle wanting her protected from something.
Or protected for something.
That distinction mattered, and Hermione hated that she did not know which one it was.
Too many thoughts darted through her head at once, sharp and slippery, impossible to catch, and because she could not bear to sit there beneath the weight of them for even a second longer, a slow smirk began to stretch across her face.
Lucius noticed immediately.
His eyes narrowed.
Hermione’s smirk widened.
“So,” she said, drawing the word out with deliberate sweetness, “you are going to become even more of a mother hen from now on?”
Lucius’ face darkened with such immediate offense that Hermione nearly laughed before he had even opened his mouth.
“I am not a mother hen.”
Hermione threw her head back and laughed, a bright, easy sound that startled even her with how quickly it broke through the heaviness sitting in her chest, because she had had enough of dark revelations and dangerous men and complicated questions for one morning, and if Lucius was going to sit beside her in a stable looking solemn and protective, then she was absolutely going to make fun of him for it.
“You absolutely are.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
Hermione rose to her feet, brushing hay from her robes while Lucius watched her with deep suspicion. “Hermione, do this,” she said, dropping her voice into a dreadful, exaggerated imitation of Lucius’ elegant drawl. “Hermione, do not speak to suspicious portraits. Hermione, learn Occlumency. Hermione, stop glaring at people who deserve it.”
Lucius looked horrified.
“That sounds nothing like me.”
Hermione clasped her hands together and lifted her chin, making her voice even higher and far more scandalized. “Hermione, your robes are crooked. Hermione, your hairpin is offensive. Hermione, do not befriend emotionally unstable Gryffindors.”
Lucius stood slowly.
Hermione’s grin turned dangerous.
“Stop doing that,” he warned.
“Oh?” Hermione took a careful step backward. “Does the mother hen dislike being mocked?”
“Little Serpent.”
Another step.
“Pretty Boy.”
“Hermione.”
She turned and ran.
It was not the most dignified retreat in history, but it was certainly one of the more satisfying ones, because Lucius made a sound of pure disbelief before chasing after her, and within seconds Hermione’s laughter echoed through the stables and out into the vast winter gardens of Malfoy Manor.
The cold air hit her cheeks the moment she burst outside, sharp and bright and wonderful, and she did not slow down even as snow crunched beneath her shoes and her cloak fluttered behind her.
To Hermione’s absolute delight, the mother hen behind her was very quick to do his job.
“Stop running before you slip,” Lucius called after her, sounding both annoyed and genuinely concerned, which only made the entire thing funnier. “Hermione, I mean it. The ground is frozen - oh dear Salazar.”
He stopped.
Hermione stopped too, but only because she was laughing too hard to keep going.
Slowly, she turned around.
Lucius stood several feet behind her with an expression of dawning horror, as though he had just heard himself and realized there was no possible way to recover from it.
Hermione pressed one hand to her chest.
Then, in the highest, most scandalized imitation she could manage, she repeated, “Stop running before you slip, Hermione.”
Lucius closed his eyes.
Hermione laughed harder.
“You sounded exactly like a mother hen.”
“I despise you.”
“No, you do not.”
“No,” he agreed, opening his eyes and looking at her with the grim determination of someone who had reached the end of his patience, “but I am beginning to understand why your brother throws things.”
Hermione gasped. “How rude.”
Lucius lifted his wand.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed.
“Lucius.”
He smiled.
That was never good.
“Pretty Boy,” she warned.
He muttered something under his breath.
The next thing Hermione knew, the snow-covered ground beneath her feet flashed smooth and silver, and before she could even attempt to regain her balance, her shoes slid out from under her and she landed flat on her back with a deeply undignified sound.
For one long second there was silence.
Hermione stared up at the pale winter sky.
Lucius stared down at her.
Then he began to laugh.
Not the polite laugh he used in ballrooms.
Not the quiet, elegant amusement he wore like another piece of jewelry.
No.
This was real laughter, bright and breathless and entirely unrestrained, and despite the fact that Hermione was currently lying on magically created ice in the middle of Malfoy Manor’s garden, she found herself fighting a smile.
Barely.
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared up at him. “You are so funny, Pretty Boy.”
Lucius, still laughing, offered her a hand.
Hermione stared at it suspiciously.
“I will not drop you,” he said.
“You turned the ground into ice.”
“Yes, but I will not drop you.”
“That is not as reassuring as you think it is.”
Still, she took his hand.
Lucius pulled her to her feet with surprising gentleness, though his shoulders were still shaking with laughter as he steadied her before she could slip again.
“Are you hurt?”
Hermione brushed snow from her cloak with as much dignity as she could manage. “No.”
“Good.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you do not.”
“No,” she muttered, “but I am beginning to understand why people duel.”
Lucius smiled, far too pleased with himself, then turned toward one of the side doors leading back into the Manor. “Come along.”
Hermione looked at him warily. “Where?”
“Inside.”
“That was not an answer.”
“It was a location.”
“Lucius.”
He glanced back at her over his shoulder, silver hair catching the pale winter light in a way that made him look unbearably smug. “Would you like hot chocolate to make it better?”
Hermione frowned, confusion briefly overpowering suspicion. “I did not even hurt myself.”
“I know,” he said, already walking ahead. “I meant your bruised ego.”
Hermione stared after him.
Then slowly, very slowly, her eyes narrowed.
She was going to learn new hexes.
Immediately.
Preferably today.
Possibly before the hot chocolate.
High above the gardens of Malfoy Manor, in one of the quieter corridors where the noise of the household faded into little more than distant footsteps and the occasional murmur of a portrait pretending not to listen, a man stood before a tall, arched window with a glass of whisky resting loosely between his fingers.
The window overlooked the northeastern grounds of the estate, where snow lay in soft, untouched sheets across the gardens and the pale stone path leading toward the stables curved elegantly between dark winter hedges and silver-limbed trees.
Tom Marvolo Riddle had been standing there for some time.
Still.
Silent.
Thoughtful.
Not in the way men often became thoughtful when they were uncertain, because uncertainty had never sat comfortably on him and he had long since learned to destroy it before it could take root, but in the way one studied a chessboard after discovering that a new piece had appeared where none should have been.
Hermione Potter.
The name was deceptively simple.
Potter, which should have meant light, loyalty, Gryffindor recklessness and a family line Dumbledore would have found both useful and predictable.
Hermione, which meant nothing to him yet and therefore irritated him.
Because names always meant something.
Blood meant something.
Magic meant something.
And the girl below, the little Potter heiress with Black eyes, Slytherin colors and thoughts guarded not by skill but by sheer instinct, meant something in a way Tom had not yet decided how to define.
He lifted the glass to his lips and took a slow sip.
The whisky burned pleasantly.
Behind him, the corridor remained quiet for another moment before a second presence approached, measured and unhurried, stopping at a respectful distance to his right.
“My Lord,” Abraxas Malfoy said, his voice calm, though not careless. “You know she is speaking about you with my son.”
Tom did not look away from the window.
Outside, the stables stood bright and warm against the snow.
“I would be disappointed if she were not.”
Abraxas was silent for a moment, and Tom could feel the older man studying him, not boldly enough to be offensive, but closely enough to prove that he was not a fool.
Good.
Tom preferred useful men to foolish ones.
“Do you think it wise,” Abraxas asked eventually, “to let her know of you so soon?”
Only then did Tom’s mouth curve faintly, though his eyes remained fixed on the grounds below.
“Why would it not be?”
Abraxas’ expression, reflected faintly in the darkened glass beside him, tightened with the careful mistrust of a man who understood power well enough to fear the consequences of attracting too much of it toward a child standing anywhere near his family.
“The Potters have always been a family of the Light, my Lord,” Abraxas said carefully. “Whatever House she has been sorted into, whatever friends she has made, she is still their daughter, and sooner or later they will surely-”
Tom lifted one finger.
Abraxas stopped speaking immediately.
The silence that followed was not loud.
It did not need to be.
Tom lowered his hand only when he was certain the interruption had been understood. “The Potters,” he said softly, “have never before had an heiress sorted into Slytherin.”
Abraxas’ gaze sharpened.
Tom continued, his voice smooth and controlled, every word placed with the precision of a blade being set upon velvet. “Nor have they had a daughter who, within months of entering Hogwarts, made fast friends with the Blacks, the Rosiers, the Crouches, your son, and several others whom Dumbledore would no doubt consider unfortunate influences.”
A faint, humorless amusement touched his mouth.
“Unfortunate,” Tom repeated, as though tasting the word and finding it lacking. “How convenient that word has always been for him.”
Abraxas said nothing.
Tom took another measured sip of whisky, watching as one of the stable doors opened below.
“So yes, Abraxas,” he said, “I want her to know of me.”
Outside, the stable doors flew open, and Hermione Potter darted out first, her cloak flying behind her and her laughter spilling into the winter air so brightly that it carried even across the snow-covered grounds, while Lucius appeared only a second later, stepping after her with all the wounded dignity of a Malfoy heir who was pretending very hard not to have just been sitting on hay and even harder not to be enjoying himself.
Tom watched.
Abraxas watched as well.
“I want her to know,” Tom continued, his voice quieter now, though no less cold, “that if something happens, if Albus Dumbledore decides that another powerful Slytherin child is too inconvenient, too unpredictable, too dangerous to be allowed to grow without his hand around their throat, she has alliances in every dark corner he would rather she never think to look.”
Abraxas let out a low, displeased sound, though it did not seem directed at the girl below.
Tom’s eyes followed Lucius as he began chasing Hermione across the gardens, one hand lifting as though warning her against running on frozen ground while she, predictably, ignored him entirely.
Children.
Still children.
That mattered.
It mattered more than most men in their world allowed themselves to admit.
Dumbledore had forgotten it once.
Or perhaps he had never cared enough to remember.
“I will not,” Tom said, each word so calm that the anger beneath them became all the more terrible for it, “let another powerful snake be beheaded because Dumbledore has convinced himself that he alone may decide which children deserve saving and which children must be feared in the name of his so-called greater good.”
Below, Hermione turned back toward Lucius, laughing at something Tom could not hear.
A moment later the ground beneath her flashed silver.
The little Potter slipped.
Hard.
Tom’s mouth curved.
Not warmly.
Not cruelly either.
Almost despite himself.
Abraxas sighed beside him as Hermione landed flat on her back in the snow and Lucius immediately began laughing with a lack of restraint his mother would have found both embarrassing and charming.
“For Salazar’s sake,” Abraxas muttered, though there was fondness hidden beneath the irritation. “My son is going to get himself hexed.”
“He likely deserves it,” Tom said.
“He usually does.”
For a moment, the two men stood in quiet observation as Lucius offered Hermione a hand, pulled her carefully back to her feet and then, after what appeared to be a sharp exchange involving much indignation on her part and far too much amusement on his, began leading her back toward the Manor.
Only when the children disappeared beneath the stone archway leading inside did Abraxas speak again.
“You realize her family will not take kindly to this if they learn of it.”
Tom finally turned his head.
The movement was slow.
Deliberate.
His gaze settled on Abraxas with enough sharpness that many men would have stepped back without meaning to.
Abraxas did not.
That, too, was useful.
“When the time comes,” Tom said, “they will stand behind their daughter.”
Abraxas looked uncertain now, and uncertainty on Abraxas Malfoy was rare enough to be interesting. “How could you possibly know that, my Lord?”
For the first time, Tom smiled fully.
It was a beautiful expression.
It was not a kind one.
For the briefest second, his eyes flashed crimson in the dim winter light.
“Because,” Tom said softly, turning his gaze back toward the empty gardens below, “I know Dumbledore.”
The words settled into the corridor like frost.
Abraxas understood then.
Not everything.
No one ever understood everything unless Tom permitted it.
But enough.
Enough to understand that this was not fascination born from affection, nor interest born from some passing amusement with a pretty little girl who had caught the eye of a dangerous man.
It was older than that.
Colder.
Far more deliberate.
Tom Marvolo Riddle had looked at Hermione Potter and seen neither romance nor innocence alone.
He had seen a warning.
A pattern.
A child with power, isolated by difference, watched by a man who called control kindness and fear wisdom.
And Tom had no intention of allowing Albus Dumbledore to write the same story twice.