Chapter Text
Hermione Granger walked through the streets of Knockturn Alley, thinking off all the titles she had held throughout her life—Unspeakable, war hero, top of her class at Hogwarts, and once dubbed the "brightest witch of her age." She rolled her eyes at the memory. Now, she could add "certified criminal" to her ever-growing list of accomplishments. She hadn’t exactly planned on breaking the law. No, Hermione had always prided herself on following the rules—well, except when bending them served the greater good. And perhaps, this time, the rules were bending more for her curiosity than any noble cause. But really, what harm could there be in a little time travel? It wasn’t like it was her first time tempting the fates, and at least this time she had experience and maturity to assist. The future was secure, after all. The Dark Lord had been vanquished, his followers scattered, and peace had been restored. So why not take a little trip down memory lane, so to speak, to satisfy her curiosity?
After all, she just wanted to see Tom Riddle as a child at Hogwarts, see what possibly could have led him to become the terror of her time. To become the man who lured Ginny into opening the Chamber of Secrets, who hunted Harry with a single-minded obsession, who turned friend against friend and shattered the safety of the wizarding world. The man who reduced her youth to a series of battles and sacrifice, stripping away her innocence and forcing her to grow up a shadow of her former self. She wanted to understand the boy who became the monster who unleashed Dementors on her classmates, trained those who tortured her with the Cruciatus Curse, and left scars that would never truly heal. Maybe she was a little obsessed too.
Her dark green cloak billowed behind her as she tugged her hood further down, shrouding her face in shadow. But there was no hiding the sharpness of her eyes or the determination in her stride. She moved with the confidence born of years of experience and countless battles won, her hand lightly resting on the pocket that held the slightly illegal Time-Turner she had, for a lack of a better word, borrowed from the Ministry.
At last, she arrived at the weathered entrance of Borgin and Burkes, the most notorious shop in Knockturn Alley, known for its dealing in dark and dangerous objects. She had a sordid history with the store, Draco Malfoy having used it to transport the very group that had killed so many and forced her to be the ruthless person she was today. The shopfront was as grim as she remembered from her youth—dusty windows and a tarnished sign swinging gently in the breeze. It had been almost a decade since the last time she was here and a shiver ran down her spine, but she shook it off. It was more out of excitement than fear. After all, it wasn’t every day you got the chance to see history unfold with your own eyes.
Hermione pushed the door open with a creak, the bell above it jinglin, announcing her arrival.The inside of the shop was dimly lit, filled with shelves cluttered with items of dubious origin and even more dubious purpose. A musty smell permeated the air, mingling with the scent of aged parchment and something else—something faintly metallic and sinister.
Behind the counter, Mr. Borgin slouched, a man who looked perpetually on the brink of death. His greasy, thinning hair was slicked back, and his beady eyes were sharp despite the appearance of a man who had long given up on any semblance of self-care. His clothes hung loosely on his frame, stained with remnants of meals long past, and the stench of stale ale clinging to him like a second skin.
"What can I do for you, miss?" Borgin's voice was as slick and oily as his appearance, dripping with a false courtesy that made Hermione’s skin crawl.
Hermione didn’t bother to lower her hood. Instead, she met Borgin’s gaze with a steady, unblinking stare, her eyes cold and calculating. There was no trace of the eager, meek, bookish girl she had once been. This version of Hermione Granger was dangerous, a woman who had seen too much and lost too many to tolerate any nonsense.
"I’m in need of a particular item," she said, her voice low and measured, each word carrying a weight that left no room for argument. "A Time-Turner." She had no time or desire to mince words with the man and she knew if they both played pretend that this wasn’t what she was here for, was a waste of time.
Borgin’s eyes widened ever so slightly at the request, but he quickly masked his reaction, his expression sliding back into that of the practiced merchant. "A Time-Turner, you say?" He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the counter. "Quite a rare artifact. Hard to come by, especially under the Ministry’s current regulations."
"I’m aware," Hermione replied coolly, not missing a beat. With a flick of her wrist, she produced a small, heavy pouch from within her cloak and tossed it onto the counter. The sharp clink of galleons hitting wood echoed in the silence of the shop. Borgin’s eyes flickered with greed as he reached for the pouch, weighing it in his hand.
He hesitated for only a brief moment, the cogs in his mind turning as he calculated the risk against the reward. But Borgin was a man who thrived on the dangerous and the forbidden, and Hermione knew he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to make a lucrative deal.
Apparently he had made his decision, as he looked at her, nodding and turning to rummage through a drawer behind the counter. "Give me a moment," he said, his voice almost a whisper, as though the walls themselves had ears.
While he was distracted, Hermione let her gaze wander around the shop, taking in the various artifacts and curiosities that lined the shelves. She had no intention of using whatever Time-Turner Borgin managed to procure for her; the one she carried was more than sufficient. No, this was just part of her cover, replacing the Ministries' much more powerful one with whatever Borgin could come up with. After all, she couldn’t very well let him know that she was already in possession of what she sought, could she?
Borgin returned a moment later with a small, dusty box, which he placed on the counter before her. “There you are, miss. One Time-Turner, as requested.”
Hermione opened the box to reveal a delicate hourglass on a fine chain—an almost perfect replica of the one she carried. But there was something else, something beneath the surface of the magical object, a latent power humming faintly in the air around it.
As she slipped the box into her pocket, the Ministry-Time-Turner shifted, the new one not fully enclosed within its case, they came together with a barely perceptible clink.
Suddenly, a surge of energy exploded between the two devices, and Hermione felt a violent ripple of magic shoot through the air, making her skin prickle with an overwhelming sense of wrongness. The Time-Turners, identical in form and function, were never meant to interact. Time, a force as ancient as magic itself, abhorred paradoxes, and the presence of two nearly identical Time-Turners in such close proximity triggered a reaction neither she nor any wizard could have anticipated. It was as if two mirrors had been placed facing each other, each reflecting an infinite number of possibilities—a recursive loop of temporal energy.
The air around her warped and twisted, colors bleeding into one another as the world around her distorted. The very fabric of reality seemed to unravel at the seams, and before she could react, Hermione was yanked off her feet, hurtling through a vortex of light and shadow.
When the world finally solidified around her again, Hermione found herself crouched on the dusty floor, behind a row of shelves, her hood thrown back, hair a wild mess. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. The familiar, oppressive air of Borgin and Burkes still surrounded her, but it was…different. She peered cautiously through the gaps between the shelves, her heart pounding as she realized with growing horror that she was still in the shop, but in a different time.
The shelves were orderly, the items meticulously arranged. The air was less stale, less burdened by years of dark magic. The shop had an aura of respectability, as if it were a legitimate business rather than a purveyor of cursed objects.
A soft footstep sounded behind the counter, and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She carefully peeked around the corner, her eyes widening as she saw a young man standing there, sorting through a pile of papers with an air of distracted efficiency.
Tom Riddle.
A sickening feeling ran through her as the realization struck her—she had been thrown into the past, but this was not the time she had intended to visit. She had planned to observe Tom Riddle during his time at Hogwarts, to study how he had become the Dark Lord, but now she was in a time when he was already out of school, already beginning his descent into darkness.
He looked almost exactly as he did in the memories she had seen in the Pensieve—tall, dark-haired, with an aristocratic bearing that exuded confidence and control. His white button down was soft and elegantly tailored, effortlessly blending sophistication with a casual air. His black trousers, meticulously pressed, added to the impression of someone who was both refined and untroubled. There was nothing in his attire to suggest concern for his safety, nor did it betray the dark intentions he was harboring. But there was something more alive about him now, something more immediate and tangible that made her skin prickle with unease. He was younger, perhaps in his late twenties, around her own age, and his features were still untouched by the gauntness that would later mark him as Lord Voldemort. It was strange to see him this way, a peer, rather than, or in addition to she thought , her enemy.
Panic began to set in. How had she overlooked this possibility? Hermione Granger, who always prided herself on over-thinking, considering every eventuality, every potential outcome, had never considered the reaction between two similarly powerful Time-Turners. Of course, she realized with growing dread, two Time-Turners existing in the same temporal space would create an unpredictable reaction. It’s basic magical theory—an echo of time that could collapse into a singularity or fracture into an alternate timeline. Her insatiable desire to personally immerse herself in Riddle’s past, the thirst for knowledge unrelenting, had obscured her judgment and rational thinking.
With a trembling hand, she reached into her pocket, her fingers brushing against the delicate hourglasses. As she pulled them out, her heart sank. Both Time-Turners were almost destroyed—their intricate mechanisms cracked, the sand within the hourglasses barely trickling through the shattered glass. Worse still, the faint glow of magical energy that usually emanated from them was gone, leaving them dull and lifeless in her hand.
But she had never thought to apply that theory to her own actions, too caught up in the mission at hand, too confident in her own abilities. She had been so sure that she could control the situation, that she could outmaneuver time itself. And now, here she was, stranded in a past she hadn’t intended to visit, with no clear way back. How did Borgin come into possession of one that had a similar level of power to the Ministries? It was a line of questioning she had no time to ponder.
The sound of footsteps on the wooden floor jolted her back to the present. She peered through the shelves again, her heart lurching as she watched the young Riddle moving confidently through the shop, inspecting items with an air of authority.
Hermione’s mind raced as she took in the scene before her. She had no chance to disguise herself or prepare for what to do. She was here, in this time, with no plan and no idea how to return to her own. The thought of revealing herself to the Dark Lord was unthinkable, yet she knew she couldn’t stay hidden forever. She needed to find a way out, a way to return to her own time before she did something that could alter history irreparably.
As she crouched behind the shelves, she tried to calm her racing thoughts. She had studied Time-Turners extensively; she knew the dangers of interacting with the past, the risks of creating paradoxes that could unravel the fabric of time itself. But the situation was far more complicated than she had anticipated. She hadn’t planned for this—hadn’t anticipated the two Time-Turners of similar strength colliding and throwing her into an unknown time.
Tom moved with fluid grace as he crossed the room to inspect an item on a nearby shelf, and Hermione’s breath hitched as he came closer to her hiding spot. She had to get out of there, had to find a way to escape before he noticed her. But as she carefully shifted her position, her foot brushed against a loose floorboard, and it creaked softly beneath her weight.
Tom’s head snapped up at the sound, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice cold and commanding, with none of the affected politeness she had heard in her own time when seeing him through others' memories.
Hermione froze, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel his gaze sweeping the room, searching for the source of the noise. She knew she had only seconds before he found her. The panic that had gripped her moments ago was now tempered by a single, pressing thought: Survive .
With a quick, silent breath, she reached for her wand, her fingers steady as she gripped the familiar wood. She couldn’t let him see her—not like this, not without a plan. She needed to distract him, create a diversion that would allow her to slip away unnoticed.
Just as Tom took a step toward her hiding place, she flicked her wand, sending a small, harmless explosion of light and sound toward the back of the shop. The sudden burst caught Tom’s attention, and he whirled around, his wand drawn, ready to face whatever threat might be lurking in the shadows.
Hermione didn’t waste a second. As soon as his back was turned, she slipped out from behind the shelves and darted toward the door. Her heart raced as she reached for the handle, praying that it wouldn’t creak or stick.
As soon as her hand made contact, a sudden, vice-like grip closed around her throat from behind. The touch was cold, unyielding, and in an instant, she was yanked back with a force that sent a jolt through her body. She barely had time to register what was happening before Tom Riddle’s other hand clamped around her waist, pulling her sharply against him. The breath was driven from her lungs, the sudden proximity to him a shock to her system. His grip was unyielding, and she could feel the controlled strength in his hold as if he could break her with a thought.
“Going somewhere, Miss…?” Tom's voice was low, a dangerous, menacing purr in her ear, each word measured and edged with a cold, almost predatory interest. The warmth of his breath was a stark contrast to the chill that crept down her spine. Of course that diversion didn’t work .
She stiffened in his hold, her mind racing. There was no warmth in his touch, no comfort—only a controlled power that made her acutely aware of how easily he could crush her. His grip was not the desperate clutch of a man afraid of something, but rather the calculated restraint of someone who enjoyed having control, of someone who was used to getting what he wanted by any means necessary.
Tom leaned in slightly, his proximity unnervingly close, the action reminded her of when she’d be in the clutches of Fenrir. It was as if he were studying her, searching for something beneath the surface. Hermione felt a chill as the thought crossed her mind—could he somehow sense the magic on her? Was he trying to detect something that would reveal her true identity? His grip on her throat tightened momentarily, and she noticed a slight tension in his posture, as though he had picked up on something that intrigued or unsettled him.
She winced, the pressure of his hands nearly unbearable. You’re an Unspeakable, Hermione, not some helpless child, she berated herself, trying to regain control of her thoughts. But before she could steady herself, he shoved her away with a force that sent her crashing into the door. The impact rattled through her bones, and she bit back a cry of pain as she stumbled, barely managing to catch herself before falling. Her wand slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor, but the haze of pain clouded her senses, leaving her momentarily disoriented. How had she let herself be caught off guard like this?
She shot him a glare over her shoulder, trying to mask her fear with a forced bravado. “Well, that was rude,” she quipped, her voice laced with the kind of dark humor that had become her coping mechanism over the years, as she dusted off her robes. “But I suppose chivalry is dead, just like my chances of escaping unawares now,” mumbling the last part of her statement.
Tom ignored her comment, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her with a mix of suspicion and something else—something far more troubling. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice like ice, every syllable a challenge.
Hermione’s mind scrambled to come up with a cover story, but when she opened her mouth, the words that came out surprised even her. “My name is Hermione,” she began, but then paused, a flicker of confusion crossing her features. “Hermione… Hart?” The last name slipped out before she could stop it, and she had no idea where it had come from. She blinked, momentarily thrown off by her own words. She had to force herself to maintain eye contact, her mind desperately working to piece together a plausible story. She could treat him like the Voldemort she knew, react with the defiance and resistance that would come naturally in the face of the monster he would become. But all that would do is raise his suspicions. The last thing she needed was to tip him off that she knew more than she should. You’re trained for this, she reminded herself. She needed to be cautious, kind even, playing the part of someone harmless. Anything less might provoke the very darkness she was trying to avoid.
Tom studied her, his gaze sharp and probing. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as if testing the truth in her words. "Hart," he repeated, his voice low, almost thoughtful. "An unfamiliar name. What brings you to my shop, Miss Hart?"
Hermione could feel the weight of his scrutiny, the sharpness of his intellect as he dissected her every word, her every gesture. She needed to be careful—one wrong move, and he would see right through her.
Good question, Hermione thought, swallowing hard. Giving herself a moment to think, she looked down to her wand and then back to Riddle, calculating if he would take her retrieving it as a threat or not. His lips curled into an amused smirk, as if to say he wasn’t the least bit concerned about what she might do. “Oh, you know, just your typical Tuesday mishap with a Time-Turner. They really ought to put better instructions on those things, ” she said, her voice tinged with sarcasm. She hoped that by brazenly mentioning time-travel, she might throw him off the trail. Sometimes, the best place to hide is in plain sight, she reminded herself. “Thought I’d pop by, say hello, maybe pick up a cursed object or two. You know, the usual.”
Tom didn’t look amused. If anything, her flippant attitude seemed to anger him further, and she saw his jaw tighten. “Enough,” he said sharply, taking a step closer, his presence looming over her like a dark cloud. “Tell me the truth, or I will make you.”
Hermione’s eyes flicked down to her wand, still lying on the floor where she had dropped it. She weighed her options quickly, realizing that fighting her way out wasn’t one of them. Instead, she needed to keep him off balance, keep him guessing.
“Alright, alright,” she said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “You caught me. I’m here because I lost something. Something… important. And I was told that you’re the man who can help me find it.”
Tom arched an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “And what, exactly, have you lost, Miss Hart?”
“A family heirloom,” Hermione lied, her mind working quickly to spin a tale that would make sense. “It was… misplaced during a rather unfortunate family gathering. Let’s just say things got a bit out of hand, and now I’m stuck trying to find it.”
His eyes bore into her, and she had the distinct impression that he was searching for the lie he knew was there. She met his gaze with a defiant tilt of her chin, refusing to let him intimidate her, though inside she was desperately trying to figure out a way out of this mess.
Tom was silent for a long moment, and the tension in the room thickened, pressing down on her like a physical weight. Finally, he spoke, his tone deceptively calm. “Bravery and foolishness often walk hand in hand, Miss Hart. The question is, which path have you chosen?”
Hermione’s lips quirked up in a humorless smile. “Oh, I’m definitely foolish. Brave? Maybe. But I’d argue that stupidity has played a pretty big role in getting me here.”
Tom’s eyes flashed with something dark, but he quickly suppressed it, his expression hardening. “And yet here you are, standing in my shop, making a mockery of the truth. I don’t appreciate being lied to, Miss Hart.”
“Well, you’re not exactly rolling out the welcome mat,” Hermione shot back, unable to stop herself. “And forgive me if I’m a little hesitant to tell my life story to the man who just manhandled me.”
Tom’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. More like the ghost of one, dark and humorless. “You’re a curious one, Miss Hart. But I don’t have time for games.”
“Oh, trust me, neither do I,” Hermione said, her voice taking on a more serious tone. “But the truth is… I really do need your help. And I was told that if anyone could assist me, it would be you.”
Tom regarded her for a long moment, and she could see the battle raging behind his eyes. She had thrown him off, confused him, but she also sensed his anger simmering just below the surface. She had no idea why he had reacted so violently earlier, but whatever it was, it had made him more dangerous, more unpredictable.
“And what will you do if I refuse to help you?” he asked, his voice smooth, but there was an edge to it that made her skin prickle.
Hermione tilted her head, pretending to ponder his question with exaggerated seriousness. “Well,” she began, her tone light but measured, “I could always try my luck with the less reputable characters around here, but I doubt that would be as fruitful as working with someone of your... capabilities.” She paused, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Though I’ll have you know, wasting time isn’t really my style.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed, and she could see he was growing tired of her snark. But before he could respond, she continued, her tone more earnest. “Look, you don’t have to help me. But I think you will. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that people like us—we’re always looking for something. Whether it’s knowledge, power, or something else entirely,” much quieter, more to herself, she added “an heirloom. That’s something else entirely. Sure, a bit less serious than the rest, but just as important,” if not a complete fabrication she thought.
For a moment, there was silence, and Hermione held her breath, wondering if she had pushed him too far. But then, to her surprise, Tom’s expression shifted, and she saw the calculating glint in his eyes return. He was intrigued, despite himself.
“You make an interesting proposition, Miss Hart,” he said slowly. “But know this: there are consequences to those who try to deceive me. Severe ones.” His emphasis on “try” was not lost on her.
Hermione nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Understood.” She was good at lying, she’d been doing it for so long it was second nature.
“Good,” Tom said, his voice cold and final. “Then let’s take our leave.”
“Where are we going?” Hermione asked, trying to keep her voice steady, but even she could hear the tremor in it. The fear she was trying so hard to suppress was starting to creep into her words, and she hated herself for it.
Tom didn’t answer immediately. Instead, began a ritual of closing the store, waving his wand in a casual, almost dismissive gesture. The dim lights that had illuminated the shop flickered out one by one, plunging the space into near-total darkness. Another flick of his wand, and the sign hanging inside the door shifted from “Open” to “Closed.” The shop was sealed off from the world, a fortress of shadows and secrets.
Silently she followed him as he guided her through the labyrinth like alleyways with a confidence born of familiarity. Hermione’s thoughts spiraled, humor that usually served as a coping mechanism giving way to something darker, more insidious. Brilliant, Hermione. You’ve really done it this time. Led by the future Dark Lord through Knockturn Alley, with no backup. Just another walk in the park you said, right?
As Hermione trailed after soon-to-be-Voldemort, her mind raced with possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last. She had seen the flicker of something in his eyes after he had shoved her away—something almost primal. It wasn’t just anger, though that had been there too. There was something deeper, more intense, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever it was was dangerous.
Could he smell the time magic on me? she wondered. It was possible. Hermione knew that strong magic left a sort of residue, a tangible trace that could be detected by those attuned to it. And Riddle, with his unparalleled talents and dark ambitions, would certainly be sensitive to such things. Maybe he sensed the magic that brought me here, she thought. The chaotic, powerful burst of temporal energy from the Time-Turners’ interaction was not something she could easily hide, especially from someone as perceptive and magically gifted as him.
But why had it triggered such a strong reaction? Was he merely suspicious, or was there something about the magic itself that intrigued him? Something he thought he could use?
Her gut twisted at the thought. If Riddle believed that the magic surrounding her could be useful to him, it would make her more valuable, yes—but also more dangerous. And she couldn’t afford to let him see her as either of those things. Not when she was barely holding onto her cover as it was.
But the idea wouldn’t let go of her. If he had smelled the magic, it might explain the way he had reacted—first with anger, then with something that looked like cold calculation. It was as if he had been caught off guard, disturbed by something unexpected, and then had quickly reassessed the situation, seeing it as an opportunity rather than a threat.
He’s probably thinking of ways to exploit it already, she thought grimly. That was Tom Riddle through and through: always searching for a way to turn any situation to his advantage.
Hermione kept her head down, trying to remain inconspicuous. She needed to think of a way out of this, a way to either dissuade his interest or redirect it. But how?
“Miss Hart,” Tom said suddenly, breaking the silence, his voice echoing off the narrow alley. Hermione flinched slightly, her nerves on edge.
“Yes?” she replied, trying to keep her tone as neutral as possible.
“You mentioned that you lost a family heirloom,” Riddle said, his voice smooth but with an undercurrent of something darker. “This object—does it have any… magical properties?”
Hermione hesitated. She had to tread carefully here. “It’s more of a sentimental object,” she said slowly, as if weighing her words. “But I suppose, given its history, it might have absorbed some residual magic over the years.”
Tom glanced down at her, his expression unreadable. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Magic often leaves a trace, especially if it’s been used or channeled frequently. And yet… you carry more than just residual magic, don’t you?” His words were reminiscent of her own earlier thoughts.
Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. Damn it, he’s already onto something. Forcing herself to meet his gaze, she quickly considered her options. “I work in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” she said calmly, choosing her words with care, at least she was partially being honest. She did work in the same building. “Magic is a constant in my line of work. You learn things, encounter all sorts of magical traces… sometimes, that leaves a mark.”
His eyes narrowed, but she noticed a spark of interest. “Magical Law Enforcement, is it?” He seemed to mull it over, his expression calculating. “And yet, despite your connections, you’re here seeking my help. That is... intriguing.”
Hermione shrugged, trying to mask the tension coiling inside her. “I’m good at my job, but that doesn’t stop them from seeing me as too young, too inexperienced. Losing a personal item of this importance on top of their opinions? It’d only make them question my competence even more. It’s better to seek help outside the usual channels rather than give them more reasons to doubt me.” This wasn’t entirely a lie, not all of her colleagues within her time found her worthy of her position or title, but she proved herself every day. This personal adventure…the failure was a fluke, that’s what she told herself.
Tom’s lips twitched, but the gesture didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Indeed,” he said quietly. “But I wonder… what exactly is this bind you’re in, Miss Hart? And what makes you think I can help you where others cannot?”
Because you’re the last person I wanted to run into but of course I did anyway, she thought wryly, but she kept that to herself. Instead, she let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Honestly? I was told you were the best at finding things. And considering my current predicament, I figured it was worth a shot.”
“Worth a shot,” he echoed, as if the phrase was foreign to him. His gaze turned sharp again, the intensity back. “Tell me, Miss Hart—have you considered that perhaps what you’ve lost is not meant to be found? Or that the magic surrounding it might be… too volatile for even someone like me to handle?”
There it is, Hermione thought, the real question lurking beneath his words. He was fishing for information, trying to figure out exactly what kind of magic she was carrying and whether it could be of use to him. He hadn’t yet decided if she was a threat, but he was clearly intrigued.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve handled something volatile,” Hermione said, keeping her tone light, almost casual. “And I’m sure it won’t be the last. But that’s the fun part, isn’t it? Seeing if you can manage it without destroying yourself. But that’s besides the point, this item isn’t dangerous.”
Tom studied her for a long moment, and Hermione could almost see the wheels turning in his head. He was calculating, always calculating, and she had no doubt that he was already considering how he could turn this to his advantage.
Finally, he nodded, almost to himself, and turned to lead her down another narrow passage in the shop. “Very well, Miss Hart,” he said, his voice clipped. “I suppose we’ll find out just how capable you are of managing this… situation.”
After what felt like an eternity of silence, Tom stopped in front of a heavy wooden door set into the side of a building that looked even more run-down and sinister than the rest of the alley. The sign above the door was faded and barely legible, but Hermione could just make out the name: The Black Serpent .
“A drink, Miss Hart,” Tom said smoothly, his voice as cold and controlled as ever. “To calm your nerves.”