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Chapter Text

Hermione jolted awake, gasping for breath. Gritty sand clung to her skin, and shards of glass pressed uncomfortably into her palms. The air smelled faintly of dust and magic. As she pushed herself upright, she became acutely aware of her surroundings: the dim, circular room empty besides one cloaked figure. Their face was obscured beneath a heavy hood, leaving only a hint of menace in their rigid posture.

Instinctively, her hand searched for her wand, but it was gone. Panic clawed at her chest as she realised she was defenceless. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, a deafening drumbeat she struggled to silence. She didn't need to survey her surroundings twice; she was still in the Department of Mysteries. Worse, her friends had moved on, pressing deeper into the labyrinthine halls, leaving her behind.

The air grew heavy, crackling with tension like a storm about to break. The cloaked figure stepped forward, wand levelled at her with a menacing gleam in the dim light. Every muscle in Hermione’s body tensed.

There was no hesitation. A swift flick of his wand stole her voice before she could attempt to summon her wand, leaving her mouth to open and close in silent desperation. Her eyes widened, terror mingling with disbelief. In an instant, ropes materialised, coiling around her like serpents. Her body went rigid, immobilised by his silent incantation. She strained and twisted against the magical bonds, her pulse racing wildly, but the spell’s grip held fast, unyielding.

The cloaked figure tilted his head, scrutinising her with an intensity that sent an icy chill racing down her spine. He remained silent, neither calling for reinforcements nor betraying any emotion. His eyes, shadowed beneath the hood, seemed to probe beyond her fear and confusion, as if searching for something buried within.

Suddenly, he grabbed her by the shoulder, yanking her to her feet. The force of it made her stumble, nearly collapsing again. With another flick of his wand, the bindings shifted, loosening just enough to allow her to walk. Before she could regain her balance, he hauled her upright once more, giving her no option but to follow as he guided her across the dim chamber. His grip was unbreakable, cold and unyielding.

They moved towards a secluded fireplace, hidden away from the main areas of the Department of Mysteries. Hermione struggled, twisting and straining against his iron grasp, but it was futile. He showed no sign of effort or hesitation. In one fluid motion, he reached into the folds of his robes, drew out a pinch of Floo powder, and cast it into the grate. Green flames erupted, licking hungrily at the air. He muttered a command — too low for her to hear — and the flames surged, ready to swallow them whole.

The man released her, practically throwing her to the floor when they stepped through the other side into what looked like one of the sitting rooms in a castle Hermione had once toured with her parents, her body remained bound and silent as she skated across the stone floors on her backside. He cast another binding spell to reinforce her restraints, as if to ensure she would stay exactly where he placed her. He watched her struggle for a moment, his expression a mix of annoyance and calculation, before stepping back and raising his wand.

The man stepped back, his gaze fixed unyieldingly on Hermione as he reached for his left sleeve. Her breath caught in her throat, a cold dread creeping over her as he slowly pushed back the fabric, revealing the dark, sinuous lines of a mark she had seen in the sky two summers ago. The Dark Mark — a twisted skull with a snake slithering from its mouth. Her stomach knotted, bile rising in her throat as she stared at the emblem that symbolised fear and death.

Time seemed to slow. The air felt heavier, as if the room itself recoiled from the sight. Her heart pounded like a drum, echoing in her chest and ears. With deliberate precision, the man pressed the tip of his wand to the inked skull, his expression unreadable. Shadows flickered across his face, but she could see the intensity in his eyes — a fanatic's devotion, cold and unshakable.

A chill washed over the room, stealing the warmth from her skin. Hermione's thoughts raced. She understood the gravity of what was unfolding, the stories she’d read and heard suddenly all too real. He was summoning Voldemort. The fear surrounding the Dark Mark wasn’t just legend; it was palpable, alive, and ready to consume her.

Captured. The word echoed in her mind, each syllable a hammer blow. Her friends would look for her, wouldn’t they? They had to. But doubt gnawed at her — how long before they realised she was gone? And even if they knew, would they reach her in time? Desperation clawed at her chest, but she forced herself to stay still, to think. There had to be a way out.

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing her frantic thoughts. His wand still pressed to the mark, he tilted his head, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips — a predator savouring the helplessness of his prey. Hermione’s pulse raced, fear mixed with fury. She would not give him the satisfaction of breaking.

Yet even as she steeled herself, the shadows in the room seemed to deepen, the oppressive weight of dark magic pressing in on all sides. She braced herself for what was to come. This was no ordinary fight — this was survival, and the stakes had never been higher.

The room was deathly silent, the weight of oppressive magic pressing down on Hermione as she sat bound and silenced, her heart hammering in her chest. The heavy stillness was broken by the soft, almost imperceptible sound of fabric slicing through the air. In that moment, he appeared as if conjured from the shadows themselves.

Voldemort stood before her, his mere presence filling the room with an unspoken menace. His robes were immaculate, flowing like liquid darkness, and his gaze burned with an intensity that seemed to pierce straight through her. Hermione’s mind reeled. He was nothing like the descriptions Harry had given — there was no reptilian visage, no skeletal frame twisted by dark magic. Instead, he looked unsettlingly ordinary, a man who could vanish into any crowd with ease.

He had a head of thick, dark hair — she couldn’t quite discern if it was black or brown in the dim light — and a visage that bore a hint of charismatic authority. He reminded her vaguely of the actors from her mother’s cherished 1970s films, the kind with a magnetic charm that made them unforgettable. The contrast between what she had been led to believe and the reality standing before her unsettled her deeply. This was a man who could hide among wizards and Muggles alike, moving unseen, an invisible threat lurking in plain sight.

With a slight nod to the man who had summoned him, Voldemort stepped forward. Each movement was deliberate, almost graceful, as he crossed the room, closing the distance between them with unhurried steps. His attention was solely fixed on Hermione, as though nothing else in the world mattered.

To her surprise — and growing unease — his expression softened, a flicker of curiosity dancing in his eyes. He studied her, not with the disdain she expected, but with something akin to fascination. The moment stretched, tense and suffocating. Whatever game he intended to play, Hermione knew it would be ruthless.

“Why, may I ask,” Voldemort said, his voice low and smooth as silk, “have I been summoned to attend to a young witch at this hour?” His words hung in the air, deceptively gentle, yet carrying the weight of menace. Hermione’s heart lurched. Did he truly not recognise her? Her face had been plastered across every newspaper the previous year; she was Harry Potter’s best friend, a known muggle-born. It didn’t add up. Was this part of a twisted game, or did he genuinely not see her for who she was?

The man who had summoned him inclined his head deeply, deference etched into every line of his posture. “My lord, I found her within the Time Room. She doesn’t appear to belong here.” His words sent a fresh wave of confusion through Hermione. Not belong here? What did he mean? Did he refer to her blood status, or was there another, more sinister implication? And why had he brought her here?

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, the spark of intrigue flaring into something sharper, more focused. His gaze settled on her, dissecting her every move, as if searching for the answer himself. He stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space around him. With a practised, almost casual flick of his wand, the silencing spell broke, and the bindings around her fell away.

The wave of relief that washed over Hermione was almost paralysing. She sagged back, her hands bracing against the cold floor as she fought to steady herself. Questions spun through her mind, each more frantic than the last. She forced herself to swallow her fear, knowing that even the slightest tremor would only delight him. Still, every nerve in her body was taut, braced for whatever would come next.

He did not speak immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, extending a hand with a practised calmness that made her hesitate. Reluctantly, she accepted it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. His grip was surprisingly firm, yet not cruel. As she stood, he placed his hands gently on her shoulders, his gaze sweeping over her like a curious parent assessing a lost child. It was a disconcerting contrast to the danger he exuded — a dissonance that made her skin crawl.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice soft, almost tender. It was a tone so unexpected that it took her a moment to find her breath. His hands moved down her arms, brushing her sleeves as if checking for injuries, his touch light but deliberate. Every gesture was calculated, she knew; nothing about this man was accidental. “I trust my associate handled you with… adequate care?”

Hermione was stunned, her thoughts scrambling to reconcile the man standing before her with everything she knew of him. His gaze was unsettlingly steady, holding what appeared to be genuine — almost disarming — concern as he studied her. She stiffened as he reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face with a touch that felt almost paternal. His fingers lightly tilted her chin, lifting her face so he could inspect her more closely. She forced herself to remain still, every instinct screaming to pull away. To him, she seemed a valued guest rather than a captive, but the pretence was a thin and dangerous veil.

“Thank you. I… I’m fine,” she managed to say, her voice rough from the lingering effects of the silencing spell. Relief at being able to speak again warred with a dizzying light-headedness, but she fought to maintain her composure. She could not afford to appear weak — not now.

“Good,” he murmured, a small, approving smile playing at his lips. His hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment longer, an uncomfortable weight that pressed down on her nerves, before he stepped back. “Please, sit, Miss…?”

“Vale,” she said quickly, her mind racing as she forced herself to meet his eyes. If he didn’t recognise her yet, perhaps she could use this chance to keep him at bay — at least until her friends or the Order found her. “Hermione Vale.” Her heart pounded, the false name hanging in the air between them. She prayed it would be enough.

“Vale,” he repeated slowly, the word rolling off his tongue with calculated precision. His eyes flickered, studying her with a mix of kindness and intrigue that felt like a trap ready to snap shut. “A respected family.” There was warmth in his gaze that caught her off guard, but she knew better than to trust it. He turned his attention to the man who had summoned him. “Augustus, what do you make of this?”

The man — Augustus, she realised — was none other than Augustus Rookwood, the Death Eater who had once been an Unspeakable during the first war. He had been captured after Voldemort's initial defeat and later escaped Azkaban during the mass breakout earlier that year. His face, illuminated by the dim, flickering light, seemed contemplative, betraying none of the wear one might expect from over a decade's imprisonment. “My Lord, she was found in the Time Room,” he reported, his voice steady and deferential. “Collapsed and surrounded by debris. I believe she may have travelled through time, though the specifics remain unclear.”

Hermione’s mind raced, trying to process his words. Time travel? It didn’t make sense. She remembered the chaos of the fight in the Time Room, shards of broken Time-Turners scattering around her, but she hadn’t felt anything — at least, not at first. Had something gone wrong? A cold wave of uncertainty washed over her, and her eyes darted back to Voldemort. If she had truly travelled through time, that would explain why he didn’t resemble Harry’s description.

Voldemort’s attention shifted to her again, a spark of curiosity lighting his eyes as he stepped closer. “Time travel,” he mused softly, as if tasting the words. There was a calculating gleam behind his gaze, as if her presence presented both an enigma and an opportunity. “And what year do you come from, Miss Vale?” His tone was gentle, coaxing.

“1996,” she answered, unable to keep the tremor out of her voice.

Voldemort’s brow lifted, genuine interest colouring his expression. He regarded her as if she were a rare artefact, something unexpected and valuable. “Quite some distance from home,” he said, his voice low, almost sympathetic. “That must be… disorienting.”

Her heart thudded in her chest, every beat pounding with fear and disbelief. “What do you mean?” she asked cautiously, her voice tight. “What year is it now?”

A faint smile played at the corners of Voldemort’s lips, one that hinted at amusement and danger. “It is 1976.”

Hermione’s mind spun, her heart pounding furiously as the gravity of her situation settled upon her shoulders. Twenty years in the past. The realisation hit her like a physical blow — the first Wizarding War was still raging, and she was face-to-face with the most dangerous dark wizard of all time, at the peak of his power. She had no allies here, no Order to protect her, and no sign of her friends.

Her knees buckled, but before she could collapse, Voldemort extended his hand once more, guiding her back to her feet with an unsettling gentleness. Without a word, he led her to a small chaise lounge nestled in the corner of the room. She perched uneasily on its edge, every muscle in her body taut with fear. Voldemort settled himself beside her, a proximity that made her skin crawl.

She fought to keep her breathing steady, to keep herself from spiralling into panic. His presence was suffocating, every gesture calculated, every glance a potential threat. Voldemort leant slightly closer, his eyes never leaving hers, and a warm smile played at the corners of his mouth.

“Tell me, Miss Vale,” Voldemort began, his voice warm and deceptively inviting, “how did you come to dabble in such potent magic? Surely, Time-Turners are not playthings for children in the future?”

Hermione swallowed, forcing herself to appear thoughtful, masking the fear roiling within her. “I’ve… always been an eager student,” she said carefully, allowing a hint of genuine enthusiasm to colour her voice. “I wanted to go beyond the limits of the curriculum. I never anticipated that my experiment would… propel me so far back.”

“A thirst for knowledge,” Voldemort said, a glimmer of approval lighting his gaze. He leant forward slightly, his attention sharpening, as if savouring her words. “Ambitious. Perhaps reckless, but ambition often walks such paths. Admirable, Miss Vale. You remind me of myself.”

A chill ran down her spine, but she managed a small, measured nod. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured, fighting to keep her voice steady.

His eyes never left her, their intensity unsettling. “Tell me,” he continued, his tone shifting to a softer, almost conversational lilt, “how old are you?”

“I’ll be seventeen in September,” she replied, feeling her pulse quicken under his scrutiny as he absorbed this information.

“Sixteen,” he echoed thoughtfully, a flicker of something akin to nostalgia crossing his features. “You would be entering your sixth year at Hogwarts, then?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered quietly, each word carefully chosen. She kept her expression neutral, hiding the torrent of nerves beneath the surface. Every question was a test, and she knew the stakes could not be higher.

He seemed to drift briefly, his expression becoming thoughtful. “Hogwarts… It was a place I cherished. So much potential. A place where those with ambition could thrive.” He returned his gaze to her, a subtle warmth in his eyes.

Voldemort continued to regard her with a softened gaze, his eyes flickering with something almost akin to nostalgia. Then, as if settling back into the present moment, he gave a slight nod and turned to Rookwood. "Augustus, call an elf, arrange a tea service for us, please."

Rookwood gave a curt nod and exited, leaving Hermione alone with Voldemort. He leant back against the chaise, one arm draped casually over the backrest whilst the other rested on his hip, a picture of unsettling composure.

Hermione instinctively shuffled further into the corner of the chaise, trying to create as much distance as possible between them. Every nerve in her body was taut, her senses hyperaware. She desperately searched for a way out, but options were scarce, and she could feel his eyes on her, piercing and unyielding.

After a protracted silence, he spoke, his voice gentle but insistent. “Do you know who I am, Miss Vale?”

She hesitated, her breath catching. Then, with no other choice, she nodded. “Yes… you’re Lord Voldemort.”

His expression brightened, and a flicker of something like pride danced in his eyes. “So, you know me from your time. Fascinating.” He leant in, his gaze sharp with curiosity, studying her as though she were an intricate puzzle he was determined to solve. “I am not sure if you are aware,” he said, a glimmer of anticipation in his tone, “but I am a skilled Legilimens.” He offered her a smile, one meant to be reassuring but steeped in menace. “With your permission, of course, I would like to see what you see — to understand more fully.”

Hermione’s heart lurched, a surge of alarm coursing through her. She fought to steady her breathing, to mask the terror rising within her. But before she could form a coherent refusal, Voldemort leant in closer, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. The touch, deceptively gentle, made her skin crawl.

“There is nothing to fear,” he murmured, his voice soft and almost soothing. “I only wish to understand. I believe you have much to offer… and I can help you. It won’t hurt.” His smile was calm, almost paternal.

Hermione forced herself not to flinch as his hand slid to her chin, tilting her face upward. The cold tip of his wand pressed against her temple, sending a shiver down her spine. “Legilimens,” he whispered.

Pressure mounted in her mind — a suffocating force that pressed and probed, searching for cracks and weaknesses to exploit. Hermione clenched her teeth, resisting the rising wave of panic. Yet, astonishingly, her mind remained a void, an impenetrable barrier that repelled the intrusion. She felt him there — Voldemort — pushing, delving deeper with a growing sense of urgency, as if the denial of access itself was a challenge he could not abide.

The silence between them stretched taut, charged with unspoken frustration. Hermione barely dared to breathe, every nerve alight with tension as she awaited his response. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and edged with intrigue.

"Tell me, Miss Vale," he said, his tone deceptively calm, "how long have you been practising Occlumency?"

“Occlumency?” Hermione repeated, her confusion genuine, though she fought to keep her voice steady. “I’ve… never studied it.”

For a heartbeat, his expression remained unreadable, his dark eyes searching hers as though weighing the truth of her words. Then, a flicker of something dangerous — curiosity, disbelief, and a hint of excitement — crossed his features. “Fascinating,” he murmured, leaning in slightly. The air between them seemed to grow colder. “Your mind shields itself without training. Instinctively. Quite remarkable.”

Hermione’s pulse raced, a deep, instinctive warning of the danger she faced. This was not the reaction she had hoped for; his fascination was far more dangerous than mere anger. She forced herself to stay still, holding his gaze without flinching. “I don’t understand,” she said carefully, her voice steady despite the confusion and fear coursing through her. Why had her mind gone blank? Normally, when she searched her memories, it was like opening a vast book filled with knowledge, flipping through its pages until she found what she needed. But now… nothing. A void.

“Why would my mind… do that?” she asked, genuinely baffled.

A smile, cold and calculating, played at the corners of his lips. “Why, indeed?” He regarded her as though she were a rare artefact, a mystery to be dissected and understood. “There are few individuals capable of such natural defences, even among the most gifted witches and wizards.” His voice dropped, growing softer but no less menacing. “Do you know what this means, Miss Vale?”

She shook her head slowly, fear and confusion battling for control. “No.”

“It means,” he said, his gaze boring into her, “that you are special. And being special,” he added, letting the word hang in the air, “attracts attention. I must determine whether that attention should be… cultivated or controlled.”

Hermione’s blood ran cold. Was he testing her, probing for weaknesses not just in her mind but in her spirit. She swallowed hard, fearing any misstep could seal her fate. “I am not special sir,” she said, her voice low. “I don’t know why my mind is blank”.

Voldemort leant back slightly, though his eyes never left hers. “Perhaps you do not,” he conceded, a touch of thoughtfulness in his tone. “But we will find out, won’t we?” He paused, as though coming up with more questions and answers. “For now, you may consider yourself… interesting.”

The word hung in the air like a whispered curse, and Hermione felt a cold prickle race along her spine. Interesting. In his world, it was a label that came with danger, scrutiny, and expectations she had no desire to meet. Yet, she dared not look away, holding his gaze even as every instinct screamed at her to retreat. Voldemort’s eyes glittered with a mixture of curiosity and control, as if he were already imagining all the ways he could unravel her secrets.

She swallowed hard, knowing that “interesting” in his hands was a weapon, a leash, and a promise of trials yet to come.

“Do not think your secrets will remain yours forever, Miss Vale,” he added, his smile vanishing. “I have all the time in the world to unravel you.”

Hermione nodded, her throat dry. The game had only just begun, and she had no choice but to play.

The door opened, and Rookwood returned with a tray of tea. Voldemort gave him a nod, then poured tea for them both, the gentleness of his actions sharply contrasting with the intensity of his gaze as he regarded Hermione, his attentiveness unwavering. “Drink, Miss Vale. Rest assured, you’re safe here. We will see that you are properly cared for and settled. In the meantime, know that we are friends.”

He smiled at her, and though she could feel the subtle threads of control woven into each kind gesture, she gave a nod of gratitude. She knew, however, that her journey had only begun, for now, she would play along, tethered to this new reality by a thin thread of trust and a calculated caution that she dared not loosen.

He held his cup delicately, as though savouring not just the tea but the entire exchange between them. After a quiet moment, he leant forward, his voice soft but charged with intrigue.

His voice was smooth, almost beguiling, each word carefully measured to draw her in. “Tell me, Miss Vale,” he began, his gaze sharp but attentive, “what are your interests? Is there a particular field of study that captivates you?”

Hermione suppressed a shiver under his intense scrutiny. The very idea of engaging in small talk with Voldemort felt surreal, a twisted charade masking the perilous reality of her situation. Small talk had never been her forte — not even with her peers — but with him, every word felt like stepping onto a thin, cracking sheet of ice. She forced herself to offer a genuine smile, knowing that hesitation could be deadly.

“I’ve always been fascinated by Charms and Transfiguration,” she replied, her voice steady. She watched as his lips curved slightly, an expression of approval that sent an uncomfortable chill through her. “And,” she added carefully, “I have a deep love for reading — especially history and anything related to magical theory.”

“Ah, history,” he mused, his eyes glinting with interest. “A subject close to my own heart. There is power in understanding the past, Miss Vale. We shape the future with what we learn from it.” He leant in slightly, his voice lowering. “When I was at Hogwarts, I took every opportunity to learn from what was hidden. Knowledge is, after all, the path to greatness.”

Hermione nodded, feigning admiration as she listened. She could see how his charm and natural charisma would have drawn so many into his orbit. He was articulate, his voice resonating with passion and purpose. His words were laced with the kind of ambition that felt almost noble, and his gaze held an intensity that was both captivating and disconcerting. 

“You would have made an exceptional student in my day,” he remarked, his tone light but laced with an almost paternal pride. “It’s rare to find someone so… dedicated to their studies, so eager to learn.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hermione replied, hoping the gratitude in her voice sounded sincere. The flattery unsettled her, yet she forced herself to appear genuinely pleased, playing the part he expected of her.

Voldemort continued speaking of his time at Hogwarts, sharing tales of his academic pursuits and accomplishments. He spoke of the endless hours spent in the library, his devotion to learning, his fascination with magic that was often deemed too “advanced” for someone his age. His anecdotes, full of charm and insight, painted a picture of a gifted student driven by an unwavering sense of purpose. Hermione could see how his brilliance and magnetic personality would have left an impression on his peers, how he could so easily draw others into his vision. 

As their conversation wound down, he set his teacup aside and turned to Rookwood, who had stood silently as they spoke.

“Augustus,” Voldemort said, his tone shifting to a commanding warmth, “it’s late, and our guest has had a trying day. Take Miss Vale to a guest suite and ensure she is comfortable. She’ll need her rest; tomorrow promises to be… eventful.” He placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, his touch almost reassuring. “And, Augustus,” he added, his gaze sharpening as he regarded his follower, “her safety is paramount. I trust that you understand me.”

Rookwood nodded, his face impassive but respectful. “Of course, my lord.”

Voldemort’s eyes softened as he looked back at Hermione. “Rest well, Miss Vale. You have my protection now, and I trust you will find your place here.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hermione replied, the weight of his words pressing upon her, even as she forced herself to appear genuinely appreciative.

As Rookwood led her down the dim corridor, Hermione felt a mixture of relief and apprehension. Voldemort’s charm had been disarming, his kindness almost surreal, yet she couldn’t shake the undercurrent of control in every word, every gesture. She understood now how his charisma had drawn so many to his side, how he had built his movement through an allure that felt almost noble. But she also knew that behind the charm lay something darker, a purpose that would stop at nothing to fulfil its ambition.

As they reached the door to the guest suite, Rookwood paused, his gaze steady but polite. Rookwood gave her a small, almost courteous nod, the sharp edge in his gaze softening slightly. “Goodnight, Miss Vale. And remember, we have much to prepare tomorrow.”

With that, he turned and disappeared down the corridor, his footsteps echoing softly as he left her alone. Hermione took a breath and stepped into the room, closing the door behind her and taking in her surroundings. The suite was grand and richly furnished, with deep, luxurious colours and heavy drapes that blocked out any hint of moonlight. The bed, large and ornate, seemed out of place for someone who felt more like a prisoner than a guest.

Her gaze lingered on the door for a moment, then she glanced around to find something heavy. She found a lamp that had a good weight to it as she took a few steps around the room, noting each piece of furniture and every detail that might be important later. She knew better than to let her guard down fully.

When she finally made her way to bed, Hermione sat down but didn’t bother to pull back the covers. Instead, she lay atop them, fully clothed, the lamp still in her hand. The weight of the evening settled over her as she stared up at the ceiling, her mind racing despite her exhaustion.

In the quiet of the room, she reminded herself of the game she was playing and the stakes involved. Every word, every gesture, had to be measured and carefully chosen, and her survival depended on it. Tomorrow, she would face Voldemort and his plans once again, but for tonight, at least, she would try to rest — prepared, if needed, to move in an instant.

Late in the morning, a sharp knock on the inside of the door startled Hermione awake. She jolted upright, lamp in hand, her heart pounding as she aimed it towards the intruder. But as her vision focused, she saw a small house-elf standing in the doorway, blinking up at her with large, round eyes.

Hermione exhaled, lowering the lamp, trying to calm her racing heart. “You… startled me.”

The house-elf gave a quick, respectful bow. “Apologies, Miss, but it is time for you to prepare for your appearance with the Great Dark Lord,” it said, its voice high-pitched but polite.

Hermione, still feeling the weight of exhaustion, rubbed her eyes and replied, “I’ll go as I am.”

The elf’s expression changed to one of mild horror, and it shook its head vehemently. “Oh, no, Miss. The Dark Lord expects all who appear before him to be… presentable. You must be prepared with the proper attire.”

Hermione felt the creeping sense of frustration she wanted to argue but thought better of it, causing a scene with an elf would not be a great start to her first day in 1976. She gave a small nod. “Very well.”

The elf beckoned her to follow, and Hermione was led to an adjoining bathroom. The room was almost spa-like, with polished tiles, a large sunken bath, and an array of delicate bottles and potions lining the shelves.

“Please, Miss, bathe,” the elf said, its tone firm yet respectful. “Clothing will be provided for you.”

Hermione nodded, glancing around the ornate bathroom. It felt surreal to be in such a place, under such circumstances, but she knew that refusing to meet the Dark Lord’s expectations was not an option. Taking a steadying breath, she turned to the bath, preparing herself for the day ahead and the challenges it would bring.

Hermione finished washing and wrapped herself in the soft robe left by the bath, the warmth and scent of unfamiliar herbs lingering on her skin. She made her way back into the main room and paused when she noticed a set of fine robes laid out on the bed. They were rich forest green, made from a luxurious, heavy fabric that shimmered faintly in the morning light. Hermione took a moment to examine them, the quality of the stitching and the fine details revealing just how much care had gone into the clothing.

She slipped into the robes, adjusting them as best as she could, though they were clearly too large on her, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips and the hem nearly brushing the floor. She shrugged, figuring this was all she’d been provided with, and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Despite the oversized fit, she knew she looked presentable enough, though her appearance held an air of someone borrowed, someone trying on a role that didn’t quite fit.

Just then, the house-elf reappeared, its large eyes sweeping over her appearance with disapproval. The elf clicked its fingers, and Hermione felt a gentle tightening as the robes adjusted themselves, the fabric drawing in snugly around her shoulders, waist, and arms until they fit her perfectly. She looked back at the mirror, surprised at the difference; now, the robes fit as though they had been custom-made for her.

“Thank you,” she said, glancing down at the elf, trying to mask her unease.

The elf nodded, satisfied. “Miss Vale must look her best for the Dark Lord,” it said simply, and then stepped aside, gesturing towards the door. “This way, please.”

Hermione took a steadying breath and nodded, following the elf out of the room, fully aware that every step forward brought her closer to an encounter she needed to navigate with utmost caution.

Hermione was led through a series of hallways until the elf finally stopped before a large door, giving her a brief nod before pushing it open and motioning for her to enter. She stepped into a grand office, her eyes immediately drawn to the imposing figure seated behind a long, dark wood desk — Voldemort, his gaze calm but piercing. Around him stood an assortment of figures she recognised from the newspaper: Rookwood as expected and Antonin Dolohov. There was also another Man she didn’t recognise and did her best to avert her eyes,

Dolohov’s gaze fixed on her with a dark intensity that sent an immediate chill down her spine. Hermione resisted the urge to shudder, discreetly taking a few steps farther from him as she positioned herself near Rookwood, who at least gave off an air of restrained professionalism.

Voldemort’s eyes softened as they settled on her, and he gestured to a chair directly in front of the desk. “Miss Vale,” he said, his voice warm and inviting, “please, sit.”

Hermione inclined her head in acknowledgment, moving carefully to the chair, fully aware of the watchful eyes of those around her. She sat and folded her hands in her lap, feeling the weight of the room’s attention.

Voldemort leant forward, his elbows resting on the desk, a hint of satisfaction in his gaze. “As you may have already guessed,” he began, his tone measured, “I am unable, for various reasons, to personally oversee your care. Therefore, I have entrusted this task to one of my most reliable followers.”

Rookwood nodded as Voldemort’s gaze shifted to him, and Hermione mirrored the gesture, trying to mask her wariness. Rookwood, at least, was formal and professional, he even had a real job — qualities she hoped would temper some of the chaos surrounding her.

“From now on,” Voldemort said, a small, almost paternal smile playing on his lips, “you will no longer be Hermione Vale. You are Hermione Rookwood, a distant cousin of Augustus, recently placed under his guardianship. We’ve prepared a fitting backstory for you: homeschooled for most of your life, tragically orphaned only recently.”

Hermione felt the weight of the new identity settle over her, like a heavy cloak she hadn’t chosen. A new name. A fabricated history. This wasn’t just a disguise — it was a binding, a tether tying her to a world she wanted no part of. She forced herself to keep her expression neutral, but inside, her mind churned. Hermione Rookwood. It was more than a name; it was a role, a mask she would have to wear flawlessly if she hoped to survive. She would need to speak and act like them, pretend to be one of them — all while knowing that one misstep could cost her everything.

As Voldemort watched her, as if gauging her reaction, Hermione forced herself to take slow, measured breaths. She would have to be careful. Every interaction, every word could be a trap. But beneath the fear, a spark of determination ignited. She could use this new identity to learn, to observe, and — if she was careful — perhaps even to gain an edge. Pretending to be one of them might be her only chance to protect what she truly cared about.

Yet, even as she made this resolve, a deep unease clawed at her. Becoming Hermione Rookwood would mean submerging parts of herself, hiding who she truly was. The thought sent a chill through her. How far would she have to go? How much of herself would she lose?

Her eyes flicked back to Voldemort, whose smile remained fixed, a mask of deceptive warmth. This was a game to him, a twisted test of her loyalty and worth. And she had no choice but to play it.

“Do you understand?” Voldemort asked, his voice as gentle as it was unyielding. His gaze held a glint of expectation, as though testing her understanding and loyalty in this moment.

“Yes, sir,” Hermione replied, keeping her tone calm and respectful. “I understand completely. Thank you for… ensuring my place here.”

The man she didn't know gaze lingered on her with an intensity that made Hermione uneasy, whilst Dolohov’s sly smile never left his face. But she forced herself to ignore their scrutiny, focusing on Voldemort’s words.

Voldemort turned to Dolohov and the other man with a flick of his hand. “Dolohov, Nott, Ensure the Ministry remains none the wiser to our new arrangement,” he instructed smoothly. “There must be records, documents, everything necessary to confirm what we have established. No loose ends.”

They bowed deeply, acknowledging the weight of their orders, before stepping back. Voldemort’s attention returned to Hermione, his eyes bright with a satisfaction that sent an icy chill down her spine. “Very good,” he continued, his voice calm but commanding. “As Hermione Rookwood, you will accompany Augustus to Hogwarts, where you will be introduced to Dumbledore as his ward. With your talents and discipline, I have no doubt you will fit in splendidly. I expect you to seize every opportunity that presents itself.”

Hermione nodded mechanically, though her heart pounded against her ribs. The plan was audacious, perilous — a life constructed of lies, all whilst standing under the scrutiny of Voldemort’s followers and Dumbledore himself. It was a tightrope, with danger lurking on either side. But what choice did she have? If she stumbled, there would be no second chances.

“Welcome to our family, Hermione,” Voldemort said, his smile a chilling blend of warmth and menace. “We expect great things.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. She forced herself to maintain eye contact, to convey gratitude and loyalty. Internally, however, her thoughts raced. She would have to tread carefully — learn, observe, survive. Each day would be a test of her resolve and a fight to hold onto herself.

As Voldemort’s followers looked on, Hermione felt the weight of her new reality pressing down on her. Every move she made would be watched, every word analysed. To succeed, she would have to become someone else entirely, even as she held onto the hope of one day reclaiming her true self.

As the meeting concluded, Voldemort dismissed his followers with a wave of his hand; they filed out of the room, casting various glances in Hermione’s direction as they left. Dolohov’s lingering, unsettling stare made her shiver, but she forced herself to remain composed, keeping her gaze steady until he disappeared through the doorway.

With the room empty, she let out a quiet breath, still trying to process everything. The identity of Hermione Rookwood, the guardianship arrangement, the looming introduction to Dumbledore — it was a lot to take in, and the gravity of her situation weighed heavily on her. She sat still, unsure of what to do next.

Voldemort’s gaze shifted to her, his expression unexpectedly curious, his tone disarmingly gentle. “You seem… uncertain, Miss Vale,” he observed, a faint trace of what almost sounded like empathy in his voice. “Perhaps a walk would help clear your thoughts?”

Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned by the offer. This wasn’t what she had expected — not from him, not here. The idea of a leisurely walk with the Dark Lord was absurd, but she caught herself quickly, forcing a nod. “Yes, thank you. I’d… appreciate that,” she replied, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of disbelief and caution coursing through her.

Voldemort rose smoothly, gesturing for her to join him as he walked towards the door. As they left the room, she couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief — at a minimum this would allow her some distance from the unsettling presence of Dolohov. They walked in silence for a few moments, winding through the grand corridors lined with ornate fixtures and dark tapestries.

After a pause, Voldemort turned to her, his gaze sweeping over her robes. “The forest green suits you,” he observed, his voice warm with approval. “Quite lovely, if I may say so.”

Hermione felt a flash of discomfort at the unexpected compliment, her hand instinctively tightening into a fist. The idea of this man, who was old enough to be her father and who she knew to be capable of unspeakable things, commenting on her appearance felt deeply unsettling. She forced a polite smile but remained silent, her wariness only increasing.

Noticing her tense, Voldemort let out a soft, almost amused chuckle. “I assure you, Hermione, there’s no need for alarm,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “The state in which you arrived last evening was… concerning, to say the least. I’m simply glad to see you well-rested and dressed properly. I expect my guests to be treated with the highest regard, especially one in your unique situation.”

Hermione nodded slowly, keeping her guard up but allowing herself to ease just a fraction. “Thank you,” she replied, keeping her voice steady. “It was… a long night.”

Voldemort nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Indeed. Transitions of this nature are seldom easy,” he replied thoughtfully, his tone carrying a touch of empathy. “But as you grow accustomed to your new life, you will find your place here — one of comfort, and, I daresay, importance.”

Gathering her courage, Hermione decided it was time to voice the question that had been pressing on her mind since she had lied down to rest the night before. Her heart pounded in her chest as she searched for the right words. "Sir," she began hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced sideways at him, noticing the way his gaze seemed to pierce through her. "I was wondering... is there any possibility that I might return to my own time?"

Voldemort halted his stride, the suddenness of his movement causing her to stop as well. The silence that followed was almost tangible, the air thick with unspoken implications. He turned to face her fully, his pale features illuminated by the golden glow of a nearby torch. His dark eyes searched hers with an unreadable expression, a mix of curiosity and something else she couldn't quite place.

"Ah, yes. You desire to return home," he said softly, his voice devoid of mockery. "A natural wish, given the circumstances."

She nodded, her gaze earnest and unwavering. "I appreciate your kindness, truly. But if there's a way — anyway — to send me back, I would be grateful."

He regarded her thoughtfully, his fingers idly tracing the ornate serpent-shaped handle of his wand. "Time magic is intricate and perilous," he mused, his eyes drifting momentarily as if recalling distant memories. "Your arrival here was unintentional, a result of chaotic forces beyond our immediate control."

"I understand that," Hermione replied, choosing her words carefully. "But perhaps with research, with the right resources, we might find a way to reverse the effects."

A subtle smile curved his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Ever the scholar," he remarked, a hint of admiration in his tone. "I admire your determination. Rest assured, I have my most capable followers investigating the matter. However, these things take time."

Relief mingled with caution in her chest. She knew better than to take his words at face value, but it was a glimmer of hope, nonetheless. "Thank you, sir. I would be willing to assist in any way possible," she offered, hoping to gain access to resources that might help her find a solution on her own terms.

"Your eagerness is appreciated," Voldemort said, resuming their walk. "But in the meantime, it would be wise for you to acclimate to our present, go to Hogwarts, be a child. There is much you can learn here — much that I can teach you."

Hermione forced a polite smile, though the thought of learning from him sent a chill down her spine. "Of course. I understand," she replied, masking her apprehension.

As they rounded a corner, he slowed, giving her a final, lingering glance. “I’ll leave you to rest and prepare for tomorrow’s journey. Remember, Hermione, you are valued here. And with time, you’ll come to understand that your loyalty will reward you in ways you can only imagine right now.”

She nodded, offering him a respectful bow of her head. “Thank you, sir.”

He inclined his head in return. “Rest well,” he said, a slight smile touching his lips. And with that, he turned and left her, his presence fading down the corridor as Hermione took a quiet, steadying breath, preparing herself for the days ahead.

The rest of the day passed in relative solitude. Voldemort had apparently left the manor, granting Hermione the freedom to wander the grand halls and immerse herself in the echoes of a time she had only read about. The manor was a labyrinth of opulent rooms and shadowed corridors, each adorned with intricate tapestries and antique furnishings that spoke of a bygone era. Portraits lined the walls, their subjects observing her with expressions ranging from suspicion to mild curiosity. Some whispered among themselves as she passed, their voices too soft to decipher.

Hermione's footsteps echoed softly against the polished marble floors, the sound a steady companion in the vast emptiness of the estate. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and parchment, mingling with a faint trace of something indefinitely dark. As she explored, her mind churned with the weight of her predicament. She was a stranger in a familiar world, tethered to a past that was not her own yet intimately connected to everything she held dear.

Finding a quiet alcove overlooking the sprawling gardens, Hermione settled onto a cushioned window seat. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the meticulously manicured hedges and vibrant blooms below. She gazed out, her thoughts turning inward as the magnitude of her situation pressed upon her.

Could she change the future?

The question had been gnawing at her since she arrived. In 1976, James and Lily Potter were alive, still students at Hogwarts. Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew — all of them would be at Hogwarts right now, unaware of the tragedies that would befall them. The thought brought a pang of sorrow mixed with a glimmer of hope.

If I could find them, warn them... maybe I could prevent their deaths, she mused. But the complexities of time travel weighed heavily on her. Changing the past could have unforeseen consequences. The delicate fabric of time was not something to be tampered with lightly. Yet, the possibility of saving lives, of altering the course of history for the better, was a temptation she couldn't easily dismiss.

Her mind drifted to the countless others who had suffered during the first Wizarding War. Families torn apart, innocents lost — all victims of the dark path that Voldemort had carved through the wizarding world. If she could intervene, even in small ways, perhaps she could lessen the devastation.

But then there was Voldemort himself.

Hermione's interactions with him had been unnervingly kind, even bordering on familial. He had shown her a side that was human — a stark contrast to the ruthless tyrant she knew from her own time. Is it possible to change him? she wondered. Could he be reasoned with before he falls any further into the monster history remembers?

She recalled the moments of empathy he had displayed — the way his gaze softened when discussing knowledge and the potential he saw in her. Perhaps there was a sliver of humanity left in him, a chance for redemption. But the risks were immense. Attempting to alter his path could backfire catastrophically, not only endangering herself but potentially creating a future even more dire than the one she knew.

The alternative was a darker consideration. Could I kill him? The very thought sent a chill through her. Taking a life, even that of someone as malevolent as Voldemort, was a line she wasn't sure she could cross. She was only 16 after all.

Hermione sighed, resting her forehead against the cool glass of the window. The weight of responsibility felt crushing. She was just one person, alone in a perilous time, with the fate of the future hanging precariously in the balance.

Perhaps the best course is to find a way back without interfering, she considered. But even as she thought it, she knew that remaining passive would be nearly impossible for her. Her innate desire to help, to make a difference, was too strong.

"Think, Hermione," she whispered to herself. "There has to be a way to do this without causing more harm than good."

She contemplated seeking out Dumbledore He was the headmaster of Hogwarts and a formidable opponent of Voldemort. If anyone could help her, it would be him. But reaching him without arousing suspicion would be a challenge, especially under the watchful eyes of the Death Eaters, maybe once she was attending Hogwarts in the Autumn?

Hermione rubbed her temples, feeling the onset of a headache. Every option seemed fraught with danger. The corridors of time were a treacherous path, and one misstep could have catastrophic consequences.

By the time evening arrived, Hermione felt a mix of anticipation and anxiety when she was invited to a formal dinner in the dining room with Rookwood. She’d been adjusting all day, but now she felt the reality of her new role settle heavily over her again. Entering the dining room, she saw Rookwood already seated at the head of a long, polished table, and as she approached, he gestured to the seat beside him.

“Miss Rookwood,” he greeted her, a hint of formality in his tone. She felt a pang of awkwardness at the formality of being called by her new name, but she managed a polite nod and took the seat beside him, trying to ignore the strange feeling of sitting at such a grand table in these borrowed robes.

Rookwood gave her an appraising look, as if he too felt the oddness of the situation. “I’ll admit, when I found you in the Time Room, I didn’t expect…” he hesitated, clearing his throat, “to be handed this responsibility by the Dark Lord.”

Hermione offered a small, polite smile. “I also didn’t expect to find myself in 1976,” she replied, her tone slightly slipped. “But I appreciate your hospitality.”

He inclined his head, and she thought she detected a slight softening in his gaze. “It seems we’re both adjusting,” he said. After a brief pause, he added, “If we’re to cohabitate over the next few months, Miss Rookwood, I imagine it’s best if we get to know each other.”

With that, Rookwood launched into a series of questions, his tone polite but edged with probing curiosity. He inquired about her interests, studies, and general outlook on magical theory. Hermione responded as evenly as she could, carefully navigating each question. He seemed pleased by her studious nature, nodding in approval as she described her love for Charms and Transfiguration.

However, when he asked about her Hogwarts House, Hermione hesitated. She knew that admitting she was a Gryffindor might put her at odds with him, but there was little point in lying — her Gryffindor tendencies would be obvious to everyone. "I’m a Gryffindor," she said, hoping the answer wouldn't provoke too strong a reaction.

Rookwood raised an eyebrow, a hint of disdain flickering across his features. "A Gryffindor? I must admit, that is... Unexpected. In my experience, Gryffindors are reckless and lack the subtlety required for true mastery of magic."

Hermione felt a surge of irritation rise within her. "That's a rather unfair generalisation," she retorted, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "Bravery doesn't equate to recklessness, and many Gryffindors are highly skilled and intelligent."

Rookwood's eyes narrowed at her tone. "Mind your words, Miss Rookwood," he said sharply. "It's unwise to speak so boldly to those who have offered you, their hospitality."

Her cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment. "I didn't mean any disrespect," she replied, though the stiffness in her voice betrayed her frustration.

He studied her for a moment before leaning in slightly. "Consider this your first lesson," he said coolly. "In the company of adults, it is paramount to exercise restraint and show proper deference. Impetuousness is not a valued trait here and will not be tolerated."

Hermione swallowed hard, recognising the precariousness of her situation. "I understand," she said quietly, forcing herself to maintain eye contact. "Thank you for the advice."

Rookwood straightened, his expression easing slightly. "It's for your own benefit," he continued in a more measured tone. "Those who cannot control their emotions often find themselves at a disadvantage — or worse."

She nodded, biting back any further retort. The reality of her circumstances pressed heavily upon her; she couldn't afford to let her temper jeopardise her safety.

"Good," he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I trust we won't have any more outbursts."

"Of course not," Hermione replied, her voice steady but subdued.

The conversation shifted to less contentious topics. He inquired about her favourite magical texts, and they discussed the works of noted scholars. Hermione found solace in the intellectual discourse, allowing herself to relax slightly.

As dessert was served — a delicate crème brûlée adorned with edible gold leaf — Rookwood regarded her thoughtfully. "Tell me," he began, tapping the edge of his spoon against the porcelain dish, "how do you envision your place within our world, given your... unique circumstances?"

Hermione paused, choosing her words carefully. "I admit, I've much to consider," she said slowly. "Being displaced in time is... disorienting. But I hope to find a way to contribute meaningfully."

He nodded, appearing satisfied with her response. "An adaptable mindset. Good. The Dark Lord values those who can navigate complexities with grace."

She suppressed a shiver at the mention of Voldemort, instead focusing on maintaining a calm exterior. "I'm grateful for the opportunities provided to me."

"Opportunities abound for those willing to embrace them," he remarked, his gaze steady. "Loyalty and competence are rewarded."

"Understandable," she replied.

Rookwood leant forward slightly. "Remember, Miss Rookwood, success in our society often depends on one's ability to listen more than speak. Observing, learning, understanding the dynamics at play — these are the keys to advancement."

"I'll keep that in mind," Hermione said, meeting his eyes.

"See that you do." He sat back, signalling the end of the meal as he placed his napkin beside his plate. "Now, unless there's anything else you wish to discuss, I believe the evening draws to a close."

She stood as he did, grateful for the conclusion. "Thank you for the dinner and conversation. It was enlightening."

He inclined his head graciously. "The pleasure was mine. I look forward to witnessing how you acclimate to your new surroundings."

"As do I," she replied.

As she walked through the dimly lit corridors, the soft glow of wall sconces casting elongated shadows, Hermione reflected on the evening's events. Her interaction with Rookwood had been a stark reminder of the precariousness of her situation. She had to remain vigilant, to control her impulses even when provoked.

"Get a grip, Hermione," she whispered to herself. "You can't afford any mistakes."

She considered the weight of Rookwood's words. Whilst his chastisement had stung, there was truth in his counsel. She was in a world where a misplaced word or gesture could have dire consequences. If she was to navigate this environment successfully, she needed to adapt.

But the thought of suppressing her true nature — her values, her sense of justice — left a bitter taste. Could she maintain this façade without losing herself in the process?

Drawing a deep breath, she resolved to find a balance. She would be cautious, observant, but she wouldn't abandon who she was at her core. There had to be a way to survive without compromising her integrity.

Turning away from the window, Hermione prepared for bed. As she settled under the luxurious covers, she stared up at the ornate canopy, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

She pondered the days ahead, the challenges she would face, and the slim hope of finding a way back to her own time. Until then, she would have to play her part carefully, learning all she could whilst safeguarding her true intentions.

"Tomorrow is a new day," she reminded herself softly. "And I will be ready for it."

The next morning, Hermione waited in the sitting room, her mind a whirl of worry and anticipation. She had no choice but to trust Rookwood for now, though the weight of her new identity as “Hermione Rookwood” pressed heavily on her. She smoothed down her burgundy robes, trying to appear calm and collected.

Right on time, Rookwood entered the room, his expression formal but not unkind. “Ready?” he asked, his voice polite but carrying an underlying authority.

Hermione nodded, gripping the inside of her robes for reassurance. “Yes, Mr. Rookwood.”

The journey to Hogwarts was silent, both of them lost in their own thoughts, and soon enough they arrived before the familiar stone gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore’s office. Hermione’s heart pounded as they ascended the spiralling staircase, and before she knew it, they stood before the large, ornate doors leading into the headmaster’s office. Rookwood knocked, and Dumbledore’s warm, commanding voice invited them in.

The office looked exactly as she remembered, and the familiarity washed over her like a bittersweet memory. There, at his desk, sat Albus Dumbledore, his blue eyes sharp and welcoming, twinkling with curiosity as he took her in. His gaze was kind but penetrating, as if he could already sense the complexities of her situation.

Dumbledore greeted them with a slight nod. “Mr. Rookwood, Miss Rookwood,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “Please, sit.”

They both took their seats, and after a brief silence, Rookwood cleared his throat and began to explain. “Headmaster, Hermione is… recently orphaned, as you know. My work at the Ministry makes it difficult to continue her home education, and I thought it best to place her under your care.”

Dumbledore’s eyes lingered on Hermione, assessing her in a way that felt both gentle and piercing. “Miss Rookwood, you must understand that entering Hogwarts at this point in your education is no simple matter.” His gaze softened, and a small smile played at his lips. “But I believe we may have a solution. An enchantment, cast over the school, can make it so that you’ve always been here. It will help you… integrate more smoothly.”

Hermione hesitated, her mind racing with questions. “But… Headmaster, if everyone believes I’ve always been here, won’t it be odd? How will I make friends?”

Dumbledore’s expression softened, and he gave her an almost knowing smile. “Friendship, Miss Rookwood, is not merely a matter of time or familiarity. Friendships have a way of blossoming in the most unexpected places.” His gaze turned almost playful, and he added, “I have no doubt you will find your place at Hogwarts with little trouble.”

Hermione’s mouth opened slightly, sensing layers to his answer that he clearly didn’t intend to share. But before she could press further, Rookwood interjected.

“There’s also the matter of her OWL’s,” Rookwood said, looking thoughtfully at Hermione. “Given that exams would have already been completed, I believe it would be best for her to sit her OWLs before the start of term, to better gauge her academic standing.”

Dumbledore nodded in agreement, his gaze lingering on Hermione. “Quite sensible, Mr. Rookwood. We’ll arrange for your examinations, Miss Rookwood. A fair assessment of your skills will ensure you are able to select classes where you can thrive.”

Hermione gave a small nod, feeling a pang of relief. At least she could rely on her academic strengths. But before she could settle, Dumbledore continued.

“And of course,” he said, smiling faintly, “you’ll need to be properly sorted. Hogwarts is hardly Hogwarts without a Sorting.”

With a wave of his wand, Dumbledore summoned the Sorting Hat, which appeared on a stool in front of her, looking every bit as worn and patched as she remembered. Hermione swallowed, feeling the weight of all that had changed pressing in on her as she sat on the stool and the hat was lowered onto her head.

In an instant, the voice of the Sorting Hat filled her mind. “You’ve been under me before?” it murmured, a hint of amusement in its voice. “And here I thought we’d gotten this right the first time.”

“Put me in Gryffindor,” Hermione thought firmly, her heart pounding with the need to cling to something familiar. “I already belong there.”

The hat chuckled softly, almost mockingly. “Belong, do you? Are you so certain?”

“Yes,” Hermione shot back mentally, irritation rising in her. “You sorted me there once, didn’t you?”

“Ah, yes, but a lot has changed since then,” the hat replied, its tone sly. “Time travel, a new identity… circumstances like these tend to bring out new aspects of a person.”

Hermione bristled. “Just because I’m in a different time doesn’t mean I’m a different person. Gryffindor is where I belong.”

“Perhaps you believe that,” the hat replied, sounding almost amused. “But belonging is not simply a matter of loyalty, Miss Granger — no, Miss Rookwood. Belonging is sometimes about growth. About need.”

“Need?” she thought, barely keeping her frustration in check. “I don’t need to be anywhere else. You’re just a hat — you don’t know what’s best for me.”

The hat let out a long, drawling sigh. “You clever, stubborn girl. You think bravery and loyalty will see you through everything, do you? But perhaps the real challenge now is not to stick to what you know, but to find a new way forward.”

Hermione clenched her fists in her lap. “I know where I need to be. I need to be in Gryffindor. Put me there.”

“Temper, temper,” the hat teased, clearly relishing the exchange. “I can see you’ve sharpened since the last time we met or the next time we meet. And as much as you want to return to that comfort, I see something else in you now. Adaptability. Resourcefulness. Ambition, hidden though it may be.” Its voice softened, but with a note of finality. “No, Miss Rookwood, Gryffindor is not what you need this time. But I think I know where you’ll do well.”

Before Hermione could argue further, the hat’s voice rang out in the room. “Slytherin!”

Hermione felt her stomach plummet as the decision echoed around the office. The hat was lifted from her head, and she barely had time to process the new reality before she saw Rookwood nodding with a pleased smile, clearly approving of the choice.

Dumbledore’s gaze turned to her, his expression unreadable but tinged with curiosity. “Slytherin it is, then,” he said calmly, as though he had fully expected this outcome. “A house known for ambition, resourcefulness, and cleverness — qualities I daresay will serve you well, Miss Rookwood.”

Rookwood, his pride evident, turned to her with a faint smile. “It’s a suitable placement, don’t you think?” he said smoothly. “Welcome to Slytherin.”

Hermione nodded, her face carefully neutral though her mind reeled. This wasn’t what she wanted, but it was now part of her cover. She would need to embrace it if she wanted to survive.

Dumbledore gave her a look of subtle reassurance. “You’ll have the full support of Hogwarts as you settle in. And I think you’ll find Slytherin House… enlightening.”

With that, their meeting came to a close, and as she rose from her seat, Hermione felt the weight of her new identity — Hermione Rookwood, Slytherin — settle heavily on her shoulders.

After leaving Dumbledore’s office, Augustus Rookwood turned to Hermione with a measured, businesslike tone. “We will need to visit Diagon Alley soon,” he said. “You’ll require a wand, as yours was not recovered in the Department of Mysteries.”

Hermione nodded, the weight of his words sinking in. A new wand meant a new chapter — a tool that would bind her further into this new identity. As they walked through the stone corridors of Hogwarts, the echoes of their footsteps mingling with the silence, Hermione was struck by how vastly different everything would be. She was in a different house, wearing a different name, and navigating a path she had never dreamed of treading.

Slytherin would be her home now. She knew what that entailed — cunning, strategy, alliances forged and broken in shadow. But if this was the role she had to play, then she would play it with every ounce of resolve she had. There was no room for hesitation; survival demanded adaptation.

A flicker of something akin to determination sparked within her. She would learn to wield this identity, to walk this fine line with precision and purpose. If she was to endure this test, she would not merely endure it — she would master it.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Hermione stepped into the familiar, dusty shop of Ollivanders. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and old parchment, a reminder of countless wands waiting patiently on the shelves for their perfect match. She had been here before — but even 20 years in the past the shop still held the same magic it had when she purchased her first wand. She pushed the thought aside and focused on the task at hand.

Mr. Ollivander emerged from behind a towering stack of boxes, his silvery eyes alight with curiosity and a touch of surprise. “Ah, a new customer,” he said, his voice soft but penetrating. “Welcome to Ollivanders. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure…?”

Hermione forced a polite smile. “No, sir. I’m in need of a new wand. Mine was… broken,” she said carefully, weaving a convincing note of regret into her voice. 

Ollivander stepped closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as he examined her. “Unfortunate. Such things are rare, though not unheard of. May I ask — where did you purchase your first wand?”

The question hung between them, and Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, she hadn't been expecting him to interrogate her. “It was an heirloom piece,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Passed down through the family.”

“An heirloom,” Ollivander repeated, his fingers tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Interesting. I do so wish I had seen it. Wands passed through generations have a unique bond with their bearers.” His gaze lingered, as if searching for something in her eyes, before he turned away, moving with quick precision towards a row of boxes.

“Let’s see what we can find for you,” he said, his voice slipping into the cadence of a craftsman at work. “Wands choose the wizard, after all.”

Hermione watched as he moved deftly through the shelves, selecting a few boxes and placing them on the counter with a practised grace. He opened one, revealing a slim wand of walnut with a core of dragon heartstring. “Try this,” he said, passing it to her.

She took it, feeling the weight settle in her hand. There was a flicker of warmth but nothing more. She gave it a small wave, and sparks sputtered weakly before fading. Ollivander shook his head. “No, that’s not quite right.”

Several attempts later, Ollivander’s eyes brightened as he opened a box containing an elegant vine wood wand with a phoenix feather core. The moment Hermione’s fingers wrapped around it, a surge of warmth rushed up her arm. Light glowed at the tip, bright and steady. She felt the wand’s resonance deep in her bones — a connection she hadn’t expected but welcomed all the same.

“Curious,” Ollivander said, his voice soft with intrigue. “Vine wood, with a phoenix feather core. Unyielding, yet adaptable. A wand well-suited to those with great perseverance and an affinity for change.”

Hermione nodded, feeling the weight of his words. “It feels… right,” she said quietly.

Ollivander’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer, as if trying to read her soul. Then he gave a small, approving nod. “Take care of it. A new wand marks a new beginning.”

“Thank you,” she said, slipping the wand into her pocket and handing him the pile of gold that Augustus had given her, her mind already racing with the implications of this new chapter in her life.

Dinner that evening was a grander affair than Hermione had anticipated. She was led to the dining hall, where the large table was adorned with fine silverware and heavy, ornate candelabras that cast a warm, flickering light over the dark wood. At the head of the table stood Voldemort, and to his right was Rookwood, who gestured for Hermione to sit at Voldemort’s left. She did so, acutely aware of the eyes on her, some curious, some cold, and some — like Dolohov’s — openly unnerving.

As she took her seat, Voldemort’s gaze swept over the room, lingering on her with what seemed to be pride. He lifted his glass and spoke with smooth authority, each word deliberate. “I’d like to introduce you all to Miss Hermione Rookwood,” he said, his voice calm yet commanding. “Augustus’s ward, and now part of our family. Treat her with the same respect you afford each other.”

At his words, Hermione glanced around the table, her eyes catching on each figure in turn. Bellatrix sat a short way down from her, a gleam in her eyes as she took in the young witch with a mixture of intrigue and something darker. Young Lucius Malfoy’s expression was cool and unreadable, whilst Nott offered a polite, shallow nod. Dolohov, however, wore a thin, unsettling smile that made Hermione instinctively shift her posture away from him.

Only Rookwood offered her a genuine nod of reassurance, his eyes flickering with pride as he added, “And, to my delight, Hermione has been sorted into Slytherin. A most fitting placement.” He glanced around the table as though waiting for his statement to sink in, his voice carrying a subtle note of satisfaction.

Voldemort smiled approvingly. “Ah, Slytherin. Ambition, cleverness, a strategic mind… It appears, Hermione, that you truly belong here.”

Hermione gave a polite smile, trying to match their expectations. “Thank you, Sir,” she replied softly, her voice steady despite the unease churning in her stomach.

As the dinner began, her glass was filled with elf wine — light and sweet, with a taste that encouraged more sipping than she’d intended. At first, she drank sparingly, but the mounting tension of the evening, combined with the attentive pressure from Voldemort and his followers, made her take a few more sips than planned. She could feel a warmth spreading through her, her mind beginning to relax as the chatter around the table grew louder and more animated.

As the meal drew to a close, Voldemort stood once more, and the gathered Death Eaters fell into a respectful silence. He gestured for Hermione to follow, guiding her along with a select few — Nott, Dolohov, and Rookwood — to an adjoining room. The space had the dim elegance of a smoking room, lined with dark, worn books and thick carpets that absorbed the sound of their footsteps. Soft tendrils of smoke from an ornate censer curled lazily towards the ceiling, filling the room with the faint scent of herbs.

Voldemort invited her to sit directly across from him, his gaze intent as he lowered himself into a leather armchair and waited for the others to settle. He watched her with a faint smile, one that seemed almost paternal, though she knew better than to take it at face value.

“You’ve done well tonight, Miss Rookwood,” Voldemort began, his tone warm and approving, his gaze steady and piercing. “You carry yourself with dignity and caution — qualities that will serve you well.” He leant in, his voice dropping to a soft murmur, so only she could hear. “But I find myself intrigued by you, and I would like to know you better. Would you permit me another look into your mind?”

The request hung in the air, and Hermione felt a wave of discomfort as the implications sank in. The elf wine’s warmth dulled her usual sharpness, making her feel unusually vulnerable. Her gaze met his, her heart racing, and this time she found herself hesitating. "Must you?" she said, the words slipping out before she could stop herself. The question surprised even her.

For a fraction of a second, Voldemort’s expression shifted, revealing a flicker of surprise. But he recovered smoothly, leaning back, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You wonder why I wish to see you?” he asked gently. His voice was almost… gentle, a softness that made her instinctively uneasy. He gave a faint nod, as though indulging her question. “Trust, Hermione, is not something that springs up on its own. With my followers, I build it — little by little. By understanding them, their loyalties, and yes… their thoughts.”

Hermione’s mind was fogged by the wine, and her usual guard slipped just enough for her to speak honestly. “I’m not… one of your followers,” she murmured, looking away. “I’m just a girl, really.”

The words surprised her as much as they seemed to amuse him. His smile softened, though his gaze remained intent. “No, you are not a follower,” he agreed, his tone holding a touch of humour. “But you’re hardly just a girl, Hermione. You are a young witch with knowledge of a world you left behind a world that is my future.”

He held her gaze, his tone persuasive, almost coaxing. “You know this, of course. The Ministry would have you locked away, should they learn of your… origins. They would consider you a danger, your knowledge too much for them to accept.”

A chill ran down her spine at his words, and her heart sank, realising the implications. He wasn’t wrong — her very existence in this time was a potential threat to the status quo. But surely the ministry would just want to send her back rather than contain her.

“Here, however,” Voldemort continued, his voice dropping to a soft murmur, “I have allowed you to remain. You are under my protection, Hermione. And I trust that by allowing me this… closeness,” his eyes held hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken, “you understand what that implies. It means I trust you, and in doing so, I trust that you trust me not to harm you.”

The words wrapped around her like a cloak, coaxing her to believe, to let her guard down just a little. He was calm, reassuring — even kind. His hand settled on her shoulder, a gentle, steadying touch that felt unexpectedly warm.

She swallowed, nodding, the barrier she had kept so carefully intact beginning to waver. “All right,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “If… if that’s what you want”. 

A faint smile crossed Voldemort’s lips, as though he found her answer to his liking. “Good girl,” he murmured, his words both patronising and chilling. With a practised flick of his wand, he guided her back into the unsettling pull of legilimency.

The familiar pressure returned, and once again Hermione’s mind became a blank slate, though this time the edges were softer, hazier. She tried to focus, grateful for whatever mysterious protections kept her mind obscured. But as she turned her awareness inward, a wave of dread washed over her — she saw a mirage of Harry walking through the empty expanse of her mind. His green eyes sparkled, and he flashed her the warm, familiar smile she had seen countless times. Her heart twisted with horror.

Voldemort’s gaze sharpened as he observed the apparition, a glimmer of excitement dancing in his eyes. “A boy?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual but dripping with intrigue.

Hermione swallowed hard, willing her expression to remain neutral. “My best friend,” she said, her voice steady despite the panic roiling inside her.

The dark wizard’s interest intensified. He moved towards the image of Harry, who continued to smile that trademark smile, unaware of the danger surrounding him. Voldemort studied the boy with a predatory fascination, as if savouring a prize just out of reach. Hermione suppressed a shiver, fighting the urge to flinch at the sight of her friend’s likeness so close to such malevolence.

Voldemort attempted to engage the mirage, speaking words Hermione couldn’t fully hear, probing with his mind. But the image of Harry simply walked in a loop, smiling and oblivious, a hollow projection with no substance. For a moment, silence reigned, and she saw the barest flicker of frustration in Voldemort’s eyes. He had expected more — a treasure trove of memories, secrets laid bare — but instead, he was faced with this spectral illusion.

Hermione’s breath caught as she realised the precariousness of her situation. Whatever force kept her mind protected was effective, but how long would it hold? How long before Voldemort’s patience waned? She risked a glance at him, surprised at how composed he remained despite the limitations he faced. For a man accustomed to dominance, to bending others’ minds at will, this must have been an infuriating barrier.

“You guard your secrets well,” Voldemort said finally, his tone calm but carrying an undercurrent of menace. His eyes remained fixed on Harry’s mirage as it continued its aimless path. “But I will break through, Miss Vale. In time.”

Hermione nodded, unable to trust herself to speak. She knew this was only the beginning — his fascination had become a challenge, and she was the puzzle he would not let go. In her mind’s chamber, Harry’s smile never wavered.

As Voldemort withdrew, the atmosphere in the room shifted, the oppressive weight easing just enough for Hermione to draw a steadier breath. His gaze, however, lingered on her, intense and probing, as if savouring the beginning of a particularly compelling puzzle. A subtle, almost imperceptible nod accompanied the faintest hint of a smile on his lips — a smile that sent a chill through her despite its outward warmth.

“Thank you, Hermione,” he said softly, his voice laced with an unsettling blend of approval and menace. “For allowing me to glimpse what the future holds.”

Confusion flared within her, but understanding dawned quickly. Surrounded by his followers, Voldemort could not afford to reveal any hint of failure or frustration. Admitting that he had seen nothing within her mind would be a sign of weakness — something he would never permit. Hermione’s stomach twisted as she realised the dangerous game he was playing, one where perception was everything.

Summoning every ounce of control, she inclined her head, her expression calm despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. “You honour me, sir,” she murmured, her voice steady but taut, each word carefully measured. She prayed that her feigned gratitude came across as genuine deference rather than the desperate attempt at survival it truly was.

Satisfied, he turned to the door, lifting his wand with a graceful flick. Moments later, the door opened, and Hermione saw the dark silhouettes of more Death Eaters entering the room. Bellatrix, Lucius, Yaxley, and Rowle were among those who entered, each taking in the dimly lit room with a curious glance before settling into various seats around the smoking room.

Voldemort gestured with a slow, deliberate hand towards a corner of the room, where an old gramophone sat idle. With another flick of his wand, the gramophone sprang to life, emitting soft, lilting music that filled the room with an odd, almost convivial warmth. It felt strangely out of place, yet Voldemort seemed to relish the atmosphere, his gaze flickering over his gathered followers as if they were all part of a twisted tableau he had crafted.

A house-elf appeared at Voldemort’s side, carrying a tray of brandy glasses. The elf offered one to Hermione, who hesitated, instinctively uncomfortable with the idea. She began to shake her head, but then her gaze caught Voldemort’s steady, expectant look — a gaze that left little room for argument.

“Take it, Hermione,” he said smoothly, his voice both kind and unyielding, as though he were simply offering her an extension of his hospitality. “Tonight, you are among family. Relax.”

With a forced smile, Hermione accepted the glass, the chill of the crystal against her fingers a reminder of the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. She took a cautious sip, the warmth of the brandy settling in her stomach, but it did little to ease her apprehension. Around her, the conversations drifted into surprisingly mundane topics: Rookwood shared Ministry gossip, Lucius discussed the finer points of potion-brewing innovations, and Bellatrix, in an oddly restrained tone, engaged Voldemort in a discussion about magical creatures and their handling.

The scene was surreal, almost grotesque in its normalcy. Here were people she had only ever heard of in connection with terror and brutality, discussing everyday topics with a familiarity and ease that felt like a dark parody of an ordinary gathering. Hermione felt as though she were observing it all from a distance, as if this were all some twisted nightmare rather than reality.

Just as Hermione allowed herself a brief moment of respite, she sensed someone sliding into the seat beside her. The immediate closeness made her stiffen. Antonin Dolohov settled far too close, the sharp scent of firewhisky clinging to him like a bitter cloud. His eyes gleamed with a predatory light, and before she could discreetly shift away, he leant in. His arm draped over the back of her chair — not in camaraderie, but more like a cage trapping her in place.

"Aren't you a lucky one, Miss Rookwood," Dolohov drawled, his voice slick with a veneer of false charm. "Dropping into our midst... and finding yourself right by the Dark Lord's side." His gaze roamed over her, lingering uncomfortably long. Hermione forced herself to remain composed, though every instinct urged her to recoil. "He must see something very special in you."

Hermione managed a tight smile, her fingers gripping the stem of her glass to steady herself. "I'm grateful for the opportunities I've been given," she replied, keeping her tone measured and polite.

Dolohov's hand slid down the back of her chair, his fingers brushing lightly against her shoulder twirling a piece of her hair. The touch sent a cold shiver through her, and she resisted the urge to flinch. Leaning closer, he spoke in a low murmur that only she could hear. "No need to be so formal, dear. We're all friends here, aren't we? After all."

Her pulse quickened, a mixture of unease and frustration bubbling within her. Taking a deliberate sip of her brandy, she hoped the action would mask the slight tremor in her hand. The warmth of the liquor did little to ease her discomfort. Her mind felt hazy from the elf wine and brandy consumed earlier, making it harder to think clearly.

"Of course," she responded evenly, attempting to maintain her composure. "It's important for us to work together harmoniously."

Dolohov chuckled softly, but there was no mirth in the sound. "Harmoniously, yes. But some of us are more... in tune than others." His gaze bore into her, a sly smile playing on his lips. "I could show you things, help you adjust to our ways. It's easy to feel out of place in new surroundings."

Hermione’s eyes darted around the room, searching desperately for an escape. The other Death Eaters were engrossed in their own conversations, a low hum of dark murmurs that offered no sanctuary. Her gaze landed on Lucius Malfoy, who stood near the fireplace, his expression cool and unreadable as he observed the room. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and she quickly looked away.

Dolohov, sensing her distraction, leant in closer, his breath chilling against her skin. “No need to look elsewhere, my dear. I’m right here,” he whispered, his tone oily and insistent. His hand moved from the back of her chair to her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his.

She barely had time to react before Lucius’s voice sliced through the air, each word laced with icy disapproval. “Dolohov,” he drawled, loud enough to command attention and cut through the room’s chatter, “I believe you’ve had enough for one evening. Isn’t she a bit young for you?”

Dolohov’s grip faltered, his expression darkening with irritation as he turned towards Lucius. The room fell into an uneasy silence, the kind that prickled at the edges of Hermione’s awareness. All eyes shifted as tension thickened. But it was Voldemort’s sudden, chilling stillness that made every breath catch. His presence was a palpable weight, and the shift in his aura sent a cold shiver down her spine. He watched Dolohov with a dark, simmering rage that silenced even the most callous Death Eaters.

“Antonin,” he said, his words cutting through the air like a knife, “You forget yourself,”

Before anyone had a chance to respond, Voldemort lifted his wand with a smooth, practised motion. Hermione’s breath caught, realising his intentions a heartbeat too late.

“Crucio.”

The curse hit Dolohov squarely, and the effect was instantaneous. His body jerked violently, contorting as raw, unfiltered pain tore through him, sending his limbs flailing as he slumped back onto the couch beside her. Hermione’s heart raced as she watched in horror, her mind reeling as Dolohov’s face twisted, his jaw clenched in a silent scream. His body shuddered, wracked with agony, and Hermione felt herself gripping the arm of the chair with white-knuckled tension, the scene unfolding too quickly for her to process.

Unable to watch any longer, she stumbled to her feet, her breathing shallow, her eyes wide with terror. The weight of what she was witnessing hit her like a tidal wave — she had known, intellectually, what Voldemort was capable of, but this was a visceral, up-close demonstration of his power and ruthlessness. And, as Dolohov’s body continued to convulse, she realised that Voldemort would show no mercy for any offence against him, even one as minor as Dolohov’s drunken, intrusive closeness.

Then, just as abruptly as it had started, Voldemort flicked his wand, and the curse ceased. Dolohov crumpled onto the couch, gasping for breath, his face pale and drawn, his limbs still twitching from the aftershocks of the pain. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, his entire body shrunken in both shame and weakness.

Hermione barely had time to process the scene before Voldemort turned to her, his expression softening instantly, his eyes holding a strange warmth that made her stomach twist. He stepped forward, his demeanour shifting from fury to one of calm control, and in a move that felt both comforting and possessive, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing her close. She felt his hand settle gently on her back, his touch unsettlingly tender as her face was pressed against his chest. 

“Hermione,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with a smooth, almost fatherly reassurance. “Forgive my follower’s... poor judgement. You should never have been made to feel uncomfortable.” His fingers brushed against her back in a way that seemed meant to soothe, but to Hermione, it felt like a tightening snare. “Dolohov alone is at fault.”

Hermione remained tense in his embrace, feeling trapped and exposed in a way she hadn’t anticipated. She wanted to pull away, to put distance between herself and the man whose cruelty she had just witnessed, but Voldemort’s grip held her firmly in place. She forced herself to nod, swallowing back the wave of fear threatening to rise in her throat. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Thank you, sir.”

Voldemort’s gaze softened, as if he hadn’t just cast a Cruciatus Curse moments before. He leant down slightly, his voice a velvet murmur meant just for her. “You are safe with me, Hermione. It is Dolohov who has failed you — not this family.”

Hermione managed a small nod, her body rigid in his hold, her thoughts scrambling to process his words. His arms tightened slightly, and she could feel the strength in his grip, a reminder of both his power and his control over her. In his embrace, she felt more like a prized possession than a person, her safety contingent on his will alone.

“My deepest apologies for his actions,” he continued, his voice filled with a false warmth that only deepened her unease. “You are part of this family now, Hermione, and as such, you are owed the utmost respect. Dolohov’s lapse in judgement will not be tolerated.”

She nodded again, barely able to muster the words she needed. “Thank you, sir,” she whispered, her voice strained but respectful.

Voldemort finally released her, his hand lingering on her shoulder for a moment as he studied her face, his expression approving. “Good,” he said, his tone gentle but final, as though sealing a pact. “I am pleased you understand.”

He turned his attention back to Dolohov, who remained slumped on the couch, his gaze fixed on the floor, his shoulders hunched in defeat. The room was silent other than the gramophone that played in the background, each Death Eater present carefully avoiding Voldemort’s gaze, clearly mindful of the lesson they had just witnessed.

Voldemort straightened, his expression calm once more as he addressed the room. “Let this be a reminder,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with a dangerous quiet, “that respect is non-negotiable. Miss Rookwood is to be treated as family, and any deviation from that will be dealt with accordingly.”

A collective murmur of agreement rippled through the room, and Hermione saw the briefest flicker of fear cross the faces of even the most hardened among them. Bellatrix, usually unshakable, offered Hermione a nod of acknowledgment, her gaze steely yet deferential.

Voldemort’s expression softened again as he turned back to Hermione, the intensity of his previous anger replaced by a calculating, almost fatherly concern. He studied her face for a moment, his gaze lingering on her as though appraising her reaction to the scene she had just witnessed.

“Hermione,” he said, his voice gentle yet firm, “I believe it would be best for you to retire for the evening. You look rather pale.”

Hermione nodded, her pulse still racing, and her heart pounded with a mix of fear and relief. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured, her voice steady but soft, desperately grasping for composure.

Voldemort’s eyes held hers for a moment longer, an almost unreadable glint in them, before he gave a small nod. “Good,” he replied, his tone final. “Rest well, Hermione. Tomorrow will be a new day, and I trust you’ll feel restored.”

She dipped her head in a respectful nod, then turned, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room as she walked to the door. The tension that clung to her shoulders only eased when she stepped out of the room and into the quiet hallway, feeling the cold draft of the corridor hit her cheeks. Her mind was still whirling with what she had seen and what Voldemort’s reaction had shown her.

As she walked, Hermione’s thoughts raced. She had known Voldemort was ruthless, that he ruled his followers with a brutal and exacting hand. But tonight, had been more than a display of power — it had been a demonstration that her safety was contingent upon his whims, that she was under his protection only as long as she met his expectations.

By the time she reached her room, Hermione’s hands were still trembling. She closed the door quietly behind her, leaning against it as she took a deep breath, the events of the evening replaying in her mind. Dolohov’s leering presence, the swift and merciless way Voldemort had dealt with him, and the chilling possessiveness Voldemort had shown towards her — as much as it terrified her it also was reassuring in a strange way that she was protected. 

She moved to the bed, fully clothed, lying down on top of the covers with the lamp clutched in her hand for the third time. The dim light from the moon barely pierced the heavy curtains, but it was enough to give her a sense of quiet comfort in the silence. She closed her eyes, trying to still the turmoil within her, yet knowing that in this world, her every step would have to be carefully measured.

Tonight, had been a test, and she had passed. But in the depths of the Dark Lord’s world, she realised, surviving each day would only grow more complicated. And as she drifted into an uneasy sleep, her mind turned to what tomorrow would bring — and what new challenges lay ahead.