Tom wanted to be in a good mood. He really did. He had, after all, accomplished what he'd wanted to with Hermione. When he'd left her, she'd been a sniveling, crying, mess on the floor. She had screamed prettily, had writhed in a way that Tom could only call artistic, and according to Vera, Hermione's reluctant roommate, the curly-haired girl had been unable to get out of bed and was claiming being horrendously sick.

In addition to that, he'd had luck torturing Dolohov last night as well. The boy had screamed even louder than Hermione, had bled and begged for forgiveness. He had muttered promises over and over again like a prayer that he would never do anything to question Tom's authority ever again. And maybe Tom didn't believe him for even a second, but it was satisfying to hear nonetheless.

And yet…

And yet things had not all been as he'd hoped. His foray into Hermione's mind had been…well, he honestly didn't know what to make of it. He'd gathered that she had fought in a war, that she was a survivor at heart, and that she had been in love once. He'd seen a glimpse of her as a child – and hadn't that been odd? Tom was finding it difficult to imagine Hermione as anything other than exactly as she was now, despite the fact that he'd seen evidence to the contrary.

But what did any of it mean? He'd been awake all night thinking about it. About her. So she'd been in love. That made her weak and sentimental, no different from any other woman, and therefore not a good fit for his knights. That was easy. But…she had fought in a war and lived through it. From the looks of it, she'd had more of a hand in the war with Grindelwald than she had told Dippet. The old coot thought Hermione Graves was a refugee, not a soldier. Maybe those rumors about her being a hit-wizard held some weight after all.

And if so, then yes, she'd be a perfect recruit. That, too, was easy. She'd held some semblance of mental shields during torture, had out-maneuvered Tom himself on more than one occasion, and was perhaps the sharpest woman he'd ever met. But she was a liar, and headstrong, and after being tortured, she had clung to him like silly little girl. And because she was all of these things simultaneously, she was a complicated situation.

Tom would have liked to be a good mood, and he felt that he'd more than deserved it. But he wasn't.

Dumbledore's eyes were pinned on him, that annoying twinkle absent. The repeated absence of Hermione at breakfast was not going unnoticed, then. Now was certainly not the right time for Dumbledore sticking his nose where it absolutely didn't belong.

"Tom." A voice drew him out of his musings and forced him to tear his eyes away from Dumbledore. Abraxas sat next to him, lips pursed in concern. The blond wiped his expression clean. "Are you going to Dueling Club this afternoon?"

Abraxas was perhaps the only person who could get away with looking vaguely concerned for Tom's wellbeing without getting thoroughly hexed, Tom thought with some amusement. Perhaps it wasn't wise to show such favoritism, but then again, Abraxas typically fucked up the least, and good behavior always deserved to be rewarded.

"Of course," Tom said, "though I doubt there will be a point."

Abraxas didn't ask for a qualification. He knew Tom well enough to know that the dark-haired boy had little difficulty defeating any other student in an outright duel, and that the only reason Tom even attended those club meetings was to maintain his spot at the top of the leaderboard. No one challenged him these days anyway, not unless they were stupid, cocky, or legitimately had a death wish.

"Perhaps Miss Graves—"

Tom's lips quirked slightly. "Hermione is apparently extremely sick this morning."

Abraxas's stomach dropped. He didn't like Hermione enough to really be worried for her – in fact, he barely liked her at all, aside from their mutually beneficial arrangement – but he knew that being extremely sick in Slytherin house was code for "nearly cursed into an early grave." He couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy, having been in that exact position many times before.

"I see," was all the blond said in return.

"Yes, Hermione will not be attending dueling club today," Tom said, once more feeling a flood of satisfaction at his work. "Of that, I am sure."

Hermione could not recall exactly how she had been talked into going to the Dueling Club, but she suspected it was half out of necessity to appear okay for the sake of her friends and half out of a desire to show Riddle how very little his little show of torture had affected her. She was determined to adopt the whole "appear weak when you are strong, and appear strong when you are weak" philosophy preached in Sun Tzu's "Art of War," the book she had been rereading ever since the sorting hat had quoted it several weeks ago.

Hermione was, admittedly, not doing nearly as well as she had forced herself to appear. She had taken three pepper-up potions, a high dosage of Cambodian painkillers, and a big swig of essence of dittany in the hope that some combination of these self-prescribed medications would alleviate some of the damage done by Riddle. Even the weakest cruciatus was an extraordinarily painful experience, and Riddle was not weak. She could walk without actively wincing now, but the pain was still there. Her limbs were shaky, her voice raw. The only thing that had healed up with no trouble at all were the cuts he'd littered across her body. They wouldn't even scar.

Acquiescing to Riddle's demand to meet him and face the consequences of her actions had, in hindsight, not been her best plan. She was gifted with memory charms, after all. She could have easily erased any problem that he would have caused her if he'd turned in her wand and accused her of using the unforgivables. She could have, in fact, done any number of things, but none of them were guaranteed to work. And besides, she wasn't trying to win every battle with Riddle. She was in it for the long con.

If that meant that sometimes she'd have to let him think he was winning, then that's what she'd do. She'd let some of her memories slip by, some by accident, some on purpose, but nothing that incriminated her as a time traveler. She hadn't been able to help the screams, but that's what Tom wanted anyway. Hermione considered it a trade, really. She gave him hints of who she was, gave him the illusion of submission to his authority.

And in return? Well…

The smooth engraved design on her vinewood wand was a comfort in her hand. She had missed it, missed the way it felt like an extension of her arm, missed the weight of it and the small divot worn into the wood where her thumb always pressed too tight. From the hum of the wand's dragon heartstring core, she could tell that it had missed her as well. Holding onto Riddle after he'd crucio'd her and torn through her mind had been a vile necessity. In his post-dark magic haze and his disgust with her, he hadn't even felt her shaky hands rifling through the pockets of his robes, stealing her wand back and replacing it with a transfigured dud.

It had been a risk, of course. She had no guarantee that he'd even have it on him. But her wand was hers again, and he had no leverage over her for the moment. And poor Riddle. He didn't have a clue. Hermione barely contained her smug grin.

The dueling club set-up was almost exactly how it had been in Hermione's own time, only there was no incompetent Professor Lockhart in charge. Instead, Professor Merrythought, tall and clearly athletic despite being in her 60s, stood on the dueling platform, stoically waiting for everyone to file in. Hermione spotted Adessa, Euphemia, and Balthazar waving at her across the room and slowly made her way towards them, careful not to limp.

"You weren't at breakfast," Adessa accused as soon as Hermione was within hearing range. "I heard you were sick."

The look the redhead gave her was beyond suspicious, and for a second, Hermione almost felt bad for lying to her.

"I've been throwing up all morning," she rasped. "Stomach flu, I think."

"Are you sure you should be here?" Euphemia asked, her warm brown eyes filled with concern. Adessa shot her a glare, as if she had somehow been rude. Euphemia hurriedly backtracked. "I only mean that, in your condition, I should hardly think you'd be well enough to duel."

Hermione smiled at her fondly. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm only here to watch."

"Is there a reason," Balthazar began slowly, his eyes focused on a spot just over Hermione's shoulder, "that Tom Riddle is gaping at you like you've a unicorn head?"

Hermione turned towards the door where Riddle and his gang stood. Upon making eye contact, Riddle's face turned into his usual mask of superior politeness. He nodded at Hermione once in greeting. In turn, she made a show of jerkily nodding her head at him and quickly turning away. It was subtle enough that her Gryffindor companions wouldn't notice, but Tom most definitely would.

Adessa grimaced. "He always looks constipated."

"Must be the stick up his ass," Hermione muttered, earning a huff of laughter from Euphemia. Hermione was slowly learning that though Euphemia rarely made jokes herself, she possessed a sharp, deprecating sense of humor that was softened only by her unfailing kindness.

"Welcome to the Dueling Club," Merrythought's voice boomed. "You know the rules. Nothing illegal. Nothing lethal. Do we have any challengers?"

"Those are pretty non-specific rules," Hermione whispered to Adessa. The redhead smirked and shrugged.

"Normally, I don't think it'd be a problem," she said. "But with Riddle's vicious crew of psychopaths, we send at least one person to the hospital wing every week with our fingers crossed that they're not crippled for life."

Hermione pursed her lips, unsurprised. "Has anyone ever not recovered?"

Adessa tapped her fingers on her leg nervously. "A few. One boy, a Hufflepuff muggleborn, lost a leg. Even St. Mungos couldn't regrow it. But of course, they couldn't prove malicious intent, and Merrythought loves the idea of simulating a real duel, so nothing ever came of it."

"I see." And she probably understood better than Adessa did. She'd fought these men when they were older, knew what they were capable of. And she knew what she was capable of herself. She could accidentally kill someone if she got too wrapped up in the duel. For so long, she'd been fighting to kill. Take no prisoners. The Order couldn't afford it.

Two duels had already been fought and lost. Or won, depending on your perspective, Hermione thought. Balthazar had won his duel against some other Ravenclaw that Hermione didn't know, and Avery had just barely defeated Mulciber, though that duel had taken nearly ten minutes. A ten minute duel, in Hermione's opinion, was precisely seven and a half minutes too long.

"Do people only challenge others within their own house?" Hermione asked.

"Nope," Adessa said, smirking. "But it usually starts out that way. Most of the early duels are friendly. When we get to the end, there's usually at least one or two Gryffindor-Slytherin duels. Those can get nasty. You Slytherins don't fight fair."

Hermione grinned at her teasing. "Like you Gryffindors do." She gave her a pointed look. "Or did I imagine that dung bomb tucked up your sleeve, Miss Prewett?"

She grinned. "You've got me there."

Just then, a pretty, chestnut-haired girl stood, clad in Ravenclaw robes and surrounded by an entourage of equally smug-looking girls. She was pretty, but in a small-town kind of way, with blue eyes and dainty features. She strode up to the dueling platform confidently, nodded cordially to Professor Merrythought, and turned to face Hermione directly.

"I, Caroline Cross of Ravenclaw, challenge Hermione Graves of Slytherin, to a duel," she said, her voice light and airy, but firm. In that moment, Hermione decided that she could respect the girl even if the feeling wasn't mutual.

"Well, shit," Balthazar muttered. He turned to his curly-haired friend. "You don't have to, Hermione. You've been really sick. You can refuse."

The whole room was watching her. She was still at the center of the gossip mill at Hogwarts; everyone knew she'd been too sick to leave bed for her morning classes. Merrythought was starting to intervene.

"Caroline, dear, perhaps –"

"I accept," Hermione said. Even her quiet, raspy voice cut through the room, silencing any objections from Merrythought. This was perhaps not her best idea, she thought as she walked excruciatingly slowly towards the platform. Hermione realized that she didn't know how good of a dueler Caroline was. Did she fight fair? Was she offensive or defensive? Did she move or stand still? How many non-verbal spells did she know?

It didn't really matter at this point because she couldn't very well back out now. Besides, Hermione thought, it was unlikely that Caroline Cross would be able to beat her, even with the after-effects of the cruciatus making her weak. From up on the platform, she scanned the crowd for a moment, her eyes briefly meeting with Tom's. He was stony-faced, but she could still read him: he was curious, excited, to see what she could do. Hermione knew then that she would win simply because she could not afford to lose a duel in front of Tom Riddle. Not if she wanted his respect. Not if she wanted him to fear her one day.

Hermione and Caroline bowed to each other, Hermione only inclining slightly as her internal damage would not allow any more movement. And then the duel began.

Any lingering concerns Hermione might have had about Caroline Cross's dueling abilities were immediately wiped away. Caroline was an above average dueler: she was quick and had a decent sized repertoire of spells. But she lacked confidence and experience. She was indecisive, an over thinker. Hermione smiled slightly as she lazily deflected three spells in a row, because she had once been very much like Caroline.

Hermione had decided to use her ebony wand because Tom was watching and she certainly didn't want him to know that she had taken her own wand back. The ebony wand, however, was not appreciating the defensive dueling style Hermione had selected, and her magic was encouraging her to end the duel already. Hermione watched as Caroline tossed spell after spell after spell, and waited, casually deflecting every curse and charm without batting an eye.

Her moment came. Caroline had stopped for a single second to take a breath, and Hermione silently shot a single, powerful expelliarmus at her, knocking the poor girl off her feet, wand flying easily into Hermione's hand. She wasted no time in walking over to the girl and handing her her wand.

"It was a good duel, Miss Cross," she said kindly. Caroline looked up at her, indignant, embarrassed, and clearly with the intent of getting revenge. Hermione almost sighed.

"It was not a good duel, Miss Graves," she said matter-of-factly. "And I would appreciate it if you would not condescend to me."

Caroline stood, dusted herself off, and left the platform. Adessa rushed forward to help Hermione down.

"That was brilliant," she said, eyes alight.

Hermione raised a brow. "You are too easily impressed, then."

"On the contrary, Miss Graves," a smooth baritone interjected. Hermione didn't have to look up to know it belonged to Tom Riddle. "The effortlessness of your duel was incredible."

Hermione offered him a thin smile, eyes cast down in deference. "Such a compliment from you is rare, I understand. I'm flattered."

"Perhaps we could duel sometime when you're feeling better," Riddle said, voice low and seductive. "I would give you more of a challenge, and I would love to see what you're capable of when you're…unrestrained." Without another word, he simply turned to rejoin his posse, leaving Adessa and Hermione both very confused.

"Is he flirting with you or threatening you?" the redhead asked, brow furrowed.

Hermione shook her head. "I honestly have no idea." She seemed to shake off her thoughts and turned to her friend. "I am feeling rather tired, though, so I'm going back to bed. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"If you don't show up to breakfast, I'll burn down the Slytherin door to find you," she said, only half-teasing.

"I'll try not to sleep too late, then," Hermione laughed, the sound grating unpleasantly from the roughness of her throat.

As soon as Hermione and the other Slytherins had disappeared from view, Adessa turned to Balthazar and Euphemia. "Do you think they've hurt her?" she asked.

Euphemia frowned. "She said she was sick-"

"Hermione lies, sometimes," Balthazar said, seemingly unbothered. "Especially when she thinks it will spare someone else."

"She wouldn't lie to us," Euphemia protested, but Adessa was already countering her.

"She would." Adessa ran her hand through her hair and sighed. "Hermione…the truth is that we don't know much about her life before she came here, but I get the feeling that she's had to make some hard choices. We don't know what she is and isn't capable of."

"She did look a little worse off than just a stomach flu," Euphemia admitted, suddenly feeling guilty for not having considered it earlier.

"A lot worse," Balthazar said, stony-faced. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say it looks like she's had a healthy dose of the cruciatus curse."

"Three guesses who did it," Adessa spat.

Euphemia frowned at her. "Riddle? You really think-"

"Name one other person who could've gotten away with it," Balthazar said.

The dark haired girl chewed on her bottom lip. They were right, of course. Riddle was the most magically powerful student in the school, and he was a Head Boy. Everyone knew he had an iron grip on Slytherin, that he was considered their king, essentially. But he'd always been so nice, so polite and clever that Euphemia had never considered what kind of person he'd have to be to control the likes of Dolohov and Lestrange. She shuddered.

"What do we do?" she asked, looking between her friends. None of them seemed confident.

"For now," Balthazar said, "there's nothing we can do. Riddle's got the school wrapped around his finger. We don't have proof. We don't have the numbers that he has. The only advantage we have is Hermione, and we still have to convince her to let us help her."

Euphemia nodded decidedly. "Then that's what we do. We gather proof. We gather support. And we do it quietly. If we're correct in suspecting Riddle and his friends, then even looking into this matter will be dangerous. We have to assume that they're not fighting fair – they're using unforgiveables, for Merlin's sake – which means we can't either."

Balthazar smirked. "I'll make the necessary inquiries."

As Tom looked around the dimly-lit room at his knights, the feeling of satisfaction that he had been craving only this morning hit him. They knelt on the floor around him, deferring to him. This, he decided, was power.

"As you all know, I have gathered you here to discuss the future of our plans," he said. "Rise."

They stood, Abraxas to his immediate right letting out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief as one of his knees cracked.

"The world is changing, gentlemen. Grindelwald reigns now, but he won't forever. We have to ensure our place at the top," Tom paused to look at each of his knights, "and to do that, sometimes we must make…unorthodox choices."

They were all nodding their assent.

"I have determined that Hermione Graves is either our most important ally or our most lethal threat," he said. His knights were less enthusiastic now, but he would show them what there was to admire in the half-blood witch. "You have concerns. Voice them now."

Dolohov was, unsurprisingly, the first to speak up. "Can we trust her? She's a half-blood and a woman, and she has not shown you the respect you deserve, my lord."

Tom raised a brow. "The same could be said of you, Antonin. Well, the respect part, at least."

The Russian man had the decency to look properly ashamed as the other knights threw him dirty looks.

Abraxas turned to his lord. "She is a capable witch, and intelligent as well, my lord, but how do you plan to convert her to our cause? Attempts at isolating her from her Gryffindor friends have proved futile."

"Precisely so," Riddle said. "I would propose another method entirely. I would need someone to befriend her, to join her little group of friends and work from the inside."

"My lord," Abraxas said, kneeling before Tom, "I have a tentative acquaintanceship with Hermione. I will foster this, if it is your will."

Tom grit his teeth. "Did you not ineffectively try to torture her not so very long ago?"

Abraxas swallowed. "Yes, my lord. But Hermione –" and from the corner of his eye, Abraxas saw his lord tense, " – Miss Graves was willing to put that behind us in exchange for an ally in Slytherin."

Tom took a deep breath. "I see. And this is only made known to me now because?"

Abraxas paled. "I agreed to her terms, but suspected a trick. I did not wish to bring you news of a false alliance." Sensing his lord's foul mood, he hurried to explain, "But I accepted the alliance with your goals in mind, my lord."

Tom nodded shortly. "Everyone out. We're done for tonight." As everyone hurriedly began to leave, fearing their lord's short temper, Tom added, "Not you, Abraxas."

The blond stayed kneeling at his lord's feet.

"I am displeased that you kept this from me, Abraxas," Tom said as he used his wand to nudge Abraxas's head up. Seeing the fear in the blond boy's eyes was borderline euphoric, especially because it was combined with an unfailing loyalty. Afraid, but committed. Tom's favorite. "But I am more pleased with your initiative. You will escape punishment tonight."

"Thank you, my lord. I will not fail you again."

"Rise," Tom said, shedding a layer of his Voldemort persona. "There is something else I would discuss with you."

"Of course, my lord."

"It is about Hermione," Tom continued. "You have no doubt heard the absurd rumors that I am courting her."

"They are hard not to hear, my lord."

Tom turned to look at the only one of his followers he would even consider calling a friend. "I am inclined to make those rumors true." Abraxas stiffened, but otherwise did not outwardly react. "If, of course, she proves instrumental to our cause. It is how I would recruit her."

"You believe this would work?" Abraxas asked, somewhat incredulous. From what he could tell, Tom and Hermione had little in common besides intelligence and skill. Hermione did not appear to like Tom very much, and Tom had certainly made it clear that he was not the romantic sort. After Tom had held her under the cruciatus and searched through her mind without her consent, Abraxas thought it unlikely that she would be interested in any close contact with the man. And yet, there was a sort of magnetism between them that he would have been stupid not to notice, a sort of push-and-pull of power, and though Abraxas was unwavering in his loyalty to his lord, he sometimes wondered who was really going to win out in the end.

"Not without some effort," Tom admitted grudgingly. "But if she is what I think she is, then she is well worth it." He licked his lips almost nervously. As if Abraxas thought his lord capable of being nervous. "She's been in love before."

"You aim to convince her to be in love again," Abraxas surmised. "With you."

Well that was a whole other challenge altogether. Tom could woo any woman into his bed, provided her interests were inclined towards men, but love? And with a woman like Hermione Graves? Abraxas could imagine that Hermione might fuck Tom, but he could not imagine Hermione in love. Not really.

"You think it's a bad plan," Tom said, not seeming offended.

"I think it's unsure at best, and a catastrophe at worst," Abraxas offered. "You'd be better off seducing her into your bed and the dark arts, and leaving love out of it entirely."

Tom huffed a laugh. "Perhaps."

"But?" Abraxas asked, knowing his lord and friend too well.

"But I need to surprise her. Throw her off balance," Tom said. He sneered. "She will not expect tenderness from me."

Abraxas couldn't fault the man's logic. "Then be tender when you can afford it, but leave love out of it. She's too clever to be fooled like that, and it will only make her resent you."

Tom nodded thoughtfully, clapping a hand on Abraxas's shoulder. "Sound advice. Though I confess I never thought I'd consult you on…" He waved his hand around vaguely, as if unsure as to what they were actually talking about.

"Romance," Abraxas finished for him, smirking at the disgusted look that crossed his lord's face. "Nor I, my lord, to be sure."

-author's note-

Hi guys! Just realized that I completely forgot to post the 19th chapter up here when I posted it on ao3 several months ago. I'm so sorry for the delay!

Just a reminder that I am on ao3 as Spork_in_the_Road and I post there way more frequently.

As always, feel free to comment and favorite! I love you all. Thank you so much for sticking with me and with this story :)