Note: I've been playing with this story idea for a couple years and I've been too shy to share it before. I hope you like my idea as much as I do. FYI, this story is a magical modern AU and basically all canon has been shot out the window. Dumbledore and Grindelwald are in their mid-30s, Hermione is around 20-21 (in the prologue), and Tom is five years older than Hermione.

May 16th, 2016

I know I said I wouldn't write you, but it's happened.

I never thought it would, but I...

Dumbledore's dead and it's all my fault. He warned me and I didn't listen.

I need to get away. He'll be coming for me.

Whatever you do, stay safe.

x H.

The second biggest fault in a man, especially an arrogant one, is that he enjoys hearing himself talk.

"What is the cost of a life?"

What a loaded question, Hermione thought. Giving an opinion would be one thing, but that's all they were – opinions. And hers were pointless here, anyway.

Her answer was something between a scoff and a snort.

Chuckling against her neck, the man's palm splayed against her ribcage possessively, bringing her back flush against his bare chest. This is why he kept her around for so long; not only for her magical talents and usefulness, but for her little displays of defiance. They always delighted him.

"I'm being serious, my dear. At the end of the day, in the grand scheme of my plans, what is the cost of one, meaningless life? Or two? Three? A thousand?" he repeated with a smile playing on his lips, his warm breath dampening her skin.

Oh, so sweet. Oh, so saccharine. Oh, such complete and utter bullshit.

Everything, she'd wanted to argue. One life was worth everything, no matter how prettily he thought he said it.

But saying that out loud would've been a terrible idea. He always let her get away with a lot, but he'd definitely punish her for that kind of cheek. Plus, it would never get her anywhere.

Her hazel eyes met his blue and brown ones in their reflection of the full-length mirror. Together, here as they were, with their expensive nightclothes and the dim candlelight of his room, they almost looked the part. Almost looked like secret lovers. Part of her hated that he was young and brilliant and had that mischievous, playful quality about him that made him attractive. But she also hated it, because it always made this easier.

"You're doing this all for the greater good, so…not a thing," she lied smoothly.

Like a man possessed, he inhaled deeply, dragging his nose up the side of her neck, up the side of her face, letting the corner of his mouth rest against her temple. Letting his fingers curl into her hair. Letting him tug back, exposing her throat to him.

"That's my good girl," he practically groaned, knowing full well she'd lied to him.

Tell him what he wants to hear, she told herself as his hands began to wander, as she let out a breathy moan.

Tell him what he wants to hear, and he'll reveal everything.

The number one fault in a man, especially an arrogant one, is that they underestimated the power a single woman could hold over them.

Even if the woman was only the man's prisoner.