Their relationship over the next couple months was primarily of the sexual nature, but that was mostly due to Hermione's restrictions.

There was no changing the fact that Harry and Ginny and all their extended family knew of their arrangement, but she would be damned if she would let something as useless as lust ruin the future of her career. And she had always been a bit anal about keeping her personal and business life separate (She never told Harry and Ginny the name of the company she worked for to avoid drop by visits, for example)

So, the only time they spent together when Tom was actually allowed to touch her would be in the privacy of her own flat. He hated it—her flat, that is, she had no way of knowing how he felt about the arrangement—because it was cramped and run-down and the heating never worked, but conceded to it anyway.

And there were always ways to keep warm.

It wasn't purely sexual, however—there would be times in the early morning, legs intwined, fingers interlocked, strange conversations and intellectual debates that neither begun nor ended with any sort of lust-filled touches or glances. It was very domestic, in fact, especially on days they awoke before the alarm and would eat breakfast together—on her kitchen floor, because she had no table to eat at and her countertops were overrun with textbooks and papers for Graduate school.

They would depart her flat at different hours—sometimes she would leave before him and it was strange to think of him alone in her little studio apartment without her. Not uncomfortable, but odd. They would meet at work with nothing but the bruises to remind them.

He never touched her at work. He tried, once, when everything was beginning, and Hermione had nearly had a panic attack. If anyone knew she was with him, of course it would be assumed she had fucked her way into his good graces and—she couldn't bear the thought of all of her hard work being disregarded in favor of the belief that her body is what granted her the position she had now.

He never tried it again.

But Tom had his restrictions as well—sexually, not at all. He cared very little for who knew or even who saw. His restrictions lied in their conversations. He didn't speak of Cosa Nostra with her.

He didn't avoid the subject—that would be too obvious for someone like him. Instead he would outright lie to her. He would meet her question with a raised eyebrow and a ready-made answer on his lips and it made her furious to watch him gaze at her as if she was supposed to believe any of it.

She would usually drop the subject, and if they were in the privacy of her own flat, would distract herself with his lips, dig her nails into his back and let him give in ways other than answers.

She liked it. She liked the marks on her hips and her collarbone and her thighs, she liked his scent that lingered in her sheets, she liked the way his hair looked in the morning and the way his hands always found her in his sleep. She liked the normality of their time spent together at work, the professional atmosphere, the way he continued to let her sort through cases and offer input as if nothing had ever changed.

The only thing she didn't like were the secrets.

But then she already knew she would have to figure these sort of things out for herself.

The sun streamed in through her window, filtering through her own blinds and highlighting the dust particles wildly swimming through the air. She was stretched out on her stomach, taking in the warm light. Tom lay beside her, his arm strewn across her lower back haphazardly and his head buried in her shoulder. It was nearly nine o'clock.

She dug her freezing toes into his shin and he groaned against her neck.

"Get off," She murmured, her voice matching the quiet atmosphere of the little room as she nudged her hip against his, "I have class."

"Your professor today is useless," He grumbled against her neck, pulling his arm back to splay his fingers across her lower back. His fingers were cold.

"That doesn't mean I don't have to go," She laughed as he ran his nose up her neck and breathed in the scent of her hair. He exhaled slowly against the back of her neck. "Don't you have work to do, anyway?"

"I have a meeting at eleven," he mumbled, dragging his hand up and down her back. She rolled her eyes and turned her head to face him. He pulled his head away from her neck to see her but didn't stop his hand's movement.

"I know that," She scoffed, "I'm the one who sets up your meetings. Don't you have anything else to do?"

His lips stretched into a sleepy smirk, his hand settling against the back of her neck, "Yes," He said, averting his gaze to her mouth. The corner of her mouth tilted up against her will.

"I have class," She reminded him pointedly. It was his turn to roll his eyes now, and he lifted his hand and rolled away from her, frowning like a petulant child. She laughed, knowing very much that her laughter was entirely at his expense, but he really didn't need to be so dramatic.

She dragged herself up on her hands and knees and threaded her fingers through his hair to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Don't go through my things this time," She murmured against his lips before pulling away and dragging herself out of bed to get dressed.

"You didn't have anything interesting, anyway." He said, watching her as she dressed.

"It's a little disconcerting how much freedom you have to figure out anything you want about me," She commented, pulling an old university sweatshirt on and tying her hair in a top knot, "Yet I know nothing about you."

"You know plenty about me," He deflected.

She sighed irritably, shoving her textbooks into her backpack and heaving it onto her shoulders, "No, I don't, Tom." She snapped.

He fell silent, observing her from where he lounged in her bed. She rubbed her eyes and sighed, grabbing her keys from the kitchen counter and turning her gaze on him briefly. He raised an expectant eyebrow, as if he was ready for her to bitch at him or argue.

He wouldn't tell her anything, anyway. It wasn't worth the conversation.

"Lock my door on your way out," She said, pulling her house key off her chain and throwing it on the bed, "I'll see you at work at two."

"I'll see you," He murmured, sitting up to reach for the key at the end of the bed. The sheet fell from his chest, spilling across his lap and leaving his torso exposed. She allowed her eyes to drift to his abdomen only for a moment before leaving for class.

She was certain he noticed.

—

"Lockhart's lecture was, as always, a joy," She griped on the phone. She had been careful to keep in touch with Harry now that her school year was coming to a close. It was easy to get too wrapped up in her exams to forget her friends, and she knew she needed to be careful not to isolate herself.

Especially considering the type of man she was associating herself with each night.

Harry's laugh drifted through the receiver, "You were practically in love with him when you first started his class," He reminded.

"That was before I discovered he is a chauvinist," She snapped, holding her cell phone to her ear with her shoulder while she rummaged for her wallet in her backpack. She stood in line at the coffeeshop, planning on filling her quota for caffeine before she went home to change for work.

"Right," He agreed, still laughing at her.

"How's the marriage?" She asked, hoping to change the subject. He sighed wistfully.

"God, amazing, Mione. I mean, If I would have known it would be this great I would have married her when I first met her."

"Not sure how Gin would've taken that," She chuckled.

"You never know," He joked, "I was pretty irresistible then."

"Not quite the word I would use," She teased.

"Really? Gin might disagree there," His words were heavy with innuendo and Hermione nearly gagged hearing it.

"Disgusting, Harry," She scolded, "I don't need you to reference that at all. Gross."

He laughed at her expense.

"Shut up for a moment, I'm getting coffee and I don't want to be an annoying customer," She said, pulling her phone from her ear while she ordered.

She glanced idly around the coffeeshop while the cashier took her order, offering the name "Mya" because she'll be damned if she's going to make that employee write "Hermione" on the cup. While she was waiting for the young girl to pull together her changed, she noticed a mildly familiar man in the corner of the shop.

Dumbledore, with his greying auburn hair and his thick red beard, sat with a large coffee and what appeared to be a close friend. She had never seen the other man before, with salt-and-pepper hair slicked back behind his ears and an expensive suit. But judging by their body language, they must've been close. Very close, in fact, judging by the way their knees touched and their hands settled so near on the tabletop. The mystery man's hand settled on the back of Dumbledore's chair in what she might've considered romantic, it—

Well, it must've been romantic, she thought, as she watched the darker haired man press his lips against Dumbledore's.

"Your change, ma'am?" The cashier called, and Hermione snapped out of he reverie and thanked her.

"I didn't know Dumbledore was gay," was the first thing she said when she lifted the phone back up to her ear, watching the unknown man sweep out of the coffeeshop in a hurry—he looked stressed, even met her eyes in a strange set of panic as he hurried past her. She glanced briefly at Dumbledore to see him examining his coffee.

"Wh—um, what? That was random," He laughed, "Uh, I don't know, he doesn't talk much about his personal life."

"I just saw him," She commented, "Sorry, it just sort of came out."

"Yeah, well, he could be gay? News to me, but just about anything about him—personal, anyway—would be news to me if I'm being honest."

"Right," She mumbled, staring unabashedly at Dumbledore from where she stood by the counter. Why had his supposed lover dashed out so quickly? What had caused for the distressed look on Dumbledore's face now?

It was none of her business, really.

"I have to go, Harry. I'll talk to you later."

"Oh, alright, bye Her—"

Her coffee was set on the counter for "Mya" and she immediately brought it to where Dumbledore sat, taking the seat across from him and shocking him back into reality.

"Hello, Officer Dumbledore," She greeted serenely, taking a slow sip of her coffee as he blinked at her.

"Yes, Miss Granger—You're a friend of Harry Potter." He said as a way of greeting.

"I am," She agreed, "How are you?"

He took a deep breath before replying, forming his features into a carefully constructed mask of friendly disconnect. His fingers drummed against his coffee cup in a shaky pattern. "I'm good. And you?"

"I'm fine," She said, "It's getting closer to exams, so a bit stressful, but…I'm alright."

He nodded, his twinkling blue eyes watching her shrewdly over the rim of his glasses. She remembered, in the very few times she had met him, always feeling unsettled by his gaze. As a detective—a very successful detective—he had a way of staring at you as if he already knew all your secrets. Not at all unlike the way Tom could look sometimes, she mused.

"If Officer Potter's words are anything to go by, you'll do just fine," He assured, his eyes leaving hers to stare at his twitching fingers, and she thought that his eyes did not set her on edge at all now. Instead, it seemed that she was setting him on edge.

"He flatters me," She laughed, "But I don't mean to go on about myself. I wanted to ask about you, actually," His eyes snapped to hers, immediately suspicious and wary. "Are you alright? You look…stressed."

It was obvious she was digging. She knew it was obvious she was digging. But she was curious—Tom had said Dumbledore was involved, after all. She knew she wouldn't be able to figure out just how much through a single conversation, but if she could figure out something—anything—it would be worth it.

"I…" he hesitated, "Work is really taking it out of me."

She nodded sympathetically, "If Harry's words are anything to go by, you'll be just fine," She echoed his words from earlier, watching the way his expression very briefly morphed into something tortured. It shocked her, the intensity of his sadness, and for a moment she felt off kilter, like she was involving herself in something more than just information on Tom Riddle and Dumbledore's involvement with him.

"It doesn't always feel that way," He admitted, his fingers still tapping against his coffee cup. His other hand lifted to scratch at his beard, "Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning. Like…Like I can't figure out the right choice. Like I can't figure out what's the good choice."

"I know how that feels," She said without thinking, and his eyes twinkled, locking onto hers as if he was searching through her mind. She bit her tongue.

"Miss Granger," He spoke after a long silence, "It's not my place to say anything, but…be careful of Tom Riddle."

She inhaled sharply, her expression flitting from confused to suspicious to concerned—all consciously constructed to try to act natural, like she hadn't expected that subject to be brought up. Her hand clenched around her coffee cup. "What do you mean?" She asked robotically.

"I…" He licked his lips, "I knew him when he was young." She hadn't expected that, of course. She had expected some thinly veiled threat about his knowledge of Tom's involvement with the mafia, but—when he was young? "From the orphanage."

She flinched, "What?" She breathed.

"You didn't know?" He asked, eyeing her strangely, and she swallowed back her shock.

"He doesn't like to talk about his childhood." She admitted. That was a bit of an understatement.

"Well," he paused, his eyes fixing on the tabletop, "Like I said, it's not my business, but he got into a lot of trouble at that orphanage. Weird stuff, too…I can't say he hasn't grown out of it, but…you just gotta be careful." His eyes met hers again, pinning her to her chair with their intensity.

"Could you," Her throat was dry. She took a long sip of her coffee and cleared her throat. "Could I have the name of that orphanage, please?"

A small smile briefly fitted his lips, "Wool's Orphanage." He said, and she pulled out her phone to tap it into her notes, "In Harlem."

"Thank you," She said, meaning it more than she could express. "Could I…Could I maybe contact you if I ever have any questions about him?" He observed her with an inscrutable expression. "He's very private," She added, as if that would explain it.

He sighed, "No, I don't think so."

Feeling dejected and a bit annoyed, she nodded, tucking her phone into her pocket and standing with her coffee, "Right," She sniffed, "That's alright. Good luck with your job, Officer Dumbledore."

"Good luck, Miss Granger," He said, and it sounded like a solemn goodbye to her. She looked at him oddly before hurrying out of the shop.

She still had work, so she figured she would have to wait until another day to visit the Orphanage.

It would become quite a bit more urgent as the events of that day unfolded.

—

It was during her smoke break (Her only one of the day) that she received a call from Harry.

It was unusual for him to call her twice in a day, so upon seeing his name on her caller ID she couldn't help the feeling of dread that settled over her. She answered, waited a few seconds before speaking into the receiver. "Hello?"

"Hermione?" Harry's voice was shaking. "Shit, I'm sorry," He said before inhaling sharply. Was he…was he crying?

"Harry?" She called hesitantly, "Are you…what's wrong?"

"Hermione—shit" He swore loudly, and she heard the sound of something breaking.

"Harry, what's wrong?" She repeated.

"It's Dumbledore—he—you saw him today. Did you speak to him?" Another sharp inhale, and Hermione was entirely convinced he was crying at this point.

"Yes, I did," She said calmly, pacing back and forth along the pavement, "What's happened?"

"He—oh, god, Mione—" There was a definite sob, then, and another—something close to a wail followed it and her heart settled in her throat.

"…Harry?" She called tentatively, "Is Dumbledore…is he…?"

"That Bastard Snape!" He snapped, "Shot him point blank. Probably pissed off that Dumbledore's been pulling in his mafia friends, but—he's here—Snape—they caught him, but he won't talk. We don't—we don't fucking know why—shit!"

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her hand to her forehead. She had only spoken to him a few hours ago, and now…?

"I'm so, so sorry Harry," He whispered, "I know how close you were to—"

"You saw him today," He interrupted, his voice raspy, "Did he say anything? You mentioned someone he was with. Did you see the man he was speaking to?"

She hesitated for only half a second before she barreled on, for once speaking without thinking, "No." She lied, "I couldn't see the other man's face, really, so I don't think I recognized him."

"You couldn't see his face, like it was covered?"

"No, no, they were kissing, so—"

"Did you talk to him?" He pressed.

"Yes, but we didn't speak about anything important, " Lie. "He said he was stressed, I said I was, too. That was it."

Harry grumbled expletives under his breath, and her hands shook at her sides.

"Did he mention Tom Riddle?" He intoned. She froze, her heart double its speed and her body going into panic mode.

"No." She lied.

"That's all I wanted," He mumbled, sounding desolate and monotone and Hermione felt something like guilt claw at her insides, "I gotta go."

"Harry—" But he had already hung up.

Frustrated tears sprung to her eyes and she tore at her hair, a scream building up in her throat and begging to be let out. She took three deep breaths and dialed a second number in her phone.

Tom Riddle answered, "Hermione." He greeted, sounding something close to amused, and while she knew logically it was because she was calling him when all she had to do was take an elevator to speak in person, her paranoia convinced her it was because he knew.

"Dumbledore's dead." She spat.

There was a pause, and then a deep breath on his side of the line. She waited impatiently for him to respond, but when he finally did it only fueled her anger. "This is not a conversation to be had over the phone—"

"He's dead, Riddle," She repeated.

"I'm sorry for your loss," He mocked, "But that is something that is entirely out of my control, Hermione,"

She didn't believe him. She stayed silent.

"Take the night off," He said, "I'll speak to you tonight."

She hung up first. Then she tapped "Wool's Orphanage," into maps and and set off for some actual answers.

Answers to something.

Answers to anything.

—

When Hermione had first been interviewed, she certainly had not expected to be in this situation. To be sneaking away to discover her boss's secrets—not knowing if she wants to know in order to use it against Tom or against Harry, only knowing that she needs to know. Needing to know exactly what Dumbledore was warning her against.

Had he known, she wondered? Had he ordered it? Had he used her to get to Dumbledore in the first place? Was he able to reach Dumbledore because of her?

Had she unwittingly allowed this to happen?

Everything was different now, she realized. Everything was darker than that day she walked into his office. But she was no different, really. Even now, walking the line between those who enforced the law and those who murdered and lied and—she was no different. She was exactly the same.

She remembered the way it felt sitting in his office for the first time, shaking his hand and meeting his gaze and thinking this could be me. Thinking that one day she could be on the same level of success. Thinking that she could be his competitor.

But first, his employee.

He was an asshole, she remembered. Even then. Staring down his nose at her from the moment she stepped in—Graduate student, not even out of law school and already looking to secure a place in one of the greatest law firms in the state. He sneered at the state of her hair—which was, admittedly, better than it usually looked—and the innocent optimism in her face.

He crushed that, soon enough.

"Any criminal record we should know about?" He had asked, and she had answered honestly, because she had no criminal record.

"Is that so," He drawled, and she felt something cold and slimy settle into her bones as his eyes raked through his files, "Does the name Umbridge, Dolores ring any bells?"

She had been surprised at her ability to keep her calm, and if she wasn't mistaken, he seemed taken back as well. "I beg your pardon?"

"Umbridge, Dolores," He repeated, "A teacher at your secondary school, found beaten to death not long after she was initially employed at your school. You were the last to see her."

"Allegedly," She reminded. He quirked an eyebrow.

"Allegedly," He echoed. "Your involvement was questioned."

"I was exonerated," She said, "Any charges and any investigations were dropped. Her death was a tragedy, but it had nothing to do with me."

"Tragedy, was it?" He smiled, "I believe you said, and I quote, 'She deserved death for all she did, but unfortunately I was not the one to deliver it." He paused, smiling at her as she ground her teeth, "A tragedy," He mocked.

"That was taken off the record," She seethed, "Mr. Riddle, I won't accuse you of—"

"Or how about," He continued, leaping to his feet an spacing the room as he spoke. He appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself. "Skeeter, Rita. A reporter who reportedly harassed you for months on the Umbridge case, disappeared for weeks and was found locked in a supply closet, half starved, dehydrated, and nearly dead?"

She stared in abject horror, then, unable to keep from expressing it. "I was never charged for anything to do with—"

"No," He agreed, "You weren't."

He watched her from where he was standing, file in his hands but eyes fixed resolutely on her. She didn't know what to say. When she had told him was the truth—she had no criminal record. Any and all charges to do with Umbridge were dropped—because none of them were based on factual evidence but rather hearsay and assumptions. Her heart beat wildly in her chest and she struggled to get her thoughts together.

He became bored with her then, apparently, because he sat back in his chair and threw the file on the desk. "That's all for this interview, Miss Granger, if you would—"

"No," She said, and his dark eyes met hers.

"No?" He echoed, sounding chillingly calm.

"No," She repeated, "I will not accuse you of the no-doubt illegal means you used to obtain those documents, Mr. Riddle," She began, her fingers twitching with nervous energy, "Nor will I attempt to educate you on the…multitude of severe invasions of privacy in this interview, nor attempt to seek retribution for your insensitive and frankly inappropriate accusations," His lips twitched. "I will instead implore you, if you are planning on disregarding my application due to your illegally obtained hearsay, to reconsider. I am certain if I were to dig into your no doubt sordid past, I could find a multitude of charges to threaten you with. But, as a professional," she stressed the word pointedly, "I won't."

There was an underlying threat in her words. He wasn't smiling now, but he wasn't angry, either. Instead he eyed her with something dark that, in her ignorance of his character, she assumed to be anger. But in light of all the recent events, in all of the looks and all the words she had to decipher, it seemed much clearer now what he had been thinking then.

"Won't you?" He had murmured, looking strangely pleased.

"I've been waiting to do this since I interviewed you,"

She clenched her eyes shut now. Sitting in the back of a taxi cab, she figured she was finally making good on that threat.

Her phone rang, and Harry's name popped up. She rushed to answer.

"Harry?" She greeted breathlessly.

"Hermione, listen, I'm so sorry" He barreled on ahead before she could say anything, "I shouldn't have called you up like that, I—"

"Harry, I don't care about that!" She interrupted, "Are you alright?"

There was a brief pause, and she noticed the cab driver's eyes flicker to meet hers in the rear view mirror. Nosy.

"I'm not, really," He answered finally, "But…I'm figuring it out. I just…I owe you a bit of an explanation."

"You don't owe me anything."

"About Tom Riddle,"

Her jaw clenched and she pinched the bridge of her nose. Everything was always about Tom Riddle nowadays.

"Listen, Dumbledore…he mentioned Tom before. Says he doesn't trust him. Specifically brought him up in conversation with me, I just…I wanted to see—"

"Harry, if there was something off about Tom I think I would know—"

"Hermione, just think about it, okay? I mean what do you really know about him?"

She watched Wool's Orphanage pull up beside the cab and heard the driver tell her how much she owed him.

"I know enough," She lied, finding comfort in the fact that it could be the truth soon.

"Hermione—"

"Harry," She interrupted, "I'll call you back later, alright? Let's say…in a couple hours? I have something to do right now, but I promise I'll call you."

He paused. "Alright," He said.

She hung up and practically threw the money at the cab driver before rushing up to the front door. When she knocked, a stern old woman opened the door. "Can I help you?" She asked in a heavy southern drawl.

Hermione wasn't entirely sure how to start, so she settled with being blunt. "I actually have some questions. About Tom Riddle. I believe he used to…live here?"

Her face went ashen. Hermione was shocked by the response—because how scary could Tom have been when he was only a child? He wasn't even entirely that frightening now—but of course, she was certain he could be, he had just never seemed entirely too concerned with scaring her.

"Please don't shut the door," Hermione begged, seeing the hesitation on the woman's face, "There's nothing wrong, and…he doesn't know I'm here. I just…" She was going to one up with a lie, but could find nothing to say. "I just want answers." She said.

The woman regarded her for a moment, then nodded.

Hermione followed her inside until they were in a small office—homey with a large desk and a large window and a very small bookcase in the corner. Hermione sat uncomfortably in the old chair across from the woman—whom she still didn't know the name of—and figured it might be best to let her start the conversation.

"I haven't heard anything about that boy since he left," The woman said, "I had hoped to keep it that way."

"My name is Hermione," She introduced.

"You can call me Mrs. Cole."

She nodded, wringing her hands in her lap. "I just…What was he like? When he was here? A…friend of mine, Dumbledore, he mentioned he knew him."

"Oh," She laughed bitterly, "Officer Dumbledore knew him alright. Tom was being hauled in by that man nearly every week—and not for normal things like stealing or vandalism." She shuddered, "Once he was brought in because he mutilated a rabbit and hung it on a boy's windowsill. Billy had just gotten adopted and…apparently Tom was unhappy with that."

Hermione swallowed. She hadn't imagined that he would have been violent. She thought he didn't like to get his hands dirty. "How old was he?" She asked.

"He was eight years old." She said. "We had a therapist see to him, but…" She paused for a long time, and Hermione stayed silent and waited for her to continue, "He believed he had very strong sociopathic tendencies. He said Tom was violent and unapologetic, and dangerous. He warned us to have him committed."

"But you didn't," Hermione surmised.

"He was a child," Mrs. Cole snapped, "A child who had spent his entire life without a family, I wasn't about to assume he was a psychopath. He was a child."

"What happened?" She pressed.

"Billy disappeared," She said tiredly, "We asked Tom, but he wouldn't speak. That wasn't any different than normal, he didn't speak much at all, but…it was too much. We had him institutionalized."

"When he was eight?" Hermione breathed.

"He was eleven, then." Mrs. Cole replied, "He stayed there for a month, and they sent him back."

For a moment, Hermione thought she heard wrong. "A month?" She echoed.

Mrs. Cole nodded, "A month. They said he showed no signs of any mental disorder. Said they could keep him longer, but it wouldn't be worth it."

"So he was fine, then? There was nothing wrong?"

Mrs. Cole laughed, another one of those bitter laughs she kept allowing, "Of course there was something wrong, he just figured out how to hide it."

Hermione eyed her shrewdly, "Don't you think that sounds a bit…paranoid?"

The older woman scoffed, "You think I don't know how paranoid I sound? I sound like I belong in the institution, but…there was something wrong with that boy. He was too smart for his own good." She pressed the back of her hand against her forehead, "Of course if we were rich we might've been able to keep him there at least for observations,"

"So," Hermione laughed despite herself, "You think he fooled professionally trained psychiatrists? When he was eleven?"

Mrs. Cole glared at her, "You're the one who came barging in here asking me about him." She pointed out, and Hermione felt mildly offended on Tom's behalf. She wasn't entirely certain she had a right to be, but the anger stirred in her just the same.

"Yes, and I'll be the first to label him a sociopath, believe me, but—"

"Tom Riddle," Mrs. Cole interrupted angrily, "is much worse than a sociopath."

Hermione knew how she should feel about the situation. She knew she should feel afraid, wary, but she didn't. She felt it was certainly much more likely that Tom had called the order to kill Dumbledore, of course, given the fact that Dumbledore knew about his past. But, if Dumbledore was already involved with the Mafia, why would he need to be killed?

Was he planning on turning someone in? Was that someone going to be Tom?

"Is that all?" Mrs. Cole asked.

"Yes," Hermione said, "I…I'm sorry to bring up bad memories. I just wanted to know what I was getting into."

The old woman's eyes softened, "What are you getting into?" She asked.

"No matter," Hermione said, "Thank you for your time."

"Be careful," She warned, "Tom used to get fixated on things and…well, bad things would happen because of it. If he gets fixated on something, don't get in his way, you hear?"

Hermione had the feeling that wouldn't be a problem.

On the cab ride home impressed herself with how effortlessly she was able to avoid answering any of Harry's questions.

—

By the time she made it back to her apartment, Tom had already picked her lock and settled himself inside. She could tell because she could see the light streaming through the crack at the bottom of the door. She stood outside for a solid five minutes before working up the courage to enter.

"Where were you?" He asked before she had even stepped in. She figured there was no point in lying to him.

"Your orphanage." She spat point blank. His whole body tensed, even his hands curled into fists where they sat in his lap. He was sitting on the edge of her bed, bathed in the harsh light of her beside lamps.

"What?" He deadpanned, and it was the first time she had ever seen him lost for words. He hadn't even looked at her yet, instead his gaze was furiously stuck at her feet. She stepped in and closed the door.

"Your orphanage," She repeated, "I spoke to Mrs. Cole."

"What the fuck are you doing digging around in my past?" He snapped, his furious gaze finally meeting hers.

"You've known everything about my past from the moment I met you, I think I deserve to know something about yours!" She watched him rise to his feet and was struck by exactly how angry he was. She hadn't expected this—she had expected him to be angry, of course, but not to this extent. To be honest, she wasn't even entirely certain he had the capability to be this furious. He was always so calm and collected, but observing him now—his heaving chest, his wild eyes, his quaking shoulders—he was the very picture of disarray. She refused to be afraid of him.

"So now that Dumbledore's dead, you decide its your job to play detective?" He sneered, slowly advancing on her. She scowled.

"If you're going to lie to me about everything, then I have to figure it out myself." She defended, glaring at him even as he towered over her. "I spoke to Dumbledore before he died," She admitted, refusing to falter under Tom's dark gaze, "He warned me off you. I wanted to know why."

"And what did dear Mrs. Cole have to say about me?" He asked, and mostly due to the sarcasm in his tone, she decided not to deign him with an answer, just matched him with a glare and refused to speak. His expression changed then. He didn't look as angry as he did panicked—the anger was still there, but diluted in the way his eyes widened and his breathing quickened. Hermione didn't have time to ponder it before he spoke again.

"What did she tell you?" He demanded. She found it odd just how frightened he looked, because out of everything Mrs. Cole told her, she couldn't think of a single thing that would be detrimental to him. Why would he be afraid? Her brows puckered as she examined him, but before she could say anything he had his hand around her through and he slammed her against the door.

Her natural instinct was to gasp, but his fingers clenched around her windpipe and she couldn't breathe. She reached up, dug her nails into his wrist and immediately he loosened this hold, allowing her to gasp for air. His eyes danced wildly across her face.

"She told me you were a sociopath," She choked, "But I could've figured that out for myself."

"And?" He pressed. She furrowed her eyebrows.

"And that's it, really," She admitted, her anger at being manhandled not quite diminished but overridden by confusion at his "That you're a sociopath and probably a murderer."

His expression mirrored hers; confusion and apprehension. He was still waiting for something, and suddenly she realized that he was waiting for her decision. He was waiting for her to tell him she was going to turn him in, waiting for her to say she couldn't do this anymore, and she was shocked to find that the thought had never even crossed her mind. She realized that, even while she was sitting in Mrs. Cole's office hearing about his childhood, she had never considered leaving him. When Harry called asking about him, she had never considered telling him the truth.

It had never once occurred to her to turn on him, even in light of Dumbledore's death. She met his eyes, shaking her head and trying to find the words.

"Harry called," She admitted, "He asked me about you. Dumbledore mentioned you and he called me to ask my opinion and I lied."

His brow was still furrowed. His hand remained at her throat but he applied no pressure, and his other hand rested on her forearm, pinning her to the door. He still watched her like he was in torment—veiled with anger and confusion, but still visible in the way his eyes flitted all across her face.

"I'm not…" She struggled to find the words, "I won't apologize." She said firmly, "I deserved to know, but…" Her hand, which she realized still had a vice-like grip on his wrist, relaxed. She traced her fingers along the straining muscles of his arm. "Nothing's changed."

"She told you everything?" He asked calmly.

"She told me about Billy, and the rabbit, and the institution." She ran one finger along the veins of his arm and with her other hand she gripped his jacket and pulled him closer. "She told me you become fixated on things, and…bad things happen." Her hand slipped around to his back as she pulled him against her, and she pressed his hand more firmly against her throat. She delighted in the shudder that ran through him. His fingers pressed against the sides of her throat, applying pressure without cutting off her breathing. "She warned me not to get in the way of what you want."

"Did she?" He prompted, his eyes dropping to her throat where her hand was pressed against his, egging him on.

"Well, I don't think she entirely understood the situation," She said.

"And your friend?" He asked, his hand sliding around to span the small of her back and pull her flush against him.

"I called him on the way home," She explained, "Told him that—as your secretary—there is no way you could be involved with anything nefarious with my knowing"

"You lied?" He breathed against her lips.

"Through my teeth," She said.

"For me?" He heaved, his hand pulling her against him almost painfully as his fingers kept their pressure around her throat. She paused only for a moment, pondering, before she answered.

"Yes," She said, and his lips slanted over hers with reckless abandon. Every ounce of nervous energy, every ounce of anger and panic and confusion, it all powered his kiss. His fingers left her neck and the blood came rushing to her head, sending her reeling as his fingers slid into her hair and pulled as his tongue met hers. Her hands slid under his suit jacket and slid it off his arms onto the floor and then quickly made work of his buttons. He trailed his mouth down her throat, dragging his teeth against the sensitive skin and then soothing it with his tongue.

He pulled her blazer off next, letting it join his, abandoned on the floor. He pulled her with him as he backed up blindly toward the bed. Clumsily, they stumbled until he fell backwards onto the soft surface and she fell on top of him, their teeth clacking together as they kissed. He pulls her bottom lip between his teeth, bite down until he draws blood and swallows her whimpers with his own mouth.

He finishes undressing her before she does him, but as he trails his fingers down her stomach toward her heat, she stops him. She hastily undoes his belt and yanks his trousers down his legs, lets him kick them off before taking his length in her hand. He moans, deep and low and loud, when she pumps her fist.

"Did you kill Billy?" She asks him, and his hazy eyes stare at her as if she's gone crazy, but he answers.

"Yes," He says, swearing when she runs her thumb across his head, "Yes, I did."

"Have you killed anyone else?" She presses kisses down his stomach as she speaks, casting her eyes up to watch him throw his head back as she continues to move her hand up and down his shaft.

"Yes," He gasps.

"Did you kill Dumbledore?"

He shakes his head, but at this point she's already running his tongue up the length of his shaft and he seems at a loss for words. He chokes out a moan.

"Did you order someone to kill him?" She presses, taking the tip in her mouth and keeping her eyes fixed on his face.

"No," He swears again under his breath, "I advised against it, but—shit—Grindelwald didn't listen—"

She pulls her mouth away, continuing the movement of her hand as she moved back up his body. "You didn't want to kill him?" She clarified.

"Bad tactical move," He explained, and she did allow a brief moment of annoyance of how typical it was of him to say something so insensitive, but she didn't object when he rolled them over so he was on top. One hand splayed across her stomach, holding her down as his other found her center and slipped his fingers in, curling them the way he had after the wedding and dragging them slowly out before plunging back in. She felt lightheaded, and her back arched against him as he added a third finger and increased the speed of his hand. Choked moans and strangled cries spilled out of their own accord, but before she could come Tom lost his patience and pulled away.

He swore, his hands leaving their respective positions in order to find purchase on her hips as he settles inside her. He pounded into her relentlessly, his fingers bruising her hipbones. Her hands twisted in the sheets as her back arched and strained against his hands which kept her pinned to the mattress, his hips pumping furiously into hers. When she came, it was explosive—a myriad of lights behind her eyes while his mouth made work of her breasts. He came when she did, the feel of her clenching around him, the moans that spilled from her lips, and the sight of her expression as she came undid him.

He pulled out of her but not away from her, rolling onto his side and allowing her to bury her head in his chest and wrap one arm around his waist to smooth up and down the heated skin of his back. Their breathing slowed, and after a time they fell asleep like that, Tom's hands in her hair and on her hip, Hermione with one arm trapped between their chests and the other wrapped around his waist, their legs tangled together.

They moved once, to settle themselves under the covers and protect themselves from the cold spring night, but otherwise remained that way until morning.

She woke up early that morning to the sound of her phone ringing. Tom was already awake, half dress and pulling his shirt on while she sleepily read the time on her phone before answering Harry's call. It was 7:30.

"Harry," She rasped, clearing her throat, "Hey."

"Sorry to call so early, Mione," He apologized.

"No, its alright," She said, and felt the bed dip as Tom settled his weight onto it. He slid himself behind her, setting his long legs on either side of her and pulling her flush against him. She was increasingly aware of her nakedness, especially as his hands settled on the bare skin of her stomach and smoothed across her sides, her thighs, back up to her shoulders, her chest.

"I'm just about to go to work and I wanted to catch you before our days started." Harry explained on the phone. Tom's fingers found her center, and her hand immediately clutched his forearm, but she didn't stop him. Just let him continue as he stroked her languidly.

"Right," She agreed, holding back a sigh as Tom's other hand found her breast. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, I'm doing alright." He sighed tiredly, "I just…I wanted to talk to you about everything."

She bit her lip to stop herself from moaning as Tom's fingers moved in tantalizing circles around her clit, "Absolutely," She agreed, sounding much more eager than she meant to, "How about we go for coffee today? Talk about everything?" She leaned back against Tom's chest, her head falling back against his shoulder as his fingers moved.

"That sounds perfect. It's not about Riddle, though. I swear. I trust you, and if…if you trust him, then I do, too." He assured her, and she let out a shaky breath.

"Alright Harry, I'll see you after class. I'll text you details."

"Alright, bye Mione." He hung up and Hermione let her phone slip through her fingers and fall to the floor. Her back arched against Tom and she bucked her hips into his hand, his lips pressing gentle kissed against her neck. He moved his fingers in quick circles around her clit as she came, bucking into his hand and digging her nails into his arm. He let her ride out her orgasm before he finally pulled his hand away.

"God, you're awful," She laughed as he drew away from her, buttoning up his shirt and pulling his blazer on.

"You weren't complaining." He said, buttoning his jacket and watching her as she settled back under the covers. He raised a single eyebrow.

"I don't have class until ten," She explained, "So while you slave away at work, I'll be sleeping."

He smirked, leaning down to press a chaste kiss against her lips, "I'll be sure to have a stack of paperwork waiting for you," He promised.

She grabbed his wrist before he could go. The morning fog in her head was fading away and it felt like all the horrors of the past day that had faded away in her sleep were catching up to her. He sensed the change in her mood, turning his hand so he singers could graze her wrist. He waited for her to speak.

"Why was Dumbledore killed?" She asked, because in all her questions she had never once asked why he was offed in the first place. Had his involvement gone too far? Was he planning on turning against them?

Would they kill her too?

He squatted before her to meet her eyes, "Dumbledore was an isolated incident," He answered. She sat up in bed to fully face him.

"What about it was isolated?" She pressed, "The fact that he was killed or the fact that he was killed without your permission?"

"Hermione," He scolded, "I will protect you, but I can't do that if you continue to dig. It draws attention."

She rolled her eyes, felt his arm finally pull away from her in reaction to her blatant disrespect. He glared at her from his place beside the bed. "I don't want to be protected," She spat, "I want to be able to protect myself. How can I do that if you don't—"

"You can't protect yourself from this," His tone was beseeching, but angry as well. "This is out of your league, Hermione."

"Perhaps that's only because you refuse to tell me anything," She argued, and he ran a hand through his hair before he settled both his hands on the sides of her head, locking his eyes on hers.

"Don't dig into this," He snapped, shaking her slightly. "Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong. Not now. Not until I sort this out." His grip hurt, and not in the same way his nails in her thighs hurt. This was cold, threatening, and it only fueled the anger settling in her stomach.

"I won't," She lied, "But you need to start telling me what's going on."

"I will," He promised, his eyes searching hers. For a moment she wondered if he would know she didn't mean it when she said she would stop searching. But after a long moment, he closed his eyes and sighed. "You work at two?" He checked. She nodded against his hold on her head, and he dropped his hands.

She silently watched him leave the flat.

—

She didn't go to class that day.

Instead, in typical Hermione fashion, she blatantly ignored any and all warnings from the men who apparently thought they were personally responsible for her well being and she continued to dig.

She didn't attend class—and she felt a bit pathetic for how much it actually pained her to skip. But, unfortunately, she had more important things on her plate than a single class at the moment—namely snooping around in Tom's business to figure out where she stood.

But she knew so little, there wasn't much she could do to figure anything out. She didn't know the names of any of the men in the mafia—all the men that visited the office wore expensive sunglasses that took up half their face and never offered their name. The best bet was figuring out information through Dumbledore.

Which, morbidly, was easier now that he was dead.

She had been to his apartment, once. Well, more accurately she stood outside his apartment while Harry went in for fifteen minutes because he had something that he absolutely needed to share with Dumbledore right at that moment—it couldn't wait until after their coffee.

The thought was awful, only because it reminded her of how close Harry always was to Dumbledore. He had been his mentor, of sorts, ever since he joined the force. She could only imagine how horrible he must feel.

Pushing those thoughts to the side, she knelt down in front of the door and picked the lock—something Harry taught her to do back in university.

The flat was fairly large—something she regarded with a small amount of bitterness—and extremely tidy. There were still a couple dishes in the sink, and a pair of loafers strewn no opposite sides of the living room, but was otherwise very clean and orderly. There was a large bowl filled with sweets on the living room table and a smaller one on the kitchen counter.

She navigated her way to the bedroom.

It was minimally decorated. There was a wilting orchid on the bedside table, a clock hung on the wall, and tan and blue striped bedsheets, but otherwise the room was bare. A large window took up most of the far wall, overlooking the busy New York street. She stayed out of sight in the window and closed the blinds, feeling paranoid.

The closet was small, stuffed with clothes and boxes of papers and what Hermione assumed to be mementos, and at the bottom was a metal safe. Four numbers were worn down far more than the others—it was kind of embarrassing, actually, how easy it was to crack the code, but then once she had opened it, she didn't feel there was anything worth keeping safe to begin with.

There was a picture of a young Albus Dumbledore and another young man—he resembled the gentleman she had seen with him at the coffeeshop. She couldn't imagine why this would need to be kept in a safe, but then she never pretended to understand anything about Dumbledore at all. Past the frame, there was a number—not a phone number, so she wasn't sure what it was for—and an address, and cologne. Expensive cologne, so expensive that she was certain she would want it in a safe as well.

She put it all back, feeling frustrated at how useless it all was. She half searched through the rest of his things, but he had so little—what a minimalist—that she ended up with nothing.

Breaking and entering into a flat and with nothing to show for it.

Her phone rang—Harry Potter's name flashed on the caller ID. "Bloody hell," She muttered, before answering the call with a chipper, "Hi, Harry!"

"Hermione!" He exclaimed, "Listen, I might of misunderstood—I thought we were getting coffee today?"

"Shit," She swore, "I wasn't even thinking—um—" She checked the time. She had a bit of time before she had to be at work, but…the address in that safe could be worth checking out. "Listen, could we maybe meet tonight? After work?"

"Tonight?" He echoed, "Yeah, um…tonight works. Dinner at that Italian place near mine?" She tapped in the code to the safe again and withdrew the address.

"Yeah, sounds great," She agreed.

"Okay." She was about to say her goodbyes when he continued, "Hermione—listen. I trust you, ok? I really do. Absolutely with all my heart and soul."

"Harry," She warned, already knowing where this conversation was headed.

"Just—listen, pease. I know you say Tom is square, ok, but…I may have visited the place he grew up."

She wasn't sure what to think about that. Certainly if she could weed that information out of Mrs. Cole, Harry could as well. It probably wasn't in Tom's best interest for Harry to know anything about his questionable activity as a child—not if Dumbledore had mentioned Riddle's name to Harry—and she knew he had. She rubbed her eyes tiredly.

"Harry—"

"Just, one more thing, okay? And then I'll let you speak, I swear. Listen, the woman at his orphanage—did you know he went to—"

"Yes," She snapped.

"Ok—ok, well, she had all sorts of stuff to say about—"

"That woman is a paranoid bitch, Harry," She cut in, "She's convinced that Tom fooled a group of therapists into falsely diagnosing him as a stable child and sending him back to the orphanage—I'm not saying that Tom Riddle is a totally stable person, alright? Lawyers—and businessmen—there's usually some level of narcissism and sociopathy—Tom is no exception. But—I don't know what you expect to come out of this investigation of him, Harry—"

"I think he has ties with the Mafia."

She pulled the phone away from her ear and silently swore, her hand pinching the bridge of her nose as she pressed the cell to her ear again. "The Mafia?" She repeated.

"You know Dumbledore is always dealing with Mafia cases. And then he mentions Riddle's name to me and—and then he dies? Killed by Severus Snape—who turns out to be Mafia? This whole thing is too fishy, Mione."

She sighed heavily, "Alright, alright, Harry—let's…let's consider for a moment that what you're saying has any possibility of being true—just…" She took a deep breath and sighed sharply once more, "Listen—don't do anything yet, ok? I'll…Let's talk about it tonight, ok? Until then just, please, don't do anything. I mean it. Don't do anything until we can speak about it, understand?"

"Hermione—" He began to protest.

"No, Harry—" She controlled her tone, "Harry, please. Please. Wait until we can talk. Promise me."

There was a long pause on the phone. "I promise." He said.

"Tonight." She said, "At Seven. The Italian place near your house. I'll be there, alright, I promise."

"You better be." He said, and hung up the phone. She swore, forcing herself to keep her voice down—as it probably wouldn't do her any favors for people to hear someone swearing up a storm in a dead man's apartment.

She didn't want to worry about Harry discovering Tom just now—she was still trying to figure out her own safety. She wouldn't mention it to Tom—not yet, not until she spoke to Harry. If she could convince him—if she could get him to drop the whole thing, it would be fixed. And he trusted her, she knew he did. He turned to her for advice on numerous occasions—if she could just provide him with solid evidence, so he would know she wasn't emotionally bias—She could fix this, she knew she could.

But not until tonight. Until then…

She tapped the address she had found into her phone, the GPS showing it was across town—in a nice area, too, if she wasn't mistaken.

She figured it wouldn't hurt to at least drive by.

Leaving the flat quietly, she made her way back down to the streets and hailed a cab. She read the address off of her phone as she settled in.

"Nice area," The cabbie mentioned, "What business do you have up there?"

She was mildly offended that he didn't seem to think she was the type to be around that area, but she figured in her torn up sweatshirt and old sweatpants, not to mention her insane hair, she probably didn't look like the type for much of anything. "I'm visiting a friend." She lied.

"Bit of a change from Wool's Orphanage, huh?" Her heart skipped a beat in her chest, but when she met his eyes in the rearview mirror she was hit with a sense of deja vu, and she suddenly remembered sitting in that same seat the other day meeting his eyes.

"You drove me yesterday," She realized, calming her breath.

He laughed in response, "Yeah, sorry to shock you. I recognized your accent, and uh—" He stopped himself and she rolled her eyes.

"And the hair," She finished for him, "You can say it."

"Ah—mostly the accent," He said. He had a thick Jersey accent and bright blue eyes. He was young and handsome, with tossed dark hair and thick, dominating eyebrows. He had big sunglasses that were pushed up on top of his head, pulling his hair back off his forehead.

She glanced down at her phone. The GPS was still pulled up, showing her destination and then the little blue dot that represented her on the map, but they were going the opposite direction.

"I'm…" Her brow furrowed as she watched the blue dot scurry away from the red destination. "I'm not sure you heard me," She said, repeating the address she had listed.

"I heard you," He assured.

"No, you're heading in the opposite direction." She pressed. The man sighed heavily, and she was ready to have a verbal confrontation with him about his inability to take direction, but the atmosphere changed when he shifted in his seat and puled a gun.

He didn't point it at her—that would be difficult considering she sat behind him and they were still driving—but he still held it up for her to see. The fear of sending the cab into any surrounding vehicles or pedestrians prevented her from lurching forward and grabbing it or pushing it away—she just sat in shocked silence in the back of the taxi and stared.

"I heard you were a bit of a know-it-all," He commented offhandedly, "Didn't realize it was to the point where you pull up your GPS just to prove a cab driver wrong."

"Who are you?" She demanded evenly, not letting her panic show in her tone.

"Names Nott," He said, "Figure I might as well tell you now, since—after the boss is through with you, you'll probably be dead."

He said it flippantly for the exact purpose of scaring her, but she found it more irritating than anything else. She was certainly terrified, but—obviously if he is kidnapping her and holding a gun, her death is in mind. It's not exactly news to her now that she could be very well having her death. He didn't have to repeat it to her as if she were an idiot.

"Your boss?" She asked, "Grindlewald?"

It was a guess, really. She couldn't imagine that Grindelwald himself had taken any interest in her—at least not yet. Not while all the events of her entanglement with Tom and Dumbledore's passing was so fresh.

Yet here she was held at gun point in a taxi cab. She dug her nails into her thighs to stop shaking.

"Ah—so you do know it all!" He laughed.

"And he, what, ordered you to bring him to me? Because of something I did?"

"Ain't nothing you did, sweetheart," He said, and she sneered at the nickname, "Boss is just taking precautions, lately, that's all."

It was mollifying, a little, to know that she hadn't sealed her own fate—that her fate had already been decided before she even thought of going to Dumbledore's place. She would hate to think she signed her death certificate for nothing more than a random address and a picture of two lovers locked in a safe.

How pathetic would that be?

"Tom will be furious," Was the first thought she voiced aloud. The truth was her mind was rushing faster than she could even process—were these her last few moments? Would the back of this cab be the last thing she ever saw? What would Harry think, when she never showed up? Would they find her body somewhere or would she disappear, lost at the bottom of the ocean or burned or buried somewhere in upstate New York?

The cabbie scoffed, regaining her attention. "You think Riddle gives a shit?" He laughed—and she knew then, with sudden clarity, that this guy didn't know a damned thing.

"You think Tom has agreed to this," She realized, and Nott's eyes flickered to meet hers in the rearview mirror. "Nott," She said slowly, "You've been misinformed—likely on purpose. Riddle is definitely not okay with this."

"Alright, lady—I think you're the one misinformed," He snapped. She watched his gun glint in the sunlight as he waved around while he spoke, "You're prince charming that you took to your friends wedding isn't—"

"Yes," She snapped, "He isn't a prince charming. He's a consigliere to the Mafia—or, whatever the fucking term is, I don't know, I googled it."

"Ah, great job, you googled your way into Cosa Nostra, congratu-fucking-lations. Don't cut me off." He sneered back at her.

"You're not understanding—" She beseeched.

"I understand plenty!" He snapped, and she desperately tried to change her tactic.

"Yes, you do." She agreed, "Which is why you must know why Tom wouldn't want this. I'm his secretary—his secretary who he attended a wedding with. If I were to disappear so closely to Dumbledore's death—it will reflect suspiciously on him. For someone socially linked to him to disappear, it would reflect badly on him. Surely you know that."

He didn't reply, only glared at her through the mirror.

"Call him." She begged, "All you have to do is call him. Tell him you have Hermione Granger in the back of your cab with orders to bring her to Grindelwald and have her killed—please, call Tom Riddle and tell him that."

He hesitated, and for a moment she thought she had him.

"You know him," She continued, and she remembered just that morning—the feel of Tom's hands painfully clutching her head—and the night before when his had shoved her against the door. "You know how he can get violent. You don't want to get on his bad side." Nott glanced at her nervously in the mirror, "Make the intelligent choice." She pressed.

He hesitated.

Then he pulled to the side of the road, so sharply she was thrown against the door. "You talk too fucking much," He said, and before she could truly react he had thrust the butt of his gun into her head and she was out.

—

She awoke with a terrible pain in her temple and a crick in her neck. She was tied down to a chair—and how terribly cliche was that? To wake up, kidnapped, tied to a chair? All she needed was a villain to deliver their evil monologue.

She saw Nott standing by the door, and a bit away from him was another man in a suit. She recognized him immediately as the man she had seen with Dumbledore in the coffeeshop the other day.

Perhaps Dumbledore was more involved than she realized.

"I'm awake." She croaked when it was clear they weren't going to notice her. Nott's head snapped up, staring at her with a panicked gaze. She glared viciously at him. The other man regarded her calmly.

"Hello, Miss Granger." He greeted, sounding entirely too pleasant for this whole situation.

"Grindelwald?" She guessed, and a small smile fitted his lips. "Dumbledore wasn't only involved with the mafia then," She said, allowing her thoughts to materialize into words. If she was going to die she was at least going to die with an understanding of her situation. "He was involved with you." Nott glanced curiously between them. "And now you're going to kill me because I'm involved with Tom."

"Clever," He commented, sounding entirely unimpressed, "Is this where you expect me to make a speech?"

She glared at him. "You think I'm some kind of threat," She surmised, "But I'm not. You have no reason to kill me."

"I've learned from my mistakes," He sighed, walking toward her. She eyed the gun he withdrew from his waistband.

"Mistakes?" She echoed. "I am not your mistake to fix."

He shrugged, reaching her side and clicking the safety off the weapon.

"So you wait until I'm awake to kill me?" Her voice was shaking, "A bit dramatic."

"I've always adored theatrics." He joked, cocking his gun.

"What do you think Tom will do when he finds out?" She spat, examining the twitch of his brow and the clenching of his jaw. There was something terribly melancholy in his face then.

"I suppose he'll kill me."

She took in a shaky breath, "You want to die," She realized, "Then why don't you deal with that yourself, instead of involving me in your bloody mess."

"You involved yourself," He snapped, lowering his gun in order to pull her head back at a painful angle by her hair. He pressed the barrel of his gun just under her chin, and her heart raced wildly.

"You get your hands dirty?" She asked, musing in her head how strange it was that the head of the mafia was doing the honors of delivering her through death's door.

"When I see fit."

"Not with Dumbledore," She pressed, and he pulled her head back even more. She grunted, and hurried along before he could end her—she could read the signs of anguish on his face, and she wanted him to hurt as much as she could. "You should know," She intoned, "That you were wrong about him."

He pressed the gun into the underside of her chin as hard as he could. He said nothing, so she hurried on.

"I spoke to him the day he died. He gave me a name—only it wasn't yours." His hand slackened on her hair briefly, "He gave me Tom's name." She watched the words settle in his mind, the way they morphed his expression, the way his jaw clenched and his eyes misted and she decided if the last thing she could do was make this man hate himself then she would gladly do it.

"He knew he was going to die and he still lied for you," She barreled on, "He tried to pin the blame on someone else. You killed the man who loved you beyond himself or any moral code he could ever—"

He slapped her hard across the face, so hard she bit her tongue on accident and tasted blood. His hand gripped her jaw and his gun found its way between her eyes. Her breath came in frenzied gasps now. She clenched her eyes shut.

The door opened and a gun fired, but it wasn't the one at her head. Her eyes flew open to take in Grindelwald clutching at his leg—blood spilled out across his fingers from his thigh. And Tom—of course it had to be Tom, and she was both relieved and horrified for him to find her in this predicament—kicked the older man to the ground and aimed his gun at his head.

"Tom, stop!" She called, and he immediately turned to her in shocked silence. She hesitated, taken aback by the ferocity of his gaze. "He wants to die." She explained. His face twisted up in revulsion and turned back to fire three times at his head, and Hermione flinched. "Tom!" She scolded.

"I don't give a shit about your fucking poetic justice, Hermione!" He snapped, unhinged, then turned to Nott who was at the door and raised his gun, "Don't fucking move, Nott. Sit the fuck down." He did as he was told.

"You gave him exactly what he wanted," She seethed, "He wanted to die, that was the whole point!"

"And I wanted to kill him," He countered, "So I don't give a shit." She glared at him, then strained against her bonds pointedly. He exhaled through his nose before stalking toward her and untying her from the chair. She observed Nott as he sat nervously by the door, watching the two of them with wide eyes.

"Did he call you?" She asked. He didn't answer at first, "Did he?"

"Yes," He answered curtly.

"And he's just…fine with you killing the boss?"

"We don't turn on each other," He snapped, "That's not the way this works. Grindelwald deserved to die."

She rubbed at her sore wrists as he worked on untying her ankles. Her hand settled on his shoulder, and she felt the tense muscles tense even further. "You're angry at me."

He halted what he was doing, gripping her wrists so hard they bruised. "I told you to keep your nose out of this."

"It didn't matter what I did, he would have wanted to kill me either way."

"Yes, but we would have had more time," He stressed, "If you weren't poking around, they would have waited, I could have stopped this—"

"Nothing happened." She soothed, her hand settling against the side of his face and watching the way he leaned into it while still glowering at her murderously.

"He would have killed you," He pointed out, finishing untying her legs while holding her gaze.

"But you killed him," She reminded, her gaze sliding over to the body. The blood was soaking into the concrete. "Where are we?" She asked.

"Uh, Storage Room," Nott spoke up from beside the door, "We're just outside the city. It's always deserted here at this time,"

"Nott, get the fuck out," Tom snapped, and Hermione smoothes her hands over his shoulders to quiet him.

"No," She said, and Nott halted mid rush out of the room to look at her, "What time is it?"

"It's uh—" Nott glanced between them as if he wasn't sure who to listen to, "Nearly 10."

Hermione swore under her breath. "You need to go," She said to Tom. He looked offended for a moment. "It's Harry," She explained, "He'll be looking for you, since I've disappeared. He…may suspect you." Tom raised an eyebrow. "I have a plan," She defended, "But…You need to go. Pretend you don't know where I am…obviously."

"That's unnecessary," He said, "We'll take you back and—"

"No." She said resolutely. "No, just…this is the easiest way to get Harry off your back. Trust me, you don't want him looking into you." He frowned, "He's a very good detective."

"Better than Dumbledore?"

"Less conventional," She admitted, "And…less by-the-book. He breaks a lot of rules." Tom nodded, his fingers drifting along her jawline.

"Your cheek is bruising," He commented offhandedly.

"I have a bruise that's not from you for once,"

His lips twitched, "Do you wish it was?"

She gave a one-shouldered shrug, "I'm not a fan of getting slapped around," She said.

"At least not in the face,"

She laughed lightly, and he leaned in to brush his lips against hers. There was nothing lustful in the kiss, just the comforting pressure of his mouth, the tentative movements of his fingers across her bruising cheek. When he pulled away, she breathed in sharply and blinked back panicked tears, the nights events starting to catch up to her. She forced back the emotions.

"You should go," She said, "Nott can stay with me. You best make yourself easy to find for Harry." He hesitated, and she rolled her eyes, "I am a law student," She reminded him, "I do know how to get rid of a body."

He nodded. The last thing he did before he left was confiscate Nott's guns and give it to Hermione instead. She didn't mention that she had never fired a gun in her life, just took the weapon without a word.

"Well," She said once Tom had left, "First things first, I need you to rough me up a bit."

Nott looked—for lack of a better word—terrified.

—

Thirty minutes later, a carefully constructed lie, and a burned and cut up Grindelwald sent with Nott to be incinerated, Hermione found herself with Nott's burner phone, half tied to the chair again in considerably worse condition than before Tom left, back in the storage room she had awoken in.

Well, the building was on fire now, too—but she was nearly 100 percent certain that Harry would arrive in time before she burned to death, so she wasn't terribly worried.

She dialed his number, "Harry?" She sobbed when he answered. It was strange to lie to him—but that was better than having the entire Mafia out for his blood if he were to find out about the members—namely, the new boss.

Tom had been with Harry when she called. She knew only because when Harry arrived with the entire police force behind him, barging in through the flames to pull her out—she was right by the entrance—Tom had been waiting outside as well. They draped a shock blanket over her shoulders and sat her in the ambulance and questioned her.

She kept it at half truths—She was looking into Dumbledore's death (which she would reveal to Harry was because he had mentioned Tom to her as well, and she wanted to find out for herself), they found out and brought her in. They roughed her up, would likely kill her. The second half was mostly theatrics—There was something happening outside the room, gunshots, and then a fire. They left her behind in order to flee the building. She could feel Tom's eye roll beside her where he pretended to comfort her.

"Did you recognize any of the men?" Harry asked.

"I did," She said, "You remember the man I saw with Dumbledore? It was him."

Harry was very somber after that, and he didn't ask any more questions.

"Did you google that cover story?" Tom murmured in her ear when Harry finally ceased questioning and excused himself to speak with the other officers. She glared at him.

"Did you have to set the building on fire?" He asked, stepping down from his seat on the edge of the open ambulance to stand in front of her. His hands rested on her thighs and he stood very, very close.

"It offers a sense of urgency that distracts from any strange plot holes," She explained, "That, and it destroys any DNA evidence you may have left behind. They won't manage to put it out until its burned everything."

He hummed thoughtfully as his nose bumped against hers. He began to trail his nose across her cheekbone, but Harry cleared his throat from behind and he stopped, stepping to the side.

"You guys should go ahead and head home," He offered, "It's been a long night."

"I think we will," Hermione agreed, "I just want to go to sleep."

"I bet," Harry sighed, "And…don't worry about dinner, the conversation…" He glanced quickly at Tom, "It's not so dire anymore."

"I still owe you an explanation," She said. "Coffee tomorrow? Maybe?"

Harry smiled, "We'll see how you're feeling." He agreed, returning to the other officers.

Tom drove her home—took her to his apartment for the first time. It was spacious, high rise, expensive, and she was mildly bitter that he had forced his way into her tiny studio when he had this place to return to. She sat on the back of the couch, facing him as he approached her. They hadn't spoken much since they left—they hadn't spoken at all, in fact—but the silence didn't feel weighty. His arms looped around her and his chin rested on her shoulder.

"It worked," She commented offhandedly, "Harry doesn't seem suspicious of you."

"We were both suitably panicked when you called reporting you were in a building on fire." He agreed, his voice was calm but his shoulders had tensed. She pressed her lips against his shoulder, her nails gliding gently along the harsh lines of his back. "Perhaps we bonded."

She snorted.

"I skipped class today—" She realized, and humiliatingly began to cry. It wasn't sobbing with reckless abandon, but it was still certainly more than the odd tear escaping her eyes. It was catching breaths and twisted grimaces, tears spilling out from behind rapidly blinking eyes one after the other, sliding down her cheeks. It was a stupid thing to cry over—missing class—but remembering that even in this shit show of a day she didn't even have the comfort of knowing her classes were in order.

Tom didn't move to comfort her exactly. He continued the movement of his hands on her back—sliding his hands slowly up and down her spine, around to her side, across her shoulder blades, down her arms, and again. He moved her hair back from her face with his nose and pressed kisses to her wet cheek and against the line of her jaw, and he waited until she was calm. Waited until her breathing evened out and her shoulders relaxed and she was quietly sighing against the ministrations of his hands and his mouth.

"So this is your apartment," She commented. She spoke mostly out of discomfort at having fallen apart in front of someone—but, she was thankful that it was him, because at least he didn't try to make her feel better. "Its very…minimal."

He let out a sharp exhalation in a poor imitation of a laugh.

—

Guess what bitch just found a 13000 WORD STORY THAT WAS SITTING IN HER COMPUTER UNPUBLISHED

it doesnt completely make sense...but its not SO BAD that it should be hidden away forever idk why i hated this on so much that i never did anything with it

sometimes i really hate myself. currently working through a bunch of unpublished works that i feel bad for tucking away for so long, most around 6000-7000 words, trying to round those out and post them so they can live their life and be free

UNLIKE ME IM IN QUARANTINE

sorry for disappearing for so long. thank you to everyone who always supports me. I am TRYING. i love you all :)))))