Jörmungandr

Slow, Quiet, Cold

Durmstrang burned to the ground at 3:19 AM on October 11th, 1943. Unknown casualties. Unknown survivors. Grindelwald had taken the school as well as the Swedish Ministry soundly and was now pointed toward France. Beauxbatons closed. The students foolishly sent back to their families or, for those that could afford it, to private covens outside the Continent. There were rumors some would transfer into Hogwarts. The Prophet was still reporting society pages for some reason. That bachelor was apparently very rakish.

Tom Riddle still had not returned.

Things went to shit immediately.

Balderdash had brought a letter alongside the Prophet during breakfast, a souffle with jam on toast, and Hermione discovered what her first mistake was.

To the Girl Currently SQUATTING in my House,

I appear to have left a book on Coatl populations in my most recent move, please return it to 97 Atterton Ln., London at your earliest convenience. Give it only to either myself or Perin when you arrive.

DO NOT SEND IT THROUGH THE POST. DO NOT GIVE IT TO A BIRD.

(I know that I haven't been in residence at my house in Hogsmeade for some time, but it would have been polite to ask, you know. I know you had no previous way of contacting me, but you are a clever witch with those wards. You could have figured something out.)

Waiting,

Novella Flocks

She had signed her name with a flourish.

Hermione had the violent urge to crumple the paper, burn it to ash, then stomp over to 97 Atterton and murder everyone there. She had too many things to deal with already. If they kept piling up, something was bound to slip through the cracks. Something probably had. Not send it through the post, who did this woman think she was?

It passed.

Slowly.

She would deal with it later. Now, she needed to sift through the heads of teenagers. Her target was missing. This was a slightly different timeline. Her information was out of date. Literally.

It was rather tedious.

Macmillan thought about quidditch practice. Neris missed swimming. Greengrass was fixated on Lucretia and quietly plotting revenge. Something to do with inks and shampoo. Malfoy... did not think his parents' death was an accident. There was a list in his mind. Burnt papers scattered on a desk, whispers in the halls, those filthy fucking liars... Not important to Hermione. Adelaide Flint worried over an assignment from Dippet. Avery was pouting—

Ephraim was pouting. Tom was gone and would probably not be back for a few days. And when Tom disappeared he usually came back sharp and impatient, more interested in the Blacks and Abraxas than him. But Alphard was still being punished, he could slip back into his Lord's graces before he was let out, right? There was still time. Surely, Tom could not stay mad at Ephraim forever.

What he would do to feel Tom's skin on his. To trace that scar with his tongue.

Hermione left his head.

Those were Avery's private thoughts and, as much of a terrible person she was, she didn't want to intrude on a fantasy.

There was a very small, evil part of her that did, that whispered it would be valuable to know what Riddle looked like as he undressed, how his body moved as he changed in the dorms. What he looked like with a tie not so tight.