Jörmungandr

Spit and Vinegar

"Can I borrow your robe, Antonin?" Hermione said calmly and pulled up her hair, stretching her neck until it cracked. One side and then the other. "It's October. I'm a bit chilled."

"Of course, dove," Antonin nodded and removed his robe, holding it out for her arms. "English cannot take even the mildest cold. It is charming."

Sometimes, the misogyny of the forties proved useful.

Her hands did not shake as she put it on. Her wand was steady and relaxed as she altered it slightly so the hem was not on the ground. She was still swaddled in it, but that was the point. Her body was not as emaciated as it had been when she had first gotten here—her bones were now safely hidden under her skin—but Tom watched her often, eyes sticking on her like she was a grand piece of art or grotesque abomination. Or both. He might recognize her shape.

"I'm going now," she said politely.

"Hermione." Again, that perfect name. "I told you—"

Hermione touched the cool glass. It was a large, thick pane. The building was old. It must have been expensive. If she was a muggle, she would worry about fingerprints. As it was, wizards were idiots and couldn't catch a thief unless they bled all over a crime scene. Poor Missy.

Bombarda.

The spell was soft as a sigh in her head.

Hermione apparated down to the floor.

The glass exploded, the crowd startled. Panicked. Transfixed by the glass stars raining down on them. The horror of an attack in the middle of a war. Tom Riddle jerked his head to the blast the same as the crowd. Ever the animal beholden to his instincts.

Hermione only saw the back of his head. Black curls and the scar behind his ear where he'd been stabbed at ten.

She remembered the bridge, remembered that her spell had not worked on him properly, remembered that he hadn't been at all surprised by it.

How he hadn't gone to be healed by Madam Ophior.

Magic was fickle with him, but he had stabbed himself quite easily.

Hermione summoned a dagger, touched the hilt with her wand, and sent it, with all the force of a bullet, to the back of his skull.

Tom disapparated with a thundercrack. Sloppy boy. Rosier and the other woman along with him. The dagger shattered through a dragon egg, splitting it open, leaking red yolk, and killing whatever had been inside.

Assassination failed. It was going to be a fight.

Someone shouted. A child screamed.

This was going to be messy.

Hermione rolled her shoulders and straightened her back. Took a deep breath through the mask. She had been in too many fights to be scared, had killed too many people to hesitate. The blood rush was familiar. The quickening of her mind. The way time stretched out, thicker and sweeter than syrup, making seconds seem like minutes. Heart rapid, steady.

She was fine.

Cold as iron.

Deep breath.

Float like ice.

The main hall was a large, high ceiling room with booths scattered about, showing off different magical findings. A display of dragon eggs—now cracked—a grand exhibit of Coatls, a mighty Thunderbird, another dozen eggs and their layers. There were hundreds of attendees. Mostly academic, judging from their simple robes. A handful of investors, judging from their gaudy ones. The only child Hermione had seen was the Potter. Worst comes to worst, Hermione would simply return James to an only child.