Hog’s Head Reunion

Tom was at his usual table at the Hog's Head when Hermione entered. She brightened seeing him there. He was surrounded by his usual group of school friends and—people he had met on his travels, she guessed. She waved at Abraxas Malfoy, Avery, Lestrange, Mulciber, Nott, Crabbe and Goyle, all whom she knew from school, and Dolohov and Rosier.

Hermione was constantly in awe at how good Tom was at staying in touch with old school mates and his new acquaintances. There was a certain magnetic charm that seemed to radiate from him, drawing people in and keeping them engaged. Tonight's motley crew was no different.

"Hermione," Tom greeted her, his voice a pleasant harmony of warmth and command. He made room for her at the table, his smile lighting up his aristocratic features. His dark hair fell ever so slightly over his intense eyes as he nodded for her to join them.

"Oh, Tom," Hermione responded, sliding into the seat next to him. She brushed back a lock of hair that had come loose from her bun before turning to face the group. "Hello everyone."

The table buzzed with greetings, smiles, and nods. Though she was outside their usual circles, Hermione had always felt comfortable around Tom and his friends—an eclectic mix of purebloods, half-bloods, and even the occasional Muggle-born, regardless of their backgrounds.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," she said, her gaze briefly flitting over the gathered crowd.

"Never," Tom replied smoothly.

She always made sure to give them time to discuss whatever men discussed when they were alone before joining them, after all, she had no interest in their talk of what she was sure of was Quidditch and the latest wizarding fashion.

If she ever felt that Tom's smile grew somewhat strained when he saw her coming towards them, she chose to ignore it, as she did the fact that it sometimes took a pointed stare from Tom for the others to make room for her.

“Well,” she said, glancing around the table, “I’ve brought a few new house-elf sweater-pillowcases I thought you all might be interested in.”

Groans and laughter rippled through the crowd as she withdrew several lumpy, hand-knitted garments from her bag. They were clearly meant for beings much smaller than any man gathered at that table. The sweater-pillowcases had been diligently knitted in various outrageous colors, each bearing a large crest.

Some accepted their assigned sweaters with grumbled thanks and awkward smiles, others with visible amusement. Tom accepted the subject with a gracious smile, his eyes glinting with laughter. He held up one of the tiny creations, examining it closely. "Hermione, your craftsmanship is truly unparalleled."

Tom had accepted the subject with a gracious nod, though the corner of his mouth twitched suspiciously. Hermione beamed at each reaction, oblivious to the muffled chuckles and exchanged glances around the table. She was in her own world where she believed her efforts would bring about change, one house-elf sweater at a time.

Tom shook his head slightly and leaned back in his chair. The corners of his mouth quirked up in an amused smile as he watched Hermione.

A broad grin spread across Hermione's face as she watched the group's reactions. "Well, I like to do my bit for house-elf rights," she said in a tone that suggested she expected nothing less than full support for this cause.

A chorus of chuckles echoed around the table, some of genuine amusement and others of polite indulgence. It was widely known that Hermione had an odd affinity for the welfare of house-elves, a sentiment not exactly shared by her contemporaries. Yet Hermione was not dissuaded by their skepticism; if anything, it seemed to fuel her resolve further.

"Nott, Lestrange, Avery, new ones for you. Crabbe, Goyle, I made one for each of you," she said, presenting them in turn, each named with a touch of excitement in her voice. "I looked up your coats of arms, and you both actually have a fascinating family history . . . "

Her tone was light, but her eyes held a deeper intensity as she watched them receive the sweaters. This was more than just an innocent gesture—it was Hermione's own subtle way of championing the rights of house-elves, even among a group who viewed them as mere servants.

"She managed to wear you down, eh, Crabbe, Goyle?" Abraxas Malfoy teased, his silvery eyes glinting with mischief. He leaned back in his chair, an air of aristocratic arrogance about him.

"Watch it, Malfoy," Goyle grumbled, loosely holding up the sweater-pillowcase as if it might bite him.

He reached out a meaty hand for the package Hermione had prepared for him from the Hogwarts kitchens.

"Now some of this is traditional Hogwarts fare, but some of it I supervised the making of myself," Hermione continued in her bossy tone, ignoring the snide remark from Malfoy and turning her attention back to Goyle. "It's a traditional Cornish pasty . . . but with a twist." She gave him a wink, perhaps suggesting some sort of magic-infused recipe as she explained with a conspicuous hint of pride in her voice. With a miniscule flick of her wand, she enlarged the food, demonstrating one of the many minor enchantments she had mastered over the years.

Her eyes gleaming with satisfaction, she unclasped the box and unveiled an array of richly coloured pastries and an assortment of small delicacies that looked too exquisite to eat.

"Is that pumpkin pasty I see?" Abraxas asked, a playful glint in his eyes as he peered inside the package. "I must admit, I've missed these. Always a favourite during my time at Hogwarts."

"Amazing. You should have gone into the culinary arts, Granger," Lestrange said, his tone a peculiar mix of amusement and admiration. His eyes widened at the sight of the savory delicacies.

Hermione blushed, her modesty making her shrug off the compliment. "It's just a hobby. I can't possibly compare to the elves at Hogwarts. I was never able to fatten Tom up, try as I might," Hermione found herself saying in a wistful tone. She drummed her fingers on the wooden table, her eyes flicking to the pale, slender man sitting opposite her, whose very polite smile froze a little as Abraxas Malfoy smothered his laugh into his drink.

Abraxas pretended to have simply choked on his drink, as Tom gave him an unamused look."Sorry, My L—er, Tom," Abraxas quickly corrected himself with a guilty sheepish look on his face. Tom's polite smile stretched to a full-on grin, and he tilted his head at him in mock reproach. The sight of his amusement made Hermione feel somewhat light-headed, her heart fluttering like an enchanted paper bird within her chest.

Abraxas cleared his throat conspicuously, drawing her attention back to him. "Well, Granger, one of the reasons Tom has remained so slim might be because of his tendency to skip meals when engrossed in work," he said. His tone was dry, but there was no malice in his words. Instead, there was an almost fond exasperation that reminded her so much of herself.

Tom had always been a little obsessive when it came to his studies or his job. He would spend hours pouring over old books or artifacts, often forgetting to eat in the process. It wasn't until she started bringing him lunch and taking time out of their busy day to eat together that he began to remember the need for sustenance.

After graduating from Hogwarts, Tom surprised everyone by taking a position as a shop assistant at Borgin and Burkes instead of pursuing a prestigious role at the Ministry of Magic. On the other hand, Hermione's choice to join the Ministry was expected by all.

However, she quickly grew disillusioned with the bureaucracy and lack of progress, not to mention the petty politics that seemed to suffocate any chance of real change not to mention just simply good decisions in general.

She often clashed with her colleagues on many issues, her tendency to argue her point often leading to heated debates, and quite possibly a few enemies.

Whether it was because she was a woman, a Muggle-born, or simply her personality, Hermione had not fitted in at the Ministry any more than she had at Hogwarts. But at least at Hogwarts, she had friends. Well, Tom's friends. At the Ministry, she was alone, surrounded by those who looked down on her for her background or her principles. That’s why instead of eating her lunch at the Ministry cafeteria, she often preferred to bring her own meal and walk down to Borgin and Burkes, where Tom would be sitting eating alone at his desk, pouring over countless documents and reports.

It was a routine that comforted her, a small escape from the relentless grind of Ministry work.

She found the dark, dusty shop comforting in a weird way. The scent of old books and potions ingredients was oddly familiar, reminding her of all the afternoons she’d spent in the Hogwarts library. And somehow, Tom's company always made even the dingiest of collections seem appealing.

When Tom had received the position as History of Magic professor at Hogwarts from Professor Dippet after Professor Binns had passed away unexpectedly, Hermione had been as devastated for herself as she had been overjoyed for him. Tom's aptitude for history was undeniable, and his ability to bring stories to life had been wasted in the confines of Borgin and Burkes. She knew Tom was meant for something more than a dusty shop in Knockturn Alley.

When Tom, bashfully, looking at her through his inky black bangs with a glint in his eyes had expressed doubts about whether he would be able to make a good professor, Hermione had had to be quite stern, reminding him of the profound impact he could have on young minds. With his knowledge and passion, he could truly change how these students viewed things.

But for herself, she was straddled with loss. The afternoons spent together, the quiet lunches in the dark corners of the shop where they weaved intricate webs of discussions about magic, history, and everything in between, would cease to exist.

She would feel the void of their mutual acquaintances as well. Sure, they were more Tom's friends than hers, full of arrogance and swagger, but Hermione had successfully been able to shoehorn herself into their group for years now.

She admired Tom's ability to keep his old school mates in his life, uniting them together, maintaning the camaraderie they shared. Some of them were bearing prominent roles in the Ministry and others had dived into the more quiet and murky corners of the wizarding world. The only one Hermione was still in regular contact with was Neville, who had taken an apprenticeship with Newt Scamander and sent her letters from all corners of the world enthusiastically detailing his latest brush with death from uncovering or dealing with some magical plant or another.

So when Professor Dumbledore asked if she'd like to join him at Hogwarts, as his assistant in Transfiguration, Hermione couldn't contain her joy. She had readily accepted, glad for the chance to escape the stifling confines of the Ministry—a place that had potential but was unfortunately mired in corruption and petty politics.

It was the chance of a lifetime—to work alongside Dumbledore, who she respected and admired deeply. And Tom.

And now here she was, back where everything had started, in the castle she loved so much.

Hermione was shaken from her reverie and to focus on the conversation at hand by Crabbe and Goyle starting to help themselves to the sweets littered across the table. Hermione unthinkingly slapped their heavy hands.

"Now, remember what I told you, no eating it in the pub. They sell their own food," Hermione chided.

With a spell muttered under her breath and a wave of her wand, Hermione had the pastries floating back onto the plate, neatly rearranged in a blink.

"Bribes?" Abraxas laughed, taking a sip of his drink. "That's a new tactic for an oh-so-honourable-and-noble Gryffindor, Granger."

Hermione simply shrugged and continued distributing the sweaters with a smug smile. "It's not bribery, just . . . encouraging them to see things from a different perspective."

Drawing herself up to her full height, she declared, “I envision a future where house-elves are treated with decency and respect.” A few of Tom's friends rolled their eyes, but the spark in Hermione’s eye was too fierce to ignore being near-manic.

Malfoy chimed in, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Next, she'll be having you championing rights for trolls."

There was a chorus of laughter from the group, but Hermione didn't let it dampen her spirits. Instead, she returned Abraxas's comment with a stern look. "I would hope you all recognize the importance of treating all magical beings with respect and kindness."

Abraxas simply smirked in response, earning him a few chuckles from the others. Tom, however, remained silent, his gaze alternating between Hermione and the tiny sweater in his hands, before sliding the vibrant purple knitwear across the table towards Avery.

"Avery has been complaining about his house-elf again," he explained, his tone laced with a hint of amusement.

Avery dutifully took the sweater, looking at it as if it were a poisonous creature. "Suppose this won't make it any worse." He grumbled under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the table.

Hermione, however, was preoccupied with another matter. She had noticed an unfamiliar face among the group—pale and gaunt, with eyes that held a deep-seated hostility. It was his first time here, she was certain of that.

"Who's your friend?" she asked Tom, nodding subtly towards the stranger.

Tom glanced at him before answering her. "That's Selwyn, he didn't go to Hogwarts with us, thought it would be good for him to meet some new people."

The man named Selwyn looked towards Hermione, his dark eyes scrutinizing her before he reluctantly held out his hand for one of her creations.

With an inclination of the head, Selwyn acknowledged Hermione's introduction, although he did not smile.

His eyes held a coldness that was somewhat disconcerting.

"Selwyn," Hermione greeted, trying to maintain her usual cordiality despite his icy demeanor. "Pleased to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Granger," he replied, his voice flat and unemotional. There was something about the way he spoke that sent a chill down her spine.

Hermione quickly turned her attention back to the rest of the group, seeking refuge in their lively banter and Tom's comforting presence. But as the night went on, she could feel Selwyn's piercing gaze on her. His hostility seemed out of place among Tom's friends, but she brushed it aside. After all, she had always been an outsider here, too.

"House-elves, huh?" He said, an odd note in his voice. Hermione simply grinned at him, handing him a forest green sweater.

"Just you wait," she said, her tone lighthearted. "One day you'll see, my sweaters will make a world of difference to people's perspective."

"And what perspective is that?" Selwyn interrupted, his deep voice cutting through the laughter and idle chatter. His piercing dark eyes were locked on Hermione with an intensity that made her pause.

"The perspective of equality," Hermione answered firmly, meeting Selwyn's gaze unflinchingly.

Selwyn snorted derisively but said nothing more as he accepted the sweater-pillowcase for perusal. He examined it briefly before setting it aside, giving Hermione a smirk that she wasn't sure was mocking or genuinely amused.

"I think that's everyone," Hermione said, clapping her hands together.

"Actually," Malfoy coughed, somewhat sheepishly, "I will be needing one of these, too."

"Really, Malfoy?" Hermione arched an eyebrow at him. There was a moment of silence, then the group burst into laughter at his request, the amusement echoed in their eyes.

"What? It's Silvia. She insists that everyone has them these days."

"Then I have to research your crest, too," Hermione said, her eyebrows furrowed in thought. "I am sure there are some books in library."

"Or you could just visit Malfoy Manor. I am sure even Malfoy's damned chamber pot boasts that crest," Avery suggested, clearly finding the whole situation amusing and earning a round of laughter from the group.

"Very funny, Avery," Abraxas retorted, his icy gaze narrowing in annoyance. Hermione, on the other hand, laughed openly at this suggestion, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Perhaps I just might," she said, shooting an impish grin towards Abraxas Malfoy who seemed torn between being affronted and amused. The table erupted into laughter again.

Hermione smiled slightly. "Well, I certainly prefer the library to a chamber pot, but I'll make do what I have."

Abraxas rolled his eyes. "It's not so bad, Granger. I'm sure you'll find some dusty old volume in your beloved library that can help."

Hermione gave an amused smile. "I hope so. Anyway, expect a sweater soon, Malfoy."

Abraxas shook his head slightly but said nothing in response. The focus shifted to other topics—the upcoming Quidditch match, some minor drama with the Slytherin house.

However, the ice hadn't thawed completely for all present. Selwyn, in particular, seemed unable to shake off his cold demeanor. Hermione noticed him glancing at the pillow-sweater he'd been handed earlier with genuine disgust.

At a lull in the conversation, Hermione remembered the abrubt way they stopped talking when she joined them.

"Earlier, when I arrived," she began, "it seemed like I'd interrupted something. Was there a discussion I missed?"

A few exchanged glances with each other, then Tom cleared his throat. "Oh, nothing important," he dismissed lightly, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Nothing of consequence. Just some silly debate."

Not wanting to probe further and cause any friction, Hermione nodded and offered a friendly smile.

"All right. I just wanted to make sure I hadn't derailed anything important."

She received a few half-hearted smiles in response, but Selwyn remained silent, his dark eyes lingering on her for a moment longer before looking away. His gaze made her feel uneasy, like he saw something in her that the others couldn't or didn't want to. "Actually, we were just discussing the latest developments in the Ministry," the newcomer to the group said, his tone slightly mocking. "I'm sure you would be delighted to offer your perspective."

"Only if you'd like to hear it," Hermione answered coolly, not missing his derisive tone.

"The other subjects I am afraid would be quite unsuitable for a lady's ear so for as long as there is one at the table, we will have to be gentlemen," the newcomer, the man named Selwyn, continued, his smirk sly. He sent a side glance towards the others, and there were chuckles that was more unsettling than amusing. "We are therefore quite incapable of picking up the conversation where we left off."

An awkward silence fell over the table. The jovial atmosphere that had been so pervasive just moments ago was now shattered, replaced by an uncomfortable tension. She came for Tom's company and the camaraderie they all shared. She'd never felt quite comfortable among these individuals, part of Tom's inner circle as it were. They were all powerful, ambitious, and cold in their own ways.

Hermione flushed uncomfortably, her hand unconsciously tightening around the top of her robes at her throat. "Well, I-I didn't actually mean to stay long, anyway," she added. "I will leave you to your conversation."

Tom spoke up for the first time in quite a while, his voice resonating with soft authority. "That is right, let us not forget that there is a lady present at this table. And as long as one is here, we shall all conduct ourselves as gentlemen." He held Selwyn's gaze as he spoke, a quiet dominance asserting itself in his slate blue eyes.

Hermione's cheeks were pink as she looked gratefully at Tom. Abraxas gave a condescending chuckle, and raised an eyebrow, the hint of a grin playing on his lips as he locked eyes with Tom.

"When you leave I shall naturally follow you up to the castle, Hermione," Tom continued smoothly. "I wouldn't dream of letting a lady walk alone in the dark. It's late and I couldn't possibly let you walk such a distance alone."

His eyes glinted in the dim light. Hermione was aware that Tom understood the consequences if he were to leave now; the evening would be ruined for all of them. And they were all aware of it, too. Tom had a way of drawing people in, making them feel like they were part of an exclusive club.

"Thank you, Tom," Hermione said gratefully, her eyes shining with a warmth that was reserved only for him. "So, what are we discussing tonight?"

There was a pause as the men exchanged glances before Abraxas Malfoy cleared his throat, shooting Tom an uncertain look. Tom’s gaze remained firm and reassuring. "The Ministry's recent initiatives we believe," he answered smoothly.

"Oh, those idiots! I can't tell you how grateful I am to no longer be working there," Hermione huffed, her hands twitching as if itching for a quill and parchment to pen down the many complaints she had about the Ministry's decisions.

Tom chuckled under his breath, his gaze softening at her fervor. "Well, it seems we'll have quite the interesting discussion tonight."

The rest of the evening passed in a flurry of shared laughter and exchanged words. Here and there, Selwyn would throw in a snide remark or two - something Hermione was beginning to expect. It was clear that he wasn't particularly fond of her, or perhaps it was merely a general disdain for everyone.

But despite his cold demeanor, Hermione couldn't help but notice how Tom kept him grounded. It was as if there was an unspoken understanding between them—one that Selwyn reluctantly respected.

As the night wore on, Abraxas Malfoy found himself drawn into the conversation, his icy demeanor melting away as he spoke about his frustrations with the Ministry's lack of attention towards pureblood causes.

This was hardly Hermione’s grievance with them, but the entire table was united in a hearty dislike.

When Hermione got up to go the bathroom, Tom politely rose as well, and went to go order another round of drinks for them, clearly intending to prolong the evening.

Hermione was held up for a moment by a drunken patron passing by, and she could hear one of the men at her table say under his breath to Selwyn, "She's Tom's pet Mudblood."

Nobody had called Hermione a Mudblood to her face since Tom was in about fifth year.

The statement hung in the air, cutting through the comfortable feeling inside of her that they'd managed to build. Hermione quickly went to the bathroom. Attacking one of Tom's friends directly would only result in more bitterness and hostility, and that was the last thing she needed. They probably thought she hadn't heard it anyway. It was much less humiliating that way.

The word Mudblood still echoed in her ears, but she refused to allow it to ruin her evening. She was lucky compared to many of her peers. Lucky compared to most Muggle-borns who found themselves in the company of such prestigious pure-blood families. They respected her, even if it was purely for Tom's sake. It wasn't a perfect situation, but it was better than outright hostility. Lucky to be here, to have such an intriguing and stimulating conversation with these individuals despite their prejudices. She took a deep breath, determined to stroll back into the room with grace and dignity. No ignorant comment was going to faze her.

Returning back to her seat, her unease on her own behalf was immediately replaced with indignance on behalf of the pub keeper.

In her absence, Crabbe and Goyle had helped themselves to the pastries, their large hands making the delicate treats look even more minuscule. A wave of nostalgia washed over her at the sight, bringing back memories of shared meals in the Hogwarts' Great Hall.

The sweets littered across the table. Their heavy hands made a mess of Hermione's careful arrangement, but she chose not to reprimand them that. After all, she was too busy chewing them out for eating food she had brought along at somebody else's establishment.

"Really, Crabbe, Goyle, how would you like it if someone brought their own food into your living room?" Hermione scolded, as she attempted to tidy up the mess they had left scattered across the table.

"Yeah! Thanks for nothing, Crabbe, Goyle, we will probably be banned from this place forevermore!" said Avery, surreptiously stealing a pastry.

Crabbe and Goyle just blinked at her, their faces smeared with crumbs and jam. It was clear that they didn't see anything wrong with their actions.

"That's incredibly rude of you, too, Avery," Hermione scolded sharply, her eyes flashing a defiant brown. "And, Crabbe, Goyle. These pastries were made to be enjoyed together, not demolished by two oafs without any regard for manners."

Crabbe and Goyle looked at her blankly for a moment before cracking crude smiles. They were clearly unconcerned with her reprimand. "Don't worry, Granger," Goyle slurred around a mouthful of pastry, spattering crumbs over the table. "We saved you one."

Hermione felt a rare growl of frustration bubbling in her throat. She was known for her intellect and patience, not her temper. But the blatant lack of respect was grating on her nerves.

Just as she was about to open her mouth and unleash her own brand of fiery retribution, Tom returned with the drinks, his lips twitching at the sight of the pastry carnage in front of him. Whispering into her ear, he said, "Doesn't it make you sentimental? The sight reminds me of exactly the same way they would scoop up food at the Great Hall during our school days."

Hermione turned around to give him a piece of her mind, only to find herself catching her breath as she found herself looking directly into Tom's amused eyes. His voice was low and velvet, so close that she could almost feel the warmth of his breath. It was disconcerting how his presence alone could disrupt her train of thought and calm her temper.

He handed out the drinks he had ordered before returning to his own seat.

Tom was leaning back from the table now, regarding Hermione’s display of baked treats with a curious furrow in his eyebrows. His attention to tiny details made him an excellent researcher, a persuasive speaker and now, apparently, a baking critic.

“What are these?” he wondered aloud, picking up a mysterious-looking pastry that oozed with some kind of berry filling. He took a bite and his eyes widened in pleasant surprise.

“Dragonberry Tart,” Hermione replied tartly. “Made with real Dragonberries from Romania.”

Tom's eyes sparkled at her answer. "Interesting," he said, savoring the unexpected tartness from the berry filling. "I must say, your culinary talents are as impressive as your intellectual prowess. It's a pity you wasted so much of your time in the Ministry."

"Honestly, I expected better from you, Tom. You are a Professor," Hermione said in the same as she before would have used to say 'You are a prefect, Tom,' and then 'You are the Head Boy, Tom'.

A smile tugged at Tom's lips.

Her seeming disapproval, however, did nothing to dull the amused glint in his eyes. Instead, he merely chuckled lightly, tilting his head slightly to one side as though challenging her rebuke.

"Oh, but Hermione," Tom retorted, flashing her an insouciant grin. "What is the purpose of being a Professor if you cannot engage in enlightening discussions and indulge in fine pastries? It is one of the few perks of the job."

Tom's gaze shifted back to Hermione. His eyes twinkled with a certain kind of mirth that made it hard for her to stay mad at him. As much as she wanted to be.

"Well, you can sit here and break unwritten social rules all that you want, I am going to support the pub by ordering food for all of us," Hermione said with a huff and stomped over to the pub keeper.

Tom's smile did not fade as he watched her cloud of crazy hair move deliberately towards the counter.

"So, what are we going to do with Granger when we take over?" Abraxas Malfoy inquired, breaking the silence that had settled over their table. His tone was casual, as though he were discussing the weather rather than the future of a woman they all knew.

Tom glanced at him with a nonchalant shrug. "She will do as she always does. Survive. Adapt," he replied indifferently, his gaze lingering on Hermione’s back.

"She's a Mudblood. She's not meant to survive," Selwyn interjected with a sneer. His voice was low, but the intentional malice was unmistakable.

A pronounced silence followed his remark. Tom glanced at Selwyn for a moment before turning back to his drink. There was no trace of emotion on his face, but in his eyes, there flickered an unknown flame.

"Surely we could always make one exception?" Abraxas said seemingly casually, tumbling his glass between his long, pale fingers. His gaze was fixed on the golden liquid swirling inside, betraying no hint of his thoughts.

He was always playing with something, a habit born of idle aristocracy, and, as Tom liked to think, a restless mind.

Nott laughed. "That's rich," he remarked, "Abraxas Malfoy wanting to make an exception for a Mudblood."

Abraxas shot Nott a steely glare, his aristocratic features tightened. "I'm merely expressing a pragmatic point of view," he said, his tone frosty.

"Are we really going to kill them all?" Avery said, then quickly added, "Seems a bit wasteful, is all."

Tom’s mouth twitched in an almost-smile. “Avery, your . . . pragmatism . . . is touching.”

The group fell silent again, each lost in individual thoughts, until Tom’s voice broke the quiet. "It's not about who they are, or what they are. It's about choices and consequences."

He reached for his glass, turning it slowly between his fingers. The amber liquid inside shimmered in the dim light of the pub.

"And remember," he said carefully, fixing each man with a meaningful look, "Killing is not always the most effective way to remove a problem."

Selwyn scoffed. "And what would you suggest then? Turning them all into house-elves?"

Tom smiled. "Why not?"

The idea is quite intriguing if you think about it," Tom mused, his eyes glinting devilishly. "Imagine, a Mudblood serving us tea and tending to our every need."

Avery choked on the drink he had been sipping, sending frothy ale splattering across the table. Crabbe roared with laughter while Goyle merely looked confused.

Abraxas raised an eyebrow, looking at Tom with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. "An interesting concept, Riddle. But how practical could that be?"

Tom simply shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching into a knowing smile as he turned back to his drink. "One can never know what the future holds."

The group erupted in laughter, the pub's cozy interior echoing with their revelry. Avery slapped his knee, tears of mirth streaming down his face while Nott chortled alongside him. Against the backdrop of their amusement, Selwyn's sneer stretched into a reluctant grin and even Abraxas let out a muffled chuckle.

Tom just sat back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. The idea was ludicrous on the surface, but there was something about the way Tom said it that made them think twice.

"I, for one, wouldn't mind seeing that little bitch on her knees, taking what I choose to give her," Selwyn spat out, his eyes narrowed in cruel amusement.

Tom's eyes flicked to him, his amusement cooling into a hard stare.

"I'd take her," Crabbe grunted, reaching for another piece of Hermione's tart. His big hands squeezed the pastry until the berry filling oozed out.

As his friends slowly turned to look at him, he looked up from Hermione's spread of sweets for the first time at everyone's sudden silence. "What?" he added defensively. "She makes great pies."

"Indeed she does," Tom smoothly agreed, a slight edge to his otherwise composed voice. He flicked his gaze back, returning to his amusement at Hermione’s interaction with the gruff pub keeper. She was now pointing at various items with vigorous animation, their conversation evidently an intense negotiation of sorts.

"And you'd be able to punish her for slapping your hands just now," Selwyn sneered, trying to regain control of the conversation.

"'s Granger," said Goyle, finding the pastries much more interesting than Selwyn. "She is always slapping somebody."

Tom merely smirked, taking a sip of his drink, his gaze returning to Hermione who was still engaged in an intense conversation with the pub keeper. She was haggling about the price of their food, her brows knitted in concentration.

"We ought to work through the Ministry instead," Selwyn advised, his tone cool and measured. "We need to change their mindset. Put the right people in the right places, influence the correct policies." His voice was low and calm, lacking any of the prior mirth found in the others. "Before we can hope to control anyone, we must first control the laws that govern them. Then we could make laws that said that any Mudblood who slapped a Pureblood would have their hands cut of."

"Can't make pies without hands," Crabbe said, shoving another bite of tart into his mouth. Flecks of the pastry clung to his thick lips, adding to the spectacle of his messy gorging.

"Indeed she can't," Tom smoothly agreed, a slight edge to his otherwise composed voice. He flicked his gaze back.

"There's plenty of women out there who make good pies, Crabbe. That doesn’t mean they belong in our world," Selwyn muttered disdainfully, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

Abraxas merely hummed noncommittally in response, swirling the liquid in his glass again as he leaned back into his chair.

"Not pies like this," Crabbe insisted, smacking his lips with an appreciative sound, his meaty fingers reaching for another slice.

"I'd take her, too," Goyle chimed in, his eyes never leaving the voluptuous tart he'd been eyeing. "Got a good hand for pastries. Could use that."

"I will take her," Dolohov interrupted suddenly, his voice authoritative. His dark, piercing eyes narrowed with an intensity that sent a ripple of tension around the table. "Not afraid of small girls hitting me."

"That's just because Granger's never hit you," Nott muttered into his beer.

"Have manners. No eating of the brought food in pub," Dolohov triumphantly declared. "Have no wife. Married to cause. Wives cruel to Mudblood help. Wouldn't be too cruel to her. Let her use the library."

"That might actually be a good idea," Malfoy mused.

"No wife. House quiet. Granger talk. A lot," Dolohov said with a fanatical glint in his eyes.

"I am of the opinion that Mudbloods should only speak when spoken to," Selwyn uttered, his eyes narrowing at the very thought.

"A truly delightful prospect," Tom concurred, his tone laden with a sarcasm that only added to the group's mirth.

"Then would speak to her to tell her to speak. 'Speak', I would say."

"I daresay you'll be begging for silence within a week," Malfoy murmured, his lips twitching upwards in amusement

"Hermione Granger does have a knack for talking until one's ears bleed," said Lestrange, rolling his eyes. "You wouldn't have forgotten easily if you had been in class with her, Dolohov."

Dolohov's eyes gleamed with fanaticism as he spoke. "Would not always speak. Would bake sometimes. Could steal a taste underway."

"You don't think that is bad manners, do you?" Nott asked dryly.

"No. Roguishly charming."

"You're not afraid she would hit you then?"

"Maybe she would hit me," Dolohov said intensely. "Maybe she would hit me with spoon. Maybe ladle. Maybe wooden spatula."

Avery was starting to look glassy-eyed. "Maybe we could share her. We could connect our floo networks together and she could just pop in any time."

"Could connect to ours, too," Crabbe added, his mouth filled with another mouthful of tart. "We've got a big kitchen."

"And ours," Goyle chimed in.

"And our library," Malfoy added, a considering look taking over his features. "Granger'd love that. She would have lived in the library at Hogwarts if they let her."

"Would get house-elf to do actual work. Herm-own-ninny could research. Knit for the house-elf. Bake. Talk."

The statement hung in the air, a tacit challenge that had the men around the table shifting uneasily. Avery was the first to break the silence, chuckling nervously and raising his glass in a toast. "To Granger, then. A survivor."

"We're talking about Granger here." Abraxas shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Head of her class, skilled spell caster and quite the looker too."

Tom met Abraxas’s gaze coolly

"But Granger cries when someone is mean to first-years and nearly flays us alive for condescension towards house-elves," Lestrange interjected, his tone derisive. "How is she going to survive our grand plan?"

"The kindest thing," Abraxas Malfoy murmured, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, "would be to make certain that she doesn't."

"Meaning?" Crabbe interjected, his big eyes clouded with confusion.

"Meaning," Malfoy emphasized, "that she should be euthanized. For her own good."

"Euthanized," Nott echoed, his brow thrown into a deep furrow.

"Yes. My idea is quite simple," Malfoy said. His gaze met each of theirs in turn before he continued, "We simply put her into a deep sleep that she never wakes up from. She won't experience any pain; she won't even realize anything has happened. Either we invoke the Unforgivable Curse or put some poison in her tea and spare her the complications that come with our . . . ambitions. Granger is bright, but she is also predictable. She's driven by her morals, her need to do what is right. She'd fall asleep thinking the world was a good place and wake up in a world beyond her worst nightmares. Isn't it better to let her go to sleep, one last time, believing in the goodness of man? Isn't that the merciful course of action?"

Lestrange snorted, tossing back the last of his drink and then slamming the glass back onto the table with a sharp report. "Merciful? You're hilarious, Malfoy." His laughter was jagged, bitter. "Since when do we care about mercy?"

Malfoy continued, unperturbed by Lestrange's interruption. "No one would suspect you, Tom. Not about Granger. Not even Dumbledore. Nobody would ever believe that you'd hurt her."