Gryffindor Red

by foolishlywandwaving

Summary:

"How - how dare you?" She stammers, pushing him away with both hands. Riddle backs away as though she is brandishing a hot poker, a horrible little smile on his face. Her thighs burn white hot from where his hands have been trailing up. Hermione yanks her dress down and continues, finding her voice through the fog of insanity that has clouded her judgement. "How dare you just show up to my house and threaten me, then kiss me!"

"In my defence," Riddle says mildly, with a strange expression. "I only planned on the first."

"That is a dreadful defence!"

---

Or, Tom and Hermione start their sixth year of Hogwarts entirely off on the wrong foot.

Chapter 1

It is late in the summer, O.W.L.s. long completed. Hermione has spent every waking moment out in the sun in her parents’ garden, soaking up the last rays of August sunshine, a book in hand and something sweet and fizzy (sugar-free, albeit) beading condensation next to her. She’ll turn seventeen soon, and with that comes the next steps for her future … 

 

She’s only given them scant details, glossed over the terror inside of the castle, but for the first two months of the summer, Hermione’s parents had barely let her out of their sight. Hermione had thought she’d been exceptionally clever with her warding and protective spells, thought she was close, along with Harry and Ron, with figuring out what could possibly be attacking students - but not clever enough. Spending three weeks Petrified in the Hospital Wing would damage any ego.

 

But -

 

- Today, the sun is hanging low in the sky on a lazy Friday evening. Hermione guiltily turns the page of the cheap paperback hidden inside the pages of the thick tome, propped up on her elbows, glancing up furtively to see if anyone spots her. No, her parents fondly bid her farewell this morning, off to Italy for a small break. She’ll see them again in a few days, reluctant to interrupt their time together, and grateful that they are finally happy to leave her by herself. 

 

And besides -

 

- The book she is clutching, borrowed from Ginny in a fit of nervous giggles, oh, it has been so difficult to steal time away to read it in complete privacy -

 

Hermione considers herself liberal, forward-thinking, a feminist, burn-the-bra, equal rights and equal opportunities for all, wizard, muggle, Magical Creature - but she is terribly embarrassed at even the thought of being caught reading the filthiest bodice ripper Ginny could source.

 

Hermione’s face is hot as she finds her place once more. She knew, even from the first page, that this book is completely ridiculous. The heroine, courtly widowed Lady Benneton (and yes, she rolled her eyes at Ginny who laughs and says trust me, Hermione, wait until Chapter Fourteen) has been pursued by a variety of swashbuckling, handsome, daredevil men (and yes, she also rolled her eyes at the obvious mismatch in character, the impending expiry date of such relationships). Hermione has read six chapters of questionable plot, but now -

 

“Mrs Benneton,” purred the low voice behind Annalise. She gripped the stem of her wine glass, heart beating staccato against her ribs. 

 

(Hermione wonders idly if a doctor ought to be called. She thinks that Ginny would find her observations amusing.) 

 

She shivered at the light touch of his fingertips skimming her waist. Her bosom heaved of its own accord, and she felt the warmth of his broad, muscular chest press into her back. Lower still, she felt proof of his intentions - 

 

Hermione is comfortable, warm. She lays down on her blanket, secluded in the garden. She closes her eyes and allows her thoughts to drift to all the boys who had ever shown her a passing interest.

 

Her first thought is to Viktor. Viktor, who had liked her for herself, for her brains. He had kissed her so longingly at the end of her fourth year. Hermione had thought she’d rather like to kiss him again, but then -

 

Her second thought is to Ron. Tall, loyal, funny, who made her cry no less than four times last year, who called her brilliant, so smart, ‘Mione, can you just read through four feet on the Goblin Wars, I just can’t get my head around it - 

 

Her third, secret thought is to Tom Riddle, and she falters. 

 

Hermione slowly traces the inside of her thighs.

 

Riddle - she hadn’t imagined it, had she? Him looking at her throughout the year. She’s not quite sure where she stands with him. He certainly seemed pleased when the Petrified were revived and the attacks abated. They'd even agreed to write over the summer, to finish an extra project for Slughorn. She had caught him just once, staring at her with a flash of danger in his eyes - danger of what, she’s not sure. But she knows, swears, there’s something more to him than Perfect Prefect Tom Riddle.

 

She snidely thinks of how prim, how proper he is. How immaculate his hair is (so unlike hers), even, inexplicably after Duelling Club. How regimented he is in daily life, precisely the same breakfast at precisely the same time each morning. Polite, clever, handsome. No rumour of a dalliance with any student -

 

- Hermione would quite like to rake her hands through that carefully parted hair -

 

And oh, what a terrible person she is, to think of him like this. Despite his unfortunate choice of housemates and their slightly (read: very) rocky start, Riddle has been a surprisingly good Herbology partner, has shut down Malfoy’s coarser torments, even danced with her at Slughorn’s Christmas party, just once, hand not deviating from the prim, proper position on her waist …

 

Her face blazes with shame as she brushes damp curls. Her bare legs are so warm against the picnic blanket. She thinks of his hands, long fingers, clever with his wand work. She thinks of his height, of his narrow frame - the closest they’ve been is when he has held her from a distance, spinning her (awkwardly, Merlin, why is she so awkward), him, half-smiling drolly down at her  - 

 

She has touched herself before, of course, almost perfunctorily, half images of faceless boys have featured. But Hermione cannot remember ever feeling this strung out, this on edge. Her fingertips carefully trace her outer lips. Her heart hammers in her chest as she breaches the slick -

 

She hears the distant knock on her front door and wrenches her hand away from between her thighs, panicked. Her face is burning as she leaps to her feet, tugging her dress back into place. 

 

In the garden, out in the open had felt risqué, delightfully so - but to be almost caught in flagrante delicto (only ever with herself, the mean little voice in the back of her head says pointedly) is a metaphorical cold shower. 

 

“Coming!” she calls loudly, hoping her voice doesn’t shake. She dashes through her back door, pausing in the kitchen to fling her hands under the tap. She swings open her front door and feels her clit throb traitorously as Riddle himself is waiting, perfectly composed, by her Muggle parents' front door. A bicycle is propped against the bricks of her home. 

 

What?

 

"Riddle - hello - what are you doing here?" Hermione manages to stammer out. She is distracted by the sight of him in jeans and a polo shirt. Tom Riddle is outside of her Hampstead home in jeans and a polo. The cognitive dissonance throws her entirely.

 

"Evening, Granger," and Riddle shifts a backpack. "Sorry - had to return the owl I was using, so I brought these by more pedestrian means. I hope you don't mind me dropping by but I didn't see how to give you notice. I do apologise for the intrusion."

 

He sounds so entirely reasonable, so earnest. Hermione almost agrees, as if by instinct, but -

 

"Hang on - school starts in two weeks! You could have brought them … then?" She trails off as he kneels to unzip his backpack. She doesn't know why she notices the tan on the back of his neck, then paler skin stretching over the bumps of his spine disappearing under his collar as he bows his head. She's never thought of Riddle as outdoorsy. She's never considered him as existing outside of Hogwarts.

 

He smiles at her, pulling six heavy tomes out. Funny, they shouldn't really fit in such a small backpack. 

 

"Extension charm," and he winces as though he's been caught, as though he's in collusion with her. "Undetectable. Hard to hide everything otherwise from the Muggles. Don't mention to anyone, would you?" 

 

He hands over the stack of books. Their hands don't brush. 

 

"Well, I ought to be -"

 

"Did you - did you want a drink? Sorry, I've forgotten my manners," Hermione blurts out. "You must have come far, and it’s so hot today, and on your bike! Yes, come inside for a bit,” she speaks firmly, assuredly, and holds the door open.

 

Riddle smiles very evenly. “Thank you Granger, that’s awfully good of you. Not for long; I need to get back - curfew and all.” 

 

Hermione is quite certain that she has made him genuinely laugh before, a wry, reluctant twist to his mouth so unlike the smile he is wearing now. Her droll commentary muttered in the library over reams of parchment, quills scribbling late into the night as they debate minutiae surrounding the Dissolution of the Wizards’ Council in 1707, and the subsequent structural reform leading to the formation of the Ministry of Magic (they agree on very little other than further reformation is desperately needed). 

 

The sun is low in the sky, orange light catching his eyes. Hermione doesn’t know why her breath hitches, the way he’s looking at her, so at odds with his well-mannered words, his dark eyes flash warm, heated -

 

She blinks, he’s stepping over the threshold, a respectable distance between them. Hermione suddenly feels dirty, thinking of her classmate like this, and defaults to hosting. 

 

“Right - the bathroom is just upstairs, to the left. You can leave your bike in the hall - no helmet?!”

 

“None,” he agrees. “Seventeen soon - then no more need for this contraption.” Hermione eyes the bike - it’s spotless, well-maintained. She has a faint memory of him in first year Flying lessons, gaze fixated on Harry who was first to summon his broom. 

 

It is very strange seeing Riddle in her home. He is taller than her father, just, and the hallway seems too small for him. “I won’t stay too long. I had promised myself that before the summer is over, I should take a trip up north. I believe that’s where my father’s family is from.”

 

Hermione perks up interestedly. “You’ve never mentioned your parents - when are you going?”

 

“I’m on the last train today, incidentally. Thought I’d stop by on my way to Euston.” 

 

He heads upstairs, and she busies herself in the kitchen to distract herself. A pitcher of lemonade, a thick slab of fudge, cold cuts, bread from the bakery (slightly stale, she tuts). Hermione drags a kitchen chair to the top cupboard, intent on pulling down jam made the summer before, stored at the very back. She stretches as far as she can on tiptoes, scrabbling blindly with one arm. 

 

She doesn’t hear him enter and loses her balance as she turns around. Wobbling, she feels a hand catch her elbow, but it is too late. The jar of jam slips out her hand and smashes thickly on the kitchen floor.

 

“Oh no,” Hermonie moans as she steps off the chair. 

 

“Leave it.” Riddle’s voice is unexpectedly commanding, and he doesn’t move back. In fact, he continues to hold her firmly by the elbow. 

 

"Excuse me - what-"

 

She falters as he steers her towards the kitchen counter. She wants space to think but instead, Riddle moves forward. His eyes bore down into hers. The hairs prickle on the back of her neck. Hermione inexplicably feels hunted - she doesn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer -

 

- How did a wand appear in his hand? He traces her collarbone with the tip of it. She notices, suddenly, an old book on the counter, something crimson streaked on the pages - 

 

“You know,” he murmurs, “I almost regret this.” 

 

His other hand comes forward and touches her neck. Hermione doesn’t know whether to scream or run; her feet are rooted to the ground. Her heart thuds in her chest as his fingers linger over her pulse. This is the first time he’s ever touched her of his own volition, the closest he’s ever been. Hysterically, her mind flashes back to the garden, naive daydreams of his hands she had never before permitted, her own hands skimming her thighs -

 

Riddle pauses, a fraction. He’s still staring at her intently. 

 

The tension in the room is thick, as he lowers his wand. His hand rests on her neck, lightly. 

 

"Tell me, Granger," his words are quiet, and she feels his breath on her face. "What were you doing in the garden?"

 

He's close enough that Hermione can feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint scent of his soap. Hermione feels as though she is swaying on the edge of a precipice. Riddle's eyes are telling her to jump. She exhales shakily. The Gryffindor in her rises up.

 

"What won't you regret, Riddle?" She bravely demands, pushing him away slightly. His heart beats lazily under her palm. "What did you really come here for?" 

 

Something in the air shifts. A tiny movement of his hand against her throat, her pulse flutters wildly. He runs a fingertip down the side of her neck, and she shivers. Riddle watches her - has anyone ever paid this much attention to her before? - and suddenly, inexplicably, he touches his lips briefly to hers.

 

Hermione's brain short-circuits. His mouth is warm and much softer than she had imagined (and now that it's happening, it seems silly to deny that she has thought of kissing him before). She wonders if she should bite him, scream, punch him. Instead, her eyes drift shut and she kisses him back, slowly. Her hands clench and unclench in the empty air, until caution is firmly out of the front door, and she rests them uncertainly on his shoulders. 

 

Riddle has no such qualms. Has she ever seen him hesitate to take anything he wanted? The hand around her neck tangles roughly into her hair, and he holds her in place. The long line of his body burns a scant inch away from hers.

 

She's kissing Riddle. She's kissing Riddle in her kitchen, sticky red jam and glass shards spattered on the kitchen floor; did she even lock the front door? His arm is sliding around her waist as he leans over her. It's not a bad kiss, it’s an excellent kiss. He smells like hot summer sun, like embers, so alive -

 

He tightens his fingers in her hair, pulling, and the sensation sends a jolt from the base of the skull, down her spine, all the way down, pooling deep in her belly with a heat unknown. He likes this. She breathes a gasp against his mouth, and he chuckles, low and dark. 

 

“Nothing to say for once?” 

 

She breaks away solely to scowl up at him, the ferocity somewhat tempered by her fingers clutching his collar. He’s not as unaffected as he’s pretending, and she notes with triumph the flush tracing his cheeks, that he is careful to keep his hips from pressing into hers. His eyes are bright and his palm hot through the thin fabric of her dress. Riddle seems painfully human and she does not know what to make of it.

 

“Where,” she begins, trying to seize control of the situation, “did that come from?” She’s still holding him close and instructs her traitorous hands to push him away. Instead, they slip just barely against the skin of his neck. His nostrils flare imperceptibly, but this close, she can see every freckle, the beginnings of stubble on his chin, the sharp, handsome curve of his jaw, his blown pupils, each long eyelash - 

 

"I wanted to see what would happen," he offers blithely, arrogantly, wicked hands tracing each bump of her spine. Hermione shivers as his fingers skim lower. She doesn’t know why she lets him slowly ruck up her skirt, doesn’t know why she stretches on tiptoes as she pulls him down to kiss him again. 

 

He really is appallingly attractive, she rues. This time, she decides she's in for a penny, in for a pound, and allows her hands to explore his shoulders, his back, twist through his thick hair. He licks the seam of her lips and she sighs into his mouth, lost.

 

What would the Slytherin girls think of this, Riddle deigning to slum it in such a way with a dirty Mudblood -

 

Would they believe Hermione, if she can even begin to find the words to describe Tom Riddle groaning into her mouth as he cups her rear? The words to describe Tom Riddle finally pressing his lean body to hers, utterly shameless? His fingers are tantalisingly close to her core. She arches her back, half-drunk with lust, urging his fingers closer, closer - 

 

"What colour are they, Granger?" He pants in her ear, thumbs smoothing over the soft fabric of her underwear. 

 

"Why, Riddle," she baits him, boldly. "Have you been thinking about my knickers, all this time?" He licks her neck, then bites down, hard. 

 

She yelps, and he laughs softly. 

 

"I would rethink your tone. My interest in your knickers -” he ghosts over the crotch of her underwear, and she instinctively jolts towards more, any friction “- is the only thing keeping you alive right now.”

 

It’s as though she’s been plunged into an ice bath. The tension shatters horribly. 

 

"How - how dare you?" She stammers, pushing him away with both hands. Riddle backs away as though she is brandishing a hot poker, a horrible little smile on his face. Her thighs burn white hot from where his hands have been trailing up. Hermione yanks her dress down and continues, finding her voice through the fog of insanity that has clouded her judgement. "How dare you just show up to my house and threaten me, then kiss me!"

 

"In my defence," Riddle says mildly, with a strange expression. Hermione tries very hard to keep her eyes trained on his face and wand arm (when did he draw so quickly?), and very firmly above his belt. "I only planned on the first."

 

"That is a dreadful defence!" 

 

He twirls the wand (she jolts when she doesn't recognise it as his wand) in his hand. She wishes with all her might to summon her own wand silently from her bedroom, and after this, if she's still alive, she will keep it permanently holstered on her body at all times.

 

"I presume you have a preference for one rather than the other?" And this expression she knows well; Riddle is terribly smug all of a sudden.

 

"And how do you dare presume what I-" Something clicks in an instant, the intense eye contact, the knowing looks. "You're a Legilimens," she breathes, instantly staring at his tousled hair (the only victory today, an entirely inappropriate voice cackles in her head). "Oh god - and to think - you've been violating my privacy-"

 

"I rather feel violated by those fantasies of yours, Granger." He smirks at her, and she flushes angrily.

 

"Those are my private thoughts! I can imagine you dancing the can-can in only a feather boa if I like!"

 

"That will certainly not be arranged," he retorts archly. Good god, is he enjoying this?

 

Hermione looks around, desperate for a change in topic. She sees his book, and rifles through. The pages are now curiously blank, with the year embossed in gold on the front. Inside, written in black ink, 'T. M. Riddle'. 

 

"And why have you brought your diary, Riddle? Going to confess your deepest feelings for me? Maybe I can plait your hair during a sleepover." She waves it in his face, heart hammering. Is she insane? She’s wandless - arguably witless - Riddle has a good fifty pounds on her - there must be a way to come out of this intact - 

 

His eyes narrow and with a wave of the wand, the book flies into his hand. Something ugly flits across his face. Hermione cannot believe she once found him attractive, was seconds away from letting him - 

 

“You’re not going to hurt me,” she states, trying very hard to sound commanding. He arches an eyebrow. “No - you would have done that already if you were actually going to. And - Ron and Harry, they saw me give you my address at the end of term. They knew you borrowed books. I’ve already been Petrified; there’s a target on me. No one is going to think this was an accident.” 

 

It is the best argument she can come up with under pressure. It is not a very good one. But surprisingly, he seems to consider this. 

 

Think, Hermione! She just needs to buy time, gain his trust. And then, once he is gone, she will alert the authorities, Dumbledore -

 

“Hm, no I don’t think you will tell the old man,” he says carelessly. Goddamn Legilimens! Hermione could scream in frustration. “You see, you’ve been awfully trusting, inviting me inside. Don’t you keep your bedroom door locked?”

 

“Excited? Your first time in a girl’s bedroom, Riddle?” Ginny is clearly rubbing off on her. Shame it’ll get her killed. But her mind is racing. Why did he go into her bedroom?

 

"How forward of you, Granger. I couldn't imagine what your poor Muggle parents would say. Especially when they get back and see the corpse of their precious daughter on the kitchen floor. Maybe she broke her stupid neck falling from a chair." 

 

All levity leaves the room. “How,” Hermione says, evenly, “do you know that my parents are away?” 

 

He sighs, theatrically. “Oh, Hermione,” and her name on his tongue makes her blood chill. “Do you really consider me an amateur?” 

 

“No,” she breathes out in horror. 

 

“Yes,” he says, almost cheerfully. “I’d be very careful of speaking any word of this encounter. Who knows how your parents will know to get back home …” 

 

Her loving parents absolutely cannot be involved with whatever Riddle is plotting. Are they safe? Has he hurt them? Imperioed them to walk off the nearest bridge? She’s desperately thinking of curses, hexes, jinks, what spells could he know, cast, to with such certainty have her compliance? 

 

But Riddle is no longer answering her questions. He draws another wand from his back pocket.

 

Her wand.

 

“You’ll get this back at the start of term. I’ll be in touch - there are a few things I need from you, after all …”

 

He kisses her on the cheek in a mockery of intimacy, and disappears out of the door. She sinks to her knees on the cold kitchen floor and stays there until the sun goes down.

Notes:

if you like a girl/decide against turning her into a Horcrux, just show up to her house and Charm her parents xxx

Chapter 2

It is pitch dark outside. Hermione carefully tidies away the kitchen, locks the doors, showers thoroughly and scrubs every inch of skin (stomach wrenching with shame when she feels how slick Riddle had made her, how ready she was for him), throws all of her clothes in the laundry, and feeds Crookshanks, who had shot through the catflap the fastest Hermione has ever seen him move. It is not unusual for him to wander far away in the long summer nights. Tonight, however, he has wound his way tightly around her ankles, tailing her from room to room, even sits outside the bathroom door. She anxiously pets him down, paranoid, wondering if Riddle had gone to such lengths to ambush even a cat. 

 

Hermione has known, ever since she started primary school, even before Hogwarts, that her greatest strength lay in meticulous planning. She knows she has frozen up in conflict before, in the heat of the moment. Sound reason and calm logic, she has long decided, were her weapons, her tools to forge ahead. 

 

But now, Hermione is on a war path. She is operating on instinct, and strong coffee. She sits in her parents’ office, at her mother’s desk. Some of her mother’s paperwork is stacked in the corner, her pens arranged in a years-old Disneyland Paris mug. Over on her father’s desk, Hermione swallows a lump at two framed photos. The first is an old shot from the late 70s, a sepia-tinged formal pose of her parents at their wedding, round faces smiling at the camera. The second is only a few years old, taken when Hermione and her parents were on holiday in France. Hermione is in the middle, embraced in loving arms. All three are holding dripping ice creams. 

 

She takes a deep breath, and refocuses. 

 

She must not do what is expected - to sit around, to wait with no guarantee that her parents will come home, to dutifully, obediently wait until the start of term for Riddle’s instructions, like a lackey. Then, she will be on the back foot, trapped in a castle with him and his Slytherins. He will be difficult to catch by surprise.

 

She lines up her mother’s pens neatly, grateful for something to do with her hands, and thinks. 

 

Hermione takes his warning about not breathing a word seriously. She doesn’t know what magic he’s woven, but remembering the dangerous glint in his eye, she knows he is entirely confident that it’s sufficient. 

 

He came to her home with the intention to harm, at the very least (she hurriedly skips over the rest). She doesn’t think for one moment that Riddle has given her any information he thinks she can use against him - the fact that she’s alive is proof of this. No, she must assume that Riddle is arrogant enough to think his plan to keep her domesticated is foolproof.

 

And then there’s the matter of the strange book … T. M. Riddle …

 

No. One mystery at a time. 

 

Hermione racks her brains, trying to think of what she knows of Riddle personally. Hermione doesn’t take much stock of the Hogwarts gossip mill, having been on the receiving end one too many times. The Slytherin gossip mill is an entirely different beast to tame. She’s on friendly terms with some of the more studious ones, but no Muggleborns have been Sorted into Slytherin during her time in Hogwarts. Riddle, a half-blood to her knowledge, was quick to make friends within his house, skillfully, effortlessly crawling up the social ladder. Slytherins tended to keep their disagreements behind closed doors, so she isn't particularly aware of the intricacies of their internal politics. 

 

Hermione ponders briefly on Riddle's personality. What character does he present to her professors and classmates? Model student, kind prefect, always helpful, and (Hermione gags) handsome. However, Riddle hangs around with pureblood insanity all day, every day. No, he is Slytherin through and through. She must assume he holds the same abhorrent views as his housemates.

 

But then, a voice in her head says viciously. Why would he so enjoy slumming it with the Mudblood swot? 

 

Hermione thinks she will scream if she goes too far down this line of thinking and promptly diverts her brain. 

 

She reluctantly concludes that as much as she’s a shoe-in for Head Girl, he’s even more so a shoe-in for Head Boy. His grades equal hers, sometimes excel, even in Arithmancy. She’s loathe to admit that in early years, she’s envied his easy charm, the amount she had to work to oh-so-rarely challenge his grades when he has never seemed threatened by her, simply congratulating her with a polite, “Well done, Granger, you must have worked your socks off for that grade” (which now, understanding Riddle that little bit better, she just knows he has been mocking her, knows he’s irritated at being bested. And of course, that nastiness in their first year).

 

The Herbology project, assigned by Professor Sprout, which they shared last year was astoundingly successful, and she idly wonders why they, the two top students in the year, had never worked together before. 

 

Because, says the same voice in her head. Riddle never needed anything from you before. 

 

And she agrees with herself - yes, that’s true. Thinking back over the years, Riddle has somehow engineered it such that he has mostly only partnered up with various other Slytherins, no doubt synergistically boosting their grade and his own standing. Even his few collaborations with Ravenclaws - once with Isobel MacDougal in second year, once more with Anthony Goldstein in fourth - seemed to benefit Riddle - spawning an internship with Isobel’s father in the Department of Mysteries, and (she had heard on the grapevine) written correspondence with members of the Goldstein family, a branch of which had married into the famed Scamander family. 

 

Hermione thinks furiously, tapping a pen to her lip.

 

Think, think, think, Hermione ...

 

And then, suddenly, a bright idea -

 

- One did not need a wand to be a witch.

 

She turns and faces her father’s desk. Her reflection looks grimly back at her from a large, cuboid monitor.

 

And one certainly did not need a wand to use the internet.

 

---

 

For an August morning, there is an unseasonable chill in the air. Fat, grey clouds roll over the horizon, threatening to burst. Pale, thin sunshine filters down onto the valley below. The grass is lush and green - a testament to the sheer volume of rain this far north - nothing like the scant, sun-bleached parks of inner London.

 

High up on the hill, overlooking a sleepy village, perches a grand manor. 

 

---

 

At the deep bong of the doorbell, Mary Riddle stiffly rises from her seat in the sitting room, and makes her way to the front door. The housestaff have the day off on Sundays, which she considers a dreadful bother and a disruption to her normal routine. Honestly, to open her own front door …

 

She swings open the door, and - 

 

- Mary eyes the boy up and down, and sniffs. “Hm. Well. You’d better come in. Quickly now!”

 

The boy doesn’t look taken aback. In fact, he looks remarkably assured of himself, rather as if he was expecting her less-than-warm invitation. He’s dressed very casually, in her opinion, in jeans and a shirt. Although old, she notes that his clothing is immaculately cared for, as is his backpack, slung over one shoulder. His hair is neat, and his eyes are serious. He is tall for his age, she thinks.

 

“Thank you, Madam,” he agrees, pleasantly, stepping through. His dark eyes pierce into hers for one moment, and Mary is briefly taken by the intensity. But then, he smiles, and she sees the resemblance to her son. 

 

“And what do you call yourself?” she asks, as she leads him through the hallway.

“Nothing original - just Tom Riddle,” and here, although his tone is light, his words sit heavy in the air. 

 

She pushes open the entrance to the parlour. “Hm. Tom Riddle, you shall be. Now, about your friend-” 

 

Behind her, the boy falters, for a moment. Mary glides forward into the room, and sits in her armchair, a cup of tea cooling gently on the coffee table. In the adjacent settee, Mary’s other young guest is clutching her teacup, eyes locked on the boy. She seems - nervous? 

 

The boy, she notes, has impeccable manners. Mary can barely tell he’s taken aback by the presence of the girl. Still, the way his hand tightens imperceptibly on the door handle, his eyes boring holes into the girl. He does not expect her to be there.

 

Mary, through decades of good breeding, does not roll her eyes. “Please, sit and have tea. I will go fetch my husband. He’s no doubt deep somewhere in the garden.”

 

The boy recovers immediately. “Of course - my mistake. I simply was not expecting Hermione here today. But, she never fails to surprise me.” He smiles graciously, and sits next to the girl.

 

The girl, Mary notes, has rather less of a poker face. She nearly jumps out of her skin when the boy leans over her for the teapot, and her tea lurches out to splash onto her saucer. 

 

“Oh dear,” he winces in sympathy. “Hermione is rather clumsy, but isn’t it frightfully endearing?” And here, the girl outright glares at the boy, dabbing at her saucer with her napkin. 

 

Mary nearly smiles (but it is a close thing) when the girl bats away the boy as he approaches with a napkin. Good, she thinks. The girl clearly has a strong sense of propriety. She is fine to leave them for a moment. 

 

“I’m going to fetch my husband now. Behave whilst I am gone.”

And with that, Mary steps out of the room.

 

---

 

All the tension of a taut bowstring is present in Hermione’s shoulders. The steady footsteps of Mrs Riddle fade down the corridor. Her heart is pumping so hard she thinks it might burst through. Can he hear it beating in her chest? Her palms are clammy, and she daren’t look him in the eye. How subtly can she arm herself?

 

Next to her, Riddle takes a long sip of tea, and casually crosses his legs. 

 

Then he speaks. His voice is pleasant.

“Tell me, Granger.” He says her name very casually, and yet, the hairs on her arms stand on end. Riddle sets his teacup down, very gently, and stretches one arm across the back of the settee. Hermione shudders and rigidly faces forward. She vainly hopes it is imperceptible, but something in Riddle’s huff of air outwards tells her he’s noticed. He shifts so he is speaking very quietly into her ear.

 

“Tell me, what brought a little mouse so very far away?”

 

Mrs Riddle’s footsteps are inaudible. 

 

Hermione knows she is in real danger now if she doesn’t say something. Despite Riddle's facade of complete control, something ugly is boiling up inside of him; something far blacker than when he visited her two days ago. The air is bristling ominously with magical energy.

 

She’s exhausted, has barely slept for the last two days, but she digs down for her last dregs of courage. She recklessly turns to face him, and stares him dead in the eye.

“You know, Riddle,” she begins, voice wavering only slightly at the sight of his wand in his right hand (God, how does he draw so fast?). “For someone who thinks themselves clever, it was remarkably easy to figure out where you were going to.”

 

He shifts his arm, ever so casually, so that it drapes over her shoulders. Hermione loses her composure briefly and tries to shake him off; he merely clamps down on her deltoid and squeezes tightly. His hand is warm and she hates that she notices.

 

“I think,” he draws her close, wand now pressing into her belly, “it would be in your best interest to start talking, don’t you?” Their knees brush, and she is revolted. He gives her a little shake, as though to jostle her memory. She is so flustered that she can’t help but blurt out -

 

“Haven’t you ever heard of the internet, Riddle?”

Now, she has surprised him with this complete non-sequitur. He stares at her quizzically. Hermione relishes the look of confusion on his face, and takes advantage of his momentary silence to launch into her explanation.

 

“On Friday, you mentioned that you were going to visit your father’s family, up north. And that you were on the last train from Euston. We have the internet at home, so I used it to start figuring out your misdoings.” 

 

She speaks rapidly, not willing to allow him to interrupt.

 

“Euston has several terminal destinations. I pulled up the National Rail transport map and cross-referenced it with the current rail timetable, to narrow down your destination. I only looked at trains departing Friday night after half ten, factoring in the time it would take for you to cycle to Euston. You mentioned ‘north’, which rules out Scotland, and I assumed north of Birmingham, broadly. Most trains from Euston pass through the North West of England. But that was still too wide a search.”

 

He is listening raptly. His eyes haven’t left her face, nor his wand her stomach. Hermione swallows, and continues.

 

“I thought about what I knew of you personally. I assumed Riddle was your father’s name, a very Muggle name. I know you have a middle name beginning with ‘M’, but that was a dead-end as I don’t know the name itself. So I focused on Riddle.”

 

“The internet is a wonderful invention - honestly, wizards should take note. My parents just got it recently. Did you know, that all sorts of enthusiasts set up their own web pages, their own information repositories for their hobbies, their pets, their holidays -”

 

“- Get to the point,” he whispers quietly, his eyes stony. The expression on his face is indecipherable. 

 

“R-right. So. There are entire Muggle websites dedicated to family records. To genealogy, to recording housing and land deeds. To birth certificates, to registrations. To newspaper articles.”

 

She says, almost flippantly, staring him down, “and to marriages.”

 

He says nothing, but squeezes her shoulder even more tightly, almost painfully, like he is trying to squeeze her dry. Out of the large bay window, Hermione can see Mrs Riddle approach an older man, and gesture for him to follow her. She’s running out of time.

 

“There are lots of Riddles across the country. It’s a common enough name. Some upper, some middle-class. I don’t imagine I’d have found the right family if they weren’t wealthy. But, some of those aforementioned enthusiasts seem to enjoy nothing more than uploading the lineage of every bit of landed gentry in the country.

 

“So I had a location in mind. A location which cross-referenced with the last train, and the terminal stations from Euston."

 

She’s speaking even more quickly now, stumbling over her words. Part of her wishes she could give an even more abridged version of her research methodology, but firstly, that would be entirely against her nature, and secondly, Riddle is drinking in her every word. She doubts he will settle for anything less. 

 

“And I knew I was onto something when I saw not one, but two Thomas Riddles, in this part of the country, with one old enough to be your father. But here’s the funny thing, Riddle - you’ve said you’re a halfblood orphan, with no family, but there’s no report of death for either of these Thomas Riddles. Actually, in fact, there’s a Muggle marriage certificate registered in Greater Hangleton between one Merope Gaunt, of Little Hangleton, and one Thomas Riddle the younger, also of Little Hangleton. Which, coincidentally -” and Hermione has enough spine left in her to gaze around the room, eyes wide, mock-astonished, “- is where we happen to be sitting, right now.”

 

Riddle’s lip curls bloodlessly. “Ten points to Gryffindor for being an insufferable bitch.”

 

The insult is a surprise. She has never heard him so much as swear. But Hermione knows she’s rattled him, and when she smells blood, she can’t help but dig her fingernails in. She knows she’s clever, and it feels so good to have one over him, finally, that she can’t help but gloat.

 

“Why didn’t you even think of the internet, or that I’d even try to figure where you were heading, you arrogant prick? All of this information is publically available. Actually - I doubt you'd even use it, Mr Slytherin Supremacy. You’ve never had a nice thing to say about Muggles in Muggle Studies.” Hermione is grasping a little with this last statement - she’s only assuming which side of the blood purity coin he falls down on based on his closest circle. 

 

But Riddle says nothing. She thinks he’s gritting his teeth.

 

Hermione’s brain races ahead. “But - of course - there's no freely available internet - I think there was a service in Croydon but that’s closed by now -”

 

“Well done, Granger. It’s not for poor orphans, is it?” He says blankly, but he's on the defensive, she swears it. 

 

“Not for free, you mean,” she replies tartly. God, even she knows that she sounds annoying. Harry and Ron would have certainly fobbed off her lecture by now. 

 

“From there - it was an easy job to get to the Leaky Cauldron. There’s a real gentleman there, a much-preferred Tom - OW!” she cries, as he jabs her with his wand; was that a spark “- and he was kind enough to let me into Diagon Alley. Poor young witch, broken her wand, et cetera. I had enough change to buy a secondhand wand and to use the Floo network to head you off.”

 

Hermione can’t help herself. She takes one last breath.

 

“And just before you kill me, or anyone else, I’d think twice on that. I left a couple of contingency plans. Letters to be delivered in the case of my death. Letters that thoroughly implicate you.” 

 

His eyes narrow. “You’re bluffing.”

 

“Do I look like I’m bluffing? You’ll never be able to track down those letters in time. A few handy enchantments on them. If something happens to me, again, good luck trying to wriggle out of justice.”

 

She has never seen Riddle looking quite so nonplussed. He’s staring at her intently, dissecting her, trying to work something out. Work her out, like she’s a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. She lets him maintain eye contact. So what if he skims her thoughts? Hermione wants him to know how convinced she is that she has him over a barrel.

 

“And why, Granger,” he says quietly. His breath ghosts over her skin this distance. The warmth from his knees leeches into hers. “Why are you so impertinent to assume that I am planning anything nefarious with my newly-reunited family?”

 

“Because,” crows Hermione, triumphantly. She's close to her denouement. “Why on earth would you take the train when the Floo network is so much faster and cheaper? I figured you wouldn’t want to travel by magical means - too easy to be tracked, especially for what I assume you were about to do. Why else use a normal bicycle?”

 

“But,” she says, jutting her chin out at his silence. “I’ll keep your secret. On two conditions.”

 

He quirks an eyebrow at her. “I hardly think you’re in the position to make a bargain.” Is he - intrigued? Hermione ploughs on recklessly. She can hear footsteps, voices approaching in the hall.

 

“One. You return my parents immediately, unharmed. And two, you tell me why you’re doing all of this.”

 

At her sheer, brazen audacity, Riddle laughs suddenly, sharply. It is not the same as the usual, practised laugh she has heard from him, to professors and their classmates. No, this is a short, rough noise, mostly through his nose. Hermione’s stomach flops when she sees a tiny smile in the corner of his mouth.

 

“And what’s to stop me from reaching into your mind and moving things around to my liking?” His left fingers are tap-tap-tapping against her arm. Riddle’s wand arm still hasn’t moved. 

 

Hermione has thought of this. Her last card to play. She has no pride here, her goal is to ensure the safety of her parents and those around Riddle. 

 

“Because, Riddle. You know I’m smart. You know I’m useful. We work well together - think of Herbology last year - Professor Sprout is going out of her way to present us to the Department Head of Magriculture. There are only so many hours in the day. Surely you need some time off from nefarious plots?” 

 

He pauses, then hums in agreement. “I will admit, it was not entirely unpleasant nor unprofitable to work together last year.” Suddenly, his side presses against hers, thigh to thigh, his arm slinks around her waist to pull her closer. But his eyes harden. “We will negotiate terms after. You'll play along now.”

 

Hermione stiffens at his sudden proximity, his familiarity. “You can get your hands away -”

 

The door bursts open.

 

Mrs Riddle is clearly unimpressed at the sight of the two on the sofa. Behind her, a stern-looking older man mirrors her expression. “You two! I will not permit canoodling in my home.”

 

Hermione’s face is scarlet as she tries to wrench herself away from Riddle's grasp. “Mrs Riddle! I am - so sorry -”

 

The speed at which Riddle shifts his facial features is uncanny. Suddenly, he is looking at Hermione with a softened mouth, with a small smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, he even brushes a curl of her hair behind her ear. She tries to scowl at him using only her eyes. He squeezes her once, surreptitiously digging his fingers into her side, hard, and then releases her. He turns to face his grandmother (and isn’t that a strange thing to say?).

 

“I apologise, Mrs Riddle, and Mr Riddle.” All charm and delight. “I was just so pleased that Hermione managed to join. She rather surprised me there, something I do admire about her.” He gives her a doe-eyed look, and Hermione gives in to her scowl. 

 

The older couple sit down in matching armchairs, flanking Hermione and Riddle on the settee. Mrs Riddle sniffs. “Your beau only just arrived. Quite unexpected, and so early in the morning. Do your parents know you’re gallivanting around so far from London, young lady?”

 

Hermione strongly dislikes the implication that she is gallivanting anywhere, much less with Tom Riddle. She turns to him and gives a sickly smile. 

 

“Well, poor Tom over here was just so terribly nervous about meeting you all. He’s been fretting dreadfully, even starting to lose sleep! So I thought I’d surprise him, come and support him. This is all he’s been talking about all summer.” Hermione pats him patronisingly on the hand. Annoyingly, he doesn’t react.

 

Mr Riddle has been, so far, silent. He has been staring intently at Riddle’s face. Then, he sighs suddenly, heavily.

 

“Mary,” he gruffs out. “There’s no use beating around the bush. The boy is clearly Thomas’s. Tell me, boy,” and he turns to Riddle, who meets his gaze coolly. “What happened to that mother of yours?” 

 

“She died when I was born.” He answers clinically, an ocean of calm, perfectly schooled.

 

(Hermione wishes she knew what he was thinking)

 

“And what have you been doing in the meantime?” 

 

She rolls her eyes internally. What does he think a teenager does? Riddle answers monotonously.

 

“School, mostly. I attend boarding school on a scholarship in Scotland, with Hermione.”

 

Mrs Riddle jumps in. “Yes, Hermione was telling us you live in a London orphanage, Wool’s, is that true?” She tuts. “That mother of yours … Ran off with my son to London, no notice to us whatsoever. We had no idea you even existed until this morning. You can imagine our disappointment when our own son tells us nothing of what he’s been up to!” Mrs Riddle shakes her head disapprovingly, almost angrily. 

 

Riddle is quiet, his face a perfect mask. 

 

Mr Riddle steps in. “We will, of course, see to it that you are provided for. But it is a delicate situation with my son, you understand.”

 

Hermione can guess what is being implied. Wealthy families don't look too kindly on new heirs qith questionable backgrounds springing up like daisies.

 

“Of course,” Riddle agrees easily. Too easily. “I wouldn’t want to be the stain on the family tapestry. After all, why else would I come here?”

 

He rises smoothly. After a beat, Mr and Mrs Riddle stand. Hermione is mildly flummoxed by this turn of events but she too, rises.

 

“I don’t believe there is anything more to discuss.” His voice is polite, but icy. “We’ll see ourselves out.” And with that, he nods to the older couple, and walks measuredly out of the room.

 

Hermione is taken aback, but then stammers a weak goodbye and rushes after him, desperate to be out of the mansion. There is no time to process the conversation, the haughty older couple, their dismissal of their grandson, Riddle’s strange, restrained reaction. 

 

She trips out of the front door after him. He is striding down the path to the bottom of the hill, where she can make out a bike leaning against the fence. The grey clouds overhead have cracked open, and a thin drizzle is coating the landscape. They are alone.

 

“Riddle!” she calls after him, breathless. He doesn’t slow down, and she starts to run towards him.

 

“Hey! Just - just wait, for one second!” she pleads as she reaches him. He is focused on unlocking his bicycle. She can see his hands shaking slightly. Hermione guesses first from nerves, but as he turns to look at her, she takes a step back.

 

He is shaking from rage.

 

“I suppose,” he hisses at her, pinning her in place with the strength of his fury, “you enjoyed seeing that, did you? Tom Riddle and his pitiful Muggle grandparents, too ashamed to do anything but sweep him under the carpet.” He spits his words out. The air around them is crackling with energy; Hermione can feel her hair frizz in response, feel the static in the air. She needs to calm him down, needs to say something.

 

“I’m sorry - they’re - they’re just awful,” Hermione says honestly. “They’re snooty, and ashamed for all the wrong reasons. They should be ashamed of their son! Not even mentioning you -” 

 

“- Don’t,” he cuts her off viciously. “What does your pity mean to me?” 

 

Despite everything he has put her through, his rejection somehow, implausibly, stings. She draws back the hand she did not realise was reaching towards him. 

 

"Well, fine," and she is angry now. “Don't take my sympathy. In fact - the world doesn’t revolve around you. I have spent two whole days chasing you up and down the country. You show up at my house and - and assault me. You’ve stolen my wand, you’ve already hurt my parents. I didn’t come here just to watch your soap opera! I'm the one who should be furious!” 

 

Hermione is near yelling at Riddle now. She doesn’t realise how close she is until he takes a step closer, and backs her against the fence. 

 

“Ah, yes,” he breathes now, his eyes flicking to her hands which have flown up to his chest to push him away. “You came here to strike a bargain. Well, here it is, Granger,” and her name drips like poison from his lips. “Your precious parents will be returned to you by the end of next summer. That is, if you cooperate.” He grasps her wrists painfully.

 

For the first time, Hermione feels truly and utterly scared of him. She'd expect his heart to be racing - hers certainly is - but under her palm, is an abnormally slow, strong thud.

 

(Just what is wrong with him?)

 

Still - she has to try. Appeal to whatever shred of decency he might retain.  

 

She swallows. “You’re holding two innocent people hostage, Riddle.” 

 

He smiles mirthlessly. “Nonsense, I hear Australia is presumably very lovely this time of year. It’s hard to miss a daughter you can’t remember, after all.”

 

She gasps. Her parents are all the way in Australia?  And they can't ... remember her ... ?

 

Memory charms are tricky things. She thinks back to poor Professor Lockhart in her second year, blown up attempting to demonstrate proficiency in casting even using a snapped wand (Ron’s, a terrible idea). She's likely to need Riddle himself to reverse the spell. 

 

Fine, then. A different tactic. A deal with the Devil.

 

Riddle is still pressing her against the fence, looming over. So different to the other evening, in her kitchen -

 

Hermione squares her jaw.

 

“You wanted me for your grunt work. Fine. I’ll do it. You won’t have to fight me on that. But,” she states emphatically, shoving hard against his grip. “You’ll bring back my parents by Christmas and not a day later. You are also not to lay a single hand on me from now on, without my explicit or implicit permission. Do you think you can manage that?” 

 

He squeezes her once, tightly, but finally lets go. Riddle glares at Hermione, rapidly regaining his composure. “Fine. I’ll know if you speak a word of any of this. In fact, I think a Blood Pact ought to do it, don’t you?”

 

She laughs hollowly. “I don’t think I have much of a choice, do you?” Hermione straightens herself, then steps away from him. Her wrists ache and she knows she will bruise. “And I’m serious about you touching me.”

 

He quirks an eyebrow at her. “You weren’t complaining before. In fact -” 

 

“- And so what?” Hermione cuts him off, unwilling to hear him. Her words are brutal. “You’re nice to look at, but that’s about it. Just a pretty face. I can assure you, now that I know exactly who you are, any interest is long gone. Don’t tell me you’re the type to -”

 

She doesn’t know why - has he suddenly become an upstanding citizen? - but he stiffens, and nods. “You have a deal,” he says. “You’ll get your parents back at Easter.”

 

“Easter - what, during exams?” Hermione blurts out, then cringes. Her brain must have short-circuited completely. In her defence, it has been an insane two days.

 

But, her stupid outburst has unintentionally cracked the tension. Riddle makes that same snort-laugh once again, and slowly, his shoulders relax. The summer rain picks up a little, and Hermione shivers. He smiles at her, showing her very white, very sharp teeth.

 

“Start of next summer then. But remember - this is our secret. Not a word.” 

 

Hermione nods. “And I’ll be keeping an eye on you throughout the year.”

 

“I do so hope you will,” he says. 

 

In for a penny. “And you’ll tell me what you’re up to.” 

 

At this, he stares at her with dark, flat eyes, and merely shakes his head, smiling all the while. Hermione feels she has not come out of this haggling in a good position. Still, she takes out her new wand, holds her breath, and makes a shallow cut on her hand. Riddle pulls out his unfamiliar wand, and cuts his own with no preamble. 

 

He holds out his hand, bowing slightly, and asks mockingly, “Do I have your express permission, Miss Granger?”

 

“Piss off,” she mutters at him, and he laughs darkly again. He grips her cold hand, his skin burning against hers. Hermione wills every fibre of her being not to flinch. Her skin sears suddenly, their hands glow blue - 

 

- and, it is done. 

 

He drops her hand and turns to his bicycle. Fat drops of rain are falling harder now, stinging her face. Hermione looks at her hand. The cut is healed perfectly, not a mark on her skin. 

 

But she can feel it, heavy in her chest. The weight of a Blood Pact. 

 

With Riddle. 

 

Who has mounted his saddle, and left her there at the bottom of the valley.

 

“Riddle!” she roars after him. “What about my wand?!”

Notes:

tom is such a piece of shit. as if hermione would take it lying down.

free public internet was briefly available as a trial only in croydon, and came with many hiccups. it was withdrawn pretty sharpish, so my headcannon is that tom missed the boat in trying it (not that he has any such desire). he's aware of the internet but no public orphanage is getting dial-up for residents in 1996.

my headcannon is that if hermione's parents own a house in hampstead of all places, they can certainly afford 1996 internet.

I believe canonically the riddles were snobbish and weren't particularly missed by the village below.

if you see plot holes, don't worry, I see them too and they are there intentionally to be filled in at a later date.

thank you for your lovely comments, they really do wonders for the creative juices. any thoughts, good or bad, are v appreciated xx

Chapter 3

The last week of August in London passes in a sticky, muggy heat. Hermione robotically cleans the house, organises for the bills to be paid whilst she is away, cancels their various newspaper and magazine subscriptions, and writes to her parents’ dental practice stating that they are taking a sabbatical for a year. She feels as though she is putting the house into hibernation, pristine for her parents’ return.

 

In the day, Hermione spends as much time out of the house as possible. When she was little, before Hogwarts, her parents would take her around all of the museums in London, proud of their daughter’s endless thirst for knowledge. Now, she visits the Natural History Museum in South Kensington and stands in the shadow of the colossal Diplodocus, alone. She stares at great swathes of brightly jewelled insects pinned to corkboards, wondering of their value in Professor Slughorn’s potions cupboard. She ignores the twinge in her chest at seeing a pair of stuffed cuckoo-finches positioned in mid-flight, frozen in time.

 

She whiles away long afternoons in Diagon Alley, aching to be surrounded by the bustle of magic, nit-picking over long-completed homework, re-reading her N.E.W.T.-level textbooks she has already near-memorised, cover to cover. For the house, she purchases automated cleaning, alarm, gardening, and Muggle deterrent charms. She purchases one new book on memory charms, and two on Magical Law. Hermione scours Flourish and Blotts, Oldknowe Books, and even the Junk Shop, only to procure one outdated manual on Occlumency from the 1920s, but nothing on Legilimency (she stands by the entrance to Knockturn Alley, not quite summoning the nerve to step in). Instead, she writes to Neville, requesting use of his grandmother’s extensive library. After a day, she writes additional letters to Parvarti and Lavender, and, in slight desperation, Luna. The Hogwarts Library can’t come soon enough.

 

Hermione yearns to confide in Harry and Ron, to lift the terrible, heavy weight in her mind. Instead, she replies airily to the letters that Harry and Ron have sent, arranging to meet up in Diagon Alley the day before term starts, once Harry is back from his holiday. She knows that Harry’s godfather, Sirius, has an extensive library that she would be more than welcome to use but dithers - she doesn’t want Harry or Sirius to catch on to her reading material, knowing they’ll ask more questions than the others. No - she’ll visit 12 Grimmauld Place over Christmas, and peruse at her leisure. 

 

In the day, Hermione keeps her mind busy, keeps her body moving. 

 

It is at night, lying in bed wide awake, that she contemplates Tom Riddle.

 

Hermione has so many questions surrounding him. Why come to attack her? Why leave her alive? Why did he change his mind? Why did he bring a book? Why make a bargain with her rather than kill her? What use does he have for her? Why send her parents away? 

 

Riddle hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with answers. Still, she’s pleased she managed to surprise him. The unpleasantness at Riddle Manor left her shaken, and with even more questions. Why had he visited Riddle Manor? He had travelled on Friday night, and met the Riddles on Sunday morning - what was his business the whole of Saturday? Hermione suspects that his visit to her and to his grandparents are somehow linked. 

 

And then, the business of his family. She always thought he was a half-blood - sensible to claim as much in the House of the Serpent - but why would he be taken into a Muggle orphanage? Why did his mother leave him there? Who was Merope Gaunt, if not a witch? Hermione once again laments the lack of access to the library, where she knows reams and reams of ancient books punctiliously document the lineages of Wizarding families centuries back (Hermione draws a comparison to the Muggle genealogical obsession). 

 

And finally - what work does Riddle need her for? She is adverse to admitting it, but the boy is brilliant. Her mind runs through increasingly imaginative scenarios, but even she thinks midnight excursions in the Forbidden Forest to harvest centaur organs is a touch outlandish. Thankfully, she hasn’t heard a peep from him this week.

 

The morning that Hermione plans to meet Harry and Ron, she rises groggily from her bed. Sleep, unsurprisingly, has been difficult to come by. Flinging on her jeans, she bundles her hair messily on top of her head. Her trunk is packed neatly, Crookshanks staring sullenly at her from his cage. 

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry Crookshanks,” she coos at his back (for he has turned away from her in protest). “I’ll let you out as soon as I can.”

 

As she sets the last anti-burglar charm, a gentle hum surrounding the house, she can’t help but take one last look at her home. Her father’s orange rose bushes, her mother’s collection of exceptionally toothy garden gnomes.

 

Before she can tear up, Crookshanks yowls aggrievedly at her. Hermione sighs fondly at him.

 

Well. Best be off. 

 

---

 

So close to the start of term, Diagon Alley is heaving with harried-looking adults and excitable teenagers. Sat in Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, Hermione moodily treats herself to a large strawberry sundae and watches the world go by. She even decides to indulge in a spot of (deserved) teenage angst. How can everyone look so normal, do they not know what her summer’s been -

 

“OI! HERMIONE!” Someone bangs on the window. Hermione jumps and her spoonful of ice cream slides off into her lap. Muttering curses, she dabs at the stain, and looks up to see -

 

“Harry! Ron!”

 

Her two best friends are waving frantically through the window at her. Hermione’s heart swells, and the last stirrings of anxiety and discontent finally dissipate. She hurries out of the shop, sundae abandoned, and hugs them both tightly around the neck.

 

“Jesus, when will you two stop growing?” she laughs. Harry smiles broadly, looking tanned. Ron has a trace of sunburn on his nose, which she tuts over. 

 

“How were your holidays?”

 

“Bloody great - Sirius nearly got hexed by a genie he insulted -”

 

“- Bill and Fleur got engaged; lucky bugger -”

“- You should see my cousin - he’s at least four times the size of you now, Hermione …”

 

She snorts, amused, as they stroll through the street. Harry and Ron regale her with reenactments of the Chudley Cannons match they had attended, Harry’s flailing arms knocking an elderly witch’s hat off in an imitation of Parkin’s Pincer (“It’s all in the elbows, Hermione!” he shouts, as the witch brandishes her wand). 

 

Ron, chuckling, turns to her. “Good summer, ‘Mione?” 

 

She manages a smile back. How can she hint?

 

“Yes … I managed to catch up on most of the reading I planned, although I had a bit of a - a bit of a -” 

 

There's a frog in her throat. She coughs, once, but can’t quite get the words out. 

 

Hmm. Strange.

 

She continues, but her voice is a little hoarse. “Sorry, lost my train of thought. I just - just -”

 

There is a weird feeling in the front of her neck, almost … a squeeze.

 

Panic bubbles up in her throat. The invisible grip is tightening. Suddenly, she realises that she can’t breathe, let alone speak. Her eyes widen and she drops her bookbag, instinctively bracing her hands on her knees to force some, any air into her lungs.

 

“Hermione?” Firm hands grip her shoulders. “Hermione, are you okay?” 

 

Pin pricks of black dot her vision. Blood is pounding in her ears. Distantly, she can hear Harry shouting, a hand on her back helping her down to the floor. Slowly, as though fingers are individually retracting, she feels the pressure on her throat relax, little by little, until she is able to take a great breath in, then another, then another. 

 

Chest heaving, she comes back to her senses. 

 

She is sat in the street, leaning against the wall of the Apothecary. Harry and Ron are kneeling in front of her, twin expressions of concern on their faces. Behind them, a few other witches and wizards are looking on with differing levels of interest. None, she notes, step forward to help her.

 

Of course. She looks very Muggleborn at the moment. Even Harry and Ron have changed into their robes. 

 

“Hermione?” Ron says again, worriedly. “You okay?” 

 

She forces a weak grin up at her friends. “Yes - just - I’ve been feeling so worried about N.E.W.T.s already - they’re not that far away - sorry to lose my head like that.” 

 

It is a poor lie, and from Harry’s frown, she doesn’t think he quite buys it. Ron, meanwhile, laughs at her fondly. 

 

“You’re the brightest in our year, Hermione!” He helps her up, and she dusts down her jeans. “If you’re this worried now, Harry and I haven’t got a chance!” Ron claps her on the shoulder, and her smile is more genuine.

 

“Honestly Ronald, already buttering me up for help?” 

 

“From the witch who got ten Outstandings, after being Petrified? I absolutely am.” 

 

Hermione rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “You know as well as I do that I got nine Outstandings and an Excellent in Defence.”

Ron slings an arm easily over her shoulders. “May I repeat, after being Petrified? ” 

 

Harry, wonderful Harry, Hermione thinks, can never let anything go. She is proved correct when he also drapes an arm over her shoulders (they really have shot up, she rues). 

 

“You know, if you’re worried about something, you can always tell us, Hermione,” Harry says very kindly. 

 

She doesn’t tear up, her voice doesn’t warble. Hermione says, as lightly as she can, “Oh, and I suppose you’ll need help with your Charms essays too?” 

 

It is enough to disarm. Harry squeezes her, once, and they stroll towards Quality Quidditch Supplies.

 

And if she leans a little into Ron, clutches Harry’s hand briefly -

 

- No one would know.

 

---

 

Dinner that evening is a raucous affair with most of the Weasley clan in the Leaky Cauldron. Harry and Ron are animatedly discussing the prospects of the Holyhead Harpies with Fred and George. Mrs Weasley is eyeing Mr Weasley beadily (“Molly dear, I’ve no idea where that microwave came from -”) as he tries to sidle away to the bar. Over dessert, Ginny plonks herself next to Hermione and helps herself to a thick slice of treacle tart. 

 

“So,” whispers Ginny, grinning slyly at Hermione. “Did you finish the book?” 

 

”I, uh, didn’t actually make it past Chapter Six,” Hermione admits, pushing her tart around her plate. 

 

Ginny snorts in disbelief. “What?! No, no - listen, skip ahead to Chapter Fourteen like I told you! Honestly - it is a riot. Finish it quick, yeah? I think Parvati wanted to read it after.“

 

Hermione is faintly scandalised at the thought of skipping ahead in a novel. “But what about the plot, the exposition -”

 

“Hermione, there is no plot, no exposition. It’s just Lady Benneton, meeting a handsome array of silly nobles and getting her knickers ripped off in increasingly less plausible ways.” 

 

From across the table, Harry chokes on his Butterbeer. The girls ignore him. 

 

“Look, she may not be the feminist ideal we need,” Ginny smirks through a mouthful of sticky tart, “but you won’t be able to deny that she has fun.” 

 

Hermione contemplates this, and says, very gravely, “Well, I suppose we all could use more fun.” 

 

Harry is spluttering now, and Fred leans to slap him on the back. 

 

“That’s very true, Hermione,” Ginny replies sagely. “And if you really need that riot, might I suggest Chapter Twenty.”

 

They stare at each other for a long moment, before dissolving into giggles. Harry, now red in the face, is coughing so hard that he knocks his chair over in his haste to the bathroom.

 

“Merlin,” Ginny tuts, eyeing after Harry. “Wonder what set his knickers on fire?” 

 

---

 

Long after the Weasleys and Harry have left, Hermione curls up in her bed, attempting to read Ginny’s book by candlelight (despite Ginny's advice, she simply can't skip ahead in a work of fiction). So far, Lady Benneton has narrowly escaped being ravished by a daring pirate, a dashing scholar, and (Hermione raises an eyebrow at this) a rather unsaintly priest. The distant clangs of Tom the barman clearing up have long quietened. Crookshanks has long forgiven her, splayed out on his back, leaning against her feet. She has rented a small room at the Leaky Cauldron for the night, unwilling to sleep in her silent, empty house. Her chest aches, missing her friends, the cacophony, the levity. Now she can drop the brave face she’s put on. 

 

Hermione flops down onto her pillow, silly book ignored, suddenly tired. Crookshanks stirs, disgruntled, and eyes her with one lamp-like eye. He stretches languidly, jumps off the bed with a heavy thump, and waits, expectantly. 

 

She groans, but acquiesces and gets up, opening the door. “Oh, all right, you. Out you go. But be back first thing in the morning - we need to catch the train.” He blinks once, solemnly, and stalks out. 

 

Alone. Once again. 

 

Hermione sighs heavily, and scrubs at her eyes with her hands. She wonders if she looks any different, whether anyone can sense the ancient magic she is now bound to. Bound with Riddle.

 

She stares into the mirror. 

 

Tired, brown eyes look back at her. The delicate skin under her eyes is puffy, slightly bruised. Despite her tan, she looks pale. Sleeplessness will do that to you, she muses wryly.

 

“Don’t worry dear, a spot of beauty sleep will do you a world of good,” her reflection says kindly to her. Hermione smiles wanly, and crawls back into bed.

 

In Diagon Alley, she wasn’t actually going to tell Ron about the full events of the summer. Hermione simply wanted to hint at an encounter with Riddle, to try to leave threads he might pick up on. It seems as though the confines of the Pact are much tighter than she had originally thought…

 

Herminone feels exhausted, but her mind is wide awake. She tries to reassure herself, that she has done as much as she possibly can to prepare for what is to come. Hermione had briefly felt as though she would easily get through the year, would rescue her parents, had even fantasised about one-upping Riddle again …

 

Riddle. Her stomach twists at the thought of him, of being beholden to him in any way. She is angry at herself for even contemplating him in the way she has thought about Viktor, about (maybe) Ron. No, Riddle isn't someone even remotely in the category of nice, dateable boys. Was she so naive to assume that his promise to her, to tell her if he had a problem with her, was real?

 

She decides angrily that he has essentially tricked her, as he had done with the rest of the Hogwarts population, into thinking he was at least a somewhat-decent Slytherin. She had even made excuses for him in her first year, had even felt sorry for him, trapped in the snake pit. 

 

Hermione had admired Riddle’s mind, his sharp humour, could even admit that she looked forward to working with him sporadically last year. 

 

But the worst thing? 

 

She had very nearly considered him a friend.

Notes:

bit of a shorter chapter, and no riddle. apologies, he's quite busy with his own machinations ...

we meet harry, ron, and ginny (total babe as always)

poor hermione. will her obsessive planning help in any way??? I imagine her brain to work at 100000mph and that she's not one to really switch off

(your thoughts and comments are so encouraging xx)

Chapter 4

Normally, Hermione vibrates with excitement before the school year starts. Each summer, she packs and repacks her trunk the week before the Hogwarts Express departs, double-checking that she's brought the most essential books, her favourite books, the books she ought to have annotated more thoroughly, her sensible shoes, her robes, freshly laundered, the latest squeaking atrocity for Crookshanks, the Muggle sweets she misses, the Muggle clothes that most fit into the Wizarding world. Last year, she had made the journey to King's Cross by herself, insisting to her parents that they needn't take the day off simply to squint at her disappearing in a wall, to feel the dissecting gaze of her schoolmates’ parents, two Muggles who have aberrantly produced the brightest witch of the next generation, such a pity the girl is not from a good Wizarding family -

 

Now, as she approaches King's Cross alone, her stomach flutters in apprehension -

 

"Hermione!" 

 

Startled, she turns. And then smiles, waving.

 

"Neville!" 

 

Neville grins at her, and she hugs him briefly, but tightly. She's thinks he's grown a little taller, lost a little of the puppy fat in his face. Behind him, Hermione spies Neville's grandmother, deep in conversation with a well-to-do looking middle aged woman. 

 

"How was your summer, Neville?" she asks him kindly, as they make their way to the entrance to Platform 9 and ¾. 

 

They exchange easy conversation as they lean casually against the barriers -

 

- the Hogwarts Express roars into life, rumbling gently underfoot. Around them is organised chaos; the heaving of trunks into carriages, laughing, joyous reunions of friends a long summer apart. Hermione sees Fred Weasley sling an arm around a blushing Angelina Johnson's shoulders; Ron and the others must be nearby -

 

"Sorry Hermione, forgot to say -" Neville fumbles in his satchel "- I had a look through the library, and think I found something for you." 

 

Hermione's fingers itch to grab, but she stills them. It would not do to draw undue attention. Her Muggle jeans surely draw enough.

 

"Oh?" she replies casually. "That's very good of you, Neville."

 

She is relieved to see that he's wrapped them carefully in brown paper and string - books should be treated respectfully, after all - and stowes them easily in her own bag. Neville laughs fondly at her.

 

"Blimey Hermione - are you okay? You didn't even look at them!" His tone is joking, he doesn't mean anything by it, but her smile freezes slightly. 

 

She forces a chuckle in return. "Plenty of time to read later! The train's leaving soon - should we get a carriage and find the others?"

 

As they board, Neville hauling Hermione's trunk into the vestibule -

 

- she entirely misses the dark gaze sliding over her. 

 

---

 

The tendrils of anxiety within Hermione's stomach dissipate when Harry and Ron barrel through their carriage door, a gangly whirlwind of robes and limbs. Harry heaves his luggage next to Hermione’s and hugs her loosely, panting. She wrinkles her nose at his sweaty cheek in her hair but squeezes him back, fondly. 

 

"Nearly missed the train - Sirius Apparated us to Diagon Alley, but then we ran into old Mad Eye - did you know he duelled Sirius's aunt, back in the day? She nearly hexed his other leg off!" Harry speaks excitedly - Moody is one of the Ministry’s most famed Aurors, and Harry has desired to join their ranks for years. Hermione thinks this is good for Harry’s future career, and Banishes all other thoughts from her brain.

 

 Ron plonks down next to Neville, grinning guilelessly. 

 

“‘Lo Nev, good summer?” 

 

“Not bad thanks; Gran had me clearing out the attic - found an old vulture and an enchanted teapot - I dunno how it happened, but I spent two weeks shadowing Mr Perkins at your dad's work,” says Neville bemusedly, scratching his nose. 

 

Hermione tells herself sensibly that it is good, proactive even, that Neville is exploring his options and ignores the hot, visceral stab of jealousy in her gut - 

 

Ron groans theatrically. “Shame you got stuck with Perkins! Could have followed my dad if you wanted to see the really weird stuff wizards do to cushions -”

 

Ron breaks off into a tall tale involving a chaise longue and a toothbrush which has Harry and Neville guffawing, nearly on the floor, and Hermione smiling tightly, recalling the half-dozen rejections from Ministry internships she'd received that summer (and indeed, the summer before), regretfully informing her that no vacancies were possible.

 

She quashes the bitterness. She's the best in the year (sometimes second-best, the mean voice in her head hisses), the brightest, so surprising for a Muggleborn to be this bright -

 

- Nevermind that Sirius all but fluttered his eyelashes and wrangled Harry a summer placement in the Department of Mysteries last year (which he bunked off to go on holiday) -

 

- She'll reapply. She's older, grown more accomplished, about to be published before she is of age, Hermione tells herself firmly, as she slumps her shoulders, forcing a laugh at Ron's cruel (but accurate) impression of Mr Perkins. 

 

They'll surely recognise her.

 

Next time.

 

---

 

The sun rises higher and higher in the sky as the hours pass. Hermione allows herself to be talked into several rounds of Exploding Snap, which gradually devolve once Harry singes his left eyebrow clean off. Crookshanks’s impression of sleeping innocuously on his back fools no one, a sliver of bright yellow eye visible and fixed firmly on Neville’s toad. Hedwig snoozes in her cage, head tucked under one wing. Ron and Neville have spent a solid hour attempting to replicate the Spell-Checking Quill that Fred and George prototyped; Ron too stubborn to purchase one. Hermione peers at them over her book, holding back the advice on the tip of her tongue as she winces at their eighth bungled attempt; the smell of burning quill feathers filling their compartment. 

 

Harry entertains them by reading The Daily Prophet, in mock contemplation of Rita Skeeter’s more outlandish articles (“‘Dumbledore Dares to Dream of Dangerous Curriculum’ - did she run out of alliteration? ... ‘Fudge Voted Most Stylish Wizard’ - Merlin, has she not seen his combover ... “Hogwarts Governors Endorse Education Reform - Malfoy’s dear dad making noise again ... ‘Dark Wizards Mobilising Vegetarian Vampires’ - I'll have to tell Luna …”).

 

He spares half a glance at Hermione before reading aloud the next article, “‘Muggleborn Registration Commission Quashed at Eleventh Hour’ - blimey, imagine seeing some sense at the Ministry. Sirius mentioned that Marshbanks and Ogden personally vetoed it …”

 

Finding herself suddenly in a remarkably good mood, Hermione loses herself in Spellman’s Advanced Syllabary for several hours, their compartment interrupted several times by friends. Dean and Ginny poke their heads through, as do Seamus, Parvati and Lavender. Ron, Hermione notes, is quick to show Lavender and Parvati the disastrous progress on his quill plagiarism, the former of which giggles at the garbled notes (“‘Plippetry og Roonil Wazlib’; how silly, Ron!”). Ron looks flabbergasted for a moment, but then puffs up his chest and attempts to explain his spellwork. Neville looks rather put-out at his exclusion, whilst Parvati exchanges a conspiratory glance with Hermione and rolls her eyes in solidarity at this new development. 

 

Hours pass still. Hermione's hand is cramped from note taking but her mind is refreshed as she finishes yet another chapter. Harry has conjured large bubbles from the tip of his wand to bait Crookshanks with. Ron has gone to stretch his legs in the direction of the trolley (and perhaps Lavender's company, she thinks snidely). Neville eventually wakes from his light doze against the window. The setting sun has cast the sky into warm vermillion, the moon sitting pale and low in the sky. 

 

"May as well get dressed before the loos get busy, Hermione," Neville nods towards her. He, Harry and Ron were in their robes as soon as they boarded. Wizarding families and their posturing. Still, she could do with a walk.

 

The train corridor is empty as she heads to the girls' bathroom. Hermione's thoughts idly drift to the upcoming Sorting, to the applications she must write, to the study timetable she's been drafting, maybe Harry needs extra help in Potions -

 

- She crashes into an unexpected wall. Unexpected in that it suddenly grows arms and shoves her hard into the vestibule door.

 

"Watch where you're going, Mudblood," taunts the wall, which, shoulder smarting, she recognises to have the voice of Gregory Goyle. To his side is Vincent Crabbe. Hermione observes that they have inexplicably managed to gain rather more horizontal than vertical bulk over the summer. They glower down at her, but don't quite follow up on their initial threat.

 

Slipping her new wand into her hand (for, of course, she refuses to be unarmed again), she turns her nose up at them. "Evening Goyle, Crabbe. You seem rather lost without Malfoy here. He usually points you then lets go of the leash, does he not?"

 

Crabbe snarls and draws his wand, rather more slowly than Goyle who points his straight at her neck. 

 

Goyle really seems to have grown bolder over the summer, to threaten her in public like this, she thinks rapidly. Usually, he's quite content to stand behind Malfoy (or Parkinson or Nott or Avery, the list goes on, really).

 

"Careful Granger," he grunts - 

 

- mentally, Hermione lists five spells to disfigure and semi-permanently paralyse him, shifting her stance slightly wider -

 

"- You and the other Mudbloods better be watching your step this year. Don’t want to end up in the Hospital Wing again." He leers at her, stepping closer. 

 

She breathes through her nose, trying to keep her grip relaxed on her wand. 

 

Mustn't attack the precious Purebloods first.

 

"Thank you for your concern, Goyle," she says boredly, even affects looking at her bitten nails. "Is that all? Only -" she flicks her eyes to Crabbe, who scowls reflexively "- you do realise you’re rather holding me up to the ladies?"

 

She's sure she can take them both in a duel. Crabbe once set fire to his own trousers in Herbology. Goyle then set fire to his own attempting to quash the flames.

 

A spell is on the tip of her tongue, her eyes narrow as she waits for a move from either of them.

 

Hold back, hold back, she tells herself, panther-still.

 

A pause. Goyle and Crabbe glance at one another. Hermione's heart skitters, then - 

 

- Crabbe lurches in her direction -

 

- His meaty hand grabs her wand arm, twists it painfully -

 

"Incarcerous!" she cries, and ducks; at the same time Goyle shouts, "Defodio!" 

 

She feels the whistle of sharp air through her hair as holes are gouged out of the train door behind her, but her aim is true and ropes spring from the end of her wand to snake around Goyle tightly.

 

Hermione doesn't wait to see; she turns and kicks Crabbe as hard as possible with her trainer. He swears and releases her as she ducks to avoid his wand, which has shot out a sickly purple light, grazing the sleeve of her jumper. It catches alight with a purple flame.

 

"Incarcerous!" She tries once more, and her luck has held. Goyle is ensnared and falls to the floor, landing heavily onto Crabbe. She directs more ropes around their mouths, and then Stuns them, for good measure.

 

Hermione's hand shakes, just a little, as she conjures a jet of water to put out the flame. The smell of burning wool itches her nose.

 

"That was my favourite jumper," she says, voice steady, willing her nerve to hold. Goyle lies, immobilised on the floor, but his eyes bore into hers with naked hate.

 

Hermione levitates them both into the empty, gouged-out carriage. She lays them carefully on the seats, facing away from her. 

 

"You can both cool down in here," she tells them, severely, as if they were five year olds squabbling in a playground and not almost-adults attacking her - to physically hurt her - in earshot of the entire train. 

 

Not that, Hermione realises with a bone-wearying wave of exhaustion, the adrenaline seeping away, anyone left their compartments to help her. She spies heads poking out, gaggles of younger students watching nervously, only to rear back inside when she raises an eyebrow at their cowardice. 

 

"Thanks for all your help," Hermione calls out scathingly, as she slams the door shut on stupid, stupid Crabbe and Goyle, and stalks with her head held high to the lavatories, steps barely faltering.

 

---

 

Rather than victory, Hermione instead feels a sick lump appear in her throat. It is difficult, but she breathes shallowly, steadies herself, stubbornly instructs her stomach to stop roiling. 

 

She has only used defensive spells, she tells her reflection in the tiny bathroom window. The board of governors should have no complaints, she was attacked on the train for Merlin's sake with absolutely zero provocation on her part.

 

Hermione repeats this to herself as she combs through her hair, neatens the severed ends, washes her hot face, the cold, clammy sweat from her neck, shrugs off her ruined jumper and runs her burned elbow under the tap. She winces, as the cold water makes contact with the tender skin. Funny, it doesn’t seem to be soothing - 

 

“Water’s not going to work, you might like to know,” a low voice jolts her from her reverie. Startled, she bangs her damaged elbow against the metal tap and the pain flares up her arm. She swears and whirls around, furiously blinking away the tears reluctantly forming in her eyes.

 

It’s him. Of course it’s him. 

 

Ten feet away, Riddle is leaning against the closed door of the bathroom, looking utterly at ease. His arms are loosely crossed, his hands tucked within the long sleeves of his robes, but his eyes are fixed on hers. Hermione immediately averts her gaze, and stares at his forehead. She doesn’t want to utter a word to him.

 

He smiles pleasantly at her, as though they are on friendly terms. 

 

As though he doesn’t have a Blood Pact buying her compliance. 

 

“Come now, don’t look at me like that,” he cajoles her good-naturedly, stepping into the room. When he locks the door non-verbally, she stiffens, and automatically plunges her hand into her back pocket for her -

 

- He casually flicks his wand towards her, and catches her wand effortlessly as it soars towards him. 

 

Hermione clenches her jaw as she tenses every muscle in her body, feeling something wild bubble up in her chest, ready to - to - 

 

“Granger,” and his eyes narrow at her, still pleasantly smiling as he takes a step towards her. 

 

It is deeply unsettling.

 

“If you attempt to physically harm me, I don’t think you would like the consequences very much. And I don’t wish to harm you.” 

 

She can’t help herself - she laughs, slightly hysterically at him. “That’s rich, coming from you, Riddle,” she spits his name out, glaring at him. “Did you tell that to Crabbe and Goyle?” 

 

Her outburst hasn’t fazed him. Instead, he grins, showing teeth. 

 

Hermione shivers. 

 

“I had nothing to do with their incivility. I assure you -” and here, he sighs, as if what he will say next pains him “- that they will be dealt with, appropriately.” 

 

She is surprised, and it must show on her face. She hates how composed, how put-together he looks in his elegant robes, whilst she is flushed and flustered, in her simple Muggle t-shirt and jeans.

 

Riddle continues, nonchalantly. 

 

"And if you're worried about this getting back to anyone at school, I would be more than happy to vouch for you," he offers, trying to catch her eye.

 

Hermione's mouth is dry. She swallows, and sees his eyes dart to her throat.

 

"You can drop the act," she says bitingly. "No-one is here to praise you for rescuing the Muggle-born from your minions."

 

And here, he frowns slightly. "I didn't think I'd have to repeat myself with you. Crabbe and Goyle acted by themselves, for which they will discover the consequences. Now, about that arm of yours." 

 

He gestures to her elbow, which somehow is hurting more deeply than before. Hermione finally gives it more than a cursory once-over.

 

Underneath where her jumper had burned away, the flesh has turned into an ugly, mottled, purple-and-brown weeping sore, the diameter of a two penny piece. A large margin of the surrounding skin is shiny, painful, and erythematous.

 

She looks even closer still, and feels quite ill. Maybe it's the light, maybe it's because Riddle has caught her unawares, but if she squints -

 

- the weeping ulcer is slowly, slowly spreading.

 

Oh fuck -

 

"Give me my wand," she blurts out, panicked, mentally reciting her litany of healing spells.

 

He has moved to peer closely, clinically, as a further millimetre of her flesh ulcerates. 

 

"Riddle. Tom," she repeats, desperately. "Give me my wand, now." Her voice rises shrilly and she takes a step towards him. She recognises this only from Wizarding medical textbooks, and she needs her wand right now to stop it -

 

"You need to calm down, Granger. Hermione," he says steadily, mimicking her words. She distantly realises that he isn't mocking her. Riddle is quite serious, he's even holding out his hands as though she is a wounded animal -

 

Is he trying to soothe her? She stares at him, wide-eyed, failing to comprehend.

 

"You need to calm down, because St Anthony's Fire feeds off of your emotions. I know you know this. Just breathe, Granger." His voice is low and hypnotic, with an undercurrent of suggestion. He blinks very slowly, as though not to startle her. 

 

Hermione realises she's close to hyperventilating, and intentionally deepens her breaths. She very, very gradually slides down to the floor, not breaking eye contact with Riddle’s forehead, then hangs her head between her legs. She stares at the grey square tiles, counting them, picking out imperfections, feeling the cold seep through the seat of her jeans, the burning pain in her elbow spreading to her inner arm, listening to Riddle tell her to breathe.

 

"Okay, I'm going to touch your arm now. I need your permission."

 

He's kneeling next to her. She focuses on sucking air through her nose, and forcing it through her mouth.

 

In. Out. In. Out.

 

Unbidden, she realises that she has breathed the clean scent of him in. His robes smell like fabric softener, and, uncompelled, she has an insane image of him using a washing machine.

 

Oh. He asked her a question. 

 

Weighing up the two evils, she whispers quietly in agreement. She counts the number of cracked tiles now, listens to the rustle of his robes as he lifts her injured arm. His fingers feel cool on her skin, and he holds his wand over her elbow, murmuring under his breath. Her arm turns numb, sensation dulled, but she feels the pressure of his wand tapping against her flesh repeatedly, whilst she continues to stare at the floor. 

 

Minutes go by. She repeats her mantra to herself. 

 

In. Out. In. Out. 

 

The carriage sways gently as the train continues northwards - they must be near Hogwarts by now, she thinks distantly. 

 

"Riddle," she says, a little hoarsely. He doesn't stop what he is doing, doesn't acknowledge that she has even spoken, so, as calmly as she can, she looks up at him, and pushes his hands off of her. 

 

"Riddle, it's okay. We're probably nearly at Hogwarts; I'll just head straight to the Hospital Wing -" 

 

Her elbow is healed, she realises with shock. The skin is pink and tight, but whole. 

 

He sits back on his heels, crouching next to her. Hermione risks a glance at his face. He is looking at her, unruffled.

 

"If you're going to cast Erysipelas, then it's a good idea to aim it somewhere more vital. Gregory doesn't always think before he acts." Riddle stretches his mouth into his Perfect Prefect expression, quite satisfied. He stands, and holds his hand out to her.

 

“Don’t smile at me like that,” Hermione says, ignoring his hand. She pushes herself off the floor unsteadily. 

 

“Like what?” he queries, rummaging through his pockets. “Mind you, that’s a very odd way of saying thank you,” he tacks on, as an afterthought. His insouciance breaks the strange peace, riling her. 

 

“Like you’re a normal human being,” she spits out, and moves to push past him. Hermione is unnerved; wants space away from him to think.

 

Riddle heaves a great sigh, shakes his head, as though she is a stubborn child. “I suppose I can’t tempt you into a civil conversation with this?” 

 

He reaches into his sleeve, and, the absolute gall of it -

 

- Her wand, her beautiful wand, like a missing limb, her first connection to the Wizarding world, appears in his long fingers. 

 

Hermione’s hand automatically reaches to grab her wand and he withdraws it quickly away. She gives him a dirty look, to which he merely shrugs.

 

“No. You will listen first. Then, and only then, will you get your wand back.” 

 

“God, you really are taking the captive audience thing far too literally,” she groans. 

 

“I realise,” he continues, ignoring her, “that you may have seen me in an - shall we say - unflattering light, over the summer.”

 

She scoffs, loudly. He actually wags his finger at her. 

 

“You must realise, Granger, that you ambushed me in an emotionally-charged situation. Reuniting with long-lost family - who reject your existence, might I add - well. It’s enough to have any chap acting hot-tempered. But, I hope we can put that messy business behind us. In fact, I applaud your initiative in tracking me - not many would manage that. I actually am looking forward to working together this year. In fact, here - as a token of good faith -”

 

Riddle magnanimously holds her wand out towards her. 

 

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Riddle. Forgive me if I’m not exactly jumping at the bit, but I’m pretty sure you tried to kill me in my own home, completely at random. You kidnapped my parents. You forced me into a Blood Pact.”

 

“A series of rash decisions which I have come to regret,” he offers earnestly, wide-eyed. “And I’d like to think that if I actually tried to kill you, you would know.” Is he - insulted?

 

She narrows her eyes at him, choosing to ignore his second statement for now. “I don’t believe for a second that any decision you make is rash. You’re too cold-blooded for that.” 

 

“Well then, Granger,” and he grins handsomely, chillingly. He places her wand - both of her wands, in fact - on top of the sink, then leans against the wall, eyeing her. 

 

“I look forward to changing your mind.” 

 

Hermione says nothing in return, but abruptly wonders if this is how the birds that Crookshanks brings her feel, just before he pounces, just before they are dead and broken.

 

Her silence doesn’t faze him. Riddle finally shifts, stepping towards the door. Hermione thinks Show off, as he wordlessly opens the door. His smile sharpens. “Tomorrow, after dinner. I’ll meet you in the Entrance Hall.”

 

“Fine. I’ll see you there. You can get out now - I need to change. Imagine what people would say if they see you skulking around the Girls’ lavatories,” she says rudely.

 

He actually gives a little chuckle, as though she had said something very funny, but mercifully, finally, he glides out. 

 

The door gently clicks shut. Only then, does Hermione slump, bracing herself on her arms in front of the mirror.

 

Only then, does she allow fat, hot tears to roll down her cheeks for a minute. 

 

She stares hard at herself. 

 

“You will not crumble,” she tells her pale reflection sternly. 

 

She pulls her robes over her head, and smooths down her hair. Pins her Prefect badge to her chest. Washes her face. 

 

Finally, she picks up her wand, feels the sudden warmth of magic rush through her, like a friend holding her hand. Using her sleeve, she cleans Riddle’s fingerprints off. 

 

“Now then,” she says out loud. “Back we go.” 

 

---

 

The lanterns in the corridor have flickered into life as she hurries back to her compartment. As she approaches the door, it opens suddenly.

 

“Hermione! We were just coming to find you.” Harry and Neville are on their feet, and look relieved.

 

“Thank you - sorry, bumped into Crabbe and Goyle on the way - don’t worry, I left them in one piece,” she says, jokingly. 

 

“Did they start anything?” Harry says, frowning.

 

Before she can answer, the train starts to slow down. 

 

“Fantastic!” says Hermione quickly. “I can’t wait for the feast.” 

 

“We can’t be there yet,” Neville says, and checks his watch. Harry peers over his shoulder.

 

The train continues to slow. Up and down the corridor, Hermione spots curious heads poking out of compartments. 

 

“Well, we’d better get ready to get off,” she says briskly, and strides in. Through the window, the sun has completely set. Although it is a clear evening this far north in Scotland, a creeping fog is visible towards the front of the train.

 

“That doesn’t look normal,” frets Neville. They pack their bags quickly. Suddenly, Crookshanks hisses -

 

- Without warning, the lanterns sputter out, and the carriage is plunged into darkness.

Notes:

she got her wand back!! and we are finally seeing some more of the Charming Mask (TM) riddle usually likes to wear. hermione really did catch him unawares oop north.

erysipelas is a real skin infection, also known as st anthony's fire (different from ergotism tho), just souped up as a curse here.

neville is bae <3

this wizarding world is a lil bit different without the rise of voldemort - hopefully I've not given too much away - but perhaps even more anti-muggle and anti-muggleborn sentiment abounds. may go some ways to explain hermione's feelings

pacing feels a bit off towards the end; this chapter grew and grew so had to split it.

thank you so much for your comments; they really do make my day and spur me on <3 <3

Chapter 5

The sudden darkness catches them all by surprise. Harry is the first to cast Lumos, sending stark shadows in the bright wandlight. The train lurches, and shudders to a halt. Neville stumbles into Harry, stepping on his foot.

 

“Why have we stopped so early?” Hermione wonders out loud, as Harry swears and Neville apologises, peering out of the window. The strange fog has now enveloped the front of the train.

 

Harry is already at the compartment door, looking determined.

“Whatever it is, that fog isn’t normal. Come on, let’s find Ron.”

 

He heads into the corridor, pushing past the few, confused students that have ventured out. Hermione sighs, and follows Harry. Best to, really, especially when he gets a stubborn idea. Neville sighs, and follows them both. 

 

“Ron?” calls Hermione, just as another, magnified voice echoes magically through the train.

 

“Prefects! Prefects, to the front of the train for your patrols, please. This is your new Head Boy, Everyone else, remain in your carriage. There is no emergency.” 

 

Hermione eyes Neville, who stands straight, and says, “Don’t worry - I’ll find Ron. You guys head up.” 

 

He hurries off, wandlight causing his bobbing shadow to dance uncannily on the walls.

 

“What d’you reckon it is? ‘Not an emergency’, my left bollock,” Harry mutters, and keeps his wand out. 

 

Hermione is inclined to agree with (most of) the sentiment, and they jog to meet the other prefects at the front of the train. 

 

Now that her eyes have adjusted, the train isn’t quite as pitch black anymore. More students have cast Lumos inside their carriages, distorted silhouettes shifting through the frosted glass, and an edgy susurrus of voices echoing in the emptiness of the vestibule.

 

Hermione shivers, and holds onto the back of Harry’s cloak. There is a chill in her bones that she cannot shake.

 

They round the corner, slowing, catching the end of a conversation.

 

“- obviously be fine,” the same voice - the Head Boy - says confidently. “Haven’t you heard? They’re patrolling Hogsmeade after nightfall now.”

 

Hermione spies the Head Boy - a Slytherin, Sahil Mannan, holding court with the prefects surrounding him. Most have their wands out, illuminating the corridor well. 

 

It rather reminds Hermione of a Muggle campfire. 

 

“So why’ve they been authorised outside of Azkaban?” Hannah Abbott, a round-faced Hufflepuff asks, her face eerily lit up from below by the thin stream of light emanating from her wandtip. 

 

The Head Boy smiles unpleasantly. “That’s classified information at this present moment, Abbott. For those in the know, like the Heads of House and Head Boy. It’s all Ministry-authorised.” 

 

“So who,” says Harry loudly (eternally content to let absolutely nothing lie, snorts Hermione), “is stopping the train?”

 

“Potter,” Mannan greets him evenly. “Nice of you to join us. Suffice to say a dangerous individual is on the loose. This is simply a precaution.”

 

“What’s a precaution?” asks Hermione. 

 

Mannan ignores her, and turns to the rest. 

 

“As I was saying -”

 

But he doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. The main door of the train slides open, and two hooded figures walk - no, glide - into the corridor. They tower to the ceiling. The space feels very small. One of the Ravenclaw girls lets out a whimper.

 

Dementors. 

 

“They won’t hurt you,” says Mannan, almost gleeful. “Random patrol - of course, we were in the know -”

 

Hermione tunes him out. The hairs on her arms stand on end as the creatures drift further in. She’s never seen one before, but she recognises them from textbooks. 

 

Harry, though. Harry’s seen -

 

Harry’s tense, his knuckles white around his wand. His mouth is a hard line. “Dementors, Mannan? You think they’re harmless?” 

 

“Don’t worry, Potter,” someone says, directly behind Hermione. She nearly jumps out of her skin, jittery enough as it is. “They’re under orders. Well-heeled, you might say.” 

 

There’s a lilt of humour in his words as Riddle enters the edge of her vision, tall and imperious. She can’t keep track of everything at once - Harry, the Dementors, the prefects, and now Riddle - so she keeps her back to the wall, darting her eyes back and forth.

 

The Dementors separate, splitting to hover in front of each student briefly, then the next, then the next. The noise of their long robes dragging against the floor sets Hermione’s teeth on edge. 

 

“‘Random patrol’, or ‘under orders’ - which one is it?” she asks in a hard voice, eyes now pinned to the dark creatures. One has stopped in front of Hannah, who turns ghost white. 

 

If they make one false move - Hermione’s not sure what to do, she can’t cast a Patronus - she’s never been taught - but maybe she can send for help -

 

“Who’s to say it can’t be both, Granger?” 

 

The contrast is utterly jarring between Riddle’s pleasant, almost amused demeanour and the tiny sob of relief Hannah lets out as the Dementor moves onto Mannan (who, despite his previous conviction, blanches). 

 

The other drifts closer to her, no more than a foot away. She is being held under chilling regard, but how the creature senses her, she doesn’t know.

 

Maybe it’s strange that she reverts to intellectualising, in front of a being that could destroy her soul, but Hermione doesn’t feel hopeless, or lost in a pit of depression, like she’d read about. They’re unnerving, and mysterious, and she cannot for the life of her make out what’s under the hood. They smell stale, and cold, reminiscent of the single morgue she’s visited. 

 

She can’t help but sigh in relief as it moves onto Riddle. Hermione catches his dark eyes, and thinks loudly, if it sucked out your soul, would the Blood Pact be broken?

 

Riddle’s mouth twitches. The Dementor glides past him to stop, in front of Harry. 

 

Having arrived nearly-last, Harry is nearest the exit to the corridor. Once they’re done, the Dementors can access and patrol the rest of the train. 

 

“All right,” says Mannan, seemingly finding his nerve again. “They’re to inspect each carriage, leave, and then we’ll make our way into Hogwarts. The Feast shouldn’t be too delayed once the firsties are Sorted.”

 

“Are you a tour guide, Sahil?” says Riddle good-naturedly, breaking the tension a little. Even Hannah smiles wanly. 

 

The second Dementor has completed its half-circuit, and it too hovers in front of Harry.

 

“Oi, Harry! Let them pass. I’m desperate for the loo!” Ernie Macmillan calls, triggering a round of sniggers.

 

But Harry, wand still tight in his grip, has left plenty of room for the Dementors to move past. 

 

“Excuse me, would you mind hurrying up?” Mannan says pompously. 

 

Harry is stood still. He looks towards Hermione, uncertain. 

 

Hermione frowns. 

 

The Dementors are simply hovering in front of Harry.

 

Why are they taking so long? 

 

“We’re running behind schedule -”

 

“- do you think a Dementor cares about the Feast, Sahil?” Cho Chang - the Head Girl - says incredulously. Mannan draws her away - presumably to bicker about being undermined - and the corridor is filled with uneasy murmuring.

 

“Harry,” Hermione says slowly. “Do they want something?” 

 

Pansy Parkinson scoffs loudly. “Granger -”

 

But whatever vitriol Pansy is poised to spit is cut off, as both Dementors, in mesmerising synchronicity, slowly reach from under their heavy, black cloaks to stretch their hands towards Harry. 

 

Harry, who is uncharacteristically frozen to the spot. 

 

At this, Riddle suddenly stands upright.

 

A chill seeps into the air, into Hermione’s bones, into her stomach. Their hands are mottled and grey, like a body dead and bloated from decay. 

 

“Merlin -”

 

“Potter -”

 

“Harry -” Hermione begins desperately. She, like Pansy, is cut off, not by a hand, but by an odd, dry, sucking noise rattling around the carriage. It’s coming from the Dementor’s hood. Hermione’s wand light dims to a pinprick.

 

A hollow sadness fills her chest to bursting. It’s hard to breathe from the sheer weight of despair. Black creeps into the edges of her vision and her legs give way as she sinks to the floor. Hermione feels even colder; she can recall with startling clarity receiving anonymous letters calling her a harlot and a filthy slut in her fourth year, the letters this summer telling her she should have died a grateful death by the hand of the Heir of Slytherin, that she was a dirty, mouthy Mudblood who would amount to nothing, the helpless, paralysing desperation she felt in the Leaky Cauldron -

 

- her heartbeat is a distant roar in her ears, she doesn’t have the energy to lift her head -

 

“Expecto patronum!” shouts Harry, and Hermione manages to look up to see a white, wispy cloud trickle from his wand. 

 

She can barely see, most wandlight extinguished, the Dementors recoil back, as much as a Dementor can recoil back, but still, they advance slowly on Harry. The rattling noise starts up again, but Hermione struggles against the weight of black depression, staggering to her knees, then her feet, she has to encourage Harry -

 

“Lumos!” and although she can’t conjure a Patronus, she can bring some sort of light into this. “Y-you can do this, Harry,” Hermione stammers, voice thin and reedy. 

 

Harry is sweating, but he looks at Hermione and nods.

 

“Expecto patronum!” shout Harry once more, and a thicker, brilliant white cloud bursts from his wand. At this, the Dementors retreat further, to the open train door. The prefects nearby scramble back. A flickering Lumos catches silvery tear tracks across more than one face.

 

Harry is panting now. He looks exhausted from the effort. The light from the incorporeal Patronus fades slowly, heavy darkness settling once more around them. As if they sense weakness, the Dementors pause. Are they considering approaching again?” 

 

Harry lifts his wand once more, arm shaking - 

 

“That’s quite enough -”

 

To Hermione’s utter surprise, Riddle steps past her, standing between Harry and the Dementors. Harry looks just as shocked, but his arm doesn’t drop.

 

Riddle is pale, and there is a trickle of sweat at his brow, but his voice is steady. “Now, do you think Potter is hiding a dangerous individual in his pocket? I think you ought to clear off, before you act any further out of line.” 

 

Riddle flicks his wand, and the train door slides open. The smell of a warm summer night floods in, bringing a startling clarity to Hermione’s thoughts. She stares at the scene, imprints it into her mind.

 

The Dementors are silent now, stood still. Riddle - she hates to think of him as brave, but it is the first word that jumps to her mind - is stood directly in front of the exhausted Harry. His wand is almost lazily in his hand, but Hermione recognises his stance. He is ready to duel. 

 

Can Riddle conjure a Patronus?

 

He has no need to even try, for the Dementors retreat, then melt away into the fog. 

 

Slowly, slowly, the lights flicker back on. 

 

---

 

The rest of the train journey, the carriages, the Sorting, the Feast - 

 

It is all a blur to Hermione. 

 

She recalls dragging Harry back to their carriage, his arm slung heavily across her shoulders, too shaky to perform a Featherweight charm, or even to Levitate him. 

 

She recalls Ron pressing fat blocks of chocolate into their hands, Ginny swearing foully whilst hugging them tightly, Neville fluttering around, concerned.

 

The faces of nervous, excited first years merge into one.

 

The food is warm, hearty, entirely Hogwarts, and Hermione can manage only half a plate. 

 

Harry is withdrawn. He doesn’t touch his food.

 

Dumbledore makes an announcement about the Dementors. He is clearly displeased.

 

Hermione wants to talk to Harry and Ron, but she is half-dead on her feet. Harry looks the same, and they agree to speak before breakfast. 

 

Ron is worried.

 

As she lies in her soft bed, curtains drawn against the hushed chattering of Parvati and Lavender, Hermione has only one clear memory of her evening. 

 

At the far side of the Great Hall, stars twinkling overhead, Riddle cuts into his meat precisely, chewing slowly, savouring. He doesn’t look once at Hermione. He laughs and jokes with his housemates, entirely at ease. Hermione stares at him, and isn’t it funny, how she has only just noticed? Riddle is sat at the very centre of the table, and around him, orbiting, are Mannan, and Malfoy, and Parkinson, and Nott, and Zabini, and Mulciber, and Avery - 

 

Riddle goes back for seconds. 

 

---

 

The next morning, Hermione wakes up from a dead sleep to Parvati shaking her arm. Opening her eyes feels like swimming through treacle; she is so tired. 

 

“Hermione - so good to see you, so much to catch up on - Ron’s threatening to Summon you directly if you don’t go to the Common room.”

 

Blearily, she takes in Parvati’s tired face in the dim light. The sky is pitch black, only the faintest sliver of dawn peeking from the horizon. Lavender has turned over, pillow clamped firmly over her head. And over all of that - how on earth did she sleep through -

 

“HERMIONE!” bellows a voice - Ron’s, who else - from the staircase. “HERMIONE - HERMIONE -”

 

“He’s been doing that for ten minutes,” whimpers Lavender from under her pillow. Hermione groans, and pulls her dressing gown on.

 

“It’s not even six - can you please Hex him for me?” calls Parvati plaintively as she trudges down the stairs. Lavender grunts in agreement. Crookshanks, bless his furry self, hasn’t even stirred. 

 

Hermione grumbles to herself. “I might just do …” 

 

Parvati and Lavender's near-indifference is not surprising. This is not an entirely infrequent occurrence. Over the years, Ron's woken her up early for a variety of reasons, including homework proof-reading, Gryffindor Quidditch trials, Christmas morning ...

 

The Common room is unsurprisingly empty at this early hour, save for Harry and Ron. Ron’s pacing by the staircase, whilst Harry is sat glumly by the fireplace.

 

“HERMIO- mmmf!” Hermione takes one for the good of the entire tower and slaps her palm against Ron’s mouth. 

 

“What is it?” she hisses, wiping her hand against her robe. “It’s not even six -”

 

“Harry had a premonition,” Ron says promptly.

 

“What?” The blood drains from her face, and she turns.

 

“It’s not a premonition, Ron.” Harry scrubs a hand tiredly across his face. He looks haggard. “It was a nightmare.”

 

“You woke up screaming. About ‘things foretold’ and what have you -”

 

“Harry, what happened?” Hermione cuts across Ron, frowning. “You woke me up at half five for Divination? Divination is famously woolly, Ronald, and -”

 

“I heard a woman screaming,” Harry says quietly. “She was crying, and - it sounded like she was begging for her life -” 

 

Ron looks frightened. “You were speaking, mate, you were muttering weird things about ‘things foretold’ and ‘destiny’ and -” 

 

“- There was a man’s voice, as well, I don’t remember, exactly, but he was threatening her -" 

 

Hermione's not following. "Okay," she says slowly, looking between the two. She sits next to Harry, Ron dumping himself unceremoniously in front of the fire.

 

"Did you recognise them, Harry?"

 

Harry sighs and rakes his hands through his already-rumpled hair. "No, I can't for the life of me place them. Just voices, no images. Never heard them before."

 

"Then it's just a nightmare," she says firmly, glaring at Ron who holds his hands out defensively. 

 

“Hey, s’not my fault - you weren’t there Hermione, you didn’t hear. Dean freaked out and Neville said -” 

 

“Everyone’s just already on edge because of the bloody Dementors on the train, and around the school,” Harry snaps. He sounds angry now. “Look, you didn’t need to wake Hermione and half the damn tower this early because of a nightmare -”

 

“- why did you think it was a premonition?” Hermione can't get over this word, and squints at Ron. Ron opens his mouth and shuts it. He furrows his brow.

 

“I dunno, Hermione, maybe it was a - a vision, or a trance, or something, but it wasn’t just a nightmare. You weren't there -” Ron gulps, and glances at Hermione, who expectantly raises an eyebrow. “Harry was - chanting, over and over.”

 

Harry groans and buries his face in his hairs, glasses askew. 

 

“Chanting what?” Hermione’s tired, and this story is garbled. “We need to discuss what happened on the train, not a bad dream -”

 

“The M word,” Ron in hushed tones, wincing at Hermione apologetically. “He was just - repeating it, in this horrible voice -”

 

“I wouldn’t ever use that word,” Harry snarls, leaping to his feet. “You know that.”

 

“Course I do, Harry, but -” Ron is agitated, and jumps up to face Harry. Hermione thinks to hell with it, and stands as well.

 

They are a strange Mexican stand-off. “It wasn’t exactly your voice, you were all raspy and evil-sounding -”

 

“Is that really so strange, after a Dementor encounter?” demands Hermione, arms crossed over her chest. “They’re meant to bring out your worst memories, the most horrible things.” 

 

The boys stop, mid-argument. Ron blinks. “But nothing like that’s ever happened to Harry. Even last year, seeing Crouch Kissed -” 

 

Harry jumps in straight away. “Yeah, but the Dementor only did the weird suction thing -” Harry flails his hands in front of his mouth vaguely to illustrate “- in front of me. Maybe the Dementor hangover is worse if it targets you. Maybe it just gives you nightmares.” 

 

“Either way, it doesn’t sound like a vision, or a premonition to me. It’s not very likely, is it?” Hermione can’t help her waspish tone. Harry look relieved, but Ron looks a little like a kicked puppy. 

 

“Merlin, see if I bother worrying again,” Ron mumbles, deflated. Hermione’s a bit surprised at this emotional maturity from Ron - she was expecting him to yell at being talked over, not to have the capacity to admit that he was worried - so she relents.  

 

“No, Ron - you’re right to worry.” Harry shoots her a glare at this about-face, but she steam-rollers him. “I can’t put my finger on it, but something strange is going on. Dementors in Hogwarts - Dumbledore doesn’t seem happy about it - there’s a ‘dangerous individual’ on the loose but it’s not been publicised - I think the Dementors seemed interested in you, Harry -” 

 

(she wants to vomit out everything Riddle-related, but she can’t) 

 

“- and the dreams, we don’t know why you’ve had them.” Ron is somewhat mollified at this. 

 

“D’you think - this is anything to do with the Chamber of Secrets?” Harry says, out of nowhere. He sits on the sofa, and after a beat, Hermione and Ron settle down too. 

 

It’s a good question, thinks Hermione, staring into the fireplace, drifting back to last summer, the terror in the air, waking up in the Hospital wing …

 

“Seems connected, doesn’t it? And the end of fourth year - s’like all the Dark Wizard nutters are kicking off again -” Ron yawns abruptly, stretching so widely that a button pops off the top of his sleeping shirt. He yelps, and Harry can't help snorting at this. Even Hermione smiles. 

 

The tension is broken. Ron looks relieved, and muffles a second yawn.

 

“Bloody Nora - I’m shattered. Well, if Hermione, queen of Divination -” she swats at Ron and he ducks, laughing “- says it’s not a premonition, then who am I worry?” 

 

“Yes Ronald, you were so un-worried that you thought screaming down the girls’ dorm was a good idea -”

 

“I didn’t scream -”

 

“- and you’ve certainly endeared yourself to Lavender. She asked me to Hex you specially,” Hermione says tartly. 

 

Bizarrely, Ron perks up at this. A little stone sinks to the bottom of Hermione’s stomach, and she finds she doesn’t want to continue the conversation. 

 

“Well, since we’re up, is it worth going over scheduling for this year? N.E.W.Ts are meant to be extremely challenging, but I’ve cross-referenced our time-tables -”

 

Ron stretches, exaggeratedly this time, and lopes over to the stairs. “Right - I’m back to bed before breakfast. Beauty sleep, and whatnot. If you’ll excuse me -” 

 

Once he’s gone, Hermione turns to Harry. “You can stop pretending to be mysteriously deaf,” she says irritably. 

 

“Dunno what you’re talking about, ‘Mione -” Harry, dear Harry, is the Switzerland of neutrality when it comes to Ron and Hermione, even when Hermione is clearly in the right.

 

“Ron can do what he likes - Lavender loves a bit of Divination - for some unfathomable reason, she even likes his quillwork,” Hermione snarks moodily, bringing her legs to her chest. 

 

“‘Lavender Wazlib’,” Harry muses thoughtfully, and Hermione punches him in the arm. Laughing, he brings up his legs to sit cross-legged next to her. 

 

They sit for a long moment, staring into the fireplace. 

 

“Feeling okay?” she asks softly. Harry looks tired and drawn. He hasn’t slept or had dinner. Hermione is of the firm opinion that a hearty breakfast and throwing himself into schoolwork will help. But then again, she is Hermione.

 

“Yeah, fine.” 

 

Boys.

 

She tries again. “I think we should write to Sirius. He might have an idea what’s going on with the Dementors -”

 

“I don’t want to bother Sirius with this,” he says immediately. “He nearly pulled me out of Hogwarts end of fourth year -” 

 

“- that was to keep you safe, you were nearly killed -”

 

He changes the topic quickly. “What d’you reckon the Dementors wanted?” 

 

“I don’t know,” sighs Hermione. When Harry gets like this, he’s impossible to speak to. “Mannan said it was classified information, that there was some sort of criminal on the loose. But why patrol a train full of school children? Why have Dementors at Hogwarts at all? And why would Professor Dumbledore agree, especially after Crouch was Kissed - in front of you, unprovoked -” 

 

She shivers, and Harry squeezes her. 

 

“You did a really good job on the train, Harry. An incorporeal Patronus - especially when they were facing you down -”

 

“It wasn’t good enough, Hermione,” Harry says fiercely. “Remus put all that work in, and still - when I needed to, I couldn’t cast the real thing …” he trails off, dejected. 

 

Hermione mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Are you mental, Harry? The rest of us, we were useless in there. I - I felt like I’d never be happy again ...” 

 

Harry frowns, at this. “You weren’t useless - dunno if I would have tried again if you hadn’t told me to. And I s’pose Riddle wasn’t useless - they cleared off when he stepped in. Maybe he’s okay, for a Slytherin.” 

 

Another stone drops into the pit of her stomach. Hermione says nothing.

 

(She wonders if it’s possible to combust from suppressed rage)

 

Riddle. 

 

If Hermione is perfectly honest with herself, she’s dreading this evening, dreading speaking to him. She hates hearing Harry speak even slightly well of him. He’s confusing, and probably evil, and she’s not looking forward to being at his beck and call for the rest of the year. 

 

And, you know, the whole parents-hostage thing.

 

She sighs, glum.

 

Entirely misinterpreting, Harry side eyes her slyly. 

 

“Did he write over the summer -” 

 

UGH. 

 

“Did Ginny?” she shoots back meanly, and Harry turns pink. “She’s got a novel I’m sure you’d learn a lot from -”

 

“Okay, okay, truce?” Harry says, rather desperately. After the Yule Ball, Harry has developed an almost-pathological avoidance of romance, one that Hermione is happy enough to exploit to stop him talking about Riddle in the same context.

 

“Fine,” she harrumphs. Through the window, the sky has lightened into a peachy glow. The sun is peeking over the horizon, casting a long shadow of the Forbidden Forest into the grounds. Despite the events of the summer, Hermione’s heart lifts at being back in Hogwarts.

 

Hogwarts is home. 

 

She thinks Harry must be feeling the same, for he squeezes her once more, then announces he’s off to bed, and to let him sleep through as much of Charms as possible. 

 

(just this once, she might do)

 

As he heads up the stairs, a question bubbles up.

 

“Harry,” she calls after him. “What - what did you hear when the Dementors sucked all the - the happiness out?”

 

He pauses. “I didn’t hear anything,” Harry says, unconvincingly, and disappears.

 

Notes:

(apologies for the lengthy wait; I will always come back to this)

book events have undergone something of a remix - lmk your thoughts, your theories, your riddle-motives, they are, as always, entirely appreciated.

I hope you enjoyed this wild ride of tom, once again, pissing off hermione

the golden trio give me life

there will be no lavender bashing here, forever and always. I am not rowling

(looking for a beta, how does that work? hmu if you know better)

 

next chapter: I simply cannot wait to introduce you to, the illustrious draco malfoy

Chapter 6

Hermione doesn’t go back to sleep. Instead, she is the very first to leave Gryffindor Tower that morning, determined to have a good start to the year. Her shoes shine with polish, her robes are pressed neatly, her hair somewhat tamed and secured with a jewelled beetle pin that Luna had gifted her last year for Christmas - Hermione appreciates the irony too much to say that it isn’t really to her taste. 

 

The castle, despite being freshly filled with students, is quiet at this early hour. Hermione’s not much had a sense of home since her parents were shanghaied, and she floats the familiar path to the Great Hall in a dream-like reverie. Even the ghosts seem peaceful, the Grey Lady drifting through the ceiling, nose firmly in a book.

 

(And - she will admit only to herself, eyeing the bacon rolls and freshly-brewed coffee - that it’s rather nice, being spoiled by house-elf cooking.)

 

It’s not until she’s finished her second cup that she dares to glance once more towards the Slytherin table across the room. But, Riddle is not there. The hall is only just starting to fill with bleary-eyed students, excitable first years being led by the fifth-year Prefects. Half-relieved, half-disappointed, Hermione turns back to her breakfast -

 

“- Miss Granger! Good morning to you. A word, if you please?”

 

Professor McGonagall, tall and severe, bustles towards her with a sheet of parchment. Her timetable, Hermione thinks with growing excitement. She had been dying to plan her study schedule in advance, but had been told that classes were being finalised -

 

“Let me see, let me see - Potions, DADA, Charms, Astronomy, Transfiguration, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, History of Magic, Muggle Studies - my word, Miss Granger! I know we had to apply for special dispensation to exceed the course limit - of which I am still very supportive - but should the workload become too much -”

 

“Don’t worry - I would say, Professor,” says Hermione at once. But, she thinks secretly to herself, she has absolutely no intention of becoming overwhelmed, for she knows full well that Riddle has also applied for nine N.E.W.T.s. Hermione had even frantically written last-minute to request Muggle Studies to match him in count - and after her single Exceeds Expectations …

 

Something must show on her face, for McGonagall suddenly looks sympathetic.

 

“Miss Granger. You have performed exceptionally well in your O.W.L.s, all the more so considering you spent a significant proportion of your study leave last summer Petrified in the Hospital wing! I am still sorry that the Board of Governors did not take this into account when reviewing Professor Lupin’s mitigating circumstances application ... As it happens, I can’t imagine anything but top marks for you at the end of next year.” 

 

McGonagall doesn’t smile, precisely, but her eyes gleam zealously. It seems that her competitive nature extends off the Quidditch pitch and into school rankings. 

 

“Thank you Professor. I did want to ask you - had you heard anything back from the Department of Mysteries? Or the Wizengamot? Or the Department for the Regulation -” 

 

McGonagall cuts her off with a shake of her head.  “I am sorry, Miss Granger. It would appear that the Ministry internship programmes are -” her mouth tightens into a thin line “- oversubscribed, as it is. But, I have some good news,” she adds quickly at Hermione’s crestfallen face. “The Department of Magriculture has expressed a great amount of interest in the research that you and Mr Riddle carried out last year. Professor Sprout advocated very strongly for the both of you to be invited to present your work at the Ministry. This is unheard of for students, Miss Granger. You should be very proud of yourself.”

 

It’s not exactly what she wanted to hear - Hermione doesn’t want a career in Herbology, or experimental plant breeding - she’s dropped the subject, after all - but it’s a damned sight further than she’s gotten before. And, who knows who she might meet at the Ministry? She could even rub elbows with Amelia Bones, the much-lauded Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement - that is, if Bones just happens to be interested in the flowering pattern of a rare and murderous plant …

 

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione repeats, resigned. It’s not McGonagall’s fault, not really. 

 

The lines around McGonagall’s eyes soften, somewhat. “You have a very bright future ahead of you, Miss Granger. I would urge you to start making use of the opportunities that come your way. I know that Professor Slughorn’s - ahem, gatherings - are not entirely to your taste, but you may find more than hobnobbing there. I will, of course, continue to support your internship applications. And you are quite sure you don’t want me putting in an honest word for you?”

 

Hermione hesitates. She had been righteously, stubbornly sure that she wanted to apply on her own merits and the proper channels, to not take advantage of Ron’s family connections, or her Professor’s ex-colleagues, of the rank nepotism that infiltrates every level of Ministry hire … but that hasn’t gotten her anywhere. 

 

Would it really be so bad to take McGonagall’s advice? 

 

Would that go against her - possibly naive, she’s starting to realise - conviction that the best person should get the job, not the one with the richest or most influential parents? 

 

“You’re right, Professor.” Hermione straightens her shoulders. “I may not love them, but I’ll - I’ll go to more of Professor Slughorn’s meetings. It would be good for me to make connections of my own.”

 

McGonagall nods briskly. She looks pleased.

 

“Good to hear. I don’t want to add any pressure on you, but the top scoring student traditionally has been offered a junior position in the Ministry cabinet. And Muggle-borns are certainly not excluded - Lily Potter made quite the splash twenty years ago … Now, if you’ll excuse me - Mr Longbottom! What’s this about Charms?” 

 

Neville, sat further down the table, almost chokes on his toast as McGonagall rounds on him. But Hermione isn’t paying attention anymore. 

 

In fact, she’s oddly upbeat. So what if she’s made a Blood Pact with Riddle? That doesn’t mean he’s not fair game in any and all academic competitions this year, like every year before. That doesn’t mean she can’t outrank him in their N.E.W.Ts, win the guaranteed internship on her own merit, finalise that paper in Herbology Monthly, even present at the Ministry! And, she’ll attend more of Slughorn’s insipid parties, swallow her own self-loathing down with Butterbeer, learn how to - she grimaces - rub elbows with the who’s who of the Wizarding World, somehow figure out an angle that isn’t ‘the swotty Muggleborn who was Petrified last year’ -

 

She’s already read her textbooks back to front, spoken to Percy Weasley about likely assignments that will come up, starting practising non-verbal magic in earnest - if Riddle can do it, she thinks determinedly, then so can she.

 

(Hermione wonders, in another life, if she would try quite so hard without Riddle as competition. But, that is a thought for another time.)

 

There is a lightness in her heart that she hasn’t felt for weeks.

 

Hermione cracks her knuckles, and pulls out a quill. 

 

She has a schedule to create, after all.

 

---

 

Morning and lunch breeze by. Harry and Ron nearly kiss her in relief when she informs them their first lecture is Charms, in the last period. Hermione rather enjoys creating her study timetable next to the crackling fire in the common room, and Neville even asks for one, worry already written in the furrow of his brow. 

 

Muggle Studies is the same as ever, taught by Professor Burbage. It is a tiny class in a cramped room on the sixth floor, five students, zero Slytherins. Their essay topic for this month is to research magical versus Muggle healthcare - perhaps it’s too on the nose to write about dentistry, but Hermione has a while still to decide. 

 

Her mind is filled with ideas on drills, and anaesthetic, Reparo versus amalgam versus composite … It is interesting, and Hermione relishes the thought process, her mind already forming connections.

 

She is so busy rummaging in her bag on the way to Charms - she’s loath to admit it, but maybe Riddle was onto something with that Undetectable Extension Charm - that she doesn’t notice someone trailing her.

 

“It’s got to be here,” Hermione mutters to herself, hand scrabbling around the bottom of her bag for her textbook. This is annoying; she wanted to catch Professor Flitwick early to ask about any potential for extra credit. She heads to an alcove in the wall, and props up her bag to search more thoroughly, her back to the corridor. “Bugger, I couldn’t have forgotten -”

 

Hermione stiffens suddenly. Someone is standing right behind her -

 

“Did you miss me, Mudblood?” A low voice breathes hotly over her ear. “What’s the matter - dirty fingers lost something?”

 

She doesn’t even have time to turn around before she is shoved bodily against the wall, a hand diving into her bag -

 

“Get off me!” she shrieks, and drives her shoulder into the figure behind, stamping her foot on their insole. A grunt of pain sounds, and she whirls around.

 

Malfoy. 

 

He’s taller, she notes with her hackles up. Crabbe and Goyle flank the odious boy, like two menacing boulders of meat. They don’t look happy to see her. Unsurprising, considering their encounter on the train.

 

Her eyes dart up and down the corridor, in vain. No one else is this early to Charms.

 

The thing with Malfoy, she reminds herself sternly, tucking her hand in her pocket, is that he is a coward, and a bully, and cannot stand that Hermione is smarter than him. She is better than him, she tells herself. In her first few years of school, he was essentially harmless, all bark and no bite.

 

But, sometime after the Yule Ball -

 

He smirks, and moves closer.

 

Too close.

 

“It’s been a while, Granger. I must apologise, I didn’t get to visit you in the Hospital Wing last summer. Shame, really - I heard you were much more … compliant?” 

 

His eyes glitter with malice as he drags them leisurely over Hermione’s figure. She grimaces, and tugs her robe on firmly.

 

No. She won’t let him cow her.

 

“I wish I could say it was a pleasure to see you. Ten points for attempted intimidation in the corridor and use of a slur, Malfoy. Keep it up and it’ll be twenty,” Hermione says sharply. 

 

That’s right - she can’t help but smile smugly - the fact that Hermione is a Prefect and he isn’t veritably incensed him last year. 

 

It was rather fun to watch.

 

Malfoy’s lips thin. The smirk on his face drops to an ugly scowl, as he takes a further step forward, his hand reaching towards a curl of her hair. 

 

Hermione slaps his hand out of the air before he can touch her. Unfortunately, Malfoy’s Quidditch reflexes are fast, and he twists his arm to grip her wrist painfully.

 

Fuck.

 

“Have you lost your mind? Let go of me,” she demands coolly, drawing her wand. 

 

“Careful, Granger. My father won’t think kindly on his only son, attacked unprovoked. How about you put down the wand, and we can talk like civilised wizards? Well, as civilised as your kind can get?” 

 

Malfoy squeezes hard. Hermione refuses to wince.

 

She really, really wants to jab her wand straight into his hateful eyes. She can feel her wand itching to blister his skin, to render him immobile on the floor, writhing in pain. How dare he start this, on the first day back no less?

 

But - Hermione hesitates, a little voice in the back of her head telling her to stay calm. She was almost expelled for punching Malfoy in their third year, and with his father still on the board of governors -

 

Her wand wavers. At this, a mocking grin slashes across Malfoy’s vile face. 

 

A tiny trickle of anxiety pools in her stomach - surely he won’t actually hurt her? Surely physical violence against women isn’t in his repertoire?

 

He bends his head close to hers, his cloying fragrance filling her nose. “Smart, eh? I’d be very careful how you treat your betters this year, you filthy -”

 

“- Twenty points for embarrassing the House of Slytherin, Draco,” a polite voice rings out, clear as a bell. 

 

Malfoy’s reaction is immediate. He drops Hermione’s wrist as though it burns him, and whirls around. 

 

Of course. Hermione’s luck couldn’t get any better.

 

Riddle is leaning against the stone wall, opposite Hermione, hands slack in his pockets. He’s unruffled, hair neatly swept away from his forehead, robes immaculate. 

 

“Gregory, Vincent, I know you didn’t make the grade last year, so back to the common room with you both,” Riddle says pleasantly. Although his words are directed at Crabbe and Goyle, he is staring at Malfoy unblinkingly.

 

Crabbe and Goyle clearly have a healthy sense of self-preservation. They scuttle off without a word, leaving Malfoy standing between Hermione and Riddle. 

 

“Draco, I didn’t realise that Charms had caught your attention,” Riddle says, as though Malfoy’s academic future is of paramount concern to him. “When did you decide to take it?” Hermione is close enough to see that the blond boy tenses, fractionally, under the weight of Riddle’s regard.

 

And Merlin, why is she still so close to Malfoy? Hermione takes the opportunity to shove past him, choosing to stand in front of the locked Charms classroom door. Just where is Professor Flitwick when you need him? 

 

But neither boy pays her any attention, locked in some sort of weird staring competition. Hermione vaguely recalls a nature documentary she once saw, something about silver-backed gorillas and obnoxious chest-beating -

 

Oh my god, focus, Hermione -

 

“Morning Tom,” Malfoy drawls eventually, breaking eye contact to run a hand through his hair. “You’re right - I’m not taking Charms. I was just catching up with Gryffindor’s finest.” 

 

His words positively drip with disdain as he smirks over at her. She opens her mouth reflexively to riposte - 

 

“A charming title,” Riddle says quietly, his dark gaze finally flickering over to Hermione, stopping the insult dead in her mouth. “Regardless, how you have chosen to behave towards a Prefect reflects poorly on us all, Draco. Another five points for lack of comportment, and an apology will suffice.”

 

Malfoy’s eyes narrow in disbelief. “Come on, Tom - no one’s around to hear.”

 

Hermione is unwillingly fascinated by this turn of events. She’s never seen anything but the utmost cordiality between Malfoy and Riddle. In fact, every Slytherin she knows deals with their House disputes behind closed doors. This is a such a rare glimpse into their hidden world that she hesitates to interrupt; she absurdly feels rather like David Attenborough, just give her the camouflage gear and a camcorder  -

 

His expression entirely neutral, Riddle flicks his gaze seamlessly back to Malfoy. “I’ll see you before dinner, Draco. I need a word with Granger.” It is unmistakably a dismissal, and for a moment, Malfoy looks like he’s about to argue. Riddle just gives a tiny tilt of his head, genially, at Malfoy. 

 

But his eyes, Hermione can now see it, a shiver dancing up her spine, how did she miss it before, are flat, flat and black and cold and dead - 

 

Malfoy scoffs weakly, and turns to Hermione, presumably to say something scathing to save face. He doesn’t disappoint. “I apologise, Granger, for calling a cauldron a cauldron -”

 

“- Oh, just shut up, Malfoy, do you really think anyone cares what you have to say?” Hermione says nastily to him, drawing her wand once more. She’s quite had it up to here with stupid Slytherin posturing; bugger the consequences -

 

“Draco,” Riddle says gently, and despite his easy countenance, Hermione shivers again. 

 

Malfoy sneers, and finally, finally starts to slink away. But before he’s properly fucked off, he pulls out Hermione’s possession from his pocket and regards it as though it is an owl dropping. 

 

“What the fuck is a Tampax anyway, Granger? Some sort of Mudblood obscenity?” 

 

Hermione’s mouth drops open of its own accord, not quite reconciling the absurdity of Malfoy holding a brightly wrapped tampon. She glances towards Riddle, and thinks loudly, you can see this too, right? Sadly, Riddle’s face is as impenetrable as ever. 

 

“Nosebleeds, you rodent. Muggles use them for nosebleeds,” Hermione lies, thinking she may as well amuse herself, since no one else seems to think she’s funny. “In fact, you can treasure it forever, I won’t be wanting it back after you’ve been all over it,” she says, struggling not to laugh derisively.  

 

Malfoy gives her a look of pure venom as he sweeps out of the corridor, wordlessly, with a dramatic swish of his robes. 

 

Then there were two.

 

This is entirely too much for the first day of term. A headache agrees, blooming right between her eyes. Hermione allows herself the luxury of a long exhalation out of her nose, tension melting away from her shoulders from the anti-climactic encounter with Malfoy. She even counts to five, rubbing the bridge of her nose, suddenly exhausted. 

 

A soft cough interrupts her mental break. 

 

Ugh. Without a single iota of enthusiasm, she turns to Riddle.

 

He has remained largely motionless leaning against the wall. Hermione eyes him with suspicion. There's a snowball's chance in hell that he has chased Malfoy off solely for her benefit, but her brain hurts too much to bother figuring out his motivations. At least Malfoy is simple.

 

“Right,” she says flatly to him, crossing her arms. “What is it you’re wanting, and can’t it wait until this evening?” 

 

He quirks an eyebrow at her. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank-you’, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.” 

 

Riddle lithely pushes himself off the wall to stand straight whilst she squawks in outrage. “Excuse you - I had everything under control there -”

 

“- I need your timetable, Granger.” 

 

She blinks, taken aback, but Riddle is already rifling through his pocket - just how much rubbish does he carry around? - and pulls out a piece of parchment. “I’ve taken the liberty of copying out my schedule and free time, and our likely overlaps.”

 

What?

 

At her bewildered look, Riddle sighs patiently, indulgently, like she is a favourite pet who doesn't yet know how to sit. He keeps his distance and holds the parchment out to her, his writing neat and precise.

 

Riddle’s finely-carved features are still settled in that god-awful polished mask. The whole thing is so reminiscent of the train bathroom that Hermione’s blood starts to simmer -

 

“You’ve taken, what, eight NE.W.Ts? I was hoping you’d be rather quicker than this -”

 

“- You know what? No,” Hermione says forcefully. “I have a headache. I’m on my period and Malfoy stole my last tampon. I actually don’t have to put up with this right now. We agreed -” and she stresses the word just as his lips part, to cut him off “- that we’d meet tonight after dinner. I don’t recall agreeing to impromptu discussions in the hallway.”

 

Riddle pauses. “You’re being difficult,” he eventually says calmly, but is prevented from saying more as chatter from their classmates begins to approach, Flitwick’s voice chiming his excitement towards a new year.

 

“Hermione! Good to see you!” Ernie Macmillan’s pompous, sure, but he’s a damn sight better than Riddle. She turns away, and feels a sense of victory as Riddle’s hand wavers, for a millisecond, then smoothly tucks the paper back into his pocket. 

 

(She realises belatedly, on her way back to the Tower, that anything that gets him to break the character of dutiful, Perfect Prefect strums her blood with the thrill of victory.)

 

Maybe she’ll pay for it, later, but at this point, she really can’t help herself. As her classmates file in, laughing and chatting, Hermione hangs back, and waits until Riddle is just behind her. They are the last two to enter the class.

 

“Oh, by the way,” she catches his eye over her shoulder, murmurs at his pale, carefully blank face, “it’s actually nine N.E.W.T.s. Sorry you wasted your time with that schedule.”

 

Hermione sits with Padma and Ernie. She answers three questions correctly, and manages to non-verbally turn vinegar to wine by the end of the lesson.

 

And Riddle?

 

Spine ramrod straight in his seat, he doesn’t so much as look towards her during class.

 

---

 

Hermione's high from one-upping Riddle does not last long, for dinner, unfortunately, is an unexpectedly subdued affair at the Gryffindor table. 

 

Seamus and Dean have brought with them the grim news that the parents of the Creevey brothers - Muggle-borns, Hermione notes with icy dread - have disappeared over the summer. It has taken this long to come to light, Dean is saying angrily, because it was never published in The Daily Prophet. Seamus is nodding along. 

 

“The story is that the Ministry‘re saying it’s a Muggle affair, nothin’ to do with wizards. Horseshite, you’ve seen the bullshit laws being put forward - Muggle-born Registration’ll be next, only a matter’r time before they push it through -”

 

Hermione spares a glance towards Colin and Dennis, who are pale-faced and surrounded by friends at the end of the long table. She doesn’t know them well, not really, but as fellow Muggle-borns … She feels sick for them. Muggle-baiting is rare, but still happens. She can’t help but wonder what Colin or Dennis may have inadvertently done, to set a target on their family.

 

(a dark, wretched part of her is glad her parents are safe, albeit all the way in Australia)

 

“It’s not like the Ministry are telling us anything,” Dean is saying, his voice shaking with anger. His parents and sisters must be on his mind. “There’s an escaped criminal on the loose and they’ve not even said his name, for fuck’s sake. How do we know whether they’ve stolen a broomstick or slaughtered an entire primary school? Beggars belief …” Dean trails off, his anger not hiding his worry. 

 

“Dean,” Hermione starts tentatively, “we don’t know anything about them, they could be female - remember what Moody used to say? ‘Constant vigilance’? Well - not that he was actually Moody - but the principle stands, we can’t assume that they’re male -” 

 

“Not sure if that’s helpful at the moment,” Ron says, as Dean glares at her. Mildly affronted to receive advice on sensitivity from Ron of all people, Hermione wisely shuts up and lets the quiet, careful chatter of her House wash over her. 

 

God. It all feels like such a mess at the moment. Hermione had thought of Hogwarts as a safe bubble, where no harm could come to them.

 

But Quirrel - in retrospect, he was the first sign, wasn’t he? A Dark Magic fanatic who had infiltrated the school, stopped only in the nick of time by her, Harry and Ron. No one was quite sure if he were a rogue agent or part of some larger, more sinister group - he had been after the Philosopher’s Stone, of course, but he had committed a grisly act of suicide in front of Harry as soon as Dumbledore had arrived …

 

Pureblood authoritarianism had been on the rise since then, Hermione was convinced. Despite her Professors assuring her she had a bright future, would be able to effect real change - Muggle-borns had found it harder and harder to find jobs out of Hogwarts, to acquire property in Wizarding communities, and anti-Muggle rhetoric was louder still. Most chillingly, open attacks on Muggles were becoming more brazen. 

 

And then their fourth year … Hermione glances down the table. Harry looks more like himself this evening, his appetite returned, but he, too, is subdued - she knows that the Creevey brothers idolised him, after the events of the Triwizard Tournament. That had been a nightmare - Barty Crouch Junior impersonating Moody for the year, Cedric Diggory dead in a graveyard. Harry had become entangled, somehow, but escaped, once more, by the skin of his teeth.

 

Crouch had spat vitriol to Harry, about Dumbledore and the school, hinted that there were more sinister forces at play than they could have imagined … but then, Crouch was Kissed, in front of Harry, in the school itself, all evidence erased. Harry’s frantic reports of a group of Dark Wizards in a graveyard were laughed off by Ministry officials. Sirius had damn near pulled Harry from the school, terrified for his safety. 

 

Especially after his parents ...

 

Last year, Harry had become even more outspoken. Hermione had worried he’d put a target on his back, but Harry had the combined weight of the Potter and Black families behind him. But no, it was Hermione that ended up Petrified, and maybe she was stupid now, to think it random - there must be a pattern, somewhere -

 

“Excuse me, Granger?”

 

Hermione knows it’s Riddle before she even turns. Next to her, Ginny has raised a judgemental eyebrow at Hermione, hiding a grin in her goblet. 

 

He’s standing just behind her, carrying a stack of books. Sitting on the bench, she’s at the right level to peer into his open schoolbag. Several scrolls of parchment are sticking out, and Hermione spots several bottles of Ordinary Indian Ink in a range of colours. She hates that she approves of the brand. 

 

Does he know what’s going on? What with all that’s gone on this summer, he’s certainly classed as disreputable, now. 

 

She cranes her neck back to let her eyes sweep over him. His face is neutral, serious. He looks - well, the same as ever, her brain thankfully cuts her off. Studious. 

 

Hermione petulantly decides that she doesn’t like how tall he is. 

 

“Sorry to interrupt you,” Riddle winces apologetically, “but I noticed you were nearly done with dinner. I was wondering, could I borrow you now? It’s for the Herbology project,” he announces with a smile, for the benefit of the table. Neville is nodding along, as though he can think of nothing more fitting for Hermione than a Herbology project with Riddle.

 

“Hermione’s done for the rest of the evening,” Ginny butts in with a smile up at the devil himself, “isn’t that right, ‘Mione?” 

 

Hermione stares at her empty plate and seethes, silently. 

 

Oh, he’s very good, isn’t he? She listens to Riddle make easy chatter with Ginny and Harry - about Quidditch! As if he cares about Quidditch! - as she gathers her things, stealing two apples and a bread roll for later. 

 

“Have fun!” Harry calls out. “Don’t stay up too late! It’s a school night!” 

 

“Or do!” Ginny hollers after Hermione, who scowls horribly back in response.

 

She trails slightly behind him, out of the Hall. He doesn’t turn to her once.

 

What’s his game? What does he want? She’s no closer to answering any more questions regarding Riddle. In fact, she has even more now.

 

Why has he bothered to step in three times in quick succession? Healing her arm on the train, then the Dementors, and today, Malfoy. 

 

Not that he’s even said a word to her, she realises. “Hey, Riddle,” she calls to him, half-trotting to catch up. “Where are we heading?” 

 

“Somewhere private,” he says, and refuses to elaborate further, despite her cajoling. The portrait of The Fat Lady’s friend Violet titters outrageously at this, and scarpers off, no doubt to gossip.

 

Riddle leads her deeper and deeper into the bowels of the castle. They are heading towards the dungeons. 

 

Great place for a murder.

 

But if murder is on his mind, Riddle gives no indication of it, his posture easy and relaxed. He stops by a disused Potions classroom, and wordlessly unlocks the door. 

 

“The Slughorn privilege,” she mutters under her breath. He ignores her, and gestures for her to enter. The classroom is dark, with twelve empty cauldrons set up on benches. 

 

Her heart thuds in trepidation as she glances at him, uncertainly. 

 

“Granger, we don’t have all night,” and she would be more reassured if there were any hint of impatience in his voice, but no, his words and movements are lazy, languid even, as he walks past her to rest against the largest desk, at the front. 

 

It is so rebellious of him - to lean openly on Slughorn’s desk! - that she summons the courage to step in, keeping him in her vision at all times. Here, in the darkness, his face in shadow -

 

- he is more ominous to her than when he left her family home.

 

The quiet shuck of the door closing behind her has the hairs on her arms standing up. He clicks his fingers, and the lamps held in sconces along the walls dimly flicker alight.

 

“You’re really going for drama today, aren’t you?” The words slip from her mouth before she can stop them. She wants to goad him into any reaction, rather than this strange stillness.

 

His gaze is penetrating, as he takes her in for a long moment. She struggles not to fidget, not to show any weakness. His eyes catch the orange glow from the lamps, lighting his irises a rich mahogany. Funny, they usually look black to -

 

- Hermione's mouth goes bone dry. She can't take her eyes off his long fingers as he reaches up to deftly loosen the neat Windsor knot at his throat. Her heart starts to beat faster as he undoes his top button, revealing the dip of his collar bones. 

 

For the first time today, Hermione’s utterly unsure of herself. She stays close to the door, just in case. Her hand drifts to her wand.

 

Riddle frowns slightly, but then stretches his head to the right, cracking his vertebrae loudly. He rubs his neck with a relieved sigh, the long muscle from the bump of his clavicle disappearing under his ear standing proud. His eyes drift half-closed.

 

Sternocleidomastoid, whispers a voice unbidden in Hermione's ear. It is somehow easier to observe him in purely anatomical terms.

 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he turns to her slowly. There is a hollow expression she has never before seen on his face.

 

(it looks like - hunger)

 

“I think we need to have an honest conversation, Hermione.”

 

Notes:

eek!

thots n prayers to hermione oxox

yes ginny is That Friend
harry might be too now
also neville (but only because plants)

again thank you so much for your lovely words and kudos xxx

(also let's be frens! tumblr.com/foolishlywandwaving)

Chapter 7

In that moment, silence stretching between them, Hermione thinks that she has never before met the person across from her. 

 

She had known Tom Riddle to be a pleasant, self-effacing schoolboy, with a quick mind. Genial, polite. And yes, that was who he tried to present once more on the Hogwarts Express, wasn’t it? But it had fit him poorly then - like a snake itching to shed its skin. She had thought at the time that that was when the scales had finally fallen from her eyes.

 

Once, a bitter lifetime ago, she might have considered them friends - and if not friends, that he respected her mind, at the very least.

 

But this hollow, empty-eyed boy - no, her stomach twists, he’s nearly a man - regarding her with all the cool detachment of a museum curator, is a stranger to her. 

 

Tom Riddle, brilliant, charming, handsome, helpful. 

 

Tom Riddle, remorseless, cunning, manipulative, Machiavellian, two-faced -

 

He confuses her. He makes her brain itch. He repulses her, repulses her efforts to box him away neatly. She wants to crack his skull like an egg to see what makes his neurons fire, to reconcile the two, jarring images he presents. 

 

She doesn’t understand him.

 

She doesn’t know if she wants to

 

Riddle tilts his head in her direction. His cheekbones appear sharper, gaunter in the low light. The friendly mask he wears that had taken Hermione - everyone - in so thoroughly has shattered. His face is unsettlingly blank, the easy smile he wore in the Great Hall long gone. Just how does he switch between the two so well? How was he able to chat about Quidditch to Harry and Ginny so convincingly?

 

Is who she sees now the true Tom Riddle? Has she seen any real personality from him, anything other than pure, unbridled rage, magic roiling unrestrained, at the Riddle mansion?

 

But at her parents’ house - 

 

Don’t think about that, Hermione -

 

“If you’re quite done staring?”

 

She startles, temporarily lost for words. 

 

Riddle’s fathomless eyes pin her where she stands, like an insect to a corkboard. 

 

(Who is he, really?)

 

“I’d better start, if you’re just going to gawp,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest. “I thought, perhaps, this would work better between us if there were a modicum of honesty. I can’t have you flouncing from me in the middle of the corridor again, can I?” 

 

Honesty. 

 

The single word sticks in her craw, and unsticks her tongue. 

 

Unimpressed, Hermione plants her palm on a cocked hip. “You realise you get a Troll, Riddle, on the matter of honesty?”  

 

“A downgrade from my usual Outstanding, but I suppose I can understand the sentiment.” His words are cold, without the same gentle inflection. 

 

Fine. Hermione bites down her riposte, refusing to engage in further witticisms.

 

She can’t help thinking of him as a great, fat black spider, sitting in the middle of his web.

 

There is no excess movement, no fidgeting of the fingers, no convincing crinkle to the creases of his eyes that he might have once worn. 

 

“I’ll keep this brief. You’ll recall our Herbology project last year. I admit, I didn’t expect it to be half as successful as it turned out. I wonder if you’ve been told this before, but you were quite stimulating to work with.”

 

He pauses, eyes flat, giving her an opportunity to - what, return the compliment? It is so bizarre to hear this, all things considered (and Hermione is a little preoccupied with topics such as attempted murder threats blackmail abduction), that she can only manage a withering glare in return.

 

“We have a significant overlap in subjects,” he carries on, ignoring her daggers. “Eight, if I’m up to date. I propose that we work together in class, split the reading list, and take advantage of any further research that comes our way.”

 

Her brain suddenly screeches to a halt.

 

“You want to do research together?” She blurts out, aghast at the prospect. She can’t work with Riddle. She can’t. 

 

And it goes somewhat beyond attempted murder threats blackmail abduction -

 

Hermione knows, for better or worse, that it is simply not possible for her to let go of the reins, so to speak, in any sort of group work. She accepts her personal limitation in being a shade … authoritarian, in group projects. Harry and Ron (and Neville and Seamus and Dean and Parvati and Padma and Terry Boot and whoever else she’s worked with over the years) can attest to this whole-heartedly - she didn’t even know that Dean knew the word 'authoritarian' until their fourth year Astronomy project.

 

In fact, her need for control mostly means that she has always dictated the terms of a project. To stellar grades, albeit (Dean had grovelled a Honeydukes apology). No one can complain of Hermione Jean Granger slacking, of anything less than an Outstanding on any assignment.

 

But: the problem. 

 

Hermione sincerely doubts that Riddle will let her take the uncontested lead. Even last year, when he was still acting like a semi-normal student, he insisted on an equal division of labour. At least she had managed to keep him at arms’ length for the majority of the year. 

 

No, Hermione has a horrible lurch of apprehension that research, actual research with Riddle sans-mask will mean debates and collaboration and experimentation and schedules and planning and capitulating and conceding -

 

(Research with Riddle means spending time together -)

 

For the sake of her sanity, Hermione needs to talk him out of it. 

 

She says, with forced levity, “Riddle, I thought you just wanted me to do your homework - maybe some evil-doing if your calendar was too full sacrificing first years -” 

 

“I reserve the first Wednesday of the month for that,” he says, utterly without humour. “And, speaking of which -” he pulls out a sheet of parchment from his pocket, taps it once, and floats the parchment towards her “- Muggle Studies, I hear? That means we both have Fridays free, except for Astronomy.” 

 

Hermione catches it from the air. Her eyes narrow. He’s made a neat timetable of their lessons, their likely homework, their free time - blocks allocated to research -

 

(Bile rises when she spots that it looks uncannily like the one she’s already made. It’s even colour-coordinated, Ordinary Indian Ink and all.)

 

She must have stared at it a beat too long, for Riddle keeps speaking. 

 

“It doesn’t have to be unprofitable between the two of us, you know. You’re efficient. You need a better profile in the Ministry, and groundbreaking research projects will make you stand out -”

 

Hermione can’t help it - she cuts him off with a snort. “It’s not like I have a choice, so you can stop there. And - great sales pitch, but we both know how this’ll go down. You’ll - you’ll just threaten me if I disagree with you. I don’t know about you but fearing for my life doesn’t exactly get the creative juices flowing.”

 

He pauses, as if giving due weight to her words. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he says, finally. “I’ll respect your well-reasoned arguments -”

 

“- Riddle, do you really think we can work well together after all that you’ve done?” Hermione says bluntly.

 

“As you say - this isn’t up for discussion, Hermione,” he says, terribly gently. “You will be doing as I say.”

 

His face is expressionless. He is unmoved.

 

She feels sickened that her agency has been taken away from her. However much she may rail against him, he isn’t going to budge - she won’t comply quietly, that’s for certain, but Hermione needs time and space to plan against him. She isn’t good at thinking on the spot, not like Harry.

 

Through the hopeless resignation that is creeping through her, something nags at the back of her brain - she can’t quite put her finger on it, but if she had to describe his little speech in one word, it would be rehearsed. 

 

“- And what do you get out of this, Riddle? Is the sociopathy application process that rigorous?” Hermione has a chilling sense of unease, made even worse by his clinically-detached face -

 

But strangely, he pauses his spiel then, fingers drumming against his upper arm. The corners of his mouth are downturned.

 

Eventually, he speaks simply.

 

“There just isn’t enough time in the day to get everything done that I want to - like I said, you’re efficient. You work well.” 

 

Hermione’s eyes narrow, mind latching on thankfully to another, more immediate injustice. “And precisely why are you so busy? What other extra credit are you doing?” He must be letting a leg-up on her, somehow - how typical of Riddle, the backstabber - maybe a project with Slughorn -

 

Unexpectedly, Riddle brings his fist up to cover his mouth. A tiny exhale escapes through his fingers. 

 

Is that - 

 

- it is, unmistakably -

 

“Don’t laugh at me,” she says, incredulous. Her hands ball into fists by her side.

 

Riddle removes his hand, his face smoothed almost immediately back to the strange, blank canvas. Any trace of amusement in his eyes is immediately shuttered down.

 

“I applaud your misplaced sense of competition. Trust you, Granger, to jump immediately to extra credit,” he says. The words are fond, but there is mockery threaded through his voice.  

 

She hates being laughed at - she resists stamping her foot childishly - or punching him - but Hermione refuses to be derailed. 

 

“What are you doing, if not extra credit?” 

 

Unfortunately, Riddle doesn’t seem inclined to answer her properly. He leans back against the desk even further and taps his forefinger against his chin in mock-contemplation. It is the most emotion he’s allowed himself to wear this whole evening. Shame it’s at her expense.

 

“Do you really think,” he asks her rhetorically, “that if I were pursuing extra credit work with Slughorn - I, his star pupil - that he would have managed to contain himself from bragging?”

 

“You’re not his star pupil,” she shoots back immediately, scowling. She’s annoyed, though, at how right he is. Slughorn would never be able to restrain himself. But - funny - she didn’t even mention the Professor -

 

There is a tiny, little, knowing smile on Riddle’s lips.

 

- Fuck!

 

The fucking prick.

 

The combination of his sheer audacity and being caught unawares has her temper flaring. Before she knows it, she’s stalking towards him, to jab a finger painfully in his chest. 

 

“Stop reading my mind. It’s rude,” Hermione says angrily, squaring up. 

 

Even slouched, Riddle is infuriatingly taller than she. He doesn’t even reach for his wand, the smug bastard, as though she is no threat whatsoever -

 

Fuck you. If you’re reading my mind, then fuck you, twice as hard, you fucking bastard -

 

His jaw tightens, slightly, the only indication that she’s managed to hit a nerve. “How eloquent. I believe you found the marriage certificate, so you’re wrong on that account.”

 

“Get out of my head!” she snarls, jabbing him harder. 

 

“Learn to stop me, then,” his lips quirk nastily down at her in a faint sneer. 

 

(A challenge?)

 

She’s a hair away from slapping him; Hermione wants to wipe away whatever fraction of expression has finally leached out - 

 

Lightning fast, he draws his wand dead-centre at her, the tip brushing the hollow between her collarbones. “If you slap me, Hermione, I don’t think you’ll enjoy the consequences very much, hmm?” Riddle says quietly, eyes unnaturally flat. 

 

His voice sears into her. He holds himself very, very still, like a blade poised. 

 

She knows then, at that moment, that if she pushes him, Pact or not, that he will find a way to hurt her terribly. 

 

Or Mum and Dad …

 

Hermione forces herself to take a very, very deep breath. His wand digs into her throat, vibrating with magical energy. Riddle’s eyes briefly flick to her neck, and her stomach roils -

 

Okay -

 

She retreats abruptly, and sits on a desk facing away from him. She hears him make as to follow her. 

 

Just -

 

“Just, give me a minute,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m trying to decide if it’s worth slapping you.”

 

“It probably isn’t,” he offers, deadly soft, but stays away.

 

Hermione stares into the bottom of a cauldron. Maybe it’s stupid turning her back to him, but it’s probably safer for her than looking at his infinitely punchable face. 

 

She puts her pride into a little box, and tucks it away deep in her chest, next to her heart. 

 

Okay. Think. There’s a way to win.

 

But she doesn’t have a choice. She’s bound by the Pact, to - what was it? To do his “grunt work”.

 

Although, maybe she can spin it to her advantage -

 

“Fine,” she spits out. “Fridays we’ll work together, expedite homework. But,” she adds, swinging her legs over the desk and staring at his forehead, “you’ll answer my questions now. In the spirit of honesty. Maybe I’ll bump you to Acceptable.”

 

Riddle raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “A counter-offer. You show me you can willfully comply with the terms of our agreement, and perhaps I will consider answering your questions. As we’ve covered, you haven’t a choice really, have you?”

 

Hermione wants to scream. Instead, she slowly counts to five.

 

“A counter-counter offer. I’ll throw in Tuesday after Transfiguration too, but that’s all I can do. I’m too busy for anything else. And you’ll answer my questions. How can you expect to be study partners, research partners without an element of trust, Riddle?”

 

Riddle shrugs, an annoyingly elegant motion. He doesn’t disagree, but he says nothing. In fact, he’s now looking bored -

 

“Ask quickly,” he says, glancing at the clock.

 

She blinks, caught off guard. She wasn’t expecting him to agree so easily. 

 

Right. Um -

 

“Why did you help me on the train? And with Malfoy?” 

 

He leisurely tucks his wand back into his pocket, before answering. 

 

“I don’t want you damaged, Granger. You’re rather more valuable to me with that brain functioning. Output tends to drop in the Hospital Wing.” 

 

She rolls her eyes. “Be still my beating heart. I’m sure you’d like nothing better than for Malfoy to Hex my arms off.”

 

He frowns slightly, at that. “If you’re worried, Malfoy won’t be a problem. Like I said, you’re of more use in good standing and good health.” 

 

“And how come you’re so sure that Malfoy will listen to you? He barely listens to Slughorn,” she says, doubtful. Father dearest being on the Board of Governors gives Malfoy a heinous amount of leeway with school rules.

 

At this, a smile distorts Riddle’s impassive face. 

 

But there is no kindness in this smile, only the chill of winter. His black eyes are glacial when he speaks. 

 

“Malfoy knows which side his bread is buttered. He won’t be a concern of yours. Neither Crabbe nor Goyle, for that.” 

 

Hermione opens her mouth, then shuts it, with an audible clack. What is there to say, to that? At least he doesn’t sound rehearsed anymore -

 

Riddle raises an eyebrow, expectant for another question. 

 

(Hermione inanely wishes she’d been given the opportunity to prepare for this)

 

“Um - so why did you kidnap my parents?”

 

“It’s quite obvious, isn’t it? Insurance. Don’t worry, you’ll get them back next summer.”

 

He projects his voice over her shriek of outrage. “It’s almost handy, don’t you think? You heard what happened to the Creevey brothers, did you not?”

 

Hermione’s mouth drops. “What, you want me to thank you for kidnapping them and holding me hostage?” 

 

He shrugs, nonchalantly. “Is that a question?”

 

Her eyes narrow. “Just how long had you been planning on taking them?” 

 

“... I wasn’t fully set on it, at the time,” he says, after a long pause. “Call it, a whim.” 

 

If she thought she’d remain calm, Hermione was very, very wrong. 

 

“A whim,” she says tightly. Her fingers clench around her wand. 

 

“Rather, a misunderstanding -”

 

“- Stop diminishing what you did!” Her magic prickles in the air around them. “You’ve done god-knows what to my parents, and you expect me to be, what, fine with that? Oh, Riddle,” she trills, fluttering her eyelashes, “I’m just so bloody grateful to get to work with you. Maybe, if I do a good enough job, you’ll murder my grandma next!” 

 

It is utterly incendiary, the way Riddle shrugs dismissively again, as if to say, And?  

 

“You arsehole -”

 

But Riddle, the emotionless prick, is back to looking bored. In fact, he shifts to stand up, looking at his nails idly -

 

“If we’re resorting to name-calling -”

 

“Sit down! God, you’re such a wanker,” she snaps at him. “I’m not finished -”

 

Riddle snaps his head towards her. His empty gaze captivates her with the full weight of his attention. 

 

Although her common sense is screaming at her to run, she cannot look away from the slight tilt of his head, the way he draws himself up slowly to his full height - 

 

He strolls towards her, hand relaxed in his pocket. 

 

“No, I think you are, Hermione.” 

 

His long fingers reach towards his throat, and he tugs his emerald green tie free in a fluid motion.

 

The hairs on the back of her neck begin to prickle uncomfortably.  

 

“I’ve been patient with you, wouldn’t you agree? I’ve answered your questions, haven’t I?” 

 

The boy in front of her begins to smile, a tiny, chilling slant at the corner of his full lips. 

 

“The mouth on you, Granger - let’s see if you can put your money where it is.”

 

And it is this which had Hermione scrabbling for her wand, hurling herself bodily over the desk: 

 

With an explosively fast movement, Riddle flings his tie at Hermione’s face. Mid-air, it transforms into a writhing, emerald green serpent with glistening fangs, as thick as her arm, as tall as Hagrid -

 

She lands painfully on her backside and rolls to her feet. The snake crashes to the floor, briefly stunned.

 

Riddle tuts. “Poor landing - hasn’t Lupin taught you better by now?” 

 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” she screams at him, furious and terrified in equal measure. 

 

The snake is now coiling up in a writhing mass, its head hovering a few inches proud from the floor. 

 

Its orange eyes are unblinkingly fixed upon Hermione. 

 

“You’re mental, Riddle. Mental -”

 

Riddle tuts, again. He looks faintly amused as he sits on the same desk, feet on the bench. “You really do enjoy name-calling, don’t you? For someone so intelligent, I did expect better.”

 

Hermione tunes his bullshit out as best she can. She doesn’t know a lot about snakes, but this one looks angry. Is it poisonous? The long, pointed fangs mean venom, right? Hermione’s trying hard to flip through the pages of her encyclopaedic memory but it’s difficult when her heart’s about to burst through her chest; surely she’s read something about this type of snake -

 

The snake’s head starts to rise and sway. 

 

Her mind is running at a million miles an hour. She wishes her body moves as instinctively as her thoughts.

 

If she even points her wand, does she have time to Vanish it? WIll Vanishing work? 

 

A thin forked tongue flutters out, as though to smell her, taste the air around her -

 

Hermione panics. “Vipera evanesca!” She shouts. There is a puff of black smoke, but when it clears -

 

- the snake is still there, undulating wildly. 

 

Riddle chuckles. 

 

The hissing grows louder. 

 

Right - hissing. Hissing is probably bad. Think, think!

 

Riddle’s spell was non-verbal - of course, damn him - is it even a Conjuration? 

 

Slowly, glacially, she takes a step back -

 

- The snake launches itself from the stone floor like a coiled spring. Hermione dives to her left clumsily, painfully shouldering a desk over in her panic. She stumbles, and catches herself hard on her palms. Thankfully, she keeps hold of her wand.

 

She pushes herself up, hands stinging, and whips her head around. 

 

The snake skitters across the floor, and begins to gather itself once again, thrashing wildly. Between Hermione and the snake is a workbench with two pewter cauldrons. Inanely, she remembers brewing a Levitation Potion with Padma in third year at that very workbench.

 

Focus, Hermione! 

 

“Are you planning on destroying the entire classroom tonight?”

 

Unbidden, her eyes flick to him.

 

Riddle hasn’t moved a muscle. He’s smiling more broadly now, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled in amusement. Like a wealthy tourist on safari watching wild animals rip each other apart for sport. 

 

Hermione’s ended up closer to the door now, but she bets it’s spelled shut. Alohomora surely wouldn’t work. Could she Blast it? Transfigure the hinges to jelly? 

 

Riddle rests his chin on his fist, watching serenely.

 

Unless -

 

She jabs her forefinger in his direction, eyes fixed on the serpent. “What's wrong with you, then? Do you have a diagnosis? Or were you dropped on the head as a baby?” 

 

Coolly, Riddle holds his hand up. The snake stills. “Let me tell you something about myself, Hermione -”

 

“No thanks,” she cuts him off rudely, and - in a strange three-way battle, where one participant has scales but no limbs - she points her wand directly at the snake. 

 

In an instant, Riddle leaps to his feet.

 

“If you hurt that sssnake -” Riddle begins to say in tones of pure, chilling ice -

 

Hermione is angry enough, intends this enough, that she knows this will work. She’s not powerless like before, not with Goyle, not with Malfoy -

 

“Avis Majora!” she cries. A bang like a gun goes off -

 

- Riddle swings his wand down like an executioner’s axe. A shimmering shield appears between Hermione and the snake, stretching from floor to ceiling. 

 

But although Hermione is pointing her wand at the snake -

 

- a swarm of small, crimson red birds shoot out from the end of her finger. With all the velocity of a bullet, they fire themselves at Riddle’s face. 

 

Riddle is the finest student duellist in the school. She’s seen him flatten everyone in her year and above. Envied his speed, his grace. But he has underestimated her, again, she thinks viciously, as the razor-sharp claws of the first tiny bird catch and rip into the soft flesh of his cheek, catching him utterly by surprise. 

 

As his shield charm wavers momentarily.

 

As Hermione flips over a cauldron non-verbally to neatly trap the snake. 

 

As the rest of the flock surround him, wrenching out his hair, slicing into his robes, cruelly tearing into his raised arms with beaks as sharp as knives. 

 

Hermione doesn’t waste a second. She turns heel and sprints for the door, ignoring the frantic chirping behind her, the sound of furious spell-casting.

 

But in the time it takes for Hermione to sprint to the door, Riddle has, incredibly, obliterated almost every single deadly little bird. And Hermione had Summoned at least twenty. 

 

She has mere seconds to open the door, but as it turns out, she only needs one.

 

The heavy wooden door bursts open as she approaches, her magic jumping from her wand. 

 

She’s out, she’s through -

 

Hermione glances over her shoulder as she flees the dungeon, and freezes at the sight. It is though time slows to treacle, allowing her to take in every horrific detail she is running away from. 

 

Riddle is standing as still as a statue, illuminated only by the flickering lamplight. Crimson red feathers are floating gently in the air around him, yet to settle at his feet. The cold stone floor is littered with the broken, slashed, maimed bodies of Hermione’s beautiful birds. His handsome face is a terrible, terrible mess. A deep, ragged wound stretches from the sharp angle of his right cheekbone to the corner of his lip. Blood coats the entire side of his pale face like a curtain, dripping from his arms, his hands, even off the tip of his wand dangling limply from his fingers. His robes and shirt are shredded beyond magical repair, having taken the brunt of the attack. If the lighting weren’t so poor, she would see if the sharp talons had managed to tear into the fragile skin of his chest; they might have torn into his lungs; burrowed their way in to ravage his heart -

 

What has she done, what has she done -

 

Later - she cannot explain why - but she is drawn, like a moth to a flame, to look deep within his glittering eyes. 

 

Riddle holds her gaze steadily. He’s breathing hard, lips parted. She finds she cannot hold the burning intensity of his stare dead on for long. 

 

(How had she thought him emotionless?)

 

She breaks. But in the moment before she turns away from him, he grins eerily, teeth flashing bone white through the gore.

 

---

 

Hermione staggers through the Portrait hole wearily. On the long journey to the seventh floor, she has tidied her appearance, and finally calmed her heart rate. 

 

She finds, for once in her life, that she doesn’t want to dissect this Riddle interaction. Not until she’s slept. Not until she feels safe.

 

The warmth of Gryffindor Tower envelops her like an old friend. The Common room is noisy, jam-packed with students, eager to catch up after a long summer apart. The remainder of last year’s Quidditch team are huddled around Harry, their new team captain. Ron and Ginny, along with several other Gryffindors, are eavesdropping surreptitiously. Lavender and Parvati are by the fireplace, heading bent closely together. Lavender looks over to Ron once, then dissolves into a fresh fit of giggles. Parvati rolls her eyes good-naturedly. She spots Hermione, and calls her over. 

 

“Hermione! I forgot to give you that book yesterday -”

 

“- because someone woke up half the Tower last night,” Lavender finishes teasingly at Ron. His ears burn pink from the attention, but he perks up considerably when she flounces over to sit next to him. Ginny makes a disgusted expression and joins Neville instead. 

 

Hermione’s nerves feel completely frayed. She wants to sit on the floor of the shower, get into bed, and pull the covers over her head. Instead, she picks her way exhaustedly through the gaggle of tiny first and second years, the third years excitedly discussing Hogsmeade, the seventh years prefects in a huddle around the desolate Colin and Dennis -

 

“- nauseating, aren’t they?” Parvati shrewdly observes Ron replicate some sort of violent Quidditch tackle to Lavender, who dissolves into a peal of laughter. “Still, she seems happy. Are you going to be okay with it?”

 

Parvati doesn’t pull her punches, does she? She sounds protective. Hermione wonders if she’s being warned. 

 

If the events of the summer, of today, of tonight, hadn’t taken place, then perhaps, perhaps -

 

As it stands, the thought of dating, of romance, couldn’t be further from her mind. She’s only just stopped trembling from the altercation with Riddle. 

 

And … she can’t really put a dibs on Ron, can she? Reserve him like a library book, check him out once Riddle’s returned her parents? No, Ron’s a person, one of her best friends. He deserves happiness, And maybe at the end of the year, she can think about it properly, but, she just - just absolutely does not have the time, the headspace right now, not whilst Riddle has her bent over a barrel; Jesus Christ he’s probably plotting a horrific revenge -

 

“I’m happy for them,” Hermione manages to say evenly, tamping down the rising panic. She doesn’t look over. “Ron - Lavender - if they’re happy, then I’m happy.” 

 

It must sound passably sincere, for Parvati relaxes. “Good. Well - you know what I mean. You’re my friend too, you shouldn’t be upset either. Besides,” and Parvati suddenly looks terribly sly, “I hear there’s a new man on the block? Oh, don’t pull that face - I saw you going with Tom Riddle to study.” 

 

For a second, Hermione entertains retching openly. She can’t get the image of Riddle’s blood-stained face out of her mind, the dread of what she’d almost done to him. But, she bottles it down, and breathes deeply. It’s not worth snapping at her roommate. It’s not worth the suspicion.

 

“Nothing’s going on with me and Riddle, Parvati. We’ve planned to study together this year - no, genuinely - and we’re finishing off that research project. I really don’t have time right now for dating - you know that N.E.W.T.s are less than two years away -” 

 

Thankfully, Parvati takes the bait, and holds her hands out in mock-surrender. “Please can we not talk about N.E.W.T.s one the first day back - may I distract you with this book, instead?” 

 

She holds out an old book, bound in cracked, ivory leather and waggles it enticingly. Hermione brightens immediately and starts to flip through, scanning paragraph after paragraph -

 

“Earth to Hermione!” Parvati waves in her face, fondly. “I take it this is what you wanted?”

 

“Yes,” Hermione replies breathlessly, blood and feathers and burning eyes banished to the back of her mind. “Thank you, thank you so much!”

 

She gazes at the front cover reverently. 

 

Protection Charm Your Mind: A Practical Guide to Counter Legilimensy by Franciscus Fieldwake.

 

“This is exactly what I wanted.”

Notes:

ummmm I'm really sorry if you thought that conversation was going to go well for anyone involved. hermione REALLY isn't like one of tom's usual lackeys <3

*announcer voice* but will this bite her in the ass??? what's tom REALLY thinking??

thank you again for your theories, comments, and encouragement - I love reading what you've picked up on, and they really do spur me on!

feel free to say hi on tumblr at foolishlywandwaving xxx

Chapter 8

Riddle isn’t at breakfast the next morning.

 

Her eyes feel gritty with sleep as she sits at the long dining table, surreptitiously scanning the far table for his raven hair. No, out of Riddle’s usual gang she only spies Nott unattractively picking something from his teeth, and Mulciber sneering at a second year. 

 

Hermione, unsurprisingly, hasn’t rested well at all. Whenever she had shut her eyes, willing herself to drift off, unwelcome images of Riddle’s mangled face had slunk into her subconscious and plastered themselves on the inside of her eyelids. It is a curious thing about memory, she muses tiredly over breakfast, that although she couldn’t have spent more than five seconds staring at the carnage she wrought upon him (the metallic smell of his blood thick in the air), she’s spent the better part of the night replaying their - what, row? Altercation? Tête-à-tête? She can’t think of a word that neatly encompasses blackmail, duelling, kidnap, secret pacts -

 

Instead, she distracted herself by reading well into the early morning, her nose pressed closely to the cramped, spidery text in her new book, courtesy of Parvati. Occlumency - a rare practice, difficult to learn with an experienced practitioner, let alone from a book - is entirely new to her, a skill she is desperate to become proficient at, to block Riddle - well, anyone really, now that she thinks about it - from accessing her thoughts freely. Annoyingly the author, Franciscus Fieldwake, has spent much of the first three chapters effusively detailing his travels in Wizarding India, and barely touches on the ‘enlightenment’ he has achieved in studying their world-renowned meditative practices. Meditation seems awfully woolly to Hermione, but she has decided to persevere. The only useful suggestion she's come across thus far are breathing exercises to begin clearing her mind, organising her thoughts. Parvati had already warned her, but the eighteenth century text reeks of Wizarding Colonialism. Unfortunately, Fieldwake’s text is considered the de facto introduction to Occlumency. Fortunately, she has acquired a small collection of other useful manuscripts from her friends. Neville and Parvati have come through for her (Lavender has tried her best, procuring an old manuscript on using Divination to Cloud the Senses). Hermione is yet to speak to Luna. 

 

A large part of her itches to get at the library at Grimmauld Place, where she knows there’ll be even more information, even on Legilimency, but, for now - 

 

Ginny pours her a strong cup of tea as Hermione listlessly picks at her porridge. She can’t help but glance over at the Slytherin table once more. The truth is, in between cringing at Fieldwake’s rapturous - frankly embarrassing - recollections of the beautiful Indian witches he’s encountered, and his effusive complaints about the food, she’s had time to dissect (agonise over, Ginny would snark) last night’s bust-up with Riddle. 

 

The redhead, sat across from her, is absorbed with inhaling toast at an impressive rate - a habit long-born from living with six older brothers.

 

If only she could speak to Ginny - actually, she knows exactly what Ginny would do. Ginny would tell her off, say there’s no reason for the churning in her gut over attacking someone who’s wronged her like Riddle has (Ginny would use much stronger language, smiles Hermione ruefully). Then she’d offer to sic her Bat Bogies on him ...

 

She's been carefully tiptoeing around the crux of the matter: she has never before cast a spell with the intention to seriously hurt someone. And not just any offensive spell. Avis Majora - a vicious, borderline-Dark Charm that could have done real damage. It might have - Hermione didn’t stick around to find out.

 

And she wishes she could pack it away neatly, an eye for an eye and hang to dry, but -

 

There is a suffocating, pervasive heaviness in her chest, weighing down her every step since she fled the classroom.

 

She shouldn’t have lost control like that. Even with Riddle.

 

She could have fired any spell at him - the Full-Body Bind, a Stunner - hell, even a Bat Bogey -

 

No, Ginny’s voice in her head says, he shouldn’t have riled you up - 

 

… But was Riddle answering her simply to aggravate? Hermione has chewed over his words multiple times - and before she has started to call him (entirely-justified) names, he had actually answered her questions - she just hadn’t liked the answers -

 

She looks over, again, at the entrance to the Great Hall. Is he in the Hospital Wing? Does anyone know that Gryffindor’s finest Mudblood brutally assaulted another student? Will he tell a Professor? Will there be a black mark on her record?

 

Or worst of all - will she be expelled?

 

Whenever Crabbe, or Goyle, or Parkinson - or any of the Slytherin crew, for that matter - takes a swipe at Hermione, trips her in the hall, curses her, she has to think carefully about retaliation. Words have been her weapon, not her wand. Harry, Ron, Ginny - lots of friends with less to lose than the token Muggleborn - have stepped in to defend her. For Hermione knows (and it was made abundantly clear to her when she had slapped Malfoy and been summarily threatened with expulsion in third year) that her position in this school is precarious. Dependent on the goodwill from those pure of magical blood.

 

Hermione’s always told herself that she’s better, smarter than the Purebloods, that she will prove herself with grades and magical competency. That she doesn’t need to sink to their level of bullying, of violence.

 

And yet - 

 

Amidst the fear of expulsion, the nauseous roil of a tumultuous conscience, and the sleeplessness, a tiny, nasty thought, one that she has ruminated on endlessly, re-enters the back of her mind. 

 

She’s an above-average duellist, sure - but Riddle, even as a student, could run a masterclass. He is simply exceptional in exhibitions, twisting and turning lithely, a barrage of elegant spells fired in quick succession. She knows that Flitwick, a champion duellist, has expressed interest in training him after graduation.

 

(It’s always galled her)

 

What Hermione is desperately trying to tamp down - can barely acknowledge in the light of day - is the nagging thought that landing a spell, any spell on Riddle, breaking his tight control of his emotions, is utterly, viscerally satisfying. 

 

And when she did, she felt powerful. 

 

Like she wasn’t forced to stand behind her friends, to hold herself back, wand twitching with intent. But … 

 

Should she be concerned about the coil of pleasure in her gut, that she managed to carve up Riddle so bloodily before he could land a hit?

 

Her hand tightens around her spoon. She shakes her head resolutely.

 

No. She is a good person. A Prefect. Would a bad person have lost sleep over this?

 

She’s allowed to make one single mistake. 

 

The nasty little voice in her ear continues to whisper: isn’t it better that she attacked Riddle, channelled her rage and frustration at him, rather than Goyle, or Malfoy? He’s of no great Wizarding name - no parent of his sits on the board of Governors, no parent high up in the Ministry ready to block Hermione’s applications - 

 

- no one else has Obliviated her parents and is holding them hostage - 

 

Common sense returns, along with a lump of ice in her stomach. Her deepest fear, now - that she will have pushed Riddle into something unmentionable.

 

How will he retaliate? How on earth are they going to work together now?

 

And that smile, emerging from behind his cracked mask -

 

Replaying his wild expression makes her skin crawl, her heart race. She can’t for the life of her understand the emotion behind -

 

“Hermione? Are you okay? You’re gone white as a sheet!” 

 

Hermione snaps to attention.

 

Ginny’s concerned, peering over at her, toast halfway to her mouth. She’s frowning, ginger brows drawn together. 

 

Hermione shakes her head lightly, as though banishing a pesky fly. “It’s nothing Ginny - only, I was worrying about Professor Binn’s research essay and what to write about - I just can’t decide between the Statute of 1326 or 1489 - N.E.W.T.s are less than two years away -”

 

Someone groans loudly behind Hermione. Ron plops himself next to her, closely followed by Harry. 

 

“I dunno how you’re still taking History of Magic,” Ron says dramatically, and swipes the last slice of Ginny’s toast. “Dropped it as soon as I could - bloody glad it’s not required for Auror training.” 

 

“N.E.W.T.s are important for more than just Auror training, Ronald,” Hermione says primly, as Ginny flicks him the middle finger.

 

Harry snorts, helping himself to a heaping pile of sausages and fried eggs. “Right - if I’m cornered by a dark wizard I can just bore him to death by listing all ninety seven reasons Og the Ignoble lost the Battle of Dun Hill in 1066 -” 

 

“There are only forty three published reasons, and it wasn’t 1066 for goodness’ sake -” 

 

Harry shrugs, and smiles cheekily, mouth crammed to bursting with food. Hermione wrinkles her nose - how do boys still eat like pigs - and looks to Ginny in askance. 

 

Ginny, however, is rolling her eyes laughingly at Harry, the faintest of flushes on her freckled cheeks -

 

Well. 

 

Hermione sneaks a glance to Ron to see if he’s noticed, but he’s too busy inhaling strips of crispy bacon to pay attention to anything further than six inches from his mouth. Harry too, for that matter. 

 

Boys.

 

She looks at her watch - twenty minutes until she has to get to class. Normally she would have already left, enough time to organise her desk, double check her reading list, even ask the Professor about possible assignments. 

 

But this morning, sleep-deprived and on edge, Hermione relishes the normality that a morning breakfast with Harry, Ron, and Ginny brings. The conversation has turned to - what else? Quidditch - and Hermione tunes out, letting the babble of conversation wash over her. 

 

Her morning tea warms her slowly from the inside out. She soaks in the good-natured squabbling of her friends, neatens the frayed edges of her nerves. Soon Neville drops himself across from her, hair still sleep-mussed, a list of questions a mile long on her Herbology project. She finds she can relax into the academic discussion, and before she knows it -

 

“I’d better get to class,” Hermione announces to the table, her smile more genuine. Harry waves her goodbye as Ginny silently floats a smoked kipper into the hood of Ron’s robes.

 

Although Hermione has a little more resolve now, she catches herself glancing over her shoulder on the way to History of Magic, weaving through a gaggle of Hufflepuff boys. The castle feels alive now, filled to the brim with bustling students, swooping ghosts - Hermione takes a sharp left into a tapestry-concealed hidden entrance as soon as she sees Peeves in the East Corridor showering the first years with what looks like a year’s supply of beetle eyes, Professor Slughorn steaming like a tea kettle below. A Prefect she may be, but she doesn’t fancy picking insect bits from her hair of all things this morning. She has enough to contend with.

 

She swings open the portrait of Boris the Bewildered and clambers ungracefully through the other end, brushing down her robes. No one else is waiting outside the open door of Professor Binn’s classroom - in fact, she is the first to take her seat at the very front. The majority of students have dropped the deathly dull class, save for a scattering of Ravenclaws finally trickling in, looking uneasy. They are right to be nervous, she thinks primly, laying out her things. This is a N.E.W.T.-level class, after all.

 

And, of course -

 

The hairs prickle at the back of her neck. 

 

Measured footsteps approach her. She hears him take a seat, to her right. 

 

(Does this mean that she can recognise his footsteps now? Ugh.)

 

“Good morning, Hermione,” Riddle greets her politely. It is quite jarring to hear his classroom persona so effortlessly worn, after their illuminating ‘conversation’ last night. 

 

“Morning, Riddle,” she says with affected nonchalance. She is half-dreading, half-hopeful to see his injuries at her hand -

 

But he is facing away from her, meticulously laying out his parchment, his ink, his quills. He doesn’t pay her any more attention.

 

She sees a long scratch disappearing under the cuff of his shirtsleeve. 

 

Hermione fidgets. A sick lump of something rises in her throat. Did she hurt him that badly? Would he have actually set that snake on her? 

 

Damn - she still can’t see his right hand side. 

 

And really - Hermione doesn’t want to hurt anyone with magic - even Riddle, right? But he shouldn’t have set a snake on her first - pushed her to lose her temper - she was just so angry - but she had drawn blood -

 

Hermione cranes her neck; if she can just assess the extent of the damage then maybe she can get in the right mindset for class -

 

And he still hasn’t looked at her - she just needs to see his stupid face -

 

“You know, a photo may last longer.” He pauses to carelessly push back his raven hair, and turns to smile quizzically at her, the picture of polite puzzlement.

 

His skin is as smooth and unblemished as usual. Of course - he’s healed himself flawlessly, hasn’t he, no scratches, no bleeding - the tight constriction in her throat loosens somewhat; but something else squirms in her stomach, threatening to bubble up and out - 

 

“I need to speak to you after -” is all she can manage to say, before Professor Binns drifts through the wall, and without an iota of preamble, begins droning.

 

Riddle raises an eyebrow at her, mouth turned down at the corners, and pointedly turns to face Binns. A dismissal, is it?

 

She scrunches up her nose. Fine. 

 

Ruthlessly, Hermione forces herself to pay attention, and shoves any thought of Riddle to the back of her mind. She resolves to not look at him once, and slowly, Hermione calms herself with the scratching of her quill against parchment. If she still wants to beat him academically, then she can’t very well afford to be distracted in class, can she?

 

She fills several pages with detailed notes on the N.E.W.T-level curriculum, the expected assignments, the essay deadlines. She is so focused that the end of the lesson catches her almost by surprise, Professor Binns drifting through the blackboard still droning to himself. 

 

The students around begin to chatter, filing out of the classroom. Riddle packs his things silently with a swish of his wand.

 

Her chair screeches as she stands. Hermione’s palms are slightly sweaty and her stomach lurches of its own accord - she tells herself sternly that she’s certainly not nervous - 

 

“You wanted something?”

 

There is a certain coolness to Riddle’s polite tone as he slings his bag over his shoulder. 

 

“Can - I need to talk to you.” Apart from the initial stutter, her voice is firm.

 

“If I’m not mistaken, we’re already meeting this evening in the library, aren’t we? I'm not sure I have time for an impromptu discussion in the hall.” The puzzled look is back on his face as he starts to leave. He even smiles sympathetically (for the benefit of their remaining classmates, she thinks sourly).

 

Her mouth drops open, hearing him repeat her words. He’s not going to make this easy, is he? Hermione can’t help herself from exhaling in frustration as she darts forward to catch his sleeve. The idea of apologising to him is so unpalatable, so embarrassing - but she thinks of her parents, at the mercy of Riddle and her courage swells - she is a Gryffindor, damnit -

 

“Look, just five minutes - please?” The platitude sticks in her throat but she forces it off her tongue.

 

He eyes her fingers caught in his robe, but perhaps it is her plea that allows her to tug him over to the portrait of Boris the Bewildered. The corridor is empty enough, she thinks - she certainly does not want a reputation of sneaking around the castle with Riddle - and Boris’ painted features smile obligingly to swing open at the password (“Forget-me-not”). 

 

“Ladies first,” Riddle says, with almost imperceptible impatience. 

 

She grimaces - having her back to him will never be a comfortable feeling - but gamely ducks her head to step through. The staircase leading down to the ground floor is roughly hewn and narrow, lit by flickering, smokeless torches. There is little room at the top of the stairs, barely a five foot cube of space, so she takes a step down to make some distance. Riddle gracefully enters, and the portrait swings shut. He has to crouch to fit through, the ceiling low and brushing the top of his hair. Hermione can’t help but think that they are outgrowing the castle, in more than a literal sense. 

 

“Cosy,” he comments neutrally, sitting on the lip of the portrait hole. His dark eyes are cool and unblinking, long legs stretched and arms folded across his chest. “Now, what is it that simply can’t wait until this evening?”

 

“Well, Riddle, I wanted to talk,” Hermione says, summoning a smile on her face, careful to keep her eyes on the wall behind him. “If we’re going to work together without attracting suspicion then it needs to be more convincing, like we’re actually friends. So this is me, offering to clear the air.”

 

Her not-quite-apology hangs awkwardly between them. For a second, she is sure she sees some emotion flicker in his eyes, she thinks he might accept it, but -

 

Riddle clucks his tongue, unimpressed. “What air do I have to clear?” She raises her eyebrows at this, but he continues.  

 

“I think the onus is very much on you to be more convincing, Hermione. Potter isn’t as much of an imbecile as Weasley - who knows what he might say or do if he catches on -“

 

At this, Hermione’s fake smile wavers. “Try not to be rude, Riddle. I doubt it’ll take long for them to become suspicious of you - who knows what they’ll dig up; you know what Harry’s like -”

 

“And woe betide him if you allow him to cotton on -”

 

“Sorry - are you threatening my friends now? My parents aren’t enough?” she demands, all friendly pretence dropped. The conversation she had planned in her head is quickly going off-track. 

 

Riddle’s mouth tightens. “Not at all. I’m pointing out that if they get suspicious, and if you don’t answer their questions … there’s no telling how far they’ll escalate. And if a Legilimens - other than myself - were to look deeply into your mind - well, that’s the trouble with a Blood Pact, isn’t it?” 

 

Hermione seethes silently, hands balling by her sides. He’s right. She can’t ask someone to read her mind, she can’t communicate in any way what is going on with Riddle - because then, the terms of the Pact will have been violated; that awful choking feeling will return, and if she pushes it too far, she will simply suffocate to death. 

 

And dying is not on her agenda.

 

“Fine. In fact, I’m glad you agree with me. We’ll be the best of ‘friends’” - she air-quotes pointedly - “in front of everyone, but outside of that, it’s business only, Riddle.” She stresses his surname. She’ll be damned if she calls him Tom in private. 

 

(She refuses to acknowledge how much him saying Hermione bothers her)

 

“We’ll work together, on homework and other projects. You’ll return my parents by summer. And then, we go our separate ways.” Hermione says this as firmly as possible, even holding her hand out for him to shake. It’s what she wants to achieve with this conversation, after all - placate Riddle enough so that he doesn’t take anything out on her parents - or friends, now. She considers herself secondary, her pride as collateral -

 

“Not so fast - in the spirit of ‘clearing the air’,” says Riddle, the same careful, blank look on his face as last night, “name-calling is both unpleasant and beneath you. Additionally, if you lose your head and set those birds on me again, I’ll warn you now that I’ll not be held responsible for my actions.” He taps on his cheek in an exaggerated fashion, eyes glacial. 

 

“And if you set a snake on me again,” Hermione says snottily, containing her temper just to show him that she can, “I’ll do more than trap it under a cauldron -” 

 

His nostrils flare slightly - he’s annoyed now, she’s sure of it - and he stands abruptly, nearly cracking his skull on the low ceiling. “Well, this has been a thoroughly productive conversation, Hermione,” and only Riddle can sound civil whilst his eyes flash with irritation, “I’ll be sure to practise more Healing spells in anticipation of your next tantrum -” 

 

“Well - you’re meant to be a decent duellist, aren’t you?” she fires back defensively, goaded into interrupting. “You can’t even handle a tiny flock of songbirds -” 

 

“- Can you guess how long it takes to heal down to the bone without scarring?” Although his words are nonchalent, she stutters, mouth hanging open - it was to the bone? -

 

“Cursed talons - very clever, I have to admit, designed to bleed out -” 

 

Her stomach twists violently as he continues, sneering. 

 

“- do you really think I don’t know what Blood Bath Birds like to do - the clue’s in the name, would you believe? If I had missed just one -” 

 

“- Stop trying to make me feel bad! I’m sorry, all right?! Is that what you want to hear?” Hermione yells at him, her voice echoing in the dimly-lit space. She is panting, the words erupting in a surge of denial and guilt, guilt she’s been fighting against since last night - it doesn’t make any sense; is she even sorry about hurting Riddle? 

 

There is a unique unpleasantness about her own personality she finds hard to acknowledge, has been trying to ignore - but the fact of the matter is that she couldn’t give a rat’s arse about Riddle - no, what she hates is herself for losing control so spectacularly, she is sorry purely for jeopardising her own future, for casting such a Dark spell with the intent to - to -

 

Riddle has paused, clearly taken aback at her outburst. He blinks once, twice, then his expression shutters back into a cool mask. 

 

She doesn’t want to look at him, for him to read her conflicting thoughts. She is sure her cheeks are flame-red. Instead, Hermione scrubs at her face frustratedly, deflating to slump on the top step. 

 

Eventually, Riddle sighs, and sits back down. He runs his hand through his dark hair, eyes closed, jaw set. He seems to be waiting for her to say something, anything.

 

Despite the torchlight, the small, dark space is oppressively claustrophobic. Hermione breathes deeply, staring blankly at her shoes. There is a run in her tights, she notes dispassionately.

 

The anger and rage in her gradually dissipates, leaving her bone-weary. The cold of the stone steps seeps through her skirts into her legs, and she shivers. Minutes pass whilst she is gathering her thoughts.

 

Finally, she speaks. 

 

“We can’t keep this up all year, Riddle. I’m exhausted and it’s the second day of term. Whether I like it or not, I’m stuck with you, aren’t I? I’ll apologise about the name-calling, but I can’t apologise for defending myself. You shouldn’t have Summoned an actual snake on me - we’re never going to get anywhere if that’s your solution to fighting, are we?”

 

He regards her passively, eyes pitch black. She wonders what is going through his head.

 

“I guess … I also owe you an apology,” he says quietly, voice low. “I can understand - I haven’t made this very easy for you, have I?”

 

“Er - what?” Her train of thoughts screeches to a halt. Has she misheard? Is she hallucinating?

 

For once, she can’t think of anything to say - she’s certainly not going to accept his apology. 

 

His mouth curls up at the side reluctantly. “That was quite the spell you used - I admit the execution caught me off guard.” He hums contemplatively - approvingly? - and moves towards her, still half-stooped. 

 

“That - that’s what you’re focussing on?” As she scrambles to stand she nearly slips down the stairs, dumbfounded by this turn of events, waiting for her brain to restart.

 

(Hermione wonders if this is his terrible, terrible way of saying they are even)

 

“You … are a very strange person.” Hermione shakes her head in disbelief, and decides to push her luck. “So … you’re - you’re not going to retaliate? We’re fine?”

 

Riddle shrugs his shoulders, and passes her on the stairs. “I suppose we are. I’ll see you in the library tonight, after Transfiguration."

 

He holds out a hand for her to shake. The angry red scratch from before curves over the inner surface of his wrist. How far up does it trail?

 

"Truce?” 

 

The distance between them seems to stretch endlessly, a marathon for her to stretch her fingers, to his unwavering palm.

 

She grasps his hand confidently, trying not to overthink the utterly bizarre day, week, life she is having -

 

“Oh, and Hermione?”

 

He squeezes her hand tightly but doesn’t let go. She tries to tug it out of his grasp -

 

“I’d be very disappointed if you were sorry about landing a hit.”

 

His voice is whisper quiet as he catches her eye from under his lashes. Even a step below, he is taller than she.

 

Hermione is left speechless once again as he drops her hand, skin crawling. His smile throws her off-balance.

 

This time, he walks away from her. 

 

---

 

She tries her best not to be distracted by the strange events of last night and the morning as she makes her way back to the Great Hall. 

 

(She replays the image of Riddle smiling, the slick sheen of blood coating his face, and find that it grounds her)

 

Lunch stretches comfortably into her free period. Hermione spends it at the dining table making initial notes for her History of Magic essay over tomato soup and a cheese sandwich, does the extra reading for Charms over strong tea and chocolate digestives (she makes a mental note to floss properly tonight), and tunes out the incessant Quidditch chat from what seems like half of the dining table. 

 

Both Harry and Ron have continued with Transfiguration, and it is as they head to the classroom (Harry cramming at least five biscuits into his mouth before he stands, egged on by Ron) that Hermione realises she hasn’t told them she’ll be sitting with Riddle.

 

“So yeah, try-outs probably start of October,” Harry is telling Ron in the main corridor, who is a mix of nervous and excited. “Ginny was saying she’ll go for Chaser - Alicia said to make everyone try out for fairness -” 

 

“Um, guys,” Hermione cuts in, oddly nervous. “I - I have something to tell you. Nothing bad!” she adds hastily at Harry’s concerned face. “It’s just -” and she takes a deep breath, ready to rip the plaster off -

 

“Good afternoon, Hermione,” says a deep, pleasant voice, right behind her. “Do you want to sit at the front?”

 

Speak of the devil - 

 

Riddle steps next to her smoothly, long legs catching up easily. She cringes internally; for Ron is looking at Riddle suspiciously, and if Ron gets suspicious, then Harry will get suspicious, and if Harry gets suspicious -

 

“R - Tom! How nice to see you. Are you looking forward to class?” She trips over his name, trying for friendly, but it comes out high-pitched. Harry frowns minutely. Bollocks, she’s really not selling this, is she -

 

“‘Lo, Riddle. ‘Mione normally sits with us,” says Ron gruffly, looking between the two of them. 

 

“Er -” Hermione glances up at Riddle, who looks down at her bemusedly. 

 

“Is that right, Weasley - I apologise, it seems like I’m overstepping - only, Hermione did suggest working together in classes this year - she was - ah, how to put it - ‘bloody grateful to get to work together’.” Riddle looks terribly bashful of his own words. 

 

Hermione bristles at the implication. “Not quite what I meant, Tom!” She smiles through clenched teeth at Riddle, elbowing him in the side sharply without a second thought. 

 

Riddle winces, Hermione’s smile grows slightly more convincing, and Harry, the backstabber, snorts and says, “No, no, we get it - you sit with Riddle, ‘Mione. You swots should stick together,” he jokes.

 

Hermione fumes silently, as Harry-the-backstabber herds a protesting Ron to the back of the class, and gives her what is most definitely not a discrete wink. Riddle shakes his head and chuckles good-naturedly, and they file to the front. 

 

“Enjoying yourself, are you?” she says under her breath, slamming her books on her desk a touch too loudly, sending a quill fluttering to the floor. 

 

Riddle catches it before it lands. 

 

He leans over to lay it on her desk. The soft feather brushes the tip of her little finger.

 

“Don’t try me, Hermione,” he says gently, a kind smile stretching across his lips. “It seemed that we had forgiven each other. Or is that not the case?” His flat eyes pierce into hers. His threat is lost in the excited buzz of the classroom.

 

A chill creeps up her spine. 

 

Fortunately, Professor McGonagall walks briskly to the front of the classroom, ready to start their lesson. Riddle blinks and turns to the front, every inch the willing, humble pupil. 

 

It is going to be a long, long, long year.

 

---

 

Hermione has read her textbooks cover-to-cover, practised more difficult spells, and yet, it is not enough to keep on top of the long and gruelling theoretical introduction to N.E.W.T.-level Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall is keen for them to understand the very fundamentals of Transfigurative magic, the logic and rules that govern her discipline, before they commence on more dangerous aspects of Advanced Transfiguration. It is not something she has any innate understanding of, and she wonders if her Muggle upbringing has anything to do with this, for even Ron nods along to a tiny fraction of it, as if McGonagall’s lecture has stirred some long-deep memory. She notices that Riddle’s handwriting is untidier than usual as he annotates at break-neck speed. She herself can barely keep up with her own shorthand, adamant to never use a Quick-Quotes Quill.

 

McGonagall repeatedly stresses that they have left their O.W.L.s far behind, and Hermione has a sinking feeling as she mentally bookmarks the three chapters she wants to review before the next lesson, and the additional texts recommended. 

 

She waits stiffly for Riddle at the door, and they walk in silence to the library. The lesson finished with the whole class trudging out, ashen-faced. Harry and Ron don’t even comment on Hermione and Riddle, for Harry looks faintly sick after that lesson, and Ron is rubbing his head, swearing blind. They both head for an early dinner, but Hermione - and Riddle, she could have guessed - need to go to the library, right now.

 

Their strange truce seems to hold. Riddle seems content to his own thoughts, the ghost of Nearly Headless Nick drifting past them the other way. She mournfully passes the shelves, gathering up textbooks. Riddle does the same. It is only when they are settled in the near-empty library, a sly Muffliato thrown up by Hermione, that he speaks. 

 

“Be honest - how much of that did you understand?” He regards her coolly, as if daring her to lie. 

 

Hermione wrings her hands unconsciously, a nervous habit she abhors about herself. “Since we’re now so excellent at being honest - very, very little. I’ve never even heard of these fundamental laws - I wish they were given on the reading list,” she frets, not even bothered to lie and save face in front of Riddle. Of course he’ll know.

 

The stack of books loom menacingly at her. N.E.W.T.s make her anxious enough, and she is already feeling behind on day two of term.

 

Riddle nods in agreement, finally. “Shall we agree to both skim-read all relevant texts, then split them between us - I can teach you my half, you teach me yours?”

 

He doesn’t admit to not understanding, but it is as good as.

 

Hermione chews her lip. “I’ve never studied like that before - what if your teaching is sub-par?” she says archly. 

 

To her joy, Riddle takes the bait, and raises an eyebrow incredulously. “I have tutored Goyle into passing Potions. I believe my teaching skills are more than adequate. Unless you require more hand-holding than dear Gregory?”

 

“You’d better not, that won’t turn out well for you. Besides, aren’t you worried that I might be an awful tutor?” Hermione props her head on her fist to watch him openly. She much prefers Riddle without his weird classroom schoolboy act. It’s kind of fascinating to see the difference, really. He is sharper, colder, crueller, sure, but at least he’s no longer pulling the wool over her eyes. 

 

He considers her words, unpacking quill and parchment. “I suppose you could well be. I doubt you have much patience. But, you’ve managed to drag Potter and Weasley up into Auror-mandated classes, haven’t you? A near miracle.” 

 

She bites her tongue at the jab at her friends, ignores him, and gets to work.

 

---

 

That night, Hermione collapses face-first into her bed and sleeps like the dead, dreaming of shadowy, undulating, nothing.

 

---

 

By Wednesday evening, Hermione’s nerves have somewhat settled. The day after her truce with Riddle, she has only Arithmancy and Ancient Runes with him, of which the content is far more manageable. She tries to treat Riddle more courteously (calling him names in her head only when his eyes are averted), and manages to have a stilted, entirely academic conversation not only about the text they are translating, but about the History of Magic essay due next month. He points her to two textbooks she hadn’t even thought of. In return, she offers the most finicky suggestions on his essay structure, which he accepts - graciously? 

 

If he’s reading her mind, he keeps it to himself. If he’s torturing her parents on the side, he keeps it to himself.

 

(She doesn’t trust him as far as she can throw him, but she starts to play the game.)

 

Hermione even tries and fails with meditating at night, Parvati’s soft snuffly snores lulling her to sleep almost immediately. It seems the road to Occlumency will be long and winding.

 

Something eerily similar happens on Thursday morning. The fragile peace between them continues to hold. Professor Slughorn, to Hermione’s intense displeasure, is beside himself that she and Riddle are brewing together (she carefully edits all of his eyebrow waggles and innuendo out of her memory), and promises to consider a further research project for them. Harry and Ron are initially put out that Hermione is planning on sitting next to Riddle for every lesson they share, until she tartly points out that she ends up helping them in the Common Room anyways.

 

Riddle huffs a tiny laugh at her assurance that no one is the wiser. “And how much time did you spend before, correcting their homework and watching Quidditch?”

 

She doesn’t answer, pointing her nose in the air as she heads to the store cupboard, Malfoy glaring sullenly as she passes his cauldron. But he only glares, and makes no move to trip her.

 

Stupid ferret. 

 

---

 

Hermione finally feels more like herself towards the end of the week. Ginny has cheekily brought up Riddle only once more, and she is sleeping properly for what seems like the first time since summer. 

 

And, she thinks with a smile, scribbling notes -

 

- Professor Lupin is one of Hermione’s favourite ever teachers. 

 

After the fiascos that were Quirrell and Lockhart, Professor Lupin arrived, mild-mannered and threadbare, and proceeded to become the sort of tutor who could coax even Neville into repelling a Boggart. 

 

He’s never once complained about the length of her assignments, he answers every after-class question - he even wrote to her with advice over the summer, inconsolable after being barred from resitting her single Exceeds Expectations, on how to improve her practical work in time for her N.E.W.T.s. 

 

(Hermione has kept his secret since her third year. She thinks he must know, for she has loudly drawn attention to herself in class when Pansy Parkinson boorishly asked why he was ill so often. To her knowledge, no one else has cottoned on.)  

 

(Hermione rather likes his jumpers)

 

At the start of their fifth year - mere months after Harry witnessed Crouch Jr. subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss - Professor Lupin returned from his travels at Dumbledore’s request to rejoin the Hogwarts faculty. Harry had also begged for private lessons on casting a Patronus. Hermione was only a little jealous - imagine being able to cast the Patronus! - but Harry did not manage more than a wisp that year.

 

Professor Lupin had reassured him that they could pick up their lessons at any point in the future -

 

- Which is why, after their first Defence class of the year, Hermione, Harry, and Ron are thoroughly flabbergasted when he shakes his kind, lined face in the negative. 

 

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Lupin sighs heavily at their disappointment. “The whole curriculum on Dark creatures is under scrutiny. There’s even talk of abolishing the Duelling Club. They say that it makes the Dementors nervous, might make them less effective at hunting down criminals. The official word is that the Ministry want to limit the number of wizards who can cast a Patronus. They’re not just placed around the perimeter of Hogwarts - they’re also patrolling Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, the Ministry of Magic itself. Dumbledore will get into hot water if the school is seen violating a Ministerial Decree. ”

 

And so will I, is the unspoken message.

 

“That’s ridiculous,” says Harry angrily. “Like a Dementor cares if we can duel. That’s not how Dementors even work - they can’t just sense that someone can cast a Patronus -”

 

Professor Lupin holds his hands out placatingly. “You and I both know that is not the case. But the Ministry is ruled by fear. This fugitive -” and Lupin looks into Harry’s eyes intently - “is exceptionally dangerous, and after Crouch, Dementors are seen as the ideal solution. I take it you’ve been keeping up to date with The Prophet?” 

 

The boys half-shrug whilst Hermione nods fervently.

 

“Hermione, then you’ve noticed the recent propaganda on the various virtues of Dementors. They do not need to sleep, and they have an preternatural ability to find their target - they are obsessed with the soul, Harry, and once given free reign to administer the Kiss - “ Lupin’s face is exceptionally grave “- they will stop at nothing until that soul is destroyed.”

 

Hermione shivers. She can’t bear to contemplate her soul of all things being destroyed.

 

Professor Lupin leans heavily against his desk. The full moon was less than a week ago, and she imagines he is still recovering. 

 

“And what if a Dementor decides a student’s started looking shifty?” Ron says nervously. “Surely everyone needs to know how to make one bugger off -”

 

“They are under strict orders not to approach students -”

 

“- Yeah, but what if one goes rogue -”

 

Lupin’s gaze sharpens. “Rest assured that there are plenty of us who won’t hesitate to defend the school or its students.” He looks more severe than they have ever seen him, and Ron gulps. 

 

The Professor takes pity on Ron, and softens. “I’m doing all I can to ensure lessons can continue as best as before. There will be some changes in lessons - Hermione, I believe I owled you a copy of the former N.E.W.T. curriculum - but as I said, if the school is seen violating a Ministerial Decree -”

 

“- But you know what they can do!” shouts Harry, throwing his arms out in frustration. Hermione hasn’t seen him this agitated in a long time, and it worries her. “It’s worse than death what they did to Crouch -”

 

“- Professor Lupin is right, Harry,” Hermione interrupts suddenly. Harry and Ron shoot her twin looks of betrayal, but she spots Professor Lupin looking oddly pleased. “The school can’t be seen violating a decree -”

 

She smiles furtively.

 

“But we can.”

Notes:

for anyone who thinks this hermione should feel bad about casting such a fucked up spell specifically on riddle:
we've seen in the books that she doesn't regret slapping malfoy, never apologises (in my memory) to ron for siccing the birds on him, puts rita skeeter into her jar of hearts, justifies leading umbridge into the forest to be 'dealt' with, happily confounds cormac, etc etc, could go on forever

so I really don't think she'd actually care per se about hurting riddle, esp after all he's done. in this fic, she's far more concerned with the consequences (expulsion/whether she's a bad person/will he retaliate), and not riddle himself. murder is way too far for her tho. happy to debate/discuss this! I hope it's clear in the fic that she doesn't want to apologise to him at all - and it is up to you whether you think he believes her ...

 

hermione getting flustered over transfiguration is directly based on the start of the school year in book six, where 'even hermione had to ask mcgonagall to repeat herself' or something like that
I'm not entirely happy with the flow so keep an eye out for edits (I ended cutting a few scenes for next chapter). thought it was better to get it out rather than agonise for another week

 

again thank you for your wonderful comments/kudos. I've got some big boy professional exams in jan so probs my last update for the year. happy hols xxx

Chapter 9

Hermione works quickly - and discreetly - to spread the word. 

 

A sly nudge here, some scaremongering there - soon, she has a list of around thirty students. Thirty students willing to defy Ministry orders.

 

Turns out it’s not just her, Harry, and Ron concerned about the Dementors. 

 

(Hermione does not ask a single Slytherin) 

 

Has Riddle somehow gleaned her plans? She has to assume that his use of Legilimency is both prodigious and entirely unchecked towards every other person in the castle - but if knows, he doesn’t let on. 

 

Friday is spent in the near-empty library, trudging through Transfigurative fundamentals in near-silence across from him. Hermione is tackling Volume I, Riddle Volume II of Die Verwandlung, a so-called crucial text from the 1550s authored by one Hermann Löwy. The translation is rudimentary at best; hand-written in narrow, blocky capitals. And would it have hurt to use paragraphs? It is so eye-wateringly arduous that she sadly doesn’t have the brain power left to cleverly snipe at Riddle. 

 

Speaking of Riddle - something feels different about him. He’s decided to develop the habit of half-muttering droll commentary to himself, chin resting squarely in his palm as he hunches over the ancient text, clearly unimpressed by the translation. He does have a point, she can begrudgingly concede; the translation at times is so poor that the original meaning is no doubt obfuscated. Hermione hates that she agrees; biting her tongue from responding in ilk. The only words they exchange are to cross-check references in their respective volumes.

 

Last year, he’d never be seen in anything less than perfect posture, spine ramrod straight, pleasant and courteous. He would certainly never have - for want of a better word - bitched about extra reading - about anything - in front of a soul. Should she make anything of it? 

 

The work is so dull - even for Hermione - that it is easy to find an excuse to take a break. Instead, from under her eyelashes, she studies him. The difference between his blank, obsequious classroom persona - she contrasts that with the slight wrinkle in his brow as he follows the text with a long finger across from her. Riddle snorts softly to himself, lost in thought, another pithy comment dropped under his breath. He doesn’t pay her much attention as he suddenly stands, and stalks off towards the Ancient Runes section without so much as a by-your-leave, intent on some book or another. She’d love to find his behaviour rude but she’d be a hypocrite to - Harry and Ron find it an endearing oddity about her, how single-minded she can become when absorbed on a particularly delicious problem. 

 

It seems - Riddle might be the same.

 

(The thought worms its way under her skin; splinters underneath her fingernails)

 

Soon, the weekend arrives in a glorious blaze of autumnal sunshine. It’s perfect for a lazy walk around the lake with Neville (Harry, Ginny and Ron content to pelt Quaffles at one another), perfect to visit Hagrid for scalding buckets of tea and rock-hard scones. By the afternoon, caught up with friends and homework alike, very little stands in the way of lazing by the Common Room fire with a thick book, Crookshanks planted firmly on her lap, purring like an engine. She tunes out the rabble and greedily inhales the first three parts of Anna Karenina.

 

But then -

 

At seven in the evening, from the very corner of her eye, she spots a shifty-looking Neville and Seamus leaving the Common Room, followed shortly after by Parvati, Lavender, and a smirking Ginny, then finally -

 

“Fancy a stroll to the kitchens?” Ron asks her with a nonchalant look around the room, yawning exaggeratedly. She snorts outright at his attempt at subtlety.

 

Harry is already at the portrait hole, tapping his foot impatiently. 

 

“Could really do with a pumpkin pasty, me,” he winks at Ron, who grins back. 

 

“Do you think you two could try for even a modicum of secrecy?” she hisses exasperatedly at the pair of them. They bicker all the way through the castle, drawing little attention. Harry paces back and forth in the hall whilst her and Ron squabble good-naturedly -

 

- an emerald green door melts into existence, brass knob gleaming. 

 

She reaches in front of her, and swings it wide open. 

 

Inside, thirty eager, determined faces stare back at her.

 

Harry beams.

 

---

 

The clamouring of students eager to subvert the Ministry echoes in her ears as she descends for breakfast early the next day. Her modified Protean charm on the fake Galleons had gone down a treat; the Ravenclaws in particular not holding back their effusive praise. She had brushed off the approving nods from Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot. Parvati had nudged her gleefully, but aside from a faint blush on her face, Hermione acted like she couldn’t feel Boot glancing over, his gaze lingering. 

 

It’s not like she has time to squander to teenaged mooning, she tells herself sternly.

 

Instead, she had focused on assisting Harry in splitting the room into pairs to practise Disarming one another. Professor Lupin - now that she thinks about it, sipping her tea, he must have had an inkling of what was to come, for the copy of the N.E.W.T.-level curriculum he had owled over to her last summer is beyond her wildest organisational dreams. She has read and re-read the thick ream of parchment, marvelling at the thought and care that Lupin has put into their education (she scoffs, thinking back to Lockhart. Even Barty Crouch Junior had put more effort in, and he was a certified nutter). 

 

There are structured lesson plans to take them all the way through to seventh year, wand movements carefully sketched out in Lupin’s careful quillmanship, extensive library references, extra reading that even Ron perked up at, a thorough Duelling curriculum, fiendishly difficult past papers, even research on the psychology of teaching -

 

By the end of the meeting, Lavender’s wand had nearly jumped from her hand. Neville had looked triumphant, and Harry -

 

- Harry, in the corner, had beamed, ear to ear. 

 

There was unanimous agreement to meet weekly on Saturday evenings. Ron had suggested teaching the Patronus straight off the bat, but surprisingly, it was Harry who had refused, saying that failing straight away at the Patronus would be too disheartening. 

 

And, chewing over her toast, the enchanted ceiling a brilliant peach sunrise overhead, Hermione has to agree with him. Luna had Disarmed Padma, and even Cho - the Head Girl! - was grinning at the end, her sour-faced friend standing across from her, wandless. The energy and enthusiasm was high.

 

(Hermione had caught Harry guiltily giving Cho one or two looks over. Hmm. She’d have to speak to Ginny soon)

 

Yes, some sort of defence society would do Harry a world of good, she thinks resolutely, absent-mindedly flicking through the newspaper. 

 

- Trespass at Ministry! Bungling burglar-to-be Sturgis Podmore, 38, due to stand trial on the twenty-fifth of September, charged with trespass and attempted burglary -

 

A good outlet for his energy. 

 

- Tragic suicide of Ministry of Magic worker: Unspeakable Broderick Bode, 49, who is now understood to have had long-standing mental health troubles -

 

Something to distract him from the Dementors. 

 

- Sale! Fifteen percent off all invertebrates, only at J. Pippin’s Potions, 192 High Street, Hogsmeade -

 

Something to keep Riddle on the down-low.

 

Speaking of -

 

Although she has been blessed for two days from the direct presence of said Slytherin, her eyes betray her nonchalance and scan across the Great Hall. He’s absent - strange, he’s usually down early, even on a Sunday - but Malfoy looks up and sneers just as she catches his eye. But stranger still - he does nothing more than flick her a covert middle finger - charming - and turn his back.

 

Odd. Very odd. 

 

Had Riddle said something? Come to think of it - Crabbe and Goyle had also been remarkably subdued around her -

 

Suddenly, the owls descend in a flurry of feathers, Ginny appears out of nowhere to drag her to the Great Lake, and Hermione, still on a high from last night, is blissfully distracted. 

 

She spends as much time as she can outside, the unseasonably hot autumnal sunshine a highlight to her week. She helps Harry draw up a teaching timetable for their defence sessions whilst the Giant Squid burbles past - she can hardly believe he approached her! - and she loses three times in a row to Ron at Wizarding Chess. And perhaps - maybe - the tiny pang in her chest at seeing Lavender squeal with joy over Ron’s victories is smaller than before?

 

(Hermione tells herself firmly that it is. It has to be.)

 

She tries to meditate in the evenings as per Franciscus Fieldwake’s garrulous instruction, snug in bed, the dormitory a dark and cool contrast to the burn of the sun, but after studying with Riddle - whether in class or in the library - her mind is unsettled, her nerves jangling. It’s difficult to put a finger precisely on why. Riddle might be evil, but he had - she reluctantly admits - a couple of decent points regarding her Arithmancy essay. 

 

And her History of Magic essay. 

 

And her Muggle Studies essay. 

 

(Maybe she can put her finger on why.)

 

There is a deep and visceral unhappiness that spikes in her gut when he eloquently comments on dentistry, of all things. To add insult to injury, he doesn’t even take Muggle Studies. It feels like a betrayal, almost, to her parents. He must have picked up a few stray thoughts, for he grins unexpectedly, showing off very straight, white teeth. 

 

Bastard.

 

Of course, she retaliates. Hermione stays up until the early hours of the morning, mercilessly annotating his Divination homework with scathing, mostly-unhelpful suggestions - but well-cited, of course. She replaces Lavender’s textbook silently by her bedside. Best not to encourage her. 

 

The next evening, lying in bed, trying to clear her mind, she can’t help but replay the slight twitch in his jaw on seeing her corrections, the muscle in his neck briefly tensing as he turned to give her a withering look, eyebrow arched sharply.

 

She drifts off, dreaming of the heat of summer, of fragrant curries, of Padma and Parvati in traditional Wizarding sarees, diaphanous and striking.

 

---

 

Hermione critically surveys the scene in the Great Hall. It is the first Duelling Club of the year, and the room is frothing with excitement. She smiles - although the stone floor has been cleared, each House remains drawn to party lines, gathering in the area that their dining table once was. Lupin circles the room reassuringly as students stretch and limber up. Diagonally across the room, he is the furthest away he can possibly be, speaking to Nott, a tiny smile playing on his lips -

 

“Er, you good to go?” 

 

She turns her back, and draws her wand, facing Harry.

 

On the first day of her second year at Hogwarts, Hermione had awoken to posters freshly pinned to the Gryffindor common room notice board, advertising all manner of extra-curricular activities - from Astronomy Club, to Ancient Runes, to Gobstones. Greedily, she had signed up to every single one at once, barring Quidditch - “Academic activities,” she had stressed to Harry and Ron, sniggering away over the thought of Hermione on a broomstick. She had eagerly swallowed down every scrap of information the Wizarding World deigned to share with her, every archaic tradition -

 

And Duelling Club is the most archaic, most hallowed Hogwarts tradition of them all.

 

She snaps back to attention as Harry bows, smiling cheekily up through his untidy fringe.

 

“Ready, ‘Mione?” 

 

Hermione grips her wand tightly. Over the summer she has memorised the perfect duelling posture from Revenge is Best Served Magical: A Beginner’s Guide to Duelling by Samson Wiblin and is determined to finally give Harry a run for his money. 

 

They straighten. 

 

Hermione fires off Expelliarmus straight away, but he side-steps it easily. She adjusts her feet into Pronation Tierce, shifting her weight to her back heel, and rapidly follows up with a Colour Changing Charm.

 

Harry ducks and the Charm misses his body, but catches his cloak. Righting himself, he groans. 

 

“Really? Green?”

 

She smirks at his disgusted look, paying for it when he launches a Silencio which hits her squarely in the stomach. She stumbles and silently ‘oofs’, winded. 

 

Goddammit, she should have expected this move from Harry - it’s one of his favourites for a reason. Taking away the ability to cast verbally hinders most duellists.

 

Harry lowers his wand; to him, the duel is over -

 

- but Hermione rights her feet squarely into Pronation Quinte, pointing her wand at him.

 

He looks surprised, but nods appreciatively at her pose. 

 

“Someone’s been practising. But you won’t get far when you’re Silenced - ” 

 

He yelps as his legs begin dancing uncontrollably, squatting and kicking out only somewhat in time. Unfortunately, Tarantallegra can’t do much with his painful lack of rhythm. She laughs noiselessly at the astonished expression on his face, mentally thanking Viktor for describing Bulgarian folk dances in his last letter.

 

Harry’s eyes narrow - a small crowd has gathered, their duels long settled - and he clearly hasn’t expected her to last this long. 

 

“Finite!” he ends the silly hex, and follows with a battery of spells - Hermione hastily throws up a silent Protego , which holds for the first -

 

- second -

 

- Hermione starts to smile; hopes soaring - will she finally beat Harry in a duel -

 

- but not the third Expelliarmus.

 

Almost eleven inches of vinewood and dragon heartstring flies from her grip to land squarely in his hand. Her gut roils at the sight of her wand in another’s hand - even Harry’s - and unthinking, she plunges her hand inside her robe -

 

A smattering of applause breaks out around her. Startled, she looks around, jolted from her singular focus.

 

“Harry, Hermione - excellent work!” A beaming Lupin is leading the applause; Ginny and Dean are also clapping. “Harry - would you care to return Hermione’s wand?” 

 

“Shit - sorry - ” 

 

Duelling etiquette briefly forgotten, Harry Finites his spell and fumbles her wand over to her. Relieved, she welcomes the thrum of power that travels up her arm, the warmth of the wood. 

 

He scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “Non-verbal, eh? I could have guessed.” 

 

Defeated, she grins ruefully at him. She can't feel too bad - she's been practising non-stop ever since Riddle showed up. Around her, chaos runs amok. A group of magnificently-antlered Ravenclaws are close to toppling over, whilst one of the Hufflepuffs - paired with Nott - is a sickly purple colour from head to toe, belching large, shimmering bubbles. Hermione’s not exactly surprised - Professor Lupin insists on minor Jinxes and below in free practice - but the Hall is brimming with pent-up energy. 

 

But in the Elimination Match -

 

- anything but the Dark Arts is fair game. 

 

Lupin clears his voice, and magically projects it. “The first Elimination Match of the year will begin after the break! Those wishing to enter, names in the hat -” he eyes Harry mock-shrewdly, who holds his hands up jokingly “- and remember: no spells to permanently disfigure.”

 

He says the last part of his sentence forcefully, glancing over to the Slytherin corner. Several Slytherins look on in barely-concealed contempt - Zabini’s lip even curls - but Riddle nods affably, side-eyeing his Housemates once Lupin’s back has turned.

 

Harry strolls over, still grinning. “Didn’t think you’d give me such a run for my money, ‘Mione. You inspired by -” he lowers his voice conspiratorially “- the Defence club?” 

 

"Shush!" She whacks him on the arm, frowning sternly. He winces, and she spends the break glaring at him. 

 

Honestly. No discretion, these boys.

 

Speaking of -

 

Ron and Anthony Goldstein are to face off in the Elimination Match.

 

Every year, students battle it out in the Great Hall in a series of heats, eager to be crowned Champion of the Duelling Tournament. And ever since his third year, since he could officially participate, Riddle has won the tournament by a mile. 

 

Hermione's torn between watching Ron and Anthony hurl Jelly Legs Jinxes and Stupefys and assorted hexes (she winces at a barely-legal Confringo, honestly Ron ) and keeping half an eye on the aforementioned Slytherin. And yes, some of it is due to her general suspicion of him, but mostly -

 

Mostly, she'd quite like to smear Riddle into the ground in a duel, in front of the entire school. 

 

She's made it decently far through the previous tournaments, but simply by chance, she's been knocked out by someone else before she's ever had the chance to duel him.

 

His stance is casual, arms crossed and leaning against the stone wall behind a gaggle of his Slytherins, but Hermione can read the cool disinterest on his face better now. Only - he's not disinterested at all. In fact, he is laser focused on tracking their every move through half-lidded eyes, nodding slightly to himself -

 

It is deeply unsettling, the weight of his gaze upon Ron and Anthony -

 

With a roar from the Gryffindor faction, Ron finally catches Anthony in the arm with the Full Body-Bind. Frozen, the boy can only teeter in place. Ron is too busy punching the air in celebration to think of any sort of Cushioning charm for the poor Hufflepuff, so Hermione promptly Conjures several large crimson pillows around him.

 

A deep gong reverberates through the Hall, signalling both the end of the match, and the end of the session. Lupin is smiling amongst the cheering, and hurries forward to release Anthony. 

 

He is still clapping, the only one in the group of sneering Slytherins who bothered to, but she swears there is a tinge of mockery to his polite smile.

 

Suspicion piqued, she deliberately walks past him as she leaves the Hall.

 

"Evening, Hermione," he nods at her in passing. "Good work with Potter there, earlier - your form was much better than last year," he grins at her boyishly, his Perfect Prefect skin worn immaculately, "and your non-verbals have come on leaps and bounds since summer - if you hadn't stepped forward, I'd never have known."

 

To anyone else, his words are a compliment. But Hermione narrows her eyes.

 

"Sorry, what do you mean -"

 

But he is gone, swept up in conversation with Cho Chang and the Head Boy, leaving her to mull on his words. 

 

---

 

In the relative privacy of her dormitory, Hermione has finally managed to pull away from the raucous celebration in the common room. Gryffindors will celebrate anything, she thinks wryly, even an opening school duel. Ron was ecstatic, and Dean and Seamus had procured drinks, sweets, and enchanted the radio to blare out ‘WEASLEY IS OUR KING’ once more.

 

It’s not a bother for once, not really. There has been precious little to celebrate recently. Even Colin and Dennis had perked up somewhat, so Hermione - rather than responsibly shut down a Thursday evening party, merely excuses herself to settle in with a book. She’s nearly halfway through Anna Karenina; the thick volume rests on her bedside table. And underneath it -

 

- The dorm room bursts open in a fit of giggles. Parvati nearly trips up but catches herself, followed closely by Ginny and Lavender. Crookshanks sensibly takes the opportunity to streak away from the mayhem, a ginger blur.

 

“After party in the Hufflepuff common room!” Ginny shrieks joyfully, jumping on Hermione’s bed. Parvati heads straight for her wardrobe, Lavender to the bathroom. 

 

“He won’t know what hit him,” mutters Parvati to herself. “Here, Ginny - try this -” 

 

Ginny easily catches the slinky scrap of golden fabric that Parvati flings over. Hermione raises an eyebrow, amused. 

 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, ‘Mione,” Ginny laughs, slipping into the short skirt. “I’m wearing this for me -”

 

“- and, if a certain Seeker happened to notice -” 

 

“Shut up!”

 

Lavender emerges from the bathroom, brandishing a fistful of cosmetics, her hair pinned into curlers. She snorts. “Harry wouldn’t notice a stampeding herd of Hippogriffs unless Cho Chang was riding one. Here -” and the blonde proceeds to flawlessly apply glittering eyeshadow to Ginny’s lids “- Hermione, can you do your Sticking Charm? She needs all the ammunition she can get -”

 

“And what about Dean?” Hermione asks pointedly, though she complies. 

 

Ginny flops onto her back dramatically. Lavender leans over with her wand, curling Ginny’s eyelashes. 

 

“Dean’s fine, he knows it’s not serious.” 

 

“I’m not sure he knows that -” begins Hermione, only to be cut off by Ginny sighing.

 

“It’s - it’s nice, with Dean. He doesn’t expect anything long-term. I know it’s different for Muggles, but here -” and now, the redhead is frustrated “- here, we’re just expected to settle down, straight out of school, with the first and only boy you ever date. Mum and Dad did; and you know what Ron’s like, remember Michael -” 

 

“- You’d better watch out, Lav,” says Parvati mock-ominously, doing her own make-up. “If that’s what Ron expects -” 

 

Lavender rolls her eyes, absently lengthening and tinting her lashes to perfection. “He’ll say anything to get me alone behind the third floor tapestry -”

 

To Hermione’s relief, Ginny mimes retching loudly. “Can we not; that’s my brother -” 

 

Parvati frowns, slicking on a sheen of gloss. “But as soon as your mums hear - won’t that be it?” 

 

Hermione knows that Wizarding families - even the Weasleys - are hyper-traditional. Purebloods are exceptionally precious about dating and courtship. The girls had been fascinated to learn that Hermione's parents had only met and married in their thirties.

 

("I think my mum had five kids before she was thirty," Ginny had said, blanching.

 

Hermione also hasn’t forgotten how Molly Weasley had treated her in fourth year; the glaring difference to Harry -)

 

“Nah, Dad’s not strict. No way Bill and Charlie would have escaped the matrimonial bells if Dad hadn’t interfered.”

 

“Charlie Weasley,” sighs Parvati dreamily. “Just how is he related to Ron -”

 

“Merlin's prick; he's also my brother -”

 

“Ron’s great!” exclaims Lavender defensively, hands planted on hips. “He’s nice, and funny, and his fate line is identical to mine - Hermione, your face will stick like that if you’re not careful.” 

 

It takes Hermione a moment to realise she’s openly grimacing. Palmistry will do that to a person. 

 

Lavender smirks, slyly, as she fluffs her hair out. “What about you, then? Anyone caught your eye? Maybe … a certain Slytherin prefect?” 

 

Fucking hell, Crookshanks had the right idea from the start. 

 

Bile rises at the very thought of Riddle. She tamps down her disgust, lest they catch on.

 

They can't know that she despises him. Why she despises him.

 

“It’s not like that. We’re just - friends. He’s good to study with, especially with exams so soon.” Hermione aims for neutral, nonchalant - usually the mention of N.E.W.T.s is enough to stop any gossip dead - and reaches for her book, signalling the end of the conversation. This is apparently a fatal error, because the other three drop what they’re doing and round on her.

 

“Don’t think we haven’t noticed! You spend all your time with him now -” 

 

“Oh Tom, could you double-check my essay for grammatical errors -”

 

“- excuse me; I don’t make grammatical errors -”

 

“- Hermione, the way your skirt is regulation knee-length really turns my runes upside down, inside-out, back-to-front -”

 

“- that’s actually called reverse boustrophedon, and it is a recognised writing direction -”

 

“- you’re the only Slytherin that makes green look good -” 

 

“- like a fresh-pickled toad?” she shoots meanly at Ginny, cheeks aflame. Annoyingly, the other girls just laugh, and finalise their primping. 

 

She is surrounded by sharks, not lions. Her scowl deepens.

 

“Oh, we’re just teasing. I honestly don’t know how you do it, sat next to him all day,” says Lavender, more seriously now. “He is fit.” 

 

“- And so nice -”

 

Parvati tuts whilst slipping into heels. “Forget what he looks like -"

 

Finally, some reason -

 

"- she clearly wants his brains. Like a zombie.” 

 

The girls howl with laughter. Hermione wants to bash her own brains in at this point. “I do not fancy anyone. Besides - I’m not looking for a boyfriend, what with exams coming up. And R- Tom is a half-blood. He’s a Slytherin. He’ll hardly expect something casual - much less from a Gryffindor Muggle-born -”

 

“- It’s not like he has parents to tell him what to do, Muggle-born or not,” Lavender morbidly points out, ever the optimist. “Who’re his Wizarding family, by the way? Maybe they’re more modern.” 

 

“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Hermione says casually, but her thoughts are now racing - she hasn’t had time to pick through his ancestry as she’d planned in the summer. Who are the Gaunts? Why was he raised in an orphanage?

 

And - why does everyone think he’s a half-blood?

 

“Plenty better to do than talk about than dead people.” Ginny waggles her eyebrows, her attention now drawn to the paperback on Hermione’s bedside table. “Oh yeah - how’re you getting on with the adventures of Lady Benneton? Maybe you could discuss such highbrow literature with -” 

 

“Finish it soon!” demands Parvati, Charming a glowing line of stars to the hem of her cloak. “I want to read it next -” 

 

“Fine!” Hermione throws her hands up, thoroughly harangued. Poor Anna is consigned to the shelves, and Hermione grabs Ginny's ridiculous - to call it a novel is an affront to literature - book. 

 

"Go! Out! All of you!" She shoos them away from her, hair bristling wildly. "I am staying in - heaven help any one of you if you need my proof-reading services in the next lifetime," she snaps irritably.

 

"Remember Chapter Fourteen!" Ginny shouts back as the door swings shut behind her. Their laughter fades slowly.

 

She clenches her fists and screams into a pillow.

 

---

 

Hermione takes a long, long shower. She spitefully uses Lavender's expensive conditioner and Parvati's imported body scrub, just because she can.

 

The scalding water beats down, the heat soaking into her. It is soothing, numbing, and finally, the tension begins to seep out of her.

 

Perhaps it is unfair to be mad at the girls - how can they know what's going on?

 

Hermione - well, she hasn't exactly had time for dating since Viktor. What with the fallout from the Crouch disaster, then dragging Harry and Ron through O.W.L.s, then the whole 'getting Petrified' debacle at the end of fifth year, now the mess with Riddle. Abstractly, she wonders what it would be like, to have a boyfriend - holding hands in the corridors, being taken to Madam Puddifoots, just the once to cringe it into oblivion, then maybe Flourish and Blotts - she can already hear Harry and Ron groaning at the thought of spending a single second of a Hogsmeade trip in a bookshop -

 

Maybe the next boy she likes she’ll ask out - she’s not a prude, she’s as interested in sex as the next teenager, and doesn’t put any stock in ‘saving herself’ -

 

Oh, who is she kidding? Hermione can't think of a single wizard she'd like to date in the whole of the British Isles. Viktor is gallivanting around the world, sending letters and exotic trinkets and entirely too many sheets of parchment about Quidditch. And Purebloods - as a whole, they really do take dating too seriously. Is it too much to have a snog without marriage and - she shudders - children looming? 

 

Who would want to marry the Mudblood anyways -

 

She stays in until the water runs cold - really, you'd think the charmwork on the pipes would be better - and sighs, heaving herself onto her quilt. Her pyjama top is an old t-shirt of her mum's - some ancient punk band Hermione doesn't pretend she knows. It grounds her - reminds her why she's suffering the company of Riddle, why she has to pretend he isn't her mortal enemy. She rubs the soft, worn cotton between her fingertips. Any smell of home has long been eradicated by house-elf magic, but for a moment, she can imagine -

 

No. She can’t get lost in reminiscing. She needs to get on with mastering Occlumency, to keep nosy parkers out of her thoughts. 

 

The dormitory is now peaceful enough to try once more at meditation. Sat cross-legged on her bed, Hermione closes her eyes, breathing deeply.

 

But she simply cannot focus. It seems as though Sonorous has been cast on every little noise she usually blocks out. The wind is now screaming. The rustle of her drapes now deafening. 

 

Hermione sighs once more, thoroughly glum, and gives up after fifteen minutes. She lies down on her side, facing her bedside table. Her eyes catch the gaudy font of the book she hasn’t picked up since the summer - Parvati’s voice echoes in her head, hurrying her up to finish.

 

She groans, and picks up the silly little paperback. Where was she even up to? Oh, she had just finished Chapter Thirteen - Lady Benneton had finally acquiesced to entering the pirate king’s cabin …

 

Turning the page, she nearly drops the book as her eyes skim across the text. 

 

Annalise shuddered as his thick fingers pressed into her with ease - one, then two - his tongue licking a hot strip over her centre. Her golden curls dropped back onto the pillow as the pirate king laughed sinisterly over her sodden flesh, his breath ghosting over her most sensitive regions. 

 

He pulled out and she quivered at the loss. Her eyes widened as he curled his tongue around his fingers salaciously - tasting her - and she felt something deep inside of her throb resoundingly. 

 

“Annalise,” he purred, sliding his fingers back inside of her, lowering his mouth once again. “When I’m through with you, you’ll be begging me to take you, right on the open deck -” 

 

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Hermione snaps the book shut, willing the blush on her cheeks to recede. Her heart is beating fast, thudding in her chest.

 

Surely - it can’t feel so good?

 

Hermione eyes the book. There is only one way to know, she reasons, already reaching for it, and she will never shy from literature - no matter how trashy.

 

As she turns the pages, her eyes steadily grow wider and wider, uncomfortably aware of the heat pooling in her stomach. 

 

She finishes the chapter - it is the fastest she has ever read - and lowers it slowly to the covers. Her thoughts are racing.

 

Who knew a man would - would enjoy doing that, with his tongue? Would it really feel so good, to the extent of Annalise giving up every moral she had, to - to submit to the pirate brute? 

 

No, she declares. It’s a silly novel. If and when she chooses to become intimate with someone in that way, it will be under her own direction. The book is stupid. It’s puerile, written for the frothing masses. It’s not a sensible book, like Karenina, or Great Expectations. Certainly a waste of her time, especially when she has so much to be getting on with. She should really go to bed, before Lavender and Parvati tiptoe in to give her grief -

 

Hermione peeks out from behind her drapes. She looks around the room. 

 

It is still, silent. 

 

She guiltily snakes a hand down the front of her pyjama bottoms. Actually - it is irrational to feel guilt, she reasons to herself, slipping her knickers down. This is just a natural, normal, physiological reaction to reading something targeted to her hormones. And - it’s not like she’s had the time or the energy to get herself off since the summer. What with her course load, and now Defence Club, and all the blackmail, and -

 

No. Don’t think about -  

 

Hermione forcibly shuts her eyes, and focuses on what she can feel. Her bed is warm, comfortable. Her legs are tense, her muscles coiled. She traces the tip of a finger over her lips. She’s somewhat wet, turned on from a bloody bodice ripper. There isn’t even a plot -

 

But, she is wound up enough for it to suffice. She finds her clit and circles it repeatedly, mechanically, squeezing her eyes shut tightly, squeezing all thoughts out of her brain except for the rhythm she is quickly finding, yes, there, justlikethat -

 

Her orgasm flutters over her, through her, and she clenches around nothing. Panting lightly, she opens her eyes, greeted by the sight of her burgundy drapes. 

 

Legs steady, she gets up to use the toilet. Her heart is beating marginally faster, she notes with an almost clinical detachment, as she washes her hands. 

 

'Perfunctory', is the best word for it. It might not be mind-blowing - her thoughts drift back to Lady Benneton and loquacious descriptions of paroxysm and ebullition and convulsion - did the woman need medical attention? -  but the biological function has been fulfilled. Yawning, she climbs back into bed, and allows her thoughts to settle. 

 

She really does have a lot to be getting on with - Prefect duties, homework, investigating Riddle -

 

But, perhaps a date would be nice. Something casual, she thinks sleepily. Also, meditation. She needs to keep on that, if she wants even the slightest chance of keeping Riddle out of her head. And the Defence club. She needs all the practice she can get if she’s to co-run their group.

 

And - what did Riddle mean anyways, regarding her duelling? He would have never known what?

 

The words replay endlessly in her mind as she drifts into a solid, deep sleep. 

 

---

 

In an effort to avoid Riddle, Hermione has uncharacteristically started dawdling before dragging herself to the library. But today, she heads there straight after a breakfast of smoked kippers and poached eggs. He is already seated at the large, oak desk next to the Magical Law section that they used last Tuesday. He’s reading a Potions periodical - oh, interesting; he has the latest edition of Acta Chimica Albanica - Hermione usually waits for it to appear in the library -

 

She drops her bag loudly next to him. Annoyingly, he doesn’t flinch.

 

“If you have something to say about my duelling, you better spit it out,” she throws at him in lieu of a greeting. 

 

Riddle finally deigns to acknowledge her, leaning back in his chair and cocking an eyebrow, as if to say, Good morning.

 

“Right. Morning, and all that. What did you mean, ‘you’d never have known’?” Perhaps she’s being overly hostile, but she’s marinated in his words overnight. Besides, it’s Riddle, so who cares - 

 

“Ah. You’re talking about yesterday,” he says, unruffled. “Well, I was referring to your non-verbal improvement - Potter is somewhat decent, but still slow to react to any new development ...”

 

The teeny, tiny part of Hermione that acknowledges his praise is quickly swallowed by the unspoken ‘but’ she can hear.

 

“...But?” 

 

(and she hates herself for asking)

 

“... But, you still make basic combative errors that should be stamped out by third year. Earlier, preferably.”

 

Her hackles rise defensively. “I’ll have you know that Professor Lupin very strongly recommended that I resit the O.W.L.-”

 

He tuts, uncharacteristically. “I’m not talking about demonstration of a spell in an exam - I mean, as a duellist.

 

“Well, what are they? What have you seen? Spit it out then,” she snaps irritably, but she’s already leaning in, daring him to say his worst.

 

“Are you sure you can handle it?” he asks rhetorically, but his hands are already grabbing a fresh sheet of parchment. Hermione stifles a smirk. It’s indulgent, but satisfying to know she can goad him too.

 

Riddle purses his lips and proceeds to scribble furiously for ten minutes in silence, quill flicking back and forth. Hermione cranes her neck but he hunches a shoulder around his parchment, blocking her view. 

 

Finally, he slides it over.

 

It is …

 

A detailed list of every mistake he has ever seen her make. 

 

And sweet Merlin - there are a lot.

 

“In third year, you quite literally mouthed your spells before you casted them -” she reads aloud, eyes scanning his handwriting. “In fourth year you decided to scream bloody murder instead of erecting a Shield when Weasley accidentally Summoned a swarm of bats. Last year, Patil disarmed you three times because you ran straight into Malfoy’s Confundus - you should really pay better attention to your surroundings -” 

 

All levity has left the room.

 

“Have you been watching me?” she lashes out, face hot with embarrassment. 

 

Riddle’s eyes narrow. “I watch everyone duel. I can write a list about Malfoy. Or Weasley. Even Lupin. It’s unwise not to analyse duelling weaknesses.” 

 

Well - fine. Hermione continues reading. “Stupid shoes - get rid of those flimsy pumps … you need to tie your hair back or shave it off -” she strokes her hair protectively. The list feels endless as she skims it, muttering acridly under her breath. 

 

Finally, she reaches the end. “Yesterday, attacking solely in the ‘guarde’ position” - Hermione pauses. She really takes issue with this comment.  “Well, now I know you’re just being rude. The guarde position is exactly what is detailed in Revenge is Best Served Magical.” Affronted, she flings the sheet of parchment on the table.

 

Riddle is unmoved by her dramatics. “That book was written for beginners. For children to practise, if mummy and daddy were scared of someone tripping and losing an eye. The guarde positions are for purely defensive duellers. You’ll never win a match with a real opponent if all you know are Pronations.” He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “Any experienced Duellist can see from a mile off from your footwork that you’ve only learned from a book, with no real-world experience. Even Potter noticed.”

 

She flushes a bright, angry pink. His words shouldn’t hurt - his opinion should be meaningless - but hearing the school’s best Duellist tell her that her efforts - to start from the basics - have been futile causes something sick and heavy to lodge in her chest. It feels like humiliation.

 

Like she’s not good enough for their world.

 

Facing burning, she sees red. “It’s not like I had anyone to teach me any of this - Harry has Sirius, Ron has about five million relatives -” 

 

He shrugs, entirely unsympathetic to her misery. “Then you learn by yourself. You find someone to teach you. You surpass them. And then, you find the next teacher.”

 

Her stomach suddenly feels leaden. Riddle wouldn’t have had anyone to teach him in first year, of course -

 

The anger seeps out of her, replaced by an overwhelming sense of bitterness. Of course, it is her fault that she didn’t put the time in in first ear - she can’t even blame Riddle for having an advantage, like Harry and Ron -

 

“For Merlin’s sake, stop moping,” he says sharply. “What everyone fails to realise is that Duelling is a skill you can get better at -”

 

“- Are you trying to motivate me?” Hermione asks in sheer disbelief -

 

“- And lashing out at me hardly solves your problem -”

 

“- Oh my God; you are terrible at this -”

 

“- But I do think if you’re going to have an underground Duelling ring, it’s somewhat hypocritical if one of the leaders has next-to-no experience in Combative Duelling -”

 

Hermione slaps her palm over his mouth abruptly. “Shut up,” she hisses at him. Riddle tenses momentarily, and quick as a flash, his wand appears in his hand - of course it does - but surprisingly, he makes no move to use it. Instead, he remains quite still, glaring darkly up at her.  

 

Around them, the quiet buzz of the library continues, punctuated by distant bangs and shrieks. Hermione strains her ears - the dulcet tones of Madam Pince ripping some second years an entirely new arsehole for setting off fireworks float across from the distant Charms section - but no one else is near them. No one likely to dob Hermione in for a secret Defence society thanks to bigmouth next to her. 

 

Bigmouth clears his throat pointedly. 

 

She sighs in relief, happy to ignore him, relaxing somewhat. Okay, so she’ll have to go back to casting Muffliato, but it seems as though disaster has been avoided. 

 

Her palm is still firmly over Riddle’s face - she’d half expected him to, at the very least, push her arm away. 

 

He raises a single, sardonic eyebrow.

 

Oh - interesting, the Blood Pact must really do a number on him if he can’t even stop her smothering him - 

 

“Hrrmeenee,” he attempts to say through her tightly-clasped fingers. His breath is warm; the movement of his lips ghosts over her skin -

 

Hermione springs back, face burning anew. “Um. Sorry. But you can’t - ” she breaks off to take her own advice and casts Muffliato “- just drop that in public!” 

 

“Then you should probably do something more to ensure the collective silence of your little group,” he says, a tinge of frost to his voice. “It’s hardly my fault if I overhear how Neville Longbottom finally learned which end of his wand to point after five tortuous years -”

 

The blood drains from her face. “Wait. So you haven’t just been reading my mind?” 

 

He purses his lips. “What need is there, when Weasley and Thomas bray louder than a pair of donkeys? Fortunately for you, I was the only one walking past the Quidditch pitch at the time.” His tone is as dry as the desert, supremely unbothered by Hermione’s mounting panic.

 

She doesn’t point out the obvious fact that she considers him about as trustworthy as a Venomous Tentacula. It must show on her face, because he lowers himself enough for a full roll of his dark eyes, before returning to his periodical.

 

Why that obnoxious, infuriating -

 

“I could not possibly care less about your secret club, Hermione. Far be it from me to hinder any attempt to better Longbottom. Tell me, does he still not know the difference between a Knarl and a hedgehog?” he asks evenly, turning a page.

 

She ignores the jibe at Neville (in fairness, Neville managed to make the most extraordinary pig’s ear of the Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L., delaying the entire exam by half a week to allow for the grounds to be magically remodelled. Hermione’s not surprised Riddle is still bitter.)

 

“So, just to be clear,” she says slowly, “you aren’t going to say anything to anyone …?”

 

“Even without your censorship -” he eyes her hand disdainfully “- in a word, no.” 

 

Hermione’s not entirely sure why - she’s probably an idiot to - but she believes him, for he seems entirely disinterested in the matter.

 

“Well … okay.” 

 

She stands there, hovering. Riddle merely arches an eyebrow and returns to his article. 

 

“Thanks, I suppose.”

 

She sits down next to him, gingerly, suddenly unsure of herself. Do they just - go back to studying? What should she say? 

 

They aren’t friends, so why would he let this go - Merlin, what’s wrong with her; why is she looking a gift horse in the mouth - she should just open her textbook and say nothing -

 

“But, that’s probably why you’ll keep the secret, right - you could blackmail any of us if you wanted to,” she rambles on, not wanting him to think that she’s grateful or something; that she doesn’t think he has an ulterior motive -

 

He glances at her, then carries on reading, unruffled, but a tiny smile dimples at his cheek. 

 

The silence stretches awkwardly between them - actually, it’s probably just awkward for Hermione; Riddle is so unflappable that he could probably sit his N.E.W.T.s with a banshee Howler from Molly Weasley shrieking in the background - she has the unfathomable urge to unnerve him; to sound witty and clever -

 

“I’m glad you didn’t lick my hand,” her traitorous brain offers her instead. “I learned that the hard way from Ginny.”

 

Riddle, the twat, doesn’t even miss a beat. He hums nonchalantly. “For that, I suppose I’d need your explicit consent.” 

 

With the briefest flash of pink tongue, he wets the pad of his index finger and idly flicks the next page over. He then taps the full bow of his bottom lip, brow furrowed, as though deeply engaged.

 

All the while, he continues reading, eyes scanning fluidly across the page.

 

Distractedly, Hermione notes that his fingertip is still glistening slightly -

 

Her stomach twists violently - because it is unsanitary, of course; what a terrible way to treat a journal; she is simply an observant person - she swallows hard -

 

“That’s unhygienic, Riddle,” she says, channelling her most severe McGonagall voice. “Scourgify.”

 

Riddle isn’t smiling as he looks sideways at her, but his eyes betray him, bright with mischief.

 

“Whatever would Madam Pince say?” 

 

For a split second she forgets herself, and starts to smile back -

 

No. 

 

She swallows it down and scowls instead; she’d really rather not dissect what the sudden lump in her throat might mean -

 

As if by cue, a fitting distractor arrives: from nowhere, the sulphurous tang of gunpowder suddenly floods her nostrils. Riddle stills; now alert - he must smell it too; for this is an entirely Muggle smell -

 

A thin, black stick sails lazily through the air in front of them. Red and gold sparks crackle and pop noisily from the tip.

 

“Is that … a sparkler?” Riddle asks, mildly curious. Hermione has a funny feeling she knows where this is going. 

 

The sparkler drifts closer, and as though held by a hand, begins to write in exceedingly elegant cursive. The shimmering sparks start to coalesce into crackling words. Riddle squints and moves his head to make out the words. Yes, Hermione is absolutely sure she has seen these before. She tries, and fails, to hold in a snort as recognition dawns on her classmate’s face -

 

- BUMTICKLING PISSWIZARDS DOUCHEBROOM FLOBBERCOCK-AND-BALLS GREAT GUSHING GHOULS BLAST-ENDED SLAGS MANTICORE MUNTERS -

 

"Excuse me.” Riddle’s face is utterly appalled as he looks around. The room is rapidly filling up with flickering, dancing light; the sparkler lopes closer once more and spells out ARSEWIPE right next to his face. She cracks, and a giggle escapes.

 

Riddle looks plainly annoyed, and points his wand at the sparkler.

 

“No, don’t -” she manages to say through her giggles, but he doesn’t listen. With a flick of his wand, he non-verbally dispatches the sparkler -

 

- only it doesn’t go quite to plan. It makes a noise like a squealing pig, and starts to flit around them, scrawling faster and faster, the noise growing louder and louder. Hermione shields her eyes from the glare as the dazzling light from the obscenities multiply, but she starts to laugh now, even louder, at the words forming: 

 

NITWIT BLUBBER ODDMENT TWEAK
BANISH ME? I MUST CRITIQUE
RESPECTFULLY YOUR WAND TECHNIQUE
IS SOMEWHAT LACKING SO TO SPEAK
THE WITCHES THEY WOULD CALL IT WEAK
OR WIZARDS WE’RE OUVERT D’ESPRIT

 

YOU STRUMPET ERUMPENT FUCKFLOOING CRUMPET SHITTANGULAR TOSSPOT PRICK-FLAVOURED BERTIE BOTT CUNTWOBBLING -

 

“Are you doing this, Hermione?” he demands, raising his voice over the chaos. Oh yes, he really doesn’t like name-calling, does he? 

 

- HERMIONE GRANGER STRANGER DANGER BET SHE’S GOT MANGE ER FRED WOULD LIKE TO ARRANGE A DATE WITH BLANCMANGE AND THEN MAYBE BANGER OI GEORGE DON’T WRITE THAT YOU’RE EMBARRASSING ME MATE SORRY MIONE -

 

“Not - your best - rhyming work,” she wheezes out, clutching her side. Merlin, she thinks she has a stitch. 

 

Riddle looks upwards in askance. He rubs his temples briefly. “Fred and George Weasley,” he says, deadpan. Immediately, the sparkler starts to shoot bigger and bigger stars, green and silver and blue and yellow, all colours of the rainbow. They fill every nook and cranny of their library corner with their radiance. Hermione’s eyes start to water, from smoke and light as well as laughter. Surrounded by luminescent swear words, what is unmistakably an advert hangs in the air:

 

- MESDAMES ET MESSIEURS FREDWARD AND GEORGIAN WEASLEY AT YOUR SERVICE WEASLEY WIZARDING WHEEZES FOR YOUR EVERY MAGICAL NEED NINETY THREE DIAGON ALLEY HOGSMEADE BRANCH OPENING IN ONE WEEK NITWIT BLUBBER ODDMENT TWEAK -

 

Riddle must hate this. The thought sends her into fresh peals. 

 

“Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs,” she explains through the tears streaming down her face. The sparkler zips over to zoom around her head, spewing out a final, glorious spurt of light.

 

- FIREWORKS COLOURFUL ENOUGH TO MAKE OLD MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER BLUSH DIABOLICAL DARE DEVILS DEMON DUNG CRACKERS

 

With the noise of a deflating balloon, the sparkler fizzes out sadly, the sputtering remnants burning to ash in the air. The dazzling words slowly fade - well, almost all. WEASLEY WIZARDING WHEEZES HOGSMEADE BRANCH OPENING IN ONE WEEK remains hanging in the air. The blazing text drifts away from them between the stacks, to hang proudly over the Restricted Section of the Library, raining sparks down below. It is far more eye-catching than any neon sign she has ever seen.

 

Hermione wipes under her eyes, still chuckling. Riddle’s face is mutinous. 

 

“Oh, don’t take it personally,” she offers, grinning. “You can’t dispel them conventionally - they’re charmed to insult anyone who tries.”

 

“I see that you got a personalised message,” Riddle says flatly. 

 

She guffaws openly at the memory of Ron turning puce with rage. “After I was Petrified, the twins did everything they could to cheer me up. All sorts. When they figured out how to get the sparklers to respond to voice, that was Ron done for. He hates that they’re Charmed to flirt with his friends; I can’t believe he doesn’t realise that’s why they did it. If you think mine’s bad you should see the one Fred did for Angelina Johnson; it was absolute filth - Mrs Weasley made him write her a letter to apologise. But I suppose it worked - they’re dating now, I think,” she says thoughtfully. “They made a Hermione Granger-themed sweet Skiving Snackbox and all - called it the Petrification Pastille; looks a bit like Blackpool Rock.”

 

For once, Riddle looks lost for words. It rather makes her day, although Hermione can’t really blame him - Fred and George have that effect on most people.

 

“I’m nipping to the kitchens,” she says brightly. "I want something desserty. Maybe blancmange."

 

“It’s half nine,” he points out tonelessly.

 

Hermione gestures vaguely towards the Restricted Section. “Do you want to be here when Madam Pince sees that? Back soon!” 

 

And she swings her bookback over her shoulder, quite content to leave him there and then.

 

She is determined to ignore the niggle of self-doubt that he has planted deep inside of her.

 

---

 

During Astronomy, the Scottish sky a rich swathe of inky black velvet an eternity above her, she daydreams idly about pitching Riddle over the side of the tower. She thinks he must be dipping into her thoughts, because after she scowls at him for the umpteenth time, he turns away from her, a tiny smile curling crookedly at the corner of his mouth. 

Notes:

eee sorry for the wait! life's busy. I hope you enjoy and this isn't too rambly; these chapters are just getting longer and longer.

also - I've posted over 100,000 words since I started!! a small milestone

the duelling footwork is loosely based on fencing, with footwork and wrist holds changing in defensive vs offensive manoeuvres. poor hermione only got the defensive book ;_;

as always, thank you so so much for your comments and kudos; they are wonderful; you are wonderful. and the THEORIES are just fab. in this chapter there's some plot bubbling away in the background, but mostly riddle being riddle, hermione being hermione, the slowest of slow burns. I love exploring her relationship with ginny and the other girls - at the end of the day they are teenagers. harry's written as pretty much oblivious to nearly everything in the series, but I can absolutely see all of the girls being hyper aware of ginny fancying harry.

if you liked this, feel free to check out my other fics:

synchronicity: your ~basic bitch~ time travel story
the department of mutually-beneficial arrangements: AU where older tom and hermione work for the MoM and make a calculated bb pact
put your iron hand (into my velvet glove): look I'll be honest this is just porn

tumblr: also I post dumb shit on my tumblr now and again <3

Chapter 10

Life settles into a predictable sort of pattern. 

 

She wakes up, lays in bed, and ekes out marginal gains with meditation. She nags Harry and Ron about homework. She co-leads the Defence club. She endures Riddle, and sends off two more internship applications. 

 

Predictable, apart from three events.

 

She ignores the nasty, knowing looks from the Slytherins, head held high as she passes their dining table. But strangely, their disdain doesn’t feel like their usual, run-of-the-mill vitriol.

 

No.

 

Event number one:

 

There is a niggling undercurrent of anxiety in the air amongst the younger students. Rumours abound of an unnamed foreign Muggle-born diplomat - some say French, others say German - falling foul of security at the International Floo Border Control. Smuggling, spying, murder; the reason is unimportant. 

 

(“Father said he was hauled straight off to Azkaban,” Malfoy regales the small crowd surrounding him in Potions gleefully, “and rightly so. Everyone who’s anyone knows that Border Control is for peasants. Embarrassing, really. The proper families have their own channels for - ahem, more select importation. Not the blood traitors, so much. Mind you, I don’t believe the Weasels have anything considered select …”

 

“Ignore him, he’s just trying to rile you up,” Hermione mutters to a livid Ron as she returns from the storecupboard.

 

“Now now, Mr Malfoy,” Slughorn says indulgently. “We don’t use such language in the classroom environment. Students, turn to page eighty-four -”)

 

Despite her imperturbable veneer, on the inside, she’s uneasy. She’s always had to work harder as a Muggle-born. To prove her worth. And her professors have backed her, protected her as best they could against blood supremacy. 

 

But in the outside world, for the British Ministry of Magic to take the overt step of imprisoning a foreign diplomat on what she can only infer as trumped-up charges …

 

It is deeply, deeply concerning to Hermione.

 

If that wasn’t enough, the lofty manoeuvres of the Ministry aren’t all that she has to worry about.

 

Event number two:

 

Whispers have picked up about the Dementors patrolling Hosgmeade. That they appear at dusk, terrifying the local shopkeepers and residents who barricade themselves in. No-one has been to the village since school started, but the first trip fast approaches. Hermione has no desire to tempt fate, and instead has made plans to spend that entire weekend snug in Gryffindor Tower, but Harry and Ron are pigheaded (and Pureblooded, she rolls her eyes) enough to want to scope them out. 

 

(“They must be up to something, and no-one’s saying anything. Percy’s lording it over Ron, even Sirius’s keeping mum, and Lupin’s still refusing to teach me the Patronus,” Harry seethes to Neville and Seamus, one afternoon in class. 

 

“And you really think it’s a good idea to confront a horde of Dementors with quite literally zero defence against them? A brilliant idea, Harry.” Her words positively drip with sarcasm as she passes their desks. 

 

“It’s better than doing fuck-all, sitting here in the dark,” he fires back, angrily jabbing his wand at the bookcase they are meant to be Transfiguring into a flock of pigeons. 

 

The wooden shelves explode in a grisly cloud of feathers and matted red clumps, splattering down onto a white-faced Neville. Hermione gives up on hammering any sense into Harry's thick skull for the time being and wisely retreats, just before a livid McGonagall rounds on the boys.)

 

Even Riddle seems determined to unnerve her. But not by calling her names, or attacking her, or with threats.

 

No.

 

Cue event number three:

 

Riddle had decided to - of all things - to ask her opinion on the current political climate. 

 

(She’d looked at him incredulously.  

 

“What, you actually want to know what the Mudblood thinks? Oh, give over,” she hurls scathingly at him, arms crossed over her chest. They are unfortunately paired together for Prefect patrol that gloomy evening.

 

He peers behind a heavy tapestry idly, his face briefly shadowed. “I’d thought you’d have something much more nuanced to say than that, Hermione. How disappointed I am.” But his tone is mild, and he looks genuinely intrigued. And that is enough to launch her an impassioned monologue -

 

- Well, it would have been a monologue if he didn’t interrupt every five bloody seconds. Riddle is simply awful to debate with, throwing up defence and reason and logic, as fast as she can refute and rebut. She barely pays attention to their route as they stride through the castle. 

 

Somehow, they’ve been arguing for the last hour, furiously parrying back and forth, as the lanterns flicker low in the sconces, as rain lashes against the high paned windows. Somehow, the conversation has gotten wildly off-track.

 

“I can’t believe you’re advocating for all Muggle-born children to be - to be taken from their families at the first sign of magic! This isn’t the 1950s -” Riddle opens his gob to no doubt disagree with her, but she cuts him off with a finger in the air “- do you hear that?”

 

They’re in front of the History of Magic classroom door, from behind which emanates stifled giggles. 

 

He rakes a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Again? This is the third time this evening -” 

 

Hermione pauses her tirade to fling open the door. “Oh, for God’s sake. Twenty points from Hufflepuff each and detention this weekend! Go on, get out!” She snaps at the red-faced pair of students, who hastily right their rucked-up clothing and beat an embarrassed retreat. As they disappear around the corner, she calls after them. “And don’t let me catch you again out of hours, unless you want Professor Binns to know exactly what you were doing in his classroom!”

 

Next to her, Riddle lets out an unexpected laugh. The noise is rich and warm and genuine, and causes the hairs to prickle on the back of her neck in suspicion. 

 

“And just what is so funny?” she demands acidly. He has the temerity to chuckle lowly again, as he leans against the corridor wall.

 

“I’ll give you a Galleon if you actually follow through and inform Binns, in great detail, just why he ought to Scourgify his desk.”

 

His dark eyes shine with mischief when they meet hers. Her stomach flops uncomfortably at his half-smile -

 

She scowls at him and turns away, decidedly not thinking about what Riddle might know of darkened classrooms and rucked-up skirts. “Don’t change the subject. What you’re saying is barbaric.”

 

He tuts, pushes himself off the wall in a sinuous movement, and just like that, they continue down the darkened hallway.

 

“Nonsense. Muggle-born witches and wizards arrive in this world at a significant disadvantage. I’m not saying to permanently rip them away from the warm embrace of parental ignorance and fear. Simply that a Pureblood early education teaches things that Muggles cannot possibly begin to cover.”

 

“Such as what, Mr Catholic church?” She swivels to plant her hands on her hips, forcing him to abruptly stop walking lest he crash into her. Just how he can propose such a horrific sentiment so reasonably, like it’s the right thing to do -

 

“Such as Duelling.” He raises an eyebrow at her, arrogantly, provocatively. 

 

God, it’s nearly like last year - studying and debating together. But this time, his mask has entirely dropped, no residual air of politeness he worn around her, and he looks down at her, lips quirked, eyes bright, waiting for a riposte.

 

(And for some inexplicable reason, he is close enough that she registers that his smile is ever-so-slightly lopsided. Surely Tom Riddle wouldn't have such an imperfect, asymmetrical smile in his repertoire of human emotion he displays to the world - perhaps this is the closest thing to a true smile he has -)

 

What a waste, she can’t help but think. Riddle blinks, the amusement dropping from his face. He’s clearly taken aback, but the expression quickly shutters down, leaving that smooth mask she abhors so much. Something tightens in her chest. She thinks it is anger, and rage, for what else could it be? 

 

He takes a half-step, even closer. “Hermione -”

 

“Get out of my head,” she snarls at his stupid, stupid face, and whirls away without another word. She does not stomp up the stairs as she leaves him there in the Entrance Hall, but it is a close thing.)

 

She hates herself, a little, for so easily being drawn into conversation. She hates admitting that talking to Riddle is intellectually stimulating.

 

She hates thinking there’s more to him than simply the enemy -

 

Her resolve tightens, deep in her gut. No. It’s fine. It's fine. Wiser for her to know her enemy than to remain in ignorance of who he is. Surely, the better she knows him, the more leverage she'd have over him. Honestly, it would be stupid not to pick his brains, to figure out just how he ticked, at any opportunity that she got. She could exist in fake cordiality until Easter, no problem. 

 

In fact, ignoring the rest of the Slytherins, corralling Harry and Ron from doing something monumentally stupid, and getting through the rest of the term entirely unscathed will be a doddle. Easy peasy. After all, she’s aiming for Head Girl, and the most Outstanding N.E.W.T.s since Albus Dumbledore himself. She can’t afford any distractions. 

 

It’s a fool-proof plan.

 

She’s convinced of it. 

 

---

 

It is with entirely no fanfare at all, that Hermione awakens on the morning of her seventeenth birthday at the crack of a sombre dawn. 

 

She creeps out of her warm duvet to sit by the dormitory window, the soft, rhythmic breathing of Parvati and Lavender accompanying her melancholy. The morning sky is crowned with heavy, slate-grey clouds, a dense mist shrouding the Forbidden Forest. 

 

She - well. She doesn’t exactly get excited for birthdays in the way that Harry still does, but there is still a bittersweet twang in her chest when she takes stock of the modest pile of presents that have appeared at the foot of her bed overnight. Harry and Ron still haven’t managed the art of square corners; whilst Ginny has wrapped hers in paper flashing with lurid pink love hearts. There is even a brick-shaped package from Hagrid, likely containing some brick-like confectionery. 

 

(Of course, there is nothing from her parents. It is stupid, she thinks, swallowing the lump in her throat, to have expected anything at all when she has been razed from their memories, but they have never, not once, missed a birthday, a school performance, anything important -)

 

She slumps against the window pane in her pyjamas, staring idly out. The chill of the glass leeches the sleep-warmth from her skin, and gooseflesh prickles over her skin. What would it be like, she thinks wanly, to exist in this twilight moment forever? But, she sighs, time will wend its own course, regardless of her dramatics. Gradually, a pale, watery glow bleeds in from the horizon. From high in Gryffindor Tower, the tiny orange dot that is Crookshanks lazily winds himself through Hagrid’s pumpkin patch on his morning prowl. He cuts a dewy swathe through the long grass, padding towards the Forest on what is no doubt highly important feline business. 

 

(Sighing fondly, she weighs up the likelihood of discovering an offering from her familiar. Last year, she and Lavender had had a spiteful exchange over something utterly inconsequential the week before her sixteenth birthday. The morning of, she had awoken to Lavender screaming bloody murder at the partially-eviscerated Niffler presented proudly on her pillow.

 

Hermione had apologetically Vanished the mess and scolded him loudly, whilst he delicately cleaned his paws, purring away. After Lavender disappeared in a huff, she had crouched down to scritch the top of his squashed, furry head.

 

“No one will believe you’re all-cat if you continue like this, you know,” she said wryly. 

 

Smart boy.)

 

As the morning progresses, her mood lifts. It’s not a bad birthday, all things considered. She is the first in their year to reach the age of Wizarding majority, and this is a big moment in the eyes of her Pureblood friends. In the Common Room, Parvati and Lavender gift her high-end cosmetics that have been carefully chosen. She’s left red-faced and spluttering when Ginny cheekily hands over a questionably-shaped present, which mercifully is simply a gift-wrapped cucumber (the redhead then reveals a generous Honeydukes haul with a sweeping bow).

 

Harry and Ron splurge on Flourish and Blotts, and her teary eyes return when she realises that Mr and Mrs Weasley have sent her a well-worn, well-loved wristwatch. She thinks Harry notices that she’s more subdued than usual, but he’s quickly distracted by Neville’s gift, a miniature potted tree which Hermione immediately identifies.

 

“Is that a bonsai Wiggentree?” she says in hushed, reverent tones. “Oh Neville, that’s amazing!” 

 

Neville blushes and scratches his chin whilst they all gather to coo at the Magricultural marvel. “Been trying to get it right since last summer. Happy birthday, Hermione.” 

 

But it is Fred and George who outdo themselves at breakfast. 

 

When the overcast sky is blotted out by the usual flock of owls, the very last thing that Hermione expects is for a package the size of a small shipping crate to crash squarely onto the dining table in front of her. It’s not just her who screams in shock as plates shatter and food flies. 

 

“What in the bloody fuck did you order?" Ron aggrievedly shakes scrambled eggs from his robes straight onto the floor. She stands on tiptoes to liberate the four exhausted owls attached to the top, and peers at the brown paper packaging. 

 

“‘To Hermione’,” she reads the tag, “‘Open me. Sincerely, Messers Weasley.’ Well, I doubt that’s a good idea …” It seems the professors also agree, as McGonagall starts to advance towards the table. 

 

“I don’t think you have a choice,” warns Ginny, grabbing the note. “Look, at the bottom: ‘P.S. I would duck if I were -’” her eyes grow wide as saucers as the package begins to belch great plumes of violet smoke. It rumbles and vibrates, sending the silverware clattering ominously -

 

“DUCK, EVERYONE DUCK!” Ginny screams, hurling herself under the benches. 

 

The lid of the crate bursts open with an enormous BANG, flying fifty feet and nearly beheading Ernie MacMillan. The thick violet smoke intensifies, and Hermione smells gunpowder - 

 

“Not this again,” she groans, burying her face in her hands in mortification.

 

Fireworks scream as they fly out of the box, exploding high above in a dazzling display. Giant catherine wheels race raucously along the stone walls of the Great Hall, whilst huge flaming lions roar a hair’s breadth over the Gryffindor table.

 

It is a cacophony of light, sound, smoke, and shrieks. The teachers (apart from Dumbledore who merely claps, delighted) try vainly to corral the chaos for several minutes, to no avail.

 

"Oh, for the love of Merlin's withered nutsack.” Ron gestures at the enchanted ceiling with his middle finger. Professor McGonagall looks as though she'd like to do the same, for the drab grey sky has been greatly livened up by multiple sparkling, crackling signs, much the same as the one currently adorning the Restricted Section in the library. A quiet buzz of excitement takes ahold of the Great Hall, as students crane their necks:

 

SEARCHING FOR THE PERFECT COMING-OF-AGE PRESENT FOR THAT WITCH OR WIZARD IN YOUR LIFE, SUCH AS ONE HERMIONE GRANGER?

 

LOOK NO FURTHER THAN WEASLEY WIZARDING WHEEZES: FINE GOODS FOR EVERY OCCASION 

 

SICK OF SCHOOL? THREE-FOR-TWO ON SKIVING SNACKBOXES: FREEDOM NEVER TASTED BETTER

 

BORED? OR JUST BORING? TRY OUR PATENTED DAYDREAM CHARMS FOR HIGHLY REALISTIC FLIGHTS OF FANCY: GUARANTEED ADVENTURE AWAITS*

 

LOOKING FOR A NIGHT OF EVER-LASTING EXPLOSIONS? TRY MADAM PINCE’S FAVOURITE, THE WEASLEYS’ WILDFIRE WHIZ-BANGS RANGE**. SPARKS GUARANTEED TO FLY! 

 

INTRODUCING WONDERWITCH: THE MODERN SOLUTION FOR THE MODERN WITCH

 

ALL FOUND ONLY AT WEASLEY WIZARDING WHEEZES: HOGSMEADE BRANCH OPENING THIS WEEKEND

 

EIGHTY SEVEN HIGH STREET, HOGSMEADE

 

*NOT FOR SALE TO UNDER SEVENTEENS

**NO LIABILITY TAKEN FOR LOSS OF HAIR, FRIENDS, HOUSE POINTS, OR LIMBS

 

Hermione rubs her brow, suddenly exhausted, as a sparkler drifts past a group of first years scrawling out the tasteful obscenity KNOBJOCKEY. “Do you think that Fred and George got slightly carried away with it all?” 

 

"They basically sent you a bomb," Ron opines helpfully. 

 

Ginny emerges from under the table, wiping her hands disdainfully, whilst Harry inspects the crate. “Shame they used your birthday as a marketing scheme. And Ron, you’re an absolute pig, leaving egg everywhere for the house-elves - and on Hermione's birthday! Honestly, clean up after yourself -”

 

“Hang on - there’s something still in there!”

 

Hermione tilts the blackened crate. Harry is right: at the bottom is what looks like a shiny pink shoe box, emblazoned with the same logo garnishing the Great Hall. 

 

WonderWitch.

 

Underneath is a parchment scrap:

 

Happy birthday Hermione! 

 

Love,

Gred 

 

Like,

Forge 

 

“Aha! Fred’s always fancied you,” Ginny elbows Ron in the side purely to antagonise, and he scowls churlishly. She ignores them both as pandemonium erupts from across the hall. Red and gold sparks from the blazing signs rain down solely on the Slytherin side, Pansy Parkinson frantically casts Aguamenti all over her shiny, shiny hair, and half the table. She looks for him carefully, absently hoping he’d catch on fire before breakfast ends, but Riddle is missing from breakfast. 

 

Pity.

 

With no small amount of trepidation, she lifts the cardboard lid with the tip of her wand. But nothing explodes. Instead, the box is crammed full of violently pink products, all shrunk to dollhouse-sized proportion, the likes of which she has never seen before. The way the liquids bubble and fizz inside oddly-shaped stoppered glass bottles are a world away from her mother’s modest collection of toiletries. She feels a distinct sense of magic as Harry starts to rifle through. “‘Ten Second Pimple Vanisher,’ ‘Everlasting Eyelashes’, ‘Flirting Fancies’ … blimey, so this is what they’ve been working on all summer!” 

 

Along with the cosmetics, an array of what look like tiny perfumes are bottled in frosted glass. Ron holds a delicate heart-shaped bottle between thumb and forefinger close to his eye with poorly-disguised interest. “‘Eau de l’ardeur’, eh?” he pronounces atrociously. Seamus smirks from across the table.

 

“Is that how ye’ve been gettin’ our Lav to -” 

 

Hermione cuts them off with a withering glare. “There’s not a chance that I’m leaving Love Potions lying around for you idiots to abuse. I’m binning the lot.”

 

She ignores their protests and slaps away Ron’s hands. There’s a queasy feeling in her stomach when she considers how normalised Love Potions are in the Wizarding World. Still, the cosmetics look nice, and oooh, the spot remover might be useful … 

 

It’s difficult to be too mad at the twins because of the sheer size of the hamper. Ron’s eyes are still agog and even Ginny - babied by the twins, really - looks a shade jealous. 

 

“We can try them out later,” she says, quick to mollify. “I always knew the twins were clever but this … this is astonishing! Can you even imagine the spellwork needed to create a Daydream Charm?” She lifts out one of three cardboard boxes, each roughly the size of a paperback novel. Gaudy scenes not out of place on the front of Ginny’s romance novels decorate the front; Harry blanching at a semi-shirtless pirate embracing an exceptionally busty woman. 

 

“‘Choose your own adventure’ … Just what are they selling here?” he asks weakly.

 

Ron tries not to look too interested, as Ginny sniggers. "Wonder what Fred has in store for you here, Hermione ..."

 

Hermione has had just about enough, and so, it would seem, has Professor McGonagall. A flaming lion gambols past the teachers’ table; but as McGonagall tries to Banish it, the lion’s head transforms into what is unmistakable the visage of Peeves blowing a raspberry. Dumbledore chuckles along merrily. “It seems, Minerva, as though Mr and Mr Weasley have been making good use of their learning; particularly their Transfiguration skills -”

 

“Everybody, out!” McGonagall roars at the students. “Out, and if I so much as catch whiff of a firework in this school -”

 

Hermione hurriedly stuffs her gifts (because they aren’t fireworks, so it’s fine, surely?) into her bag and files out into the Entrance Hall along with the rest of the school, several sooty-faced Slytherins patting out their still-smouldering robes.

 

Adventure, indeed …

 

---

 

Hermione loves the boys. Really, she does. 

 

But there’s just such a sense of belonging, that evening, hanging out with a group of semi-inebriated witches. The girls have thrown her a sleepover, cuddled away in the Ravenclaw sixth year dorm, Padma and Luna insisting that they are dragged over to the chaos of Gryffindor Tower far too often. Besides, she can’t imagine Harry and Ron enjoying the box of WonderWitch goodies quite as much. Fred and George have impressed even Lavender and her discerning eye for quality make-up. 

 

She rather likes the Ravenclaw Tower, the cool blues and burnished bronzes draping the bed posts ethereally. She’d never say it in earshot of Harry or Ron, but it feels more sensible, somehow, than the brash crimson-and-gold of Gryffindor.

 

Sipping her Butterbeer, she is content in her velveteen, midnight-blue armchair, just perfect for curling up with a good book. The house-elves have provided them with a small feast, cold pumpkin juice, a platter of pies and sandwiches, biscuits and cakes galore. Padma looks on disapprovingly at her twin, who has smuggled an almost-full bottle of Odgen’s finest to celebrate. 

 

(Hermione’s always liked Padma -)

 

“Hermione,” Luna interrupts her musings dreamily. “I have something for you. I couldn’t find any of the books you wanted in Father’s library, but I wrote to my great-uncle, and he posted this just last week.” 

 

Before she can say a word, Luna is sliding the most mildewed book Hermione has ever seen, smelled, or touched into her hands. Her nose crinkles, as her fingers brush the surface - it’s positively slimy - but as she turns over to read the yellowing front over, she shrieks in excitement.

 

“Oh my god; I can’t believe I’m even touching this book. It’s a piece of history …” she trails off, lost for words, as she traces the embossed title in reverent fingers: 

 

Januæ Mentis: An Exhaustive Exploration of the Mind from 1300-1490, by Émeric Eßlinger.

 

She wonders if the other girls know what history has renamed Émeric Eßlinger.

 

He is more commonly known as Emeric the Evil. 

 

But to deny herself knowledge, knowledge she would use for good against Riddle? Hermione hesitates, but only for a split second.

 

Her grip tightens.

 

"This is just perfect. It's exactly what I was looking for."

 

Luna beams. "It's quite all right. Although I think it will pale in comparison to what’s next. Witches, are we ready?"

 

The other girls drop what they’re doing, and turn to face Luna, wearing excited grins. It is all too easy to guess that they’ve been planning something, what with their furtive shuffling -

 

“We have a surprise for you.” 

 

“Er - what sort of surprise?” she questions, warily. 

 

“Oh, the Quidditch boys will be coming in at any moment - ow!” Ginny sulks, rubbing her ribs as Padma sniffs. “Fine, I’ll be serious. Hermione, most Purebloods have a ceremony to celebrate when a witch or wizard comes of age. Even the Weasleys. Ours is nothing special, mostly a whole load of drinking whilst Mum cries buckets over the family tree.” 

 

Hermione’s stomach begins to sink, and she can’t help but state the obvious. “Ginny, I’m a Muggle-born. We’ll all get in trouble for me ‘acting up’,” she says bitterly. The Ministry has never looked fondly on even half-bloods participating in the most ancient of Pureblood rites. She’d never once been invited to Samhain, never once danced around a Beltane bonfire. The old traditions were coming more and more into fashion, she’d noticed, as the Wizarding world became more and more conservative. 

 

“Well, we thought we’d do one better.” Ginny’s eyes shine in anticipation. “We thought we’d form a coven. Fuck the patriarchy, and all.”

 

Hermione blinks. Covens hadn’t formally existed since before the Witch Hunts in the sixteenth century. After the reduction in Wizarding numbers, Purebloods tended to band together within their families, outside of the looser gatherings of covens. Maybe they’d learned something from Muggles after all, for, despite the relative equality granted by magic, the most powerful families became entirely male-led, and the less powerful emulated in kind. 

 

Covens, on the other hand, were not linked by blood, non-hierarchical -

 

- and were exclusively for witches. 

 

She started to smile.

 

Maybe she could see the appeal, after all.

 

“Witches, witches,” Parvati sing-songs loudly. She clears her throat purposefully. “I believe it is time: a celebration of the coven is in order!” 

 

“Ah, for that, Madam Patil, we must form the coven,” replies Ginny gravely, her grin giving her away. It is clear they have rehearsed something, and Hermione good-naturedly allows herself to be pulled into the centre of the room. 

 

The other girls exchange conspiratorial Looks, and shuffle to kneel in a circle around her: Ginny, Padma, Luna, Lavender, and lastly, Parvati. Hermione notes bemusedly that there is enough space between Ginny and Parvati for another person. Luna dims the lamps with a wave of her wand, and Padma pulls out and lights six tall, white candles. Lavender stands and begins to spill salt from a silver shaker in a careful pattern, stretching a line behind herself and Luna. She walks the circumference around the girls, forming a salt circle.

 

“Shouldn’t you be in the circle, for any sort of protection -”

 

“Shush. Now, as I was saying,” and Parvati pulls a piece of parchment from her pocket, “It is today, on the nineteenth of September, that we celebrate the coming of age of Hermione Jean Granger. It is today that we form the coven that shall henceforth be bonded together, ‘til death do us part -”

 

“I’m not marrying you all.”

 

“Shut up! Witches, do you agree to protect one another? To be loyal? To always tell Ginny when her skirt is caught in her knickers?”

“That was one time, you twat,” grumbles Ginny, whilst the others chant, “We do”. Lavender has formed what looks like a six sided star, a point in front of each girl, except for Hermione, who sits cross-legged, in the middle.

 

The space between Ginny and Parvati is empty.

 

She feels a shiver up her spine, as Padma sets a candle in front of each point. The light flickers gently, lighting their faces from below.

 

The splash of liquid behind her catches her attention. Ginny is in the midst of carefully pouring seven measures of Firewhiskey into seven short copper goblets.

 

Padma objects. “You said that would be Butterbeer -” 

 

“And with that,” Parvati hastily interrupts, “Hermione, we celebrate your strength -” 

 

She places a goblet in front of Ginny. 

 

“- your brains -” 

 

One in front of Padma. 

 

“- your magic -” 

 

One in front of Luna. 

 

“- your beauty -” 

 

One in front of Lavender. 

 

“- your loyalty -” 

 

One in front of herself.

 

“- and declare that you, Hermione, have officially come of age. Hermione, do you agree to protect your coven, to share your wisdom, to read over my Charms essay before next week?” 

 

“I do,” Hermione replies, fighting a grin. She accepts the drink pressed into her hands.

 

“And we never forget,” the first hint of seriousness crosses Parvati’s face since they sat down, “our sisters who no longer walk with us.”

 

The last goblet is placed in front of the empty space; the candlelight dancing across the surface.

 

“Now, we drink!” proclaims Ginny solemnly, lifting her cup. The others do so in union. She winks, spoiling the effect. 

 

Hermione knocks back her Firewhiskey in one clean gulp. The potent alcohol slides down her throat with a deep burn, and her eyes water. It must be a trick of the light, for she swears that the shadow of the last cup grows -

 

“You’re an adult now, Hermione,” squeals Lavender, “you’re able to drink, to Apparate, you could even get married -”

 

“We’re already drinking -”

 

“More important,” Parvati claps her hands in glee, “We have a coven!” She casts Lumos, restoring light to the lamps. The room quickly loses any gravity it may have once held. Padma immediately flops onto her bed, Luna following.

 

Hermione remains sat for a moment longer. It is perhaps childish, but she feels a happiness she hasn’t felt for a long time bubble up in her chest. 

 

Despite the silliness, she sees their gesture for what it is: she is included, she is welcome, she is wanted in the magical world. She’s in a coven, she has a coven -

 

“What do we even do in a coven?” Ginny wonders aloud.

 

Parvati shrugs. “Talk about boys?”

 

“That we don’t already do?”

 

“... Girls?” offers Padma pointedly.

 

“Oooh, did you hear that Michael Corner and - oh, bugger,” Lavender purses her glossy lips in dismay, “I’ve kicked salt everywhere; Professor Trelawney says that’s definitely bad luck -”

 

“Homework?” suggests Hermione, channelling her inner McGonagall. 

 

“How were you not Sorted into Ravenclaw?” Padma deadpans, head hanging off the end of her bed. Her glossy black hair cascades down (Hermione isn’t envious, she isn’t), and Luna, leaning back against the bedpost, idly begins to braid it. 

 

“The Hat did consider it,” she admits. “You know, I think they Sort far too soon. Or at least, there should be the option to experience different House systems. I’d love a change from the Fat Lady …” 

 

Parvati rubs her shoulder gingerly. “She nearly tackled me out the way to answer the riddle first, bloody hell -”

 

Luna smiles, dreamily. “Ah, Hermione loves a riddle.” 

 

Hermione glares suspiciously. You never knew, with Luna.

 

Ginny nods sagely, a twinkle in her eye. “The harder the better, I’ve heard.”

 

She blanches. “Ginevra Weasley, that’s foul -”

 

Parvati raises her eyebrows in disbelief. “Oh, don’t pull that face; he definitely fancies you -” 

 

“He most certainly does not! And even if he did, I have too much to be thinking about to be wasting my time with boys -”

 

“For such a smart girl, you can be seriously thick sometimes.There’s no way a boy would spend all that time in the library if he didn’t want to climb into your knickers.” Lavender laughs raucously. The others join in, tittering, and although it is likely good-natured, Hermione sees red. 

 

She snaps cruelly. “I understand it’s a staggering concept for you, but just because boys aren’t interested in your intellectual prowess doesn’t make it an impossibility for the rest of us -”

 

“Fuck me, Hermione.” The blonde recoils, stung. “We’re just teasing. I just ... don’t get why you freak out over Tom all of the time. He’s nice, and smart, and so bloody fit. He sits next to you in every class and you do all of your homework together! If that’s not the way to Hermione Granger’s heart, then I don’t know what is. If you don’t like him, then you should bloody well tell him. But I think you do, because you always look for him -” 

 

(Fortunately, Hermione doesn't hear the last part of Lavender's accusation, for she is too busy internally panicking.)

 

Shit. Shit, fuck, shit. Of course, this is what it seems like on parchment to Lavender: that Riddle is just a boy who fancies her, who is using homework and studying to get closer to her, who doesn’t have her bent over a barrel, dancing to his tune. 

 

Lavender only sees what Riddle presents to the rest of the school. Oh, he’s clever, isn’t he? And if she protests, then they’ll get worried, and then they’ll nose, and then -

 

The girls are staring at her.

 

The mood is a far cry from the giggling and camaraderie before. She has to tread carefully. 

 

Hermione forces herself to calm down, reminds herself that they don’t know who Tom Riddle actually is. That she can’t afford their suspicion.

 

“I’m sorry, Lav. I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m sick of the gossip, you know? It ... it just wouldn't work between us. We already argue about everything and anything academic. And for the love of God, his friendship group - can you imagine me having to play nice with Crabbe and Goyle? They tried to Curse me on the train! Imagine them babysitting, I dare you."

 

Padma sniggers at the mental image, breaking the tension.

 

"But you're right, I should tell him before he gets the wrong impression," she forces the lie out smoothly. "Because we really are just -” her stomach roils “- friends.” 

 

“Wish I had a friend like that,” Lavender snarks out, clearly still annoyed. 

 

“Oh, does Ron know that’s how you feel -"

 

From across the room, Ginny groans. “You’re just being mean now. Merlin, Hermione - when was the last time you got your brains snogged out? Like properly snogged? Because clearly you’re in dire need of it.”

 

Hermione knows it is a rhetorical question, for everyone in the room assumes it was Viktor back in fourth year. And yet, she still turns an ugly, boiling scarlet. 

 

(She’s done such a good job in avoiding thinking about the last time she was kissed, how she didn’t push him away; how, despite everything he’d done, she’d woken up feeling hot and sticky for days after, the ghost of his fingertips trailing up her thighs -)

 

“Look - you just have to get it out of your system,” the redhead offers, matter-of-factly, “Go on a date, have some fun. You don’t have to marry anyone. Just think about it, please? I’m sure I can think of someone who’d love to show you a good time.” 

 

“If you say Tom Riddle,” she starts, warningly.

“Wasn’t gonna,” Ginny smirks, not dropping a beat, “although you must be as blind as Harry, because did you not see him in Duelling Club -”

 

“How about Terry Boot?” interrupts Padma thoughtfully. “He certainly couldn’t get enough of you in the Defence meeting the other day.”

 

Hermione splutters. "What?” 

 

She is so thrown off by this suggestion - she was convinced there’d be more talk of Riddle and his various virtues - that her bubbling rage is quite defused. “Terry Boot? He doesn't like me like that.” 

 

“Oh, Hermione,” Ginny says, flinging herself on Padma’s bed dramatically, “I would be simply overcome with joy if you were to teach me your Protean Charm.” 

 

Parvati mock-swoons next to Lavender, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead. “You should have been a Ravenclaw, Hermione, then we could exchange library references long into the night.” 

 

Lavender clutches Parvati in return as Hermione rolls her eyes, smiling reluctantly. “He was a bit over-complimentary, wasn’t he?” she admits sheepishly. After the last Defence meeting - she’s still to think of a good acronym, hmm - Terry Boot had followed her out of the Room of Requirement, chattering on at length. It was … fine. Nothing loin-stirring. She didn’t find him particularly attractive but he was nice, she supposed. At least he hadn’t Obliviated her parents or strong-armed her into a Blood Pact.

 

Maybe the bar was low. 

 

“I can ask Dean if he’d be interested, they’re friends,” offers Ginny. “How about this weekend - it’s the first Hogsmeade trip?” 

 

“But the Dementors -”

 

“- will only be out after dark,” Padma shoots down her argument with a gentle smile.

 

“Your coven speaks, Hermione,” Luna floats over ethereally. “What say you?”

 

Parvati and Lavender are excitedly holding their breaths.

 

Hermione wavers, under pressure. She hates the formality of it all in the Wizarding World, the go-betweens. In the Muggle world, she’d just ask him herself, friends giggling in the background. But Terry Boot is a Pureblood…

 

What’s the harm? The little voice in the back of her brain whispers. 

 

And really, she had been a bit of a arsehole; and they’re her coven -

 

“Oh, all right,” she gives in, to shrieks around the room. “But nothing formal! And we’re coming back well before nightfall, and no Madam Puddifoots,” she warns Ginny, who bounces over to hug her. Lavender is already rifling through her make-up, muttering about complimentary colours, whilst Parvati casually tosses a half-used jar of Sleakeasy’s -

 

The exuberance is so infectious that even Hermione can’t help but smile, all thoughts of him squashed into a niggle in the corner of her mind.

Notes:

hello! it's been A WHILE, hasn't it?? life's been v busy, but thought I'd sneak in an update in amidst the chaos. my eternal gratitude for the loveIy comments and kudos, as always <3 <3 hope you enjoyed this chapter, as plot continues to bubble and simmer away.

next chapter: the cauldron boils right over 👀
also next chapter: we meet everyone's favourite dogfather

heartiest thanks to seollem as ever xxx

---

if you liked this, feel free to check out my other fics:

synchronicity: your ~basic bitch~ time travel story
the department of mutually-beneficial arrangements: AU where older tom and hermione work for the MoM and make a calculated bb pact
put your iron hand (into my velvet glove): look I'll be honest this is just porn

tumblr: also I post dumb shit on my tumblr now and again <3

Chapter 11

The sky overhead has been pale grey and hazy the whole morning. The glowing sun has steadily crept higher and higher, promising to burn away the scant cloud cover to reveal a glorious autumnal day. Hermione’s steps are light and even, a crisp breeze picking out an unruly curl to tease away. Ginny is keeping up a cheerful stream of chatter, but Neville -

 

Neville has glanced over at least four times, averting his eyes bashfully. She sighs internally, counts down in her head, and, right on cue: 

 

“You - um look nice, Hermione.” 

 

“Oh, … thanks, Neville,” Hermione replies. (She pretends not to notice the vivid pink blotching up the back of Neville’s neck.)

 

“You wearing make-up?” asks Ron, sticking his nose right in her face. “What’s the occasion?”  

 

“Can’t I dress up for myself, Ronald?” She swerves away from his interrogation, and picks up her pace. Ginny squarely rounds on her brother. 

 

“Yeah, Ronald, can’t she dress up for herself?”

 

“Er, was I talking to you -”

 

Hermione tunes out their squabbling, as the gaggle of Gryffindors traipse their way down towards Hogsmeade. 

 

Boys. Ugh. 

 

Is it any surprise that Harry and Ron (mostly Ron) remain blissfully uninformed as to the dating life of she, Hermione Jean Granger? Harry would be as gormless as ever. Ron would no doubt have something cutting to say about Boot - Terry, she reminds herself; she can hardly call him by his surname on a date …

 

She’d agonised over what to wear, rifling through Lavender and Parvati’s wardrobes; Ginny being much too tall. But she doesn’t have the skin tone for Parvati’s robes, nor the daring for Lavender’s, so she settles for her nicest plaid shirt and skirt. Her school robes have been left behind, folded neatly on her bed, as she’ll be back and snuggled next to the Common Room fire long before the autumnal chill begins to bite. With a quick taming of her hair, and insisting on no more than lip gloss and mascara, she jutted her chin at her reflection and declared herself dateable, to the whooping and hollering of the other girls. 

 

But with every step towards the village the bravado melts away, little by little, to be left with a gnawing sense of uncertainty. She’s not excited anymore. Not really. She feels faintly nauseous, actually, palms clammy as she smooths down the soft blue corduroy of her skirt. It’s perhaps an inch shorter than her regulation-knee length school skirt. Jesus, she feels that inch now. Can everyone else see her heinously short skirt? Can they tell she’s going on a date?

 

If she were to go by her own experience - well. 

 

No boy has ever asked her out on a date. Which feels rather sad, all in all. She and Viktor never once entertained the thought of Hogsmeade; the twin repellants of Madam Puddifoots and media attention a potent combination. 

 

A visit to Honeydukes with B - Terry, perhaps a perusal of Scrivenshafts. He’s a Ravenclaw; surely he’d enjoy that? What did students even do on dates? If she were to take the word of Ginny as gospel, a date with a boy entailed tedious conversation, sweaty hand-holding, and some inept over-clothes fumbling afterwards. The appeal of Viktor, she reminisces ruefully, was not his stunning conversational skills, but rather, the distinct lack of talking between them …

 

It had been … nice. More than nice, she can admit with a blush, but she was fifteen, and Viktor had never pushed her. And last year, it became rather difficult to get in the mood with the looming pressure of O.W.L.s. Later, the only girding of loin was against the terror of being attacked as a Muggle-born. And in the summer, she thinks self-deprecatingly, being Petrified didn’t exactly send boys queuing up outside the Hospital Wing waiting to ravish her …

 

She has the horrible dread that kissing Terry Boot won’t be half as thrilling as - Viktor. Obviously, she’s thinking of Viktor, and not sparing a single synapse on -

 

She packs that train of thought away with ease; her dogged meditative practice coming in handy. No, of course she’s thinking of Viktor, who was always such a gentleman. And confident, too. Hermione cannot abide by waiting for people to catch up with her. Which is annoying; for someone always praised as being so ahead of her peers, she feels rather behind in …

 

Well -

 

Sex.

 

(According to Ginny, her and Dean are ‘close to it’, whatever that means. Parvati goes mysteriously deaf whenever the topic is brought up - Lavender is convinced that their dormmate has a secret, older boyfriend, to which Parvati only smiles beguilingly at. She wonders about Padma, for Hermione swears she’s seen the twin holding hands with Susan Bones, hidden away in the Library, but she can’t be sure. Lavender’s still utterly smitten with Ron, although Ron, she thinks privately, is starting to look uncomfortable with the blonde’s enthusiastic affection. A small, mean sliver of her is morbidly curious - are they not having sex? Are they having it but it’s so bad that they’re on the rocks? - but by and large, she simply feels sorry for Lavender. Hermione knows as well as anyone that Ron can be an utterly insensitive wart. 

 

Luna, meanwhile, has them shrieking in laughter after every school holiday, dreamily regaling them all with lurid tales of all the boys, girls, Veelas and vampires she’s met in the break. Hermione cannot even begin to separate fact from fiction there. Perhaps it’s better that way …)

 

When she was twelve, her parents - both highly educated medical professionals and deeply practical people - gave her The Talk at the kitchen table, complete with diagrams. She’d stolen their textbooks long ago, opened them up to vivid, full-colour anatomical illustrations, which had left her squirming with more questions than answers.

 

The Problem, she sighs, isn’t a lack of knowledge, or willingness, on her part. She had the theoretical understanding years ago. It’s more - and there’s no delicate way to say - the complete lack of a suitable candidate (she has the brief, mad thought that maybe she should interview). Viktor, conversation notwithstanding, is somewhere in South America, and by now, she mostly feels a deep fondness for him. It would be nice if they had more to talk about, but one could hardly have everything, could they?

 

(A sudden image of dark eyes, irritatingly overflowing with intelligence invades her mind. Her stomach makes that funny flop which must signify hatred. Yes; it can only mean abject hatred, when said owner of said eyes leans over her, tall and confident, ever careful to never so much as even brush against her - because he can’t - not that she -

 

Hermione mentally slaps the moment of insanity out of her head, and ignores it; she ignores it -)

 

She can’t picture nervous Terry Boot, well - ravishing her, nothing like the ridiculous bodice ripper that Ginny has lent, and the idea of him clumsily fumbling with her skirt zipper has her reflexively shuddering. Is it too much to hope for some level of finesse, for someone to set her aflame? The majority of the boys in the school are either idiots with whom she can barely hold a conversation, or raving Pureblood supremacists. Slim pickings, indeed.

 

But oh, she’s being awful, isn’t she? She’s over-intellectualising, again, talking herself out of this, for the date hasn’t even begun and she’s barely given him a chance …

 

Lost in thought, the conversation drifts over and around her. She barely notices when Ginny and Neville rush ahead to meet Luna, the trio continuing at a more leisurely pace. It is only when they reach the outskirts of the village, that her ears prick up. 

 

“I say we set up camp in the Shrieking Shack,” Harry is saying very quietly to Ron, “And then when the patrol starts -”

 

Jolted from her reverie, Hermione spins on her heel, confronting the pair of imbeciles. “Tell me you two aren’t planning on scoping out the Dementors,” she demands, eyes narrowing shrewdly.

 

Ron points at himself looking mortally offended, and she can just hear him ask ‘Who, me?’ Harry, on the other hand, looks defiant. “We’re not doing anything we shouldn’t be,” he attempts mulishly, before he’s cut off by Hermione’s finger in his face.

 

“You know it’s against the school rules; Professor Dumbledore explicitly said that the curfew is before dark for a reason, and neither of you have any way to defend yourself -”

 

“What, like the villagers do?” Harry snaps back. He spreads his arms, as though urging her to look. “You know as well as I do that there’s nothing normal about Dementors patrolling Hogsmeade. I mean, Dementors! In what world is that safe? I dunno who this fugitive is, but there’s no way he’s important enough to have the whole country under curfew. Something’s going on, Hermio -”

 

“And what makes you think you’re the one who’ll figure it out? You don’t know what you’re doing, and you can’t cast a Patronus! What are you going to do if -” 

 

“Bloody hell - you’re worse than Sirius!” Harry shouts at her, “and he’s my godfather, not you! Just because you’re happy to bury your head in the sand to what’s going on, doesn’t mean we all are. Come on, Ron!” 

 

Hermione recoils as though she’s been physically punched in the gut. Ron catches her eye and shrugs helplessly, before trotting after Harry’s now-distant figure. 

 

She’s left, alone and speechless, for any words she might have are throttled behind a heavy lump in her throat, and her face is growing uncomfortably warm, and her eyes are beginning to well - 

 

Around her, the few villagers around raise their eyebrows and tut at the students, brawling in their village, and ooooh, Mabel, that one’s not even in robes, what will the school think, she looks upset doesn’t she -

 

“Mind your own business!” she snaps at the affronted busybodies. Irritation is a much more useful outlet than sadness. She is not going to give them the satisfaction of crying in the middle of the street. 

 

Hermione swallows once, twice, and then stalks off, hair bristling behind her. She can be furious at Harry later.

 

She has a date to get to, after all.

 

---

 

Perhaps, it pains her to say, she was wrong. 

 

Oh - not about Harry being a complete prat. That’s a given.

 

Most alarmingly, she thinks she’s been wrong about Divination. For she has managed to predict the date down to every excruciating detail:

 

Hermione sees Terry Boot before he sees her, leaning against the wall of Honeydukes, bedecked in his school robes, picking at a hangnail, and her stomach slightly sinks. She gamely greets him, enduring an overly-formal, perspiration-adorned handshake. He fawns over her spellwork, as the girls had predicted, in Honeydukes. He stutters a compliment about her hair over ornate eagle-owl quills in Scrivenshafts. 

 

As she walks listlessly next to him, nodding at appropriate intervals, Hermione tries to imagine Terry Boot in anything so much as resembling a romantic light. He’s a shade taller than her, at least, but has a sort of wide-eyed panic permanently etched in his watery blue eyes. He bites his nails, which makes her shudder (“Simply terrible for one’s teeth,” she can hear her mum tut). 

 

He’s booksmart, for sure, but although he is not for lacking in enthusiasm, he fumbles often in the Defence club. Last session he tripped over his own feet and barged into Ron, sending the redhead careening straight into the path of Padma’s Confounding Charm. 

 

(No, best that Ron doesn’t hear about this date. He’d mock her for eternity …)

 

It’s as though he’s following a script from Witch Weekly. She can’t help but feel foolish for fretting over, quite frankly, a lacklustre experience. Nothing about this  feels particularly catered towards her interests, she sighs, for there is a new display in Tomes and Scrolls on Magical European Law that he just breezes past. And he’s supposed to be a Ravenclaw?

 

She firmly puts her foot down, however, at crossing the threshold of Madam Puddifoot’s.

 

“But I’ve made a reservation,” Boot repeats, nonplussed, as she ushers him away from the suffocating scent of lilac. Quite literally, anywhere would be better than making excruciating conversation, knees pressed tightly together underneath too-small tables -

 

She stands still, struck by inspiration at the sight in front of her.

 

Amongst the tasteful shop displays and sedate decor of Hogsmeade, one brand-new building with a violently purple-and-green facade stands proudly, like a bruised thumb. Villagers stand with their arms crossed, muttering, and scores of students gather in gleeful throngs, some already holding bright orange shopping bags, emblazoned with three dancing Ws.

 

“How about the new Wizarding Wheezes shop?” she asks innocently, pointing to the enormous, flashing sign. The twins’ shop stands an obnoxious two stories higher than its neighbours, green smoke billowing thickly from the crooked chimney pot. It’s just so them, that she can’t help but grin.

 

But next to her, Boot looks distinctly hesitant about breaking The Rules. “Aren’t the Weasley products banned from school? Look, we aren’t too late to head back to Madam Puddifoot’s …?”

 

Hermione privately contemplates the duality of man, for how can he be this much of a wetwipe about stepping over a shop threshold, yet also join a secret Defence club where they spend hours each week attacking one another?

 

“Nonsense! Fred and George are very talented. Professor Dumbledore - er, said so himself. Now, if you’re not coming?” She doesn’t look behind to know that he is trailing behind her, and briskly pushes open the jangling door -

 

- to be slapped in the face by a cacophony of noise and chaos. Awestruck students are crammed in every direction she looks; products stacked high to the ceiling. A huge spiral staircase in the floor centre disappears upwards, promising at least two more floors of products.

 

“This is amazing work,” she breathes out, threading through the crowd; her head spinning; desperate to take in all of the merchandise. Reams and reams of spelled quills, Skiving Snackboxes, Quidditch memorabilia, trick brooms which moult into flamingos, Sorting Hats that speak the wearer’s mind, even a joke telescope promising a view of Uranus…

 

One corner of the room has a violently pink display, which is no doubt full of WonderWitch produce. She recognises Cho Chang, the Head Girl and Marietta Edgecombe hovering near -

 

“So you got our invitation!” a pair of cheerful voices exclaims behind her. 

 

She turns, to be greeted by a pair of flamboyantly clad Weasley twins; their magenta robes billowing dramatically in the non-existent breeze. 

 

“Thank you for the birthday present,” she says, genuinely glad to see them, “but did you have to attach my name to it?” Still, she gives them a quick hug each, marvelling at the shop. “The amount of work that’s gone into this! It’s incredible. And -” she squints at their undulating robes - “no, don’t tell me. A modified Zephuros Charm?”

 

George flaps the hem of his Self-Swishing Robe™appreciatively.

 

“Got it in one; only three Sickles and guaranteed for two hours of pizzazz, dynamism, energy -”

 

“- Brother dear, forgive me but I must cut in. Just who do we have here?” Fred waggles his eyebrows nosily. George quickly cottons on.

 

“Why, Hermione, you didn’t tell us you were bringing a guest -” 

 

She looks behind; she had half-forgotten that Boot was there, looking distinctly overwhelmed. “Oh, um …”

 

“Nice to meet you. Heard you’re a smart one too; we’d better watch our step.” George grins conspiratorially and pumps the Ravenclaw’s hand up and down vigorously. 

 

Fred reaches out to take Boot’s other hand, shaking with no less enthusiasm. He looks politely confused as the twins seesaw his arms, his robes swaying to and fro, hair flopping side to side. She stifles a snort at how ridiculous he looks and feels any possible speck of attraction wither and die, then and there. 

 

Her eyes glaze over as the twins witter on, Boot not getting a word in edgeways. Oh well. At least she gave it a go … maybe she could catch up with Ginny, corner Harry and Ron before -

 

She tunes back in, just as Fred slaps her date on the back. “Don’t be a stranger, don’t be a stranger. And if you cross our Hermione, you’ll learn just why this firework can’t be inserted rectally, Tommy boy -”

 

- Boot makes a noise between a squeak and a gulp -

 

“- This is Terry, Fred,” she hisses with all the benevolence of a manticore in heat. 

 

Fred winces, and holds his hands up in mock-surrender. “Merlin, ballsed that one up, didn’t I? Terry, is it? A little Snitch might have mentioned that a certain Slytherin was trying to -”

 

“- pardon the pun, slither in -”

 

“- What is wrong with you two?!” 

 

“No hard feelings, right mate? But, if you upset our Hermione, best avoid Hogsmeade.” George gives Boot’s hand one final, cheery shake, offers a sweeping bow and a wink to the livid Hermione, bellows, “OI! You’ll lose more than money if you make off with that!” at a guilty-looking first year with bulging pockets, and together with Fred, beat a hasty retreat into the crowd, robes swirling theatrically behind them. 

 

Even in the cacophony of the shop, an awkward silence manages to fill the void. 

 

Hermione presses her fingers right in between her brows, where a headache is rapidly brewing. She has enough presence of mind to wonder whether the cloaks shed a modified Silencio for the sake of pure drama, or whether the deathly silence between her and Boot is simply as a result of the particular brand of social devastation that Fred and George delight in wreaking. 

 

She chances a look. Boot is stood stock-still, shell-shocked. 

 

“I’m sorry; they can be rather … a lot. Let’s get a drink,” she offers, wincing. He mumbles his acquiescence, and she steers them out and down the road, the door swinging shut with a loud raspberry sound.

 

She feels a little sorry for him, truth be told, at the mercy of the twins. 

 

But mostly, she would like nothing better than to strangle Ginny. For it must be Ginny, chatting absolute shite about her and Riddle. Hermione, seething, has half the mind to anonymously owl each and every one of Ginny’s older brothers to inform them exactly what their baby sister is getting up to with Dean Thomas …

 

Ugh. If Fred and George are running their mouths, then it’s likely that other, highly preposterous rumours are flying around about her and Riddle …

 

Maybe - maybe publicly dating someone else is the best way to quash them? 

 

Hermione contemplates this, eyeing Terry Boot from the corner of her eye. She supposes that he’s been nothing but complimentary. But really - selfishly - she’s more interested in finding someone to scratch the itch that’s been simmering under her skin since summer. She does not want the last, thoroughly ruinous kiss she’s received to be from - Viktor -

 

(Riddle groans against her mouth, pressing her against the wall; her heart beats wildly in her chest as she pulls him closer)

 

- She Occludes with such force that her headache intensifies.

 

Yes, Boot has been utterly predictable, and utterly benign. Surely he’ll rise to the challenge -

 

In for a penny - 

 

- but he surprises her, when she dutifully sticks her hand out for him to hold, on the walk over to The Three Broomsticks.

 

The boy actually physically backs away from her, hands held up. “Oh Merlin, Hermione. I - I don’t think my family would think it very proper. Not that I don’t want to! It’s just, you know, the first date, and we’d have to think if this is going anywhere … “

 

Her jaw drops. “B - Terry. You realise I’m not asking you to get a mortgage and adopt my cat?” She wiggles her fingers at him disbelievingly, and he steps back further, blanching.

 

“It’s more, if anyone were to see, and if it were to get back to my parents … they’d have all sorts of questions, you know? I’m sure they won’t mind, but I just should give them a heads up first - and what's a mortgage -”

 

“A heads up of what?” she interrupts, her tone poisonous. She has a horrible feeling she knows why, but she’s hoping against hope that this stupid arse proves her wrong -

 

“Well, it’s just that you’re a Muggle-born …” he trails off weakly, and Hermione doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream. So she’s good enough to borrow notes from, to skulk around in the Room of Requirement in a secret defence club, to entertain a joke of a date with -

 

- oh, but anything that might offend the delicate sensibilities of poor Mater and Pater is too much; holding hands with a Mudblood in public will undoubtedly besmirch the good name of the Boot family - liberals though they may proclaim themselves to be - and sully the reputation of the young Master Boot. Oh, he’s happy to date her, but only if it’s safe. Only if they keep it on the down-low until it’s serious - and only if she proves to be a well-heeled Mudblood …

 

She takes a deep breath, debates verbally flaying him alive for a millisecond -

 

Then she looks at him; really looks at him, as though he is an insect trapped in a jar, and she is the one who wields the magnifying glass: 

 

Terry Boot shrinks in the street. He makes himself smaller, unseen by the passersby. He has zero poise or nerve. She can see it so clearly in the tremble of his weak chin: he’s embarrassed to be causing a scene in public.

 

The Defence club? Covertly going on a date with her? Those are his secret acts of rebellion against the tight constraints of Pureblooded society. But he is too cowardly to truly upset the status quo. And why would he, when it holds so many riches, so many comforts for him?

 

(The ironic thing is, that she didn’t need a declaration of undying devotion. She just needed him to have a spine and to stand up for something, anything that he believed in.)

 

She doesn’t particularly care that he’s - on a surface level - interested in her. She cares because he’s not principled enough to actively take a stand against Muggle-born prejudice. 

 

Hermione realises that she doesn’t want that, not at all. It’s overly romantic, unrealistic, not safe and not sensible, but if she’s going to bother dating, then she wants someone to want her, all-in, sensibility be damned. To have the same ideals, the same drive. 

 

She steps away from Boot, feeling coldly invigorated.

 

“Thank you for a most enlightening experience, Terry Boot.” 

 

Her voice is eerily calm, and he looks taken aback. 

 

She turns soundly on the ball of her foot, and walks away very steadily, nose pointed in the air. 

 

“On second thoughts, I don’t think my parents would approve, either. They like people who have some teeth to them,” she calls airily over her shoulder. 

 

Hermione leaves Terry Boot bewildered in the middle of the street, and heads for a strong cup of tea.

 

---

 

Not many people know, but the elderly, eccentric wizard who runs Tomes and Scrolls is a Muggle-born. 

 

Ever since third year, Hermione has spent several hours and several more Galleons in the store, at every opportunity she gets. She thinks he’s taken a liking to her, for he very casually offered up his blood status last year, as though it was nothing to be ashamed of, when she confided how terrified she was of being attacked. Last visit, after she’d been Revived, he’d grasped both her shoulders tightly, then ushered her into the dusty back room for the best cup of tea of her life. 

 

“Anytime you need a spot of quiet, you come here, yeah?” he’d mumbled, ignoring her trembling.

 

(He’s never once offered his real name, despite her repeatedly trying to wheedle it from him. It’s become a game, of sorts, and the old wizard delights in batting away her badgering. She’s not been entirely unsuccessful: she’s learned that he is originally from Southern Spain, came to Scotland in the late sixties, and that he’s estranged from all his family.)

 

It is here where Hermione whiles away the rest of the afternoon with a strong Darjeeling, lost in a book, the commotion of the High Street muffled into soothing background noise. 

 

Hermione hardly wants to begin processing just what in the deepest circle of hell just happened on the worst, first, and only date of her life. Instead, she turns page after page, the minutes and hours slipping away, and before she knows it, the stooped little wizard pokes his head in to inform her that curfew is approaching.

 

She buys the book (of course), and steps out into the street. Trade is just about finished in Hogsmeade, and the rafters are being magically drawn across shop fronts. There’s a distinct chill in the air now. The townsfolk bustle away, and the last few student stragglers make their way back towards the castle. 

 

She’ll talk to Ginny, she decides. Ginny’s her most progressive Pureblood friend. The redhead will no doubt be appalled by -

 

“Hermione!” 

 

It’s Neville, and she’s taken aback, for he’s sprinting towards her at full pelt, school bag swinging.

 

He braces himself on his knees, wheezing. 

 

“I … Harry … “

 

Her heart leaps in her mouth. What has Harry done? 

 

She wants to grab Neville by the shoulders and shake the words out, but instead she pats him anxiously on the back. “Breathe, Neville!” 

 

After several long gasping moments, he straightens. 

 

“I bumped into Harry in the north town,” Neville frets, wringing his hands, “He said that he had a lead on the Dementors. He was headed towards the Hog’s Head - Ron tried to talk sense into him, but you know what he’s like …”

 

Fuck. Hermione unfortunately does know what Harry is like: as stubborn as a Hippogriff, and without half the good sense. The cold, intelligent part of her wants nothing less than to leave him to the consequences of his own actions, but it’s hardly Ron’s fault that he’s caught up in this mess …

 

She sighs. Ron would follow Harry to the ends of the earth, idiot boy that he is.

 

“Right Neville. I’ll just go and slap some sense into him -” Neville laughs awkwardly because she is not joking “- if we’re not back by sundown, would you please let Professor McGonagall and Professor Lupin know?” He blanches - McGonagall can be scary - but nods. There is sense in letting two of their most capable Professors know.

 

(And she is about ninety per cent certain that McGonagall will skin Harry alive for her)

 

Swearing under her breath, she rolls up her sleeves, and starts running towards the north side of town. 

Notes:

I'm sorry I lied it is NEXT CHAPTER that you get the drama and the d o double g. promises, promises ...

I hope you, too, cringed along with this date, as much as I cringed when writing it hahaha

thank you for all your kind comments as always xxx

---

if you liked this, feel free to check out my other fics:

synchronicity: your ~basic bitch~ time travel story
the department of mutually-beneficial arrangements: AU where older tom and hermione work for the MoM and make a calculated bb pact
put your iron hand (into my velvet glove): look I'll be honest this is just porn

tumblr: also I post dumb shit on my tumblr now and again <3

Chapter 12

It’s an uphill sprint, and she is in a truly rancid mood when she rounds the corner of the dingiest pub in all of Hogsmeade. 

 

She’s sweating and has an awful stitch. Winded, she slows to a walk as she passes the Hog’s Head. 

 

Where are they? 

 

“Harry, you absolute dick!” she screams into the street. The last few passersby harrumph at her language, and hurry on by. The sun is low in the sky, and sinking lower still. 

 

Christ on a bike; when she gets ahold of Harry -

 

- a hand grabs hold of her, and yanks her forcefully. She flails wildly - but hang on, she can’t see a hand -

 

“It’s me,” Ron’s disembodied voice hisses, “Quick, get under, before anyone sees -”

 

Hermione catches on instantly. The cloak, of course -

 

Ron drapes the cloak over her too, and ushers her into the dank, shadowed alley off the main street. 

 

Harry is there, pacing back and forth by the overflowing bins, looking antsy and annoyed. 

 

“Merlin Hermione, could you shout any louder? The whole village will know we’re here!” 

 

She flings the cloak off and stares at him, agog. “You have the bloody nerve to have a go at me, when you’ve dragged Ron into your stupid suicide mission to bait Dementors? Are you actually insane? What part of that plan sounds good?”

 

“When she puts it like that, mate -”

 

“Ron can make his own decision; and he’s not scared shitless like the villagers -”

 

“Of course he’s scared shitless! They’re Dementors!”

 

“Er, ‘shitless’ is a strong word -”

 

“How’s your head so buried for once?! Merlin, it’s all they can talk about in the Three Broomsticks - Madam Rosmerta says it’s not natural, that they linger outside for longer than they should -”

 

"I wouldn’t like it either, but they’re not doing anything they’ve not been told to -”

 

“So you think it’s safe?” 

 

“- there’s a criminal on the loose, Harry; it’s a precaution -”

 

“You think that I’m paranoid?” 

 

“YES!” she all but screams in Harry’s face. 

 

“Well,” and suddenly he looks unbearably smug, “If you think it’s so safe, then you won’t mind staying out with us. They aren’t supposed to go near students, after all.” 

 

The wind is truly knocked out of her sails. She gapes at him, wordless.

 

“You can say you’re supervising us if it makes you feel better,” Harry says, beginning to grin, for he knows he’s caught her. 

 

And - the thing is - she doesn’t really believe what she’s saying. She doesn’t think Dementors patrolling Wizarding London are a good idea. She wants to know as much as he does just why the Ministry thinks they’re necessary, and just who this criminal is. 

 

But the thought of Harry and Ron, by themselves in a dingy backstreet, with the foulest Non-beings she can think of drifting around, makes her heart clench in fear. 

 

(She’ll say anything at this point to get them to agree to just come back to the castle -)

 

“Ten minutes,” she manages to get out through gritted teeth.

 

“An hour. C’mon Hermione,” he wheedles at her stony expression, “how can we do this without the Brightest Witch of -”

 

“Thirty minutes.” 

 

“Fine.”

 

“Fine!”

 

“FINE!” 

 

Hermione stomps to the far end of the alleyway, irate, wanting to be as far away from Harry James Potter as physically possible. 

 

“What happened to ‘Ron can make his own decision’?” Ron grumbles rhetorically into the air.

 

No one answers him. 

 

---

 

Hermione is so angry that she can’t trust herself to speak, much less even look in Harry’s direction.

 

So she counts a full sixty seconds, then another … 

 

Ron pulls out a bag of gobstones. Before the first stone can hit the floor, she non-verbally Silences the lot of them in pre-emptive irritation.

 

Honestly, she thinks scathingly, a clatteringly loud children’s game during a stakeout?!

 

Rons shrugs, and continues. 

 

She is still not looking at Harry. 

 

Another minute crawls by … then another …

 

It’s a shame that Harry got the entrance, when she has to make do with the back alley. There is nothing here to investigate other than obscene, anatomically impossible graffiti about goats.

 

The sun sinks lower, still. She thinks they have around an hour of daylight to get back to the castle, before they’ll be well and truly bollocked by Professor McGonagall. 

 

Another five minutes pass by like treacle. 

 

The tension is still heavy in the narrow passage. The stench of the overflowing bins is hardly helping her mood, and she can’t sit down and rest her feet because there’s no surface in this infernal alley that she wants to rest her backside against. 

 

She chances a look at the back of Harry’s head. He’s pacing, wand clutched in a fist. She hasn’t seen him this agitated since the end of fourth year, after he’d been Portkeyed away, seen Crouch Kissed, been scorned by the Ministry for his report of Dark Wizards in a graveyard -

 

Ron loses his game with a curse, startling her. He stands and stretches, beginning to shiver. “Y’know, I reckon they’ve fucked off. They’re not coming. Can we get back now please?” 

 

“Ron’s right, it’s late -” begins Hermione at once, but Harry turns to cut them off with a scowl. 

 

“Just wait, I swear!”

 

“My bollocks are freezing! My feet are freezing!” the redhead stamps his feet theatrically. Hermione looks towards the mouth of the alleyway, and her blood runs cold -

 

Harry draws himself face-to-face with Ron, beyond exasperated. “Merlin, why do you always get like this -”

 

“Guys -” she tries again, voice shrill. 

 

Ron steps forward, ignoring Hermione. “Get like what?” he says heatedly, his face half-shadowed. “Because the way I see it, you’re the one with the bright idea to squat in an alley next to the dingiest pub in all of Hogsmeade looking for Dementors. Really excellent planning, mate. You may as well make a sign -”

 

Before Harry can punch Ron, Hermione barges in between the two and grabs their ears, temper rising amidst the fear. “Will you two idiots get ahold of yourselves and open your eyes -”

 

She yanks their heads to face the entrance, and this is what they see:

 

Thick, freezing fog has crept in, stealthy as Death itself, to curl around their ankles. The air is unnaturally still and silent, the distant bustle of the town extinguished. The orange glow from the streetlamp has winked out, and instead of the faint light of the setting sun, unnatural darkness blots out any light. 

 

She can barely see six feet in front of her; let along out to the main road -

 

Ron’s eyes widen, comprehension dawning, but it is Harry who comes to his senses first. 

 

“Run!” He grabs both their arms and starts sprinting, lanky legs taking great bites out of the cobbled floor. Hermione runs as fast as she can, but the narrow alley is growing darker and more treacherous, and her foot catches on an uneven cobblestone. She stumbles to her knees, heart ready to pound out of her chest in fright, as a creeping chill sinks into her bones. 

 

“Hermione!” Ron skids to a halt and turns back, as Harry draws his wand. Twin expressions of horror grow in their eyes, and Ron starts to tremble uncontrollably.

 

A hollow, rasping breath rattles in the chill air.

 

Hermione is near-paralysed with fear, but she turns her head slowly. 

 

A wraith-like shadow is hovering in the air, a scant three feet from her. It’s shrouded in blackness, but she knows what this is. 

 

“Fuck - Hermione!” Harry’s voice sounds muffled, as though her head is underwater. A rotten, bony hand emerges from the darkness. Then, a skeletal arm draped in a ragged black robe.

 

Finally, eight feet tall, the rest of the hooded Dementor materialises silently. Frost forms on the ground, on the wall.  

 

Her teeth begin to chatter as it silently floats towards her. 

 

Occlude - Occlude -

 

Hermione’s read that a skilled Occlumens can protect their mind from the unique mental onslaught that a Dementor wreaks. That, theoretically, there won’t be any emotion for them to feed off. 

 

That it will lose interest in her.

 

She takes a deep breath, near-blind in the unnatural darkness, and enters the meditative state she’s been practising every single morning for weeks.

 

Serenity washes over her. She feels strangely detached from her body, as though she is merely an observer of the macabre scene, rather than an unwilling participant.

 

The Dementor pauses in front of her, almost consideringly. Can a Dementor feel uncertainty?

 

It seems to waver, for a moment -

 

And then lifts a hand towards Harry.

 

It makes a hollow, rasping noise. Hermione can hear the faint moaning of Harry and Ron - Harry starts to yell - but, incredibly, she is numbed to the Dementor’s Breath.

 

She feels the heavy press of despair on her shoulders, threatening to send her to her knees - but it is not as soul-crushing as when she last experienced it on the train. 

 

It’s working - it’s working! 

 

She’s able to reach for her wand with a shaking hand, and fire off two bright red flares, high into the sky.

 

The creature retracts its mottled hand from Harry, and a bubble of jubilation rises within her before she can pop it -

 

So she is all the more unprepared for the wave of total despair that hits her when the Dementor takes a second, deeper breath. 

 

The noise is dry and rattling, shaking around her skull, finding the cracks of her mind’s defence.

 

The mental bricks that she’s spent weeks carefully placing around a horrible, depraved part of her come crumbling down, one by one.

 

She staggers to her knees as the onslaught of sadness threatens to drown her. Her vision dims, and she bites back a strangled sob.

 

Hermione has never felt more alone than she has this year; forced to lie to Harry and Ron daily, forced to smile nonchalantly at the girls when they bring him up. She hates what she’s become; complicit with his schemes, at his beck at call. She’s disgusted with herself most of all; that she wasn’t smart enough, better enough, not to be in this situation.

 

But that’s not all, is it? a mean little voice slinks into her head. 

 

Hermione squeezes her eyes closed. Every morning she meditates, locking away any lingering feelings from her treacherous dreams.

 

But that is of no help here, where she is as helpless as a newborn lamb against the Dementor’s onslaught. It wants her to surrender, she distantly realises, wants her reliving her most depraved feelings, to be utterly broken down by self-hatred and loathing.

 

She’s sick to her gut when the memory of Tom Riddle in her family kitchen assaults her senses in startling clarity, overwhelming her. 

 

His hands and his mouth, hot on her, scorching her skin in a way she’s never known. The way that his burning eyes haven’t left the darkest recesses of her dreams. The way that he looks at her, even now, playful and canny and full of intent; intent she is desperate to turn a blind eye to -

 

No - Occlude - OCCLUDE -

 

Hermione tries to take a shallow, shaky breath, but she barely has the energy to open her eyes, let alone inhale. Although she’s completely blind, she doesn’t even jump as freezing cold fabric brushes against her face.  

 

She smells grave dirt and old bones. 

 

It must be the Dementor’s cloak. 

 

Logically, she should feel dread, but her body is freezing cold and sluggish… It would be so easy to lie down, to sleep, to just sink into oblivion, where nothing hurts anymore …

 

She thinks the Dementor moves to face her. It is so close she can hear whatever lies in the foul depths of its clothing, rasping like sandpaper as it moves, buzzing like a thousand carrion flies are trapped within -

 

Its rattling breath almost sounds like a sigh -

 

Distantly, Hermione registers the sensation of a freezing cold hand on her jaw, pulling her neck back, tilting her mouth up. She can’t hear anything except for the muffled pounding of her own heart. Vision gone, she smells Death, and hears two kindly voices, growing fainter and fainter. Her parents? She can’t make out the words, but they are a comfort, as an icy chill washes over her, spreading from her toes -

 

- Her body is weightless for a split second -

 

Then she smashes into the ground as a dead weight - the back of her head thudding against the cobblestones with the most excruciating pain flaring bright; sending her reeling -

 

“She’s not moving - HERMIONE!” 

 

“Get up, kid -”

 

“Don’t shake her, Harry! -” 

 

Groaning, she moves to tuck her knees to her chest, but her head explodes in agony. She can’t help but cry out - everything hurts - 

 

“She’s injured - do something!” 

 

“Sleep, lass -”

 

And she sinks into senselessness once more.

 

---

 

“There you are, child.”

 

Madam Pomfrey’s kindly face appears in sudden, startling clarity. 

 

Hermione blinks, wildly disorientated. She feels entirely well, like she’s slept for twelve hours straight in the softest of beds.

 

For a moment she thinks she is back in fifth year, anxiously rounding the corner of the library holding a Foe-glass, only to wake up in the Hospital Wing to find out she was Petrified for three whole weeks. 

 

Then, it hits her. She sits bold upright, gasping. “Harry and Ron - Madam Pomfrey, are they -” 

 

The matron purses her lips. “Well. You hardly need to hear what I think. Imagine! Letting schoolchildren go to a village when there are Dementors on the loose -”

 

“Madam Pomfrey please, are they okay?” she interrupts, pleading. 

 

“Hermione!” 

 

The curtain is ripped open from the bay next door. Harry - thank god - stumbles out from the chair, revealing Ron in the bed. They’re pale and wan, surrounded by a mountain of chocolate wrappers, but they’re alive -

 

She bursts into tears at the sight of them, the relief hitting her like a tidal wave.  

 

“Half an hour and no more, please - Miss Granger’s had a concussion; she needs to rest!” The matron tactfully steps away, and Harry and Ron shuffle forward - the idiots -

 

“You - you idiots!” Hermione sobs, burying her face in her hands. Their near-death experience is too much, all of a sudden, and she can hardly bear to look at their stupid, stupid faces - 

 

Her mattress shifts. Ron’s sat down on the edge of it, patting her shoulder awkwardly as she calms down. Her nose is running - gross - and she blows it wetly on a clump of wadded-up tissue.

 

Ron’s face is sickly white. 

 

“You’ve been out for hours, ‘Mione.”

 

His fingers tremble as they grasp her own. 

 

“The Dementor was closest to you before it all went dark. We were trying to fire Patronuses, to scream at you, but you were, I dunno, under its trance or something. Thank fuck you fired those flares. The barman of the Hog’s Head heard the commotion. Dunno how he knows how to, but he cast a Patronus and chased the Dementor off in the nick of time. You - you fell and hit your head pretty hard. He marched us back to the castle - well, he floated you.”

 

Ron pauses to wince. “Um. Sorry to say, but he barged in the middle of the Great Hall during dinner with us, starting shouting at Dumbledore about imbecile students and, er - school safety. Merlin, I’ve never seen anyone speak to Dumbledore like that. But it looked bad … They rushed you to the Hospital Wing about two hours ago. Madam Pomfrey said it was just a concussion, but we’d all have the Dementor hangover … Hermione?”

 

Hermione lays there, numb. It’s a lot - a lot - to process. She half-wants to die in shame after hearing; that the insane barman from the Hog’s Head decided it was a good idea to float her unconscious and battered body into the Great Hall at dinnertime in front of the entire school -

 

Her stomach turns. Oh god - what if Riddle saw - 

 

Thinking of him makes her head throb. Makes her entire chest feel like a deep and tender bruise. She’s on the verge of panic, so she Occludes, hard - she needs to process her feelings outside of the very public Hospital Wing, far away from Ron and Harry …

 

Speaking of Harry, though -

 

Harry’s stood by the window, his hands pressed against his face. He hasn’t looked over at her yet. 

 

A big part of her wants to lash out. It’s his fault they were dragged into such a pointlessly dangerous situation -

 

“I’m so sorry, Hermione. Ron,” and Harry’s voice is shaking, his shoulders are shaking -

 

Hermione looks on in complete shock as he pulls his hands from his blotchy face. He looks on the brink of tears. 

 

“Mate, we’re okay,” Ron says hastily, clearly more uncomfortable with Harry crying than Hermione. “It was a mistake -”

 

“No - it’s my fault. I haven’t told you two what … what’s been going on …”

 

Harry inhales roughly. 

 

“I’ve been having nightmares almost every night,” he says in a quiet voice, “since the train. I’ve been Silencing my bed so none of you found out. At first, I thought I was going mad. Don’t laugh -” and he spares a glance at Hermione through red-rimmed eyes ”- but I honestly thought I was having visions of the future. That something terrible was going to happen. But Dementors don’t do that, do that? You’d be proud of me,” and he chuckles hollowly, “I even got a book out about Dementors. No, they only show you the worst memories of your past.” 

 

He starts to pace back and forth. 

 

“I mostly hear voices. A man’s, and he’s angry. Really angry. He’s swearing, really horrible stuff, and shouting the ‘M’ word, over and over. I think - I think he’s calling a woman the ‘M’ word, because I always hear her, crying and pleading. But she’s not scared for herself,” and Harry scrubs his palms roughly over his face, dashing away the tears, “she’s scared for her son. She’s begging the man to kill her instead of her son. Her son, called Harry.”

 

Ron is sat, frozen. Hermione’s heart is in her mouth; a horrible realisation washing over her. 

 

“Sometimes, I think I hear my dad, telling my mum to run, to take Harry and run. But he didn’t run, silly bugger. He stayed there to fight, to give my mum a chance to get away. Then, I hear crazed laughter … see a flash of green … and I wake up …”

 

“Harry,” Ron begins tentatively, “… the Dark Wizard who killed your parents - it was a closed trial, right? No one knows who he is, but he’s rotting in Azkaban; he can’t do anything -” 

 

Harry laughs bitterly. 

 

“It was a coincidence I heard anything at all. Since we got back, I’ve been wearing the cloak in the staffroom every chance I got -”

 

“Harry!” Hermione can’t help exclaiming in a hushed voice, scandalised.

 

He manages a rueful smile. “You can count on Professor Slughorn for a lot of things, including gossip. A couple weeks ago, him and Hagrid had had a few too many. Did you that know Hagrid was the one to find me that night my parents were killed? I don’t think I’ve ever told you guys. Anyway - turns out Slughorn didn’t know that either. But he knew my parents. Liked them, even. He couldn’t resist sharing with Hagrid the tragedy that although he didn’t know who it was, that the escaped prisoner from Azkaban was the exact same bastard who murdered my parents.” 

 

The silence that follows Harry’s statement is deafening. 

 

Harry sighs heavily, and slumps next to Ron.

 

“And that’s why I think the Dementors must be in on it. Why we can’t trust them. Because no one can escape from Azkaban. It’s impenetrable. Only the foulest, most evil Dark Wizard would have been able to control them, to let them escape. Nothing else makes sense, Hermione,” he cuts off her open mouth, “why else would they target me? On the train and in the alley? Come to finish me off, and anyone else who gets in their way?” 

 

She sits there, stunned. No one knew for certain why the Potters were murdered so brutally that Hallowe’en, almost fifteen years ago. It was described by the Prophet in grisly detail, touted as a random attack with sinister undertones against an outspoken Pureblood and his Muggle wife …

 

“Harry - we need to talk to someone about this. Professor McGonagall -” 

 

“She’ll never say,” Harry mutters irritably, “she’s never once treated me like an adult. You know how Sirius went bonkers for a bit after my mum and dad died; left the country? It was McGonagall who took me from the Dursleys. She was horrified by them; it’s kind of funny in a weird way … I don’t remember much of it, but I stayed with her for a bit, until Sirius’ mum died and he got his act together.” Harry shrugs nonchalantly, as though relaying his traumatic childhood is nothing more than a mere anecdote. But surely, even Ron picks up on how his fists are clenched in the bedclothes, the dark circles under his eyes.

 

Hermione never knew that Harry had lived with McGonagall - she had an inkling that the Dursleys were bad, from the way Harry speaks of them, but for a Professor to have gotten involved … 

 

“Professor Lupin, then. If he basically suggested the Defence Club and gave me his old curriculum, then I think we can trust him. And he’s Head of Defence,” she says briskly, swinging her legs from the bed. “Don’t gawp at me! Here - pass me my cloak - Madam Pomfrey’s in her office - be quiet," she hisses as Ron bangs his knee against the cabinet. The empty bottle of Madam Siddel’s Highly Laudable Tonic wobbles precariously, but steadies with a clink. 

 

(Huh. No wonder she feels numb)

 

She fishes out her wand from her cloak, Transfigures three pillows into roughly humanoid, moving marshmallows, complete with muffled chatter, and draws back the curtain.

 

“Bloody hell, Hermione,” Ron says admiringly. With the light from the lamp, the shadows looks exactly like three teenagers sitting around a Hospital Bed, engrossed in quiet conversation.

 

Three Disillusionment spells later, and they’re out.

 

---

 

They creep down the dark castle halls as one. It’s past curfew, and they spot only the sneering face of Pansy Parkinson paired with the Head Boy on their rounds.

 

“Did you hear the old drunk? ‘Albus, you bloody fool’.” Parkinson laughs cruelly, imitating the Hog’s Head barman. “I swear to Merlin, I thought he was going to drop Granger, the way he was raving on - nearly flashed her knickers in front of the Hufflepuffs -”

 

“Ginny Conjured a screen straight away,” Harry whispers hurriedly at Hermione’s tiny moan. 

 

“Not helping, mate,” Ron says weakly. 

 

In no time, they step onto the second floor corridor, where Lupin’s office resides. 

 

“He must know something. At least, we can ask him - hang on, what’s that?”

 

They stand outside Lupin’s door and hear muffled, absolutely furious voices coming from inside, followed by an almighty crash -

 

“I think - I think that’s Duelling.” Ron blanches.

 

“Lupin’s in trouble.” Harry has that look in his eye that takes years off of her life, and he points his wand at the door.

 

“Wait; Alohomora could work -”

 

“Reducto!” Harry bellows, and the door explodes in a thick cloud of sawdust. “Professor -” Harry hacks and coughs as he barges into the room “- Professor, do you need help?” 

 

“Apart from a new door,” Lupin’s mild voice emanates from somewhere in the dust, “I should think all is in order, Harry.” 

 

“We heard shouting - “ Ron begins, but as the dust begins to settle, Lupin, his office, and another figure come into view. 

 

“You’re meant to be in the Hospital Wing, you nightmare,” a familiar voice gruffs out. 

 

Harry starts, then grins. It takes Hermione a second longer, but then she beams too, and drops their Disillusionments. 

 

“Sirius!” 

 

Harry’s godfather brushes a light coating of splinters from his shoulders. He hugs Harry tightly. “You’re okay, yeah? Apart from taking fifty fucking years from my life -” 

 

“Auror Black was just discussing the security measures in Hogwarts,” Professor Lupin interrupts lightly, running a finger through the sawdust that coats his desk, “and we have agreed that, in light of you being unable to keep yourself out of trouble, certain Ministry decrees are best left ignored.”

 

Sirius throws one long arm around Hermione, and another around Ron. “What the Professor is trying to say is that he’ll teach you kids the Patronus. Yeah, you two as well, seeing as Potter here can’t help himself in dragging his friends into trouble. Like father, like son, eh?”

 

“Really? Thank you, Profes - argh, geroff me!” Harry tokenly protests as Sirius ruffles his hair. A pained expression crosses Professor Lupin’s worn face, but in an instant, it is gone, and he busily begins repairing his door and tidying his office. 

 

Huh.

 

Hermione thinks that Professor Lupin and Sirius are close in age. They both went to Hogwarts, so they must have overlapped in school at some point. Is there any other reason that Sirius came straight to Professor Lupin rather than the Hospital Wing? Were they friends? 

 

But this is not a cordial visit, she suspects, looking between the two men. Professor Lupin and Harry’s godfather are standing as far apart from one another as possible. The body language is all wrong. Although his back is turned, Lupin’s fingers are tight against the edge of his desk, and she doesn’t know if it’s because she knows what he is, but there is a deep and primal sense of unease in the room -

 

“Go on, take me to the kitchens for old time’s sake, before we give poor old Poppy a heart attack.” Sirius barks a laugh, and shepherds Harry and Ron in front of him. She exchanges knowing looks with the boys - Sirius is much more likely to slip up and answer their questions than any other adult they know - and turns to wave bye at Professor Lupin.

 

The mild-mannered Professor is stood perfectly still, yellow eyes locked onto Harry, Ron, and Sirius. Her mind must be playing tricks on her, after such a long day, because if she looks at Lupin just from the corner of her eye - 

 

- He has somehow bared every single one of his yellowing, pointed teeth in his smile, radiating dark intent and malice. 

 

And for some reason, it is directed all at Sirius Black.

 

She blinks, and suddenly her worn old Professor is back, smiling tiredly at her. “Go on, Hermione. You, most of all, could do with a hot chocolate. Say hello to the house-elves for me.”

 

“Professor -”

 

He shuts the door gently in her face. She rocks back on her heels, mildly stunned, for Professor Lupin is one of the most welcoming academics she knows …

 

Huh.

 

She’s half-tempted to press her ear against the recently-restored wood, because a sixth sense is telling her that all is not what it seems -

 

“C’mon, Hermione!” Ron calls, halfway down the hall.

 

But it is too much for her tired, battered brain to currently process. 

 

So, she follows the cacophony that is Harry, Ron, and Harry’s godfather through the hallowed and ancient halls of Hogwarts; Sirius Black stalking the twisting and turning halls, tall and proud like a lion, as though he knows them like the back of his hand.

Notes:

- Madam Siddel's Highly Laudable Tonic is a little nod to both laudanum, and Elizabeth Siddel, wife and muse of the nineteenth century poet and artist Dante Rosetti. Siddel died of a purportedly intentional overdose of laudanum, following the still-birth of her child. Rosetti's art is still displayed at the Tate. It's no wonder Hermione feels fucking great after administration of this potion.

poor Hermione lol. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the developing mysteries - although absent, Riddle is certainly not forgotten ...

----

if you liked this, feel free to check out my other fics:

synchronicity: your ~basic bitch~ time travel story
the department of mutually-beneficial arrangements: AU where older tom and hermione work for the MoM and make a calculated bb pact
put your iron hand (into my velvet glove): look I'll be honest this is just porn

tumblr: also I post dumb shit on my tumblr now and again <3

Chapter 13

Credit where credit is due, Sirius listens to them, and takes Harry’s suspicions seriously. But even as a senior and respected (if highly unorthodox) Auror, he admits that he’s never been able to uncover who killed James and Lily Potter in their own home. The records are sealed tight, for only the current Minister of Magic to know. It still affects him, for even though his tone is measured, Hermione notices his fingers dig deep into his leg, under the table.

 

“Chip off the old block, you,” Sirius barks a laugh, shaking his long mane when Harry admits to spying in the staffroom. The boys smile sheepishly, but Hermione can’t help but reprimand. 

 

“Sirius! You shouldn’t condone spying on teachers!” 

 

“Yeah, but if I didn’t then we wouldn’t know that the monster who murdered my parents was the same bastard who’s escaped Azkaban!” Harry exclaims, banging his fist on the table. One of the house-elves squeaks in surprise. 

 

“But how does old Sluggy know?” Sirius questions out loud, frowning heavily. “When it happened, he was crying the loudest at the funeral. Heartbroken, that man. He’d have told Dumbledore if he knew anything - no, listen,” he says sternly at Ron’s disbelieving eyebrow. “Oh, he liked me and James well enough. Heirs to ‘important families’ and all,” he air-quotes, rolling his eyes, “but he loved your mum. Raved about her. ‘The brightest Muggle-born he’s ever met’ - not that blood has anything to do with it. Look at our Hermione; brighter than all of Slytherin and half of Ravenclaw put together.” Sirius winks at her, and she fights the blush rising to her cheeks. 

 

(It’s nice to hear, okay?) 

 

“If Slughorn knew anything at the time and didn’t say, I’ll eat my hat.” 

 

“You don’t wear a hat.”

 

“Ah, but don’t you think I could pull one off -” 

 

“What about the Dementors?” interrupts Hermione, sensing that Sirius is getting off-track. “If they’re compromised, for lack of a better word, then they should hardly be roaming free, attacking schoolchildren …” Her voice trembles.

 

Sirius pushes another steaming mug of cocoa towards her. She wraps her shaking hands around it; the adrenaline and the Tonic finally wearing off.

 

“The problem with Dementors - that some in the Ministry turn a willful blind eye to - is that they only listen to us because we have something to offer them.” He sighs heavily, the late hour taking its toll on all of them. “We give them prisoners in Azkaban, to suck any shred of joy out of their miserable lives. Behind bars, of course - they’re not that stupid. Dementors are happy, they’ve got food. Ministry’s happy, the threat of being banged up in Azkaban is enough to dissuade most criminals, and to top it off, they don’t even need to pay guard wizards. For what use are guards when the clientele are too depressed to even think about escaping?” He spreads his arms wide, sarcastically. “A perfect symbiosis, don’t you think?” 

 

“But -”

 

“As for you, kid, you aren’t to get involved in this. I don’t want you to leave the school grounds, not even for Hogsmeade. No Harry, listen. I agree with you -” Sirius raises his voice as Harry angrily pushes back his chair to stand. “I agree with you, you complete pain up my jacksie. Sit down; you’re upsetting Bippy.”

 

Harry sits, and mutters a guilty-sounding, “Sorry, Bippy,” to the tiny, terrified elf who’s nearly dropped a full tray of hot, buttered teacakes. 

 

“It’s not just you three who’ve cottoned on. A lot of us don’t like what’s going on in the Ministry right now, but it’s a political issue. ‘Above our heads’,” he spits out. “I mean, Dementors, patrolling the shops? As if a filthy fucking murderer is hiding out in Zonkos. And they’ve been ordered to stay away from civilians. I spoke to Rosmerta the other night. The villagers aren’t best pleased, but the Dementors do keep themselves to themselves after dark.”

 

His expression darkens. “So … going after three school kids, one of whom is the son of Lily and James, right after that bastard escaped? It looks suspicious, all right. But it’s not your job to be poking your nose in, and I don’t want you going within a country mile of them. It’s not safe. And I can’t rightly tell you two what to do,” Sirius turns to Hermione and Ron, “but if I could, I’d say the same thing.”  

 

Hermione is used to Harry’s godfather being the life and soul of every party she’s ever attended at Grimmauld Place. He’s never - well, serious.

 

But there isn’t a hint of levity to be found in his stern face. He’s severe and unsmiling, and perhaps this is the side that has strong-armed (for what else could have happened?) poor Professor Lupin into teaching them -

 

The kitchen door flies open with an almighty BANG, the painted pear on the other side whimpering in fear. Ron swears, Hermione screams, and Bippy drops her tray with a clatter.

 

“SIRIUS BLACK!” roars Madam Pomfrey, “how dare you abscond with three of my patients! Back to cause me trouble, are you?!”

 

“Poppy please, think of the children,” Sirius protests delightedly as she storms towards him. 

 

The conversation is more or less over, for it turns out that the normally-kindly matron does not take well to drawing back her hospital curtain to find three animated pillows. At least Sirius takes the fall for them with a discreet wink, as Madam Pomfrey gives him an earful (which he perversely seems to enjoy) and drags Harry, Ron and Hermione straight back to the Wing.

 

---

 

The boys are lucky. They’re discharged bright and early come Monday morning, grumbling as they make their way down to class, shaking their heads fondly and promising to bring her her homework.

 

She is not quite so lucky, for Madam Pomfrey insists on admitting her for a whole, wretched week.

 

“Extended Dementor exposure is no walk across the Quidditch pitch, young lady!” the matron tuts, waving her wand this way and that as Hermione obediently sits still. 

 

She wishes she could complain, but concedes that as she has to sleep with an extra duvet and several Warming Charms to stave off the violent shivers that wrack over her body, an unnatural chill set deep in her bones, the matron may have a point. 

 

But, it’s not just an extra duvet. 

 

She’s constantly force-fed chocolate, but it tastes like chalk in her mouth. She has no real appetite. She’s listless, lethargic, sleeping up to eighteen hours a day. She’s tearful when she wakes up, eyelids heavy and sluggish from borderline misuse of Dreamless Sleep. For Hermione is terrified to face her dreams; to see the worst parts of herself realised. 

 

She’s weak. Worthless. And she has no one to blame, but herself. 

 

Occluding for weeks on end ultimately failed; and she has to face the horrible truth that violently dawned on her in the alley way:

 

That on some sick and depraved level, she is attracted to does not completely despise Tom Riddle with every fibre of her being, like she has every right to. Like she ought to.

 

It just doesn’t make any sense -

 

She rolls over and screams into her pillow, long and hard, until she runs out of breath.

 

---

 

As the days drag on in a blur of sleep and existentialism and so much chocolate her teeth ache, Hermione, gradually, starts to come out of the deep, Dementor-induced pit of depression. 

 

Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey doesn’t make her talk about her feelings. But after the boys leave, she does, however, force Hermione to get out of bed and walk around, eat three square meals a day without any sugar, actually wash her blasted hair, and wear something that isn’t a hospital gown. 

 

Towards the end of the week, she feels somewhat like herself again. Brighter, more hopeful. She’s down to a half-dose of Dreamless Sleep a night now, and her slumber is as close to restful as it’s ever been.

 

The girls visit and scream down the bay in abject outrage when she dutifully gives a compte-rendu of the date with Boot (in hindsight, not the worst thing that’s happened to her recently). It’s incredibly validating to hear, even if the matron kicks them out not even seconds later. 

 

Crookshanks stealths in in the night and out in the morning, his fishy breath greeting her at the crack of dawn. If Madam Pomfrey notices soft, orange fur on her stark-white hospital sheets, she says not a word, and casts an extra, cat-sized Warming Charm by Hermione’s feet in the evening.

 

Harry and Ron stop by every day, sharing more and more outlandish theories that she swears they’re making up just to rile her. Outrage is better than despair, she can concede.

 

Besides, it’s not like her to stew helplessly. No. 

 

Occlumency is coming to her, far more easily than before. She wonders if it’s having seen the effect that even her paltry meditative practice had on the Dementors that spurs her on.

 

She builds up her mental barriers, little by little, until she packs the uncomfortable thoughts behind. Until she can begin to rationalise her quagmire of feelings towards Riddle. 

 

Because of course she doesn’t actually like him. She’s just been over-exposed, sitting next to him in class, in the library, swapping notes and theories and -

 

There can’t be any real depth to what she’s feeling for Riddle, the last boy who kissed her. She pulls a face even as she thinks the word, remembers the damp slide of his lips against hers with a low thrill in her gut - but no, she tells herself matter-of-factly, there’s no point hiding from it, is there? 

 

… Maybe she’s just sexually frustrated. 

 

It’s like a lightbulb going off in her brain, a Lumos at the end of her wand. 

 

A tiny spark of hope. 

 

Yes, it must just be that. No one told her, but being a teenager is hard . She’s absolutely fizzing and frothing with hormones, and it’s not helped that she’s surrounded by her peers - and all they talk about is dating, and snogging, and sex, who’s fit, who’s got off with who, who’s been dumped - and she’s fresh off the back of the world’s limpest date that of course Riddle seems appealing -

 

Hermione’s a big girl; she can admit it: he kissed her, and she kissed him back. And it’s okay that she wanted more, wanted his hands on her. Because - as she said to him in the summer, caught in the rain in the rolling hills of Riddle Manor - he was just a pretty face, wasn’t he? It was before she fully knew what a monster he was -

 

It was meaningless. Part of the twisted game he’s playing with her, no doubt.

 

He barely has a personality anyways, she scoffs, always hiding his real self. No, something is very wrong with that boy.

 

And with the weekend coming, she has time to practise her poker face for when she next has to see him. 

 

Eventually, she’ll get over her blip of pure insanity. 

 

Easy. No problem. 

 

But when a polite knock sounds on the door the Friday before she is due to be discharged, and Madam Pomfrey says, “She’s just in that bay, dear -”

 

- and steady footsteps that she hates that she recognises get closer, and closer -

 

- Hermione panics, drops her book square on her chest, and pretends to be asleep. 

 

(Because he can’t know. He absolutely can’t. She’d rather die; Dementor take her soul and all.)

 

She faces away and forces the air in and out of her lungs as slowly as she can, all the while her heart slams against her chest. 

 

The curtain swishes, and the chair creaks by the side of her bed. 

 

She’s teetering on the edge of hysteria. A cold sweat breaks out on her brow. 

 

What is he doing ; why has he come - 

 

Breathe. 

 

In. 

 

Out.

 

“I came on Tuesday, but you were asleep then. Much like now, I’m sure,” Riddle says lightly. 

 

Go away, she thinks as loudly as she can. 

 

He clears his throat. There’s a rustling noise, a gentle thud on her bedside table.

 

“I thought you might enjoy this. It’s one of my favourites.”

 

The silence stretches between them; only broken by the gentle clinking of Madam Pomfrey bustling in the distance. She keeps the rise and fall on her chest as regular as possible, determined not to look at him.

 

Finally, Riddle huffs a sigh. Is he amused? Annoyed? She can’t tell, but it sounds like he rises to stand. 

 

“I’ll see you in class on Monday. Get well soon.” His voice is quiet, syllables crisp, as he walks away. 

 

She lays there for close to ten minutes, before she dares to move. 

 

Riddle’s book is placed facedown; in stark contrast to the stack of glossy, leatherbound, magical tomes on her bedside.

 

It is perfectly nondescript, a cheap, well-worn Muggle hardback which looks at least thirty years old. The spine is adorned with a peeling plastic library sticker at the base, the pages yellowed, the corners dog-eared from countless hands.

 

PROPERTY OF TATE SOUTH LAMBETH LIBRARY is stamped in bleeding indigo ink across the text block. Has he borrowed it? Stolen it?

 

She pictures him, then, in her mind. Not in his sweeping robes, nor with his Prefect badge, but a flashback to summer, of a Riddle in simple Muggle clothes, a well-kept bike by his side. Did he still go to Muggle libraries, even after he was told he was a wizard? Did he like to read?

 

She turns it over: it’s a Tolstoy, one that she hasn’t yet had the pleasure of reading. 

 

The Death of Ivan Ilyich.  

 

How did he know that she’d finished reading Anna Karenina? Did he pluck it from her mind? Or, more alarmingly - would he have had the gall to ask one of the girls? It would have been easy for Parvati or Lavender to peruse the colossal stack of books by her bedside and see which lay on top - 

 

Her blood runs cold at the thought of Riddle’s face finding out she’s been reading through a smutty novel, but then she calms herself. No. There’s no way the girls would have told him about Ginny’s stupid novel (that she still hasn’t finished); firstly, they would definitely be too embarrassed, and secondly, they have her back. She knows this.

 

But … what if he read their minds to find out -

 

Oh God . She moans, burying her face in her hands. She can’t stop thinking about him, his actions, what he might mean by every infernally mysterious action he takes. Riddle was so much easier to deal with when he was just trying to kill her and holding her parents hostage.

 

But now that she’s spent so much of the new school year studying with him, debating him, furious at him, curious about him …

 

He’s basically Stockholm-syndromed her, hasn’t he? How? How?

 

The whole palaver is the definition of, as Lavender would sorely understate, It’s Complicated. 

 

(She hates herself, by no small amount, for wondering how he feels about her.)

 

---

 

After a final check-up from Madam Pomfrey, Hermione climbs back up to Gryffindor Tower Saturday morning and catches up on the rest of the castle’s ongoings:

 

The fallout from the twins’ ridiculous antics haven’t stopped. Even though the new branch of Wizarding Wheezes has opened, the signs in the Library and Great Hall fizzled overnight into even larger, more elaborate advertisements. After several fruitless days, Professor McGonagall irately declares the Great Hall a fire hazard. Meals are served in the Common Rooms - perfect for Hermione as she continues to avoid Riddle - but the Restricted Section plus the surrounding shelves remain annoyingly out of bounds. 

 

Hermione seriously doubts that Dumbledore is actually unable to rid the castle of the fireworks, yet her weekend study session is punctuated with an increasingly-irate Madam Pince trying to quell the blazing sparks that are still raining down. She does her utmost to render the librarian’s hideously bad mood into background noise. 

 

The Headmaster has a very peculiar sense of humour.

 

The Dementor attack is hardly a secret, for nearly every single student was present in the Great Hall when the Hog’s Head barman had burst in, levitating her unconscious form. Ginny blithely reassures her that probably only Hannah Abbott got an eyeful up Hermione’s skirt before she cast a Barrier spell, which isn’t particularly reassuring. Oh well, she sighs. 

 

She serenely ignores Terry Boot in the Defence club, hiding a smile when Lavender ‘accidentally’ lands a Bat Bogey Hex on him.

 

Harry and Ron have done a decent job in quelling whatever rumours have sprung up, but the other students still eye her warily. Harry seems brighter, happier, since the whole affair - a burden shared is a burden halved - especially now that the adults seem to be listening to him.

 

Professor Lupin has yet to get in touch regarding their lessons. Between the three of them, they have decided to keep Lupin’s involvement a secret from the rest of the Defence club (“We really need a cooler name,” opines Ron loudly), not wanting to get him into trouble, should they be discovered.  

 

A slim paperback lies untouched on her bedside table. 

 

(Her fingers itch but she resists the urge to devour it, cover to cover.)

 

---

 

On Monday over lunch, she begins to dread seeing Riddle again in Charms. 

 

She spends almost an hour fortifying her mental walls, before taking her usual seat at the front of the class. Professor Flitwick beams at her as he trots in, welcoming her back.

 

Her stomach ties itself in knots as the chair next to her is gently pulled back. She rummages in her bag pretending to look for a quill, when he clears his throat. 

 

“It’s good to have you back.”

 

Riddle greets her in a murmur too low to be heard by anyone else in the gradually-filling class. It’s an entirely appropriate thing to say to a recently-ill classmate, but it still sends a shiver down her spine. 

 

She steels herself, steels her walls, and looks at him. 

 

He looks as he always does, of course. Sat upright at his desk, in crisp robes and an even crisper shirt, emerald tie in a pristine Windsor knot. Inky waves swept back from a pale forehead, arched brows over the darkest brown eyes she has ever -

 

- he’s looking straight at her. 

 

Fuck fuckshitfuckshitfuck -

 

Riddle quirks an eyebrow, and then smiles knowingly. It is ever so slightly lop-sided -

 

Her pulse pounds in her neck. 

 

Fuck.

Notes:

that feel when you REDACTED that guy who kidnapped your parents

Chapter 14

Hermione processes her feelings in a healthy and grown-up manner:

 

She skips dinner in the Common Room to sit down on the floor of the shower for a full hour, teetering on the edge of a panic attack, and only gets out when Lavender starts hammering at the door threatening to drown her, “if she hadn’t already drowned”. 

 

Afterwards, she stares unblinkingly at the maroon canopy of her bed, Parvati’s gentle snores the only disturbance to the stillness of the night. She imagines scenario after scenario of Riddle reading her mind, finding certifiable proof that she’d gone insane and should be committed to St Mungo’s … because who in their right mind contracts inexplicable emotions towards their parents’ kidnapper? 

 

Her leg jitters uncontrollably under the covers. She knows just how scathing, how cutting Riddle can be. She can’t even begin to put into words the sheer humiliation of him knowing - what would he even say if he knew she couldn’t get the thought of kissing him again out of her - 

 

“Ow!” she cries, for a sharp pain has lanced through her shaking foot. Crookshanks balefully looks back at her, resheaths his claws, then hops off her bed to disgruntledly prowl out of the dorm. 

 

“Go to bed!” grumbles Lavender sleepily from across the room. 

 

She sighs, and reaches for her last bottle of Dreamless Sleep - thank god for Madam Pomfrey - with her still-pruney fingers. Lavender’s right; there is no point facing Riddle without her mental barriers in tip-top shape, and a full night of sleep will help.

 

(If she’s careful, she can stretch the bottle to last the better part of the week.) 

 

---

 

It's fine. It’s fine. It’s fine, she chants to herself the next morning, knotting her tie with a queasy stomach. 

 

“You’ve barely touched breakfast!” Ginny exclaims from next to the fireplace when she only pushes around her eggs, too anxious to eat. 

 

“Think that’s normal. I didn’t have an appetite for ages, after the train,” Harry yawns, bleary-eyed, unwittingly coming to her rescue. Hermione nods, busy trying to hype herself up enough to set foot out of the portrait hole. Her Occlumency was good enough to almost stave off a murderous, soul-sucking Dementor; surely it would be enough for Tom Riddle?

 

She swears she’s on the verge of palpitations when she walks into History of Magic, her first shared class of the day with him. 

 

What will he do? Will he ask her about the Dementors? Will he bring up being Levitated by the Hog’s Head barman in front of half the castle? Was he even present for that spectacle? 

 

Of course, he’s seated at the front, already making notes. Perhaps coming to terms with fancying someone - purely on the basis of physical attraction - is the reason that her traitorous brain decides to note the sharp contrast between his dark hair and the pale skin of his neck; summer tan long faded -

 

Oh my god; am I shallow?

 

“Morning Tom,” she greets him as nonchalantly as she can; what with her heart jackhammering against her ribs on the precipice of an internal meltdown. “Already started?”

 

He pauses, then lays down his simple quill. She double checks and triple checks her mental walls, but still, she’s not prepared for the strange sensation of butterflies that fills her chest confirming that she is, in fact, as shallow as a puddle, when Riddle twists to face her.

 

He really is pretty, her stupid brain whispers, all cheekbone and hands and mouth and -

 

Said mouth is moving, sounding out words, syllables, Hermione’s doom …

 

“- chance to read the book?”

 

“What?” she blurts out intelligently. “Oh - no, I’ve not quite felt up to it yet.”

 

Said mouth has the nerve to twist up into a tiny, telling smile. “Hermione Granger, not feeling up to a book? You really did hit your head.” 

 

“Well, it can’t be worth my time if you like it,” she shoots back meanly, trying to save face. “I’ll add it to my pile. Maybe I’ll get to it eventually.”

 

“Why, whatever other literary classic do you have in that pile that could possibly usurp Tolstoy?” He asks completely straight-faced, apart from a warm glint dancing in his eye; one that she’s never seen before -

 

It takes a second for her brain to realise: he is - he’s teasing her. Oh fuck, he knew - he knew about Lady Benneton -

 

She wonders if she will be the first witch to die from humiliation alone, and says not another word for the rest of the class, cheeks a deep, scalding red.

 

---

 

Suspicion gnaws at her bones. 

 

She has to assume he’s known about Ginny’s trashy book since that summer day, but she can’t bear to bring it up, for fear of what he might say in retaliation … 

 

It takes every crumb of her courage to join Riddle in the library after class.

 

But with each shaking footstep her shame mellows - into rage, naturally - and she decides to take offence at everything Riddle does. How dare he try to embarrass her, for something he shouldn’t even know about? For something normal?

 

She stomps through the grand wooden door of the library, and hurls herself bodily in the seat opposite Riddle. He looks up for a moment, lips parted as though to greet her, and she scowls thunderously, daring him to speak a single word.

 

Riddle displays an uncanny sense of self-preservation, and wisely decides against striking up conversation. Instead, he looks back to his work, covering his mouth with his hand. 

 

She pointedly seethes next to him in silence, and settles into her work. 

 

They are the only two students in their section, and as the seconds stretch into minutes stretch in hours, Madam Pince makes her presence known, hovering unpleasantly and tutting periodically, whilst the sky washes out into a dark, inky blue. 

 

At dinner she stomps off to the Common Room, massaging out a crick in her neck. Harry, Ron and Ginny are all absent - they’re hurtling around the Quidditch pitch, for try-outs are fast coming up - and her pinched expression earns her a wide berth as she absentmindedly tears apart a bread roll, imagining Riddle’s stupid face …

 

When she returns, Hermione earns a disapproving glower from the librarian as she drags her chair back with a screech to sit across from the Slytherin. 

 

Of course, Riddle doesn’t possess the common decency to even look up, head cradled in the palm of his hand, tilted away from her - 

 

Oh. He’s squinting at what seems to be a particularly obstinate passage within an intimidatingly thick textbook. 

 

Ugh; she had sworn that he was skipping dinner solely to spite her with his work ethic, but in the space of her absence, he’s tossed his robes neatly over his chair, brow furrowed and hair now slightly rumpled. 

 

Annoyingly, he’s truly absorbed in his work - a would-be admirable quality, if it were literally any other student in the castle. She assaults the side of his head with an especially poisonous glare as he flips a page. 

 

Still a twat.

 

Satisfied with her judgement, she settles down to her Arithmancy work in silence, the hypnotic rustle of quills scratching away and parchment crinkling finally lulls her into the study zone -

 

A hysterical shriek pierces the air. Hermione barely reacts, long-used to the noise.

 

Riddle, however, cracks his neck to one side, stretches languidly, sitting up. “Poor lamb, she’s been trying all week,” he observes with a detached semblance of sympathy, as a particularly exuberant jet of sparks from Fred and George’s particularly exuberant sign sets the librarian’s sleeve alight. 

 

Hermione doesn’t look up from her work. She’s Rightfully Pissed Off at him, after all.

 

“Interesting that no other teachers are helping our esteemed librarian,” he says, gravely. Despite herself, she can’t help but catch his eye. Although he looks perfectly sombre, the curve of his mouth belies an undercurrent of amusement at poor Madan Pince’s predicament -

 

“I didn’t realise idle gossip was part of the Pact,” she mutters coldly under her breath, returning to her work as best she can.

 

He briefly rolls his eyes to the ceiling, as though praying for strength.

 

“When you’re quite finished ignoring me -”

 

“Ignoring you implies you’re worthy of acknowledgement -”

 

“- What are you doing next Friday?”

 

“I’m actually studying with a sociopath,” she replies nastily, not missing a beat as she finishes off her meteorological diagram with a flourish. “He’s blackmailed me into doing his homework, you see, so if you don’t mind, I’ll get on with it before he gambles for my first born too …?”

 

“I’ll pass,” Riddle utters dryly. “Your matrix is unbalanced, by the way. It looks like you’ve forecast a tidal wave of sirens, not a mild and balmy Scottish autumn.”

 

“No , it’s perfectly - oh, balls,” she frowns, nose to parchment. “Why didn’t you say anything before?” 

 

“And miss out on a rousing serenade?”

 

She grunts. “Far be it from me to stop you getting dashed to pieces on rocks. In fact -” Hermione scribbles several more runes to the side of her matrix, effortlessly adding another dimension “- an array, especially for you. You’ll particularly enjoy them hitting the high notes as they drag you down to the depths of the ocean.” 

 

He leans over to flick his hand over her scroll. With two, almost careless strokes of his quill - 

 

“There, at least I’ll die in the Mediterranean and not the frigid North Sea.”

 

It is a clever joke, and her laugh bubbles up subconsciously before she can strangle it. She thinks he tries to stifle it, but Riddle looks inordinately pleased with himself. 

 

Often, Hermione can’t help herself from making obscure references to beloved Muggle tales and mythology. Wizards (and most Muggles), rarely pick up on her double-meanings. It leaves her feeling smug and clever. But Riddle -

 

She reminds herself forcefully that although he’s pretty, she hates him. 

 

(Also, he’s evil.)

 

She clears her throat awkwardly.

 

“Can't do Friday night. What do you want, anyways?”

 

He hasn’t looked up from doodling on her ruined homework. “I know a spell you might find useful. How about next Tuesday?”

 

Huh. 

 

Despite it being Riddle, she feels a twinge of excitement at the thought of learning something new. He’s never actually offered to teach her anything before …

 

“I’m still catching up on homework,” she huffs, pointing her nose in the air, not wanting to make this easy for him. “It’ll have to wait until next week.” 

 

He nods affably, as though he believes her. “Next Friday, after astronomy?” 

 

She stares at him, openly, with no small amount of suspicion. He’s being surprisingly insistent …

 

What does he want in return? 

 

“... All right,” she agrees cautiously. Her curiosity gets the better of her, and she can’t help but ask. “What’s the occasion?”

 

Riddle takes his time leaning back in his chair with arms crossed over his chest, balancing on two legs. It’s the most childish behaviour she’s seen from him, and she half-wants Madam Pince to catch him, half-wants him to topple over onto the floor, as her hearts beats infinitesimally faster at his tiny, genuine grin - 

 

“Call it a late birthday present.”

 

---

 

A late birthday present.

 

Never have four words played on her mind to such an extent. 

 

As was reinforced by the girls, the age of majority remains a momentous occasion to be marked in the Wizarding World. McGonagall had almost looked proud. Slughorn had near-welled up. Even Malfoy, in passing, had coolly sneered down at her that he was surprised she’d stuck it out so long. 

 

A late birthday present. 

 

In fairness, she’s had much, much bigger things on her plate than turning seventeen. Such as the Dementor attack (which he hasn’t asked her about), or her hospitalisation (... which he also hasn’t asked her about). 

 

But, she supposes, Riddle had to have known it was her birthday. Unless he’s been sleeping under a rock, there isn’t a chance he could have missed Fred and George’s oh-so subtle firework sign over the Slytherin table, still raining down sparks in the Great Hall. 

 

Hermione just didn’t expect him to give her a present. For him to want to. 

 

(There must be a trick; there always is with him -)

 

What’s worse is that it’s a dreadfully thoughtful present; meaning that her thoughts have been entirely full of dread; utterly occupied by Riddle’s softly-spoken, tantalising offer: to teach her something new.  

 

Oh, the lotions and potions and trinkets and doodads from her friends were more than appreciated - she has barely begun using the WonderWitch products herself - but Riddle is the smartest person remotely close to her own age; and she hates to admit that his deliberately off-hand lure of a new spell causes her nerves to positively fizz with excitement -

 

Not that she is being drawn in by him, thank you very much. It’s not even the least he can do, Hermione tells herself sternly, considering that he is the reason her parents missed her birthday only two weeks ago -

 

“It’s not like an apology would mean anything from him!” shrieks Lavender in outrage, derailing her train of thought. 

 

“Rarely does,” Ginny agrees sagely, “then again, you didn’t pick the brightest of Weasleys …”

 

“Not a hair on our Charlie,” swoons Parvati dramatically, purely to incite Ginny’s scowl.

 

Hermione can’t help but snigger as the quartet meanders around the Great Lake; the first frost of October crunching pleasingly underfoot. Lavender had insisted on a post-breakfast stroll around the grounds before classes, declaring that Gryffindor Tower had become “claustrophobic, boorish and immature”. 

 

And - yes, although most of the student population are utterly fed up with being confined to their Common Rooms for all meals, what with the Great Hall out of commision - it quickly becomes apparent that Lavender is referring to Ron.

 

Hermione offers all the correct sympathetic noises as Lavender fumes. Ron, it turns out, had forgotten their one month anniversary, only scratching his nose bemusedly when the blonde had presented him with a handmade card and chocolates. 

 

Ginny is blunt as ever.

 

“But did he know it was important to you? Ron’s an idiot; you have to spell it out to him. Preferably with stick figures,” she tacks on helpfully. 

 

“Yes, I told him last week - he said it wasn’t his fault he’d forgotten, what with Quidditch trials coming up. As if Quidditch matters more!” 

 

Hermione elbows Ginny pointedly just before she can object. 

 

“Ron’s not worth stressing over, Lav,” Parvati rolls her eyes, not unkindly. “If he can remember to meet you in the fourth floor broom closet after Defence, he can bloody well remember to get you chocolate -” 

 

“Wait, why on earth do you let him drag you into a broom closet when you’re in the same House?” Ginny asks, aghast.

 

“I think that’s well below the bare minimum standard of a boyfriend,” Hermione says tartly. “Honestly! Chocolates aren’t even the least Ronald can do, considering you’ve put up with him for a whole month.”

 

Lavender’s lower lip trembles, for a split second, in the onslaught of criticism. Then, it firms, and she whirls to face the others, an accusing finger pointing between them. 

 

“Well, what do you all know?! Ginny, you’ve been stringing on Dean while mooning after Harry Idiot Potter! Parvati’s hiding whoever she’s sneaking around with under her cloak, and Hermione’s been on a grand total of one shitty date in two years! I’m not taking boyfriend advice from you three! In fact, I’m a supportive girlfriend, because I understand that Quidditch is important to Ron -” 

 

“That’s not good enough!” Parvati explodes, red in the face. “He doesn’t listen to a word you say, and he’s only interested in getting off with you - he’s a moron! He only cares about sodding Quidditch! Does he even know anything about you? What you like, or what you want? You’ve been complaining about him since the minute you got together, and I’m sick of it!” 

 

Hermione’s shocked; she’s never seen the other girl so worked up. She hadn’t heard Lavender complain, but then again, Lavender and Parvati were closer …

 

Tears are beginning to pool in Lavender’s bright blue eyes. “Ron - Ron is nice to me! He carried my books to class last week … he’s funny … and - and he thinks I’m pretty …”

 

She breaks off into a hiccupy sob and presses the palms of her hands over her eyes.

 

Ginny frowns at Parvati, who holds her hands up defensively, and pats Lavender reassuringly on the back. “Sorry to say, but Parvati’s right: Ron can be a right bellend. Merlin, I’ve known it the minute I was born. If he has any redeeming features, I can’t recall them right now.” 

 

“Or ever,” Parvati snorts under her breath. She pulls a face when Lavender glares at her with puffy eyes, but softens. 

 

 “I’m sorry, Lav. I just don’t understand why you’ve put up with him when there’s a queue of boys following you around the castle. More squid in the lake, and all that -”

 

“I think there’s just the one squid. It probably ate the others,” Hermione helpfully offers (hopelessly out of her depth). 

 

“- and you’re my best friend, and you deserve better. If Ron Weasley can’t see past your exquisite bone structure and flawless eyeliner -” 

 

Lavender begrudgingly starts to smile; said eyeliner expertly Charmed to never run down her tear-stained face in a streaky mess - 

 

“- to see how fierce, and kind, and loyal you are, then he doesn’t deserve you. Not one bit.” Parvati says, her tone softening. 

 

Ginny chimes in immediately. “We’re too important to be putting up with Grindylows, when we all deserve a Giant Squid,” the redhead declares with a flourish, finishing with a haughty bow.

 

Lavender gives a surprised laugh at the ridiculous analogy. But then, she draws herself up tall, and stares out determinedly over the Lake. 

 

“You know what,” the blonde declares with a sniff, “you’re all right. I do deserve better.” 

 

“I’m going to dump Ronald Weasley, first thing before class.” 

 

A stunned silence falls after her words. No one was quite expecting that, for Lavender, up until that morning, had seemed entirely (inexplicably) smitten with Ron, bad behaviour and all …

 

Hermione’s never had to dump a boy. Rejecting Terry Boot’s insipid offer to court hardly counts, after all, for she never truly wanted to date him. The most she’s done (and there is certainly an element of gloomy self-deprecation to her reminiscing) is to gently drift away from Viktor as a penpal …

 

But Ginny, then Parvati, nod approvingly. An enormous tentacle protrudes from the still water, waving lazily, and Hermione gamely points it out as a sign of solidarity. 

 

The girls trudge back to the castle as one, giggling and jostling, the brief spat between Lavender and Parvati immediately forgiven with the speed that only best friends possess. Ginny is half-heartedly protesting her treatment of Dean, whilst Parvati flatly denies any sort of romantic entanglement whatsoever, much to the disbelief of the others.

 

Hermione is deep in thought, lagging behind the others. She can hardly blame Lavender for reaching her wit’s end with Ron - she, more than most, knows how inconsiderate Ron can be - he's a terrible listener, she has to admit, and rubbish with presents, and - all right, he's not really the thoughtful kind. But, he’s also brave, and loyal …

 

Not that Ron is an option anymore, she decides then and there, figuratively shutting the door on whatever could have been between her and Ron, as she literally shuts the door to the Entrance Hall. Not after - well, not after the girls have been so wonderful, and they’ve gone to the effort of forming a coven …

 

“I’m all for drama,” she hears Ginny say as they walk through the Entrance Hall, “but ... d’you think you could dump him after Quidditch try-outs?” 

 

Yes. The focus of the rest of the year will be schoolwork, and enduring Tom Riddle, and not faffing around with romance or drama anymore.

 

Her feet stall as her eyes automatically track to the Dungeon staircase; for he is also in class this morning -

 

“Hermione! You coming?” Parvati gives her an uncomfortable, knowing look, as Hermione hastily Banishes all thoughts of he-who-she-cannot-stand out of her head.

 

Quite.

 

---

 

Lavender, it turns out, is not content to wait until after Quidditch try-outs. Or indeed, to wait a single minute.

 

Although they attempt to hold her back, she storms up to Ron and lets him have it, then and there, right in front of Professor Lupin’s classroom door. A good proportion of the class are already waiting in the corridor, and a snickering crowd forms around the pair. 

 

Ron looks as though he’d rather have another Howler from his mum, the puce of his face clashing entirely with his ginger hair, as Lavender reams him out on his listening skills, his conversational ability, his Quidditch obsession … Hermione is sure that Harry is attempting to melt through the floor through sheer second-hand embarrassment alone. She is quick to flit through the classroom door as Professor Lupin baulks at the scene in front of him, the rest of her classmates utterly enthralled by the drama. Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini are laughing nastily in the background, and no doubt word will spread around the castle long before lunch. 

 

Hermione feels only a small amount of guilt for sidling off, but it’s hardly her business, is it? She’s here to learn, she reassures herself, laying her things out neatly, as Lavender’s shouting is in no way quietened by Professor Lupin’s reluctant involvement - 

 

“Rather eviscerated him, hasn’t she?” Riddle greets her neutrally as the rest of the class enters, but the twitch of his lips tells her all she needs to know. “Poor Weasley - I’d hate to be compared so eloquently to -” he cocks his head to catch the now-muffled words, as Lupin appears to have simply given up and just shut the door “- what was that? Having all the passion and commitment of half a slug?” 

 

His brow furrows slightly, looking confused and so unlike his usual self-assuredness, that Hermione can’t hold back her own half-smile. “Do you remember, in second year, when Ron tried to curse Malfoy with a broken wand, and then vomited up those fat, black slugs all over his stupid, hundred-Galleon pair of dragonhide shoes -”

 

Riddle lets out a genuine chuckle at the memory, twisting towards her in his seat. “Merlin, that was ages ago - do you know, Malfoy still can’t bear to so much as even pick up a Flobberworm now?” he murmurs conspiratorially, as she leans closer to hear his low voice. “You didn’t hear it from me, of course, but whenever he exercises his Pureblooded right to be particularly obnoxious, he finds his shampoo mysteriously replaced with Ever-Oozing Troll Slime …”

 

Some small, nasty facet of her personality - one that she rarely indulges - is elated to confirm her suspicion that all is not as harmonious as it would seem in the House of Slytherin: despite his outwardly friendly demeanour, perhaps Riddle, too, dislikes Malfoy?

 

“Does he suspect who the culprit is?” She doesn’t expect him to be honest with her, to indict himself, but -

 

“Well, for some reason, he was convinced it was the Weasley twins for the longest time,” admits Riddle with a faux-bashful smile that she sees straight through, “and he thought it would stop with their graduation. But when it happened again at the start of term, dear Draco ended up Hexing poor Blaise, and you can imagine how well that went down - about as well as Madam Zabini’s second husband in the Thames - ” 

 

Her sharp peal of laughter is loud and unexpected, even to her, and he looks up at her through those unfairly long eyelashes, lips parted, a sly gleam in his eye that causes the breath to catch in her lungs, and she really ought to Occlude before - 

 

“Bit friendlier here than the corridor, isn’t it?”

 

Parvati passes in front of their desks to raise a single, judgemental eyebrow at the two of them, smirking widely. 

 

Hermione jumps back in her chair with a screech, neck burning hot. Riddle - and is that the faintest of faint colour to his pale cheeks? No, surely not - merely drops a polite, “Good morning, Patil,” as Parvati ruffles Hermione’s hair playfully, and she simply sinks lower into her chair, because heaven forbid she be caught laughing with - at - any boy, let alone Riddle -

 

“Detention, Miss Brown,” Lupin’s exasperated voice rings at the back of the class, stilling any chatter. “For the rest of the week - no, I don’t want another word!” he raps out tetchily. “Now, everyone - take your seats!” 

 

Hermione forces herself to face forward, ignoring Parvati’s eyes burning into the back of her head, and Occludes hard for the rest of the lesson. 

 

(Still, she can't help but wish that someone would slap her - either some sense into her, or the insanity straight out - each and every time that she steals a reckless look at Riddle, from the hungry corner of her eye.)

Notes:

I hope this made up for three chapters of not enough tom hehehe. thank you for your reviews and comments <3 also, more art!!! go show snake-queen7 some love; and reminisce back to a simpler time where tom was just covered in blood

----

this is primarily a coming-of-age story, which I'm sure you'd already noticed. assorted characters are learning just how unfair the world is, that adults don't always listen, and that actions have very real consequences. I am trying to portray young adults as just that: young. but if you think I've gotten it wrong, I want to hear about it!

tl;dr: just because hermione and tom are (very) smart in some ways, doesn't mean they're not collosal idiots in many, many others.

----

if you liked this, feel free to check out my other fics:

lie (can't hope): baby's first a/b/o, written for the 2023 tomione trope fest. go check out the other fics in the collection too!
synchronicity: your ~basic bitch~ time travel story
the department of mutually-beneficial arrangements: AU where older tom and hermione work for the MoM and make a calculated bb pact
put your iron hand (into my velvet glove): look I'll be honest this is just porn

tumblr: also I post dumb shit on my tumblr now and again come say hiiiiiii

Chapter 15

The first weekend in October, Hermione wakes up surprisingly late. 

 

She stretches languidly, fingertips brushing her wooden headboard. Crookshanks mirrors her movement, a furry snake uncoiling leisurely at the foot of her bed. He pads across the duvet and butts her, square in the chin, purring like a motorboat. 

 

He’s been extra attentive since her Hospital Wing stay - after arriving back for sixth year, he’d been absent most of the day and night, exploring the castle grounds. Hermione wonders if he’d felt guilty for leaving her side, for the clever cat has since ensured that his presence isn’t missed much: to the disgust of the girls, he has taken to leaving half-dead rodents by her bedside. Perhaps she hadn’t been praising him enough, she shudders, as last night, half-asleep and heading to the toilet, she had stepped barefoot onto a decapitated rat. 

 

(Several small birds and a school owl later, Hermione had sat him down to give a stern talking to.

 

“Crookshanks, you know I appreciate your … affection. But even Hagrid will suspect something’s up if I bring him another mangled barn owl. I wouldn’t want you banned from the premises.”

 

The feline had duly considered her words, and de-escalated.)

 

She wordlessly spells open her drapes, to find she is alone in her dorm. Outside, the sun is high in the sky. 

 

If she concentrates, she can hear the distant cacophony of Quidditch mania. Gryffindor’s Quidditch trials are later this morning, and she has promised Harry, Ron, and Ginny that she’d cheer them on in a few hours.

 

Hermione is an early riser by nature, mind always buzzing with a problem, a theory, homework, organising the boys … but she finds that she simply has nothing urgent on her list of things to do.

 

She cannot quite believe what she is about to say, but … 

 

Despite the staggering increase in workload, despite taking nine full N.E.W.T.s: Hermione has never, ever felt more on top of things. 

 

S.P.E.W. recruitment was up by one hundred percent this year alone (Hermione ignores the voice asking her for discrete numbers). Professor McGonagall had just granted her (and him) permission to the Restricted session for a deep dive into the Transfiguration fundamentals they’ve been bashing their brains over. She spent yesterday picking and nitpicking all of her essays. Hell, he’s picked and nitpicked all of her essays. Professor Vector has agreed to support (yet) another Ministry internship application, and she’s asked Professor Slughorn for a Potions project. She has already drafted an extra credit article on the wand movement for the Avis spell and submitted it to Professor Flitwick for review, and the unamused expression on his face as he scans over the parchment may have been the icing on the cake. 

 

She also hadn’t been lying when she said she had plans on Friday. 

 

(“Expecto Patronum!” 

 

“ExpecTO PatroNUM!” 

 

“ExPECto PaTROnum!” 

 

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” 

 

“Fuck, Ron!” swears Harry, covering his ears at the sound of Ron’s bellowing. 

 

She sighs, and buries her head in her arms, resting on her textbook.)

 

Professor Lupin had had them in his office, attempting to cast the Patronus. Harry and Ron had been happy to immediately stand and start casting, producing indistinct, silvery shadows, but she had been a little more anxious, choosing to review the relevant chapter in Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts before attempting. 

 

Next time, she tells herself. 

 

Today, she’s going to lie in for as long as possible, catch up on her knitting - perhaps even go back to sleep? She flumps over in bed, happily wriggling deeper under her warm down duvet, when she freezes. 

 

The Death of Ivan Ilyich stares back, unread, mocking her from her dresser, as surely as its owner would if he found out - 

 

Although Hermione has just about come to terms with the fact that Riddle - and she hates to use such a Ginnyism, but it feels most appropriate - is really, really fucking fit, she’s been Occluding every day, harder than ever, trying to push her quagmire of emotions down. 

 

At least she can breathe a little easier now, knowing that her most secret thoughts are safe from his perusal. 

 

(She eyes the space where she knows the ancient, cream, leather tome that Luna lended her is hidden away, Concealed. It’s been slow going, but perhaps, one day …)

 

The one thing that Hermione can admit, is that Riddle might have been right all along about sharing their workload, on them working well together -

 

No. Don’t be naive.

 

Good mood officially evaporating, she grumbles her way out of bed. Hermione reminds herself harshly not to slip into the easy camaraderie she thought they had shared, back into the same feeling she had in her fifth year, as she pulls on her robes. He’s definitely evil, but she can at least mine him for knowledge. 

 

And speaking of Riddle - now that she has the assurance that he can’t waltz right into her brain -

 

Her feet have taken her through the familiar stone corridors, down the familiar stairs.

 

Today feels like the perfect day to start her digging. To start answering the questions that have been simmering since summer. 

 

Such as, what in the bloody fuck is Tom Riddle up to? 

 

If he really is a half-blood - and his father’s side is alive - then why does he live in a Muggle orphanage, of all places? 

 

And who are the Gaunts -

 

She’s violently ripped from her idle musings as she rounds the corner, as a sight so ghastly, so sickening, slams into her with the all force of a Bludger. 

 

Her wand slips from her fingers and clatters uselessly to the floor as she stumbles back against the wall, head spinning. 

 

Oh god, will she faint? Is her vision fading -

 

“Oh - morning, Hermione!” She just about makes out Neville, ambling cheerfully around the corner. 

 

“Looking forward to Defence Club tonight?”

 

Hermione feels ill; Neville’s voice so faint that she barely registers his words; doesn’t even begin to tell him off for his complete lack of discretion -

 

“You all right?” He turns to stare bemusedly at her, scratching his head.

 

Has he lost his tiny mind? Does he not see what she sees?

 

The whites of her eyes surely show as she points, with a trembling finger, to the hastily erected sign strung across the closed library doors, barricaded and chained shut:

 

CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE DUE TO ONGOING FIRE HAZARD AND FLAGRANT DISRESPECT TO PRICELESS THIRTEENTH CENTURY TEXTILE IMPORT DECLARATIONS (COURTESY OF THE ANCIENT AND MOST NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK). ALL REMAINING WEASLEYS BARRED. ALL REQUESTS ON HOLD. 

 

MADAM PINCE

 

“Not the library, surely?” Her voice comes out in a rasp, barely a whisper.

 

“Hermione -”

 

“This is ridiculous - how is anyone meant to get anything done if the library is shut?”

 

“Hermione, calm down -”

 

Hermione stamps her foot in frustration, strength returning thanks to a healthy dose of fury. “No, I will not calm down! Because I am not calm!” 

 

Neville tentatively takes her arm, steering her down the corridor as she rages on. “The governors didn’t close the school when Muggle-borns were being Petrified left, right and centre, but woe betide a musty old Pureblood textile record -”

 

“Maybe - maybe you need some air -”

 

“Don’t patronise me!” she glares ferociously at him, and he wilts instantly.

 

“I’m … gonna find Harry,” he stammers nervously, looking like he quite wishes he stayed in bed this morning. Still, he drags her gamely towards the Entrance Hall.

 

“You do just that,” she snarls, startling a gaggle of passing second years. “Because I have a bone to pick with him and Sirius - as if they care a jot about import records -”

 

“- I take it you’ve seen the notice?” The world’s least welcome voice smoothly interrupts her rant, and she whirls around.

 

Fuck it all. Of course, it’s him. 

 

Riddle is not even bothering to hide his particularly pinched expression as he emerges from the dungeons. Despite the weekend, he still wears his Hogwarts robes. His book bag is slung over his shoulder, a periodical in his other hand. Hermione squints at it; on the front cover, a glamorous witch levitates with her arms spread wide -

 

“Hullo, Riddle,” Neville says, relieved for the distraction. “Heading out?”

 

“Indeed,” and the Slytherin frowns deeply, as though the closed library has personally offended him (Hermione certainly feels personally offended, attacked, slighted -). “I had wanted to finish some reading for Charms, and the stalls seemed like the next best place.” 

 

Hermione cranes her neck further and it clicks into place, why he’s heading to the Quidditch pitch. She points accusingly at him, her bad mood festering. “You’re reading about Ascendio already? We don’t cover that until next term, you -” 

 

“Why good morning to you too, Hermione,” Riddle says, effortlessly charming, but there is a tiny hint of warning in the set of his shoulders.

 

“Good morning Tom,” she simpers, meeting his coal black eyes directly, and dropping her shields. 

 

Are you studying ahead of me, you scab -

 

His mouth twitches. 

 

“I’ve an idea - why don’t you two go to the pitch together?” Neville interrupts, looking extremely glad to palm Hermione and her temper off on someone else. “It’s just - I need to go to the greenhouse … yeah,” he finishes lamely, nearly running away.

 

“House of the brave, was it?” Riddle muses at Neville’s rapidly retreating back, friendly facade melting away. “Well, come on, if you’re coming,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads to the pitch. 

 

She hesitates, wavering between righteous indignation and burning curiosity over what he’s working on -

 

“I didn’t sign up to study outside of the library with you,” Hermione snips quietly as she hurries to keep up with his long stride. She might - URGH - fancy him, but she doesn’t have to like him - 

 

“Have you not come to terms that, thanks to Messers Weasley and Weasley, the library is currently out of action? You’ll be doing no studying at all, there.” He side-eyes her, but it isn’t mocking. Indeed, although he conceals it better, he seems as irritated as she is by the whole affair. 

 

She reluctantly ponders this as she trails behind, climbing to the top of the stalls. 

 

He’s right, sadly. The library appears to be out of action, for the foreseeable future. 

 

Thankfully she has a modest haul of books under her bed, and she’s well on top of work, but still. The library has always been a safe refuge for her, she thinks glumly, for most students rarely enter outside of exam time, terrified of Madam Pince. 

 

(And just when she was about to start digging for answers …)

 

The autumnal air becomes gustier and gustier, the sun weak in the sky but free from clouds. She squints into the distance, spying the tiny figures of Ginny and Ron, barrel rolling on their brooms like idiots. Honestly, they’ll -

 

“- break their necks if they’re not careful,” he comments neutrally, casting several Sticking Charms to his parchment and quills as he arranges himself to work. 

 

Hermione is inclined to agree … not that she’ll say it to his face.

 

“So.” She plops herself just close enough to nose at his neat writing. “What’s all of this?”

 

Riddle dangles the pamphlet in her face. “No need for a broom, if one has mastery over Ascendio -”

 

“I know you know that only works on inanimate objects,” Hermione rebuts immediately, “so you must be thinking of something.”

 

He gives a half-shrug, non-committal. “Who’s to say?” 

 

Hermione scowls at him, biting back the urge to question him further. It’s useless trying to pry something out of him, she’s learned, before he’s ready to offer it. 

 

Instead, she primly arranges her own study material, Conjures her favourite bluebell flames, and tucks them by her feet for warmth. 

 

There’s just something about translation that is inherently relaxing, and with the distant roar of Quidditch practice washing over her, it isn’t long before she’s blissfully absorbed in Ancient Runes extra credit. A faint breeze carries the scent of shampoo over, and, unconsciously, she relaxes.

 

For close to an hour, they work. Hermione can admit - but only to herself - that it’s almost … companionable, silently sitting next to him in the morning light of the Quidditch pitch … 

 

She’s stuck between a particularly tricky pair of runes, when Riddle pulls out a slightly-crumpled paper bag from his pocket to set between them.

 

It flutters violently in a sudden howl of wind and her arm jerks to stop it blowing clean off the bench, but the flimsy bag remains stuck, as though it weighs a good fifty pounds.

 

“Oh my god. How am I the only one to know that you're such a show-off?” She shakes her head disbelievingly, because, really? A non-verbal, wandless Sticking Charm is such a ridiculous flex of magic that she wonders just how Riddle has maintained such a humble reputation for so many years.

 

He doesn't reply, gaze steadfast on his work, but his cheek dimples despite the grin he tries to swallow.

 

Her heart thumps in her chest. 

 

Fine. It is impressive. Not that he'll ever hear it from her.

 

Without looking over, he rustles the bag open to pull out a small, off-white ball. To her surprise, it looks awfully like a simple, Muggle sweet. Absently, he rolls it in between his fingers, still focused on his parchment, before popping it between his parted lips.

 

And although Riddle returns straight to his work, the rhythmic scratch of his quill fails to lull Hermione back into her work-flow. 

 

Because - and it sounds ridiculous to say, but the thought has burrowed its way into the forefront of her brain and she can’t ignore it - she’s never once noticed him eat anything sweet. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner; yes, she’s glared at him over all of those this year. And never has he once helped himself to dessert, pudding, chocolates - even treacle tart! - under her scrutiny, as long as she’s known him.

 

(Hermione had devoured Charlie and the Chocolate Factory as a small child, astounded by the fantastical descriptions of confectionery that were beyond the stretches of her imagination, then, and also beyond the limits of being the daughter of two dentists. Young, and used to the praise of being told she was good and smart, she had thought that the naughty children in the book had gotten entirely what they had deserved for disobeying The Rules - turning into a giant blueberry, near-drowning in a chocolate river, and other such darkly comical fates. 

 

How stupid of them, she had declared with all the self-righteousness of a sanctimonious seven-year-old to her amused parents, nose pointed in the air, to so foolishly fall for such obvious danger, for sweets that were so obviously a trap. The Wizarding sweets she’d encountered as an eleven-year-old had only confirmed her suspicions, as though they had been dreamed up by Mr Dahl himself, with a sting in the tail for every greedy, stupid child. The risk taken with Every Flavoured Beans, Acid Pops, half of what Fred and George had created … She’d never understood the thrill that Harry, Ron and the others seemed to get, tumbling out of Honeydukes with bulging pockets each and every Hogsmeade trip. The odd Butterbeer or Sugarquill as a treat, of course - but Hermione was too mature to indulge recklessly, too bright for temptation -)

 

Something about his false piety had irritated her, even back then. 

 

Over the years, she’s pictured him sneering that he was above such childish gluttony. Above the human urge for comfort in food. 

 

Above human urges, in general.

 

Riddle’s always presented himself as stiff, and proper, and humble but -

 

You’re no better than the rest of us, she thinks, a nasty satisfaction coiling inside of her at the realisation that no matter how hard Riddle tries to hide it, that he is human, and that means he is weak, and fallible, and imperfect, and given to vice -

 

It strikes her, then, uncomfortable and bewildering: Tom Riddle, for some unfathomable reason, treats her differently to everyone else.

 

Is it because she’s under a Blood Oath? Or is he just becoming complacent?

 

Some base part of her, that shames her to no end, rather likes that he doesn’t bother to hide his skill with Wandless magic in front of her anymore. Rather likes that he challenges her, properly, in debates, far ruder to her than to any other classmate.  

 

The hard sugar ball clacks gently against his teeth as he tongues it around, unaware of her agonising. 

 

(It’s awful … but she likes that he’ll lower himself to enjoy sweets, only in front of her -)

 

The noise echoes a hundred times louder in her ears, rattling loose a traitorous thought that she has tried to quash, time and time again.

 

Why did he kiss me? 

 

She hasn’t dared to think it anything more than some sort of twisted machination back in the summer, but now -

 

Riddle pauses between his sentences, contemplative. His hands, strong and clever, idly twists the shaft of his quill between thumb and forefinger in a movement so distracting, so completely, inexplicably incendiary, that her thighs clench of their own accord. 

 

Her own mouth feels parched, all of a sudden, and she swallows. How is it that such a minute action can render her dumbstruck? 

 

Hermione’s never been so aware of her own skin, of the fabric of her skirt brushing against her knees in the most tantalising manner. 

 

Riddle drums his fingers against the bench, pursing his lips pensively, and she has a maddening flashback to willing those clever hands to steal under her knickers - 

 

It’s unfair, she tells herself; nay, it’s insane that she feels the way she does for the boy who’s kidnapped her parents. No, it’s just her hormones; a chemical want that will pass -

 

But then, his wind-pinkened cheeks hollow faintly as he sucks on the luckiest piece of confectionery to ever exist, and all reason exits her brain. 

 

How can she be expected to think straight, when she’s hyper aware of his sharp tongue, wicked as it is, flicking the hard ball from side-to-side, working it in his mouth to dissolve layer after layer of sugar -

 

Hermione can’t stop herself from squirming as subtly as she can on the hard bench, rearranging her parchment to hide the backwards cant of her hips, desperate to relieve the itch, if only momentarily - 

 

But as she shifts, she realises with a jolt of horror that she is more turned on than she’s ever been in her entire life, and it’s simply from watching Tom fucking Riddle salaciously stroke his quill, and indecently lave his oral attentions upon, of all things, a boiled sweet that seems to be lasting forever -

 

Terrible phrasing, Hermione, she cringes to herself, visualising the least arousing situations she possibly can. Slughorn in the bath. Pince and Filch in the bath. All three of them in the bath.

 

It doesn’t work. 

 

It’s humiliating and addictive and strange to feel this way, out in the open, and she resolves to sit there with her eyes closed, count to ten, quietly and calmly, to then pack her things and leave, and to never again envision Riddle’s fingers stroking her slick flesh, at her command, to have him at her mercy, for once -

 

She could scream in frustration. Christ, what is wrong with her? 

 

It’s a rhetorical question, for Hermione fully knows why Riddle occupies the dirtiest tranche of her mind. Not that she likes him; Merlin, no! 

 

Just … he’s a very precise person, after all. Dextrous, and infuriatingly good at many things; and she’s -

 

“Tempted?”

 

She nearly tumbles off the bench in shock. It’s as though a pail of ice cold water has been dumped on her; so quickly does she snap out of her daydream and slam her mental walls down.

 

Hermione’s fear is palpable as she opens her eyes and turns towards him; a cold sweat on her neck. He surely, surely can’t know -

 

- but Riddle is merely holding the bag of stupid fucking sweets out towards her, with a polite little smile.

 

Hermione thanks every deity that may or may not exist under the sun, because mercifully - incredibly - he doesn’t seem to have noticed her near-freakout. 

 

“Oh,” she somehow manages to get out evenly, “what are they?” 

 

Riddle grins at her but doesn’t answer, just holds the little ball between straight, white teeth. With a flash of pink tongue, he tucks it into inside his cheek. 

 

His eyes gleam bright with amusement. 

 

“Guess.”

 

She abruptly turns away. Hides her fluster with a scowl. Pretends for a good ten minutes that the tiny figures of Harry and Katie Bell walloping the Bludger between themselves have caught her attention, whilst her heart rate climbs down from the heavens.

 

She’s hardly going to ask him why he’s behaving like this, as much as she’d like to know. So familiarly, like they’re friends - well, not that she’s ever behaved like this with Ginny, or Harry -

 

Instead, she sticks out her own tongue, and blatantly steals a - would you believe? 

 

Bog standard mint imperial.

 

---

 

With the sheer force of Gryffindor spirit (all right, by Occluding so hard she can barely feel her own toes), Hermione successfully ignores Riddle for another hour. By that point, the bag of mints is half-empty (she takes particular satisfaction in crunching through them as fast as possible, if only for the twitch in his jaw), but the stalls have steadily filled. 

 

She doesn't have long to wonder why the Gryffindor Quidditch training session is so popular all of sudden, because Harry flies to land gracefully in front of a gaggle of hopeful witches and wizards.

 

“Try-outs already,” muses Riddle, scratching his nose with the side of his quill. He's paid little attention to the antics on the pitch, and instead has rapidly devoured his periodical; a neat stack of notes filed away in his bag. 

 

Hermione side-eyes him. “Wouldn’t put it past you to be spying for Slytherin,” she says archly. He stares back flatly. 

 

“Have I ever shown so much as a glimmer of interest in Quidditch?”

 

“You go to all of Slytherin’s games,” she counters, “and I know you care about winning the House Cup.” Riddle sniffs dismissively.

 

“I’d much rather be in the library. Besides, you go to all of Gryffindor’s, and I -”

 

“Hermione!” a distant voice interrupts. Ron weaves through the gaps in the stalls to hover in front of the two of them. “‘Lo, Riddle. Not interrupting you two, am I?” Ron leers playfully, but she knows him well enough to see a hint of jealousy through the bravado. 

 

“Morning, Weasley. I take it you’re here to try it on? I won’t wish you luck; I doubt there’s another Keeper out there that can match up.” Riddle says it so sincerely, that Ron mishears entirely and starts blathering about try-outs. 

 

She bristles at the sheer male stupidity in front of her, staring daggers at Riddle from behind Ron’s back. He ignores her, nodding affably along with whatever violent demonstration of Quaffle technique Ron is enacting, his face is rearranged into that pleasant mask; the one she always wants to set on fire -

 

Suddenly fed up with the both of them, Hermione jumps up, quick to leave, and packs her bag with a non-verbal flourish that has Ron whistling in admiration. But Riddle, the arse, merely raises a brow, and she can guess what he’s thinking from that fraction of expression: not even wandless? 

 

Her temper flares inexplicably. 

 

“I’m going to sit at the front to cheer on Ginny,” she announces through a gritted smile.  

 

“Oi, what about cheering me on?” Ron complains good-naturedly, slinging an arm across her shoulders. “Can’t believe Harry’s making us try out again. He’s mad keen to win - Malfoy’s been even more of a dick lately. Stupid prat’s bloody lucky the cup was cancelled last year; we were gonna smash them. Had a points advantage and all. I’d still bet a Galleon he was behind the Petrifications; you can’t ever trust a snake …” Ron grumbles, then looks hastily to the Slytherin on the bench. “Erm, no offence, Riddle.”

 

Fortunately, Riddle is unbothered. “Offence duly noted. You’re lucky I’m not the gambling sort … Anyhow, don’t let me hold you up.” Hermione thinks he looks amused as he flicks a page over in his textbook. He gives her a wave, back to full absorption in his work.

 

“See you later, Tom.” She shoots Riddle a bright, only slightly-strained smile as she clambers over the benches, because as irritating as he is, she absolutely cannot let Ron cotton on to what is actually going on …

 

But as soon as they are far enough away, Ron starts on an entirely different tack. “‘See you later, Tom’,” he mimics in a high-pitched voice, fluttering his eyelashes as they stride down the stairs. “What was that all about? Missed me off the wedding invites?”

 

“Keep an eye on your mail. We’re planning on a summer wedding; you’d best wear suncream.” She doesn’t miss a step as she rolls her eyes, barely entertaining him.

 

Ron gives her an incredulous look. 

 

“Merlin, so it’s true then? Ginny wasn’t just running her mouth? Come on, Hermione, he’s decent, as far as Slytherins go, but …”

 

“But what?” she demands, crossing her arms over her chest expectantly. If he won’t come out and say it -

 

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, not meeting her eye. “Nothing. I just thought … Now that me and Lav’re over …”

 

Hermione deflates, then. She doesn’t feel sad, or angry. 

 

She just feels tired. 

 

If Ron had asked her out last year, she’d have been over the moon. But, with all that’s happened, now that she’s beholden to Riddle, and how close she is with Lavender, Hermione just can’t do it. 

 

Besides that - she treasures their friendship too much. What if they broke up, and their relationship imploded? What would Ginny do? Or Harry? 

 

“I’m sorry, Ron. I think we’re better as mates. We’d kill each other in a week,” she says gently, bumping him with her hip. Ron gives her a chagrined smile, taking the gentle rejection in stride. 

 

It’s not either of their faults, she rues. It’s just how it is. 

 

But … is she supposed to pretend that there’s something going on between her and Riddle to get Ron off her back? It’s what he seems to assume, half-resigned to it anyways. Perhaps it’s kinder, that way -

 

“And Tom’s … Well, Tom and I …” She prevaricates, glancing furtively over her shoulder to where said Slytherin remains, high on the stall.

 

Although he’s far away, Hermione swears that his dark eyes were casually fixed on Ron’s arm over her shoulders, before his eyes unmistakably burn into hers.

 

A shiver dances up her spine. It closes around her throat, and she looks away first, swallowing.

 

“Tom and I are just friends.”

Notes:

first post of 2024; my god this is late. ty seollem for your progressive management style in getting this out (read: making sure I'm still alive)

--

if you liked this, feel free to check out my other fics:

lie (can't hope): baby's first a/b/o, written for the 2023 tomione trope fest. go check out the other fics in the collection too!
synchronicity: your ~basic bitch~ time travel story
the department of mutually-beneficial arrangements: AU where older tom and hermione work for the MoM and make a calculated bb pact
put your iron hand (into my velvet glove): look I'll be honest this is just porn

tumblr: also I post dumb shit on my tumblr now and again come say hiiiiiii

Chapter 16

For the better part of a week, Harry doesn’t stop giving her grief over Confunding Cormac McLaggen during Quidditch try-outs. Not because he likes the git, or finds it funny that law-abiding Prefect Hermione Granger broke the rules. 

 

Not because casting a spell on another student is enough to seriously jeopardise her chances of Head Girl, should anyone find out. 

 

It’s more than that. 

 

McLaggen is a Pureblood, from an ancient and distinguished Wizarding family, with a nasty, vindictive temper to boot. They’ve all heard endlessly about his dear old uncle Tiberius, some Ministry bigwig who, with but a single word, can permanently ruin Hermione’s future. Her career. 

 

Her only real opportunity to make change.

 

“Ron can’t find out about this,” Harry warns, worry bleak in his eyes. “He’ll never be able to keep it quiet. He hates the bloke.” 

 

Hermione can only nod in agreement. 

 

(Harry doesn’t need to know that she didn’t Confund Cormac for Ron’s sake.)

 

Cho Chang passes them on their way to Potions. The Head Girl greets them with a dazzling smile (primarily aimed at Harry, she snorts), her long black hair tied in a shiny, straight ponytail.

 

“Hi Hermione,” she beams. “Harry, I’m looking forward to the match this weekend - don’t think I’ll go easy on you!” 

 

Harry stares after her, transfixed by the sway of her hair, and lower -

 

“Eyes up, Romeo,” Hermione says dryly. He turns bright red and fumbles with his glasses, caught ogling the pretty Ravenclaw Seeker.

 

“It was nice of Cho to join the try-outs.”

 

“Um, yeah -”

 

“She really cheered you on, even despite the fact that you’re Captain and automatically make the team. Redundant, of course. But still nice.”

 

Harry brightens. “D’you think that means -”

 

“Have you asked her out yet?” Hermione says pointedly. 

 

Whilst Harry is occupied sputtering out a painful denial, she pushes open the Potions classroom door, and deposits her idiot friend next to Ron with a stifled smile. Seeing Harry finally overcome his pathological avoidance of romance to shyly return Cho’s affections is nothing short of miraculous. 

 

The boy is hopeless, she smiles fondly, taking her seat next to Riddle’s empty one at the front of the class.

 

The gentle babble of the classroom fades into background noise around her. She takes her time unpacking her ingredients, laying them neatly on the workbench, contemplative.

 

As she reminisces back to the weekend, a heavy weight settles in her chest.

 

In truth, Hermione had Confounded McLaggen not for Ron, but for Ginny. Poor Ginny had thoroughly deflated when Harry had enthusiastically zipped over to have a stilted but earnest conversation at the Ravenclaw, her flying becoming more and more erratic, to the point where the oafish McLaggen had switched his trial from Keeper to Chaser, like a hyena sensing weakness. 

 

It hadn’t been a difficult decision. Impulsive, maybe. But Cormac McLaggen, she thinks with a grimace, was thoroughly a repugnant person. He’d been nice enough to her face, but she’d overheard him saying horrible things about all of the other players, especially Ron and Ginny. Really, she sniffs, it was a service to the Gryffindor team and her friends, ensuring that even though Ginny only scored an unusually low three goals out of five, McLaggen scored a measly two. 

 

She’d made a point to corner Ginny in that evening’s Defence Club. 

 

(“I know, I know. It’s ridiculous,” the redhead sighs, flicking up a Shield Charm to counter Hermione’s Jelly-Legs Curse. “I’m not waiting around for him anymore, I swear. It was more the shock of her simpering and Harry grinning like Hagrid in a manticore pen. I’ll get my head screwed on properly, I promise. But -” and she glances at Harry, strolling around the Room of Requirement, ostensibly supervising but pointedly circling around the Head Girl, subtle as a Niffler in Gringotts “- right, tell me you also weren’t expecting him to get his act together? Last year, he could barely look at Cho without dribbling.” 

 

Hermione winces sympathetically. “I can say, hand on heart, that I think Cho’s the main driving force here.” 

 

And as if to confirm her statement, Cho laughs extra loudly at Marietta Edgecombe’s pinched-lipped face, who has clearly said nothing at all. She tosses her gleaming hair back, right in Harry’s line of sight. Harry, bless him, crashes right into Terry Boot.

 

The redhead snorts. “Well, least I’m not having as bad a time as him. D’you think the girls are being too much?”

 

Ginny might have a point. Hermione’s starting to feel a little bit bad about the developing fall-out in the Defence Club from the world’s worst date … but not bad enough to ask the girls to stop their campaign of terror. Unsurprisingly, Boot hasn’t taken well to the seventh year Gryffindor girls’ sudden and suspicious loss of precision in casting their curses.

 

“How’d he piss off Parvati, then?” asks Ron in passing, bewildered. Hermione simply shrugs awkwardly as a flock of circling seagulls chases the gormless Ravenclaw back and forth, Lavender helpfully casting Slippery Jinxes on the floor in front of him. She has a bizarre moment of gratitude that Riddle has no way of bearing witness to the utter chaos that evening -)

 

“Students, settle down!” Slughorn bustles in a dramatic sweep of burgundy robes. A wave of his wand causes the brightly-lit, ensconced torches lining the walls to suddenly flare, then shift down into a glowing burn. Long, otherworldly shadows dance across the room. The class murmur to themselves, delighted by the eerie atmosphere. And, Hermione appreciates, it is distinctly witchy.

 

“Today we are brewing a rather special potion, as a favour to Professor Sprout,” beams the portly man, tapping the chalk. It floats to the chalkboard, and begins scrawling out an ingredient list. “Can anyone tell me what it is?”

 

The rest of the class are still squinting at the blackboard as her hand instantly leaps into the air. The purposefully low light, combined with Grindylow bonemeal and powdered kelpie fin; obviously it can only be - 

 

“Regerminating Solution, Professor,” Hermione blurts at once, unchallenged. 

 

Slughorn’s eyes pass over the still-vacant seat next to her, before nodding exuberantly.

 

“Excellent, Miss Granger! Ten points to Gryffindor. Now, everybody, turn to page two hundred and twelve …”

 

The buzz of conversation hums around her as she carefully weighs out ingredients, steadfastly not noting the absence of commentary that she’s grown - well, not accustomed to, but …

 

“Sorry I’m late,” a quiet voice seizes her attention. “Regerminating Solution, then?”

 

Riddle slides into the seat next to her, and promptly shrugs off his cloak as he simultaneously swings his bag on the bench. He’s out of breath, and although she suspects he’s doing his best to collect himself, under any other light, his cheeks would be flushed.

 

Well. There’s never a reason to contain her curiosity. “Did you run here?” She prods the base of their cauldron with her wand, as Step 1 in their textbook instructs. Purple flames roar into life with a wave of heat. “It’s not like you to be tardy.” 

 

“Got caught up,” Riddle replies, irritatingly vague, and then he peels his jumper off in one smooth motion, breathing an imperceptible sigh of relief.

 

She doesn’t question his lacklustre explanation, but instead stares at the blackboard hard enough to melt a hole into it.

 

Slughorn is impressively lax when it comes to uniform whilst brewing; and, yes, it is generally a great mercy that they are permitted to shed their cloaks, jumpers and ties in the heated fug that sixteen brass cauldrons boil up in a windowless, airless room.

 

Not that she was caught unawares, Hermione tells herself primly.

 

They make their way silently through the steps of the potion, her nerves settling as the brewing becomes more and more layered in complexity.

 

It’s just - she’s never seen Riddle so much as unfasten his cloak -

 

“D’you think this was one of Hagrid’s favourites?” Riddle mutters under his breath, interrupting her thoughts. His hands skillfully mince pickled Flobberworm bowel, mashing the threadlike structures into a fine paste.

 

“You’ll upset Hagrid with talk like that … although I’d wager some cultures consider this a delicacy …” 

 

A look of genuine disgust crosses his face. Hermione presses her lips very tightly together, swallowing any outward sign of amusement. “Oh, don’t be upset. I can get you another Flobberworm.”

 

Riddle wrinkles his nose at her, and cleanly flicks the intestinal pâté from his knife into their bubbling cauldron. “If you’ll recall from second year Care of Magical Creatures, Hagrid was very insistent on Flobberworms having distinct personalities. Insensitive of you to suggest they can be so easily replaced, Hermione.” 

 

Before she can snip back, crimson smoke billows dramatically from their potion, catching the attention of Professor Slughorn as effectively as Vermillious itself. 

 

“Mr Riddle, Miss Granger! I shouldn’t be surprised,” he gushes, waddling over. The low firelight catching his velvet robes gives him all the weight and gravitas of a stewed plum. “A simply textbook example, and fifteen points each! Would you two mind bottling this up? I’m sure Professor Sprout will be delighted -”

 

In the background, Ron swears colourfully, and the mournful gurgle of a failed potion dirges from somewhere behind them. 

 

Slughorn impressively tunes this out to beam at Hermione.

 

“Now, I look forward to having you both at the first meeting of the Slug Club this term, if you could be convinced to attend a small and select mingle of like-minded individuals? We have some very important guests on the list. I certainly wouldn’t want to spread rumours, but -” and the rotund Professor leans closer, jowls quivering in excitement “- there are whispers that two members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight may be attending! Old students of mine, from very fine families. Fine families, indeed, indeed - ah, but I see that doesn’t much impress Miss Granger!”

 

He booms in laughter. Hermione winces. She mustn’t have hidden her distaste well enough, but fortunately, Slughorn takes it in good stride. “I’ve also written to several representatives from the Ministry, of most excellent repute. I think of most interest to you, Miss Granger, is one of my old classmates … But let me not spoil the surprise! If my esteemed colleague is not enough, then … hmm, Mr Riddle, might you be up to persuading your classmate? Perhaps by accompan -” 

 

“There’s no need for that, Professor,” Hermione interrupts before the professor can do something as mortifying as wink at Riddle conspiratorially. “I’d be very pleased to come along, and, er, mingle. With your classmate. By myself.”

 

Next to her, Riddle serenely stirs their potion.

 

“Excellent, excellent,” Slughorn continues jovially. “I will, of course, owl you both with all of the relevant details” - a high-pitched shriek pierces the air, followed by swearing - “Mr Potter! Please step away from the pool of acid presently dissolving your cauldron. Mr Finnegan! Please step out of the pool of acid presently dissolving your shoes, and to the Hospital Wing with you. Class dismissed!” 

 

Slughorn bustles away to Vanish with the caustic mess that Harry and Ron have cooked up (and to escort a chemically-burned Seamus to Madam Pomfrey). He leaves the lamps burning low, so as not to spoil their Regerminating Solution.

 

Amidst the chaos of the class filing out around them, Riddle makes a casual beeline to the store cupboard without a word.

 

Unusual.

 

Hermione casts half an eye as Neville trudges towards the door, the last to leave the dungeon.

 

Has something Slughorn said actually bothered Riddle? By now, surely he is used to his Head of House and his Pureblooded bias. 

 

She could leave it alone like a reasonable person would, she tells herself, even as her feet make up her mind for her. 

 

Hermione slips away from the desk and follows him into the store cupboard. It’s dark, but she spots him picking through a shelf at the far end. 

 

“All right. Two Flobberworms, and grief therapy,” she offers generously to Riddle's back. 

 

He snorts. “It’s far too soon. I’m still wallowing in the denial phase,” his back replies without turning around.

 

“You’re right. I can only apologise. It’s highly insensitive of me to suggest that your favourite Flobberworm could ever be replaced. But you need to move on. People will start to talk. This fixation isn’t healthy.” 

 

“Hagrid would beg to differ.”

 

A laugh escapes her before she can squash it. Hermione abruptly finds interest rummaging through the opposite shelf, shifting aside a dusty wooden box fastidiously labelled as BLIND WORM’S STING.

 

After a minute of painful silence, she chances a look behind her. Thankfully, he’s busy idly turning over a menacing bundle of griffon claws. Her nosiness rears right back up. Hermione gives up on subtlety, and goes for the classic, tried-and-true Gryffindor bluntness. “Is it about what Slughorn implied? All that Sacred Twenty-Eight rubbish?”

 

Riddle stills in his motions. “Slughorn is … predictable, to say the least.” After a beat, he resumes his hunt. 

 

“If he’s so predictable, I’m not sure why you’re letting him get to you.”

 

A muscle jumps in his neck, but he doesn’t reply. Hermione files away this particular sore spot of his to jab at later, and changes tack. “I wouldn’t normally go to a slugfest, you know,” she dangles.

 

“How enlightening,” he utters monotonously. 

 

Annoyingly, he finds the box of potions vials before she does on a high-up shelf. As he turns to leave, Hermione doggedly slides into his path. He arches a brow. 

 

“Hermione -”

 

“Are you going to tell me?” she wheedles obnoxiously. 

 

“There’s nothing to tell -”

 

“You should, you know. A problem shared is a problem halved.”

 

His jaw ticks. “Something tells me you’d still find a way to complain if I chopped you in half.” 

 

Always one to poke the bear, she sighs mock-dreamily, and fans her hand across her face. “I bet you say that to all of the Flobberworms.”

 

Riddle looks heavenwards, but he’s fighting a reluctant grin. “I liked you better when you were attacking me with birds.”

 

She leans on the doorframe. “That can be arranged. I liked you better when you were being attacked by birds.”

 

His composure breaks, and he laughs, rich and unrestrained. Hermione finds she is smiling so hard her cheeks hurt, and her stomach swoops as he moves past her.

 

“Are you still free after Astronomy?” 

 

“For what?” she manages to say evenly. 

 

His cheek dimples, unfairly. “Have you already forgotten? Your birthday present. I offered to teach you a spell.”

 

Realisation hits her. She certainly hadn’t forgotten - she was just distracted. Inexplicably. 

 

“I’ll see if I can find the time in my schedule.” Hermione waves her fingers dismissively, but she is looking up at Riddle and his iniquitous dimple, his angled features made the more striking in the shadowed darkness of the store cupboard -

 

In the distance, Slughorn’s booming voice shatters the delicacy that has crystallised in the air.

 

Right. They’re still in class. He’s still a monster. 

 

She coughs, and steps away.

 

“I’ll start aliquoting the potion.” There’s a half-smile on his face as he leaves, stepping into the low light of the classroom. 

 

Hermione lets out a long breath, knocking her head against the stone. She wills the irrelevant heat from her face. 

 

Two shrivelled skulls in a jar stare at her knowingly. 

 

“Oh, shut up,” she snaps at them.

 

---

 

Riddle must be up to something nefarious.

 

That’s the only reasonable explanation she can come up with, when she receives a note by owl the next morning.

 

“There’s no bloody room for post in here,” grumbles Ron as a wing clips his head. He’s not wrong, but her attention is taken by the single line written on a tiny slip of parchment.

 

“You’re excused from menial grunt work today.”

 

Hermione scratches the head of the owl, before it flies out of the Common room window. 

 

It’s not signed, but she knows the handwriting, almost as well as she knows her own.

 

She’d be an idiot not to be suspicious of him, she tells her imagination, as she sits on the blustery Quidditch stalls studying. 

 

He’s slippery and devious, she tells her heart rate, as she picks over lunch, next to the crackling fire.

 

“Dumbledore needs to sort out the Great Hall and library,” groans Harry, stir-crazy in the Tower. 

 

He’s never blown off one of their study sessions before, and she realises she’s really rather annoyed by that. Has he no respect for her time?

 

“Look, if even Hermione is twitchy -” 

 

“Excuse me, I’m not twitchy,” she snaps, even as she sees the hole she’s stabbed through her parchment. 

 

It’s not like she was looking forward to studying with him. Besides, the only reason he would act nice is for his own gain.

 

And the only reason she’s excited is because she wants to learn something new. 

 

Obviously.

Notes:

finallyyyy an update; thank you for your patience xxx

--

if you liked this, feel free to check out my other fics:

lie (can't hope): baby's first a/b/o, written for the 2023 tomione trope fest. go check out the other fics in the collection too!
synchronicity: your ~basic bitch~ time travel story
the department of mutually-beneficial arrangements: AU where older tom and hermione work for the MoM and make a calculated bb pact
put your iron hand (into my velvet glove): look I'll be honest this is just porn

tumblr: also I post dumb shit on my tumblr now and again come say hiiiiiii

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of we hunger in earnest (for that which we cannot consume)