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Three months.
That’s how long she’d lasted in the 1940s before catching Riddle’s attention. Three whole months of quiet, eerie, uncomfortable peace. Three months of failing to find a way home. Three months of trying to come up with a plan, any plan.
Hermione was quite proud, if she was being honest, and almost--weirldy enough--a bit disappointed. Tom Riddle, supposed prodigy, aspiring dark lord, evil-mastermind-supreme, had more or less ignored her from the moment she was sorted into Gryffindor. And after a not-so-gentle interrogation in Potions about her blood-status--courtesy of Evan Rosier--Riddle had dismissed her entirely.
Which was a good thing, if a bit insulting. If only the Voldemort in my time had been that stupid, Hermione had thought.
But then she’d gone and fucked it up. She hadn’t meant to be snooping for once, but Malfoy and Dolohov were talking so bloody loud in Hermione’s favorite corner of the library, and she couldn’t help it. Especially when they mentioned the Knights of Walpurgis.
It would have been fine--she certainly didn’t learn anything she hadn’t already guessed at--if not for the fact that she ran straight into Abraxas Malfoy’s chest as she turned the corner to leave. He’d have to be a complete idiot not to suspect she’d overheard them.
It had been nearly a week, but Hermione wasn’t stupid. She didn’t think for a second that Riddle would just let this go. And so she wasn’t particularly surprised when the very boy she’d been trying so hard to avoid slid into the seat across from her, flawless Head-Boy smile in place.
“May I?” he asked, already seated and setting down his own stack of books.
Hermione nodded, forcing a bland smile. She pretended to go back to her work, doing a periphery scan of the library. It was empty.
Not good. Very not good. She needed to leave ASAP.
She made a show of seeming to finish her charms essay--it was only a foot long at present, and she felt she wasn’t half-done yet, not that Riddle needed to know that--and started to pack up her books. Before she could even fully slide them into her satchel, though, Riddle’s hand clamped down on her wrist, just on the wrong side of painful.
“Stay a minute, would you.” It wasn’t a question.
Hermione resisted the urge to hex him into next week and instead faced him politely, forcing another bland smile. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she idly wondered if he could feel her pulse under his fingertips.
“Something I can help you with Riddle?”
“I wanted to...make a few things clear,” he said genially. Riddle was a good actor--exceptional, even--but if he had one flaw, it was his eyes. They always fell a little flat, always looked at odds with the rest of his face.
"I’m sorry? I don’t--”
“Abraxas seems to think you heard part of a private conversation,” he explained. “I didn’t want you to have the wrong impression, you see.”
“And what wrong impression would that be?” She almost immediately cursed herself--this is not how to allay his suspicions, Hermione you idiot. There was just something about Riddle, though, that brought out the worst--and the reckless--in her.
Riddle’s expression tightened. “I’m sure I don’t know what you think, Miss Granger.”
“I think that if Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Dolohov were really talking about anything...sinister--let’s say, hypothetically, a blood-purity cult run by the esteemed head-boy--they’d be best off not doing it in broad daylight in a public place without a single privacy ward up.” She raised her brow in challenge. “Don’t you?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why did I say that?
Riddle’s wand hand twitched. Subtle, but she’d seen it. He wouldn’t curse her now, though, not where anyone could see. No, he’d strike later.
“Careful, Miss Granger. I’d hate to see you get caught in the chaos surrounding us,” he said, and there was something about the dark glint in his eyes, the subtle tilt of his lips that made Hermione certain he didn’t mean a word.
She’d never responded well to threats. Especially not ones from dramatic megalomaniacs intent on genocide.
But maybe...well, it was insane. Probably would go tits up in three seconds flat, and Riddle might actually kill her for this. It wasn’t a real plan, not even half a plan, just a vague idea in her mind that was forming as she spoke.
“I appreciate the advice,” she said, her own smile matching his. “Let me return the favor.”
Twisting her wrist in his grasp, she wrapped her own hand around his and pulled him just a touch closer. She relished in the slight widening of his eyes, the shocked twitch of his brow. Tom Riddle, caught off guard, was a magnificent sight to behold.
“Keep your dogs on a tighter leash, and maybe I won’t have to put them down.”
With that, she all but dropped his arm and spun away, her satchel swinging from her shoulder as she strode purposely from the library. The back of her neck itched, but she refused to look back. And only once she was in the safety of the Gryffindor common room did she allow herself a moment to slump against the wall.
The game was on. Hermione could only hope she knew what she was doing.