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Chapter Text

The first thing Tom notices about her is her smile. Not because it is crooked or ugly. Her teeth are lined orderly in her mouth, like soldiers waiting for command. There is nothing there to draw the eye, no unexpected asymmetry or discoloration to demand disgust. Neither is it beautiful or exceptionally attractive. It is not coy or seductive. She doesn’t bite her lip like some girls do when they speak to him. It is a boring flash of the teeth; not meant to be noticed.

But he notices how it does not reach her eyes. He knows because he is a master of plastered on smiles. He understands that a smile is much like a punctuation mark, placed conveniently at the end of statements to indicate an ending, or turn of phrase, or to emphasize a point.

She has the same smile. She shows her teeth to him when they first meet.

“Hello, I’m Tom Riddle, Head Boy.” He introduces himself, extending his hand politely to shake hers.

She takes his hand with ease, but it is barely there; the gentlest politest touch. “Hello, I’m Hermione Birch. Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

She takes her seat at the Slytherin table. Her posture is perfect, her table manners elegant. She’s had a private sorting in the Headmaster’s office. It’s not common to have a transfer student at Hogwarts. The war has forced her family out of France. Malfoy starts speaking French, and she answers effortlessly.

Malfoy smirks, ogling her breasts. She pretends not to notice, but her eyes narrow infinitesimally over her mashed potatoes and roast. Tom notices.

He unwittingly respects her, because he respects self-restraint.

He asks her about her home in France. He is not interested in the hills she describes, or the quaint alleys, or her favorite bookstore by the pond with the ducks. He is interested in the way she puts on a show. She wants to seem regular, Tom thinks. Her movements seem studied, careful. She smiles at him again, making the appropriate amount of eye contact. Not too much, but careful not to let her eyes skirt away too quickly.

They converse through dinner. It is only appropriate. He is Head Boy and she is a transfer student in the Slytherin House, his house. She speaks with her hands. One of them gleams in the dim light of the Great Hall towards the end of dinner, slick with sweat. It catches Tom’s eye before he can control himself. She notices.

She doesn’t wipe her hand on her skirt. She grips her knife to carve her roast into smaller and smaller pieces. She speaks of feeding the ducks in her village and the names she’s given them. Tom is careful to remember each one. She does not mention any friends, or parents, or her prior school. Tom is too polite to ask.

When she finally puts her knife down, the silver shines like it’s been glossed.

She catches him looking and smiles.

It doesn’t reach her eyes.

Chapter Text

She seems to be everywhere Tom is. He briefly wonders if she has stolen a copy of his schedule somehow. She takes ancient runes, defense against the dark arts, potions, transfiguration, charms, and divination. All advanced, NEWT level classes. All his classes.

She arrives early to Transfiguration the first morning of the term. Her eyes search for a seat that is least likely to be spoken for. Tom is sitting in the front row, as per his usual. When he sees her walk in, he pointedly turns his back to her, placing his books on the bench next to him.

She must understand the message, because she quietly slips into the furthest bench from him—straight into where Mulciber usually sits with Malfoy.

Tom smirks.

Students start to file in, few glancing quickly at the new girl, shooting her puzzled looks. She does her best not to notice, but Tom can feel her anxiety from across the room. When Mulciber walks in, he throws his bag aggressively on the girl’s desk directly in front of her, causing her to yelp and jump in her seat. Her wand clatters to the ground.

Mulciber is the biggest beater the Slytherin Quidditch team has seen in half a century. He weighs at least two hundred pounds. His arms are the size of her head.

“Move.” Mulciber threatens.

Everyone is looking at the pair of them, so Tom turns too. He wants to see what will happen to the new girl. Compared to her, Mulciber is about the size of a small Giant. He towers over her slight figure, grinning maliciously. His teeth are jagged and stacked upon one another like a shark. The girl lifts her pointed chin to look into his face. She is expressionless. Tom smirks at the obvious act. Everyone heard her pathetic yelp.
She seems to consider what’s good for her and stands. She has to bend backwards in order to avoid Mulciber’s hulking form. His grin widens.

But instead of picking up her bag with her tail between her legs as Tom expects, she deftly plucks her wand from the floor. She moves too quickly for Mulciber to brace himself. With only a swift flick she shoves Mulciber’s books roughly into his stomach. The effect is remarkable. The force must be considerable as the blow elicits a surprised huff from Mulciber, who struggles to catch his breath.

While he is busy coughing, she sits back down. She folds her skirt beneath her and crosses her ankles to the side in the French fashion. Mulciber turns red.

He looks ready to murder her. She lifts her chin and smiles up at him, tucking a curl behind her ear. She is the picture of innocence. Her wand is resting lightly in her right hand, as if to say, try me.

Malfoy whistles and says something in French, which makes the girl blush. Her eyes slide quickly to Malfoy and back to Mulciber. For the first time, she seems uncomfortable.

Just as Mulciber is raising his fist to slam the girl to the ground (Tom knows how Mulciber thinks), Dumbledore walks in.

“Ah, Mr. Mulciber, I see you’ve decided to take a new seat today. It is always so lovely to mix up routine!” Albus Dumbledore lifts his hand and wandlessly floats Tom’s books off the seat next to him and on to the desk.
Tom forces himself not to react. Dumbledore has always been a thorn in his side. Mulciber stupidly lowers his fist, leaving the girl in his bench next to Malfoy and trudging over to Tom. Tom gives him a disgusted look. Mulciber is exactly the type of brute who wouldn’t hesitate to strike a girl a quarter of his size. This is useful sometimes, Tom has to admit, but still distasteful.

Class begins.

He almost forgets about the girl until he hears her laugh. It is a low, pleasant sound. He turns to look at her, and from the corner of his eye can see Malfoy leering at her. Another conquest, then. Pathetic.

Tom will never understand why Malfoy is so intent on sticking his genitalia into any hole he can find. Of course he would spend the entire lesson trying to flirt.

Tom transfigures his pin into a spider and reclines in his seat. He watches Mulciber struggle, and finally can’t take it anymore and begins to teach him the wand movements. Tom doubts Mulciber is listening, but he knows to be respectful. Mulciber knows what Tom can do. Behind him, Tom can hear Malfoy making observations about the length of the new girl’s legs.

She doesn’t laugh this time.

Tom shoots a look at Malfoy and covertly shakes his head no. It’s meant to seem like he doesn’t want anyone to notice, but he makes it obvious enough that she does. Tom understands that no one should be underestimated. Even though the girl isn’t especially well connected, it is worth it to gain her trust.

Tom thinks over the way she wordlessly knocked the air out of Mulciber’s lungs.

She catches his eye.

She smiles.

Chapter Text

In Divinations, Professor Onai partners Hermione Birch with Yvette Wilkens, Head Girl. They sit together at a card table by the edge of the room, one table over from where Tom sits with Malfoy.

Wilkens is a half-blood in Ravenclaw. Her long blonde hair shines green under the stained-glass windows of the North Tower. She has round full cheeks that turn ruddy when she is embarrassed, which is a constant occurrence. Tom finds her annoying and needy. He often catches her staring at him with a hungry expression. Tom knows she has been infatuated with him since their second year. Malfoy tells him that the only reason she tried for Head Girl is because she is desperate to be his girlfriend.

Tom has no interest in her. He despises her lack of self-respect.

Wilkens makes nice with the new girl, pouring her tea as she prepares to read her tea leaves.

“It says you’re going through something. A dark corridor?” Yvette pauses to reference the text. “Or maybe a big tunnel?”

“Hmm,” the girl considers, “I don’t think I am?”

They smirk at each other. The girl reaches over for Yvette’s teacup but accidentally knocks it out of its saucer. The thin china smashes into fragments when it makes contact with the floor. The brown liquid pools like muddy water beneath the girl’s feet.

Finding this the perfect opportunity to show off without being too obvious, Tom casts a reparo from where he sits. The girls watch the ceramic shards find each other, unexpected pieces aligning flush and unblemished right before a small cyclone of scattered tea leaves settle into the bottom.  Yvette’s head swivels towards Tom, and when he meets her gaze, he winks. He may be apathetic toward the silly girl, but that doesn't mean she shouldn't admire him. Yvette blushes redder than a tomato, and quickly turns back around to stare unseeingly at her repaired teacup.

The girl notices the interaction. She does not seem pleased.

“So…” she begins, and Tom is listening with all his might. “You and Head boy?” She raises her eyebrows for effect. Yvette flushes harder and looks down, before smiling and nodding minutely. Yes.

Tom is enraged. Lying bitch.

The new girl smiles back briefly before vanishing the repaired teacup. Yvette almost lunges in her seat towards the now empty saucer. Tom thinks she probably wanted to keep it as a reminder of the incident. Fool. The new girl just smiles at her again, a cold grim satisfaction in the line of her mouth. She conjures a new cup, almost identical to the one she destroyed. She pours tea from the kettle still sitting on their table, and invites Wilkens to drink again with a wave of her hand.

“I couldn’t possibly use the broken cup to read your fortune,” she explains, “The leaves were artificially arranged.” She pastes on a saccharine smile. Wilkens, oblivious thing that she is, accepts this. She drinks the tea.

The girl’s eyes narrow.

-

At mealtimes, she sits alone. Malfoy insists he must sit with her to make up for Mulciber’s bullying today, which enrages Mulciber. It almost comes to blows. Tom snaps at Malfoy to chase skirt on his own time, and that seems to quiet him. They sit on the edge of the table closest to the Great Hall entrance, near Nott and Avery.

No one pays attention to her. In fact, two sixth year girls sit on either side of her and begin to speak to each other as if she is not there. They have malicious smiles on their faces. One of them reaches over the girl’s plate and pilfers a chip. She smacks her mouth as she chews, as if to taunt the new girl.

She pretends not to notice, and pulls out her Charms textbook. She begins reading between bites of her sandwich. Tom is annoyed that she feigns studying at this moment. Anyone in her position would feel humiliated and desperate. Tom wants to punish her for trying to pretend she does not care she is being bullied and ignored by her own house, by her juniors, no less.

He decides to teach her a lesson of his own. He writes a note to a third year named Pravus Carrow.

I heard the new girl likes jam.

He folds the piece of parchment into an elegant crane and puckers his lips to blow air under its paper wings. Tom watches it fly gracefully into Carrow’s open napkin. A pretty piece of magic. As soon as the boy reads the note inside, it bursts into flames, quickly consuming itself without a trace of smoke. Carrow seems surprised and glances up at Tom, his eyes seeking direction. Tom casually stretches, his face turned toward the girl’s vicinity, before turning back to smile at Carrow.

No convincing is needed.

Carrow ladles thick strawberry compote into his spoon, and hurls it at the new girl without preamble. It lands unceremoniously in her hair. Tom watches the thick jelly ooze down the side of her head like coagulated blood. The girl’s eyes freeze on the page, no longer moving or reading.

Her hand carefully edges around the mess in her hair, staining the pads of her fingers a rich red.

She examines the evidence with a critical eye, and then brings her fingers to her nose to sniff before sticking out a wet tongue to taste.

It is obscene.

Tom is not the only one watching. Professor Merrythought storms over to their table and pinches Carrow’s ear.

“I saw that with my own eyes, Mr. Carrow, so please spare me the excuses this time. Detention with me. Now.”

Carrow gets hauled off by the collar of his uniform. Malfoy looks like he is ready to wet himself. Mulciber is openly laughing. He has a second coughing fit that day, due to the same person, but for an entirely different reason. Avery is slamming his back in order to “help” him. Nott is quiet.

Tom stares at the girl. He wants to hurt her. He is not sure why.

She watches Carrow get hauled off, her face vacant, before she packs her tome back into her bag. She still has compote in her hair. The girl leaves the hall. Her footsteps are not rushed and she does not have a sheen of moisture clouding her corneas. Indeed, she looks unphased. She acts as if she has strawberry jelly flung into her hair from across the dining table every day at Hogwarts.

Tom feels confident that can be arranged.

-

The next day, Pravus Carrow wakes up with a horrendous rash on his face. He is practically crying. It makes Tom feel sick. There are oozing pustules on his forehead, cheeks, and chin. He apparently cannot help but to touch them, causing them to burst and bleed. He runs to Tom’s room in the boys’ dormitory for help early in the morning. He looks grotesque.

Tom does not have the patience for this.

“Go to the infirmary,” he commands. He bites his tongue not to add, “and stay out of my sight, you disgusting oaf.”

Self-restraint, he reminds himself.

Tom ends up walking Carrow to the infirmary. Everyone sees Carrow’s face in the common room before breakfast, and there are shocked gasps and sounds of repulsion throughout the room. Someone even laughs. Carrow is humiliated. If he wasn’t near tears before, he is now.

Without meaning to, Tom catches sight of the girl reading a book by the fire. She is the only one who seems not to notice the commotion. The way she is positioned makes it easy for him to see the title on the cover.

Pox, Purpuras, and Papules: a Comprehensive Review.

-

At dinner, the girl sits in the same spot with her Charms textbook. This time no one joins her. Carrow arrives looking skittish and nervous. He carefully avoids Tom’s eye before sitting on the farthest end away from both of them, near the high table.

Tom figures even Carrow can deduce who is culpable for his current predicament.

Matron Consanos has managed to clear his cheeks and chin of the pustules, but Carrow still has large cystic spots on his forehead. They look inflamed and painful. Tom thinks they configure to form a shape vaguely resembling a strawberry.

He almost laughs and stares at the girl unwittingly for just a moment. He feels true admiration. As if sensing his gaze, she looks up and smiles. It is the smallest of smiles, barely a quirk at the edges of her full lips, but it reaches her dark eyes, illuminating them like a lumos cast in murky waters. They swim with a wicked playfulness, as if to say, what next?

Or maybe, who next?

-

Tom avoids her after that. He tells himself he does not like her looks or her smiles. It bothers him that she thinks she can understand him. It is obvious she doesn’t buy his carefully curated image—the way he wants to be seen: a model student, gifted, brilliant, polite, well-mannered. A gentleman. The next minister of magic.

No, she does not look at him that way Yvette Wilkens looks at him, like she is ready to fall into his mouth.

Instead, Tom catches her with the expression of a cat that has its paw on the tail of a mouse.

Tom is not a mouse. He wants to tell her that sometimes when cats play in unfamiliar gardens, they pounce on a tail owned not by the mouse, but by the snake that bites back.

Chapter Text

On Thursday evening, Tom prepares for patrol in his room. Hot steam bursts out from the tip of his wand as he runs it over his shirt, then trousers. He dresses quickly, taking care not to crease his freshly pressed things. Malfoy and Mulciber are downstairs sleeping in his old dormitory, attempting to rest. The Knights of Walpurgis convene at midnight.

Tom pulls his robe over his uniform and pins his shining Head Boy badge to his lapel. Standing in front of the singular mirror in the head boy dorm, he examines his appearance with a critical eye. He fusses over a strand of hair, using his fingers to smooth his thick waves into an elegant side part.

He studies his reflection, pleased. He looks clean, if a little plain. He thinks of Malfoy, with his gold tie bar and matching cufflinks, and feels the familiar stab of jealousy. His temper flairs, and the stubborn strand of hair at his forehead springs loose. He reminds himself that he is handsomer than Malfoy, and certainly cleverer, as he smooths his hair once again.

Indeed, Tom is better than any of his peers by far. No one is as focused as Tom is, or as dedicated. Even stupid Slughorn, who wouldn’t recognize a toadstool from a stinkhorn, noted that Tom’s commitment to his studies borders on the obsessive. Tom takes pride in his passion. There are somethings in life that money cannot buy. True power is earned through pain and perseverance.

This is why Malfoy serves him, and not the other way around.

That’s not to mean money doesn’t have its uses. Tom knows that powerful names like Malfoy and Mulciber can be extremely useful to one’s cause.

No, Tom is not a rich boy. Indeed, this is the first time in his life he has not had to share a room. Even now, with his popularity and devoted Knights, his possessions are minimal. His room consists of one school-issued bed, one desk, one chair, and one small wardrobe to hang his uniform. A small empty trunk sits under his bed. He only uses it from summer to summer to carry his books. His clothing consists of two uniforms, school issued pajamas, and one pair of impeccably kept black shoes. If it were not for the school’s charity, Tom could not afford to be here. He resents this fact.

Satisfied that he is presentable, Tom walks down to meet Wilkens. The common room is lively this evening. A group of third years are loudly arguing about Gamp’s Law of elemental transfiguration. Normally, this would never draw Tom’s attention. But tonight, Hermione Birch is mediating the debate.

“Shut it, Thorne, you’ve said enough. And frankly, almost none of it made sense. It’s Ellewood’s turn to argue.” She tells Tabitha Thorne, a third-year girl with overly large ears, with authority. Thorne’s face turns sour, but she complies. Ellewood beams at Birch, her smile practically shining as she stands, ready to make her counter argument.

Tom is genuinely confused for a fraction of a second before he catches a shadow move in the far corner of the room.

Carrow.

He’s sulking in his chair, pretending to read a book. Tom is certain he must be pretending as he is holding the book upside down and throwing frequent caustic glares at Birch. The news of her creative revenge must have spread throughout Carrow’s year. In true Slytherin fashion, the third years were besotted with Birch’s clever scheming and quiet vengeance. The girls especially, long teased and bullied by Pravus Carrow, were desperate to be close to Birch, as if breathing her expired air would make them acquire her cunning as well.

Tom does not like that she is gaining a following, even if they are mostly third year girls. Tom is not stupid. In four years, they will be adults too, and with names like Davies and Ellewood amongst them, they will be powerful allies.

He knows he should break up their gathering, but he is determined to avoid the girl. She is starting to become more than a passing interest. Someone so ordinary—plain brown hair, brown eyes, and freckles on her nose for God’s sake—could never be worthy of him.

He hurries through the common room portrait without sparing her a passing glance.

He is certain he can feel her eyes follow him out of the room.

-

Wilkens is waiting for him at the main entrance, in front of the Great Hall. She has her skirt rolled up at the waist to show more of her legs, and the first three buttons of her blouse are conveniently undone. When she sees him, she smiles and bends over to tie her shoes. It gives Tom a full view down her shirt, which is indeed the intended result. Tom looks away.

He hates cheap tricks.

When Wilkens straightens up, she does not hide her disappointment that Tom is facing the opposite direction. Tom continues to inspect the floor until she clears her throat.

Tom turns as if just remembering she is there. He asks, “Shall we get going then?” and motions for her to walk ahead politely.

They walk in silence. Normally, Tom would attempt to maintain conversation for civility’s sake, but today he is too annoyed about Wilkens’ lie in Divinations to be gracious toward her. He tells himself he is bothered about what she said, not about to whom.  

Wilkens clears her throat again, and starts asking him about the Defense Against the Dark Arts homework. He does no more than the occasional nod in acquiescence. She is persistent, however, and when he does not reply, she chatters on with the occasional pause to see if he will interject.

He doesn’t.

Halfway through their rounds, she wants to pause in the Astronomy tower to watch the stars.

“Oh, Tom! The stars are just so beautiful tonight, can we take a quick break?” She asks breathlessly, leaning over the railing with her head craned upwards, sticking her arse out very purposefully.

Tom considers pushing her over.

“I’m afraid we can’t.” He snaps. Then, catching himself, he smiles and softens his tone, “I still have Arithmancy homework to do,” he lies.

She sighs and exaggerates looking up at the night sky one last time, as if she hasn’t had her fill just yet, before joining Tom on the stairs. They head down in an awkward silence that is only interrupted by the steady fall of each footstep.

Their muted walk is interrupted right before they reach Gryffindor tower, when Wilkens starts to cough.

At first, Tom assumes she is clearing her throat again. But when she continues to cough with more vigor, and Tom is forced to stop to ask her if she is alright. She tries to nod, her eyes watering from her attempt to restrain her hacking. She finally gives in and bends over, heaving in earnest. Tom hesitantly pats her back, but that seems to increase her convulsions until she is gagging on her own saliva.

Seriously concerned she is about to vomit; Tom conjures a glass of water. She is shaking too much to accept the offered drink. Tom begins to urge her to sit down, or go to the infirmary. Unable to respond, she seems to accept the second option and simply runs away.

Tom is left utterly bewildered by her sudden fit and subsequent absence. He watches the end of the hallway long after she is gone, imagining he can still hear the faint echoes of her choking gasps.  

Just when he decides to continue his rounds alone, he hears a loud smacking sound behind him. Tom turns to see Birch, leaning against a castle embrasure, blowing bubbles with her gum. Her eyes are fixed on the same spot, as if she witnessed Wilkens' disappearance. He stares at her almost in disbelief. The moon bathes her profile in an angelic glow before she turns to meet his gaze, face again shrouded in darkness.

“What are you doing here?” Tom accuses. He does not think Wilkens’s sudden decline in health and Birch’s unexpected appearance are at all unrelated.

“Just taking a walk,” She lies easily, crossing her arms over her chest.

“After curfew?” Tom asks, eyes narrowing.

She makes a show of checking her wrist. She is not wearing a watch. “Oh dear! I didn’t notice the time.”

She blows and pops another bubble.

Insolent girl.

“You realize I’ll have to punish you?” Tom steps closer. She’s wearing her school uniform, but the skirt is too long. It falls over her knees so that no bit of skin peeks up at Tom from above her wool stockings. Her white button down is fastened up to her neck, and her sleeves cover her arms past her wrists.

If she’s playing a game, it isn’t seduction.

“You could just give me a warning,” she suggests. The little smile playing at her lips makes Tom rethink his last conclusion. His mind races back to the look they shared over dinner. Inexplicably, the way her eyes glint excites him.

“That wouldn’t be fair.” Tom replies, looking away quickly.

She seems to consider this before launching herself off the window ledge and walking away. When Tom doesn’t move, she looks back.

“You aren’t following?”

“The common room is that way,” he says, pointing in the opposite direction.

 “Are you going to punish me anyway?”

How good it would feel to really punish her, right here, where there are no witnesses. A fantasy begins to materialize in Tom’s brain—one in which he forces her to relinquish her chewing gum, so that he can spit it back on to her face.  

Instead, he simply answers, “yes.”

“Then I might as well make it worth it,” she states simply before heading off towards the Astronomy tower.

Tom feels torn. He dearly wants to follow her to teach her a lesson, but he also cannot afford to be brash. Just because he suspects that she sees through his façade, does not mean he can put himself on full display. Since opening the Chamber, he had at last learned to be careful.  

To let her walk away as if his censure is meaningless cannot be permitted either. She already has the third years wrapped around her little finger with one simple trick. These thoughts fuel Tom’s final decision, and he starts walking at a brisk pace to where he last saw her. He turns the corner at exactly the right time to see the swish of her skirt disappearing up the Tower stairs.

He could just wait at the bottom of the tower, but the thrill of cornering her spurs him forward. Pulse bounding in his ears, Tom’s anticipation wavers once he reaches the landing. He watches from afar as she leans over the railing, not far from where Wilkens stood only minutes ago. She isn’t looking up, however, but down at the dizzying fall below.

Curiosity overcomes apprehension. He approaches her silently, close enough to feel the push and pull of her breathing, but not touching her.

“Long way down.” He remarks casually, his voice low, almost in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Yes.” She agrees, looking up at him as the wind whips back her skirt and hair. Shamelessly, she takes in his appearance, her eyes moving slowly from his thick brows to his straight Roman nose to his hollow cheeks… before landing on the short shadow of rough hair growing on his chin. Tom runs his fingers down his jaw, as if tracing the same path across his stubble.

His hand falls limp at his side.

She breaks the silence. “Would you like to see a pretty piece of magic?”

Tom does not respond. He has never heard anyone but himself use the phrase before. She seems to take his silence as permission. She points her wand to the sky. Tom is not sure what he is expecting. Perhaps a spray of sparks, or maybe a patronus.

He does not expect her wand to pull what looks like a velvet shroud of darkness from thin air, or for it to fall heavily over them. Tom feels weightless. For a moment, he sees nothing, not even the outline of his own hand trying to cast a lumos which produces no illumination.

Slowly, so slowly, small pin points of light begin to emerge, each of varying sizes, glittering in what starts to reveal itself as a moving tapestry of the night sky. As the constellations before him change, planets move to signify autumn, then winter, then spring and summer, before starting the cycle yet again.

It is mesmerizing. It is incontestably bewitching.

Until suddenly, it all ends. Tom finds his feet still firmly planted on the floor of the Astronomy Tower. Birch is lying flat on her back. When their eyes meet, she says in way of explanation, “I find it’s more enjoyable this way.”

There is a pregnant pause before Tom answers. “That was… quite beautiful.”

She brightens. She hoists herself off the floor and on to her knees before him, and looks up at his face with a grin. Tom sees stars and planets still dancing in her eyes.

“Am I forgiven then, for my indiscretion?” she asks.

Tom savors the sight of her on her knees, asking for his forgiveness. He pretends to consider it as he walks unhurriedly towards the stairs. She does not follow, but he feels her stare tracking him, waiting for his judgement.

Before he takes the first step on the stairway, Tom inclines his head so she can only make out his profile in the dim light of the moon.

“Detention with Slughorn tomorrow night. And fifteen points from Slytherin.”

Tom doesn’t have to look back to know her expression darkens.

Chapter Text

Tom follows her to detention on Friday night.

He does not intend to do so, at least not originally. Yet, when he sees her trudging deeper down into the dungeons, he cannot resist the dark corridors that swallow her into oblivion.

Heart hammering in his chest, Tom pauses his pursuit of her as she reaches potion’s classroom. He leans his head back against the cool stone wall as she waits for Slughorn just around the bend. The soft rapping of her knuckles against the heavy wooden door interrupts his turbulent thoughts, and Tom strains to hear her low voice murmur something in greeting.

“Detention!” Slughorn’s loud answer carries easily through the halls, “Oh right, of course! Come, come in, young lady! We will just have to get this over with. Tom tells me you were out after curfew? Of course, Headmaster Dippet had reviewed the rules with you when you first entered Hogwarts? We’re very strict about that sort of thing here…”

Slughorn’s voice fades as they pass through the large door frame. Without thinking, Tom rushes after them, whispering a disillusionment spell as the door begins to swing closed.

He hurls himself through the opening right before it slams shut.

For a moment, Tom is stunned by his own recklessness. He stands motionless behind the door, trying desperately to catch his breath without creating sound. He could curse himself, but thankfully, his intrusion seems to go unnoticed. He edges toward the farthest wall, basked in shadows, as the girl follows Slughorn to the cupboard. Anxiety creeps up his throat like a wave of nausea. He is sick with excitement.

She is standing by the lenient professor, her back to Tom. Slughorn is rummaging through the bottom shelf of ingredients as he continues to speak mostly to himself. The girl rolls her waist length curls in her hands until it forms a chignon, and rams her wand through it to hold her hair in place. She listens politely, but grows tired of staring at Slughorn’s massive backside and begins to scan the room. Tom holds his breath as her eyes pass over him. He imagines her pupils pausing for a moment, but she continues turning her head in a disinterested manner.

She can’t have seen him, Tom decides. His disillusionment charm is almost pure invisibility. He can fool even Headmaster Dippet with it; surely, he will remain unnoticed by a seventeen-year-old girl.

Slughorn finally reappears with an ancient looking cauldron and an equally disgusting looking sponge in his hands. He sets the cauldron down on the stone floor and casts an aguamenti to fill it with fresh cold water before waving his wand again to make it foam with soap. Iridescent bubbles begin to drift up from the cauldron in between them, floating lazily in the air.

“Alright, so. Miss Birch. You are to scour the floors—without magic, mind you—for an hour until your detention is up. Here are your tools.” He clumsily hands her the blackened sponge and some filthy rags, “I will be right in my office next door,” he holds up a finger, wagging it in a teasing manner, “so no more misbehaving young lady. I expect the best behavior from my own house, you know!”

The girl bows her head shyly, as if repentant. “Yes, sir.” She replies demurely.

“Well. Yes, yes, don’t fret about it my dear. We all make mistakes sometimes!” Slughorn laughs awkwardly before turning his head to survey the dirty floor—definitely not pausing over Tom’s invisible figure— “I’ll leave you to it then! Knock if you need me.”

Slughorn leaves. For a moment, the girl simply stares at his office door. Eventually, she crouches down to soak her rag in the soapy water, wringing it out until trickles of black liquid weave down her wrists. She frowns at her stained sleeves, but makes no effort to fold them back. Getting on her hands and knees, she begins to scrub the floor half-heartedly.

Her ministrations are haphazard. First, she goes left to right, then up and down, then in a lazy circle. After a few half-hearted attempts, she grows tired of the spot she’s working on and turns to another. She turns often, allowing Tom to enjoy her from every angle. The most exciting is when she turns fully away from him. Her skirt rides up her legs in this position. Tom can see a sliver of creamy white skin between her long black socks and her rising skirt. It teases him.

A bead of sweat rolls from the nape of his neck down his spine. Tom feels uncomfortable with how much he likes this unwitting display. He feels as dirty as the scum glued to the stone slabs beneath his feet.

Yet, he can’t deny that he wants to see more of the legs she carefully covers. More than that even, he longs to see her fingers bleed from the effort of scouring filthy floors, and her knees bruising from resting so long against jagged stone. He fantasizes about pulling her wand roughly out of her chignon so he can twist his fingers through her hair instead. He wants her to know exactly who is watching her. He wants her to know she’s being punished.

It's hot. Tom wishes he had discarded his robes before he decided to follow her. Stalk her. He flushes at this realization. He is not a real stalker, he reasons. He has no real intention of hurting her. At least, not right now. He only wants to see her put in her rightful place. She is too presumptive. The other girls know they are not worthy of him. They do not approach; they only admire from afar. But she is always trying to catch his eye—always speaking to him as if she knows him; as if they are already connected.

It gets under Tom’s skin.

The girl stops swaying, cutting Tom off from the scandalizing view as she straightens up on her knees. She fiddles with something around her neck for a moment, and when she turns around, Tom sees why.

She has unfastened more than just one button at her throat. In fact, he can see a thin line of skin travel from her defined collarbone to just a hint of breast when she leans over to wring out her rag. Her bra is black, and Tom’s mouth is bone dry.

While she soaks up the soapy water, he swallows again and again in an effort to unstick his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. Every muscle in Tom’s body is screaming in alarm. He has been as motionless as a statue for over a quarter of an hour. He begins to wonder who is being punished more.

There is an especially revolting stain in the center of the room. It must have been made about a century ago. The girl rocks back and forth in an effort to remove the plaque and crust from decades of ignorant students throwing the wrong ingredients into their potions at the wrong time. In doing so, she reveals the lace cup of her bra in all its glory to her concealed guest.

There is no way for him to escape the display. He doesn’t remember that he can simply close his eyes, for they remain peeled open, unblinking and hungry. His body is taut with the effort to remain still, muscles tight and achy. This is wrong, he thinks quietly, but he reasons his penance is being paid in time with the offense.

His mind wanders to other, less troubled thoughts. Like what it would feel like to run his finger down the line of her chest. He thinks the tip of his wand would fit perfectly into the hollow of her throat.

The minutes drudge on. Tom grits his teeth against the angry cramp that seizes his right calf. His foot arches on its own accord, his toes curling in pain. The girl slowly makes her way toward him to clean his side of the room. His heart clenches at the idea she may get too close and discover him. Every sound seems to reverberate in the silent room. As the clock continues to tick, Tom begins to panic. There are only a few minutes left to the hour, but she is working faster now, as if determined to complete the chore before her detention is over.

Tom is again cursing himself. His shirt is completely soaked with sweat under his robes. Every muscle in his torso is wound tight with tension. He is a serpent coiled to pounce for much too long, unable to throw off that volatile energy in the hunt, instead stuck scrutinizing his prey.

As if in answer to his silent prayer, Slughorn’s door swings open right before she reaches his shoe. She turns her head in surprise to the source of the noise, seemingly having forgotten Slughorn was there.

“Well, well. You did a stupendous job, my dear. The floor looks almost as it did a decade ago!” Slughorn beams at her. She straightens up, readjusting her clothes.

She smiles. “Thank you, sir. I want to say again how sorry I am for breaking the rules and costing house points.”

She is the picture of politeness. Again, with a smile so dead she could be an inferius. Slughorn inflates like a pufferfish, and folds his hands over his protruding abdomen. “Well, I am sure I won’t be seeing you again in this way, Miss Birch. I expect better things from you, my dear, especially after that fantastic essay on the frigus lorcas this week. Best mark in the class! Which is quite rare, you know, especially with our Tom around!”

A dark cloud passes over her eyes when his name is mentioned.

He knows he is not imagining it.

Slughorn must have noticed it too, clueless bastard that he is.

“You mustn’t be cross with Tom, dear. He has a job to do, and it wouldn’t be fair if the Head Boy made exceptions for his own house, now, would it?” he asks, tilting his head in question.

“Of course not, sir. I would never presume to think the Head Boy would display such blatant favoritism.” She responds.

“Yes. Quite right. Quite right. Well off with you then. Good night, Miss Birch. Straight to the common room with you.” Slughorn dismisses her.

“Good night, sir.”

She turns to depart quickly. Stiff from disuse, Tom’s legs are achingly slow, and the door almost crashes into his face as she exits. He barely makes it through, and for a second, he panics that his robe is caught in the closed door.

She stops in the hallway to pull her wand out of her hair, shaking her curls loose. Tom is forced to wait for her as she pets her wand lovingly, apparently in no rush to go to sleep. Tension begins to build—Tom is coiled like a spring, desperate to finally make his escape. Yet she stands there, torturing him for a few moments more before her vacant eyes slowly turn to focus on where he is standing. As if she can see him.

She speaks.

“I hope I put on a good show, Head Boy.”

She smiles before twirling away to walk briskly down the empty hall. Tom is in utter disbelief. He does not move until he hears her footsteps fade into total silence. He is still stuck in the same spot when his heart slowly sputters to a normal pace minutes later.

Humiliation. Complete and total humiliation. Tom could not have been more embarrassed if she had caught him in the nude. She knew. She knew. The whole time, maybe. His mind, previously blank with shock, is suddenly bombarded with so many thoughts that he can barely register them.

Did she see him following her to detention? Did she think he was a stalker? She didn’t seem displeased when she confronted him. She said she hoped she put on a good show. Did that mean she knew he was there when she unbuttoned her shirt? Tom feels a different kind of heat creep up his neck. The type of heat that boils from the pit of his abdomen and strangles the base of his spine. He wonders what would have happened if he had gripped her hair like he wanted to. He wonders desperately what would have happened if he had touched her exposed thighs. If he had put his mouth over hers, sucked her tongue, bit her lips.

Her.

Hermione.

Chapter Text

Tom twirls his quill, weaving it in and out of his fingers while staring out of the frosty classroom window. The yellowing grass on the grounds below waves languidly up at him, while the forbidden forest remains a dark green smudge on the horizon—a deeply magical parcel of land that refuses to do the bidding of the changing seasons.

They are working on translations today in Ancient Runes. Tom is seated next to Malfoy who is constantly whispering questions. Tom is being forbearing, although he feels ready to rip his hair out. The only reason Malfoy is in this class is because his grandfather is on the board of governors. It is too bad his grandfather couldn’t also buy him a brain.

Tom leans over to scratch out Malfoy’s last translation. He has written, ‘The man eats a fish.’ Tom corrects it to, ‘The wizard must fish out the truth.’

Malfoy grins apologetically before bending over his work again.

Tom finishes early. He forces himself to look forward, but cannot help but surreptitiously peak out of the corner of his eye at Hermione Birch. She sits several seats away from him, her brown curly hair thrown over her shoulder so he cannot see her face.

Tom is doing his best to act normal. He reasons with himself that she was simply surmising that he was there, watching her in detention. Even if she had made out a faint glimmer in his disillusionment, it is impossible for her to be certain it was him. It could have been anyone. She didn’t actually know.

That doesn’t mean he hadn’t lost sleep over it.

Tom admits her list of suspects must be distressingly short. Who else would have been in the room, practically panting at the sight of her clavicle? Tom ducks his head in disgrace, scolding himself once more for being absolutely pathetic lately.

Tom is a Slytherin. He is perhaps the purest Slytherin Hogwarts has seen in a millennium. He has done things, unspeakable things, things that would make her shiver, things that would make her squirm...

Hermione.

Feelings of sick, twisted shame envelope his chest at the thought of her name. He feels heavy, as if his fluttering heart is struggling to pump molasses through his arteries and veins.

His decides once more that his attraction to her must end. He is above such low attempts at seduction. He, who has prided himself in avoiding distractions. He, who has always sneered at older boys’ descriptions of stolen sexual moments in abandoned corridors, behind dusty curtains, in broom cupboards—

Tom inhales deeply in order to clear his head. He must remain highly logical. Compartmentalized. He cannot afford mistakes. He has plans, goals, ambitions. Things that cannot be postponed over a girl.

Tom is not used to dealing with such emotions. His legal tender is logic, not feelings. He decides to renew his vigorous dislike of her by listing her faults on a spare parchment. He starts by carefully writing his name in the corner, followed by the date.

He begins:

Too thin scrawny

I like straight hair

ugly freckles

she smiles too much

eyes are too large

prudish

why are her skirts so long?

she has a strange name

The Birchs of France are hardly respectable - reputedly mix with muggles

vindictive

seductress

As Tom is scribbling his thoughts, his parchment is suddenly snatched from beneath his pressed quill, leaving a long thin black mark on the page. Tom looks up in horror to see the list in the hands of the very witch in question.

She glances down at his paper, smirking as her eyes quickly scan his attacks. Tom is frozen for only a moment before he lunges to try to snatch it back. She has the advantage of being prepared for the attempt, in addition to standing over him, and easily moves the incriminating evidence out of his reach. His sudden movement causes the chair to scrape against the floor, earning them some wary looks from classmates who are still trying to finish their translations.

Tom unwillingly settles back in his seat, glaring at her, trying to ignore his heart pounding in his ears. He’s meant to be avoiding her, but he’s given her the most powerful weapon—a confirmation of his embarrassing infatuation, his growing obsession, his—

She smiles.

She puts her hand behind her back to keep the note away from him and leans over his desk to whisper, “My mother was a muggle, you know.”

“Congratulations.” He snaps. He curses himself when his eyes drift to her lips on their own accord. Her smile widens.

She has the slightest twinkle in her eye. It reminds Tom of the way she looked at Mulciber after she attacked him in Transfigurations. As if this is his only warning. As if to promise he wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her full wrath.

Tom thinks she doesn’t know how badly he wants to see what that would look like.

She straightens and folds the note neatly into her skirt pocket and winks before sashaying to the front of the class to hand her translations in.

Tom watches her leave with a mix of absolute adoration and a determined desire to ruin her.

-

In potions, she partners with Ignatius Prewett, a pureblood Gryffindor known for his Grindelwald sympathies, before Tom can claim the chair next to her. He is forced to settle for the seat directly behind her, and partners with Lucretia Black. She seems just as upset by the arrangement as Tom is, but Tom does not have time to wonder why.

He schemes for a way to get the list back. Tom has not allowed her to leave his sight since Ancient Runes this morning, so the parchment must still be on her person. Tom is furious at her, furious at his own idiocy, writing his name on the damn thing.

He is becoming disorganized. He is out of control.

She glances back at him as she speaks with Prewett, the corners of her lips turning up slightly when she catches his eye. She is playing with him.

Tom hates her. He hates her and her filthy muggle mother. Why would she tell him such a thing? She must know that it would be social suicide in Slytherin house. She may have grown up in France—if she even is from France—but her English accent is perfect. Posh, even. There is no way her parents weren’t British. There is no way she does not know how things are interpreted in polite Wizarding society.

Even Tom, who grew up in that revolting orphanage, knows never to share information about the less appealing parts of his family tree. What is her motive? Of all the things on that wretched list, why hone in on this specific piece?

An unbidden thought wheedles its way into his conscious mind, but he immediately dismisses it as frankly impossible.

He can’t think about his father right now. The gaping chasm in his chest will tear open, threatening to consume him again. He was foolish, so foolish, when he thought his father would accept him. Would rejoice in having a son like him, so handsome and brilliant like himself. The cruel slap of rejection had smarted his eye until he did not know what he was doing. His only remaining paternal family were dead before he could wipe away the tears clouding his vision.

He must calm himself. He does not want to remember his bloodlust. Tom knows what happens when he lets the darkness inside him reign. He cannot kill again. It is painful—much, much too painful. Much worse than any book can possibly explain.

Tom almost shakes his head to clear it. He is too agitated to think clearly. He must focus on the task at hand. But still, the question bothers him: What does she know? Tom crushes beetle legs as Lucretia Black stirs their potion. He eyes the back of Hermione’s head furtively before deciding the risk is worth it. Tom is already a master, having a natural talent for it despite being completely self-taught. He knows how to enter unnoticed. He had always been good at stealing.

If only he could catch her eye.

But she seems to be looking at everywhere but at him. Be patient, Tom scolds himself. He stares at the back of her head, willing for her to turn around, to see him.

Finally, she does. It is the slightest glance, a mere peak out of the corner of her eye.

It is enough.

He is inside. Her mind is a smooth endless lake under a pink purple sky. Serene. Tom doesn’t move. The emptiness of her mind perturbs him. Shallow water gently laps at his feet, kissing his toes in a luxurious way.

Two words float on the lake, too far for Tom to reach, but close enough to read.

Beetle legs.

The words fall into the lake, submerge completely in water, before another word arises.

Crushed.

The same process repeats, but this time a whole sentence is revealed.

Stir clockwise six times, then counter clockwise once.

Tom stares. He has never been in a mind like this before. He places his hands gently in the water, and pushes against the soft grains of sand below. Nothing happens other than his hands sinking further in. He keeps pushing until he is almost shoulder deep in the wet sand, his chin tickled by the gently dancing water.

He wonders if he should move closer to the center, where the words are constantly floating, submerging, changing, and emerging.

“Tom. Tom!”

Tom is forced to retreat and face Black. She is asking him a question, waiting for his answer expectantly.

He shrugs noncommittally.

“So you think it doesn’t matter either way?” She asks, considering him carefully. Before he can think of a safe reply, Hermione turns back to look at them, and catching Tom’s eye, gives him a small private smile.

Tom feels flustered again. Did she feel him?

“Yes. It’s fine.” He answers confidently, before watching in horror as Black throws an entire beetroot into the cauldron.

“You’re supposed to dice that!” He hisses, immediately grabbing his books and bag and scrambling away from his seat. Lucretia looks up at him in despair, and when she notices his retreat, attempts to do that same, but it is too late.

In seconds the cauldron is overflowing with putrid green slime, which burns through her quills and parchments, and then her potions textbook, spilling over to Prewett’s bag which is hanging off the back of his chair.

Hazy green fog fills the room. The class is in a commotion, and Slughorn only adds to it by shouting, “Settle down! Settle down, class!” Students are clambering about, covering their mouths and noses to try to get away from the smell. Lucretia starts to cry.

Tom sees his opportunity. He pretends to try to get away from the cauldron while inching towards Hermione. In the hustle and bustle, it is not strange that he grabs her waist to prevent her from falling. No one sees that he is the reason she trips in the first place. He keeps his hands low on her waist to steady her, and feels her flustered hands flutter over his before he slips his left hand into the skirt pocket he suspects most.

The tip of torn paper tickles his thumb.

Yes.

He pulls it out swiftly, grinning at Hermione who is attempting to turn in the cage of his arms to tell him off for touching her. When she sees the list in his hand and registers the wicked grin on his face, she lunges for the note, but this time Tom has the advantage. He is more than a head taller, and all he has to do is lift his arm to prevent her from grabbing it back.

He likes the way her body brushes against his. Tom lowers his hand just enough so she will try to jump for it again.

She looks ready to throttle him. Tom laughs. A full, guttural laugh that shakes through his body in relief.

Slughorn finally vanishes the mess, and class begins to settle down. Some students claim they need to go to the infirmary, an obvious bid to get out of double potions. Tom pulls away from Hermione and returns to his chair, but not before setting the note on fire. It burns in midair, its ashes dusting their shoes. He leans back, careful to avoid the mess left by Lucretia's idiocy. He flashes Hermione one last genuine smile.

He adds a wink for good measure.

Chapter Text

Tom is giddy for the rest of the day. He even smiles at Dumbledore during transfiguration, earning him a concerned look over half-moon glasses. Tom ignores him and smiles more. He can feel the annoyed glares Hermione shoots at him through class. It seems only to fuel his good mood.

Their assignment is to turn a dried stick from the Herbology waste bins into a flower of their choice before the end of class. A ridiculously easy task for Tom. He is partnered with Mulciber again; an unfortunate seating arrangement that looks like it will be lasting for the rest of the year. Mulciber struggles to get a green leaf to sprout from the dead bark, which remains stubbornly brown.

Feeling mischievous, Tom transfigures his twig into a whole bouquet of lush red roses, and presents it to Mulciber with an exaggerated bow, snatching his hand and planting a kiss on his knuckle. Mulciber splutters like mad and tries to yank his hand out of Tom’s surprisingly strong grasp. Malfoy cackles wildly from three rows behind them.

“What’s the matter, Maxie,” Tom teases, “you don’t like me?”

Mulciber flushes an unbecoming fuchsia as Malfoy falls out of his chair. Tom glances over at Hermione to see how she reacts, and sees her pursing her lips, trying to hold back her own giggles purely on principle.

High on his recent victory over her, Tom grabs a stem out of the bouquet and plucks the petals until they lay in a pile on his desk. Mulciber watches him with a confused expression, but Tom ignores him. Indeed, half the class is watching Tom, but he finds he does not care. He’s in the mood to show off.

Tom scoops the rose petals into his palms, and blows gently against his hands as if stoking a flame. They begin to stir, rising one by one into the air, fluttering like red silk as they float across the classroom towards his target—his crush. Heads turn as the fragrant trail stops abruptly at Hermione’s desk, the petals rearranging themselves like puzzle pieces until they form an intact blossom once more; alluring, romantic, suggestive. A peace offering.  

Hermione contemplates his gift, the slightest blush across the bridge of her nose. Envious stares and jealous muttering permeate the room. Tom knows what everyone is thinking. This is the first time he has ever shown interest in a girl.

After what seems like an age, she finally picks up the flower, lifting it to her face to inhale its sweet scent. For one insane moment, Tom thinks she will kiss the rose the way he kissed Mulciber’s hand. Instead, she casts him an unreadable look before mirroring him in a different manner.

Tom watches, eyes narrowing, as her magic brushes over the flower like a caress. Like a submissive lover, the rose responds, petals unfurling as if undressing for a dance. They ascend back into the air in a slow, spiraling waltz until their deep crimson color drains away, fading into nothing more than grey wisps of smoke and mist.

The room darkens. A low rumbling reverberates off the walls, the air thick with oppressive humidity. An ominous looking cloud hangs suspended above the class, and every face turns up to stare at the impressive display. Every face, except Tom's. He is looking at her.

She looks at him too. She smiles.

Suddenly, Tom is blinded by a flash of lightning that strikes his desk, cleaving it in two. Mulciber shouts, attempting to pull Tom back, but the sound is drowned out by an earsplitting crack! that bounces through the room. Several screams echo alongside the deafening sound of thunder trapped between four stone walls.

Then the torrential downpour begins.

Chaos reigns. Students hastily pack their bags, some using their books to shield their heads from the utter faucet of a rain cloud dumping buckets over their heads. Boys and girls are shrieking and laughing, some of them taking refuge under their desks, and some of them dancing under the deluge.

As swiftly as it begins, it ends.

Dumbledore clears his throat, his wand still drawn and pointed toward the ceiling.

“What an impressive display of transfiguration by the Slytherin house!” he beams. He waves his wand again, and Tom feels his clothes peel away from his skin, drying until they are a pleasant warmth against the chill created by the rain a moment before.

“I think points are in order!” Dumbledore continues in a forcefully cheery tone as he repairs Tom’s desk, “Five points to Slytherin for Mr. Riddle’s impressive transfigurative reformation, and ten points to Miss Birch for her rather eccentric response.”

The class erupts into whispers.

Tom sits down, his back slouched against his chair to hide an… embarrassing problem. He leans over to grab his bag and put it on his lap before it is noticed. He is irritated, but he has to admit her initial provincial act was quite convincing. In reality, Hermione is far from simple. Tom thinks of her wild curls tossing in the winds of her own making, her eyes determined and sharp as she made thunder crash and lightning strike, how she seemed almost starved as her magic traveled between them; swollen, building, seeking release.

That is the true Hermione, and she has power. True power.

But is she more powerful than he is? He wants to find out.

Dumbledore taps his wand on his desk, asking the class to settle down. He assigns the homework before dismissing them almost ten minutes early. Tom rises slowly, dragging his feet so he is one of the last students to leave. He nods for Mulciber and Malfoy to go on without him. Unfortunately, before he can achieve his objective, Dumbledore says, “Miss Birch, may I have a word?”

She ducks her head, and moves toward the front of the class, carefully avoiding where Tom is still packing his things. Dumbledore gives him a pointed look. Tom knows Dumbledore will not speak while he is there, so he gives up on dawdling and exits quickly, closing the door behind him. All of the other students have already left, impatient to head to their common rooms to gossip about today’s indoor weather report. Consequently, Tom is able freely lean against the door to listen.

“…you would keep a low profile.”

“I am.”

“I would hardly call what you did in class today a low profile.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Albus.”

“I’m not—that is to say—”

“I may look young, but do not confuse my appearance with what I actually am. Do you want me to remind you?”

“No! No, no. You misunderstand me. I am merely expressing worry—”

“Well, don’t.”

There is a long pause. Tom realizes he has been holding his breath.

“I am only here to help.” Dumbledore murmurs. Tom presses the side of his head so hard into the wood that his ear sings in pain.

“Then stay quiet. And don’t get in my way.”

Tom yanks himself away when he hears her heavy footsteps rapidly approaching. He barely makes it down the hall and around the corner before he hears the door slam open.

Instead of walking in his direction, she heads toward the moving staircase that goes up to the seventh floor. He can breathe again.

Tom now knows better than to think she is losing her way because she is a helpless transfer student. She is anything but a fish out of water.

She called him Albus.

He hesitates for only a moment. Quickly disillusioning himself, he runs off to follow her. She is just stepping off the stone staircase when Tom jumps on.

She stops on the seventh floor. Tom watches in dismay as the staircase suddenly changes direction, shifting him away from her retreating figure and forcing him to wait until he can pursue her. The staircase turns twice before resting on the same landing again, and Tom jumps off hurriedly. His quick strides take him to where he is convinced she will be, but the landing is completely abandoned. Surreptitiously, he touches portraits and moves curtains to find some secret passageway or entrance, but there is nothing but blank stone walls. Further on ahead is the Astronomy Tower, and Tom wonders if she has gone up there again. He fails to see any other option.

The tower is a dead end. She is not there, only a couple of fifth year Ravenclaws, snogging. Tom’s heart lurches at the sight, and he retreats quickly, unable to understand it. Furthermore, he has no desire to examine the wretched feeling.

He thinks of Hermione again, and returns to the seventh floor. It is still empty.

He decides to give up; Mulciber and Malfoy will be wondering where he is anyway. He will have to keep an even closer eye on her in the future. No hesitation next time, he promises himself, running his hand along the walls in case he missed some trick latch, hollow stone, or hidden key.

Eventually, Tom grows tired of this, and truly gives up. He heads back to the common room, head whirling with ideas. Of only one conclusion can he be sure: Hermione Birch is not an ordinary girl.

If that even is her name.

Chapter Text

“Tom! Over here!”

Malfoy motions to him from across the common room the moment he enters. Tom moves to where he can see him, Mulciber, and Nott waiting for him in a secluded area. The other Slytherins know better than to crowd around them. Before Tom can sit down in a leather armchair they reserved for him, Malfoy informs him that they have already debriefed Nott on what happened in Transfiguration class.

Felix Nott is a sixth year and a prefect, but also, more importantly, a Knight. The Notts are a well-connected and ancient pureblood family from Wales. Originally Norse, and incredibly wealthy. Nott has beady blue eyes and blond hair that is cropped close to his scalp. His hair is so pale and so fine that it gives him the appearance of being bald and draws all attention to his recessed chin. Tom thinks of him as a less handsome but cleverer version of Malfoy. Bastian Lestrange himself had recommended Felix be brought into the fold even though he was only a third year at the time. It was Lestrange who had taught Tom that everyone had their uses, regardless of age or inexperience. Lestrange is at the Ministry now, having graduated two years ago. He is still a Knight, and he still comes to all meetings.

The group looks expectantly at Tom, waiting for him to say something about the incident. He instantly decides he won’t tell them anything about the conversation between Hermione and Professor Dumbledore, or the empty seventh floor hallway.

“She is… interesting.” Tom admits, shifting in his seat. He looks out into the murky green lake, imagining he can make out the outline of the giant squid.

“Interesting?” Malfoy scoffs, “She’s bloody insane. Imagine setting off a whole crack of lightening in a classroom! It sliced Tom’s desk clean in half, you know.” He looks toward Nott, nodding sagely.

Tom fixes him with a pointed stare. Malfoy seems to shrink in his seat.

“As I said, Abraxas. She is interesting.” Tom repeats stonily.

Nott leans forward in his chair, looking earnestly at Tom. He asks, “Do you think we ought to keep a close eye on her? Where would she have learned such advanced magic? What school in France did she say she attended again?”

“She didn’t.” Tom replies, leaning back and crossing his ankle over his knee. He is the epitome of ease. Only the tapping of his fingers against the leather armrest betrays his internal disquiet.

“Should we start tailing her?” Nott presses, much to his annoyance. Tom does not like the idea of anyone else following her.

He does not answer right away. It needs to seem like he considers suggestions to maintain order. In the end, however, he always has his way. It’s a special talent of his.

“No. Not yet.”

Nott sits back, seemingly accepting Tom’s decision. Something inside Tom relaxes again.

Mulciber chimes in. “I say we just cut to the chase and pulverize her. She’s fucking annoying.”

Malfoy immediately play-punches Mulciber in the arm, “I bet all it would take is one hit.”

“Yeah. Scrawny bitch. I would love to get her back for that sucker punch.”

“I bet you would.” A new voice chuckles. Tom looks away from the great lake to nod to Cillian Avery, who has just joined them. He sits cross legged on the floor by Tom’s leg, like a pet dog. He is a fourth-year Knight, also sacred twenty-eight. His family squandered their wealth years ago, but are still diligent to keep up appearances and move in the best circles. Avery looks up to Tom like an older brother; he never requires persuasion. He is a good little soldier.

“I bet she wouldn’t even mind if I messed up her face a little.” Mulciber makes a crude gesture to indicate his meaning, “She’d probably be grateful, honestly. She’s not that pretty.” he continues, oblivious to Tom’s building rage.

Malfoy shrugs. “The hair makes up for it. Plus, she has nice legs, and a nice, tight, shapely a—”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

They all turn to look at Tom in surprise. While Tom doesn’t participate in this type of talk, he’s never before prevented them from graphically recounting a girl’s so-called attributes.

Malfoy shifts in his seat. “I didn’t mean—”

“Just watch your mouth.” Tom snaps again, standing to leave.

“Tom—”

“I have to go.” Tom interrupts coldly, then turning to Nott, “Don’t forget about the prefect meeting tonight after dinner.”

His eyes flash red as he stalks away from them, frightening a couple first years who are unfortunate enough to be in his path. His fury is incandescent; pure fire. It threatens to burn, to consume everything around him. It builds with such intense speed that Tom’s head aches with pressure. He cannot let the rage win. Tom must dampen it, or it will eat at his insides until he is only a shell. A murderous fragment of a soul, clinging to his body for a senseless life.

Tom does not want to succumb to the madness that the horcruxes demand.

Tom wants to live. It is the only instinct his mother gave him.

He is almost at the portrait hole, almost at his salvation, his escape. He needs to destroy something, he needs to be somewhere safe, somewhere private. He needs the chamber.

His vision is beginning to blur. Tom feels his consciousness fading. His heart is in his throat. He knows what comes next. He can’t afford that here. Anywhere but here.

He practically runs through the opening portrait, slamming into something small, but solid. The force of the collision causes him to tumble forward, with what he realizes is a body beneath him. Tom hears a rough crack against the stone as the portrait swings closed. He instinctively reaches for the head crushed under his chest.

“Ow,” a muffled voice protests from under him.

Tom pushes himself up on his hands to peer into the face of Hermione Birch. He stares at her for a moment before he registers that her face is in perfect focus. His vision is fine. His hands aren’t shaking. He’s certain he is awake and aware.

Tom is stunned; he didn’t succumb to the darkness this time.

Her dark eyes are watching him process his own sanity. Her long eyelashes frame her large eyes like natural kohl. He is close enough to notice each lash is blonde at the tip.

Tom rips himself off her when he realizes their pelvises are exactly aligned.

She sits up just as quickly, flushing as she adjusts her shirt and her hair. She hands Tom his wand, which had rolled a bit when they fell into each other. When their gazes meet again, Tom sees her eyes dilate until they are full black, her pupils swallowing her honey brown irises almost completely. She looks down and licks her lips. Tom is struck dumb.

She opens her mouth to say something, but Tom doesn’t hear her.

He can only think: Mulciber is wrong. She is very pretty.

He clears his throat.

“Er. I’m sorry. I was rushing and didn’t see you there. Is your head alright?” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

She doesn’t look at him.

“It’s fine.”

It’s the most distant she’s ever been towards him.

A sudden and familiar feeling of self-doubt seizes Tom’s throat. He has miscalculated. She despises him. She is disgusted by him. Her pupils aren’t dilating in desire; they’re dilating in disgust. Who would ever want him? He is a vile half-breed, a repulsive killer, an evil, unwanted orphan…

“Did you do the arithmancy homework?” she asks abruptly, interrupting his stream of vitriol towards himself.

“Yes,” Tom answers unthinkingly. They are still sprawled out on the floor. The common room portrait snake turns and turns in place, looping over itself until he can focus a single eye on Tom. It sticks out its tongue to taste the air.

“Oh.” She responds, looking down at her lap once more.

Tom clutches at straws. “Did you need help?”

She looks up in surprise. “Oh! No.” and then sheepishly adds, “I was going to ask you if you needed help.”

Tom laughs. “I’ve never needed help in arithmancy before.”

She grins. “Maybe, but I was looking over your shoulder at your runic translations today and I noted mistakes.”

“Mistake? Me?” Tom pretends to be affronted.

“Mistakes.” she says, emphasizing the s like a serpent, “Plural.”

“I don’t believe it.” Tom denies, greatly enjoying the back and forth, and wanting to say anything to keep her speaking to him in this way.

“Are you even taking arithmancy?” he adds, wanting to avoid a lull in the conversation. He thinks if she stops talking to him, he might disappear.

“I’m not. Not here.” she elaborates, “Headmaster Dippet said I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Tom is surprised that he isn’t faking interest. He actually wants to know.

“He said I was too advanced for your curriculum.”

Tom laughs again, and stands, pushing himself to his feet before extending his hand to help her up as well. She grins up at him before taking his hand. Unlike their first handshake, this time her hand is warm and firm in his grip. A burst of static electricity stings his hand, and they both pull away quickly.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, smoothing her hands over the massive pile curls draped over her shoulder. “Sometimes my hair conducts electricity.”

Tom pretends to test her statement by picking up a curl and examining it between his forefinger and thumb with a critical eye. Her hair is silky and soft. He fights the urge to move closer to her. With a jolt he realizes he wants to feel her under him again.

“Its voltage can’t be very strong.” He observes, releasing the long strand so that it lays with the rest of her hair.

“You seem to know a lot about electricity for someone who claims to hate muggles.” She smiles at him, her eyes shining.

Tom turns away. “Why do you assume I hate muggles?”

“I heard you and your gang speaking about it. You seemed… rather passionate.”

“I don’t have a gang.” Tom scoffs, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms. She looks lovely under the flickering lights of the wall sconces that line the dungeons. It makes her features appear softer somehow.

“They seem to hang on every word you say,” she pushes, moving closer. Tom eyes her carefully.

“Most people do.”

“Because you’re so popular.” She grins. Tom wonders what the joke is.

“I am.” He agrees seriously.

She continues to press him. “Do all Slytherins hate muggles?” She is almost within arm’s reach now.

Tom gives her a stony glare. “And muggleborns too.”

She does not respond. The light of the flame casts long shadows over her face at this angle. It makes him uncomfortable to see her swallowed by darkness.

“Is that a problem?” Tom asks. His voice is steely, even to his own ears. He finds he wants to intimidate her. He doesn’t like being interrogated.

“It isn’t like that in France.” She finally explains, playing with her fingers nervously. She looks up to meet his gaze. Something inside him melts. She is close enough that Tom breathes in her scent. Jasmine… no, vanilla. Something sweet mixed with something rough... a hint of tar. She smells heavenly.

“Is that why they resisted Grindelwald for so long?” Tom softly mocks.

“We continue to resist.” She looks at him earnestly, “He may have taken France, but he doesn’t have the people’s hearts.”

“What use does he have for hearts? He has power.”

“Power is temporary… he will fall. Men like Grindelwald always do.”

“Not if they’re smart. Power will always be there for those brave enough to seek it.”

“So the unintelligent and weak deserve to be oppressed?”

“It’s not a question of whether or not people are deserving, Hermione.” Tom explains patiently, “It’s a matter of water and oil. The best will always come out on top.”

She laughs, but it is humorless. “You can survive without oil.”

“Poor metaphor, excuse me.” Tom replies coolly, “What I mean is, the magical deserve to reign supreme. Especially the magically talented.”

“An interesting theory.” She doesn’t seem convinced.

“If your mother was magical, she would have been able to fight back against Grindelwald,” Tom reasons. If only she would understand.

Before Tom can touch his wand, she’s got hers at his throat. It rests lightly against his Adam’s apple. Tom thinks she’s almost gentle, if not for the horrible sneer on her face.

“What do you know about my mother, Riddle?” she says in a hiss.

“I know a muggle doesn’t stand a chance against a wizard.”

She edges her wand a little further into his throat. He likes the way her hair tickles the skin on his collarbone. Rough stone cuts into his sweater, painfully digging into his back as she pushes against him.

“Muggles have guns, Riddle. They can kill, too.”

“What’s a bullet to a spell? Easily deflected.”

“And what if it’s a machine gun? Can you stop hundreds of them?”

Tom grins. “I think I could. Can you?”

“There’s no telling what I could or couldn’t do.”

“I bet.” Tom thinks of how she conjures tempests without a wand, duels dirty when she’s overwhelmed, and casts curses that can’t be cured. He thinks of how spiteful she can be, and how cunning she is. He thinks of how she calls his most hated professor by his first name. He thinks of how she has the gall to corner him in the dungeons, his dungeons, out in the open where anyone can see. His heart sings her praises even though his lips can’t.

“Don’t talk about my mother again,” she demands.

“My apologies.”

It does not pacify her. She pushes her wand further into his throat. He swallows.

“I bet you wish you could be like Grindelwald, Riddle. Wreaking havoc wherever you go. Murdering innocents in the name of a new world order. A world where muggles and muggleborns know their rightful place.”

Tom folds his fingers over hers slowly, so that both their hands hold the weapon at his throat. His other hand snakes around her waist to pull her even closer. Her face is near enough to count each freckle splattered over her delicate nose. She feels so good against him. He knows he must be turning purple for lack of breath, but he doesn’t mind letting her play at threatening him. It isn’t as if she can do anything. Not to him.

She doesn’t know what she’s up against.

He smiles, playful, so playful with his little kitten.

His voice comes out in a whisper, “Sounds pretty good to me.”

She jabs her wand so far into his throat, Tom has to resist the urge to choke. She looks like she is about to hex him, but just as she opens her mouth, the portrait begins to swing open, a mix of babbling voices carrying through the widening opening.

She steps back quickly, tucking her wand up her sleeve before Tom can even blink, and moves toward the portrait hole to enter.

“Oi! Birch. We’re going to dinner. Come with?” A fifth year called Astor calls out to her. Tom does not know much about him. But he already hates his guts.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes, Derrick, I just need to run to my dorm first.” She shoes them off. She does not even look at Tom; it’s as if he doesn’t exist. Tom can feel his anger rising.

How can she go from flirtatious, to threatening, to icing him out in the span of five minutes?

Students mill around them and in between them. Tom is motionless, staring openly at her retreating form. He is unaware of the looks and whispers of the others, making surmises about the Head Boy and the new transfer. Inside Tom is storm of emotions he cannot place. It is a mix of intense longing and despair.

It makes Tom feel worthless.

-

That night, Tom dreams of Hermione. She is lying in the grass by the black lake. Her hair is fanned out around her like a dark halo. He lies down next to her, inching closer until he can rub his nose into her curls, inhaling her like precious oxygen to a drowning man.

In her hand is a knife. She presses its point against his throat. He bites back a mouthful of blood.

Chapter Text

September is coming to a close. Tom enjoys the cool Scottish air that whips his face as he steadily climbs the winding trail, careful to avoid sharp rocks and jagged roots. When Yvette offered to be on duty for the first Hogsmeade weekend, Tom had happily accepted with rapidly forming fantasies of bumping into Hermione there, perhaps at the Three Broomsticks. It would be natural to buy her a butterbeer or two. They could sit in a private booth.

With these thoughts happily crowding his head, Tom had headed down to Hogsmeade early that morning with the usual crowd, although he normally loathed the excursions. He never had any money to spend, so it was typically a pointless exercise. Today would be different, he was sure of it. He had purposefully dug into his savings for this.

It took him all of twenty minutes to realize she had not come. When Professor Merrythought called him over to her side at Tomes and Scrolls, he originally assumed she wanted to ask his opinion on her planned choice of text for next year. However, the conversation had followed a very different line of thought.

“So, how is she holding up?”

Tom stares at her blankly, “I’m not sure I know who you mean, Professor.”

“Oh, right, dear. Sorry. I mean the new transfer student, Miss Hermione Birch. She is in your house.”

“Yes,” Tom agrees slowly.

“Professor Slughorn assured me you would be taking good care of her,” she continues to insist.

“I’m sure I do the best that I can.” He answers, unsure.

“See that you do, dear boy! She’s been through enough in her young life. Both parents dead at the hands of Grindelwald, and then carted off to family in Britain—who refused her! Thankfully she is already seventeen and able to recoup her losses, so to speak, here at Hogwarts before having to start over on her own.” She tsks softly, placing several books back on the shelves, “It really is such a tragedy. And then to be refused by the headmaster to attend Hogsmeade outings! All because she doesn’t have anyone to sign the permission slip! Ludicrous, if you ask me.”

She seems to remember Tom is technically a student, and also an orphan himself, and clears her throat.

“Anyway, dear. I just thought you ought to know. You are in her house, and Head Boy, and so very caring and thoughtful. I hope you extend some of that kindness to her.”

“Of course, Professor,” Tom bows.

Tom walks briskly back up the lane towards the castle now. In his hurry, he almost trips twice.

While he is disappointed he will not get to live out his fantasy lunch with her at the Three Broomsticks, Tom is growing more and more excited for another prospect. The castle is practically empty. She will be alone, save for perhaps a first year or two. Despite her being a new addition to a highly hierarchical house, she has already won over many of her juniors. It has become rare to find her unaccompanied.

When he approaches the castle doors, he is slightly out of breath. He checks the Great Hall first, but it is practically deserted. The school typically empties out by nine o’clock, and it is already ten. Tom checks his wrist watch and hurries to his next destination.

The Common room is also empty. Tom feels disheartened. This would have been a perfect place to continue their conversation from before. He leaves the glowing green room quickly, determined to sniff her out. He checks the Astronomy tower next, lingering in the seventh-floor hallway, walking back and forth a few times as if he can make her materialize.

She doesn’t.

He checks the infirmary, the quidditch pitch, the greenhouses, the bathrooms. His heart speeds up at the thought of catching her in the bath. Empty, empty, empty. He begins to wonder if he should send her an owl when he is struck with his own stupidity.

The library.

Tom runs back to his dorm, gathering a few books and quills into his bag and takes the stairs by two back up to the west wing. He doesn’t know how, but he just does; she is definitely here. Somehow, he is convinced she loves the library. A strange sense of déjà vu grips him as he pauses in front of the library doors to slow his breathing, and smooth his hair. His hands are shaking.

He wipes a tremulous hand on the back of his robes.

He pushes the doors open. The library is empty. Even Madam Clémence is absent from her large oak desk that sits in the center of the cavernous room. Tom’s heart sinks before he decides to be thorough and search the alcoves and hidden bends.

He finds her at a small table nestled behind a corner of crowded shelves on the obscure magical topic of metaphysics. Her face is so deep into the tome that Tom is sure she must be near-sighted.

She looks up when she senses him approaching. Before she can do much more than lift her brows in surprise, Tom drops his bag on her table and pulls the chair next to her to sit down.

He knows he is the last person she expects to see here.

“Do you mind?” he asks seriously, “all the other tables are taken.”

She lifts her head to look about at variety of empty desks and chairs surrounding them, completely incredulous.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, unfortunately. I really do appreciate you making space for me, though.” He starts to rearrange her neatly piled stacks to make room for his own things.

She quirks her lips into an amused smile, despite herself, but she narrows her eyes at him when he scoots his chair closer to her. Their thighs are almost touching when he settles in.

“You’re very presumptuous.” she accuses, glancing pointedly down at his leg.

He feigns innocence. “I haven’t a clue what you mean.”

She decides to ignore him, and turns back to her reading. Tom breathes a silent sigh of relief.

She’s letting him stay.

Not willing to push his luck, he opens his DADA textbook and pulls out a parchment. He might as well finish his essay on the unforgivables, even though it’s due next week. In truth, Tom does not need to reference his text to write a detailed essay on the subject. He has already mastered all three.

Still, he must take care to keep up appearances.

They sit silently, but it doesn’t make Tom uncomfortable. When Tom can afford to slide glances at her, he doesn’t think she looks discomfited either. Occasionally, she brushes the feather of her quill against her lips, or taps the page she’s reading. Tom has never longed to be a feather before, but he finds Hermione can bend him into the most ridiculous shapes and forms.

After an hour, he finishes his essay. He considers making it longer, for without it, he has no reason to stay. She shifts in her seat to readjust herself, and her knee bumps into his.

It feels nice.

He wonders if she did it on purpose, and he leans back in his chair to read over her shoulder. She’s reading a chapter titled Temporal Anomalies: Unbirths and Irreparable Harm. Tom is just beginning to read a sentence when she slams the book shut, turning to chastise him.

“Don’t read over my shoulder.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Why is it always your instinct to lie?”

Tom scoffs, “Surely you can see the irony in that statement?”

“I haven’t a clue what you mean.” She echoes him. He can’t help the smile that escapes him. He wants to say, touché, but just then his stomach grumbles. Loudly.

She looks taken aback, and glances down at his middle, as if expecting it to expose itself further. Tom blushes. He skipped breakfast that morning because he was nervous about seeing her in Hogsmeade.

She leans over to pull her bag off the ground, and pulls out a large bundle with bulging shapes inside. She unwraps the checkered napkin to reveal a croissant, some apple slices and some almonds and cheese. She lays it out on their table between them.

“You’re not going to give me another detention for bringing food into the library, are you?”

Tom pops an almond into his mouth. He feels warm all over.

“I don’t think the library falls under my jurisdiction. Just don’t let Madam Clémence see you.”

“Clémence? Is she French?” she asks absently as she uses her wand to warm the croissant, tearing it in two and offering a steaming half to Tom. Tom does not miss that she is mindful to not let her forefinger brush his as she hands it to him.

“Are you?” Tom fires back.

Her eyes light up, glinting mischievously. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would,” he tells her earnestly.

She smiles. “I know.”

Tom leans over to take an apple slice. Despite sitting in her bag since morning, they have not browned. He wonders at her careful cleverness. He wants to ask her about it. He wants to know why she knows such domestic spells in the first place.

She turns back to her book, vigilantly angling away from him so he can no longer see what she is reading. He mentally catalogs the title so he can come back for it later. He abruptly stands, which causes her to look up at him warily. Tom walks away, enjoying the fact that she watches him leave. He meanders through the shelves until he reaches the section he is looking for. It’s a dusty nook, not often visited by students. Nevertheless, he quickly finds what he needs and returns without delay to the table.

He feels relief to see her still there, and realizes he was harboring a silent anxiety that he would return to find she had abandoned him.

She hadn’t.

Still, she does not look up when he takes his seat once more, and continues reading. Tom knows she must be annoyed with him. How many times has he been in her position? Trying to do important research, to read, to write, to enrich his mind, but constantly being pestered by the disruptions of some lovesick girl? Tom smirks to himself; in this case, he is the lovesick girl.

Tom knows, though. That this is an act. He’s convinced she is here specifically to draw him in. Like some kind of twisted silent siren. Why else would she do so much to get under his skin, and then withdraw so completely?

He picks up his prop, and pretends to read. In his mind, however, he catalogs all he knows of her. Whether true or false, he has yet to determine. She is seventeen. Her parents are dead. She’s an orphan, like him. She’s French, supposedly. She is fluent in French; that is a fact. And, she seems to scare Dumbledore. She’s doing something on the seventh-floor hallway near the astronomy tower—she knows how to disappear there so that Tom cannot find her. Finally, her name is Hermione Birch.

Tom has visited the ancient archives of the Hogwarts library many times. He has sifted through the fifty-year-old out of print magazines, newspapers, and directories. It was all originally in an effort to find his own name. Riddle. That was before he knew about his mother’s distasteful choices in life.

He remembers reading about the family Birch. They are not part of the sacred twenty-eight, but they are considered purebloods. An offshoot from the Burke family about three or four hundred years ago. Split into two factions when Crispin Birch had a disagreement with his brother about some of his darker practices, and left for France. The French side does not acknowledge the English side of the family, and vice versa.

Tom has to admit, it’s a good cover story. It explains why her British family “refused her,” probably without ever seeing her. Pureblood families can be very vindictive. She was probably banking on that.

He loudly turns the page, clearing his throat. He’s grown tired of being subtle.

She finally looks at him, and takes in his reading material. The Winter’s Tale. She turns a little pink, but other than that, she does nothing to give away that she recognizes the title.

Tom is growing impatient. He feels ready to tear her to pieces. Doesn’t she know how much energy it costs him to stay reigned in?

She wants to worm away from what’s coming, he can sense it. Well, he’s done playing hide and seek. Something deliciously wicked inside him gnashes its teeth.

“Hermione…” He starts, absently rubbing his chin. She looks up. “That’s Greek, isn’t it? You don’t look Greek.”

He’s acting. He thinks he puts on a good show, almost as good as her. They’re all just players on a stage, aren’t they? He’s sure she would appreciate the reference, but she isn’t smiling.

He continues. “Actually, you look very English.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. The nose especially. Turned up at the end like a true English swot.” Tom runs his finger down the slope of her nose. She’s too surprised to flinch away, or maybe she likes the way his finger leaves a trail of sparks in her skin. The delicious wickedness squirms its way down to his lower abdomen, clenching.

“Small. Dainty.”

She doesn’t respond.

“In truth, it’s a unique name. I only know of one other Hermione, and it would make sense that your parents admired Shakespeare. Most muggles do.”

She narrows her eyes at him. Tom knows what she is thinking. She told him her mother was a muggle, but she never said her father was. Tom is almost certain she’s a muggleborn; that her sorting was faked. Probably with the help of Dumbledore, who she obviously has under her thumb. He’s almost certain she isn’t really a Birch. It’s all a lie.

But her name, her real name—Hermione—it’s too specific to be counterfeit. It’s nothing like the name Birch. ‘Hermione’ sticks out like a glinting galleon in the sand, drawing your eye from yards away, whereas ‘Birch’ is one of many dying pureblood names no one fails to recognize as respectable, if mundane.

Her face betrays her rising temper. He pretends not to feel intimidated. She doesn’t know his heart is hammering in his chest. He’s a good actor. Tom relishes in the attention, and he leans in closer, lowering his voice although there is no need to. There is no one besides them in the room.

“The thing about this Hermione, however—” he holds up his prop, “—is that she is irritatingly weak. Colorless.

“Is that what those muggles wanted for you, Hermione? Frailty, tiresome self-righteousness, self-flagellation?” He curls his lip in disgust. “They must have been surprised when they realized they had a witch instead.”

She looks up at him now, and he can see he’s testing her patience. She brings her hand down on the play in his hands, and pulls the text out gently from his grasp. She flips it over in her lap, licking her thumb to help turn the pages.

“Why are you reading muggle stories?” she asks him frankly. Tom is caught off guard by the question.

“Why are you named after one?”   

She sighs, running her fingers through her hair tiredly, and begins to talk as if she is explaining something rather complex to an inquisitive child. “I just assumed you must have been very young when you read it, as you’ve not interpreted it correctly. Hermione isn’t weak. She is a Queen, and in her own right too, not just because she is married to Leontes. Her father was the Emperor of Russia.”

She gives him a look. Tom is reminded of the librarian when she is quite put out with the idiot first years. He knows that look is communicating several things at once. First, she can see through his game. Second, she suspects him as well, which is hardly surprising. No one else in Hogwarts, save perhaps the other muggleborns, would know who Shakespeare is. Finally, it promises retribution. She doesn’t like how he’s trying to corner her.

“I hate to be pedantic, but the play is really a statement on the strength of patience, of intelligence, of virtue—yes, Tom, virtue—in the face of evil and falsehood. Hermione never stops defending herself from her insane husband’s fabricated accusations. She isn’t feeble—she never gives in to him. And, eventually, she comes back to life to be reunited with her daughter, and maybe even Leontes—that part is a tad vague; on purpose, I think. Nevertheless, she wins.

“Really, it’s a silly story. A thinly veiled allusion to Anne Boleyn and Queen Elizabeth.”

She looks at him again after her little speech, her eyes probing. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain to someone like you who those two are.”

The cogs are whirring in Tom’s mind at her words, someone like you. It could mean someone well-informed, or perhaps someone with a bastard muggle father. But she doesn’t know; how could she know? She is just guessing without knowing the specifics. Speaking in doubles, hoping to hit the mark, but shooting darts in the dark.

Tom doesn’t take the bait. “Please, enlighten me.”

She smiles; it stretches over her face like a rubber band. “That would be a waste of your time, no?”

“It never is, if I’m with you.”

He stuns her into silence once more. He takes the opportunity to scooch closer, his knees colliding with her turned thigh. He allows himself to reach out to her beautiful neck, so smooth and so soft, his hand gliding over her skin to cradle her face lovingly in his large hand. Her fierce features look small and fragile this way. She leans in, unable to resist the crackling static between them. It shocks him and hurts him in a good way. He leans in, too.

“Is it your destiny then, Queen Hermione, to be beheaded by your husband?” he whispers. Tom knows he’s mixing up all the stories. The play, the history, the two of them. He doesn’t care. He knows she understands the caress inside his words, the tender threat.

Her eyelids flutter closed for just a second, before she lazily cracks them open again. She looks at him through hooded eyes, and Tom is mesmerized by the deep black once more, the shady darkness pulling him in—

“Do I look like the type to roll over and die?”

Her breath comes out in a puff over his wrist. It sets his skin aflame. He feels hungry for her; he is starving to know.

His grasp on her face tenses until he is sure she cannot escape. He doesn’t burden himself with the worry of hurting her.

He is almost certain her cheeks will bruise.

He looks deeply into her eyes widening in pain, and says, “legilimens.”

Her mind is a hurricane in the open sea. Foamy waters crash over him. It is bone-achingly cold—the type of cold that completely paralyzes you. The water sucks him in, and in further, until his limp body is thrown around like an errant bludger on a quidditch pitch. He is not prepared for such an assault. The breath is knocked out of him by wave after massive wave.

He inhales deeply on instinct and water floods his lungs, and he is drowning, drowning, drowning…

He finds himself roughly thrown back into his chair. Tom shakes his head, as if trying to clear his ears of ice-cold water.

“Don’t do that.” She shoves him. Tom grabs the table to steady himself.

She moves to push him again, but he grabs her wrists before she can.

“Calm down.” He sneers, lowering her arms to her lap, but maintaining his iron-clad grip.

“Don’t violate me without my permission.” She struggles under his grasp. While her magic is powerful, her body is not matched with his.

“So it’s alright as long as I get your consent first? What a relief,” he snaps.

“Nice boys ask before invading a girl’s mind.” She sneers back at him, giving up on freeing herself and now eyeing her wand lying in the open spine of her book.

“I am not a nice boy, Hermione.” Tom warns. He gives her a wolfish grin, and squeezes her wrists. He likes the way her bones grind against each other in his hands.

She winces. Tom lets go. He knows she yearns to rub the already forming marks on her arms and cheeks, but resists. Tom squashes the twinge of something—he’s not sure what—that stings him at the sight. It’s only fair, Tom thinks defensively. She did try to drown him.

He leans forward in his chair and tucks a stray curl behind her ear. She turns her nose shyly into his touch, as if she can’t help herself, as if the same electric energy between them enthralls her too, and blushes very prettily.

“I know you’re up to something, Birch. I will find out what.” Tom promises.

She turns slowly to meet his eyes again. Several emotions flash across her face too fast for Tom to understand them. She settles on a smile—a small, secretive smile.

“I can’t wait to see you try.”

Chapter Text

Tom struggles to sit patiently through another prefect meeting where everyone quarrels about Halloween. He sits at the head of the classroom, next to the Head Girl. Yvette is leading the meeting tonight, but this is by Tom’s design. He prefers to seem uninterested in power as he wields it. He learned this from Dumbledore. It adds a certain layer of mystique to all that one does.

The truth is, Head Boy is an asinine title that grants him certain privileges that benefit his real purpose. That is how Tom carries the title, as a disguise. He plays the role of the good little boy, prim and proper, but behind closed doors, he schemes. He enters the chamber. He spies. He gathers the Knights of Walpurgis.

It is much easier to do these things when you have the social capital; when you do not have to worry about curfew, or about being harassed by Pringle the caretaker, should you run into him.

It is also much easier when you imperius him, but that is neither here nor there.

Tom reads over the page in front of him as Yvette drones on about the merits of interhouse unity and collaboration. To all the other prefects in the room, Tom appears to be holding a small handbook of Hogwarts’ policies and procedures. In reality, he’s holding a transfigured copy of The Winter’s Tale. It’s the same from when he was last with Hermione; he nicked it from the library before he left. He had to; it would be unacceptable for people to think he prefers seventeenth century muggle literature for some light reading.

Tom almost smirks, but rearranges his features into an attentive expression quickly. He’s meant to be supporting Yvette, he knows. She catches his eye as he turns to look at her as if in full attention, and she flushes with pleasure as she stutters out her next words.

Tom has to restrain the desire to roll his eyes. How she can think he would ever be interested in her is beyond him. He simply cannot understand her childish little fantasies.

He fingers the page earmarked by Hermione when she slid the book out of his hands. She did it for him, he thinks, harboring is own little fantasies. It must be a clue.

His mind thus engaged, he almost misses his cue to speak.

Yvette Wilkens is again arguing in favor of a Halloween dance, but most of the male prefects are firmly against. She looks to Tom now for support, expecting him to rise up to her delusions and throw his weight behind her.

Normally, Tom would simply play both sides. He does not care for Yvette Wilkens’ good opinion, but that doesn’t mean he will needlessly throw it away either. You can never know when someone might become useful. However, an idea is slowly dawning on Tom, and it becomes more and more attractive with each passing moment.

“We should just put it to a vote.” Tom says, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. Yvette looks overjoyed, her greedy eyes practically shining.

“All those in favor, raise your hand.” She announces, raising her own. She begins to count the votes. Almost all of the girls have their hands raised, including Lucretia Black, the seventh year Slytherin prefect. Tom narrows his eyes at Nott, and raises his hand. Nott’s eyes widen, but he follows suit, nudging Davies to do the same.

The vote is overwhelmingly in favor.

“Well,” Yvette beams happily, “I guess we’re having a Halloween ball!”

Several boys groan, but she bravely ignores them as she starts listing all of the tasks that will need to get done to prepare. Some of the girls argue over whether they will call it a ball, or a dance. A fifth year Hufflepuff shouts out ‘hoedown’ as a suggestion, resulting in titters and whinging. Yvette attempts to restore order, but there is too much excitement. Some of the girls are already planning their trip to Gladrags in Hogsmeade, arguing about colors they’ll wear, the styles, the cuts of their robes, while the boys continue to suggest increasingly stupid names for the dance—shindig, and boogie, and hoodang. One of the boys shouts “revel!” and hoots and hollers fill the room at the suggestion.  

Tom says nothing. His mind is working out the details of a rapidly forming plan.

Halloween night will now be the perfect night for it. Tom had long desired to unite his Knights under some sort of physical mark. Something deeper and more permanent than a tattoo—a magical branding. Something that would tie the boys to him and ensure absolute loyalty.

The dance would serve as the perfect cover. No one would notice five missing students when the whole school was gathered at the Great Hall with loud music and dancing. There is one problem, however. He is Head Boy. The title he accepted for its conveniences would prove very inconvenient if he was to be constantly sought out during a major event like this.

“It should be a masquerade,” Tom speaks. The idle conversations die down, and he gathers their notice effortlessly, much to the jealous chagrin of Yvette. “A masked ball is the ideal celebration of Halloween, is it not?”

Excited chatter builds up again, and everyone is quick to agree. Yvette says she will leave it to a vote once more, which is quite needless, for it passes unanimously.

Tom smiles and leans back in his chair.

Masks will be a fine addition to his plan.

-

The meeting adjourns, and the prefects shuffle out of the spare classroom to head back to their respective common rooms. Some of them lag behind to fix the desks and chairs, goody-two-shoes that they are. The Slytherin boys wait patiently in the hall for Tom, wanting to walk back to the dungeons in a group. It makes them feel special to be led by their Head Boy, so popular and well-liked in their house and school.

Tom joins them after a brief conversation with Yvette. She gushes about how pleased she is that he agrees with her on the dance, and what a brilliant idea his theme is. She insinuates heavily that he can ask her to the ball, that they ought to go together, Head Boy and Head Girl, arm in arm at the dance.

He pretends not to understand her.

Nott and Davies stand on either side of him now as they walk briskly down the hall. There is still a half an hour before curfew, so the rush is needless. However, Tom feels anxious to sit down with his Knights, and make plans for their next meeting.

Davies is not a Knight, but Tom knows he is desperate to be included. He is always the first to volunteer for Tom’s schemes, when he is made aware of them. He is passionate about blood purity, coming from a well-established pureblood family himself. There is something slimy and desperate about him that Tom does not like. Still, he withholds from complete rebuke, as Tom is pragmatic; there is room for every type of chess piece on his board; whether knight or pawn.

Tom walks silently as Davies and Nott discuss the meeting. Davies wants to dress up as a Dementor, and Nott tells him that’s not a good idea. Davies argues that it is. Tom can hear the edge in Nott’s voice; he finds him annoying too. Davies asks to stop by the Quidditch pitch for a second to grab some brooms—they need to be serviced since the day after tomorrow is the first Quidditch game of the season. Slytherin versus Hufflepuff. Nott looks to Tom, and Tom agrees. He wants Slytherin to win just as much as anyone else.

While they are there, Davies runs into the two beaters on the team, getting in extra practice before the game. They agree to join them on the way back, since curfew is fast approaching. The conversation takes a turn towards quidditch, and the boys talk excitedly on how it will be a sure win. Half the Hufflepuff team are girls; they don’t stand a chance.

Just as their group is entering the covered viaduct, Hermione Birch turns the corner and appears on the other end of the wooden bridge. She has a younger girl with her, her tightly woven plaits bouncing behind her with each step. Tom recognizes her as the younger Davies, a second year Slytherin girl who has taken to hanging around Hermione in the common room. Hermione keeps her eyes trained directly on Tom until they approach. Tom finds he cannot look away.

“Your hair looks hideous.” The elder Davies shouts at his sister as they pass them, leaning over to pull on one of her pigtails in an act of pure provocation. Tom smirks, which causes Davies to double down on his bullying, thinking he has his support.

“You’ve made yourself look even more like a pig. I didn’t think it was possible.” Davies laughs. The Slytherin beaters laugh along—Davies is set to be their Quidditch captain next year after Mulciber graduates. Nott shifts uncomfortably next to Tom, looking to see his reaction before he joins in.

The little girl turns pale, and looks ready to faint as the older boys laugh at her. Tom does nothing to help; he’s interested to see how her companion will handle the elder Davies. He wants to see what curse she’ll think up for him. Will she attack him in the open like a foolish Gryffindor, or will she plan a subtle strike like she did against Carrow?

Tom thinks there is capacity for either course of action. In the game of chess, it’s not so much about the move itself, but about your timing. Tom wants to know if she will make an enemy of one Davies while trying to make nice with the other.

Hermione puts her hand on the little girl’s shoulder, but does not look at her. She does not say a word. She is staring at the older Davies, who is currently doing his impression of an overgrown pig, oinks and all. To the outside observer, it may seem like a half-hearted attempt to comfort the girl, but Tom sees how the child seems to melt into Hermione’s touch, the color returning to her skin. The younger Davies takes a deep, gulping breath and pulls out her wand.

Tom watches with interest as she hexes her brother, whose back is turned while he snickers with his cronies. What a low thing to do. But it is almost as if Hermione has ordered her to wait for her brother to turn around, to take such a cheap shot at her own kin. The elder Davies is struck in between his shoulder blades, and immediately his nose grows larger and deformed as fist-sized mucus flies out of his nostrils. He starts to scream, clutching at his face as mucoid bats exit and swarm around his body.

It is a funny spell. Almost harmless, he’s sure. But it puts on a big show. Tom is certain no one will ever bother Davies’ little sister again, but not for his lack of trying. The Slytherin beaters are holding Davies’ arms as they drag him through the rest of the bridge, trying to get him away from the psychotic little sister who only watches her brother panic with a laughing, triumphant expression.

Hermione squeezes her shoulder in congratulations.

And like a sleeping serpent struck by the desert morning's first ray of hot sun, Tom is aroused.

-

That evening, Tom bribes Lucretia Black. It isn’t easy, but it isn’t hard either. Tom only has to enter her mind briefly to understand that she has been in love with Ignatius Prewett since last year, and is frantic for reciprocation. That explains why she was upset last time Prewett was partnered with Hermione in potions class—the time she blew up their cauldron.

Tom tells her in a low voice that he knows about Ignatius, and she almost spills her inkpot onto the common room carpet. Tom snatches the pot at the last moment, sullying his own palm with a slick inky stain.

He tells her he wants to help her, but he needs her to help him. She is a Black, so she listens. He tells her he will make sure she is partnered with Prewett in their next potions class, if she does him a little favor.

“What do you need?” she asks quickly.

“Announce the prefect bathroom password in your dorm. Loudly. It needs to seem accidental.”

She doesn’t even ask him why. But she does ask him for one more favor.

“I don’t want to be partnered with Ignatius just once.” She looks at him sternly. Tom understands her meaning.

“Consider it done.”

They don’t shake hands.

-

Tom does not go up to his dorm with everyone else at the end of the night. He lies supine on the long couch by the fire, and reads under his disillusionment spell until around two o’clock in the morning when he hears her.

She’s quiet, but not quiet enough, in Tom’s opinion. She's dressed in a loose long-sleeve black smock and matching bottoms, her hair pulled back tightly into a ponytail, and a bag hanging from her shoulder.

Just as Tom guessed, she falls for the bait. Tom knows the Slytherin showers are miserable. Slytherins just don’t advertise it to the rest of the school because they do not want anyone to think lower of their house. The truth is, the showers are ancient and cramped, and there’s barely enough room to bend over in the stall if you drop your bar of soap.

The dungeons are already dank, and the humidity left in the bathrooms by the running water is thick and unpleasant. The air smells heavily of mold and algae, but no one has ever been able to locate the source. The final nail in the coffin: after about half an hour of morning showers, the water starts running cold for the rest of the day. Lestrange used to swear that the water in the dungeon showers comes directly from the lake.

Needless to say, there is a general desire to become a prefect in the Slytherin house not because of ambition, but because the bathrooms are so bad it’s worth it to have access to the prefect quarters.

So, it’s no surprise that Hermione decides to sneak out after curfew again now that she knows the password. She slips out of the common room through the portrait hole, with a knowing Tom trailing closely after her. She doesn’t disillusion herself, and Tom wonders if she does not know how.

Somehow, she knows where the prefect bathrooms are.

Tom knew she would, even though she shouldn’t.

One very interesting aspect of Hogwarts castle is that its dorms are all bewitched so that girls can enter the boys’ dorm, but the reverse is never true. Tom knows of boys in every house who have tried and tried again to enter the girls' wing, resulting in some remarkably daft, albeit funny, stories.

In a way, it is an absurd design, one that completely discounts female desire and feminine cruelty. As much as Tom respects the founders, he has often questioned this fatal flaw in Hogwarts policy. He wonders how many girls have snuck into boys’ dorms and fed them love potions in their sleep, touching their things in their unconscious state, molesting their belongings, spraying their perfumes on neckties, holding their wands so they become accustomed to their magic.

All nefarious, evil things that girls can do.

Tom isn’t so stupid. He knows what atrocities women are capable of. He doesn’t make the mistake of thinking they are lesser or weak, he just thinks they have different motivations. Men like to brawl with their fists, and women melee with more diabolical methods. He’s read both muggle and magical history books, and thought on the topic deeply. He thinks Hermione’s beauty is as deadly as Helen’s. He thinks her mind is as brilliant as Cleopatra’s. He thinks her cunning rivals Consort Xi’s. He thinks she fights better than Lozen.

Tom watches in the shadows as Hermione says the password, standing confidently in front of the statue of Boris the Bewildered. He watches her fall into his trap.

The prefect bathrooms are strangely the only loophole left by the founders.

Boys can enter there.

Chapter Text

She rushes in a way that tells Tom she’s desperate for a real wash, not a hurried scouring under the freezing cold dungeon showers. She waves her wand at the tap, and it starts pouring crystal clear water into the oblong pool in the center of the room. Within seconds, it is filled to the brim. She turns the soap tap next, and Tom notes how she doesn’t seem to need to experiment with which tap does what.

She knows exactly what to do.

Once the pool is covered in a thick layer of heavily scented foam, Hermione begins to strip unceremoniously, pulling her pants down without shame. It occurs to him that this is because she believes she is alone.

Tom surprises himself with the haste at which he turns around, even though she exposed nothing more scandalous than the backs of her knees. He stiffens at the sounds of the rest of her clothes softly hitting the floor, and for the first time in his life, Tom asks himself if he is doing something Wrong.

He feels strongly that he is.

As many absolute Truths do, it dawns on him very suddenly and very forcefully that he is a man, and it is a lie to say he doesn’t want her. He does. So completely consumed is he with wanting, that he cannot think without every thought being colored with the shadows cast by her slender frame.

It is also an unshakable Truth that Tom wants her to want him back. He is hopelessly desperate for her to. She is the reason he loses sleep, loses his appetite, loses his temper. Already so debased as Tom is with overwhelming desire, to sink lower would be to sneak a look without her knowing.

Tom stays staring at the wall, because he doesn’t want to see her full beauty when she is unaware of his presence. He wants her to show him—willingly.

And for the first time in Tom’s life, he feels he has done something Good.

High off these noble sentiments, Tom nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the splash of a body landing in the perfumed pool of the prefect bath. He listens in part awe, part agony as she moans in relaxation as warm water jets around her natural form.

Tom allows himself a quick look—a necessary one—to make sure he knows which way she is facing. She is neck deep in soapsuds, except for her feet, which float like little ducklings above the water. She levitates a book in front of her, and only lifts her fingers to turn the pages. Tom is satisfied that her modesty is protected by her evident desire to drown herself in soap bubbles. And, she is facing away from the sinks.

He speaks, “hasss sses khsssas.”

At the sound of his voice, she nearly jumps out of her skin. Her book falls with a heavy plop into the water.

“Who’s there?” she almost shrieks, just barely remembering to keep her voice down. She looks about frantically, but in her horror, she is unable to catch the glint of Tom’s invisible silhouette against the dark corners of the bathroom. Tom stays silent, watching her but at the same time trying desperately not to look, for her shoulders are above the lather now, and they glisten in wet soapy wonder. She fiddles with her wand for a moment, and seems to accidentally cast a spell in the water near her elbow. The jet of light flashes at a strange angle in the pool, and Tom worries she’s harmed herself by mistake.

“Who is there?” she says again, more forcefully now, her wand gripped tightly in her hand. She casts a very powerful lumos, and scans the room with the light, her eyes turning with it. Tom slowly follows the moving search, so that he is always a few steps behind it.

She whispers something at her wand next, and its tip suddenly turns to point directly at Tom.

She shoots a bright purple curse at his location, but Tom is too quick for her, and a piece of stone chips away from the wall, landing heavily on the tile and cracking it. Her miss does not seem to faze her, as she shoots another curse, and another.

She’s fast. Tom will give her that. She shoots at least a dozen rapid fire curses at him before the sinks start to creak. She shrieks in earnest now, fumbling in the water to get out. Tom is terrified she’ll do something stupid, or worse, expose her breasts, so he speaks again.

“Fancy a soak, Hermione?” He tsks. “At this time of night?”

Hermione freezes before immersing herself chin deep into the water, using her hands to cradle bubbles around herself to cover her body further. This irritates Tom, especially after he has displayed such good behavior. He decides to be cruel.

That is more familiar to him.

“Don’t fret yourself over the bubbles; I already know there’s nothing worth seeing.” He sneers. He charms his voice to sound like it is coming from all angles, and she spins her head desperately to locate him again.

“Tom. Stop.” She commands, her eyes seeking an escape, “or I will scream for help.”

“Go ahead,” Tom shrugs, “the door is sealed, and I’ve already cast a silencing charm on the room. Scream to your hearts content—I don’t think you’ll be disturbing anyone.”

“Fuck you.”

“No thanks.” Tom responds blandly, turning to face the sinks once more. “You should close your eyes though, if you want to live.”

This girl who never shuts up, who always has something to say—a smart retort, a witty quip, or at the least, a knowing smirk—suddenly slams her mouth closed and screws her eyes shut. That doesn’t seem enough to her though, because she lifts her left hand to cover her eyes as well, her wand shaking in her other outstretched hand.

Tom briefly wonders about it.

Then he commands, “ssssssssssah.”

Come.

The sinks begin to separate, rising and shifting the white porcelain, bending the faucets and pipes, cracking the mirrors above them to make room for the growing black tunnel that emerges. Tom watches this, while keeping an eye on her.

She doesn’t move. It’s as if she is already petrified.

A heavy noise like large sacks being dragged over a dirt path fills the bathroom, echoing loudly against the bathroom tile. A delightful pang shoots through Tom, his skin erupting in gooseflesh. He removes his disillusionment.

Come my pet, Tom coaxes, come to your master.

Hermione makes a noise in the background. Something similar to a scream dying in the back of her throat. Now, it isn’t only her hand that is shaking, but her entire body, sending soft ripples through the bathwater.

Master! You have called me at last. The great hulking form of the basilisk emerges, her eyes closed, hissing in pleasure. She bows before Tom, waiting for him to place a kiss on her forehead.  

Tom obliges. My precious pet. Do not open your eyes.

Master! The basilisk turns its massive head, and tongues the air hungrily. I smell food.

No, my pet. That is not food. You must not eat the girl. You must not open your eyes.

But master, the snake whines, it has been so long since you have fed me. She slithers further out of the tunnel, her laminated scales squeaking as they rub against the wet floors. Her tail knocks Hermione’s bath things over, and Hermione jumps when they create a splash on the opposite end of the pool.

She smells good. So fresh. So nubile.

I said no, pet.

But Master, why have you called me here? To tease me with her? His legacy as the heir of Slytherin encircles the prefect pool, over and over, building a sort of deadly barricade around the witch inside.

Impossible my pet, I would never tease you. I need your help.

She pauses her circulations at Tom’s request, her neck twisting side to side in a serpent dance. Tom knows she is eager to carry out his commands. Anything, master. My life is yours.

Is she of pureblood? Tom asks.

Master, she is a mudblood. Please let me eat her.

No. You must not open your eyes.

Please, master. The snake bends her face over Hermione’s wet hair, her venomous teeth threatening to graze her slender arm, still outstretched. She smells very good.

I said no! Tom forces himself to calm. Leave, pet. You have helped me greatly. Now return to your home.

The basilisk sulks, twisting her head back to Tom before bowing it and dragging herself back toward the gaping cavern that lies open still. In her anger, she swishes her tail into the water before leaving, splashing Tom thoroughly and frightening the wits out of Hermione, who finally releases a long-suffering scream.

Tom orders the sinks to close, and turns to survey Hermione in the water as the porcelain and pipes lock back into place, hiding the tunnel from view. Her eyes are still closed, but she now has both hands encircling her middle.

She looks like a scared child.

Tom conjures a thick blanket, and waves it over so that it covers her, slightly buoyed up by the water, which is quickly vanished. It falls wetly against her skin, and she jumps again, but does not make a sound. Tom does not think she could, the way her jaw trembles.

They both stand there for a few moments, completely soaked, until she can control her breathing. Tom feels he ought to do something, but he has no idea what it is he’s meant to be doing. When he formed this plan after their encounter at the library, it had seemed so brilliant.

Now, he just feels foolish. He hadn’t meant to scare her so badly. Her eyes are still closed. She clutches the blanket tightly against her chest.

“I thought,” she begins, and Tom’s head snaps up, “I thought you were going to hurt me.”

For some inconceivable reason, Tom says “I could have,” instead of “I would never.”

“I know,” she answers. She takes her wand out from beneath the cover and spells the blanket to stay closed before aiming it at his heart. Her eyes are open now. Tom stares down the barrel of her gun, so to speak. His own wand is hanging limply at his side. He doesn’t seem to have the strength to take the proper defensive stance.

She seems to think for a moment before she says, “You’re a Parselmouth.”

“Yes.” He agrees, because he really isn’t sure what else he can say.

“You told that enormous snake—that basilisk—not to harm me.”

It’s a statement and not a question, so Tom does not answer. Something aches unbearably inside his chest. It hums with the same loss he feels when he thinks about his parents. It feels a lot like regret, but examining it now would be like burning a hot brand into an open wound.

She seems to think a little longer, and the silence between them stretches until he can hear the droplets from the leaking faucet hit the empty basin below. He’s never seen her go so long without smiling.

She opens her mouth and closes it several times before she can say what’s next, but her weapon never wavers.

“Did you look at me?” she asks in a small voice, “When I was getting undressed?”

Their eyes lock and Tom dissolves into faceless shame.

“No. I swear.”

“Thank you.” she whispers, then clears her throat roughly.

Before she can open that wretched mouth of hers again, Tom tells her, “Finish your bath. She won’t come back again, not without my permission. You can come here whenever you want. I’m leaving now.”

He hastily turns, his shoes sliding and almost slipping on the bathroom floor as he runs away, the heavy door thudding softly behind him.

Chapter Text

Tom is not accustomed to the feeling of guilt that follows him all the way to his bed. He thinks at first it is simply the exhaustion of dealing with the basilisk, as that usually excites him to the point of depletion. He tries to sleep it off as he normally does. However, when he wakes up having missed breakfast and Divinations, he has to admit to himself that it is not fatigue that plagues him, and forces himself to the infirmary.

Matron Consanos fusses over him, and Tom feels badly enough to think it feels nice. She gives him a pain reliever potion, and instructs him to lie down in one of the sterile white cots that line the infirmary walls. Tom chooses one behind a thick screen, preferring to shield himself from the inquisitive eyes of the other ill children, or those simply wishing to get out of class. He lays on his back and turns his face toward the dingy four pane window that does almost nothing to let in the daylight. He stares at the faded blue October sky, counting the occasional whisps of white cotton-candy clouds that pass.

He lays there until he misses Ancient Runes and Transfiguration, too. When Matron Consanos checks on him, he pretends to sleep so she will not make him answer any more questions. He listens as she tuts over him, tucking his blanket more firmly under his chin. Tom feels weak to the point of gratitude. He hears her shush a crying first year to not disturb the sleeping Head Boy, although he is secretly awake. He feels more awake than he ever has been.

He knows he has done bad things in the past, things that are considered wrong by moral, upstanding people like Albus Dumbledore. But he has never felt remorse over those things. He simply hides that part of himself away from self-righteous eyes to avoid judgement.

When a large group of loud students filter in later that morning, Tom sees an opportunity to escape to his dorm without having to give any explanations to the matron. Normally, he relishes in his ability to charm and lie convincingly, but today he really just wants to be alone. Someone set off a dung bomb in a second year DADA class, and a host of Gryffindors crowd around the matron, vomiting and gagging. Tom slips by easily, as she is too busy now to notice the handsome Head Boy who knows how to take care of himself.

Tom manages to get to the dungeons without being stopped by anyone. He keeps his head down and face drawn to deter any unwelcome chatter. There aren’t many people in the halls anyway, as most students are still in lessons. The common room is blessedly empty.

Tom crawls under his covers and pulls out the drawer of his nightstand, whispering in parseltongue for it to open. He puts on the ring of his ancestors, and feels its heartbeat against his index finger, thumping steadily, comforting. He takes the diary and cradles it against his chest.

He wants to feel whole again.

He sleeps.

-

Tom sleeps through all his classes that day, and because he is Head Boy and so generally well-liked, he doesn’t even have to lie that he is sick. Matron Consanos does that for him, and he receives warm well wishes and concerned questions from his professors on his way to the grounds later in the afternoon.

He smiles politely and assures them of his well-being. He just needs some fresh air, he thinks. He promises to complete the homework on time. The professors shoe him off, telling him to eat well at dinner and rest. Professor Slughorn promises to speak to the house elves in the kitchens personally so they prepare him a special hearty broth to abate illness.

When Tom is finally able to get away, he finds her by the lake, leaning against the knobby trunk of a willow tree. Its drooping branches sway over her as she stares out into the distance, the wind gently blowing her curls with the vines around her.

Tom sits down next to her, but his bravery runs out after that. He picks at the blades of grass by his feet. He wonders what to say. He recoils at the thought of her censure.

Tom knows he crossed an invisible line in their game of tug of war. He finds himself hoping she will forgive him, but she doesn’t say anything. It does not occur to him that he is supposed to say “I’m sorry,” so he can hear “it’s okay.”

Near the horizon, the giant squid whips its tentacle at a flying heron, who narrowly dodges the attack. Instead of flying away, the bird swoops back like a boomerang at the outstretched arm, teasing the giant squid until it extends more tentacles into the sky.

They watch silently. Tom wishes she would smile at him, or even just look at his face.

He asks her, “Do you want to see a pretty piece of magic?”

She doesn’t turn, but she does say, “Okay.”

Tom fidgets with his wand, trying to decide what to do. He came here without a plan, hoping to find her. Somehow, again, he knew where to go when he took a second to think about it. Well, he didn’t technically think about it—he just knew. Another person would say they had a feeling, or perhaps their heart was speaking to them, but Tom doesn’t know about such things. He knows how to analyze, to reason, to plot, to scheme. He does not understand the tugging sensation in his chest when he looks at her.

Tom casts a charm that lifts a transparent sphere of water from the lake, trapping within it small critters, minnows and algae. They swim around in circles while algae float up and down like a loose reinterpretation of a snow globe. The sphere flies into Tom’s outstretched hand, and Tom runs his wand over it once more, transfiguring the silvery translucent minnows into bright reds, purples, yellows, and blues, and turning the smaller critters orange.

Tom extends the liquid orb to her, carefully placing it into her palm. His fingers graze her skin briefly, and the tug of his chest intensifies until he is desperate to hold her hand, as if anchoring himself to her will protect him from being pulled apart.

She looks into the aquatic terrarium, her eyes tracing the movements of the colorful minnows.

Tom tells her, “You can keep it, if you want.”

“It doesn’t need a tank of some sort?” she asks, turning the liquid globe in her hands, wondering at how something shapeless can take such a perfect form.

“No.” Tom tells her, feeling proud that he can impress her.

“How do I feed them?”

He waves his wand and summons a dead prawn from the bottom of the lake. It lands wetly in his palm, and Tom slides it into the sphere. The water’s surface briefly ripples before accepting the offering, and the vibrant creatures flock to the source of food, feeding happily at a meal that required no effort.

“You’re supposed to say you’re sorry, you know.” She says, never taking her eyes off the fish.

“I’ve never said it before.”

And he knows she understands his meaning. He’s apologized loads of times, but this feels different somehow. He’s never meant it before.

“Perhaps you need practice,” she turns to him now, crossing her legs so that her knees bump his as they sit facing each other.

“Teach me,” he asks, folding his hands under his chin, watching her contemplatively. She has her hair pulled back in a thin braid around her crown today. It makes her look like she is wearing a small tiara. Some of the shorter curls around her face have escaped the bind. They frame her face so beautifully. She looks like a painting, an impression and a vision both at once.

“Say: I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs obediently.

“Then you’re meant to summarize what you did wrong.”

“Do I have to?” Tom blushes.

“That’s the standard procedure, yes.”

“I’m sorry I followed you into the bath.”

“You’re allowed to provide some type of excuse,” she supplies helpfully, the corners of her mouth beginning to pull into a smile.

“I wanted to find out your blood status. I never meant to… look at you. Like that.” Tom forces himself to meet her eyes so she knows he is telling the truth.

“And the verdict?” she asks this lightly, playfully, but Tom doesn’t need to enter her mind to see the almost invisible anxious creases at the corners of her eyes.

“Half-blood,” Tom lies. “Like me.”

She seems to ponder this untruth for a moment, looking down again at the wonderous piece of magic in her hands. She stares for so long, Tom thinks she may have forgotten about him, or is ending their conversation.

Finally, she speaks.

“Is blood status so important?” she asks, sticking her finger into the liquid sphere so that the minnows kiss its tip.

“Yes,” he answers unthinkingly, “It is the most important thing in our house.”

“To you, I mean.”

Tom considers her question. Hermione is by far the most interesting person he’s ever met. She makes him feel things, which can be a miserable annoyance, but it’s new, and new experiences are always welcome to a teenage boy. She is clever, and she’s not so self-righteous that she’s mean like Dumbledore, or the children at the orphanage, or his father.

He has the distinct feeling that she can see him, really see him, and that it just is. He isn’t questioned under her gaze. He doesn’t have to pretend. He can just be.

“Yes.” he answers finally. Because it is important. Although it isn’t when it comes to her, not really.

“Okay, then.”

She doesn’t say she forgives him, but she extends her hand to shake his. Tom takes it, and he doesn’t let go. He pulls her with him as he scoots so that his back is pressed against the tree trunk she was originally leaning against.

Hermione tries to withdraw her hand lightly from his, but he ignores it, and she gives up. She sits with her arm slung across her body awkwardly so her hand can stay in his. Tom thinks that maybe her heart is tugging right now too, because she seems to know he is starved for human touch. His hand goes numb with the static, but he finds he doesn’t care.

They stare at the lake once more. Eventually, the giant squid catches the heron.

She lets him hold her hand until dinner.

-

After a dinner of a thick beef stew, Tom feels much more like himself. He reminds himself to thank Slughorn in writing; it wouldn’t do to neglect his personal ticket into the restricted section of the library.

Thanks to Slughorn, he’s performed magic beyond most wizards’ wildest dreams.

Tom peeks over at Hermione, who sits with her assorted group of friends at their usual spot in the middle of the table. Derrick Astor, the irritating prick, is sitting next to her. Tom decides to ignore this, since he and Hermione are on good terms again.

After he first noticed Astor hanging around Hermione, Tom made some inquiries. He’s a fifth-year and a pureblood. Avery says he’s from a ‘comfortable’ family. Not too rich, nor too powerful, but generally respected. He’s huge, almost as built as Mulciber, but he doesn’t play quidditch and he’s not particularly good-looking. He does well in his classes; he’s one of the best in his year. It’s a poorly kept secret that he has a crush on Hermione Birch, seventh year Slytherin transfer. No one thinks he stands a chance with her, but apparently, according to Davies, Astor insists the feeling is mutual.

Tom’s revery is disturbed by Mulciber, who is loudly slurping at the chicken leg in his hands as if he’s trying to practice how to snog. Tom isn’t the only one who is irritated by this.

“Oi! Maxwell. For God’s sake, didn’t your mother teach you any table manners?” Nott whinges from across the table.

“Can’t,” Mulciber mutters through a mouthful of chicken, “she’s dead.”

Nott scoffs, cutting his meat into dainty pieces as if to prove a point. Malfoy chimes in.

“Honestly, mate, the way you eat that chicken is reminding me of Roslyn Schneider, that Ravenclaw sixth year I told you about? She’s not much to look at, but can she slurp some knob!” He pauses suddenly, and shoots a quick look at Tom, face seizing in panic.

Tom says nothing and turns away, his expression impassive. He doesn’t give a damn about Rosie Schindler, or whatever her name is. He sneaks another look at Hermione.

Tom watches with envy as she throws her head back, laughing at something someone says. He wishes he could make her laugh like that. He’s never seen so much of her teeth. Her eyes light up in a way Tom recognizes; she’s thought of something clever to say. She leans forward, and her curls bounce as her lips move, resulting in another burst of laughter from her part of the Slytherin table. She enjoys the effect; her wide grin resting easily on her pretty face, cheeks flushed with warm food and pleasure.

Then Astor slings his left arm over her shoulders, pulling her into him affectionately. Tom can only look on in horror. Hermione’s grin freezes, the corners of her mouth seemingly hooked to her earlobes to keep it in place. She shrinks in on herself.

Tom wants to shout. He wants to rage. She can remove his arm with a simple flick of her wand; he’s seen her magic enough to believe her capable of it. She can put him in his place. She should put him in his place. She should make an example of him. But she doesn’t for some reason. She fakes the rest of her laughs, and stuffs the rest of her plate into her mouth quickly so she has a reason to leave.  

He wonders why she feels the need to ingratiate herself with these morons when she already has his attention. It bothers Tom that she might do it out of a sense of kindness. It is unfathomable, completely impossible that she actually wants that arse to keep his arm there.

When she starts swinging her legs over the bench, much to the protests of her mixed group of friends—purebloods and half-bloods, second and third and fourth and fifth years—Astor doesn’t do the commonsense thing. He doesn’t let go. He weighs down her slim shoulders with his heavy arm, curling his beefy fingers into her shirt, wrinkling the fine pressed cotton. He tries to force her to stay seated, tries to pull her in closer. She stumbles briefly before righting herself. Tom sees red.

He decides to break that arm.

But not here, not yet.

-

It happens while Tom is talking to Ignatius Prewett.

They’re standing together in the entrance outside of the Great Hall when there is an ear-piercing shriek from the staircases above. Tom turns his head in time with Prewett, even though he already knows what causes it. Derrick Astor is dangling from the ceiling, suspended by his left arm. He kicks and squeals and claws at the invisible force holding him there. His left arm is stretched painfully to accommodate his weight, the wiry muscles bulging and contracting to maintain him while he swings like a bizarre mobile hung over the students below.

Teachers rush to him to help, but already there are too many students gathered underneath to watch the spectacle, causing traffic and congestion for those still trying to enter the Great Hall, and those attempting to leave breakfast.

The more the professors try counter-curses, charms, and spells to get him down, the tighter the curse winds around Astor’s wrist. The fine bones that make up that joint are likely pulverized by now. They’ll need to be completely regrown, Tom thinks clinically.

Finally, Astor’s arm snaps under the extended pressure, liberating itself from its socket. It cracks with a satisfying snap.

Tears stream down Astor’s face as he struggles violently to pull himself up to relieve the pressure on his left shoulder. Tom thinks it is the perfect moment to enter his mind.

He lets his voice reverberate in his brain, and Astor instinctively begins to look for him in the crowd, his eyes wild with terror. Tom doesn’t want to just hurt Astor.

He wants Astor to know why.

Don’t touch Hermione again.

-

Nobody suspects Tom; he was standing in front of the most beloved pureblood in Gryffindor house the entire time. His wand wasn’t even on his person. Nobody knows that Tom can lay a spell like a trap, marking it with a name so it doesn’t go off until the right person passes through. Even Malfoy, Mulciber, and Nott, who Tom ordered to ask Astor to walk with them to breakfast through the lower grand staircase rather than the usual one, did not know it was going to happen. They do what Tom says though, because they know what is good for them.

This is why it is so unusual when Hermione Birch stops him on the way to Ancient Runes later that day, tugging on his bag to get his attention. She opens her mouth to say something but then slams it shut, seeming to think better of it when she notices some of their classmates watching them with interest.

She walks away quickly.

She tries again before DADA, but this time she’s wiser. She pulls him by the sleeve into an alcove behind a statue of a one-eyed witch where they are sheltered away from prying eyes. She looks agitated. Tom feels regretful that she lets go of him once they are hidden.

“Hello, Hermione,” he smiles politely. He wants to tell her she looks very pretty today. He likes her hair; she’s wearing a French braid.

“Why did you do it?” She demands bluntly.

“Do what?”

“Don’t play stupid, Tom!” she snaps, “I know it was you.”

“He needed to be taught a lesson.” Tom says, dropping all pretense immediately.

“For what? Having a crush on me?” She’s staying quiet but she looks almost hysterical.

“For touching you.”

“That is not your place!” she hisses, and Tom is very confused.

“I’m confused.”

“Clearly!”

“You’re the one who said nice boys ask for permission.”

“That doesn’t mean we should snap their arms in three places if they don’t!”

“Matron Consanos will patch him up fine; it’s not like it was permanent.” Tom reasons.

She folds her head into her hands, and Tom is worried he said the wrong thing again.

“I truly am confused,” he repeats bravely, reaching out to pull her hands away from her face. His skin prickles pleasantly again, as it always does when he touches her.

She tries immediately to pull away, but it’s a half-hearted attempt and Tom doesn’t let go. She won’t face him though, her body turned at an awkward angle toward the wall next to her.

“Don’t you feel any guilt?”

“No.”

“Tom, you’re supposed to feel at least a little guilty.” She sounds exasperated, like she doesn’t know what to do with him.

“I don’t.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she’s working her jaw like she’s chewing back what she really wants to say.

“Did you feel guilty when you cursed Carrow? He’s still walking around with a strawberry on his forehead.” Tom challenges. He doesn’t understand why he’s meant to feel bad when she doesn’t.

“I do, a little.” She admits, turning crimson. Maybe she didn’t know that he knew about that.

“Then reverse the curse!” Tom argues.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Her eyes flash. “I don’t think you’re in a position to judge my moral compass, Tom! Derrick could have died!”

Tom looks down quickly, licking his lips. He doesn’t like that she uses Astor’s first name. He feels his displeasure ride up his spine and settle like a vice around his neck.

“Derrick wouldn’t have died. I wasn’t trying to kill him.”

They’re still holding each others hands, like some kind of twisted marriage ceremony. The one-eyed witch can be their officiant, Tom thinks blithely, as a steady current travels up the entire length of his arms. It’s both pleasurable and painful.

“He could have fell… there could have been some terrible accident—”

“Are you trying to give me ideas?”

“It’s not funny! It’s cruel and wrong!”

“I don’t care.” Tom lies, but anxiety bubbles inside his gut with self-doubt. Is he in the wrong? He doesn’t think he is, but he cannot be sure. Ever since he split his soul, it’s become very cumbersome to work out such emotions.

“You should! You went too far this time.”

“You have no idea how far I’m willing to go.”

“I think I’m getting a pretty decent impression.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“What—? No!”

“Okay,” Tom answers easily, not expecting her to accept, but wanting to ask anyway. She looks extremely flustered, and that alone seems worth the rejection. They’re still holding hands, although Tom’s are starting to feel painfully numb.

“I’m going to go.” She says, more to herself than him.

“We’re going to the same class.”

“Don’t sit next to me, then,” she counters.

“But we’re dueling today and I need a competent partner.”

She blushes at his compliment, but attempts to brush him off.

“May I suggest Mulciber? He is extremely competent.”

Tom snorts at the obvious attempt at evasion.

“Don’t partner with Lucretia,” he warns.

“She has it out for me, I know.”

“Do you now?” Tom asks, wondering if she knows why.

“She stole my hair cream last night,” Hermione explains, motioning to her hair, “Hence the braid.”

“I like the braid,” Tom supplies helpfully.

They pause in front of the classroom door. The bell is about to ring and the hallway is empty. Tom tries to think of something to say, but all he can think about is the way her hips move when he walks behind her. He wonders what they would feel like under his hands.

“You’re a hypocrite, you know,” he says lightly as he pulls open the door for her.

“I know.” She agrees, stepping inside.

There is only one empty desk left in the room, with two unoccupied chairs meant for one more dueling pair. Tom’s smile spreads over his face with gleeful satisfaction.

“Looks like we’ll be partners after all.”

Chapter Text

Hermione takes her seat without acknowledging him. Tom can tell she’s on edge by the way her spine stays pin straight against her chair. Tom, for his part, can’t stop the tapping of his foot against the hardwood floor, his leg bouncing violently as he tries to contain his anticipation.

He’s going to duel Hermione Birch.

He plans to destroy her.

He’s startled when she presses her hand against his thigh, right above his knee.

It feels incredible.

“Stop it,” she commands, looking him square in the eye before righting herself to face the board.

Tom leans forward, surreptitiously shifting his hips and stilling himself so she doesn’t have a reason to look down again. He loosens his tie; his neck feels uncomfortably hot. She’s suddenly too close and too far at the same time. He wonders if he can get away with adjusting himself, or perhaps putting his book on his lap, when Professor Merrythought walks in.

“Good morning, class.”

Tom obediently greets her with the rest of the students. Merrythought begins by waving her wand at the board, the words shields and counter-shields appearing there. She gives a brief lecture on the values of both tactics in battle. Tom uses it as an opportunity to clear his racing thoughts. The shield, she says, can be a valuable asset in a duel, but only if cast competently. The main drawback is that it takes energy to maintain, and is not entirely impenetrable. Exceptionally powerful wizards can damage your shield, allowing even physical forces to enter through.

The counter-shield is essentially any curse that is designed to pass through a competent shield, or destroy it. Many dark curses, including the unforgivables, cannot be blocked by physical shields.

She finishes with the conclusion that the shield is only as powerful as its caster. To destroy a shield is an extremely difficult task, one many wizards and witches never learn to do. It requires focus, determination, and most importantly, raw power.

Tom is practically squirming in his seat. Hermione touches his leg again, pushing her palm down flat against his thigh to force him to still his movements. This somehow makes the anxious energy in his body much, much worse.

Merrythought orders them to partner with their desk mate, and Tom covers Hermione’s hand with his. She pulls away, ignoring him as she stands to help the rest of their classmates clear the room for dueling practice.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom is a special one. It is a long cavernous room that extends for almost the length of the Quidditch pitch, though not quite so wide. The hardwood floors are stained oak, while the domed ceiling is made of the castle stone with large wooden beams that hold up the flaming torches that light up the room. Merrythought waves her wand at a cabinet near her and enormous plush cushions sail out to line the walls, marking where each pairing will stand.

“Okay, now! Before we begin, we’ll need a pair to do a demonstration. Volunteers?”

Tom raises his hand. “Hermione and I will volunteer, Professor.”

Eyebrows raise at the use of her first name, but no one says or does anything except exchange silent looks.

Hermione must know she is left with no choice, because she simply follows Tom to the front of the room, standing between the class and the professor.

“Now, Mr. Riddle. You may demonstrate the shield, and Miss Birch can attempt to cast a counter-shield. I will not tell you which spells to use; it is better to accustom ourselves to using our imaginations in a duel, especially at the NEWT level.”

She steps back. Tom turns to face Hermione, who is standing rigidly across from him. Tom moves back slightly to create some space between them, and she takes his cue to do the same. She waits.

He casts a protego. It’s almost lazy the way he does it since everyone is watching. She casts an equally lazy impedimenta, and it bounces off Tom’s shield, crashing into the floor and bouncing off a few feet away.

Professor Merrythought claps her hands happily, and instructs the rest of the class to take their positions by a cushion and begin practicing. Tom and Hermione stay where they are as the other students move further into the room. It feels almost like a joke to continue to practice, but practice they must. They take several turns casting, hexing, and blocking. It’s mindless and repetitive.

Tom is… agitated. This is not how he imagined this moment. This is boring. It is agonizingly slow. Tom feels like a cobra trapped in a wicker basket, forced to contain himself under the pressure of an unshakable lid. Tom has seen Hermione hex before. He knows from the prefect bath how fast she can be. It is as if she is doing her utmost to slow her movements now, as if she is using all her control to simply pretend to be a normal student, pretend to look as if she is learning.

It frustrates him. He’s sick of siphoning himself to fit through an inoffensive funnel, only allowing a modicum of his true power through. He knows in his soul—a quarter of the whole, it may be—that she does the same. He wants to free her.

When her impedimenta descends upon him, Tom moves his shield slightly so it bounces back at her, and not at the stone floor. She dodges effortlessly, moving only minimally to the right to avoid the spell, and it strikes the cushion behind her. The cushion erupts in a cloud of feathers, some of them landing in her hair.

She looks peeved, but nowhere near enough to get her to retaliate. She goes to repair the cushion, giving him a scornful look before she does.

Tom has had enough.

He wants to play.

Just as Hermione is turning back around, Tom casts a stinging hex at her cheek. It’s a low blow to strike an unsuspecting opponent. Almost as low as a hex to the back. Tom figures he’s only playing by her own rules. The force of his hex slaps her face almost physically, and her head swivels under its strength. Some of her hair escapes her braid, and the strands briefly cover her expression. Tom realizes his heart is beating in his throat. When she turns her face to meet his eyes, she looks murderous. A welt is already forming on her cheek, an angry red mark raised against her flawless skin.

She straightens up slowly, making no move to retaliate still. Tom is growing restless. He is itching for a response like some kind of fiend. He needs release.

He sends five more stinging hexes, fired in rapid succession at her arms, her legs, her face.

When Tom was six years old, he liked to read the old books in the orphanage library. They weren’t the most illustrious collection of fine hardcovers, but still, the old tattered works were better than nothing. Most of the other children his age hadn’t even memorized the alphabet, but Tom was already reading Voltaire, Mozi, and Ibn Sina. Tom was already thinking about his existence, his meaning, his place in the world.

There is a theory in muggle philosophy that had especially peaked his six-year-old interest. It is described by Hegel, a German muggle who lived in the nineteenth century. He defines a concept called totality, in which only the whole can be true, meaning its parts, phases, moments are only partial, which also make them partially untrue. Think of Hermione, for example. She is beautiful, but this is only one facet of her being, so it is a falsehood to describe her as a beautiful woman. She is also clever, and quick, and vengeful, but these are all only one fraction of her being, making them also partially untrue; equally false. The totality is the product of these parts, but the Truth of her is almost entirely unachievable under this philosophy. How can you see every part of a person at once?

Tom thinks she is dangerous. He thinks she is quick as a whip, as fast as the spring of a snake. Tom thinks she hides more than one secret in the ocean of her mind. Tom thinks she is a hurricane, a destructive force to be reckoned with. She is feminine, and soft, and feels incredible to touch. All this—just fragments of a unified piece. All truths, but also untruths, also lies.

As difficult as totality is to grasp—a concept that lets the idea of Hermione slip through Tom’s fingers—Hegel’s philosophy of negation weaves them together to trap her neatly in his fist. Negativity here signifies that the parts of the whole are to be considered, discarded, made fluid, adapted. To reveal her contradictions forces Tom to absolve her of any solid, unmoving identity. This is far from a mechanical denial, or a clinical opposition. Indeed, Tom challenges her intelligence, he sets himself against her secrets, casting himself as her opponent in her game, forcing her to confront him. By considering her haves and have-nots, he raises her to the whole. He captures her in a fuller sense than if he never crosses her at all.

This is how he justifies attacking her, anyway.

Tom watches as her eyes, black with fury, are illuminated by his rapidly approaching magic. She doesn’t flinch. In fact, she barely moves. Her only effort is the languid twirl of her wand, almost like a miniature baton dancing in her left hand. It moves once, in a perfect circle. It seems like an extremely strange thing to do in such a moment, and for a second, Tom thinks she intends to let him hit her, and why, he cannot fathom. It isn’t until he sees his own magic pause in midair inches from her nose, buzzing in place before it shoots backwards from whence it came, straight at his face, that he understands.

All this, in less than a second.

Tom jumps out of the way, hurling a dozen more stinging hexes at her, which she reverses in the same effortless manner. He hurls a colloshoo, a titillando, an entomorphis, a debilis, a buccina lingua. She simply twirls her wand, shooting them all back at him. Tom is jumping, and dodging, and diving to avoid his own attacks. He feels a single bead of sweat gliding down his brow, collecting in his eyelashes like a tear while she performs the laziest defensive magic he’s ever seen and it is brilliant; she’s brilliant. He casts a secare volnus, a not-quite-so-light slicing charm, swiping his wand at her in his impatience. She redirects it so fast he doesn’t have time to dodge out of the way completely. Tom feels it graze the side of his face. He lifts a hand to his cheek. His fingers pull away soaked in is his own blood.

She smirks. She’s barely trying.

Despite the rapid back and forth, they’re too far from the professor or the other students to garner much attention. In truth, the entire exchange lasts less than thirty seconds. Really, Tom was just testing the waters. He wants to see how much he has to push before she breaks.

Tom decides he likes the way she smirks. He wants to make her do it again.

He enters her mind. It is a smooth, black lake under a dusky sky. He doesn’t search for her thoughts as his feet sink in the wet sands. He simply tells her, his tone provoking.

That’s it?

Her response takes a moment to appear, the words floating distantly over the rippling water. If she is shocked by his intrusion, she does not reveal it on her face.

That’s it.

Her mouth is set in a grim line. She casts a protego, and stands behind it. It shimmers slightly before fully encasing her immobile form. She looks like she’s standing inside a shining crystal, as far removed from him as an unattainable, perfect diamond.

Tom aims his wand, sending a spell towards her despite her shield.

The thing about efficient counter-shields that Professor Merrythought failed to mention is that they are almost always cerebral in nature. This is why even the strongest shields fail so spectacularly against the unforgiveables; all three are entirely mental in effect. A shield does nothing to oppose attacks against the mind, and its corporeal benefits can be limited if the caster’s energy is drained.

Tom can find no fault in Hermione’s casting. She is absolutely elegant with her movements. She makes deflection seem effortless. She is discipline personified. However, if he had to give her a piece of feedback, it would be not to cast her protego so tightly around her body.

His confundo hits her right between the brows.

Her eyes shift out of focus, and Tom approaches her with the intention to slip her wand right out from her loosening grip. An all too easy of a win, if you ask him.

Just when his fingers brush her wand, she comes to.

“Stupefy!”

It’s the first time she has had to use a verbal command to cast, and Tom knows it is due to the effects of the confundus charm. It’s simple enough for Tom to dodge, but it serves her purpose of gaining a little bit of time to recollect herself fully. Tom ducks low as the red beam flies overhead and strikes the wall behind him, exploding the stone into large chunks and fine dust. His nose itches with a sneeze as he brandishes the rocks, hurling them towards her like misshapen bullets.

They don’t hit her, but they’re not meant to. They shred the cushions she’s already repaired and the feathers escape in a cloud around her once more. Her hair is completely out of her braid now, her hair tie lost somewhere in the rubble. She’s distracted and still a little confused, her eyes scanning the ground for her elastic. Tom sees what she meant about the hair cream, now. Her hair is truly wild.  

Tom doesn’t waste an instant. He enters her mind in a dangerously fast dive, plunging head first into dark waters. Nebulous thoughts and feelings vortex around him, but he doesn’t let it distract from his purpose. His aim is singular.

This time he knows to hold his breath.

What is your real name?

Hermione Granger.

It comes to him unbidden. He’s already read it before she can even raise a wall of water against him, before the first wave even hits. He’s out and safe on his feet on solid ground.

Immediately, he’s on the move. He lunges to the left, her curse creating a crater where he was just standing. She is furious. Tom doesn’t have to re-enter her mind to know that. Instead, she enters his.

HOW DARE YOU.

Tom is not accustomed to being assaulted in this way, and he holds his ear as if he can keep the thought that is not his from leaking out.

She does it again.

YOU SNEAK.

Tom runs. She’s casting and cursing and hexing and jinxing at an impossible speed though her lips never moves and her wand movements are minimal. They are no longer confined to their cushions, and he’s sprinting in zig-zags down the full length of the room. It’s the only way to avoid her determined strikes. She’s walking behind him with measured steps, and her swift long strides remind Tom of a tiger stalking its prey.

YOU SNAKE.

She whips her wand with a curse that lifts him off his feet. He’s about to slam head first into the ceiling before he casts a pillow charm that cushions the blow, sending him reeling back toward her as if bouncing off an upside-down trampoline. He blasts a burst of pure fire at her on his way down, hot as dragon breath. She counters it with a wave of quaffle-sized hail that melts on contact. Tom falls through the wall of water and slams into her. They land neatly on the ground, wet droplets clinging to Tom’s hair. She’s gasping for breath under him, but still, she has the energy to mentally enter him, just to tell him off.

BASTARD.

Tom laughs. She’s not wrong.

He scrambles off her as fast as he can, because he senses the shadow of something growing behind him, and he barely makes it out of the way when a heavy wave of ice-cold water laps at her feet. She picks herself up from the floor, still in total command. Tom feels a thrill that she can still attack after such a physical blow; that she still strikes when she’s laid out flat on her back.

He is enamored. She uses both her wand hand and her spare to raise another miniature tsunami that almost touches the lofty ceiling, shifting her weight to send it reeling towards him once more. The sounds of the sea ring in Tom’s ears as he clambers away. He throws a tripping hex over his shoulder as he slides off to the side, slamming into the wall, and swivels back to hit her with a quick petrificalis totalis. She inches her head slightly to the left and avoids it completely. He’s at the ready to throw ten more.

While Tom is dexterous and agile, flying around the room like a moth trapped in a torch, Hermione’s feet are planted to the floor, steadfast and firm. She barely wavers, shifting her weight around her center of gravity almost imperceptibly as she strikes and dodges. But her hair. Her hair seems to have a life force of its own, curls flying around her like the twisting snakes of an angry medusa.

Tom can only admire. Gorgeous, he sends her. The thought is sensual and slow, slipping into her mind softly, barely creating a ripple in the eerily calm waters of her mind.

It enrages her further.

She lifts her wand high above her head, and slices the air in his direction. Tom watches in amazement as a visible wall of turbulent wind lifts all the scattered feathers into the air. He hastily casts a protego maxima to protect himself from its cutting force. The winds whistle around his wide shield as feathers swirl around him, obstructing his vision. Tom grits his teeth and prepares himself for the certain pain he will have to endure when he drops his shield for his counterattack. He’s struck with what feels like a thousand papercuts when he transfigures the feathers into birds, his cloak billowing violently behind him.

He’s absolutely freezing. His teeth clatter painfully as his snow-white canaries fly kamikaze with pointed beaks right at Hermione’s head.

Before they can land the blow, they dissolve into whisps of silly string, falling harmlessly to the floor.

Tom changes tactics and each string is transfigured into albino snakes with glinting rubies for eyes, slithering rapidly towards Hermione, one wrapping menacingly around her ankle and sliding up her leg.

Like a conductor she waves her wand, freezing all of them in place, before crashing her wand down and shattering them to pieces.

She kicks her leg to loosen the fragments of stone leftover from the feather that was a bird, then a snake. She rolls her neck, cracking the vertebrae, and pulls her shoulders back before she returns to her even stance.

Tom pauses long enough to watch. The effect is incredibly sultry.

Tom lifts his arm to hex her, giddy with anticipation, and he’s grinning, and laughing, and dodging and running and rolling. He’s having fun. He’s practically manic with sheer delight. Tom wants her to know he’s fast too, but in her haste to be quicker Hermione sends her curses at a breakneck speed, using her entire momentum on her attack, which is exactly the trap he is laying for her. Tom casts a potent protego totalum, not siphoning his power at all, and it grows like a globe around him until its shimmering haze reaches her, knocking her back against the wall, her head cracking against it roughly.

She does not drop her wand. Tom lunges forward to help her, not meaning to hit her so hard. He only meant to push her hard enough to surprise her, to get her to loosen her hold on her weapon. She falls forward on her hands and knees, her hair dragging on the floor in front of her face. Just as Tom reaches her to help her up, she rocks back on her knees, whipping her head back so fast her long curls lick at Tom’s chin.

Her expelliarmus lands.

His wand flies neatly into her hand.

Tom stares at the thirteen-and-a-half-inch yew tucked safely next to her shorter vine wood, not fully comprehending that his wand is in her possession and not his.

His gaze shifts as he stands over her. She returns his stare with defiance. Tom is torn between bloodthirst and all-consuming lust. She is still on her knees. Only she would have the audacity to win a duel in this way.

He wants to wipe that look off her face. He’s so close. All he’d have to do is tangle his fingers in her wild hair; pull her until she’s flush against his lips. He wonders what that carefully bridled tongue will feel like in his mouth if she doesn't have to curb her appetite, doesn't have to have such vigilant restraint.

A furious voice destroys his contemplation. They turn their heads in tandem to face the incensed Professor Merrythought. She walks towards them rapidly from the other end of the cavernous room. It is the first time Tom realizes the sheer destruction their duel has inflicted.

“DETENTION!” Professor Merrythought bellows, and Tom notices that the rest of the class is huddled together under a powerful shield charm of her own.

Feathers and dust litter the floor. Chunks of stone and pebbles line the walls, and an entire beam is hanging from the ceiling as if holding on by one last splinter. It waves back and forth in the center of the room, dangling dangerously. Most of the torches have gone out. Everything is wet. Parts of the floor are scorched, the beautiful oak boards charred and black.

“DETENTION EVERY NIGHT FOR A MONTH!” She continues, unable to express her displeasure fully.

“Headmaster’s office. NOW!”

Chapter Text

“Well,” Headmaster Dippet begins awkwardly, eyeing the long gash on Tom’s cheek warily, “Well, Mr. Riddle! I did not expect this from you. Professor Merrythought says you and Miss Birch have created quite a mess in her classroom.”

Tom resists the urge to correct the headmaster; the name Granger just barely contained between his lips.

“I’m very sorry, sir.” Tom looks down apologetically. His heart is still racing with pure adrenaline. He thinks if he wasn’t wearing a shirt, he’d be able to see his heart aching to leap out of his flesh.

“Perhaps you two can take a moment to explain yourselves?” Dippet summons two chairs toward them, and Tom takes his seat quietly next to Hermione. The energy between them is tense. Tom tries to smooth things over.

“It’s all a misunderstanding, sir,” Tom begins, hoping Hermione lets him do the talking, “Professor Merrythought asked us to practice shields and counter-shields today. Hermione is very advanced, sir, as I am sure you already know, and I was so eager to keep at her pace, I got a little carried away.” He ducks his head in mock-embarrassment.

He can practically feel Hermione’s contempt radiating at his side.

“Is that what happened, Miss Birch?” Dippet turns to Hermione, scrutinizing her.

“No, sir.”

Tom’s head swivels so fast he thinks he’ll have whiplash.

“Oh? What is your version of events?” Dippet clasps his hands together over his desk, looking at Hermione intently.

“He was goading me, sir. So, I let him have it.”

Tom thinks his eyes may fall out of his head, so he lowers his gaze and stares at the floor. He’s flushed down to the chest. The insolence of this girl.

“Did you goad her, Mr. Riddle?” Dippet is studying Tom now. He’s got this strange expression on his face, like he’s never taken the time to really look at him before.

“No, sir.” Tom answers dutifully, taking care to appear apprehensive. He turns slowly to meet Hermione’s profile. Even in this angle, she’s stunning. He wishes he could strangle her. “I’m very sorry you misinterpreted my enthusiasm, Hermione. I certainly didn’t mean to offend you.”

His tone is carefully controlled. He sounds almost sincere. Tom thinks he delivers a very convincing performance, if he can say so himself.

“You didn’t offend me.” Hermione snaps, not playing her part correctly at all, “You were being annoying and overstepped, so I put you in your place.”

This little speech is followed by a beat of silence. Tom clenches his jaw.

“I apologize.” Tom grits out through his teeth. He doesn’t just want to strangle her; he’s going to.

“You don’t at all sound apologetic.” She flips her hair over her shoulder, her haughty nose in the air.

“Would you like me to beg?” Tom demands, breaking character.

“If you think that’s necessary.”

“Now, now.” Dippet raises a hand to halt their rapid exchange of terse words, “I sense a real animosity between you both. How unusual, as I’m sure Mr. Riddle is one of our finest students, Miss Birch. I chose him for the Head Boy position myself. I’m sure you simply got off on the wrong foot.” He gives Hermione a stern look.

She doesn’t have the decency to look properly chastised.

Tom is losing his temper. She always has to have the last word. He catches her eye for a moment before sending her a silent warning—play along or I won’t play nice.

Since when have you ever been nice? she asks back.

It sends a thrill through Tom at how easily she picks up this mental back and forth.

“I believe I am quite of Professor Merrythought’s opinion that what happened today merits detention. Perhaps one month is a little excessive, but we can always review the matter at a later date.”

Tom is barely listening to what the headmaster is saying. He focuses on Hermione again.

You don’t respond to nice. You only play when I’m mean.

I don’t want to play at all, is her reply.

Her legilimency is a little rough, but Tom likes the way her words grate against his brain like a rugburn. It creates a stinging pain that leaves a tender little reminder of what caused it in the first place.

Hermione shifts in her chair as Dippet drones on, crossing one leg over another. The motion exposes one creamy thigh. She catches Tom looking at the swell of her leg and pulls down her skirt until it covers her knees. Dippet is saying something to him now, but Tom guesses it doesn’t require a response if he manages to appear adequately contrite.

I want to see more of your skin.

It’s a risky thing to say, considering she’s still clenching her wand in her palm, but Tom can’t help himself. He holds his breath.

Keep dreaming.

I will, he says, I do.

She rolls her eyes. Headmaster Dippet notices, and incorrectly assumes she’s unhappy with his reprimand.

“Now, Miss Birch. Please, behave yourself. Detention with Mr. Riddle will hopefully allow you to see his merits as a fellow student, housemate, and friend. I hope you two learn to get past your differences. You can start by cleaning the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Professor Merrythought will be waiting for both of you tonight at eight o’clock. Come prepared to work hard. No magic will be allowed.”

They are dismissed. Tom barely has time to stand before Hermione is already exiting the room, apparently in a rush to get away from him. Tom slinks back, letting her have her space. He turns back to the headmaster and smiles politely.

He’s got damage control to do.

“Headmaster Dippet,” he begins, “I want to apologize again for my behavior. I know this is very unlike me.”

Dippet examines Tom’s face critically before waving over a teapot and matching china cups. He pours the aromatic tea quietly, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He motions for Tom to return to his seat.

“Milk and sugar?” Dippet asks.

“Yes, please.”

Tom waits patiently as the headmaster prepares his drink. He knows the most important part of winning people over is allowing silences like this to stretch on without betraying your own discomfort. It is always better to allow people to make their own conclusions.

Lies are easier to accept if they are of your own making.

“I remember when I was your age, Tom.” Dippet says, handing him the cup. Tom takes a dutiful sip. It tastes like milky piss. “So young, filled with endless energy, excited to take on the world. Intelligent. Capable. But also, very green in some respects.” He looks up thoughtfully. One of the portraits snores loudly, and Tom restrains a smile, trying to appear serious.

“I can’t imagine you that way, sir.” Tom says, doing his utmost to appear deferential.

Dippet smiles warmly at him. “Ah, well. We all start somewhere, dear boy. I was a student here once, too, and Head Boy like yourself! I remember those days fondly now.”

He absently mixes his tea with his spoon once more, and then takes a deep drink.

Tom waits.

“Miss Hermione Birch is very intelligent.”

The non sequitur throws Tom off, and he has to think of how to reply.

“Yes, sir. She is.”

“And she is in many of your classes, I understand.”

“All but arithmancy and herbology, sir.”

“Yes, yes. I remember the discussion around that.” He waves a hand as if dismissing the thought, but Tom yearns to know more. He is on the edge of his seat as he attempts to think of some way to get Dippet to tell him everything about this so-called discussion.

Dippet fixes Tom with a stern look, and Tom’s words die in his throat. Dippet has never looked at him like that before. Tom has always been his star pupil, his bona fide favorite. Would it really take only one incident to destroy years of Tom’s hard work to get into his good graces? He feels sick. Will he be demoted from Head Boy? Everyone will know; he’ll be publicly humiliated. He is humiliated, disgraced, snubbed, rebuked—

“And I’m sure you’ve noticed she’s a very pretty young lady as well.”

Tom opens and closes his mouth like a fish. Dippet takes this as a sign to keep going.

“At your age, these types of fancies will happen and indeed, I am of the belief that they are rather important for a young man’s development. Of course, some hair pulling is bound to happen on the school yard, so to speak, but I expect more maturity from you, Tom.”

“I wouldn’t pull her hair, sir.” Tom says stupidly.

Dippet waves him off. “No, no, my boy. It is an expression; I know you wouldn’t actually—. What I mean to say is,” he tries again, “perhaps your little duel got a little out of hand because you like her. There are better ways to express that.”

“I don’t like her.” Tom answers quickly. He’s not even sure why he denies it, because he does. He likes her very much.

The headmaster obviously doesn’t believe him. He smiles indulgently, “Be that as it may, I expect you to act much kinder to her from this point forward. Remember, Tom, she has only been here just over a month now. She doesn’t have the advantages you have, and you would be surprised at how much the two of you have in common.”

Tom cannot help himself. “What do we have in common?” He blurts, quickly adding, “…Sir.”

Dippet looks at him knowingly, as if to say, I knew it. However, out loud he says, “You’ll have to talk to her to find out.” He finishes his tea, eyeing Tom’s almost untouched cup. Tom stands, “Thank you sir, for the delicious tea and the advice. It is much appreciated.”

“Of course, Tom, of course!” He stands, “You know you can come here anytime, if you need to talk.”

Tom bows awkwardly, muttering his thank yous again, and leaves without another word.

-

Hermione is instantly the most popular girl in school. It’s the first time Tom has ever been bested in a duel, and the technicality of the win doesn’t slow the wagging of tongues. Within hours, Hermione goes from a dark witch who was expelled from Beauxbatons for refusing to adhere to their rules, to Grindelwald’s personal apprentice, to his international spy, to French femme fatale extraordinaire.

Half the school is convinced Tom is afraid of her, while the other half fervently argues that he is actually in love. Nott tells Tom that he heard a rumor in the prefect quarters that Tom and Hermione have been having a torrid affair every summer for years, and only dueled because they recently broke up after she moved to Scotland.

Avery corrects this rumor—they started their affair this year, but Tom is cheating on Hermione with Head Girl, so that’s why they had the duel.

Malfoy counters that he heard from Lucretia Black who heard from Julia Sandal in Hufflepuff who has it on very good authority that a certain first year in an undisclosed house actually saw Hermione and Tom snogging in the Astronomy tower just this morning, so the whole duel is just a cover story because they don’t want to get caught, since Tom is obviously dating Head Girl Yvette Wilkens.

Mulciber simply punches anyone he hears talking about it.

Tom doesn’t mind the rumors so much. He hears an especially good one about the two of them losing their virginities to each other in a broom closet in Pringle’s office, and almost laughs.

When he’s alone, he rolls her name over and over on his tongue, trying to get used to the waves it produces. Hermione Granger. She pushes against his teeth. He holds the syllables in his mouth like a snake that unhinges its jaw. He wants to swallow her whole.

Hermione Granger, a muggleborn in Slytherin House. He feels smug about uncovering some of her mysteries. He thinks over the name Birch and how awkward and clunky it sounds now that he knows her real surname. Granger. Tom decides he will guard her name like his own. Not to protect her, but because he likes having it all to himself—the only one who knows this truth about her.

He wants to tell her, but he can’t. Ever since they were dismissed from the headmaster’s office, she is nowhere to be found.

The irony of her avoiding him does not escape Tom. He waits for her after every class, but she manages to slip past him each time. She doesn’t come to lunch or dinner, and when Tom sneaks into the kitchens, the house elves all swerve his questions expertly, refusing to reveal whether or not she’s been there today for food. Tom swipes a biscuit from the counter, and tucks it into his sleeve as he leaves. He stuffs it into his mouth later, but it tastes like gravel.

She can’t avoid him forever.

They have detention tonight.

-

Tom is alone as he walks to Professor Merrythought’s office after dinner. His steps echo in the abandoned castle corridors as he thinks about Hermione. He wants to communicate with her using legilimency again. Detention will be the perfect place for them to practice.

He wants to ask her about her occlumency. He likes being in her mind when the lake is shallow and serene. He wants to know who taught her how to keep out intruders by choking them with her liquid thoughts. He’s even willing to admit he’d never heard of such a technique before.

Tom’s own occlumency is subpar. He tries to keep his thoughts and experiences in neatly packaged boxes, categorized like a library card catalog. This allows him to play his character well—Head boy, promising wizard, excellent student, model behavior—except sometimes he is overcome with what feels like an explosion under the carefully organized register. It sends his memories and emotions every which way, resulting in blackout rage. He has trouble even remembering those chaotic moments. Thankfully, they never happen in public.

While he is average as an occlumens, his legilimency is like a fine-edged knife—sharp enough to pierce without notice, no matter how deep the cut.

He still remembers when he first accidentally discovered this talent. The winter holidays are always miserable, but his twelfth birthday was especially so. The orphanage caretaker had gone out of her way to bake him a cake, which she hadn’t done since the cave incident when he was seven years old. Perhaps being away at a boarding school for a semester had made her forget what Tom could do. Tom was excited; he rarely ever received such tokens of affection.

Some of the older boys tried to ambush him to steal it. One boxed Tom’s ears so hard he’d lost his hearing for a week. Tom knew he could exact revenge, but he wasn’t allowed to use his wand outside of school. This had frustrated him to such a degree that he had lost control of his magic. He entered the strongest bully’s mind, screaming at the top of his lungs until something went pop.

The bully had gotten a terrible headache after that, and the caretaker had to send him to the hospital. The doctors said he’d suffered a ruptured aneurysm. Tom hadn’t gotten in trouble, but the older boys avoided him after that.

When Tom came back to school, the first place he headed to was the library. He’d learned everything he could about mind-related magic, and decided that he’d unintentionally performed legilimency. Tom still has that thin pamphlet on the subject tucked safely in his trunk. He stole it from the library more than five years ago now. He intends to keep it for life. It is one of those keepsakes that one holds onto forever, because it marks a pivotal moment in one’s life, a time of self-discovery.

He’d been determined at age twelve to become an expert at the obscure branch of knowledge, feeling convinced that it would be as easy as speaking to snakes. It wasn’t. At first, it was like he had a block he couldn’t surpass, like that feeling of irrational fear right before plucking out a loose tooth. Will it hurt? Will it bleed?

Becoming a legilimens is like ripping all teeth out at once. One had to have a complete disregard for the possibility of accompanying pain. And really, the soreness is not so intolerable—indeed, it feels kind of good. It reminds him of what he’s done, like a tender bruise reminds an athlete of a difficult triumph.

At first, he was entering minds so sloppily that the targets would notice. They wouldn’t know it was him, for really, how could a first year trying to mix potions know the reason for their massive headache was Tom Riddle behind them, ramming into their brain like a wrecking ball? He used to be thrilled with just learning their current thoughts. He completely lacked the finesse required to comb through a mind and extract the information he wanted. Nonetheless, he was having fun. Discovering, exploring.

He was a wizard.

It was an exhilarating time.

Now, legilimency is as easy as breathing for Tom. It is a new thing to correspond with another using this old skill. He’s read about it before, knew it was possible in theory, but he’s never had anyone to do it with.

Not before Hermione.

He knocks on the classroom door, and hears a distant “Come in!” Tom walks in to find Hermione is already there, standing with Professor Merrythought in the center of the room.

“Mr. Riddle. How kind of you to join us,” Professor Merrythought greets him coldly. Tom pretends not to notice.

“I apologize, Professor.” Tom says, “I was under the impression we were meeting at 8 o’clock.”

“It is eight oh two, Mr. Riddle.” Merrythought says sternly, and Tom checks his timepiece. It is definitely reading fifty-nine minutes past seven.

“I’m very sorry, Professor. My watch is a little behind.” He explains, motioning to his wrist.

“See to it that you fix it, Mr. Riddle, for I will not be tolerating tardiness in the future.” She holds out her hand, and Tom understands that she means to confiscate his wand. It is torture to hand it over to her, and he is only able to do so because he sees Hermione’s in her hand already.

“Alright. Professor Dumbledore and I have only repaired the beam, as we agreed that it was a danger to everyone’s general safety for two students to do it.”

Tom holds his tongue dutifully.

“You two are responsible for the rest of this mess, however. Brooms and mops are in the cupboard. I expect the floors to be spotless by the end of the night. You have until curfew.”

Curfew? She expects them to be cleaning for almost three hours? Every night for a month straight? Tom is indignant, but he does not let it show. The punishment is unreasonable, but it’s not worth arguing about. The best course of action is to go along with it quietly and hope that Dippet will put a stop to it all after a few days of suffering and adequate show of contrition.

Hermione walks over to the cupboard without so much as a look towards him, pulling out a broom for herself. She begins sweeping silently in the farthest corner. Before Tom can attempt to settle near her, he is stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. Professor Merrythought looks at him with pure ire before pointedly glaring at the opposite end of the room.

Tom follows orders, doing his utmost to appear meek and remorseful. Irritatingly, she watches him like a hawk, her beady eyes never letting him out of her sight.

He gets to work. He amuses himself by trying to probe Hermione’s mind at such a distance. He isn’t able to enter her head, not fully. It takes effort to stretch his awareness, but he finds he enjoys the practice. It feels like repeatedly throwing out a line to fish, but never quite getting close enough to the deep end to catch anything of substance. He surreptitiously sweeps a little faster in order to close in on the center of the room.

He finds himself wishing again that Professor Merrythought would just leave. She is grading papers, but frequently lifts her head to monitor their progress. Tom thinks bitterly on how only a few days ago, Merrythought was begging him to show interest in Hermione. Now, she is determined to prevent him from even looking at her.

His repeated efforts at forming a mental connection with Hermione are beginning to produce side effects. A head-splitting migraine begins to pound at Tom’s temples. Hermione’s mental verbiage is just out of reach, almost like the crackling static of a faraway radio station.

Despite his growing headache, Tom sweeps frantically to get closer to her still. He tries again to catch her eye, but it’s no use. She won’t look at him; his messages fall on deaf ears.

The rest of detention drags on in this frustrating manner. Professor Merrythought dismisses them about ten minutes before curfew, ordering them to return at seven the next evening, as she has an appointment late that night and plans to dismiss them early.

Tom wonders what kind of appointment she might have at ten at night, but he keeps his mouth shut. Hermione charges out of the room the moment they are dismissed, and Tom has to half-run to catch up to her.

“Hermione!” He calls her name, but she does not slow down.

Tom falls back, stung, though not willing to admit it to himself.

-

For an entire week, Tom is forced to put up with the torture that is detention. He isn’t even allowed to skip them for prefect meetings, and instead is forced to allow Yvette to do all the planning for the upcoming ball. This is a silver lining, albeit a small one.

The DADA room is very quickly cleaned, and thus, Merrythought thinks of new imaginative ways to punish them. They’re forced to polish all of the trophies in the display cabinets, dust bookshelves and portraits, and service school brooms. She never leaves them unsupervised, not even for a moment.

Once, while they are scrubbing cauldrons, Merrythought catches Tom eyeing Hermione’s backside as she uses her entire body to aid her movements. She immediately shouts at Tom to mind his own work, causing Hermione to smirk at him. Tom turns around without a word, feeling warm for more reason than one.

This is the entirety of the attention Hermione gives him. She won’t speak to him, won’t look at him, won’t even smile. It’s driving him mad.

That’s when he starts to plan. He simply cannot withstand her silence much longer.

-

Tom grabs Avery before breakfast the next morning.

“Cillian. I need to talk to you.”

Avery ducks his head and follows Tom into his room. Tom locks the door.

“What is it, Tom? Is everything alright?” He has a look of pure adoration in his eyes. Tom knows Avery feels proud to have been singled out by him. When Avery started Hogwarts, he was the runt of the litter. Even though his name held value to the other Slytherins, he was small and shy, which made him appear useless in their eyes. He was bullied in his own house, let alone the ruthless harassment that happened in mixed classes. Tom found him being pushed around by some Gryffindor boys outside of the potions classroom half-way through his first year. They were telling him his blood was worthless when he was so shite at magic—apparently Avery had tried to use his lineage to defend his right to attend Hogwarts. Tom considered letting them teach him a lesson in showing off, but ultimately decided to step in.

He’d given them all rat tails and ears. When they opened their mouths, they could only squeak.

Avery had been wrapped around his little finger ever since.

“Everything is fine, Cillian. You mustn’t worry about me.” Tom gives him an affectionate smile. While some need respect, grandiosity, self-importance to be manipulated, Avery is starved for love. He is the youngest of four accomplished brothers. He craves praise and attention. Tom gives it to him readily, as long as he stays in line. “Actually, I need your help.”

“My help?”

“Yes. Merrythought has it out for me since the dueling incident with Birch.”

“What a bitch.” Avery says passionately. Tom smiles at his eagerness.

“Exactly my sentiments.”

“Do you want me to… hurt her?” he shuffles nervously. Tom knows he doesn’t have the stomach for it, but he does his best to emulate the bloodlust of the older boys.

“That won’t be necessary,” Tom reassures him, thinking privately that Avery would be the last person he would ask if maiming the professor was his plan. “I think only a distraction is in order.”

Avery’s shoulders slump infinitesimally in relief. Even after three years under Tom’s tutelage, he’s still quite useless at being covert in his emotions.

“What do you have in mind?”

-

That evening, Tom goes to detention as usual. They’re tasked with writing lines on the chalkboard today, wiping them off when they’ve been filled, and starting over. It is a pointless exercise, clearly indicative of that fact that Merrythought is running out of ideas.

About an hour into this brain-numbing dullness, a distant boom! rocks the room, causing a fine dust to rain down on them from the tremoring ceiling.

“Stay here!” Merrythought barks at them as she rushes out of the room towards the source of the noise.

Tom straightens, brushing dust off his uniform. From the sound of it, Avery did rather well. He checks his wristwatch: it’s exactly 9 o’clock—identical to what is displayed on the clock that hangs above the professors now abandoned desk.

He turns his attention to Hermione, who is still writing her lines as if unaware of the sudden shift in the room’s population.

“Hello.”

She ignores him, but this is expected.

“Not feeling very welcoming this evening, Granger?”

She gives him a nasty look, as if she’s caught him picking at the scum in between his teeth at the dinner table. “Had your little cronies create a diversion, Riddle?”

Tom smiles. He’s smug. “They come in useful sometimes.”

“I’m sure they do.” She punctuates her words by stabbing her chalk into the board, causing small bits of chalk dust to crumble as she dots her is.

Tom walks over, standing slightly behind her. He hopes it makes her tense. He reaches for a loose strand of her hair, and strokes the soft curl in between his forefinger and thumb. He feels nothing but the silky tendrils tickle his hand. Her shoulders stiffen, but she does not stop writing.

“Don’t touch my hair.” She intones.

Tom lets go, turning her to face him. He holds her chin instead. He feels the pins and needles now that he touches direct skin. She looks down, licking her lips.

“Let go of me.” Her voice is flat, but her skin is so very warm.

He acquiesces easily, releasing her face to run his hands over the slopes of her shoulders and down her arms. He feels only the rough cloth of her uniform blazer. The experiment comes to a close when he settles his hand around her pale throat. His palm starts humming with electricity again.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts casually, “We should put this all behind us.”

“Is that so?” Her tone matches his; conversational, light.

“Yes. You ought to forgive me for my previous intrusion; I can’t help myself when I’ve sniffed out a lie.”

“Are you a dog, Tom?”

He leers at her. “In more ways than one.”

“And what if I decide not to forgive you this time?” She can’t be serious. Not when his hand is wrapped around her fragile neck.

“It’s in your best interest if you do.”

“Oh?”

“Hmm.” Tom hums, leaning forward to unbutton the first button on her collar. Then, thinking better of it, unbuttons another. She doesn’t move, probably astonished at how forward he is being. Tom pauses to study her, before reaching behind her to grab her loose ponytail. He gently unties her elastic, letting her hair fall loose down her back.

“Are you quite finished?”

“You’re very beautiful, Hermione Granger.” Tom tells her seriously.

She doesn’t say anything in response to that.

“What secrets must you have in that pretty little head.” Tom reaches into his sleeve and pulls out his wand. She widens her eyes briefly, before flickering up to meet his. They both gave wands to Professor Merrythought in the beginning of detention, but Tom hadn’t given his. Mulciber is at Quidditch practice all night, preparing for the match against Gryffindor this weekend. He wouldn’t even notice his wand is gone, and would certainly never know that Tom has briefly transfigured it to look like his.

Hermione’s spine stiffens. “I will drown you,” she promises.

Tom knows she’s true to her word, but he doesn’t intend to enter her mind right now. He doesn’t need to clue her in on that, however.

“What happened to your superior sense of morality?” He asks.

“I’m not going to go easy on you anymore, Riddle.”

“Good,” he practically purrs. It was just as he thought. The tip of his wand does fit perfectly into the hollow of her throat.

“What do you want?” she grits her teeth, her arms stiff at her side as he turns his wand in the perfect divot. It fits better than a cue stick does in its chalk. Tom wonders if it feels so satisfying because he likes turning the tables on her. Let her feel what it’s like to be threatened for once.

“Stop avoiding me.” He demands.

“I’m not.”

Tom pushes his wand in deeper at the lie.

She swallows.

“Try again.” Tom prompts.

She opens her mouth, then out of nowhere, swings at him as hard as she can with the chalkboard eraser hidden in her fist. Tom, being about a head taller than her and at least fifty pounds heavier, easily catches her hand in midair, causing a cloud of white dust to erupt over them both. He pushes her backward, slamming her hard against the board. Their hands are clasped together around the eraser still.

“Stop testing my patience, Hermione.”

She looks up at him with pure hatred, her nostrils flaring. He’s got her right hand pinned so far above her head that she has to stand on her tip toes to keep from being painfully stretched. Tom’s other hand is still busy pointing his wand at her throat.

She doesn’t seem to like the change in position very much, because she attempts to yank his tie with her free hand. It’s a last-ditch attempt, easily blocked with Tom’s elbow.

“Just curse me already!” She snaps.

“Now why would I want to do a thing like that?” Tom asks, enjoying the way she struggles. Her anxiety is flowing off of her in waves. It feeds something dark inside him. It gnaws at his gut, creating a bottomless ache.

“You’re a sadist.” She accuses.

“Can you blame me?” Tom asks, adding, “You look good when you’re pinned down.”

“Fuck you.”

Tom tsks at her. “Always resorting to such vulgarities when you know you’ve lost.” He leans in to smell her hair. Vanilla, tar. Sweet, earthy, bitter. Comforting and warm. Raw and acrid. He brushes his nose lovingly against the shell of her ear. She never makes any sense.

“I never lose.”

Her confidence is offset by the compulsive way she swallows against his wand, again and again. Her fear only increases his pleasure. Curious about this new type of power, Tom closes his lips over her earlobe. They too buzz with the energy contained in her flesh. He barely sucks at the sensitive skin. It’s unbelievably soft. Soft enough to rip to shreds in his mouth.

“Come, Hermione,” He cajoles, “I know you’re dying to be friends.”

“Friends?” she asks. Her incredulity would be more believable if she hadn’t angled her head away from him, as if to offer him more of her neck. Now Tom is the one smirking. How easy it is to make her as vulnerable to him as he is to her.

“Yes,” Tom murmurs against her skin as he gently runs his nose over the slide of her neck; he finds he likes to tease as much as he likes to taste.

She turns her head to meet his gaze. “I’m not a friendly type of girl.”

He wraps his free arm around her waist, resisting the urge to ravage her mouth. “Luck would have it that that’s the type of girl I like.”

She stiffens, as if reading his intent as he stares down at her lips. Desperate to distract her, Tom presses his wand down while pulling tighter at her waist. He’s not willing to let her turn to stone after he’s experienced how soft and yielding her body can be.

“Come to the ball with me,” he asks abruptly.

“No.” She answers just as unthinkingly.

“Then promise me a dance.”

“Will you let me go?” she bargains.

“Absolutely.”

“Then fine.”

Tom pulls his wand away slowly, reluctant to let her out of his grasp. He thinks she’s very good at acting unaffected, but he’s gotten much better at reading her now. He leans against a desk behind her and crosses his arms, settling in to watch her. Hermione returns to her lines dutifully, as if Merrythought is still breathing over her shoulder. Or maybe she’s trying to prove she isn’t afraid to turn her back to him.

“I grew up in an orphanage.” Tom tells her, desperate for her attention.

She pauses, but does not turn around. After a brief moment, she continues writing on the board. “I’m sorry to hear that.” she finally says. 

“My mother was a pureblood witch. She fell in love with her handsome muggle neighbor.”

Hermione says nothing still. Yet, Tom knows she is listening.

“She was ugly, and he didn’t notice her. She grew desperate and brewed a love potion. As you can guess; it didn’t end well for her.”

If she finds this information disturbing, she does nothing to betray herself. Does she know he’s testing her? Or is he testing himself? Does she think he’s trying to level the playing field, now that he knows so many of her secrets? Maybe he is; Tom is not sure. He’s seized with the sudden urge to tell her everything. But even this is too much.

Hermione only writes.

I must not be rash.

“I often wonder at her desire,” Tom continues despite the scream invading his innards, telling him firmly to stop, “Her hunger overcame her sense of dignity. I don’t think her appetite for him was ever satisfied, probably because she knew he was acting under the compulsion of the love potion she was feeding him regularly.”

I must not be destructive.

“Eventually, she stopped giving it to him. She was pregnant with me. Her hormones must have confused his contrived eroticism for true devotion. He left her, disgusted with her and himself, indifferent to my existence. For a long time, I could not comprehend such devastating lust. She died because of him, you know.” Tom moves closer until he’s standing right behind her, his fingers ghosting over her sides. His voice sounds strained even to his own ears.

I’m sorry for what I have done.

“But I think I understand her better now.” 

He forgets himself as he wraps Hermione’s hair around his fist, pulling it until she staggers back against his chest. His other arm winds around her hips so that the swell of her skirt is pressed against his groin. He forces her head roughly forward until he’s leaning over her, his fingers still tangled in her curls, cradling her skull. Her cheek leaves a long grey smudge on the board through her stupid writing. He bites her exposed neck, kissing and licking the sensitive skin until she moans out loud.

She finally drops her chalk.

-

When Professor Merrythought arrives, they’re both obediently writing their lines on the board, standing on opposite ends of the room. They are most certainly not covered in chalk dust. Hermione’s hair is pulled over her shoulder to further hide what her buttoned collar can’t. She had asked Tom to glamour it, but he flatly refused, sucking her skin harder, grabbing her over her clothes.

Merrythought seems satisfied with their progress and hurriedly dismisses them, stating there’s been an accident on the fifth floor that requires her undivided attention. Tom smiles, knowing his lips look fuller and pinker than before. He fingers the hair tie hidden in his pocket—another valuable keepsake.

He checks the time.

His wristwatch reads 9:33. The clock hanging on the wall reads 9:40.

-

Hermione practically runs out of the room when they’re dismissed, but Tom doesn’t bother to try to catch her. He needs to stick to his plan.

He goes straight to the second-floor girls’ bathroom, using the chamber entrance to take him to the seventh floor from a different route—a route Hermione definitely would not know. He disillusions himself and hides behind an empty suit of armor, staking out the hallway she always disappears in.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

She emerges on the top step of the moving stair case, not glancing in Tom’s direction. Still, he holds his breath. She’s figured him out before, so he doesn’t want to underestimate her. She walks toward him before she pivots and walks away, which confuses Tom. She does it again, and a third time when a door appears in the blank expanse of wall before her.

Tom almost cannot believe his eyes as she walks through it, the door dissolving into uninterrupted stone once more.

He creeps out of his hiding place and repeats her movements, walking back and forth three times, but nothing happens. He wonders if he can command this room with parseltongue like he does the chamber, so he whispers open.

Still, nothing happens.

He pulls out his wand, and wordlessly goes through a few spells, starting from the simplest alohomora and ending with complex runic keys. The wall remains solid, no door in sight.

Tom wonders if there is another way to get in, just like Salazar’s chamber which contains one main, and multiple minor entrances—if one knows where to find them.

This hidden room of Hermione’s must have been built by another founder. It stings Tom that Hogwarts has a secret it keeps from him. Not for the first time, Tom runs his hands over the rough stones of the castle walls, trying to find some trick latch or hidden handle. There is nothing—nothing to do but wait. He slinks back into his hiding place, this time taking a seat on the floor.

It might be a long time before she appears.

Tom will be ready when she does.

Chapter Text

When Hermione leaves, it is well past midnight.

Tom is beginning to nod off when the door materializes in the same place, and opens to reveal her silhouette cast in gloomy shadows. It’s difficult to let her walk away, but Tom forces his self-control to its limits. When he’s certain she’s gone, he stands quietly, making his way back to the stone wall where he now knows a room can come and go.

He repeats her movements again, walking back and forth three times. He’s careful to only walk as far she does, worried he will do it wrong and spend all night pacing. He concentrates carefully, thinking of the hidden room of secret things, where people try to hide their secrets, obscure objects, forbidden possessions.

Tom has a long time to consider this magic while he was camping out behind the statue. First of all, there is obviously some kind of privacy charm on the room, as it does not allow for its inhabitants to be disturbed once they enter. Tom thinks it must not even alert them to attempts at entrance, considering Hermione walked out of the room rather calmly, her wand pointed down at her feet, but still in her hand.

Precautions taken by an above-average spy.

Furthermore, no detection spells work when directed at the wall. Tom even cast a complex series of runes that are meant to show the inside of a room or abode without entering. He spent almost an hour using his wand to draw the runes on the floor, difficult as they are.

It did nothing.

And he doesn’t care what Hermione says, his runic is excellent.

Lastly, the room must respond to instruction, as these secret places almost always do. It took him years to open the chamber, simply because he hadn’t known to command it. He knows this come-and-go room doesn’t respond to parseltongue, probably because it was left by one of the other founders. Hermione had to have ordered it to open for her. Considering the fact that she never spoke, and didn’t even wave her wand when she entered it, it must have responded to her thoughts.

Tom thinks very hard now, and stops right where the door will appear. His heart is pulsing in his ears as the stone begins to melt away, revealing a heavy wrought-iron door.

He wants to shout in triumph. Instead, he silently turns the handle.

He enters the largest room he’s ever seen. It’s bigger than the Great Hall and the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom combined. And it’s towering with things. Couches, chairs, tables, books, pots, pans, pianos, and cellos, and even a muggle refrigerator are the first things Tom sees when he walks in. He pushes further into the room, and accidentally knocks over a stack of plates, which clatter loudly to the ground, bursting into multiples as soon as they touch the floor. Tom curses, quickly pulling out his wand and casting an impenetrable bubble around the silver plates which glow red hot. He’d heard of this curse before—it’s meant to distract thieves from the real prized object. He assumes some idiot used to it to have more silverware at their disposal, then dumped the dangerous mess into this room.

This space is filled with dangerous messes, of varying size, age, and utility. Tom skirts by a large oak cabinet carefully, now anxious to avoid touching anything. He is moving past a mountain of old parchments and books when something catches his eye.

Rows and rows of clothes. Dress robes. Costumes. Ball gowns. Wigs. Masks.

Tom knows this is not what he came here for, but he’s still a teenager, and he has a ball to go to, a girl he’s desperate to charm, and a sad lack of adequate funds.

He begins sorting, conjuring up a large mirror.

He’s pretty certain this is not what Hermione was doing in here, anyway.

Next time, he’ll be prepared with a better plan. For now, his mind turns toward pettier schemes, seductions, intrigues.

He’s not ashamed to admit to himself that he wants to impress her.

-

The common room is crowded before dinner, with many students working on homework and some simply socializing. Mulciber, Malfoy, and Avery are at Quidditch practice, training frantically at every free moment before the upcoming Gryffindor match in two days. Nott is sitting by the fireplace with Davies, quizzing him on important dates from the goblin rebellions. From what Tom can hear, Davies gets most of the answers wrong.

Tom is seated at a small table by himself. It is situated in front of large window that has an especially interesting view of the lake. Sometimes mermaids swim by, peeking into the common room curiously, but only when the hour is very late and the room appears to be abandoned. Now, the algae-tinged water splashes gently against the glass, its depths too murky to make out anything but the glittering fish that sometimes glide by.

Tom is adding some last-minute changes to his divinations essay when Hermione stomps into the room. This in itself is not shocking, aside from the fact that she is soaking wet, and clad in nothing but a frightfully short white towel wrapped around her middle.

She captures the attention of all, and one by one, heads rise as if recreating a reverse domino effect. Immediately, there are whispers, laughter, pointing, and even some cheers. Someone does a very good rehearsal of a wolf whistle, followed by several catcalls begging for Hermione to drop her towel.

Tom simply stares. It isn’t out of place, because everyone is staring. It is the most naked Tom has ever seen a girl, let alone the Hermione Granger. He freezes in his chair, unable to enjoy the view whilst aware it is also being enjoyed by others. Surely, she doesn’t think he can to fracture all the arms of the Slytherin boys?

Hermione doesn’t pay attention to the noise. Not even the faintest blush tinges her pretty features, but she does appear to be clutching for dear life at the fold of the towel over her chest. Tom wonders at her nonchalance—walking into the common room basically naked. He’d heard France was a liberal place, but this takes the cake.

Hermione doesn’t look at him, or maybe she doesn’t notice that he’s here too. She marches directly to Lucretia Black, her face twisted in barely concealed rage.

“Give me back my wand, Lucretia.” she demands, her mouth set in a line so straight that the pink of her lips barely show.

“Did you hear that?” Lucretia turns to the sixth year sitting next to her, “Sounds like a whore got loose in the dungeons again.”

This seems to snap Hermione’s already thin patience, because she responds by using her free hand to grab a fistful of Lucretia’s hair, pulling her up until she’s forced to stand. Lucretia yelps, clawing at Hermione’s unshakable grip.

“I’ve had enough of you, Black.” Hermione grits her teeth. “I know you stole my clothes and wand while I was in the bath. Give. Them. Back.”

The entire common room is gaping at them. Hermione’s long legs glisten under the flickering lights of the Slytherin common room. The torch closest to her casts a red glare over her face. She looks possessed. Despite being on the receiving end of her threats in the past, Tom has never seen her this frightening.

“I didn’t!” Lucretia wails, “Let go of me!”

This only causes Hermione to tug harder, making Lucretia cry out in pain. She looks around frantically for help. The sixth-year girl she was originally sitting next to quickly looks away.

“Where are my things?” Hermione demands again, shaking Lucretia like a rag doll. Tom is impressed. Lucretia is not so slender as Hermione. Tom likes to think of Hermione as easy to physically overcome, but maybe that is only when she is pitted against Tom. She seems to have strength enough for Lucretia, who is curvier and soft chinned.

Lucretia grimaces, and tries to grab at Hermione’s towel to rip it away. Tom stands despite himself, his chair falling backwards behind him. What he intends to do, he’s not sure, but he never finds out because Hermione retaliates by moving back and shaking Lucretia’s head so hard Tom thinks he can actually hear the strands being ripped out of her head.

“My things, Black!”

“I burned them, you trollop!” she finally confesses, using her hands to grab at her hair instead, obviously in eye-stinging pain.

“Uh, uh, uh,” Hermione sing-songs, “I don’t think you’re in a position to do any name calling right now.” She lets go of Lucretia roughly, throwing her back onto the couch. She wipes away at the dark blonde hairs left in her fist, shaking them off on to the floor at Lucretia’s feet.

She then holds her hand out to her side, her palm opened expectantly. A first-year Tom thinks is named Hector scampers over to her, extending his wand into her hand. Red sparks shoot out of its tip the moment it touches her palm.

“Mahogany. A little longer than mine. What’s the core, Foster?” She barely glances at the first year, instead examining his wand.

“Dragon heart string, Hermione.” He says her name with such deference that Tom is briefly distracted from the single droplet of water that rolls down the back of her thigh into the crease behind her knee.

“Perfect. Thank you.” Hermione smiles sweetly at him, before turning back to Lucretia, who looks at her with dread and revulsion.

She aims the wand at her towel first, transfiguring it until it grows fluffy white arms and lengthens into a robe. Tom is severely disappointed, while acknowledging the necessity of such a move. He’d rather prefer not to have to obliviate every male in the room at a later date.

“Explain what your problem is with me,” she aims the wand at Lucretia now.

“A slut like you shouldn’t be sullying the halls of Salazar Slytherin.”

“Oh, Lucretia,” Hermione sighs, “I’m exactly the type of witch Salazar would desire in his halls.”

Some snickers result. Tom feels his neck warm, and loosens his tie. As the only remaining relative of said ancient wizard, he’s inclined to agree.

Lucretia curls her lip in disgust. “Is that why you’re fucking everyone’s boyfriend and a half? Don’t even deny it; I saw the bruises on your neck! That might be all good and dandy in France, but in England—”

She’s cut off by a swipe of Hermione’s borrowed wand, her mouth moving soundlessly before she grabs at her own throat.

“Did mummy and daddy not pay for the best tutors? Or did someone skip geography lectures growing up? We’re not in England, dear. We’re in Scotland.”

She swipes with her wand again, and Lucretia opens her mouth to scream. Nothing escapes but air.

“The less you fight it, the better. Otherwise, you’ll just fry your vocal cords.” Hermione warns her, pulling at wet strand of hair that clings to her chin. It falls on her neck instead—Tom notices how it’s clear of marks. Her skin doesn’t shimmer with the obvious trace of a glamour, so she must have healed them.

“Here’s what we’ll do. You will compensate me for my clothes and return my wand,” she leans in until she’s only inches away from Lucretia’s panicked face and whispers, “Or else, I will indeed fuck your boyfriend. Even though he’s not really your boyfriend, is he?”

The room is so deadly still that it’s impossible not to hear her. Tom is burning under his wool sweater, the warm coziness of the common room suddenly unbearable. She is a fearsome sight to behold; ruthless, savage being that she is. She’s not from France, nor from the British Isles, but from some other world. She sets him on fire; he throbs with unquenchable desire.

“Now, if you want me to release the spell, give me back my wand.” Hermione emphasizes the last part of the sentence again, a lingering threat in her words. Lucretia wordlessly pulls a vinewood wand out of the inside of her cloak pocket, and hands it to Hermione, her face twisted into pure ugliness.

Hermione turns around and calls Foster over, handing him back his mahogany wand, handle first. She thanks him, and he flushes with pleasure as he turns back to his friends.

Hermione turns back to Lucretia, who looks at her expectantly, pointing a finger at her throat. Hermione lifts her wand, and then pauses, tapping her chin pensively as if in deep thought.

“Oh, dear me!” she starts, holding a hand to her brow, “I seem to have forgotten the counter curse. Guess we’ll just have to wait until it dissolves on its own!”

Her acting is a little over the top, but it gets her point across. Lucretia’s already pale skin drains of all color until she looks like a ghost.

Tom feels absolutely no pity for her. She had no qualms trying to humiliate Hermione; she is now simply forced to taste her own brand of poison.

Hermione gives Lucretia one last big smile and walks away, her large strides carrying her quickly out of the room. She disappears around the corner into the girls’ dormitory corridors.

-

Hermione comes to dinner for the first time in days, as if to prove a point. She’s surrounded by her groupies, who hang on her every word eagerly. Lucretia leaves as soon as Hermione sits down, and no one stands to follow her.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Tom remembers when Lucretia ruled the Slytherin girls with an iron fist, always bragging about her family and her money. She is always dressed in the most expensive, latest fashions in Hogsmeade. Always surrounding herself with the most powerful people. Tom knows she used to complain about him being a nobody—he’d heard from Malfoy in their third year that even though she found him attractive, her father would never let her marry a Riddle. What family was that, even?

Tom smirks into his soup. To think she is upstaged in less than six weeks by a muggleborn with no family or name to speak of. She’d be furious if she knew.

At a quarter past seven, Hermione stands to go to detention, much to the chagrin of her companions. She is teaching them the curse she used to silence Lucretia Black, and the smallest boy, the one who handed her his wand—Foster—looks especially eager to master it. Tom hears him muttering about how he plans to use it on a certain Ravenclaw who never shuts up, his friends sniggering and teasing him.

Tom stands abruptly, following closely behind as she moves toward the Great Hall doors. She is through the threshold before Tom can catch up to her.

He doesn’t call after her this time, but chooses to half-jog until he can match her stride.

“Good evening, Hermione. Heading to detention?”

“Good evening,” she greats him brusquely, “Yes.”

Tom peers out the castle windows as he speed-walks to keep up with her. “Looks like it might rain,” he remarks casually.

She hums noncommittally.

“Would be a shame if a storm did some damage to the castle.” Tom continues, stuffing his hands into his pockets to avoid grabbing hers. The sudden urge to hold her hand is too tempting.

“Planning another explosion tonight, Riddle?”

“Not at all.”

She lifts her eyebrows in mock-astonishment. “I’m surprised.”

“Why should you be? I have better things to do than command senseless violence and destroy school property just so I can get a few moments alone with the girl I fancy.”

“Fancy?”

“Some might say that, yes.”

“Who exactly would say that?”

“Half the school is saying that.”

“Yes, and the other half is saying you’re dating the Head Girl,” she counters.

“Well, you can’t listen to them. That’s the idiot half," Tom retorts matter-of-factly. 

She smiles, her eyes gliding up to meet his, lit up with amusement. “Do you always have to get in the last word?”

“That’s just rich coming from you.”

“Oh, please.”

Tom decides to change the subject. “I really liked what you did to Lucretia today. Can you teach me that spell, too?”

She blushes. “I’m afraid you’ve missed the lesson for today.”

“But don’t I qualify for private tutelage?” Tom can resist no longer, and grabs her arm, “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m a model student.”

She pulls her limb gently from his grasp, and keeps walking. “I just don’t have the time—detention, you know.”

Tom doesn’t get to say anything else, because she’s already pushing open the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom door.

“Miss Birch, Mr. Riddle!” Professor Merrythought is waiting for them behind her desk, looking rather harried. Tom looks at her carefully, her hair is messy, and she looks almost flushed. Her cloak seems to be on inside-out.

“I just owled you both moments ago. Your detentions have been cancelled. I spoke to Headmaster Dippet and we agreed that you have both learned your lessons quite thoroughly and that further punishment will not be needed.”

Translation: “The headmaster won’t let me torture you any longer.”

Tom grins, happy to hear his meeting with Dippet was useful for more than just unpalatable tea and unsolicited advice.

“That is fantastic news, Professor.” Tom says, nudging Hermione with his elbow to do the same.

“Er—yes, thank you so much, Professor,” she stammers, shooting Tom a dirty look.

“Well, we’ll be going then. Hermione was just promising to help me with my Herbology assignment, so this is truly serendipitous timing.” He flashes a big smile at Merrythought, deeply enjoying her confused expression when he grabs a hold of Hermione’s hand and pulls her toward the door.

Before she can open her mouth to protest, he takes off at a brisk pace.

“Is this what we’re doing now?” she asks when they’re out of earshot, lifting their clasped hands in the air.

“Absolutely.” Tom weaves his fingers through hers now that he knows she won’t pull away. He’s not sure how to account for her kindness, irregular and infrequent that it is, but he fully intends to take advantage of it if she means to let him.

“Did you mean what you said about your Herbology assignment?”

“Yes, I need an extra pair of hands for this next bit of my project, so I will be greatly indebted to you if you will help.”

“Well,” she smiles, “if only because you’ll be indebted to me.” She squeezes his hand and looks forward.

Tom feels something dangerously close to affection unfurl in his chest. He tries to remind himself that she’s a liar, and a sneak, a hypocrite, and likely a spy—but it does nothing to squash that tremendous feeling that threatens to settle deeply into his bones.

They arrive at the greenhouses just as the first crack of lightning strikes. They rush into the glass building right before the downpour begins, feeling lucky they haven’t gotten wet in the onslaught. Tom reluctantly lets go of her hand, and pulls out his wand to summon two pairs of gardening gloves.

He starts by instructing her regarding weeding technique. Tom is serious about his schoolwork and learning, so he doesn’t inject any playfulness into his directions. She adopts his attitude and picks up the style very quickly, much to Tom’s pleasure. He’s contemplating her intelligence and quickness when she asks him a question, pointing to a small fungal growth near the edge of the soil bed.

Tom pries it out, careful to dig a wide berth to ensure he pulls the root out fully. He sets it aside, explaining that the house elves like using this particular species of mushroom for their salves and tinctures, so it’s good to save them.

She pauses for a moment at this, and then slowly asks, “You give things to the house elves?”

“No, not really,” he answers, returning to his work. He pulls at a rather stubborn vine, elbow deep in dirt.

“Yes, but why save them this mushroom?” she presses him. Tom turns to look at her, slightly confused as to why she seems so interested in having a conversation about house elves, of all things.

“It’s just a mushroom, Hermione. It’s not like I’m knitting them hats and scarves for the winter.” He grins at his own joke. She blushes deeply for some unfathomable reason, and returns to her work as well.

The rain patters soothingly against the glass as they work in companiable silence. Tom feels incredibly relaxed, and when he realizes this, he chastises himself for being too comfortable around the enemy. She’s a dangerous witch. He can’t let a pretty face and a witty tongue make him forget that. Even if she does smell incredible, and her moans fire blood straight to his groin. She’s just a bag of bones, he tells himself. Hair, and flesh, and teeth. She’s dispensable, just like everyone else. And what’s more—she’s up to something. He is only keeping her close to lull her into a false sense of safety, so he can find her out.

He peers at her out of the corner of his eye. She’s tying her hair back, to get into out of her face, and she puckers out her bottom lip to blow a strand out of her eye. She’s got a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

She’s positively adorable.

Tom looks down hastily, cursing himself for being so foolish, so easy to manipulate, so sentimental—

“Tom, what do you want me to do with these branches? Are they meant to be trimmed?”

He looks up at her fully now, and finds the dirt has smudged more than just her cheek. Her sleeves are stained brown, and she’s got a green streak through her white shirt.

“Here,” he pulls her closer, “Let me roll up your sleeves.” He begins to fold her left sleeve when she yanks her arm back. Tom looks up in surprise. She has the decency to look embarrassed.

“I, er, don’t like folding my sleeves,” she lies, “It’s bothersome.”

“Okay,” Tom says, thinking back to her first detention with Slughorn in the dingy dungeons classroom. She didn’t mind doing it then. Perhaps she just didn’t want Tom to be able to look at her arms up close?

“The branches?” she prompts again, holding up sheering scissors.

“Let me do it,” Tom reaches for them, “The branches can be quite aggressive if they realize you want to cut them.”

“Aggressive?” She asks him.

“Yeah. They can whip you if you’re not careful.”

“What plant did you say this was again?” she asks, studying the tender bark carefully.

“A salix wompus.”

“You’re growing a whomping willow?”

“Yes, you’ve seen one before?” He assumes she has from her reaction.

“They’re notoriously hard to grow! Especially into adulthood!”

He smirks at her instant recognition of the rare genus. What a know-it-all. “Yeah, it takes years for them to mature fully. About three decades, in fact.”

Hermione stares at him in disbelief, then stares back at the sapling they are caring for.

“Three decades,” she repeats carefully, as if doing mental math to work out when the tree will be ready to plant into the earth and not cared for in a carefully controlled greenhouse environment.

“1971.” He tells her, “I’ve been working on it for a few years already.”

“But why?” she asks the question so earnestly, Tom wonders at her honest incredulity, “You’ll never see it planted, you can’t mean to come here every day for another twenty-seven years.”

He shrugs. “I don’t. The first few years are the most difficult period of horticulture—they don’t take to the soil well, no matter where you plant them. But I’ve got it this far, and I know Professor Beery will continue to take care of it when I’m gone.” He pauses to look at her, “And maybe I’ll come back as a professor, take care of it myself.” He grins at the idea. “Plus, they’re interesting. One of the few plants that can actually move, and definitely the only one who can move this fast.”

She contemplates him in silence as he suits up in heavy leather gear to prepare to trim the branches. Although this young tree is only a few years old, and nowhere near as aggressive as a fully grown whomping willow, it can still whip its thin branches very fast. They’ve caught Tom once or twice before, leaving long red welts on his back as if he’d been hit with a rod.

Hermione smiles at his outfit, and steps back to allow him space to prune the plant. He gets whipped almost instantly, but barely flinches in pain. The leather does a lot to protect him. After about the fourth whipping, Hermione jumps forward without warning. Tom yells for her to step back, extending his arm in front of her, but she reaches over him, pressing her hand over the lower half of the sapling where a small knot is forming at the base of its bark.

Inertia demands that Tom pull her back, and he stands with his hands on her shoulders for a few moments before realizing the plant did not strike her.

“What was that? What did you do?” he demands, looking at the frozen sapling, now as still as any other nonmagical plant.

“It’s just something I read about once,” she explains ruefully, shrugging her shoulders.

Tom highly doubts that. He researched just about everything about the salix wompus in order to grow one, and he’d never read a line like that in the entire library.

He pulls his leather gear off, throwing it to the floor. She’s still standing close to him, and he notices that way the dirt on her cheek seems to lighten her eyes in contrast. They’re a rich honey brown in the rainy glow of the greenhouse. The kind of honey that one cultivates in their own yard, dark with rich nutrients. He rubs at the smudge with his thumb, and she doesn’t even blink, meeting his gaze with an intensity Tom has never seen in her before. What was that in her expression? Longing? Or apprehension?  It oscillates between a mixture of patience and grief. He doesn't understand it, but it makes him really sad.

He feels very vulnerable in that moment, but he doesn’t break their connection, instead shifting his hand down to cradle her face. He remembers how he’s grabbed it in the past, bruising her and not caring if he hurt her, wanting to hurt her, and feels ashamed. He thinks with a jolt that she's just like he is: so beautiful and so deceitful at the same time.

He moves closer, surprising himself with the gentleness at which he takes hold of her body, lifting her face to meet his when he stands too near for her to keep eye contact without doing so. He leans down, intending to brush his lips against hers when she turns her face quickly away, showing him her cheek—the clean one.

Tom wonders at the symbolism.

“A little late to be protecting your purity, Granger.” He murmurs against her cheek, kissing it before moving lower toward her jaw, then her neck, the spot she likes right before her ear—

“It’s—I don’t think this is a good idea.” She says weakly. Tom thinks it’ll be easy to convince her, but she begins to pull away. His grip on her waist tightens, and he pulls her into him, refusing to let her leave.

“Okay. No kissing. Got it.” He mutters into her hair, her curls brushing against his mouth, his nose, his chin. He places one kiss into her untamable hair, not able to help himself. “That’s the last one, I promise.”

“It’s better if you let me go,” she says against his shirt, but Tom holds her even tighter.

“Let’s just—can I just hold you? For a moment?” he asks quietly, feeling oddly shy. After several agonizing moments, she silently snakes her arms around his waist, lightly holding him back. She’s small against him this way; it makes him feel massive and strong. Protective. Tom squeezes her against him, as if he can force her physically inside him. Something incredibly tender and delightful burdens his chest.

In response, he tells himself over and over: She’s a spy. She’s a liar. She’s a fake. She’s a spy. She’s a liar. She’s a fake.

He repeats it for so long, the words lose meaning and slur into one another. He can only focus on the feeling, and he wonders how dulled it must be given his situation, and how brilliant it might have felt if he had never killed. He doesn’t want to say it feels whole, or that she completes something inside him, but it does feel frighteningly close to when he has his horcruxes pressed against his heart.

-

Lucretia Black corners Tom after lunch the next day.

“Do you know who Ignatius Prewett is taking to the ball?”

“No.” Tom impatiently replies. He doesn’t want to be late to his next class with Hermione. She finally agreed to sit next to him in Ancient Runes. He looks up and down the corridor, antsy that someone will notice him and Lucretia huddled behind an alcove by the staircase.

He has enough rumors circulating about his love life at the moment.

“Well, I do. It’s Hermione Birch!” She says her name like a filthy curse. She is holding back tears, and actually sniffles. Loudly.

Tom freezes, his head still angled to look down the hall. He feels almost as if he is floating outside of his own body, watching the interaction as a third party. Hermione? With Ignatius Prewett?

Impossible.

He turns to look at Lucretia to monitor her for signs of lying, and she takes a frightened step back, her eyes widening at his expression. Tom closes his eyes briefly to collect himself.

He tries again.

“What did you say?” he tries to sound pleasant, but his voice sounds menacing even to his own ears.

“I said… Ignatius. He—I thought since we’re partners in potions now—” she stumbles over her words, and Tom closes his eyes to block the sight of her from his mind. If he doesn’t get away from her this instant, he’s in danger of strangling her.

“Where did you get your information from?”

“Ramona Ellewood asked Birch in the common room if she had a date yet. I heard Birch say so myself.” She offers the information freely, like it’s nothing. In her haste to achieve her own ends, she’s lost her ability to manipulate, Tom thinks bitterly. She has no idea how desperately Tom would have paid for such information.

“So? What do you want me to do about it?” Tom asks her coldly, not bothering to hide his malice now.

Her eyes slide side to side, and she looks down. She’s holding herself, her arms crossed around her body. She looks mildly like a fiending opium addict Tom saw in London when he was out exploring last summer.

“I thought—last time—I’m coming to you for help.”

“Why would I care about your silly little infatuation?” Tom demands, clenching his fist.

“I’ll do whatever you ask. Just—make it so he goes with me instead.”

“Are you asking me to imperio him?”

“No!” she swallows, “Nothing like that. Maybe you can talk to him. Or—or maybe she can fall down a flight of stairs—nothing deadly! Just—just a very serious injury. Bad enough that she can no longer attend, or maybe… maybe she has to leave Hogwarts to reside in St Mungo’s for the rest of the year.”

“Oh really? How benevolent of you not to kill her.” Tom tries to appear casually sarcastic, but his ears are ringing with revenge. How dare she?

“Tom, please. I’ll do whatever you want.” She’s begging. Tom knows, logically, this is the ideal place to have a powerful pureblood witch. Right under his thumb. A favor like this could open doors for him. She’s petty, but she’s not insipid, and she’s short sighted enough with this obsession that she’s just about willing to do anything for Tom.

He inhales deeply, trying to keep it together long enough to finish this conversation. He feels himself ripping at the seams. Betrayal twists and turns in his gut like a hookworm threatening to devour him from within.

“A favor of this magnitude is going to cost you.”

-

The day of the Quidditch match opens with excellent weather. The sun is actually shining, and it feels almost warm, causing Tom to take of his sweater and tie it across his shoulders. He’s dressed in Slytherin green, as is his whole house. There’s a decided air of excitement that penetrates the stands, with occasional random whooping and hooting as students wait for the game to commence under the clear blue sky.  

Tom waits on the grounds below, guiding students to their respective stands based on their houses. He lets Hermione pass by him without looking at her, even though she’s talking to Derrick Astor, which irks him to no end. The only positive is that Astor keeps his hands firmly folded in front of him as she speaks, as if being extremely careful not to accidentally brush against her swinging hand as she walks with him.

Good.

Once everyone is settled, Tom takes his seat in the very back of the Slytherin stand, next to Nott. He’s furious that Hermione chooses to sit next to Astor, but satisfied when he sees the fifth year desperately try to scooch away, almost landing himself in the lap of the boy next to him.

She stands one row ahead of him, a little off to his side, so he can easily watch her without being noticed at least. The teams spill out of their locker rooms over the green lawn of the pitch, moving toward Ogg, the gamekeeper. Mulciber shakes Ignatius Prewett’s hand, as he is the captain of the opposing team. Tom imagines Prewett trying to match Mulciber’s grip—they’re about the same height, but Mulciber is much wider. He leans over to whisper something in Prewett’s ear, and Prewett pulls back hastily, a disgusted expression overtaking his ginger face. The whistle blows, and fourteen sets of brooms rise up into the air.

The game begins. Tom looks on with mild interest, waiting to see how it will play out, knowing already how it will end. That is, if Mulciber follows his instructions.

Malfoy and Avery are both chasers. They fly together well, in sync in a way that is only possible if they grew up together as boys; which they in fact did.

Within the first two minutes, they’ve already scored ten points, much to the dismay of the Gryffindors watching. They score twenty more before the Gryffindor team seems to wake up and get moving; egged on by the booing and hollering of their housemates. They manage to commandeer the quaffle for the next quarter of an hour, but are only able to score once during that time. The Slytherin keeper—a third year named Haneul Hak—is quite good.

Tom chants for him like everyone else every time he saves. HAN! EUL! HAK! HAN! EUL! HAK! They emphasize each syllable individually as they wave their Slytherin scarves in the air. Haneul waves a gloved fist back at them, causing the Slytherins to erupt in cheers.

Tom glances over at Hermione, and she’s cheering and calling out instructions just like everyone else. Astor has finally managed to switch seats with a fourth-year girl, planting her firmly between him and Hermione. Hermione gives him a strange look, but seems to let it go, giving all her attention back to the game. Tom doesn’t see her wand on her, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have it tucked up her sleeve.

Tom is so focused on watching Hermione, he is startled when the Gryffindor stands boom with roars. Tom’s head snaps back to the game—sure enough, the reds have scored a second time. The score is now thirty to twenty, Slytherin still in the lead. Haneul has his face in his hands, and Malfoy is arguing angrily with Ogg, who referees the game. Malfoy gestures wildly between the Slytherin keeper and the Gryffindor chaser who just scored. She’s a tiny thing. Tom thinks he might recognize her—a second year, maybe, but he’s not sure.

Ogg brushes Malfoy off, blowing the whistle to restart the game. Malfoy looks livid. He zooms in on the quaffle the moment it’s tossed, slamming through the Gryffindor chaser formations. He’s flying so recklessly fast that the Gryffindor keeper can only get out of the way when Malfoy jets right through the Keeper ring on the other side—not just throwing the quaffle, but actually flying physically all the way through.

The crowd is absolutely rabid.

Tom is no quidditch fanatic, but he is pretty certain no one has ever scored points like that before. Prewett dives directly over to Ogg, speaking to him urgently, motioning toward Malfoy who still clutches the quaffle to his chest. He does a victory lap around the pitch, and some of the girls throw flowers and teddies at him. It’s exaggerated, but exactly Malfoy’s style. He’s beaming while Ogg nods along with Prewett’s points before stepping forward and crossing his arms in the air in a large X, meaning the score will not be counted.

The Slytherins boo so loudly, it’s deafening.

“Oh, look. The Slytherins are upset.” A small girlish voice carries over the jeers, “Sorry I was late Professor Dumbledore, I think I ate some bad meat loaf last night, because I’ve been having diarrhea all morning.”

Tom sees Dumbledore reaching for the girl’s wand, shaking his head no, but she side steps him.

“Alright, Professor. I shan’t talk about bodily functions any longer.” She promises, her voice still amplified. She’s dressed in Hufflepuff colors. Tom has no idea who she is. Several students snicker at her commentating, but most are still upset about Malfoy’s incredible score, whinging loudly and shouting insults down at Ogg if they think they can do it without getting caught.

“Well, it seems like Ogg is not going to accept Abraxas Malfoy’s amazing dive through the Gryffindor hoop. That was rather incredible, no? I’ve never seen anything like it. The Gryffindor keeper must be very embarrassed. Are you embarrassed, Cornelius?”

The Slytherins laugh wholeheartedly now, and some of them whoop in support of this unknown Hufflepuff.

Malfoy is not happy with the turn of events. Mulciber is holding him by the shoulders, shouting intently into his face. It looks aggressive, but Tom knows Mulciber is trying to calm him down. Malfoy has a bad habit of starting brawls during games; he’s been suspended several times before. It’s always a headache to find a new chaser last minute.

“Alright, the game is starting again. Oop, there goes the quaffle. Gryffindor moves it down the pitch. Oh, no. Jamie Lurch just barely avoids that bludger. She’s got such pretty hair, but it clashes horribly with the red uniform. Maybe we should let her play on the Slytherin team, instead?”

Hermione is laughing at the commentary, using her binoculars to search the pitch for the snitch. Tom wishes she would have sat next to him. They could have laughed together.

The Slytherins burst into hurrahs as Malfoy scores again. Nott pumps his fist in the air, shooting off green sparks with his wand, much to the delight of the first years who sit in front of them.

“It looks like Abraxas managed to score without flying through the hoop this time. I guess Ogg will have to accept it. Ignatius looks very angry, although he’s a very friendly bloke in general. One time he bought me a butterbeer at Hogsmeade, but I think he only did that because he wanted to snog my sister.”

Dumbledore attempts to snatch the wand away from the Hufflepuff, but she dodges him expertly, placing it on the other side of her throat. “Don’t worry, Professor. She’s didn’t kiss him. She’s in love with our third-cousin. You gotta hand it to those purebloods! Everyone is somehow related, am I right?”

She pauses to argue with Dumbledore, who wags an angry finger at her. He’s definitely threatening to prohibit her from further commentating, Tom thinks.

She’s only half-listening to his rebuke, partly distracted by the game, “Oh look, Professor Dumbledore; I think Slytherin has spotted the snitch! What’s their seekers name again? Berkley? Burgott?” Then pausing as someone who looks like an older version of her whispers in her ear, “Hamburger? No way. That sounds delicious.”

After some more ferocious whispering, “Oh sorry. Hanz Burgh. That’s his name. Looks like the Gryffindor seeker is after the snitch now, too. Wouldn’t it be funny if her name was French Fries? Please tell me her name is French Fries.”

Dumbledore is yelling now, and the older girl who was trying to help her before is holding her head in her hands.

“Oh, darn. Her name is Alicia O’Shae. What a shame. Alicia O’Shae, Alicia O’Shae, Alicia O’Shae. Try saying that ten times fast.” Right after this suggestion, she tries to say it ten times fast. Ali-sho-shay is ground into Tom’s skull. He holds his ears shut just like everyone else to drown out her poorly timed tongue-twister.

The seekers zoom around the pitch, pushing and shoving each other as they sail through the sky, the golden snitch winking at them as it swerves their outstretched hands. Tom looks up to watch Mulciber, who’s flying high overhead, observing the seekers carefully. They’re almost there—almost—

Just before they fly past Ignatius Prewett, who is floating in a defensive position since the Quaffle is on the other side of the pitch, Mulciber bats an approaching bludger. The loud bang pierces through the ear-splitting cheers, and almost everyone looks away from the seekers to follow the bludger’s trajectory.

It slams against the handle of Prewett’s broom head-on, smashing through it until he’s sitting on nothing but splinters and air.

Screams of shock and fear fill the stadium as Ignatius Prewet begins his descent, his red cape flapping uselessly around him.

“Oh, God! HELP! MAN DOWN! MAN DOWN!” The Hufflepuff girl’s voice booms overhead. Tom watches calmly as Ignatius falls, glancing quickly at Hermione to see her reaction. She has her wand out, eyes meeting Dumbledore’s for only a fraction of a second before she whips her head back to Ignatius, whispering an incantation which is impossible to hear in the absolute cacophony of noise.

Tom turns to look at Dumbledore—his wand is following the same swirls and flicks, his mouth moving in time with Hermione’s.

Slowly, Ignatius’s freefall turns into a glide, and then a float. He’s about fifteen feet off the ground when Tom loses his temper and shoots a tripping curse at Hermione wandlessly, causing her to lose her balance, and break her concentration.

Ignatius Prewett plummets the rest of the way down. Dumbledore’s end of the spell still holds, and it turns out he was holding Prewett’s upper half, because his head is spared from the crash. His legs are bent at odd angles on the ground, the grass stained red where he lies. Hermione shoves forward through the crowd, leaning over the edge to look at Ignatius’s motionless form below.

The Hufflepuff commentator is crying, her concerned whimpering amplified over the pitch while Matron Consanos, Ogg, and the Professors rush down to help the Gryffindor captain.

Hermione backs away from the ledge, letting her spot be overtaken by other students rushing to get a look, and turns her head slowly, looking directly at Tom. If he thought she looked possessed when she was arguing with Lucretia, he was wrong. She looks demonic now, actually trembling with rage.

She makes eye contact.

In his head, the following words form: You will pay.

-

“Tom! What happened?! You weren’t supposed to—this wasn’t the plan!” Lucretia is delirious, clinging onto Tom’s shirt, clawing at him as if she can physically take back her plea to him the day before.

Tom pries her fingers off his collar one by one, shoving her back and away from him.

“Calm down, Lucretia. He isn’t dead.” He spits, drawing out his desk chair and roughly offering it to her to sit down. She stuffs her fist between her teeth and sobs, but takes the offer, landing roughly in the wooden seat. She closes her hands over her face and continues to cry in earnest.

“Stop crying,” Tom demands, throwing his sweater on his bed, “It’s extremely irritating.”

“I just—I didn’t mean for this to happen! You were supposed to hurt her—not him!” Lucretia wails, and Tom hastily casts a silencing charm on his dorm, cursing his stupidity at not doing it the moment she showed up at his door.

“What does it matter which one of them got hurt? They won’t be going to the dance together at any rate.” Tom answers her bitterly. She really is the most annoying person he’s ever met.

“Because!” She yells at him, “I actually like Ignatius!”

“Well, he doesn’t like you.” Tom mutters quietly. He knows it’s cruel, but it feels good to say. She erupts into fresh tears, wailing for a moment before she can control herself enough to speak again.

“How does this make it so he goes with me? If he ever finds out I had a part to play in this, he will never trust me, will never marry me!”

“Don’t be daft, Lucretia,” Tom snaps, “He’ll marry you just fine if your father offers a large enough dowry to the Prewetts. Just write to your family before the year is finished. You will want to throw your hat in the ring before he gets too many offers.”

He sneers. Purebloods and their senseless schemes for wealth and power.

“You don’t understand. I want him to marry me because he loves me, not just because I’m a Black!”

“Then brew a love potion; I don’t care.” Tom stands angrily, striding over to the window to look out of it. It’s pitch black at this time of night, and he feels like he is staring out at the abyss that threatens to overtake him.

She cries quietly into her hands for a few moments, and Tom rubs his temples in agony. He hates the sound of her pathetic sniffling. He feels the edges of his vision darkening when she speaks again.

It’s so quiet, it’s barely a whisper.

“I don’t know how.”

“Is that all?” Tom sighs. She needs to get out of here, because he’s about two seconds from slicing her in half. “I’ll do it for you, if you want.”

“Really?” She rubs her sweater under her nose, resulting in a wet patch of snot by her midriff. Tom scrunches his nose in disgust.

“Yes. Just pay me another thirty galleons,” He demands.

“Of course. I—I’ll have the money to you tomorrow.”

“Don’t come here again,” Tom warns, then adds, “What kind of love potion do you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want it to induce lust? If you get pregnant, he’ll have to marry you.”

She turns bright red, her blonde hairs growing invisible under her flush. “No! Nothing like that. Just—Just something to make him take interest in me. Talk to me, get to know me—”

“Alright. Enough. Leave.” Tom is looking at her through two pin holes now, barely able to stand without supporting his weight against his four-poster bed.

She’s almost out of the room when he remembers.

“Leave a strand of your hair,” he orders. He thinks she does as he asks, although he cannot see anything anymore. When he hears the door click open, then closed, he collapses on his bed, writhing in pain, his back arching at an impossible angle.

He screams, and a distant part of him is glad he cast a silencing charm while he was still sane. His wand is somewhere in the room, but Tom has no idea where. He reaches out a hand to summon it, but instead causes a loud crack and falls backward onto the floor, slamming his head hard enough to see stars burst through his pitch-black vision.

“Tom,” he hears the softest whisper, “Tom.”

Something incredibly light is caressing his skin, and he calls out in agony. Whatever it is, it’s burning him. He’s scared—truly afraid—when he hears his name again, stronger this time.

“Tom, breathe. Just breathe.”

Tom realizes that the thing stroking him is a hand, and he grabs at it, squeezing as hard as he can to get it to stop touching him.

The hand goes away, and for some brief moments, Tom can fall apart in peace.

He wakes up later. How many hours later, he’s not sure, but the lake is still pitch black outside his window. There’s something huddled next to him. A large lump, or a small body. Tom panics, and tries to lift himself up off the bed, but his arms are too weak to support his weight, so he falls back down into the mattress.

This seems to disturb the lump—who moves under the blankets to reveal a bushy head of brown curls.

“You’re awake. Can you see?”

It’s Hermione. Hermione Granger.

Tom opens his mouth to say what the fuck, but only a garbled mess of noise comes out.

“Shh. Go back to sleep.” Hermione pulls the covers back up over his chin.

Tom tries to ask her what are you doing here, and this time the words sound almost comprehensible, although extremely slurred.

“I came to murder you,” she explains sweetly, brushing his hair off his forehead, “But to my surprise, when I arrived Lucretia was just stepping out.”

He opens his mouth to ask, but she predicts what he will say correctly.

“Don’t worry, she didn’t see me.” She cradles his face, and the electrical hum seems to transfer energy into Tom’s body.

“What did you see?” He rasps.

“Everything. Don’t worry about it though, you won’t remember this when you wake up.” She plants a kiss on his forehead, and Tom wishes he could kiss her back.

“But I want to remember,” he protests weakly, “You’re in my bed. Are you naked?”

It’s a stupid question, because she’s obviously wearing his gym class jumper and he can see the black strap of her bra peaking underneath.

“Absolutely not.” She grins at him. She looks almost happy. Tom feels the sickly nausea in his stomach ease up a little at the sight.

“I wish you were,” he sighs, rolling over on his side, throwing his arm around her waist. She rolls over with him, settling herself deeply into his embrace.

Tom falls asleep.

-

When he wakes up, he’s alone, obviously. He tests his fingers and hands first, clenching and unclenching his fists. He can see, although everything is a little blurry. His bed is unbearably hot—he wants to get out immediately. He twists his legs over the side, and almost stumbles over the covers. They’re strewn haphazardly across the floor.

He makes it to the toilet in time to wretch, releasing last night’s dinner with a flush.

He shuffles back to bed, thankful that it’s Sunday and he doesn’t have anywhere to be when he tumbles back into bed. His nose is pressed into his sweat-soaked sheets, and he almost imagines he smells the faint scent of vanilla wafting from his pillow.

He falls back into restless sleep.

Chapter Text

The summer after Tom turned eleven years old, a Hogwarts acceptance letter was sent to the orphanage. He never actually received it, however, as the matron of the orphanage, Mrs. Cole, never gave it to him.

She had never been fond of Tom, and the feeling was returned with equal fervor. Indeed, Tom’s earliest memory is of her locking him in a cupboard during his third birthday party. Tom doesn’t remember what he was supposed to have done to warrant the punishment, but he does remember listening to the sounds of children playing and laughing while he sat on the grimy floor in the dark. When he was let out of the cupboard, all the cake was already gone.

Eventually, Tom realized she disliked him because of what he could do. This was rather inconvenient, because Tom could hardly stop himself. Indeed, he wanted to talk to snakes, coax the rabbits to play with him, and persuade the mice to leave the kitchens. It thrilled him that he could make animals follow his commands. No one listened like the snakes did, however. They would even talk back, lifting their heads to get a good look at the boy who could communicate in their tongue.

Tom was beaten on more than one occasion because Mrs. Cole found a snake in his sleeve, or wrapped around the warmth of his neck. One time, she found a snake nest under his bed, and he was forbidden from going out into the garden for the rest of the summer. She destroyed the nest, breaking all of the eggs beneath her heeled shoe. Tom had shed thick tears over the ruins, feeling absolutely shattered. What would he say to the mother when she returned to find her home destroyed?

Mrs. Cole is exactly the type of the muggle that Tom would grow to despise. Naturally fearful of what she does not understand and will never be capable of, she persecuted Tom until he was old enough to defend himself. Lock him in the cupboard? Fine. Tom would just set it on fire. Forbid him from meals? Tom would just steal from the kitchens. He knew how to make his footsteps silent. He knew how to hurt people when they hurt him.

Eventually, she resigned herself to his presence, but seemed determined to ignore him. No longer were his birthdays celebrated. He was not included in outings. If there was a disagreement between him and another child, she would always take the others’ side. Worst of all, she withheld her affection, which she gave freely to the others. She was his first enemy.

When Dumbledore came to the orphanage, Tom could hardly believe it. He was special. He knew it already, but this was beyond his wildest imaginings. He was a part of something. He’d never belonged anywhere before. He’d never had a home, never had a friend, never had a parent. In Hogwarts, he found all three. Dumbledore did not like him, but that did not matter. No one liked him. But they would respect him. He wanted to ask Dumbledore a lot of questions, but he didn’t want to seem weak or needy. He could tell Albus Dumbledore was just a traded-up version of Mrs. Cole.

He went to Diagon Alley by himself. Tom was given an allowance by the Board of Administrators. It was calculated to allow him to buy everything on his supply list, and nothing more. Yet, Tom needed more. He needed many books that weren’t on his list: A Young Man’s Introduction into Wizarding Society, The Muggleborn versus Muggle Family, Pureblood Families of Distinction, The Fire of Magic Within Us All, Flying into the Twentieth Century of Magic, Political Imbalance in the Magical World, The Muggle West and the Magical East, and many more.

He’d had to steal. It was out of necessity, and he felt no guilt about it. He only felt fear at being caught, unaware as he was of magical tactics to prevent stealing. He couldn’t go to Hogwarts unprepared, especially after he found out that there were magical families—children who were raised with magic all around them from infancy. Children who knew nothing of muggle London. Tom could not bear the thought of being the idiot in the class, the one that knew nothing and ogled at even the simplest of spells.

He’d stopped stealing when he realized there was a library in Diagon Alley. It was a dingy place, but held a certain charm to it. The medieval building looked like it was only standing due to the sheer force of magic keeping it together. Long lines of dusty shelves lined the walls, cramped together in such a way that only one person could fit through the aisles at a time. Tom read all summer in anticipation of autumn. He found out about blood classism, about the Ministry of Magic, about the statue of Secrecy, about the trace on minors, about the founders of Hogwarts, about magical neighborhoods and villages. He’d found out about Albus Dumbledore, and all of his incredible magical achievements. He’d learned about potions, and charms, and hexes, and curses, and botany. He’d read about magical marriages and murders. He’d discovered there were other magical creatures; house-elves, goblins, centaurs, vampires, giants, werewolves and hags.

On September first, he was satisfied that he hadn’t wasted a moment all summer. He went to King’s Cross by himself, and confidently ran through the brick column separating the magical platform from the muggle one. He was prepared. No one caught him looking surprised or in shock when he appeared on platform nine and three-quarters. He knew where to stand while he waited for the train, and he used the time wisely to observe his peers. Surrounding him were dozens of students huddled together with their families, some large, and some small. Tom could immediately pick out the muggleborns, as their parents were dressed in traditional muggle clothes and looking wildly out of place. Tom was already wearing his uniform, and was disappointed to find that many of the students weren’t.

Some mistakes were bound to happen.

In the train ride to Hogwarts, he took a compartment with Malfoy and Mulciber. That is how he met both boys. The sniggered at his uniform, but Tom bore it with a mask of indifference. They bragged about their families and their wealth, and Tom listened silently, having no family of his own. When asked where he was from, he replied shortly that he was from London.

Mulciber had sniggered and whispered under his breath to Malfoy that Tom must be a mudblood. Tom had hexed him in response with a jaw-snap jinx. It was the first time he’d ever used his wand. It made him feel powerful, and he immediately earned both boys’ respect. After all three of them had been sorted into Slytherin, Mulciber had dropped all questions about Tom’s family, and hadn’t allowed any of their housemates to ask him either. It was enough for them that he was sorted into Slytherin—it meant he wasn’t from the wrong sort, in any case.

Plus, Tom was clever. Malfoy and Mulciber quickly realized they’d need him to help them pass their classes. Tom was relieved that he was performing well—better than his pureblood peers, in fact. The teachers all praised him, but he was careful to appear indifferent to it.

Tom somehow understood how to survive in Slytherin house. Although he could not possibly know all of the wizarding norms, he was born with every Slytherin instinct. He knew when to crush his enemies, and knew when to show clemency. He knew who was worthy of his friendship, and who would be a waste of his time. Every move was calculated. It all felt very natural to Tom, who had grown up in the harsh reality of orphanhood, who had never had an adult to preen over him when he’d skinned his knee. He knew how to take care of himself. He understood loneliness. He didn’t cry in the showers for an imaginary mummy and daddy like some of the other first years did. He’d never had that crutch to lean on in the first place.

No, Tom never had any help of any kind. Anytime someone extended a hand to him, Tom had engineered the situation without their knowing. Or worse, the hand was lent with the expectation of something larger in return. This was all Tom knew—the bitter truth about humanity. Goodness came from the same self-serving place where evil is born. If one was good, it was only ever for appearances sake. And if goodness was done in secret, it was because of the self-righteous pride the act would leave behind in the hearts of wicked men seeking to absolve themselves.

This is why it does not surprise Tom when he wakes up in the chaos of his destroyed dormitory alone. What surprises him is that he smells of vanilla and tar. At first, he wonders if he is about to have a seizure, but when he presses his nose into his torn pillows, he decides the scent is real.

She was here, although he recalls nothing. One look at his wristwatch and the clock hanging on the wall confirm his theory. He runs worried hands over his arms, his back, his legs, searching for bruises or wounds that will surely be there after a night of explosive destruction, but finds none. He rolls his neck—not even a knot or crick exists to prove what happened to him. He stands up carefully to take a shower, feeling eerily violated as he wracks his brain to remember anything at all.

Shards of wood from his desk and wardrobe are scattered everywhere, his clothes and covers torn, and one of the poles on his four-poster bed is speared into the stone ceiling at an acute angle. Tom steps gingerly through the debris until he can access the private bathroom that sits within the Head dormitory. He feels the cold water combating the dullness of fatigue as it runs over his body. He shivers as he closes his eyes to delve inward, to categorize the events of the night prior, but nothing reveals itself. No image of her, no speech, no confrontation. Did she have a part in the destruction, or was she the one who saved him from being speared by the sharp shards that now litter his room? What could be her motive?

A thought suddenly occurs to Tom, and he exits the stream of running water to compulsively check his nightstand, leaving a trail of wet footsteps in his wake. It is miraculously intact. His horcruxes lay unassumingly inside the drawer, looking every bit like unmagical objects of no distinction. His thumping hearts calms, and he realizes she wouldn’t know about them, let alone try to steal them. How could she anyway? She would have to know parseltongue to do so.

Still, Tom wonders how he could have unraveled so violently with his horcruxes so close to him. His condition must be getting worse. He picks up the ring and slides it on his index finger to feel its comforting heartbeat in his hand.

He refuses to worry.

-

During lunch, Tom checks out books on reparative magic, woodworking spells, and restoration charms. All subjects he’d previously considered a waste of his time and talents. Now he’s desperate to restore his furniture before the damage is discovered. He feels clumsy as he practices the wand movements necessary to repair his room, and it takes him a few tries until he is satisfied with the end result. If one looks too closely, they may be able to trace the outline of each splinter, or the slight dent in the ceiling, but Tom is sick of attempting and reattempting such spells. This domestic magic does not come easily to him.

He wants to ask Hermione for help. No, it’s more than a desire. It’s a reflex. It’s a ludicrous idea, but the need to go to her plagues him. He’s disappointed in himself for growing so accustomed to her conversation, her wit, her beauty. There’s a certain comfort in her arms that he’s never before experienced in another person. Unfortunately, she’s obviously planning to kill him. He’s sure of that now, but he has no idea why she’s biding her time.

Nevertheless, Tom doesn’t intend to be betrayed twice. She wants to be with Prewett? Fine, she can enjoy the rest of her short life sitting at his bedside in the infirmary. If he can use her death for a third horcrux, all the better.

He’s never planned to kill before, but he thinks the twisted knife of disloyalty will kill him first if he doesn’t. If anything, he’s planning an act of preemptive self-defense. He runs the scheme through in his mind, over and over, looking for faults that must be eliminated. She won’t have a choice but to confess when he corners her. And he will corner her soon.

-

All of these grandiose plans for Granger’s demise come to nothing. The week passes in a daze. Hermione seems determined to act like he doesn’t exist (again), and performs the part of a devoted student beautifully. She attends study sessions, spends hours in the library writing essays, and tutors younger students in the common room after dinner. She doesn’t skip class, and she’s friendly to just about everyone except Tom and the Knights.

This isn’t noticed by anyone else but Tom. Mulciber has actually become quite popular since the quidditch match that landed Prewett in the infirmary. His legendary hit is relayed by Slytherin students at every opportunity, much to the chagrin of the Gryffindor house. Tom has subtracted several points from both houses over scuffles in the hallways due to tensions being high. Gryffindor is especially incensed given that Slytherin won the match right before Prewett fell—their seeker used the distraction to her advantage.

Whenever the subject comes up, Hermione’s full lips turn into a straight line. Her eyes harden over her page, and Tom knows she is no longer reading. It makes him uneasy to think that perhaps she is making plans of her own.

Tom chastises himself for thinking it would be easy. If she is here on someone’s orders—someone even Dumbledore answers to—she is obviously skilled in her trade. It troubles Tom that some unknown force knows enough about him to want to eliminate him—what they know, he isn’t sure. He thinks the worst thing he has ever done is make a horcrux. But then why did Hermione leave his horcruxes alone? Because she doesn’t know about them, or because she couldn’t access them?

It doesn’t occur to Tom that he is being paranoid. He spends more and more time in his dormitory, hovering over the ring and the diary. He runs to his rooms in between classes just to make sure they are still there. He charms his door excessively to make sure there are more than one type of magical lock on it, preventing intruders.

It isn’t enough. None of it does anything to soothe him.

He traps a snake in the gardens, and commands it to follow Hermione around the castle, and report back to him. The snake slithers away, a harmless garden variety. Tom still itches with unspent energy. If only she would come to him! He longs to comb his fingers through her curls, to feel her compliant body in his grasp, to wrap her around his waist. He twists and turns in his sheets at night, plagued with odd visions and dreams of her. Dreams that feel too real, too much like memory.

In one such dream, he is standing on the stormy shores of Portofino, overlooking the rocky cliffs that line the coast. He is waiting for Hermione to return with something extremely important. He knows what it is, but cannot for the life of him say what it is. He’s looking for her on the horizon, and for her only. He awaits no boat, no ship, no broom or other flying creature. Only her. As if he expects her to return to him having sprouted wings. Nothing comes to him except the rolling black clouds of a storm.

Does such a dream even count as being about Hermione? But it is. Her presence colors every scene as it does every waking thought. She threatens to consume him, even though in reality, she refuses to look at him. Tom begins to feel the shift of confusion—what is real and what is not seem to blur. He holds his head in his hands after Defense against the Dark Arts, trying to ward off the intense headache coming on. She’s partnered with Mulciber and they’re practicing disarming spells. Tom wants to yell at her for not using crucio properly—but it doesn’t make any sense.  She isn’t practicing the cruciatus curse. They’re in school. At Hogwarts. They aren’t training. What would they be training for?

Tom leaves class feeling like half is body is trapped in an alternative dimension—one where Hermione can fly and he teaches her how to cast an effective cruciatus on Mulciber. She still avoids him, but he finds he can no longer pretend not to notice. Nott puts a concerned hand on his shoulder when whispers start circulating the Great Hall that the Head Boy is outright staring at Hermione Birch. He hadn’t realized he’d been doing it. He looks down at his soup, blushing furiously.

“Must have zoned out for a second,” he mutters to Nott, who is tactful enough to nod briefly and change the subject.

At night he dreams of them in bed. Her upper body is twisted away from him, but she wraps her legs around his, as if wishing to maintain contact despite the unbearable summer heat. Tom gently lifts her hair away from his face, and leans over to check her breathing before falling back asleep. He wakes up with a headache, surrounded by the October dungeon damp. It doesn’t feel like a dream. He almost remembers the window panes cracked open, the transparent curtains fluttering lightly in the warm nighttime breeze.

He restructures his plans. His snake reports back to him, hissing that the girl does nothing but study, eat meals, and sleep. Tom interrogates her until she grows tired of his questions and begs to return to the gardens. Tom gives her a mouse as a thank you treat, and his little snake slinks away.

He finally gets to speak to her himself when they are partnered together by Professor Onai in Divinations. Tom is frustrated by the flutters of excitement in his belly when she sits across from him. He scolds himself; she isn’t just a pretty girl. She’s a spy. She wants him dead.

She drains her Turkish coffee in three gulps, flipping the silver filigree cup over its saucer and sliding it over to him wordlessly. Tom finishes his own coffee, enjoying the way the bitter liquid slides down his throat before he does the same.  

He reads her cup with the manual propped open between them.

“You’re going to die a disastrous death. Painful. Prolonged. Brutal, even.”

“Fascinating.”

“You’re going to lose to your enemies. Multiple times.”

“Alright.”

Tom turns the cup toward her so she can see the splotch of finely ground coffee forming a shape that’s meant to mean enemies, death, pain. She remains unaffected. When he is finished with his vague threats of an unforeseeable future, she reads his cup without using the manual.

“You will be destroyed by your own hand.”

“How do you figure that?”

She turns the cup to show him its muddy depths, then sticks her finger inside to destroy whatever image it had created at the bottom.

“Let’s just call it a strong feeling,” she smiles smugly before wiping her finger on the paper they’re meant to turn in, crumpling it in her fist.

Tom has never before known anyone with such a flagrant disrespect for divinations. He wants to ask her why she is even in this class, but the bell rings, and she immediately packs her things. She is unbothered by the fact that they will receive a zero, but Tom is not so nonchalant. He unfurls the paper and attempts to clear it of coffee grounds, but it has already been dyed brown in some places. He hastily scribbles some fake readings—Hermione will be rich and marry well, but she’ll have to make immense sacrifices. He will have to struggle against a dark force before he can achieve enlightenment. He hands it in, apologizing for the parchment’s state to an annoyed Professor Onai.

They get full marks.

Not that Hermione cares. She continues to ignore him, and despite the numerous snakes that Tom sends after her, none return with any pertinent information. The only indicator that Hermione is on her guard is that she grips her wand tightly in her hand whenever he enters the room. Does she really think he’s foolish enough to make an attempt at her life in public? Perhaps she thinks he is unstable. The thought bothers Tom to no end.

He struggles with the festering desire to confront her, but he doesn’t want to do so prematurely. If only she would look at him! He thinks he would do anything to receive just one iota of her attention. He refuses to accept that he is unstable, but he is willing to humbly accept that he is desperately obsessed.

She is sitting alone in the Great Hall early one morning when Tom breaks into a sweat at the thought of approaching her. Without planning, he practically runs to her, cursing himself as he takes the seat next to hers. He cannot speak for a moment, shocked as he is at his own imprudent, thoughtless behavior.

She’s reading a book on primitive clock-making while nibbling on some toast. She doesn’t even look up when he sits down. He grabs her wrist under the table.

“What I did with Prewett… it was wrong. I see that now. It was a misstep. It won’t happen again.”

It’s a futile, last-ditch attempt to save his sanity. He knows killing her will destroy him. She’s somehow become his anchor to life. He does it out of self-preservation. He is human, after all.

“Until when?”

“Excuse me?”

“Until the next boy shows me attention? Or until the next person gets in your way?”

He laughs, but its eerily empty. “Just who do you think I am? I’m just a regular teenage boy, Hermione. I don’t go around plotting murders at every turn.”

She forcibly removes his hand from her wrist, unfurling his fingers one by one.

“If you’re going to apologize, at least be honest about what you tried to do.”

Tom clenches his teeth. “It was meant to be warning, nothing more.”

“A warning to who?”

She challenges him with an unflinching stare. Tom is tempted to probe the thoughts drifting behind her eyes, but resists making a scene in such a public place. More and more students are drifting in, and his time is running out.

“You shouldn’t have crossed me.”

She smiles, waving her hand at him triumphantly, “Ah, there it is! The true confession we’ve been waiting for.”

Tom digs his fingernails into her leg, impatient now. “This is not a joke.”

“Agreeing to go to the dance with Prewett is not an act of betrayal.”

“Agreeing to go with a pureblood supremacist and Grindelwald enthusiast is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Surprised? Didn’t know that the Gryffindor favorite hates all muggleborns and thinks muggles should be subservient to wizarding kind?”

“You’re lying!”

“I am not. You can ask anyone. It’s an open secret.”

She sits still, looking over the Great Hall, now teaming with life, as she thinks over his words. Tom does not wonder at her disbelief. It is rather strange that a Grindelwald supporter be found in the Gryffindor house, let alone the Prewett family. He wonders how a supposed infiltrator could miss such a crucial piece of information. Maybe she isn’t as competent as she thinks.

She finally turns to him, closing her book with a snap. “This doesn’t change anything between us. I still stand by what I promised.”

You will pay.

Tom grabs her hand before she can walk away, forcing her to face him. Tom tries not to relish in the feeling of her soft hand in his. He tries not to want to press his lips into her palm, and hold her hand against his cheek. He tries not to think how this might be the last time he gets to hold her hand.

“The price of reckoning can be quite steep, Hermione. We’ll see who ends up paying who.”

-

In a state of madness, Tom writes her a letter in his dormitory after class, intent to give it to her in the common room after dinner.  

To H.G.—

I cannot stop thinking of you. In the greenhouse I realized you are the seed, the sun, the rain. You are everything all at once. A gift. A punishment. A consequence. Despite knowing that it was all by design, I could not resist knowing you. You have taken root within me, deep inside my soul. You have invaded my very being, and I am overthrown. I crave but a look, or a word from you. I am suffocating in desire. Do not abandon me now. Take this letter as an admission of love, or defeat. They are one and the same. I offer you all that I have, meager that it is. You are the vine that strangles the oak. Feed off me if you must. Own me, reign over me, but do not let me perish.

Yours,

T.R.

He pretends to lean over the mantle as she reads by the fireplace before he drops the note discreetly into her open book. She looks up at him briefly before he turns to walk away, sitting at a distance away from her, watching her face as her eyes run over his lines. Her expression does not change. When she finishes the letter, she folds the parchment in half and carefully feeds it into the fire. She turns back to her book, never glancing at him again.

Like his confession, Tom burns, trembling in humiliation.

-

Tom stands in front of Honeydukes on High Street, watching students enter and exit the shop with bags full of sweets clutched to their chests. It’s the last weekend before the masquerade, so Hogsmeade is teaming with students desperate for some last-minute dress shopping. Malfoy and Mulciber disappeared hours ago—they both have dates with a pair of Hufflepuff sixth years and are probably entertaining them at Madame Pudifoot’s right now, Tom surmises.

Tom is on duty this weekend, and therefore cannot leave, although he finished his Hogsmeade business after a quick visit to the apothecary on the edge of the village early this morning. He would head back to the castle immediately if he had some excuse, but unfortunately, no such reason has presented itself. He’s glad to be alone, at least. This way he can stew silently in his self-deprecating thoughts.

He’d made an absolute fool of himself last night. Embarrassing does not even begin to describe the tail-wagging moron he’d become for a certain person he’d rather not name. Why did she have to come here? Why did she have to disrupt everything? All this—just to reject him? Infuriating as it is, he still believes—no, heknows—she returns his feelings. But why deny it?

“Hullo, Tom!”

Tom is startled out of his forlorn stare to see Yvette Wilkens is standing next to him, holding multiple paper bags in her hands from Gladrags.

“Yvette,” he nods simply, not wanting to enter a mindbogglingly tedious conversation. He turns back to stare at Honeydukes, hoping she will get the message that he prefers to complete his Hogsmeade duty alone and in silence, but of course, Yvette doesn’t leave.

“Have you decided what you’re going to wear to the ball?”

“Not yet,” Tom answers, not bothering to ask her if she has. Of course, that doesn’t stop her from sharing.

“Oh, you haven’t got much time left, have you? I bought my mask today,” she holds up a black wiry mask with whiskers and cat ears that sits on her nose and barely does anything to cover her face, “I know, I know, it’s very trite. Bernadette has been telling me so all week, but I think it will suit me,” she shrugs, smiling sheepishly at him.

Tom still isn’t looking at her, hoping she will go away. He wants to tell her it does not suit her at all, her eyes are all wrong—too small and too blue, barely framed by her blonde eyelashes and scant eyebrows. There’s nothing cat-like about her.

“Headmaster Dippet actually wanted me to pass on a message to you,” she changes the subject, finally catching Tom’s interest.

“What did he say?”

“We’re to open the ball as Head Boy and Head Girl by dancing the first dance with our dates.”

How irksome. He still doesn’t have a date. There is no chance for Hermione agreeing to go with him now, and he never thought of asking anyone else.

“Who are you taking?” He asks instead. She blushes and looks down, before looking up to stare at his neck, seemingly unable to meet his eyes.

“I was wondering if you would like to go together, if you don’t have a date yet.”

At least she didn’t stutter, Tom thinks. But still, how distasteful that she would ask him. Tom wonders at her audacity and simultaneous lack of pride. Regardless, Tom is struck with an idea.

“Ah. I wish I could, but unfortunately I’m in a bit of a sticky situation,” he begins the lie.

“What do you mean?” she asks, confused and more than a little disappointed.

“It’s just that Lucretia—well, it’s a rather sensitive subject. Can you keep a secret?” He makes sure to sound hesitant, lowering his voice a little and leaning infinitesimally closer. She nods and does the same. She smells overwhelmingly of rosewater. It makes Tom’s insides clench in disgust.

“Lucretia Black and Ignatius Prewett are likely to be married at the end of the school year.”

Yvette actually gasps, looking quickly around to make sure no one can overhear them. “But Tom! Are you certain?” her brows furrow in confusion, “I thought Ignatius liked Hermione Birch; he asked her to the ball only a few days ago!”

Tom knows she isn’t lying. Nevertheless, he has to calm himself to avoid ripping out her tongue.

“I heard she said no,” Tom responds coolly before getting back into character, “It’s all very hush hush. Lucretia is trying to get to know him now that the arrangement is being made between their parents. Ignatius should be trying to do the same, but it seems he’s set on being a rake.”

Yvette blanches at Tom’s open insult, but says nothing.

“You know I’ve never taken to Ignatius much myself, but he’s respectable enough, I suppose. Lucretia is trying to make things work, and I respect her for that. I know she would prefer not to enter a loveless marriage, but if Ignatius can’t see what a sweetheart she is for visiting him in the infirmary every day, then I can’t think of a bad enough word to describe him.”

“Oh, that’s so terrible!”

Tom nods, as if sadly agreeing. “I want to be a good friend and support her, so I’ve refrained from asking anyone in case Ignatius is stubborn and refuses to go to the ball with her. It will be extremely embarrassing for everyone involved if their engagement comes to light after he’s shown interest in someone else.”

“He can’t!”

“He’s got his pride,” Tom shrugs, “And that nasty fall he took didn’t help any. Unless every girl in Hogwarts refuses him, I don’t see how avoiding an ugly scene will be possible.”

“Surely, he wouldn’t go against his own parents!”

Tom smiles knowingly, “We’re at the age where I hear most like to rebel against their parents.”

Yvette grows awkward for a moment, knowing Tom does not have any family to go against. Her own family, at least her father’s side, is well-known and respected in the wizarding world. Tom doubts they would want a Riddle in their midst. Yvette’s pursual of him is a type of rebellion as well.

“I think I can make it so there isn’t a girl in Hogwarts who will agree to go with him,” she finally speaks, her hands clenched tightly over the handles of her shopping bags. Tom grabs her wrist, and her eyes widen in shock.

“You can’t! The engagement must remain an absolute secret until made public!”

She stares into Tom’s eyes with absolute deference, “I wouldn’t mention the engagement, I swear.”

Tom pretends to consider her. His eyes roam over her face in an act of searching out whether or not she tells the truth. He asks, “How? A rumor?”

She blushes and tucks a stringy blonde strand behind her ear. “I know it is very wrong but I think the circumstances warrant it. Lucretia and I used to be playmates as girls and I hate to think her so unhappy.”

Tom grits his teeth, pretending to be uncomfortable with her idea, “It certainly isn’t ideal.”

She flushes even more red. After a pause of contrived thoughtfulness, Tom compliments her, lest she become too withdrawn and self-conscious. “Lucretia is extremely lucky to have a sincere friend like you.”

She finally looks up to meet his gaze with a watery smile. It’s important for her to feel like this wicked plan is totally her idea, and that Tom feels unsure about it from the start.

He continues, “If only I could get a few minutes with them alone! I think I could talk some sense into Ignatius. The irony is, they’re absolutely alone in the infirmary now, but I’m stuck here on duty,” he laughs bitterly. “We’ll just have to leave it to fate. I’m sure things will work out in the end. For my part, I have no qualms with taking Lucretia, but it hurts to see her so unhappy.”

Yvette bites her lip and looks down as Tom lets go of her wrist. Tom waits silently, letting her think, letting it all sink in.

“I can finish rounds for you, if you want.”

“Really?” Tom tries to keep his excitement from flooding his voice, “I’d hate to inconvenience you.”

“It’s not!” she protests, as if she isn’t only helping him for her own self-serving reasons, “You should talk to them while you have the chance. The ball is less than a week away now.”

“That would be a life-saver, Yvette, thank you,” Tom smiles at her. “If I’m successful, I would love to accompany you to the ball.”

And thus, Tom accepts her invitation as he meant to do all along, with the added benefits of getting out of Hogsmeade duty and besmirching Prewett’s name and character.  

Like a true gentleman, Tom offers to carry Yvette’s bags up to the castle for her before he leaves, and she happily accepts. She doesn’t have to tell him the Ravenclaw password, because there isn’t one. He promises to leave her bags in her common room so she can retrieve them later.

Once he’s far enough away, he shrinks all her packages until they’re small enough to fit inside his pocket and runs up the cobblestone lane away from the village and towards the castle.

He’s going to find Hermione.

-

She’s exiting the portrait hole just as Tom approaches it. Thankfully, he’s already disillusioned, and he’s able to deftly follow as she takes the moving stairs to the seventh floor. Tom cannot believe his luck. Her ponytail waves to and fro as she climbs the stairs, impatient to get to her destination. Tom is tempted to grab it and yank as hard as he can. He wants to hurt her like she is hurting him.

She walks back and forth three times in front of the blank wall, and Tom lets her. This time, he wants to enter the room of her imagining. He wants to know what she is up to. She’s either too preoccupied, or too confident to notice him. He’s supposed to be in Hogsmeade, after all.

When he aims his wand at her back, he does not miss. A jet of glass-blue light sinks into her spine, traveling down her legs. She’s planted on the spot, unable to move her feet further just as the door appears in front of her. The momentum of his unexpected spell sends her hurdling forward, and she falls with a crack on her elbows and knees.

She’s about to open her mouth when Tom rips her wand out of her hand, and silences her. This doesn’t stop her from fighting. She lunges at his chest and face, her mouth pressed together in absolute fury, her nails digging into exposed skin. She tears his shirt as he reaches for her hair, roughly pulling her ponytail, extending her neck at a painful angle before he threatens her.

“Stop moving, or I’ll scar your pretty face forever.”

This seems to get the message across, because she goes still. Tom lifts her by her curls, pressing his wand into her back, and forces them to move backwards toward the door so he can enter first. His compulsive magic causes her feet to take steps against her will, and she begins to struggle against him again. Tom is just about to tell her off when she manages to throw her weight backwards, causing Tom to crack his head painfully against the heavy iron door.

His head spins at a dizzying speed as she twists in his arms, attempting to pry her wand out of his grasp. He responds by striking her, hard.

An angry pink hand-print appears on her cheek where Tom touched her, and it disgusts him to look at it. He’s annoyed with her now, and determined to ignore the unfurling guilt within his chest. He uses one hand to open the door, and grabs her arm with the other, throwing her through the opening and stepping in carefully after her. He hears the door close after him as he takes in his surroundings.

They’re in the Gryffindor common room. Or at least, a room fashioned after it. Everything is draped in red and gold, and several large fluffy sofas, armchairs, and old-looking couches sit in the center of the room. There are a few shelves lining the wall—half-filled with books, and half-filled with games, cards, and chess sets. A large hearth with a cheery crackling fire is off to one side.

Hermione wipes her bleeding nose on her sleeve as she stares at Tom in disgust. She’s lying on a deep crimson rug. The color matches her blood.

“Well, well, well, Miss Granger. What would a little Slytherin transfer like you want with the Gryffindor common room? Why do you even know what it looks like?”

Tom kneels down on the floor next to her, holding his wand against her already-bruising cheek. He traces the mark with the tip of his wand until he can swallow away the nausea that it induces. He unsilences her.

“Explain yourself.”

She doesn’t answer.

Tom grabs her hair again, pulling her face toward him. She grimaces in pain. “I said: explain yourself.”

“Never,” she grunts, swallowing thickly against the tears that are welling in her eyelashes now. Tom throws her backwards like a rag doll back against the carpet.

“Fine. Let me debrief you on what I already know.”

Tom grabs an ottoman near him and settles in, liking the fact that she’s on the floor as he looms over her. He knows her too well to think she’ll just stay there, so he keeps his wand trained on her as he speaks.

“Your real name is Hermione Granger. You’re English, born into a privileged muggle family who could afford to have you tutored well enough to become fluent in another language. Albus Dumbledore answers to you. You used him to somehow convince Dippet to give you a private sorting. I’m guessing you confunded him into placing you in Slytherin as well. Besides the electric current whenever I touch you, my wristwatch falls behind whenever I’m in close proximity to you. Why is that, Hermione?”

He pauses, to see if she will answer, but when she does nothing but look at him, he continues, “When we first met, it bothered me that you acted like you already knew me. But you weren’t acting, were you? Because it wasn’t the first time you had met me.”

Tom twirls his wand in his fingers, examining it as if it were a sharpened knife. How he longs to enter her mind. But he doesn’t need to enter to see the emotions raging across her face. He had promised himself that he would corner her, and so he has. Tom continues triumphantly.

“I think you even wanted me to figure it out. Why else would you earmark Time’s soliloquy for me in The Winter’s Tale? Now what will become of you? I list not prophecy; but let Time’s news be known when ‘tis brought forth…”

Tom lets his threat hang heavily between them, leaning forward to lift her chin to look directly into her face. He tuts, “It’s easy enough to vanish a scent, Hermione, but you left yours after you obliviated me in my dormitory. I never expected such a tacky move from you, to be honest.”

“I didn’t obliviate you,” she rasps, interrupting him for the first time.

“Why don’t I remember anything then?”

“Do you usually remember your black outs?” she challenges him, finally sitting herself up to lean against the back of the sofa, and pulling her chin out of his grasp. Her feet are still planted on the floor, so she awkwardly bends her knees to accommodate Tom’s curse, wincing as it stretches her tendons and muscles painfully.

“What year were you born?” Tom asks suddenly.

“What kind of question is that?”

“Answer it, or I will make you tell me.”

“1927.”

Tom drops down to his knees to press his wand into her stomach. “Don’t lie,” he hisses, stabbing her with it.

“Fine. 1926.”

He hits her with a curse that strangles her intestines together painfully. She gasps in pain and grabs her abdomen. Tom twists his wand, intensifying her agony until she rewards him with a scream. He releases the spell.

“Tell me!” he shouts, only inches from her face. And while he cannot see himself, he knows without a doubt that his eyes are glowing a demonic red, possessed as he is by his anger. He feels the muscles in his neck tighten and spasm as he holds back the urge to hurt her further, end her, demean her…

“I can’t,” she moans, her head lolling back, exposing her pale and sweaty face.

“Tell me or I will kill you right here, right now.” Tom lifts his wand in a move to slash her neck, disgusted by the idea, but desperate to know. He waits patiently as she takes several deep gulping breaths, and coughs until she spits up blood.

“After you,” she finally answers him.

“How much time after me?”

“Quite some time after,” she admits.

Tom’s eyes grow wide in excitement. It’s true. She’s from a future time. A dark stone of foreboding falls to the pit of Tom’s stomach. Why would someone from the future want to come to him? Would feel threatened enough to orchestrate such a monumental task? Hermione’s head falls to her shoulder, signaling her imminent loss of consciousness. Tom reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thin glass tube and unstoppers it. He tilts its contents into Hermione’s mouth, holding her jaw closed until he can feel her swallow. Instantly, some of the color returns to her face.

“I want to know more.” Tom implores, trying to right her so she will make eye contact with him, but she can barely keep her head straight. Tom lays her gently on the floor, her hair fanned out around her. He begins to cast the healing charm that will reverse his previous curse, gently running his wand over her abdomen once again until she stops convulsing with every touch.

She’s still listless when he finishes. After a moment’s hesitation, Tom releases the curse on her legs so he can extend them properly. She’s on him in a moment, and has her forearm pressed against his throat the next. She isn’t even trying to find her wand, seemingly satisfied with the fact that she knocked his out of his grasp. She’s looking right into his eyes as she chokes him, and at such close range, Tom can clearly see the sand dunes of her irises. They suck him in, threatening to drown him in the black depths of her pupils.

Tom flips them over, wrestling her arm away from his throat, and pinning it to the floor. She struggles under him until he presses his hand into her stomach, causing her to yelp and spasm away from his touch. She’s paralyzed for a moment, more concerned with her own suffering than of him. He leans over and snatches his wand off the floor, wiping sweat and hair off his face before thinking of what to do with the witch who is so unwilling to comply with his demands.

 He dreads entering her mind at this state, but sees no other option. Perhaps because she is weakened, she will not be able to put up much of a fight. He stands her up until she can lean unsteadily against the wall. Tom feeds her another pepperup potion to keep her from fainting. Despite her vulnerable state, Tom now knows to be cautious. The wild animal will fight its hardest right when it has lost all hope of winning.

“Open your eyes.”

“I won’t,” she says, turning her head away from him. He rights her, holding her head in both hands with his forefingers on her occiput and his thumbs on either side of her jaw.

“I will pluck out your eyeballs if you refuse.”

The threat is short and to the point.

Four beats of silence pass before she opens her eyes. Tom knows not to give her more time to consider.

“Legilimens.”

He swims downward, deep into her mind until he feels like his lungs are going to burst for lack of air. She’s throwing nonsense at him—shiny, attractive nonsense. Conversations about him with her friends where she admits he’s handsome. The day Ignatius Prewett asked her to the ball. Her first kiss—a tall burly teenager with a beard and crooked nose leaning in.

Despite the temptation, Tom does not pause his confident strokes. The water is almost black here. A foggy memory of receiving her Hogwarts letter floats by serenely, and Tom knows he’s getting closer. He’s dimly aware her hands are clutching at the stone wall behind her, trying to gain some purchase as he lifts her toward him, his hands still wrapped around the bottom of her scalp where it meets her neck. He shuts out the images of reality and focuses on swimming deeper into her mind, deep enough to make blood pour out of her tear ducts, dripping wetly onto his thumbs.

Finally, he deems himself deep enough. With lungs bursting for air, he gasps one word only. Something she would never expect. Something she could never prepare against.

Portofino.

He is immediately accosted with images of her floating—no, flying—over the Mediterranean Sea. The memory floods his senses so quickly he almost falls out of her mind from the shock of no longer being immersed in water. He gulps the salty sea-air greedily, trying not to waste time but desperate to catch his breath after swimming for so long. He watches as an older Hermione’s hair whips behind her as she thinks longingly of the coast, wishing to get their faster. She’s meeting someone there.

Who? Who are you meeting?

He meets some resistance, but he blocks out the image of a disheveled younger Hermione in her school uniform grabbing at his collar, ripping at his hair as she attempts to fight him off.

Tell me who you long to see, he commands, ignoring the pain of his split lip and broken nose as the Hermione in the come-and-go room slams the base of her palm against his face over and over.

The older Hermione in the vision finally flies close enough to reveal a wizard in a dark cloak standing alone on the cliffs overlooking the green-blue waters. The sea is calm as he calls her back into his embrace. Tom recognizes the man instantly. He’s older, but his face is unmistakably his. He holds out his hand, as if waiting for Hermione to fly directly into his arms. She smiles, her face illuminated with happiness.

They embrace. He calls her his Hermione. Out loud, she calls him Tom, but she’s thinking another name entirely.

Lord Voldemort.

-

Chapter Text

Tom falls back with a bang, landing neatly against the ottoman he was sitting on only moments before. His entire body croaks in pain. He feels like he’s been through several rounds of crucio.

"Had a fun trip down memory lane?" Hermione sneers as she wipes her hands onto her skirt, smearing it with his blood. She's holding his wand in her hand, and Tom panics when he sees her waving it so casually. He fumbles with his robes to pull hers out of the hidden pocket so he can be equally armed, but it is no longer there.

She notices, and tuts condescendingly. "Looking for this, my lord?"

She pulls out her wand from her sleeve, and then tucks it back in, preferring to wield his.

Tom stares at her in horror, unwilling to believe he is back in Hogwarts, back in the come-and-go room, back here, staring at an angry young Hermione who does not smell of the Mediterranean, who does not embrace him.

He sits on his tremoring hands so they won't betray him. He doesn't think he's ever been this afraid in his entire life. 

"Who are you?"

"I thought you had that all figured out already?" Hermione doesn't edge any closer, and Tom thinks for a wild moment that maybe it's an act. She still feels weak. That is why she won’t attack him now, when she has all the advantage. He's contemplating a strike when she interrupts his thoughts.

"Move an inch and I'll slice you in two."

“You wouldn’t know such a spell,” Tom scoffs, curling his lip.

“Wouldn’t I? I like to think I’m a good pupil—you did take such pains to teach me.”

Tom opens his mouth, and then promptly closes it. She's angry with him, and goading her doesn't do much to serve his purpose when she’s holding the only two wands in the room. Despite the real presence of danger, he’s desperate for her to explain what he saw.

"You called me Lord Voldemort," he begins, gritting his teeth in annoyance at the sudden change in circumstance. Trails of fresh blood drip down her face like tears from his mental assault. He isn’t sure how he’s meant to soften her up when she’s clearly incensed and set to draw blood.

"I call you lots of things," she responds, attempting to be flippant.

“How do you know that name?” Tom demands, then realizing his voice is too hard to persuade anyone, let alone her, he adds, “Please, I just want to talk.”

It’s an afterthought, and she obviously notices.

She laughs, waving a hand over herself to showcase her bruising cheek, her matted hair, her bloody tears, torn shirt, and bloody skirt for him to examine. "Is this how you normally initiate a civil conversation?"

"Of course not," he snaps at her, forgetting he’s supposed to be mending bridges. "I've been going half-mad with visions and you've been avoiding me again," he pauses, doing his best to give her the most condescending look known to man, "If you had just been honest from the beginning, I wouldn't have had to resort to such drastic measures."

He is immediately slapped with a stinging hex, right across the face. Hard enough to twist his head painfully with the blow. He reacts with a grin, righting himself to look at her.

"I never meant to hit you so hard, Hermione."

She scoffs and loosens her tie. "Was the curse to my insides an accident too?"

"I don't believe in accidents. But sometimes I can be a little overzealous." Tom smiles at her in mock-embarrassment, "I did heal you. It may take a week for you to feel completely back to normal—a little dropsy draught will quicken your recovery."

"Oh, shut up!" Hermione snaps, "Just because you think you've undone the damage, does not mean you didn't commit the crime! It isn't an excuse that you healed me when you shouldn't have cursed me in the first place!"

"Ironic, isn't it?" Tom asks, trembling in anger, "That the poison and the medicine come from the same source?

"Don't pontificate at me."

"Then tell me what I want to know.”

"You're not really in a position to dictate the subject."

Tom stands, irritated that she's still being difficult. The incredible tension threatens to suffocate him. He throws his cloak off, letting it tumble in a heap on the floor. It's too damn hot in here. "What do you want from me, Hermione? I’m sorry I hit you. It disgusts me. I wanted to talk—I tried to talk, but you stiff me at every opportunity. And why? You obviously lo—like me when you’re older.”

"What makes you think that? Because you saw me hugging you once at some point in the future?"

“It’s more than that—I saw it in my dreams. It isn’t just once, Hermione, and it isn’t just hugs—don’t lie about it.”

She gives him a cold, unrelenting stare. Then, in her snootiest voice, “I haven’t a clue what you’re caviling about. Your dreams do not relate to the future. And you’re not entitled to any answers, no matter what you think. In fact, I’m going to leave now.”

“No!”

“And just how do you plan to stop me?” she asks, pointing his wand directly at his face.

"That's not what I—wait!" Tom begins, but she's already shot off her wordless spell, which hits him square in the nose. For a moment he panics that she struck him with a rather painful obliviate and that it was all for naught, but then, with a sharp crack the broken bones in his nose snap back into place. Tom's eyes sting as his nerves readjust to the feeling of being able to breathe through both nostrils again.

"You're welcome, arsehole." she tells him bitterly, leaving him on the far end of the room and moving closer to the fire. She takes a seat on the armchair, and Tom is left awkwardly staring at her while trying to regain his bearings. He realizes his face is covered in blood, and casts an aguamenti on his cloak to try to wipe off some of it. It has coagulated already, and it hurts to rub his tender nose. He gives up, and decides to join her, feeling stupid standing there alone, feeling grateful she doesn’t leave.

"May I sit down?" he asks when he approaches her, feeling much safer reverting to a guise of politeness.

She nods her head toward the armchair across from her, and Tom takes a seat. They say nothing for a few moments.

"Thank you for fixing my nose."

She says nothing.

"Fixing my nose counts for something, even if you were the one who broke it." He’s trying slyly to make a point, and it doesn’t escape her.

"I only broke your nose because you were rummaging around in my head again,” she says coldly, "It is not the same--do not try to manipulate my words, Tom."

Tom decides to change the subject, "What year were you born?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

“What were we looking for in Portofino?”

“An object.”

“What kind of object?”

She sighs.

“Won’t?” Tom guesses.

She gives him a pointed look.

“Are you a spy?”

“No.”

“Finally, a straight answer. Although I doubt you would tell the truth if you were.”

"Don't you think I would have just killed you by now, if I was?"

"Maybe you're playing a long game," Tom reasons.

She snorts, leaning further into the cushions and staring into the fire. 

“Are you in love with me?”

He lets the silence stretch on forever. She never tears her eyes away from the fire. Tom watches her face closely for the slightest betrayal of her true feelings, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t budge. She’s stiller than a statue.

“Won’t, again?” he finally says, trying to keep his voice light.

This time she says, “Can’t.”

He sits with this information for a bit, letting it sink in. For some reason, it makes him feel infinitely better.

"Can I have my wand back?" he tries.

"No."

"Don't make me wrestle it back," he threatens, shifting forward in his seat.

"Try it, if you want to feel pain like you've never felt before.”

"You always know how to turn me on."

She cracks a smile. It's very brief but it reaches her eyes, lighting them up like sparkling crystals before the crackling fire. Despite the dried blood that cakes her cheeks, Tom thinks she looks more beautiful than ever.

"If you're not going to kill me, and you refuse to give me my wand, I'm assuming your plan is a little more brilliant than trapping me in this room for the rest of the year?"

"Hmm." She hums, "Hadn't thought of that. It’s not a bad idea."

It’s Tom’s turn to snort. "Will you bring me food from the Great Hall after meal times? I wouldn't want to starve."

She turns to look at him slowly. "You've been here before." 

It's a statement, not a question. How else would he know that the come-and-go room's one defect is that it cannot procure food?

"Many times," Tom acknowledges, and he watches as the cold shutters of her eyes close against him again.

"If you still had your wand, what would you do?" she finally asks him, shifting in her seat to cross her legs. It's an interesting question. Tom thinks for a moment before answering.

"I would kiss you."

She rolls her eyes. "Tell me really."

"I would torture you until you gave me all the information I want." 

She smiles, and it's a wicked grin, one that threatens to gnash at his flesh, eat up his sanity, divulge his insides. 

"Now we're talking, Riddle. Which option shall I choose for you? Torture, or kisses?"

"Torture, of course." Tom answers unthinkingly, "It will be so much more pleasurable for you."

"You know me so well." 

"I would like to know you better."

"So you tell me." 

She stands, and for one exhilarating moment, Tom thinks she is going to sit on his lap. But instead, she throws his wand back at him. It lands stupidly on his thighs, but because of his surprise, he doesn't move to catch it in time and it falls to his feet, rolling slightly on the floor away from him before coming to a stop before the merry fire.

He looks up at her in anger and disbelief. "Why?"

"Regardless of what you think, Tom, I am not your enemy. Clean yourself up before you leave. You look a fright." She says, motioning to his dirty face as if forgetting her own. It's oddly comical and simultaneously infuriating.

She starts to move toward the door when Tom jumps up, grabbing her from behind until she’s pressed against him. He’s desperate to prevent her from running away from this conversation, from him. He needs her to stay. He’s oddly touched she’s willing to let him leave.

His wand is still laying on the floor. What he plans to do, he doesn’t know. Nothing is simple with her. She brings out the brute muggle within him—his basest, lowest instincts reign. She’s shaking in his arms, and it takes him some moments of deep breathing to realize he is the one shaking her, so forceful are the tremors wracking his body.

“Tom,” she whispers into the empty air. Tom thinks he can almost hear the compassion in her voice. He feels a strange knot in his throat, and he tries to swallow against it. His nose stings, and it isn’t from the recent fracture. He dips his head into the crook of her neck, and tries to steel himself against the senseless tears threatening to well over. He cannot help but think he’s never been shown such mercy. Is her baffling behavior love, or is it a trick?

“Hermione,” he whispers into her hair, “my Hermione.”

He closes his eyes and imagines he can almost smell the Mediterranean in her curls. That was real. In his dream, she was the storm.

“Do you cross me?”

She doesn’t answer, and he tightens his hold until he can feel her ribs protest against his arms.

“Tell me…” he swallows again, “please.”

Her answer is of paramount importance. It is the most important thing on earth. Everything seems to hang in the balance. A precarious trust hangs between them like the thinnest, most vulnerable thread in the world. To ask a question, and to trust the answer. It is a muggle way of being. It is against Tom’s every innate reflex. It feels as unnatural and ripping out his own nails.

“It isn’t that I do not want to answer your questions. Certain subjects—it is not safe to discuss… to reveal too much can change everything,” she hesitates, speaking slowly and carefully into an empty room as Tom holds on to her for dear life. She sighs. “I know you won’t believe me, but I’m doing this to protect you.”

“Protect me? From what?” He snakes his left arm in across her chest to settle his hand against her neck. He presses his fingers into her divot of her trachea, trying to feel her pulse. Reassurance; he needs reassurance.

“Mainly from yourself.”

Tom can hear the rueful smile in her voice, as if she is amused that she has had to take a dangerous trip into the past, forsaking her friends, family, and timeline to babysit a teenage Tom while fabricating an intricate story to maintain her cover.

“So your feeling from Divinations, it wasn’t just a hunch?”

“Sadly, no.”

“I… I become a liability?” he asks uneasily.

Hermione shifts, and Tom misreads her movement to mean she wants to leave him, so he holds her tighter, loving the feeling of the warmth emanating from her, and unwilling to let her go. She stops trying to turn, seeming to understand he cannot bear to face her at this moment either.

“I think you already know.”

Tom’s brain whirrs senselessly for a minute before he can control his rising panic. He is unable to bear the thought of his mind unraveling, thus destroying everything he ever planned for. As important Hermione has become to him, becoming Lord Voldemort is still more important.

He decides to change the subject, frustrated with her revelation and uninterested in believing it.

“Explain Dumbledore. How does he play into this?”

“I cannot discuss that with you either.”

For some reason, her answer infuriates him. He grips her neck tighter before clamping his other hand over hers, sending white-hot sparks out of the tip of her wand. “What can you discuss?” he breathes into ear, “You say you’re on my side but you won’t answer a single question. What’s stopping me from wringing your neck right now?”

She tries to turn her face to see his, but awkwardly ends up puffing out her chest and laying her nose into the opposite crook of his neck. Tom blushes, aware that they look like the cover of a violent harlequin romance.

“Nothing, I suppose,” she murmurs against his neck. It sends gooseflesh of pleasure down Tom’s back. He twists her wand arm behind her, arching her back further. She’s too seductive for her own good.

“Answer me with something more substantial, Granger.”

“I know something about him. I used it to manipulate him. That is all I am willing to say—able to say—so ask no more and be satisfied.” She wiggles lightly against him until he allows her to twist fully in his embrace. They’re suddenly nose to nose, and she’s looking unabashedly into his eyes. It’s a stare that has startled him many times before, for its brazenness and its confidence. Tom thinks it now makes sense. She’s known him all along. Known him better than he can know himself.

“Why won’t you let me kiss you?” he asks.

“Sometimes there is nothing more that I want,” she says in reply, and Tom thinks it is the most wonderful sentence that has ever been formed. He lifts a hand to cradle the cheek he slapped only minutes ago, rubbing light circles into the bruise, wishing he wasn’t such a bastard, before his high comes crashing down.

“…but it would be a mistake.”

“A mistake,” he repeats coldly, letting it sink in. “We split up.”

She doesn’t respond to his statement, but that in itself is a confirmation, Tom decides angrily.

“Then why are you here?”

“Reasons beyond understanding.”

Her tone is painfully sardonic and matter-of-fact, as if she didn’t just shatter Tom’s heart and hopes to pieces. As if she isn’t being maddeningly cryptic. Tom abruptly lets her go, feeling physically gutted. The act is so sudden she stumbles back a step as he withdraws from her.

He stares at her, only now seeing her for the first time. Another person who leaves him. Another person who uses him, keeps him around when convenient, discards him like forgotten trash when he’s outlived his usefulness.

Alone; he’s always alone.

“So you abandoned me for reasons beyond understanding?” Tom emphasizes the words sarcastically, “Beyond my understanding, or yours?”

She doesn’t answer. She’s looking at his feet. She looks to him like a chastised child—it incenses him further.

“Not everything is so black and white, please understand it isn’t that simple.” She speaks quietly, in contrast to Tom’s booming voice which seems to swell with each angry word.

“It is incredibly simple. You should have stayed with me, helped me—especially if you knew I was teetering on the edge of insanity! Not galivanting around 1944!”

Tom is stunned by his own words, his own hurt, even if Hermione seems to expect it. He hates the sage way she takes him in, as if she understands his protests and even sympathizes with him. Her empty sympathy doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t fix her disloyalty.

His head aches trying to understand the timelines. He tries to understand how an act of betrayal in the future can already feel like it has come to pass. How many years does he love her before she devastates him? Does she even warn him before she disappears? He feels sick. This is why it is safer to never depend on anyone at all.

He was on the right track before. He should have been avoiding her, not indulging in these revolting feelings. He thinks of the future; the twisted, confusing future. A future where Hermione flies and sleeps in his bed. A future where he trains her, and possibly teaches her dark magic. A future where he goes to Italy with her, and not to Albania alone.

He must be looking for a way back right now. He must have dropped everything for her. He must be obsessed with only the thought of finding her. There is no other possibility. Tom feels a visceral mourning for his future self, while the other half of his mind resolves to learn everything he can about time travel to prepare for the eventual necessity of coming back far enough to his Hogwarts seventh year to bring her back to him. He has to begin preparing now. He cannot be without her.

“You shouldn’t have left me, Hermione. I’ll be looking for you—I’m probably trying to get back to you right now.”

She smiles at this, but it’s thin-lipped and she’s avoiding his eyes.

“I don’t leave you, Tom,” she finally answers him sadly, flicking her wand over her body and instantly transforming herself into a clean, bloodless, innocent school girl.

“You leave me.”

Chapter Text

When Hermione was born, she scored a full ten out of ten on the APGAR scale. Of course, it wasn’t an exam per se, but her parents knew she was special when the doctor told them he’d never seen a baby score higher than a nine.

Her parents only child, she became accustomed to their undivided attention and love. She wasn’t spoiled exactly, but she was never left wanting. She was rarely disciplined, and when she was, it was in the form of long-winded explanations or intense philosophical arguments. Eventually, when she was old enough, she realized if she could match her parents in a civil verbal spar, they were more than willing to give in to her demands.

This is exactly what happened when she received her Hogwarts letter. She convinced her parents to send her to a boarding school in Scotland—a boarding school that they could never see, let alone tour—instead of staying in the London-based high-end preparatory school they had finagled her way into. It happened again when she asked to spend her second year Christmas at school with her friends, and again when she asked to spend her later summers at the Burrow or Grimmauld Place.

So often, Hermione used her intellect to wedge a greater divide between herself and her parents. She blames it on the idiocy of youth, the so-called Great Desire For Independence. The more years that pass in their absence, the more she yearns for her mother to comb her fingers through her hair, or for her father to bring her a warm cup of tea and sit silently with her as he reads. She wants to ask them their opinion on Tom. She wants to know what they think she should do next. She’s sick of trying to figure this out on her own.

Sometimes it feels like she placed too much confidence in her books, facts, charts, and plans. It all comes down to her arrogance. Her cursed arrogance. The most brilliant witch of her age, they called her. She could almost laugh at that now. Almost.

Staring at Tom’s heartbroken face in the room of requirement, she wonders for the millionth time if he wishes he had a mother who could comb his hair with her fingers, too. Sometimes the only cure for this type of romantic heartache is the unmovable love of a mother.

But what would Tom know about that?

He had only ever felt the love of a woman once, and he couldn’t even remember her, even when looking directly into her face.

He holds his hand out to her now, and she takes it even though she knows it is dangerous, even though she knows it runs the risk of him remembering more, and sooner. It isn’t the hum of the electric current that she can’t resist, but his sad eyes with the moist sheen, and his full lips that set in a grim straight line. He’s just a boy, she thinks. Just a boy in an adult body.

A body he will not keep forever.

He heals her cheek, cradling her against his chest, his body shaking with sobs. She wants to know what he could be mourning, but he won’t tell her. He doesn’t cry in front of her often. She knows this, even if he can’t remember. She feels sad and small, almost as young as he is for a moment. Mostly she feels guilt, knowing what she plans behind his back. Knowing that while she loves him, she’s never, ever on his side.

Not once.

Not even when she took the mark.

-

Hermione swims in the prefect bath, diving her head underwater until she’s starved for air. It’s more than a little unpleasant, but it’s also the perfect way to clear her mind.

Breathe.

Dive.

Breathe.

Dive.

She needs to think of a solution. She needs a new plan. Everything is falling apart. No one is acting the way they’re supposed to. Tom is different this time. Somehow softer. Somehow crueler. Already a little unhinged.

Breathe.

Dive.

Albus isn’t doing anything he’s supposed to. He’s useless. Is this the man that defeats Grindelwald and guides Harry Potter? He’s nothing more than a self-satisfied academic. He’s an idiot, he’s a meddling, self-absorbed—

Breathe.

Dive.

Lucretia keeps stealing her things. Prewett is a blood supremacist. Mulciber is a bonified idiot. Tom is... sweet? Yes, he’s still unstable, and violent, and sadistic, but—but he’s also—he’s also—

Breathe.

Dive.

He’s horny, that’s all. He’s a teenager. Sure, he’s less controlled than he normally is at this age. Or maybe, he was always like this at seventeen, and she’s just forgotten. Yes, that’s it. She had years and years with him the last time. It wasn’t as if she left off at seventeen, was it? How old were they in Rome? Thirty? Forty? How old would she have been in 1959?

Breathe.

She doesn’t have the strength to dive again. She swims to her clothes, pawing around for her watch. It’s well past nine o’clock. She already knows Tom will be waiting for her in the common room, or worse—right outside. She needs to get going.

The last thing she needs right now is a sodding detention.

-

He was indeed right outside the prefect bathroom, waiting for her as if keeping guard to protect her honor. Hermione sometimes forgets she’s in the 1940s, when people care about that sort of thing. He walks her to the common room, all the while holding her hand.

He makes her a cup of tea and hands it to her as they sit on the sofa by the fireplace. He reads silently as she sips her drink. Somehow, he knows to prepare a light brew with no sugar. When she’s finished with her mug, he pulls her head onto his lap.

He combs his fingers through her hair, teasing each tangle until it’s loose, massaging gentle fingers into her tender scalp.

-

Hermione does not like the shifting tide. She does not like for the tables to turn. She’s the good guy here, she tells herself firmly. She’s the one who should be in control. She isn’t sure if Tom is remembering or if he is just very good at guessing very particular pieces of information about her. Perhaps he’s been reading her diary? That is a great theory, actually.

If only she had a diary.

She knows she’s running out of time, but she refuses to panic. Albus had warned her this could happen with each return. She knows she shouldn’t see Time as her adversary. Time is her ally. Time is her friend.

She just… has to adapt. Time is simply a function of Change. Change is natural. Change is law.

Even the past can change.

The future—well, that’s what she is having trouble with, isn’t it?

Breathe.

She tells herself she needs to focus on the present. She’s tempted to argue with herself that the present is technically 1996, but she keeps her mental mouth shut.

Breathe.

And suddenly, Hermione knows what to do.

There’s really only one solid method of reigning Tom in.

She sits in potions class with her back turned to him. She knows Tom is watching her without checking. She fidgets with the flames beneath her cauldron. The lower the heat, the longer the simmer, the more potent the potion. She arches her back just enough to seem like she is stretching for an ingredient in front of her, but she knows it will catch his eye.

It always has.

Hermione brushes her hair out of her face, and asks to borrow Prewett’s knife. It slips in her hand as she dices her murtlap spines, and her middle finger starts to bleed. Before she can even wince in pain at the deep cut, Tom is at her side.

Prewett shoots him a dirty look, but then turns away, looking determined to ignore them both as Tom cradles her finger in his hand.

His eyes lock on hers as he lifts her finger to his mouth, and whispers something against her bleeding injury, his lips barely touching her skin. Both edges of the straight wound extend fleshy tentacles that reach for each other until they pull the gash closed. Only a thin pink line remains.

She worries that he remembers the spell she taught him. Or, he learns it on his own this time.

It’s impossible to know.

She’s startled out of her dark thoughts on her failings by a swipe of his wet tongue against her new scar.

Perhaps he expects her to be embarrassed. She presses the tip of her finger further into his plush lips instead. Shielded as they are in the back of the classroom, cornered against a dungeon wall and Prewett’s tense back, there is no one to watch them.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of her as she enters his mouth. He sucks her finger, swirling his tongue around it until she’s almost in his throat.

-

When Tom invites her to sleep with him, she hesitates. Not because she hasn’t shared a bed with him before, but because she knows what this will mean for him. He begs. He cajoles. He promises to be good.

She knows better than to trust his promises at this point in her existence.

He lets her borrow his pajamas. He tucks her under his arm. His bed is comfy and warm and his scent is familiar. It feels nice not to have to cast enchantments and charms before sleeping in order to protect herself from Lucretia. For many hours, he does nothing but lay next to her, idly stroking her hair, or running his nose against her bare shoulder. She feels almost peaceful listening to his breath enter and exit his lungs. It reminds her of the endless ebb and flow of the sea.

He is being good, actually.

Until he’s not.

When he thinks she is in a deep sleep, he tilts her head back and pulls her chin down, enough to form an opening between her lips. A salty bitter liquid glides past her tongue, and Hermione recognizes it immediately.

Veritaserum.

She isn’t surprised.

It isn’t the first time.

He casts a stasis charm, and she feels her body go numb with relaxation. It feels almost nice. She knows she can still move if she wants to, but if she did, he’d know she was waking. It’s clever really. She doesn’t expect any less from him.

He enters her mind gently, wading through her consciousness to reach a comfortable dry spot on the sand. He sits by a dream version of her wearing her school skirt with his oversized Slytherin T-shirt. She’s not wearing any shoes or socks, preferring to stick her feet in the balmy water.

If he’s suspicious about this arrangement, he does not show it.

Hermione, Hello.

--Hello.

He looks at her bare legs for a moment, as if he can’t help himself. Hermione is tempted to roll her eyes. He’s wasting precious time. Veritaserum doesn’t last forever, and she’s guessing he either stole it, or brewed it. Either way, it would have been extremely difficult to come by.

When do I become Lord Voldemort?

--When you grow up.

What year?

--There are already some who call you Lord Voldemort now.

Tell what year the world will know me by that name.

--I think… 1970, but I am not sure.

What year were you born?

--1979.

He pauses for a second, and Hermione knows him well enough to know he does not like how much younger than him she is.

What year did you come from?

--1996.

Tell me how I rise to power.

--You become a master of the dark arts. You gain a following.

How? How do I become a master?

--No one knows. You disappear for about ten years before you rise to power.

How do I gain that following?

--Fear, manipulation, blackmail. You recruit the weakest and meanest with false promises of glory, wealth, fame—whatever they desire.

He stands abruptly, and begins to angrily pace, kicking up sand with each step. She knows he will not like these truthful answers, even though they are methods he employs even now. Did he think he would become more grand and magnanimous with age? Did he imagine himself some kind of refined king?

False promises? Do I not reward my followers?

--Yes, you reward them. Petty offerings. You mostly feed on their baser instincts. I said they were false promises because most of them end up dead or in Azkaban for serving you.

You mean to say in your time—in 1996—there is still a struggle for power? There are those who oppose me?

--Yes.

Do the boys who hang around me now continue to be loyal to me?

--Yes.

Their children?

--Their children, too.

Do I live forever?

--No one lives forever.

But I am alive when you go back in time?

--Yes.

Then who dares oppose me?

--Albus Dumbledore.

He pauses his questioning and pacing to sneer at his professor’s name. He licks his lips, and turns to her.

How are you manipulating Dumbledore?

--I told him I am from the future.

But why does he trust you?

-- I told him things about himself no one could know at this time. It gave me credibility. I also told him I had to come back to make sure Grindelwald would be defeated.

Why does that necessitate you being at Hogwarts? It doesn’t make sense.

--Dumbledore thinks you are the key to defeating Grindelwald.

You told him that?

--Yes.

What do you know about Dumbledore that no one else could know?

--I know about his sister.

He has a sister?

--She’s dead.

Tom seems to think about this for a moment before returning to his seat next to her.

Show me the memory of our first meeting.

--Which one?

The real one. The first time for both of us.

Hermione takes his hand, and suddenly the sandy beach and gentle lake that surrounds them begins to swirl and distort into another scene, another place. The sand expands and hardens, covering everything as far back as the horizon, and the water evaporates into a distant haze caused by a blazing hot sun. They’re situated in a small kasbah, its fortified mud-brick walls blending perfectly into the desert around it. Its tall walls cast no shadows with the sun hanging directly overhead. The heat beats into their heads.

Hermione leads a teenage Tom into the courtyard of a low building inside the kasbah, totally unremarkable from the outside if it were not for the matagot sleeping peacefully under the shade of a broken mosaic table tilted on its side.

They have to crouch slightly to enter through the small unassuming doorway. Hermione watches as Tom’s eyes widen when that small opening reveals the magnificent mosaic tile walls and floors, with high ceilings and plenty of natural light through a gorgeous open veranda leading to a palm tree garden in the back. Matching tables and chairs litter the restaurant, most of them empty except for an older version of Tom who sits alone, waiting to order.

He strums his fingers impatiently against the colorful tile of the table until a tanned young man in a blue jalabiya approaches to take his order. His red scarf is wrapped only partially around his head, the rest left hanging casually over his shoulder. Tom attempts to order in broken Arabic, then broken French—but the server speaks neither. He argues back in Amazigh, pointing to an item on the menu and motioning with his arms to indicate an X, and then holding up a finger to indicate the number 1.

Tom begins to grow frustrated, and switches to English. The server looks at him as if he’s grown a second head within their brief moments of meeting. A stifled laugh can be heard in the far corner of the open-air restaurant, and Tom turns his head to locate the source. An older Hermione is sitting alone, her hair covered in a long linen scarf, wearing a matching jalabiya. Her honey brown eyes are rimmed with dark glittering kohl. Everything about her screams I belong, whereas Tom stands out like a sore thumb in his pressed bespoke suit and loafers.

She lifts her dainty glass cup of mint and honey tea, as if toasting Tom from afar. She winks.

Tom does not like this. He stands, withdrawing his wand. The young man in the blue jalabiya inserts himself between his wand and Hermione, and begins speaking rapidly in garbled tones Tom cannot understand. Tom turns his attention to the server, but just as he opens his mouth, Hermione appears before him.

“Did you just apparate indoors?”

Hermione smirks, adjusting her scarf to throw it back over her shoulder, briefly revealing her gold coin earrings and matching necklace that adorns her throat. “He’s telling you that the meal can only be had if shared. He can’t serve you what you want if you are eating alone.”

“What?” Tom replies rather ineloquently, surprised to hear her speaking British English in such an isolated place.

Hermione doesn’t repeat herself. Instead, she turns to the server and speaks to him in Amazigh, sending him away before she takes the seat opposite to Tom’s. He stares at her for a moment before returning to his seat himself.

Unable to help himself, he says, “What did you tell him?”

“I told him I would share the meal with you, and to go ahead and prepare it.”

Tom is watching himself and the other Hermione, completely enraptured, when Hermione tugs on his arm. The scene begins to dissolve around them; the Tom and Hermione in the restaurant turning into whisps of smoke until there is nothing but the warm water and soft sand beach once more.

Show me another one. Of us. Tom demands.

Anything?

One of your favorites.

She takes him to a cabin near the border of Georgia and eastern Turkey. It’s snowing heavily enough outside to obscure the view out of the four pane windows. The glass rattles gently with each blow of the whining blizzard wind. Inside the small cabin is a large and roaring fireplace and nearby redundant wood stove. A kettle whistles on the stove top, and Hermione fiddles with the tea things to stew the brew. In front of her is two cups, one printed pink with little rubber duckies, and the other reading World’s Coolest Dad in faded letters. She fills both cups with delicious hot liquid, and floats them over to the coffee table in front of the sofa. Tom is lounging there, his feet propped up on the table as he reads his paper. He smirks as the cup with the rubber duckies settles by him, and takes a small sip, smiling at Hermione from behind the rim.

Hermione carries over a tin of biscuits as she joins him. She settles against the pillows on the arm rest, tucking her fuzzy socks under Tom’s bum, wiggling her feet until she’s satisfied. He pats her leg, and lifts his newspaper to continue reading. She’s got a thicker tome opened on her lap, and she juggles her tea and biscuit carefully to avoid staining it.

The memory fades, and Tom is already demanding: More.

She shows him the first time she takes him skiing, impressed that he’s able to pick it up so quickly. She shows him breakfasts on balconies, holding hands in bazaars, tea time in London muggle hotels, an amusement park in France. She shows him flirting with her, tugging on her curls and marveling how they bounce right back. She shows him carrying her on his back when she’s too tired to walk all the way back home. She shows them reading together, always focused on their work, but also always touching in some way—whether it’s feet connected beneath the table or a leg thrown over his waist or shoulder.

Every time she shows him one, he wants another. He’s forgotten all about his diabolical machinations. It’s been more than half an hour, and she feels the veritaserum weakening when he tilts her head back again.

The liquid slides down her throat. She lets herself sputter this time. He freezes in panic, his hands hovering around her face, gently tilting her head to the side in case she chokes. It’s such a loving gesture. If only he wasn’t also violating her privacy and autonomy at the moment.

Sensing he’s running out of potion and running out of time; he begins his questioning again.

Do we get married?

--A few times.

What do you mean?

--We’ve been married a few times.

Do we divorce?

--Never.

Do we have children?

--No.

Why not?

--You don’t want them.

Why do you leave me? All of these memories—we seem so happy.

--You push me away.

I’m sorry! He almost cries out, his tone desperate. I’m sorry if it’s true. But why? Why would I push you away? It doesn’t make sense!

--You want to be Lord Voldemort instead.

He sits stunned for a few moments, rolling her words over in his mind. Hermione knows that giving up love for power seems like an impossible exchange for a young, lonely Tom Riddle. People change, however. Change is law. She knows how this goes already. She refuses to pity the look on his face, or the droop in his shoulders. There will come a time when betrayal feels as natural to him as breathing air.

What if I gave it up?

--You won’t.

Have I promised before that I would?

--Yes.

Are you angry with me?

--Immeasurably so.

Did you love me?

--I did.

Do you love me still?

--I always do.

If I asked you, would you stay with me?

Hermione turns, pretending to have a restless sleep. The stasis charm is wearing off. She can almost feel Tom holding his breath. He gently lays himself down next to her again, and she hears the clink of a glass vial against the wooden drawer. It slides slowly shut.

She feels his wand rest against her temple once more. It is the gentlest touch, almost imperceptible.

If I asked you, would you stay with me here? Forever? he asks again.

It isn’t hard to lie. She’s immune to veritaserum.

--Yes.

-

Hermione slips on her dress, relishing in the feeling of the thick soft fabric sliding over her skin. She’s chosen a dark long sleeve gown in midnight black. Hermione runs her hand over the crushed velvet, tracing the swirls of the subtle pattern printed within. The dress has no plunging neck line, no daring slit, or even a cut out in the back, but it hugs her body like nothing else she owns. It’s the kind of thing a young jealous Tom would like.

With her hair pulled up, her graceful neck is on full display. Her only jewelry is a pair of Italian silver herringbone earrings fashioned to look like two ends of one snake. The head and body of the snake rest on her right ear, while the rest of the body and rattled tail hang on the left. Its only adornment are little flashing emeralds for eyes, and similar, smaller ones that line the tip of the tail to signify its deadly rattle.

It’s very pretty.

It’s very Slytherin.

Hermione heads out of her dormitory to the common room after placing her transfigured crown carefully in her hair so as not to ruin her updo. Her heals clack loudly against the stone floor and she sees heads turn to look at her as she passes by. Hermione fixes her eyes on the common room portrait knowing there is no one she needs to talk to here.

She isn’t shy—no, she’s outgrown that years ago. But she doesn’t think she’ll ever be the kind of woman who soaks up every ounce of attention like it is sunshine on a rainy day.

She’s walking down the stairs toward the Great Hall entrance when she sees him. She notices him first. He’s talking to another prefect—a Hufflepuff, she thinks. He’s dressed in a traditional black suit, tailored to perfection. That isn’t what looks the most impressive about him, however. Framing his body are two large wings that seem to sprout out of his back, with long white feathers that move and quiver as he talks to his companion. He must have charmed them. On his head rests a headpiece very similar to hers, but his is gold and not silver, with stiff pointed rays pointing towards the sky, resembling a rising sun.

Hermione wonders how he could afford it.

His gaze drifts up the stairs and he finally sees her.

Hermione purposely left her eye makeup minimal, opting for a more dramatic dark red lip tint instead. She wonders what Tom thinks of her headpiece, with its silver snakes hissing and licking at the air around her, in perpetual movement around her head.

The Hufflepuff is still talking to him, but Tom is clearly not listening. He places his hand on the boy’s shoulder without turning his head away from Hermione, and walks toward her. Hermione almost smirks. That’s one way to end a conversation.

“You look… breathtaking.”

“Thank you.” She says, then adds, “I know better than to think you’ve dressed up as an angel—Icarus, perhaps?”

It earns her a smile.

“Nothing gets past you.”

He almost takes her hand, but then seems to remember himself. His face falls, looking disappointed he cannot escort her inside.

“Can you save me a dance?” He asks her, and Hermione snuffs out the twinge of guilt she feels at his downcast demeanor. It just seems so honest. And really, Tom is still quite innocent at the age—not that Hermione would call four murders, two innocents framed, a secret group of proto-Death Eaters, and illegal use of veritaserum innocent per se.

But even she has to admit that when it comes to Tom, it almost is.

“Anything for the Head boy,” she smiles, and it seems to uplift his mood.

She walks in to the Great Hall, trying to appear unimpressed with the décor but failing miserably. Moody candles float about ten feet up in the air, their light flickering as if threatened to be snuffed out by an autumn breeze. Amongst the floating candles are carved pumpkins of various size, each with a different face, charmed to change their expression if they catch someone looking. Hermione knows this because she looks at one of them too long, and it sticks out a pulpy tongue at her and blows a raspberry.

She’s forced to spend a few moments picking pumpkin seeds out of her hair.

The tables have been transformed into smaller round ones, and Hermione finds an almost empty table in the far corner and snags a seat. A couple sits on the opposite end of the table, masks discarded on the table and already snogging.

Hermione watches from her seat as Tom opens the formal with Yvette in his arms. He’s a good dancer, even at this age. At this point in his life, he still cares about these things. Yvette looks silly next to him, like a peasant dancing with a king. But she’s clearly enjoying herself, her smile bright under her cat whiskers. Hermione judgmentally think Yvette’s dress is a little too revealing for a soiree in 1940s wizarding England. She scowls into her glass, pretending she doesn’t feel the sting of jealousy caused by seeing someone else in Tom’s arms. Shouldn’t she be used to this by now? He’ll spend most of the 90s with a woman who looks like a poor imitation of her.

Hermione takes another sip of her water, watching as other pairs stand to join the waltz.

She’s here alone, thanks to Tom’s antics. She didn’t want to risk sending another student to the infirmary, so she refused anyone who asked her after Prewett rudely rescinded his invitation. He is cradled in Lucretia’s arms right now, spinning gracefully around the dance floor in a toga and wreath crown. Lucretia is wearing a matching garb and floral wreath. If she had to guess, Hermione would say they are dressed as Julius Cesar and Cleopatra.

Hermione considers them for a moment. When she first arrived this time, Ignatius Prewett was a comfort to her. Despite the fact that he had blonde hair and green eyes, he reminded her greatly of Ron. He was just so friendly, so kind, so eager to make her laugh… and possibly, she was reading too much into the family connection. But somehow, he was different than all the other times she’d met him. More serious, somehow. A little more intense.

And also, not completely in love with Lucretia.

Usually, by 1944, they are on the cusp of elopement, having dated in secret for almost two years. She knows, because she and Lucretia were close once. Lucretia’s elopement would eventually be forgiven by her family, as Prewett is still a respected pureblood name in the 1940s.

This specific 1944 however, Lucretia is an absolute monster of a girl. Rude, entitled, bratty, and a bully. And Prewett… Prewett is a blood supremacist. How did that happen?

Hermione is mulling over these oddities when she feels a tap on her shoulder.

It’s Maxwell Mulciber, dressed in black dress robes with matching black leather mask that covers his entire face.

“Er… Can I have this dance?” He looks as if he’s about to glance over his shoulder, but catches himself. Hermione follows his intended line of vision, and watches as Tom twirls Wilkens across the dance floor.  

She extends her hand wordlessly to Mulciber and lets him guide her to a corner of the dance floor where he awkwardly hovers his hand too high on her back and begins to sway. He’s bulky and a little too tall for Hermione, so she can do nothing but stare at his massive chest.

“What are you supposed to be, a serial killer?” she snaps at him when she sees Tom dip Yvette low enough for her hair to drag on the floor. Hermione decides she giggles too much.

Mulciber grimaces under his mask, “Dunno. Just borrowed a spare mask from Riddle and wore my dress robes.”

Hermione glares at him. “Why are you asking me to dance anyway? We hate each other.”

He has the grace to look uncomfortable, and shifts his weight slightly as they sway ineptly in a lopsided circle. “Er… I’m not supposed to say.”

“How subtle,” Hermione sneers, and they remain silent for the rest of the dance.

The waltz finally draws to an end, and Hermione almost breathes a sigh of relief. Her toes have been crushed twice in the span of three minutes. She’s more than ready to take a seat, until she sees Abraxas Malfoy dressed in deep green dress robes, his blonde hair lengthened until it reaches his lower back. He’s wearing a white leather mask that does more to adorn than cover his face. He’s carrying an expensive looking white quiver filled with arrows on his back, a small bow hanging off his quiver. Hermione notices how the arrow fletchings seem to be made of gold.

“May I?” he asks Mulciber. Mulciber hands Hermione over without a word, looking relieved, and almost runs off.

Malfoy, ever the trained gentleman, says “Pardon his manners, Miss Birch. We’re all convinced he was raised by wolves.”

He grins at her, and she almost smiles back. At least this dance is less painful. She confirms he’s meant to be dressed as Robin Hood, and she even restrains herself from commenting on the irony of such a costume on a Malfoy. When the song is complete, she is met with Cillian Avery. After Avery, Felix Nott. She begins to wonder if Tom has slated his whole gang to take turns hovering over her so no one else will approach her this evening. She is dancing with Nott, his hand again annoyingly hovering over her back, when they are interrupted by the man himself.

“Nott,” He simply nods, and Nott immediately puts Hermione’s hand in Tom’s and leaves without a word.

“Charming.” Hermione intones, allowing Tom to wrap his arm around her waist. He only smiles in reply, waiting for her to rest her hand on his shoulder. His feathers move to brush against her knuckles.

“I like your wings.”

“I like your snakes.”

“Did you charm them yourself?” Hermione asks, not willing to openly compliment his spell work but admiring it all the same.

“Yes,” he smiles, leading her closer to the center of the room. She can’t help but notice how she doesn’t feel stiff and awkward with him. But then again, he didn’t look stiff or awkward with Yvette Wilkens either. He’s just a good dancer—Hermione won’t fool herself into waxing poetic about how she just seems to melt into his arms, how they seem to move in sync, floating on the same brain waves, fitting perfectly into each other like puzzle pieces.

She’s much too smart for that kind of nonsense.

They dance silently for some time. When the song ends, Hermione expects Tom to hand her off, but he doesn’t. She glances around to see Yvette being handed from Mulciber to Malfoy between sets.

She snorts.

Tom politely ignores it.

They dance another waltz. And another. What started as a polite dancing distance shrinks until it feels more intimate. Tom is not too tall for her like Mulciber. She’s able to look over his shoulder in her heels. It would feel right to lay her head on his chest as the music slows.

She resists.

The lights dim. The music grows bolder and darker in tone. The bass of an organ fills the room with an eerie ambiance. A woman’s soprano voice sings an aria that makes Hermione’s hairs stand on end. The dancing becomes less formal. Red and orange spotlights flicker about the crowd on the dancefloor, and someone conjures a roll of ominous fog that settles heavily at their feet. Professors filter out of the crowd and take seats by the exits, growing bored. Hermione thinks she can see Professor Merrythought leaning closer to whisper in Slughorn’s ear. He blushes and runs the back of his hand against her cheek.

Tom catches sight of them too.

“Strange pair.” He whispers into Hermione’s ear as she looks over his shoulder.

“Is that why she was letting us out of detention early, do you think?”

“I know it is. I had a… friend follow her.” Tom replies meaningfully.

Hermione purses her lips in disapproval. “What else have you had your friends do?”

He spins her, and pulls her back in closer, his hand fanning out to encompass as much of her lower back as possible.

“Well, they’re distracting my date for me right now.” He nods his head to the left and Hermione turns until her eyes land on Lucretia pulling on Yvette’s arm. Yvette is giggling like mad as Malfoy pulls on the other.

“I never knew she was so popular with the Slytherins,” she notes dryly.

“Aside from my request, they’ve all got their own personal interests involved.”

“Personal interests?”

“Black values wealth and consequence. Wilkens’ grandfather is on the Wizengamot.”

“And Malfoy?”

“Wants to get lucky, I suppose. He thinks of little else,” Tom sneers.

“Careful, that stinks strongly of resentment.”

“And why should I not resent him?” Tom asks her, his eyes meeting hers in a piercing challenge. “He gets everything handed to him and just lounges around, wasting his energy and time on useless endeavors.”

“Oh? And what would you do if you had his riches?”

“And connections,” Tom adds, looking at her thoughtfully. “I would do everything I am already going to do—just faster.”

She frowns.

He leans into her until his cheek touches her temple. “Are you upset?” he asks softly. Hermione shivers and pulls in closer against her will.

“Yes, but not surprised.”

The years have made her jaded, she wants to add.

“I will find a way to do it all without losing you,” he promises, and the music suddenly changes from moody arias to an angry foghorn beat that seems to shake the room. Hermione turns to see a different, younger band playing on stage. Suddenly, the Great Hall ceiling is lit up by a bolt of lightning and the booming sound of thunder follows. As a haunting piano solo begins, the band member leans in closer to the mic and announces, “This next one is called—Entering the Crypt.”

Student roar with approval as a strong beat shakes the room. More moving bodies fill the dance floor until there isn’t room to do more than breathe, let alone waltz.

“You won’t.” Hermione almost shouts into Tom’s ear, withdrawing her arms from his shoulders. He catches her hand before she can take it all the way back, clutching it over his heart. He looks almost tender as he swears that he will. This time it will be different.

She almost rolls her eyes. She’s heard this before.

“I think I need some air.” She edges away from him and makes her way through the students jam-packed around them, all in a cacophony of costumes, some masks already discarded, others wearing hoods obscuring their faces, enjoying the anonymity.

Tom follows her. The entrance is blessedly cooler than inside, and a few stragglers that have also left the party linger, speaking to each other in low tones or kissing quietly in hidden corners.

Just after pass through the massive doors, the Hufflepuff prefect Hermione saw talking to Tom earlier in the evening staggers through.

“Tom! Tom, thank God, I found you,” he takes a deep breath, straightening the horns on his head and wiping his tentacles away from his face. He has several more limp tentacles hanging off his grey dress robes, and Hermione can only assume he is dressed as a rather sad-looking grindylow.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” the Hufflepuff continues, “There’s been a situation. Veda Lightheart—that idiot in my house that did the commentary on the last quidditch game—convinced a Ravenclaw sixth year to use a certain unfavorable spell—“ he glances briefly at Hermione, seeming to notice her standing next to Tom for the first time and blushes, muttering, “Er—perhaps I shouldn’t say it.”

“Spit it out, Roberts.” Tom glares at him angrily, and Hermione actually sees his feathers ruffle.

“Erectus decresco,” He whispers, then clears his throat and in a louder, slightly more confident tone, “Erectus decresco.” His face is redder than the Gryffindor common room. “She convinced him it would get rid of a persistent and uncomfortable problem, but it seems to have had the opposite effect. He won’t stop screaming.”

Tom sighs, running his hands through his hair. “Can’t you get a professor to help you?”

“I could only find Slughorn,” he replies, wincing, “and he was kissing Professor Merrythought…”

“Head girl, then.”

“She’s, er—she was kissing Malfoy—”

“Alright,” Tom holds up his hand, clearly not wanting hear anymore. “Hermione, please wait for me here. I’ll be right back,” he says, squeezing her hand before retreating back into the now foggy darkness of the Great Hall with the Hufflepuff named Roberts.

Hermione is holding back unexpected giggles at the whole baffling story, wondering if Lightheart might be Luna’s mother’s maiden name when she notices a thin plume of cigarette smoke by her shoulder.

She turns to note the source of the smell, and at that exact moment, the elder Davies blows inhaled smoke right in her face.

She blinks.

“It’s impolite to smoke in—near a lady.” She says, just remembering in time that smoking indoors is not necessarily taboo in 1944.

“Hmm…” he pretends to consider, “I don’t see any ladies around, do you?”

He blows more cigarette smoke into her face. Hermione closes her eyes against the onslaught of toxic fumes, feeling all the disrespect in his tone.

“Do you really want to do this right now, Davies?” She asks, trying to look unbothered. Really, she is. She just doesn’t like to be bullied.

“Right now seems as good a time as any. Don’t have my little sister around to do your dirty work now, do you?” he takes a deep drag of his cigarette, and exhaling this time at her breasts. It’s revolting and obscene. She doesn’t even know him. Hermione resists the urge to cross her arms. She’s too damn old to be intimidated by a sixteen-year-old boy.

“I don’t need a twelve-year-old to put you in your place, but it certainly is funnier to do it that way.”

“You stupid bitch,” he starts, fumbling in his pockets to pull out his wand, but Hermione is faster. She whips her wand out from the hidden pocket in the inseam her dress, magicked to lay flat and invisible. He must have been drinking. She hates a bitter drunk.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.” She remarks casually, not making any move to point her wand at him. She knows he’s heard of what she can do—how easily she flattened Mulciber. How she defeated Tom Riddle in a duel. Plus, she’s got better things to do than hex Davies of all people.

He sneers at her, and she notices for the first time that his black mask is resting on his head. His cloak looks strangely tattered with large bell sleeves and an oversized hood hanging down his back.

He’s dressed as a dementor.

“You think Tom dancing with you means something, Birch? You’re a nobody. Just a fucking babysitter. And once Tom’s through with you, just a fucking slag. No one will even speak to you anymore.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much about my sex life, Davies.” Tom’s voice reaches them before he does, his silhouette framed by the fog escaping the Great Hall. Hermione’s heart sinks. Tom looks vicious. For a moment, she catches herself worrying for Davies.

Davies freezes, his cigarette hanging limply in his fingers, its ashen tip threatening to crumble to the floor. Tom stands to Hermione’s side, and plucks the cigarette out from Davies’ hand, flicking it before putting it to his mouth.

Tom takes a slow drag before blowing the smoke away from Hermione, out of the side of his mouth. He never takes his eyes off Davies. Davies wilts before him, but can’t seem to look away.

“Open your mouth.” Tom orders, and his voice is hard as steel. Davies sputters a moment, looking like he wants to run away, be anywhere but here, before catching sight of Tom’s wand. He gives Hermione a furious glare before letting his jaw loosen slightly, forming a slight part in his lips.

Tom reaches over and uses his thumb to pull his jaw all the way down. He takes another deep drag of the cigarette, flicking the building ash off onto the floor until the tip flames bright red. He puts the cigarette out on Davies’ tongue with a sickening hiss. Davies knees buckle, but he manages to stay standing, he eyes screwed up in pain. Tom lifts his chin to snap his mouth shut.

He smiles warmly at Davies as he chokes on his own cigarette.

“It feels good to do something nice for Hogwarts,” Tom remarks casually, turning to Hermione, “Wouldn’t want to litter. Best to put the trash where it belongs.”

Hermione can’t help but give him a small smile. She quickly chastises herself for feeling pleased. She ought to tell him violence is never the answer, but she can’t be arsed to care after being called a slag.

“Let’s go,” Tom says, taking a hold of her hand after she slips her wand back into her dress. He looks at her hip after it disappears, no doubt appreciating her flawless charm work.

They step outside into the courtyard, now teaming with pumpkins and squash still on the vine. Hermione can still hear the faint echo of the loud music from inside. The air feels cool on her face. It is a welcome change.

“Don’t worry about Davies.” Tom says suddenly, “he’s always been an idiot.”

Hermione takes a seat on a bench and pats the spot next to her. Tom sits closer to her than necessary.

“You didn’t have to intervene.”

“I definitely did. You looked moments away from hexing his bollocks off.”

Hermione grins in earnest. “So you were actually protecting him?”

“I’m quite the philanthropist, if you think about it.”

“I think I’d have to think rather hard, no?”

“You? I highly doubt it. You’re almost as clever as I am.”

“You flatter me,” Hermione replies dryly, trying not to laugh. It’s hard not to miss him when he acts like this.

As if feeling her soften toward him, Tom slides his hand closer and weaves his fingers into hers. He uses his other hand to trace random shapes into the back of her hand until Hermione can recognize what he’s spelling out.

“Runic? Really?”

He grins. “I felt too shy to use English, but nothing gets past you.”

Hermione feels herself blush. Young Tom is just so sweet, tracing ‘I love you’ into the back of her hand in an ancient language because he feels shy. It reminds her of why she wanted to save him in the first place.

When she doesn’t respond, instead lost in thought, Tom speaks.

“He thinks he’s better than you because he’s pureblood, the prick.”

“Who?”

“Davies.”

“How does he know I’m not?”

“Lucretia has been spreading a rumor that you’re half-blood,” Tom tells her without ceremony. “I let her, because… who cares?”

Hermione smiles. “I wonder what they would do if they knew I’m a muggleborn.” She muses.

“Was there ever a time you came here under that identity?” Tom asks casually, pretending to be engrossed in her fingernails.

Hermione is not often caught off guard. As intelligent as she is, she does not like to be tested without ample preparation. Tom has a different kind of intelligence. He’s the kind of clever that likes surprises. The kind of clever that thinks quickly on his feet. The kind of clever she tries to emulate, but never quite feels natural to her.

She pauses for several seconds to process the catastrophic things he’s just said. It seems answer enough for Tom.

“Must have been harder to get close to me then.”

“I’m not sure it would have been,” Hermione disagrees, trying to match his tone. “You don’t really care about that kind of thing, do you? It’s quite trivial.” She forces herself to stop speaking. She always says too much when she gets nervous.

Her mind jumps back to the first time she met Tom—the real first time. Scared and completely alone, she had been terrified to interact with a young Lord Voldemort. It had been a disaster. She was moving blindly, confused and conspicuous in a completely unfamiliar Hogwarts, overly reliant on a very different Albus Dumbledore. It was incredible she’d been able to get close to Tom at all, and it was a miracle she’d been able to get back home.

Tom isn’t swayed by her attempt to be vague and hypothetical. She forces her unguarded thoughts deep into the black oceans of her mind.

“How many times have you come back, Hermione?”

She’s about to open her mouth and answer when she realizes he’s testing her; gauging her reactions. It’s a theory. Of course.

Hermione fights back the bile rising to her throat. She smiles.

“Did they give you a hard time when you first started Hogwarts?” she asks instead. He’s briefly startled by this question, but answers.

“Yes. My classmates used to think I was some pureblood wizard’s bastard child. I was teased for it relentlessly. It never occurred to them that it might have been my mother who was the pureblood.” He smiles back, his eyes turning cold and distant.

“How did you find out who your parents really were?”

Tom inches closer to her, clasping her hand tighter in his.

“I researched. I knew my middle name sounded more magical than muggle, so I started from there. Even in pureblood circles, it’s not a name that’s often used. I knew I was at least a half-blood since there was no way I’d have been sorted into Slytherin otherwise.”

“I beg to differ,” Hermione interrupts, earning her a surprised look and then a laugh.

“Yes, I suppose I could have confunded the headmaster and blackmailed Dumbledore into sorting me into Slytherin as well.

“I never said I blackmailed him.”

To his credit, he doesn’t crumble. “Hmm… yes, you said you knew something and used it to manipulate him.”

Hermione smiles, a fake plastered-on kind of smile. “Not exactly blackmail, don’t you think?”

“It sounds the same to me.” Tom shrugs, transferring her right hand into his right, and sliding his left arm around her shoulders, gripping them tightly against his side.

Hermione goes back to her original point. “How did that make you feel Tom, when all of your peers rejected you?”

Tom thinks for a second before responding.

“Hungry.”

The word comes out like an oath, solemn and threatening. Hermione feels the hairs on her arm stand on end, but she pushes on.

“So you swore you’d show them?”

“I did show them.”

“They do fear you now.”

“They respect me.”

“One and the same.”

“Sometimes,” Tom agrees. He stands up, and seems to lift her with him as he does, his arm slipping down from her shoulders to her waist. They begin walking along the narrow trails that wind through the vines, toward the darkness of the forest.

“Sometimes, however,” he continues, “One can be feared but not respected. Have you ever encountered a situation like that before Hermione?”

Her mind darts back to Umbridge.

“Yes.”

“I would hardly want to become Lord Voldemort if I thought it was only going to make people fear me. I want them to respect me, too. I want them to revere me—my power.”

“One day, maybe. But as it is, you’re not quite that powerful yet.”

Hermione can’t help but bring him down a peg. She hates this side of him. His eyes flash, and he pulls her in closer, until her neck almost feels wedged between his arm and his chest.

“I think you underestimate me Hermione. My power might develop as I grow older, but some abilities are innate.” His voice is low, and his grip is becoming painful. Hermione pushes herself out of his grasp, stumbling minutely in the soft grass that lines the trail.

“What power do you have that’s innate, Tom?” She sneers, straightening her headpiece. One of the silver snakes snaps errantly at her fingers. “Everything you know you learn later, through study and experimentation. You’re not born Lord Voldemort. You become him.”

“You’re wrong Hermione. I was born to become Lord Voldemort.”

She stares at him, her hand aching to go into her pocket, cursing Davies for revealing its location to Tom. If she reaches for it now, he might hex her stupid before she can even get it out.

“I had another dream about us,” he says casually, changing the subject again. His tone is almost pleasant, and Hermione knows him well enough to know that doesn’t bode well for her.

“Oh?”

“Yes. We were in the medina in Fes. There weren’t any signs or anything, but I just knew it somehow. Interesting how dreams work, isn’t it?”

Hermione knows when she’s being tested. “Hmm,” she hums in disinterest.

“You were wearing a loose white dress with a pattern of scattered yellow flowers. You had a white shawl over your hair. A half-arsed attempt to blend in, I think.”

“How detailed,” Hermione remarks, refraining from fidgeting with her dress.

“Incredibly so. We were holding hands. You stopped to admire some trinkets by an artisan in a sunken shop. We had to walk down a flight of stairs to access his wares. He told you one of the bracelets was bewitched to make your hair smoother. You wanted it but put it back when he told you the price.”

“A bargaining tactic, surely.”

Tom smiles. “He did try to bargain, actually.”

“They always do when you try to walk away.”

Tom nods, seemingly thinking for a moment.

“You know what I did to him, don’t you, Hermione?”

Hermione feigns ignorance well. “You did something to him?”

“I curse his nose until it flops over his belt.”

“How funny.” Hermione has no hint of humor in her voice.

“It wasn’t though, not really.” Tom pauses for a minute, “He gave you the bracelet for free. You made me correct his nose and pay him the full price.”

“Sounds like something I would do.”

“But it doesn’t sound like me, does it?” Tom countered. “I wonder how you had such a hold on me.”

“It’s just a dream, Tom.”

“Sultan Osman Gazi had a dream that made him believe he would have a great empire.”

“That’s a legend,” Hermione interrupts, “who knows if it’s true?”

Tom smiles at her, “Always a cynic.”

Hermione sniffs in disdain. “Pragmatic, I think you mean.”

“I had another dream after that one that explained some things for me,” He continues, “Do you want to know about it?”

“You want to tell me, so I suppose I have no choice but to listen.”

They’ve stopped walking. Hermione is busy calculating how quickly she can disarm him without being noticed. There are too many students here; too many witnesses. She’s beginning to suspect he remembers more than he’s letting on—

“We were in potions class, and you were looking extremely frazzled trying to brew a simple healing uncture. I started watching you because I suspected you’d cause an accident, but I kept watching you because I realized you were cute. Every time I lifted my head, your hair seemed to grow larger,” he smiles and pulls a loose curl on her head, before running his hand across her cheek.

“You kept muttering to yourself as you read the instructions. I wanted to talk to you. It was… an overwhelming desire to know you. I swiped your quill off your desk and pretended you dropped it. You didn’t even notice me standing by you until I touched your elbow.

“You jumped when you felt my touch. It stung both of us, I think. You actually looked me up and down. You paused over my forearms and blushed. My shirt sleeves were rolled up. I had an immediate crush on you.”

Tom pauses his speech, and Hermione realizes he’s been stroking her cheek this entire time. She’s caught in the cobra’s stare. She feels as if it wraps around her chest, squeezing out all bits of air and life inside her.

“Seems rather specific for a dream, doesn’t it?” Tom finally asks, resting his hands on her hips now. Hermione is dimly aware that they must seem like they are having a romantic walk to some of the other lingering students. There are already some couples hidden in the hedgerows. If she squeezes her eyes shut, she can make out the squelching sound of wet kisses.

“Answer me.”

“I’d have to know what you’re going on about to give a sufficient answer,” she snaps, irritated that he’s trying to back her into a corner. Irritated that he clearly remembers the real first time they’d met, no matter how hard she had tried to keep it from him.

“So many falsehoods,” he tuts, squeezing her hip affectionately, “I always thought you were clever, Hermione, but obviously you’re not as clever as you think you are.”

“I’ve never had issues with my intelligence before. And what exactly am I meant to be lying about?”

He leans in closer, conspiratorially whispering in her ear. “I know you’re immune to veritaserum.”

He leans back, watching her carefully through half-lidded eyes.

Hermione’s head starts to spin. She feels nausea swim in the pit of her stomach and a cold sweat settle into her skin. Suddenly her velvet dress feels like a very poor choice for the chilly October evening.

“I know you’ve been forming an Order,” he sneers the word as if it is filthy, “in the come-and-go room. I know you’ve been keeping Dumbledore busy with finding certain people for this little club—all a ploy to suppress his obsession with watching me, watching us. You’ve been using your lackies with a combination of imperios and obliviates to do your bidding, never realizing that I do not need humans to watch you. I can use animals, house elves, the very castle itself because of the magic inside me—because I am the heir of one of the four founders.”

Can a person die of suspense? Hermione’s heart feels as if it has been stuffed into a cavity too small to contain it, beating desperately against her ribs like a wild animal trapped in a cage, watching the hunter approach with his knife drawn.

Tom looks at her disapprovingly, “And to think, the Davies child looks up to you so. I wonder what she would think if she knew you’d been casting unforgivables on her almost daily.”

“I’m no saint.”

He squeezes her hips as if comforting her, pacifying her. His hands move up and down her sides, encircling her waist, down back to her hips, ghosting over the curves she knows he wants most to touch.

“Do you remember what I said to you before?” he asks reassuringly, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. “About the pressure to be good?”

It’s horrifying that he remembers what he said to her in another lifetime. It means the game is over, the rig is up. Hermione almost trembles under his touch. He pulls her in closer, soothing her by caressing her back as she holds onto him for dear life.

“There is no good or evil,” Hermione whispers without wanting to.

“Yes. There is only power, my love. No amount of your falsehoods will change what’s real. What’s real is this—us. I don’t think even you believe your own lies. Your attempts to cross me wouldn’t be so pathetic if you did.” His voice is low, seductive. His hand is still rubbing her muscles, massaging them slowly until the heat of his touch burns into her skin.

She wants to run away. She wants to kill him. She wants to squirm away, out from under his wretched spell, away from his vacant black eyes. She needs to fight. She tries to submerge her thoughts in cold, cleansing waters. She comes up dry.

It feels worse than drowning.

“This is not the right path—" she begins uneasily, but he interrupts her.

“What is it that you scorn? Unlimited power? Unlocked potential? Or perhaps you fear that our two forces, when combined, will never bow to any human authority, reshaping the world as we see fit.”

She swallows, but does not look at him. Her vision slowly blurs as she watches Black enter the garden with Prewett. They begin to dance in a small pergola covered in fireflies. The blinking lights grow in size as Hermione’s tears begin to fall.

She’s failed. Again. She’ll never destroy Lord Voldemort. She’s destined to feel stuck forever, one foot in the present, one foot in the past. Never able to move forward. Never able to accomplish anything. Never fixing anything, either.

Maybe Tom is unredeemable.

It’s a notion that deeply pains her.

“I remember a lot more now, Hermione,” Tom continues, oblivious to her internal despair, “The more time I spend around you, the more I can recall. Running my lips down your back, kissing each knot of your spine. The feel of your soft, tanned skin under my hands. The way you beg.”

“That will never happen again.” Her voice sounds pathetic. She aches to clear her throat.

“I think it will. I think you want it to.”

“You can’t control me.”

He cranes his head back to look into her face, “I wouldn’t dream of trying to.”

“Everything you touch turns to dust.”

“Is that why you keep coming back? To save me?”

“I’m only trying to save myself.”

“Oh, Hermione. When will you give up lying to me? I always see through it, you know.” He lifts her right hand and holds her palm against his beating heart. “I can feel it. In here.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“It’s true. I think… I must have loved you.”

“How touching.”

“I’ve been thinking,” he ignores her, but not at all loosening his hold on her body, “Or really, I have a theory.”

He places his hands on both sides of her face, gliding one over her jaw to massage the back of her neck, and leaving the other to cradle her cheek. “I think the reason you don’t want to kiss me is two-fold.”

Hermione extends her head back to avoid the thumb that brushes softly against her lips. “Correct,” she disparages, “Firstly, I don’t want to. Secondly, I’m not attracted to you.”

He grins at this. “Your lies are getting more pathetic.”

She observes his amusement without expression. She’s busy thinking of exit plans, escape strategies, reviewing stances, dueling dogmas, useful spells, wand techniques.

“The truth is, you’re scared of your reaction to me. You’re not sure what it means about you that you want me so much.”

There’s no point in responding. She sees a few more seventh years filter into the garden from the corner of her eye. She wills them to leave so they don’t get caught in the fray.

“But the second reason is perhaps more important. There is a way to unlock my memories more efficiently. I wouldn’t have to wait months for my brain to catch up. The disconnect has been causing some undesirable effects in me," he almost smiles, "I have been... confused, to say the least. But perhaps this was to your advantage. There must be a lot to catch up on, because we’ve done this many times before. Haven’t we, my love?”

More students. Some of them are laughing, playfully throwing around pumpkins in some made up afterparty game. She feels sick. How easy it would be to just faint right now. Tom would catch her. Tom would take care of her.

“Don’t fight it, my little liar.”

“Bad girl,” she whispers. “You used to call me your bad girl.”

“Hmmm,” he hums against her lips, and it feels incredible. It sends her toes curling in a way no one ever has. She wants to drink him in. She wants to cut him up and destroy him. What does it matter if he’s wrong? What better way to disprove his stupid theory than to test out his hypothesis?

“Bad girl,” he says, practicing the feeling of the words on his tongue, trying to see if they feel familiar. They are, she wants to argue, not on this body, not in this mouth, but in your soul—in your constant soul they’ve been branded; I’ve been branded, she wants to say. She wants to say it all, but she keeps her mouth shut, her lips stiff and awkward against his approaching descent.

They kiss. It’s the same, but somehow softer, nicer, kinder than she remembers.

She doesn’t close her eyes.

-

Chapter Text

TOM DOES NOT EXPECT EXPLOSIONS, or fireworks, or unbelievable bliss—or whatever stupid thing the Hufflepuff girls gossip about in the bathrooms during their free periods. He does, however, come to several conclusions at once:

Number 1—Kissing is easy. Not in the I’ve practiced this on the back of my hand kind of way, or I’ve seen this done plenty of times in muggle films kind of way either. It is easy because it requires no study. It is simply done—the way a belch may travel upwards without one's approval, or the way one draws breath after fainting. It requires no conscious effort, and is as natural and instinctive as relieving oneself.

Number 2—Kissing is not particularly exciting. It isn’t terrible, but it isn’t special either. It is simply… nice. Tom is slightly bewildered at this discovery, especially after spending many afternoons daydreaming about kissing Hermione Granger in particular, and at first decides he may be doing it wrong, or perhaps he is not yet so skilled, or perhaps she isn’t. Perhaps they are both doing it wrong, but he finds this dubious, and while he did not expect rainbows, butterflies, and fairy songs, he had expected something.

Number 3—Kissing is, obviously, not painful. At least, not the way Hermione does it.

Number 4—Kissing Hermione is Not Like Kissing Other Girls. He knows this does not make sense, because he has never kissed another girl before, but he simply Knows this. Then, there are many other things he is Beginning to Know. He Knows her middle name. He Knows which home in Primrose Hill her grandparents live. He Knows she knows about his plans, and his schemes, and his plots, and those. Yes, even those, those of which he never speaks of; the diary, the ring, and she knows, she knows, she knows. It is both thrilling and frightening to Know. 

And then, with the slight turn of her mouth, It Happens.

The sudden burst of lightning illuminating the darkest night. The sudden surge of sound when surfacing above water. The sharp intake of breath to ease an anxious chest. The first bite of bread after days of hunger.

He        r           e          m         e          m         b          e          r           s.

He is—

and—

was.

THERE IS ALWAYS a Before Her.

BUT THERE IS NEVER an After Her.

Panic begins to invade his heart, whose swift beating announces doom. She is beginning to pull away. Should he hold her here, close to him, so she, too, can be witness to the foreshadowing of his demise? She knows as well as he is beginning to, that this kiss is his last. He feels it in the marrow of his being and Knows it like he Knows her real name.

But then—

There is Falling in Love.

And—

There is Falling Out.

The nights she cries in bed next to him when she mistakes his even breathing for sleep. He knows he can reach out to her, pull her in, but he doesn’t. Suddenly her ring finger is swollen, her jewelry needs cleaning, or she took it off to avoid getting it wet and forgot it on her vanity. Tom watches other men approach her with intense hatred and jealousy, mixed with an undeniable sense of relief.

She is his—

But also,

He doesn’t want her.

He        O         W        N         S          her. She makes sure that he understands that he doesn’t. She stops showing up on time. She doesn’t style her hair, or paint her fingernails. She doesn’t look at him with that look—that adoration that hooked him like a drug, that beckoned him, that kept him latched to her like a rusted lock fused into its gate after years and years of damp and rain.

He misses her. He hates her. He loves her. He wishes she was dead. She is everything to him and also, nothing at all; she is the line between his sanity and madness; the lie that divides his trust by suspicion; the sum of both the belief and the delusion. He must find some way to divorce himself from her—not just paperwork, no. He is deliberating complete detachment, before she does—because she will—

He cannot bring himself to do it. She is a crutch—a weakness—she must be eliminated—

And then,

He remembers.

Not like the rays of sun that stretch their arms toward the sky, condemning the earth behind them into darkness. No. Remembering is not cerebral. Remembering actualizes within him physically—a gasp accompanied by the stuttering of his sprinting heart, intense turns of nausea unspooling his insides like thread, trembling limbs, quivering chin, doubling vision and watery eyes. A laundry list of symptoms perfect for entertaining the overeager muggle doctors who visit him at the orphanage, ready to poke and prod and study him like a rare insect pinned to their cork board as he expires before their eyes.

He falls at her feet—

He heaves until his vomit sinks into the earth, like some sort of twisted libation. This place will surely become his grave. She did this. She is the origin of his failures; the birthplace of his ruin. He knew it, he knew even before he Knew.

He bites his fist, wiping the last of the sick off his mouth, before looking up at her blank, carefully cool, frigid stare.

“Hello, Tom,” she says.

He replies the way a teenager might, even though he isn’t a teenager, isn’t young at all—

“You bitch.”

Chapter Text

They do not speak. They are merely movement, exchanging death threats through wands.

Tom strikes at her with curse after curse. His speed is unlike anything ever taught at Hogwarts. His power—oh, his power. It is like a trickling faucet within him has finally become unclogged. His power erupts. It consumes. Tom releases his magic in pulsatile waves. It almost makes him sick again, this heady feeling.

He is no longer encumbered by his age, no longer too young nor too inexperienced. Nothing about him is green except for the vessel that carries his fragment of a soul. What better way to assume immortality? Is this not every wizard’s dream; to be in possession of youth, housing age and years of experience only in his mind?

Spells bounce back and forth between them in the darkness, illuminating the grounds in a spectacular technicolor display. Not one spell correctly lands its target. A stupefy destroys the tree behind Tom. A confringoblasts through a boulder.  An expluso pulverizes the decorative pumpkins. Students scream in the distance, ducking and running for cover as their snogging hideouts are violently revealed. Very quickly, an open clearing has presented itself for the dueling pair—a wide diameter surrounded by broken foliage and destruction.

“Let’s talk,” she suggests, but is met only with heavy fire. Tom is almost sweating, he is whipping his wand arm so fast. He isn’t interested in talking.

Bombarda. Obtundo. Angor morsus.

Hermione dodges each one, breathless with every leap. She attempts to add a layer of protection with a shaky protego, but he blasts it with a pulverizing spell of his own invention. If she’s going to avoid his curses, she’s going to have to duck.

Reducto. Vincere. Expugno.

He doesn’t have to speak the words. He simply thinks them. Even then, he doesn’t think the words as if sounding them out, sensing them in his mouth with stretches and spasms of his tongue and movements of his lips. He feels them. He desires destruction, and his wand complies. He isn’t bogged down by phonetics. He simply wants.

Sepelo terra.

Hermione sinks into the ground. Before she can even yelp in surprise, she’s already chest deep in the earth. It is lucky for her that she has good form—form that he taught her, he thinks bitterly. Her wand is still high above her head. She has a chance of escape, but only if she acts within 3, 2, 1…

Dirt explodes around her as she catapults towards the sky, creating a small crater where she was previously buried alive.

“You’re not being very nice.”

Tom answers not with words, but with spells. He’ll show her just how unkind he can be. He slices and slashes his wand until she’s forced to retreat, doing everything to remain upright. She’s covered in dirt, but somehow, she is still—

No! Tom thinks, not allowing himself to continue such an abject thought. He detests his own lack of self-esteem. It is disgusting. He, the greatest sorcerer to ever live, will not degrade himself further by thirsting after her like some moronic schoolboy. To think of her as beautiful, as desirable, as—as anything other than what she really is. The enemy.

If he had any self-respect, he would kill her now.

He hits her harder, strikes faster, whipping his wand like a cane, intent on hurting her because she deserves it, because he needs to prove to himself that he doesn’t need her anymore. She crossed him. She left him.

His rage builds to a fever pitch until he becomes a detached observer, almost removed from his own body. Somehow his wand still spits out spell after spell. Tom recognizes the vibrant hues as they appear.

Some are deadly curses that will turn you inside out, or turn your heart into literal stone, others are silly hexes, causing you to spit up slugs, or prematurely develop wrinkles. Some are simple charms that will make you levitate, or cause your hair to glow blue when swimming. His wand work is erratic and unpredictable, and he pushes forward until she is forced to retreat in an effort to avoid it, because it would be idiotic not to avoid it, for one moment his wand exudes the sunny yellow of a refilling charm, and the next moment, the blood red of a crucio.

Until, ultimately, his speed overcomes her.

It is a simple expelliarmus that does it. Hermione’s wand flies smoothly into his palm, and he watches her face contort into an expression of horror as he snaps her wand in two.

She screams.

It is a deafening sound. It echoes across the empty garden, and bounces off the castle walls. Tom hates it. She should have the integrity to accept her death gracefully, but here she is, acting like a wounded animal. Tom steps forward, calm as he prepares to put her out of her misery—he always did hate the sound of crying.

She stumbles backwards, almost too afraid to turn her back to him, before she finally decides she has to in order to get away from him. She sprints down the path, running in zigzags toward the tree line, the train of her dress dragging in the dirt behind her.

Tom watches her in amusement. He throws the pieces of her wand to the side, and lets her run a little further. It’s good to let her exhaust herself as much as possible. He’s not worried about her getting away. She isn’t much of a runner, and at any rate, Tom can fly.

“Sisto!” he yells as he descends smoothly a few meters behind her, and watches as she freezes mid-stride and topples face-first onto the ground. She scrambles forward on her hands and knees, grunting with effort to reach the forest, and Tom suspects for a moment that she may have a portkey hidden somewhere close by.

He trips her again, and then again, just to spite her. Soon, Tom has caught up to her, and he grabs a hold of her hair, her silver snakes hissing but also slinking away from him. He forces her to twist her head until she’s facing him.

She has a wide gash on her cheek, and it’s bleeding heavily. The blood trails down her neck, soaking into the black of her dress. Her eyes are on fire, but they’re open, and looking right into his own, and that’s all he needs.

“Legilimens.”

He feels the familiar and intoxicating feeling of being sucked into another’s mind. It isn’t the magic of it that thrills Tom. It’s the spying that gets his blood singing. It’s the way he can sift through a person’s life as if flipping through a catalogue. The way he can feel their most intimate emotions, think their innermost thoughts. Yes, it is the voyeurism that excites him.

“Focus, Hermione, focus! You’re letting me see too much!” Tom’s own intense eyes are boring down into hers, frustration etched on his face as they practice occlumency.

“I’m trying!”

“Not hard enough! Again.”

“Please, Tom—

“Again!”

“I’m tired!”

He grabs her collar, pulling her forward. “You wanted me to teach you. You will not whine when I do. Again!”

Tom slaps the memory away, and the scene shifts. They’re in the south of Turkey, in a small village away from the more popular destinations and the tourists that inhabit them. They’re staying at a small inn, in separate rooms. Hermione had insisted they do so before the wedding. She had used some ridiculous argument about how Turkey was a more conservative country, but Tom hadn’t noticed any behavior particularly different from England, even in the small village. They take breakfast alfresco in the small courtyard outside their lodgings. The inn is historic and picturesque, covered in creeping grape vines that are already bearing fruit, and peppered with young olive trees.

Hermione enjoys tasting the assortment of olives, pairing them with different cheeses for Tom to try. She rips a large chunk of bread for herself before smothering it in cream.

“The bread is to die for.”

Tom leans forward to wipe a bit of kaymak off the corner of her lip, before putting his finger in his mouth to taste it himself. She scrunches her nose at him.

“I’m being quite messy, aren’t I?”

“There’s no one here to see,” he tells her, motioning to the colorful but empty cast iron tables and chairs that surround them.

“Are you excited?” She asks him, popping another olive into her mouth.

“I don’t think I can be half as excited as you are to be discovering these red olives,” he smirks, reaching for the tiny plate on the table. She smacks his hand away and eats one herself.

“Well,” she declares, “I am thrilled to be getting married.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” he tells her, smiling at her affectionately. “We had better get going, I told the officiant we’d be there at nine o’clock.”

“Alright,” she agrees, “one mustn’t be late to their third wedding with the same man, you know.”

Tom doesn’t wait to watch himself take her into his arms and do something quite scandalous even by English standards. He pushes forward, away from the sentimental garbage she tries to show him to evoke mercy.

Show me Dumbledore, he demands. Thousands of memories surface, most of them useless. Dumbledore smiling at her in the hallway at his current age, Dumbledore making speeches in the Great Hall before the start of term, Dumbledore making speeches at the end of term, Dumbledore at Quidditch matches, Dumbledore frowning, Dumbledore thinking, Dumbledore teaching. Tom glimpses an aged Dumbledore walking down a hallway and tries to grasp onto it, but she begins reciting the twelve uses of dragon’s blood.

Number one, Perfume.

Number two, Ink.

Number three, Antiviral.

Number four, Coagulation.

Number five—

Tom gently peels away her droning and follows Dumbledore down the hall. In an effort to deafen him, she begins shouting the Ministers for Magic and the years they served in office, starting from Ulick Gamp, 1707-1718.

“Miss Granger, if you would be so kind,” Dumbledore motions for her to follow him, “my office is this way.”

She’s dressed in a different uniform than he’s used to. The fabric of her skirt is not as heavy, and it’s shorter. Her white blouse is still pressed to perfection, but it fits her better than he’s used to. Her tie is fastened tightly, as always.

Perseus Parkinson, 1726-1733

Eldritch Diggory—

“Sir,” she tells him, “I haven’t got much to report to you.” She looks down shyly. “Nothing has happened that is unusual. The year is almost exactly the same as it was when I first lived it—”

“Almost? What have you noticed to be different?” Dumbledore motions for her to sit down across from him, “Mention everything to me, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

“Well, Ron and Harry are the same. Harry is still obsessed with following Draco, and Ron is busy snogging Lavender Brown,” she pauses to blush, “But Ginny is dating Seamus, not Dean. And Dean looks about as angry at Ron as Harry is at Seamus—”

BASIL FLACK, 1752-1752

HESPHAESTUS—

“Interesting,” Dumbledore considers this utter drivel, Tom thinks. Tom has to commend Dumbledore for keeping a straight face while an obviously youthful Hermione reports to him.

“And your dreams?” he asks her, offering her a lemon drop from an ornate crystal candy bowl.

“The same, sir.” She says, declining the sweets, and setting the bowl back down on his desk.

“Every night?”

“Without fail.”

PORTEUS KNATCHBULL—

“I do not typically recommend such treatments, Miss Granger, but perhaps it would be a good idea to visit Madame Pomfrey for a sleep aid—”

“No!” she rushes to interject, then calming herself, “I do not need it, Headmaster. Thank you for the offer.”

—1789-1798

ARTEMSIA LUFKIN, 1798-1811

GROGAN STU—

Dumbledore looks at her in a way Tom assumes is meant to be kindly, or perhaps concerned. Perhaps both. He’s never been on the receiving end of such a look himself, so he can’t say. But whatever the look conveys, it makes Hermione burst into tears.

“My dear, it is important to remember that the Tom you know is not the man that exists today—”

“I know that!”

He smiles sadly again, looking at her piercingly over the tops of his glasses. Tom did always hate those aggressively blue eyes. It looks to him as if they become more intense as he ages.

“I am merely reminding you that we are not quite sure what you experienced. It may have been a dream, or perhaps some kind of curse—altering your memories by imposing fake ones—

“Headmaster Dumbledore!” she interrupts again. She is no longer crying and looks completely annoyed. “I don’t know how it happened. I cannot explain—how does one simply wake up one morning to find themselves more than fifty years in the past? There is no precedent to such an event. I have scoured every book in the library. I have researched this issue to death. I cannot tell you how it happened—but it did. I swear to you, it was real.”

OTTALINE GAMBOL, 1827-1835

RODOLPHUS LESTRANGE, 1835-1841

HORTENSIA—

“Even so, Miss Granger, you are here now. And Tom Riddle is dead; has been so for almost fifty years, as you said.” He holds up a hand to stop her from interrupting him again, “I do not say that I do not believe you. The opposite is true. In fact, for many years I wondered who would dare use Tom’s alias from his school days to emerge as a Dark Lord. I will admit that it makes great sense to me that it is Tom Riddle behind the mask... However, how he managed to return to life, that evades me. If he is as dead as both you and I believe, how is it that Lord Voldemort is very much alive…”

“And very intent on killing my friends,” she whispers, completing his sentence.

DUGALD McPHAIL, 1858-1865

FARIS “SPOUT-HOLE” SPAVIN, 1865-190—

“You must not dream of him, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore instructs her as he looks out the stained-glass window by his desk, observing the rain as it collects on the lead came. “We do not know the nature of the curse that struck you in the Department of—”

VENUSIA CRICKERLY, 1903-1912

ARCHER EVERMONDE, 1912-1923

LORCAN McLAIRD, 1923-1925

HECTOR FAW—

Hermione is screaming with such intensity that Tom pauses what he is doing to silence her. She’s giving him a headache. All those occlumency lessons and she’s still rubbish at it, Tom thinks.

She attempts to push a memory towards him, but Tom immediately shoves it away, flipping through an inventory of her thoughts until he can find Dumbledore again. Instead, he catches glimpses of a hook-nosed man, startlingly ugly, and then a red-haired girl on a broomstick laughing with a similar looking, gangly, freckled boy. They look to be about sixteen or so, and their flying with another boy, with jet black hair—

The scene shifts quickly, and she’s talking to Derrick—that prick!—

The scene shift again, and it’s an older Dumbledore frowning at her, opening his mouth to speak but then—

Again, the red-haired boy. This time he’s wearing a prefect pin on the lapel of his robe. His hair clashes horribly with his Gryffindor scarf. He’s making some obscene motions at the backs of a group of Slytherin students and Hermione looks at him disapprovingly before giving in and laughing—

It’s him. Tom. He’s angry with her, and pacing back and forth in the dingy cottage they’re living in. It’s July in Ireland, but they’ve had perhaps four days without rain thus far. The sound which was once soothing is beginning to get on his last nerve.

“You are rubbish,” he snaps, running his fingers through his hair in exhaustion.

“Thanks,” she responds sarcastically, temporarily pausing her efforts to shoot him an annoyed look.

“If you spent less time talking back and more time practicing, maybe you could cast a simple charm by now, but no—”

“It’s incredibly hard to concentrate when you insist on yapping in my ear!”

“Yapping?” Tom asks, challenging, “Is that really the word you want to use with me?”

She smirks, and attempts to fill the empty goblet with water once again, but nothing happens.

“You know what would be more impressive than your subpar sass?” Tom tells her, “Actually being clever enough to cast aguamenti wandlessly.”

She huffs and throws herself onto the small but overstuffed sofa, laying leisurely across the yellow throw pillows that were undoubtably once white. The mildew doesn’t seem to bother her. She smiles at him.

“I want to take a break. Make me some tea?”

He grumbles at her laziness, but heads into the kitchen nonetheless—

 Tom impatiently swats away the memory. He doesn’t need to be reminded of her failures, he’s WELL AWARE, HERMIONE.

Then—

It’s evening and Hermione is sitting by herself next to the window, watching the rise of the full moon in the semi-darkness of the blue twilight. Tom is reading a book he found in a museum in Turkey. He is trying to translate it as he reads, but not only is it in Turkish, it is written in Ottoman script. The effort is cumbersome at best. He looks up at Hermione to rest his eyes for a moment and she must sense him observing her because she turns to face him.

She regards him very seriously for a moment. Tom itches to delve into her mind to discover what she is thinking. He refrains, however, because she isn’t his underling. She is his equal. That, and she’s made it abundantly clear that illegal use of legilimency against her would terminate their relationship.

After a few moments of impatient waiting, she speaks.

“Tom,” she says, “I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“I would never hurt you on purpose, you know.”

Tom closes the book, and sets his quill down.

“Have you done something to cross me, Hermione?” He asks quietly, staring at her hard but fighting the urge to rip into her thoughts.

“No—Tom, I’m sorry about how things ended last time. I didn’t know you were allergic—"

Tom smiles ruefully, “neither did I.”

“It was so horrible,” she swallows thickly and looks away. “And I know it doesn’t happen anymore, that it has essentially been rewritten, but it was so horrible to see you choke—

“Let’s not talk about it,” Tom says quickly. He pretends he’s comforting her, but in actuality remembering that moment makes him feel incredibly queasy. “Let bygones be bygones.”

“I was so excited for you to try Caribbean food,” she says sadly, looking away.

“I didn’t like it,” he deadpans, successfully making her laugh.

He stands up to join her by the reading nook, and she scoots closer to the window to make space for him.

“Why isn’t it raining, Hermione?” he asks her, slipping his arm across the small of her back, “Last time we were here, it was raining.”

“It’s never exactly the same,” she tells him wistfully, “but I don’t know why.”

He looks at her affectionately. His little secret weapon. “I’m certain you’ll figure it out.”

He strokes her hair. Carefully. Under that tangled hair and inside that precious head are the answers. Kissing that mouth reveals his true self. It gives him life. Perpetual life. Maybe not the way he envisioned it, but eternal nonetheless. As long as he does nothing to damage this, he will never die, not really. Only temporarily, before she resets the clock to 1944…

The setting changes, and now they’re in Malfoy Manor, during the New Year’s ball of 1949. It is a big event, and the Malfoys have spared no expense welcoming the dawn of a new decade. Tom is dressed in new robes, tailored to fit him perfectly. Although it has been some years since he has suffered under the poverty of being an orphaned student, it still pleases him greatly to own nice things. He looks around the ballroom for Hermione, and catches a flash of red satin disappear through the French doors leading to the balcony. The room feels unbearably hot.

Tom shoves through the well-dressed masses after her. On the balcony he discovers nothing, until he approaches the edge and sees a red target running across the grounds. Tom considers going after her.

He doesn’t remember this.

He’s almost certain it never happened.

Despite the alarm bells going off in his head, Tom floats down the balcony until he is on the ground. He’s forced to go after her on foot as he doesn’t want to attract the attention of any of the other guests by flying. She’s running as fast as she can in a comically large blood-red ball gown before she trips, her gown ballooning out under her.

She looks back at him, and on her features he can read fear. Real fear. She rushes up and runs harder, her broken heels abandoned where she fell. Tom chases her. If he wasn’t close enough to see her, he could have simply followed her bloody footprints. She arrives at the gate, but it will not open for her—it will not open for anyone other than a Malfoy. He knows this, but he also knows that she would not know it, because she is a muggleborn, as ostracized from the magical community as himself, always trying to fit in, to fill the gaps in her knowledge, to understand wizarding culture—

Right as he grabs a fistful of fabric, she twists, spinning until she’s thrown something in his face. It blinds him, but more horrifically, he’s frozen, unable to move.

“Who’s rubbish now, Riddle?” she mocks him, shoving him until he falls on his tailbone into the snowbank. It’s cold, and he discovers that he can shiver.

“What have you done? What is this?”

“A special branch of magic I’ve been working on. Why?” she asks, raising an eyebrow, “Impressed?”

He sneers. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“A compliment! Rare, coming from you.”

“I can hardly compliment you when you are so often sloppy—"

“Enough! That is not why we are here. Killing me is a mistake, Tom.”

“Is it now?”

“You know very well that it is. If you kill me now then your door to immortality is closed forever.”

“There are other ways,” he responds cryptically.

“Horcruxes?” she scoffs, “You cannot be serious! You cannot afford to make more. You will go insane—"

“Will I?” Tom murmurs, questioning, “Is that why you’re so desperate to prevent me from making them? Or is it because you know that is the key for realizing my ambitions—"

“It isn’t—"

“in becoming Lord Voldemort.”

She levels a pitying look directly at him, and it incenses him that she would dare look at him that way. “You are sorely mistaken, Tom.”

“Then let me see. Let me see what becomes of me in 1996.”

“No!”

“Then I am done asking for your permission.”

“Oh? Come, then. Take what it is that you want by force, if you can.” She’s mocking him. He is still unable to move.

“I hate you,” he tells her. And he does. He really, really does.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I have always loved you,” and raising her voice above his disbelieving laughter, “and my intentions have always been pure—to help you, to save you from yourself—”

“And you did that by murdering me?”

“Two of those instances were by your own request!”

“And what of the other four?”

“The first was an accident!” She protests, her voice shrill. “You know that!”

“The other three then?”

“We broke up! I wanted to go home!”

Tom smiles, but it does not carry to his eyes.

“And you expect me to believe such an uninspired lie.”

“It is the truth! There is nothing keeping me here—except you. And if you do not love me—”

“You think you love me more than I love you,” Tom says, “because I give into my worst desires. But I have always been able to kill you.” His voice is soft and low, but it does nothing to hinder the violent edge to his tone. She’s as frozen as he is, simply staring.

“My instinct has always begged me to end you before you could get close to me. It would have been much easier to simply take what I needed from you, but I didn’t. I didn’t because I wanted to earn your trust. I wanted to earn your genuine affection—”

She opens her mouth, but he doesn’t let her cut him off again.

“—which you repaid by betraying me. I may be only a quarter of a man, but I have loved you more with this quarter than you have afforded me with a whole.”

“That is not true!”

“You look down on me, Hermione, because you have a family, friends—loved ones—and I have no one but you. But that is my design. I never wanted anyone in my heart until you wormed your way in, latching yourself to my soul so permanently that I cannot shake you no matter how often I try. You can kill me a hundred times—"

“Stop!”

“And still, I will return to you a hundred and one, always forgetting your betrayal, always forgetting the heartache—"

She interrupts him, and as in most of their arguments, they begin talking over one another.

“You betrayed me by making more horcruxes when you promised to stop!”

“Perhaps I am difficult to love, but at least I am loyal!"

They pause, both breathless from shouting when Tom realizes he is able to wiggle his fingertips. His wand lies only a few inches from his hand, buried under the increasing snowfall.

“Let me make something very clear to you, Tom,” Hermione starts, her voice razor sharp and cold, “You ended things with me the moment you decided to go after Hepzibah Smith. I tolerated a lot of things; stealing dark artifacts, obliviating muggles, experimenting with dark magic, secret organizations, attempting to repeal the statute of secrecy… but I told you I would not tolerate murder.”

She emphasizes each word like a punch to the gut. Her fist tightens around her wand as she continues, and Tom struggles to maintain eye contact and not look at it.

“I warned you about your horcruxes. I told you how to reunite your soul, and when you refused, I accepted it. I accepted you. But I have my limits, and I will not condone knowingly killing innocents—”

There! He can move his hand!

“I do not know how I go back in time, or why I keep coming back, but I can assure you, I do not will it to happen. Even when I have attempted to avoid you, you find me. And you are insistent, even though you do not—cannot—remember. I cannot explain it. But if I have to continue killing you for the rest of my miserable life to find the answers—to find a way of cleaving this infuriating bond between us—"

His arm is free. He just needs to wait for the right moment. She continues her infuriating soliloquy, ignorant to the fact that her spell has worn off.

“I don’t care if you love me. It’s all irrelevant now. I thought I could change you,” she laughs, “I was naïve. I see that now. My only desire is to find out how to destroy you. And I am close. Dumbledore is searching your things as we speak. He’s under strict orders to look for a diary and a ring, and to destroy them on sight with fiendfyre—"

Rage consumes him, white hot and all-devouring. All he can think is how dare she? But what comes out of his mouth is:

“Avada—!”

She lunges at him, her dress turning into a red whisp behind her as she charges like a crazed ghost. She screams, and it rings harshly against the pale snowbanks that coat the countryside. Now Tom is dressed in red, too, his breath catching in agony.

He opens his eyes. The blood is real. It soaks his white robes until it paints them red. Hermione has one hand resting lightly against his chest, the other around the hilt of a knife. Tom stares at it for a moment, uncomprehending that the blade must be fully buried in his flesh.

His chest rattles as he laughs in shock. He wants to say, “the muggle way? How inventive,” but the pain is too sharp to do anything but produce shaky breathing at first. She won’t look at him, but he knows she is crying. He snakes a hand between them to lift her chin.

Tom looks over her face, her beautiful face, once more. He tries to memorize the freckles scattered on the bridge of her nose, the thin line of her lips, her sharp chin, the invisible blonde hairs at her temples.

“Hermione…” he begins, all the while not letting go of her eyes, because her eyes are lovely and dark, and he wants to remember them. He wants to memorize them in the deepest parts of his soul, so he can be sure to recognize her in as many lifetimes as it takes. He wants to hold on to her, even if he knows she kills the best part of him, even if she always condemns him, and criticizes him, and abandons him when he fails to meet her impossibly mediocre standards.

“It seems I have, once again, bested you,” He manages out, smiling with a grim satisfaction. He knows Dumbledore will not be able to find the diary or the ring.

Her look of confusion changes to one of realization, and then strangely, relief.

“You hid them.”

He manages to nod, but the motion causes him to cough up blood. It coats his chin and splatters across her cheeks like sun spots.

“You bastard,” she tells him, but it lacks the edge so often in her voice these days. He reaches for her hand, abandoning his wand in the grass. She clutches it. She is the picture of a dutiful wife at her husband’s deathbed, waiting for him to pass. Tom almost laughs. Almost, because that would hurt too much.

“I wasn’t going to do it, you know,” he tells her, because it feels important for her to know.

“It’s okay, Tom,” she says, and it isn’t until she wipes a tear away from his cheek that he realizes he is crying.

“I only hid them to gain more time with you.”

“Shh,” she lowers his head onto her lap, but he doesn’t want to let go of her hand. His wings bend underneath him, crumpled and useless. Icarus has fallen.

Tom is defeated.

“You were wrong,” Tom tells her, and his voice comes out with stuttering gasps, almost as if he is crying too hard to speak clearly. His chest flails unevenly and it hurts, “in the greenhouses. About letting you go. I won’t. I can’t.”

His vision blurs. She knows somehow that he means for her to hold him closer, and closer still. The hilt of her knife still protrudes from his chest, their hands now clasped over it. She looks almost as if she regrets what she’s done. Tom wants to tell her a thousand things. How he has loved her, how he loves her still, how he’s never held it against her that she chooses to kill him, how he knows she has so much to live for, how he knows he can’t be saved, but he wishes so desperately that he can be.

He regrets that her fate is as wretched and lonely as his. He wants to remind her that the soul is eternal, and it desires life. But once it is split, it loses awareness of its other parts, and that when she kills him, she kills the part of him that is best; the part of him that loves her.

What survives is the real Lord Voldemort—who has no knowledge of Hermione Granger, nor of friendship, nor of tenderness.

But now, Tom Riddle must contend with the greatest terror of living.

Death.

It is upon him. He can feel it descending, waiting to claim his last breath.

“Hermione,” he manages, but he wants to say don’t give up on me. His consciousness is fading, blurring black at the edges of his vision, but he clings to it, begs Death to give him one extra moment, but Death is unforgiving, and when it has set its sights upon you there is no escape nor delay.

He reaches out with his mind, weak tendrils grasping at hers like fingers clinging to the edge of a cliff. In this moment, right now, it seems imperative to tell her something, but it is impossible to condense so much emotion into words. He brushes against her thoughts as softly as silk rubs against skin. He thinks as hard as he can, trying to remind her of a time when she trusted him, when she believed in redemption, when she believed in purpose—

-

The next day, rumors begin to circulate that both Hermione Birch and Tom Riddle are dead. This quickly gets amended to: Tom Riddle is dead, Hermione Birch is missing. Then; Tom Riddle is dead, Hermione Birch killed him and is on the run from the authorities.

Albus Dumbledore sits sullenly in his office, his head in his hands. His silver hair pools around him on his desk, shielding him from the world.

The rumors, although a little sensationalized, are mostly true. 

When Tom Riddle's body is discovered the night of the masquerade ball, an investigation is quickly launched. Only two students claimed to have witnessed the entirety of the event: a pair of first year Gryffindor boys who had decided to sneak into the gardens. Albus had extracted their memories himself, and watched them many times in the pensieve located in his office.

Even at his age, watching Hermione Granger mourn Tom Riddle greatly affected him. For many moments after she killed him, she sobbed over his lifeless body, holding and caressing his head in her arms. 

To Albus, who never allowed himself to grieve his own hopeless love, seeing that Hermione didn't check herself or bridle her pain destroys him. The sounds of her screams, silenced only by her delirious kisses against Tom Riddle's motionless lips, still echoes in his mind.

Before she disintegrated into dust, she spoke to him, reciting verses Albus had never heard before. He was able to locate the poem, and the story behind it, in a book borrowed from a muggle library in London. It sits propped open on his desk before him now.

He feels sick to his stomach, wishing it were possible to know what had happened in the battle of their minds, knowing he will not be able to solve this mystery for at least another fifty years.

So for now, despite all the urgent matters he must attend to, he lets these dark, morose feelings wash over him, if only briefly, his head bent over the following words:

Between Rita and my eyes

There is a rifle.

-

Later, Headmaster Dippet holds a memorial for Tom Riddle only, as his body is the only one recovered. There is no family to attend the service. However, given it is still within the school year, the entire student body is present, as well as the professors and other staff. The Head Girl, Yvette Wilkens, cries the hardest, and behind her, Tom’s friend, Maxwell Mulciber. Even Abraxas Malfoy manages to shed a tear.

Albus Dumbledore is also in attendance, anxious for more than just the death of one student and the disappearance of another. He had searched Tom Riddle’s things during the duel as he had been instructed by the Time Traveler, at a great risk to himself. He had found more than a few concerning items, but he had not seen anything fitting the description of a cursed diary or ring.

He knows, if Miss Granger were here now, she would be furious with him. As it is, he will have to wait some time before she can elocute that frustration.

He sighs, and lights his wand along with everyone else, holding it high in the air as if he is also mourning the death of a student, but knowing rather, that he holds his wand high for one of the wickedest wizards of all time.

Chapter Text

PART TWO

Hermione wakes up to the now familiar sound of banging on her hospital door.

“Let me see them!”

“Mr. Potter, you must be patient! They are both resting!”

“You said that yesterday!”

“They were resting yesterday as well!”

Hermione sits up quickly, pushing away the stiff hospital blankets, and takes survey of the depressing white room. Ron is sleeping fitfully beside her in a matching bed, his arms and chest bandaged. She doesn’t look at him too long—this isn’t the time for self-indulgence.

“Good evening, Minerva, Harry…” Dumbledore’s softer voice can be faintly heard from behind the door. Hermione brushes the hair from her eyes, a pain in her chest catching her semi-unaware when she lifts her arms. Damn. She’d forgotten how much Dolohov’s curse had hurt her. She feels as if her rib cage is on fire if she breathes too hard. She looks to her right. There, right beneath the frosted glass—a vial of numbing potion on her nightstand, likely left there by a thoughtful nurse. She downs the vial in one gulp.

The door opens gently, making almost no sound. Hermione hopes for one insane moment that it’s Harry coming to visit her, having made it past Professor McGonagall and the Headmaster. She turns towards the door to see that it is Albus, looking much aged, who is walking into her—and Ron’s—sick room.

“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore greets her, and without waiting for her to offer, he settles into the chair next to her bed.

Hermione holds out her hand.

It takes him only a moment to comprehend, and then with a quick and discerning look, confirm, that she is here. He wordlessly places her wand within her palm.

She pulls her hand back, keeping her wand at her side. She already feels a bit better. They sit silently for a moment, with only Ron’s steady soft snoring to listen to.

“Albus.” Hermione greets him finally, confirming with words what he had already understood from her actions.

“It is good to be able to speak with you again, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore responds. Hermione looks away from her wand and up at him. He looks remarkably tired.

“You’re older,” she states needlessly, trying to get used to his whiter hair and longer beard, “but your sense of style is the same.”

Dumbledore is dressed in neon orange robes, closely resembling a muggle highlighter.

“And you are still young,” he responds with a smile, “but your sense of style seems to have changed.”

Hermione lets out a sardonic huff of a laugh at this rather stupid joke about her hospital clothes.

“Is he alive?” she asks instead.

“If you can call it that.”

“You couldn’t find them, then.”

“I could not.”

“You’ve failed. Again.”

“As have you, it seems.”

Ron takes a deep breath, and resumes his snoring—rather louder this time.

“Perhaps it is not wise to have this conversation now,” Dumbledore suggests, but Hermione waves her hand to bid him to remain seated.

“He’s out cold. He wakes up tomorrow.”

Dumbledore frowns at this seer-like answer, but doesn’t protest.

“Months of work—wasted.” Hermione complains, “He’s getting smarter.”

“Smarter? Does the soul have wit?”

“Fine. Not smarter. More aware.”

“I don’t know if that is the correct term, either.”

“Is that what we’re going to talk about, then, after fifty years? Semantics? Alright, Professor. He’s becoming more attuned. He’s remembering much quicker. He was onto me the moment we met; I saw it in his eyes—”

“I would think that would have made it easier to gain his trust.”

“Meaning?”

“The nature of your relationship with Tom Riddle is…” Dumbledore looks at her over his spectacles, “…unique.”

“Homicidal, you mean.”

“Yet, Mr. Riddle trusted you enough to show you where his… items… were hidden.”

“He didn’t.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore removed his spectacles, and made a show of cleaning an imaginary smudge off the glass. “That was a question I’ve held onto for several decades. Now that this one has been answered, the next logical question seems to be why you didn’t take care of the task yourself.”

“I didn’t get the chance.”

“Didn’t you?”

His intensely blue eyes bore into hers. She feels him probing—nothing overt, just a warning. He suspects her. At the very least, he doesn’t trust her. She almost looks away, almost. Losing Tom always makes her a little more aggressive than usual. She thinks about ripping his glasses off, taking his face in her hands, meeting his crystal blue eyes with her muddy brown ones and sucking him in, deeper and deeper, until he knows nothing and everything all at once, until he can’t breathe, until he’s dead in that chair…

She’s brought back to the moment by a sudden and loud snore from her hospital roommate, followed by a gasp, and then throat-clearing. A thin stream of drool slides down the side of Ron’s parted chapped lips. His eyes remain closed, his face slack with sleep.

“You were supposed to finish the job.”

“True. But it seems Tom Riddle anticipated that we were in… cahoots, if you will. Perhaps you were correct in using the word ‘smarter’ a little earlier in our conversation.”

“Indeed,” Hermione sneers.

Dumbledore beams as if they are two friends in perfect agreement, and digs into the pocket of his outer robe. “Lemon drop?”

Hermione’s stares at him coldly. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by her silent refusal, and simply withdraws his proffered hand and pops a candy happily into his mouth.

Dumbledore appraises her for a moment before speaking. He swallows the remainder of the lemon drop. He looks down, thinking.

“Tom Riddle is dead. This is indisputable fact. Are you in agreement, as I suspect strongly that you were the one who wielded the knife against him in the final month of 1944?”

“I am.” Hermione responds without emotion.

“Yet, the Dark Lord lives. For many years after Tom Riddle’s death, I searched for the objects you identified as his horcruxes. I searched, but it was in vain. No such items seemed to exist on Hogwarts grounds. You can imagine the urgency and frustration that I felt,” Dumbledore gives Hermione a shrewd look here, “but alas, my search was always in vain.”

“Because the horcruxes were never there.”

“Precisely,” Dumbledore looked upon Hermione with the approval of a teacher regarding his favorite class pet. “You see, Miss Granger, I was able to track down both the diary and the ring, but in both cases I was too late to do anything useful.”

“Someone found both?”

“Not exactly. It seems that Mr. Riddle remembered far more than you realized, or at least, far sooner than you realized. For he hid the horcruxes in locations not at all related to himself, but related to you.”

“To me?”

“Yes, to you. The diary was in the possession of a wizard who I am assuming would have become a great follower of Lord Voldemort if time had permitted. Unfortunately, due to the nature of horcruxes, as the soul attached to the object grew stronger, the wizard grew weaker. It was too late to save him when I discovered the object—or rather, his wife sought help too late.”

“His name?”

“Lucius Malfoy.”

Hermione freezes, stunned. “Lucius Malfoy is dead?”

“Yes.”

“What does Lucius Malfoy have to do with me?”

“Interesting question, isn’t it? What does a pureblood wizard who attended Hogwarts a decade before you were even born have to do with you?”

“Spit it out, Albus.”

“I do not have a certain answer, only a theory. Although, from what I remember about you from our acquaintanceship many years ago, I do not think you will like it very much.”

“Your ability to meander around the point is phenomenal.”

Dumbledore smiles ruefully. “I am starting to miss the sweet Miss Granger from last week quite terribly. You were a delightful child.”

“I think this is an improvement, personally.”

“Hmm…” Dumbledore begins to rummage in his pocket again, “It is a matter of individual preference, I think.”

Hermione taps her wand impatiently on the bed. “Get on with it!”

“Tom Riddle must have gleaned a very important piece of information from you—that when he becomes Lord Voldemort, his followers will mostly be the children and grandchildren of his school friends.”

Her mouth settles into a thin line. Dumbledore takes this as a confirmation.

“Ah, Miss Granger. A fatal error. Tom Riddle gave the diary to his friend Abraxas, instructing him only to keep it, likely without telling him the nature of this important dark artifact. When Abraxas died, Lucius inherited the Malfoy trust and estate, thus inheriting all of his father’s possessions. Amongst those possessions was a diary. It called to him…

“These are his widow’s words, not mine. The diary called to him. That is how she described it to me when I visited Malfoy Manor. Lucius was dead in his bed. We discovered him together.”

“What year did this happen?” Hermione asked, trying to understand.

“1980.”

Her heart skips a beat. “Did they ever have a child?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore answers, “A son. Only six months prior.”

Hermione sags with relief. At least Draco Malfoy still came into being. Lucius dying was a rather big change. And already—so quickly—she had just returned to the present. A change so significant, so early in her return, must mean other changes, larger ones…

“From your reaction, and your questions, am I to understand that these events have never before come to pass?”

When she does not answer immediately, Dumbledore shakes his head, looking truly worried. “This is bad, bad indeed.”

“Lucius Malfoy is unimportant,” she says, mostly trying to convince herself, “his early death does not impact Harry other than making his life easier—"

“The stability of the time path is of utmost importance!” Dumbledore almost shouts at her, looking truly very agitated, “You must not change your point of origin! We have discussed this before—in fact, fifty years ago you stood before me and informed me of what I told you fifty years before that: That the time path acts as a massive rope woven into a figure-eight, and your sixth year at Hogwarts acts as the tiny pin which holds this rope in place against the fabric of the universe!”

“I know this—I am the one who told you this.”

“Yet, the colossal mistakes you made in the short weeks you spent in 1944 have already damaged the present beyond your recognition!”

“I am tired—”

“That is not an excuse! Lord Voldemort does not grow tired, he does not grow feeble—he adapts, and it is through his cunning that he continues to survive, despite our combined best efforts. It is not acceptable to be tired.”

Hermione had never heard Dumbledore so angry. She feels sufficiently cowed, but her anger rears its ugly head again, strengthening her against him.

“If only you had done a better job at guiding him as a child, instead of treating him like a snakelet that would one day grow to produce venom. If he had been taught what love was before 1944, before he had already killed, then none of this would be necessary!”

Dumbledore seems to deflate under this speech. Perhaps it is because he can recognize truth when he hears it, or perhaps it is because he realizes Hermione is still under the spell of false hope that Tom Riddle can somehow be saved.

“There is no use in slinging mud, Miss Granger.” He tells her, his tone now carefully controlled, “Let us resolve to never point fingers again. These are dark times, and as our situation worsens in the war against evil, it is natural to lose one’s temper… I simply warn you: Do not do anything to change this year. Do not do anything to influence those around you, as well-meaning as you might be. Disturbing the pin that indicates your true home on this loop of time may displace you forever, and destine us to doom.”

Hermione straightens her spine, trying to tamper down the anxiety that bubbles in her gut. To lose her place in the universe, to be forced to exist in Tom’s time, or worse, to not exist at all—it is too terrible to think about. She was so certain she had Tom figured out. So certain she could play this game against him and win when she had never had a chance. The game had always been of his invention. Yet, for Tom to act so brashly—to risk giving Abraxas a piece of his soul just to win, just to keep it away from her; it is too much.

“The other victim?” she asks, trying to focus on gathering as much information as possible. If Tom was willing to gamble with pieces of his own soul, she needs to be hypervigilant.

Tom Riddle might be dead, but Lord Voldemort still survives.

Dumbledore hesitates before answering.

“A 40-year-old muggle woman.”

“Of course you don’t know her name,” Hermione says scornfully, about to add a lecture about muggle prejudice when she loses her momentum. The headmaster does not react with careful neutrality as she expects. Instead, his face assumes an expression of sympathy. This disturbs her. Her grip around her wand tightens, as if she can fight off the dread dawning in her mind.

“Who is she?”

Dumbledore frowns.

“Dr. Helena Granger.”

-

Ron isn’t stupid.

It’s a shame he even has to say so, but he does. For almost all of his life, he is treated as such. Ron knows his brothers don’t think much of him, and even his mum, who most of the time is a spectacular mother, occasionally gives him this exasperated, concerned look that he knows could only communicate: what will become of this boy?

Sure, he isn’t some kind of quidditch whiz like Ginny, or a comedic genius like Fred and George; and yes, he’s definitely not as brilliant as Bill, or even just as smart as Percy, and he doesn’t have some special niche interest like Charlie either, but he is clever. Even if everyone is too thick to notice.

Ron knows when Dumbledore walks into his hospital room, he is not there for him. And he knows if he can fool them into thinking he’s still unconscious, they won’t be bothered with silencing charms or the like—not for Ron.

Ron may not be curious about goblin wars, or potions theory, or obscure transfiguration paradoxes, but he understands convention. He knows the unwritten codes of conduct that dictate the behavior of man. He doesn’t question this code like Hermione, and he doesn’t rebel against it like Harry. In contrast to them, he recognizes that the wizarding world, and the world at large, hinges on unspoken laws that dictate who we are, who we can become, and who we can be with.

Ron knows his lines as if he’s been given a cue card to hold since birth. He’s the funny one. The extra. Another boy.

When he started school, this role evolved to include Harry and Hermione.

Harry is the brilliant but reluctant hero. He’s good at almost everything he likes enough to try. He’s got a quick brain and even quicker mouth.

Hermione is the researcher. She does all of the grunt work, constantly using her skills to grant Harry context he otherwise would never know. She’s brilliant, but in a different way. She’s not as quick on her feet as Harry, but given enough time, she’ll outwit the enemy more thoroughly.

And Ron?

Ron is the compass. He’s the social navigator because he understands nuance. He knows Hermione would be more likable if she raised her hand a little less. He knows she would be more respected if she waited a second or two before answering a question from a peer, or seemed a little more disinterested, a little less willing to cite her sources.

Ron is aware that Harry is too snappish, too quick, too impulsive. Yes, it makes him brave, and even fearless, but it lands him in more hot water than necessary.

Ron knows because he has thrown himself headfirst into danger for Harry more than once. The hero needs a friend. A true friend. Otherwise, what is the hero fighting for? How does he keep going? If the researcher doesn’t have a heart to guide her, what is she reading for? To hoard knowledge and hear praise of how good and clever she is?

Ron loves them. Sometimes he loves Hermione more than Harry, and sometimes he loves her less. Right now, he only feels guilt towards her. She was right about Sirius, and now she is hurt. Perhaps others were hurt as well, or worse. Ron isn’t sure. He had only just awakened due to the sound of Harry trying to barrel through their hospital room door. Ron almost smiles in his pretend sleep.

Harry’s brashness with McGonagall costs him the chance to visit his friends. When would he learn that a little more subtlety would achieve his aims faster than banging down doors?

Never, Ron secretly hopes. Just as he hopes Hermione would never learn how to fit in. If they learned what they lacked, they wouldn’t need him anymore. Plus, there is something so charming about their flaws, something so lovable about them, that he would privately be devastated when they would one day inevitably outgrow them.

It is directly after this thought that Ron hears Hermione address their Headmaster by his first name.

Albus.

It is preposterous. Unbelievable, unfathomable to hear Hermione, the Hermione Granger, address the headmaster so disrespectfully, so brazenly, so shamelessly. She doesn’t do that sort of thing. Especially not to such a beloved teacher, an admired figure of authority, a proper hero like Dumbledore.

Alive? Who is alive? Sirius? Ron feels a moment of relief. Sirius is alive. That means that although they had been led to a trap, they had still succeeded. Ron wants to rejoice, but something in their tone does not quite match their words. They seem… unhappy about the word alive. Such a joyful word normally. But between them, it sounds like a curse.

Tom Riddle? Relationship?

What on earth are they talking about?

Then, all of the information comes raining down on him all at once, mercilessly drenching him in reality.

Tom Riddle dead… Dumbledore and Hermione in cahoots… she wielded the knife… horcruxes… fifty years ago… and fifty years before that…

Hermione still sounds like Hermione. At least, the cadence of her voice, the tone, the pitch—that is all still the same. But she doesn’t speak like Hermione. She uses more force; there is more confidence behind her words, more truth in them. She sounds so sure, so infallible, so adult-like. Indeed, if she didn’t sound so sure, Ron would disbelieve his own ears. He would assume he is dreaming in some comatose sleep. That the wrong mix of potions are making him hear things. That Dumbledore had gone senile. No, Ron is certain he would have lied to himself in order to explain this bizarre conversation if she didn’t sound so sure.

But then, why is Hermione surprised her mother is dead? Her mother had always been so, at least since Ron had known her. Hermione only has a dad. It has always been this way. He had never seen her sob over it. Once, she had shed a few tears during Christmas at the Burrow; private tears. Silent tears. Only Ron had been there when she said she wished her mom could see the way the tree sparkled by the fire, that she would have loved it, and Ron had squeezed her hand. They were in third year, and it was one of the most special moments they had ever shared. It was the first time Ron noticed she was a beautiful girl. She looked almost angelic when the two or three tears slid gracefully down her smooth cheeks.

Now, she is sobbing. Gulping for air. Her pain sounds heartbreakingly new.

And then, she says, “Fuck!” and later in a quieter, defeated tone, “bloody fuck,” and Ron knows this is not a dream.

Because not even in his wildest dreams could he imagine Hermione swearing in front of a professor.

-

Chapter Text

Hermione stares at the book propped open in her lap. With nothing to do but sit in her hospital bed until she’s allowed to return to the castle, Hermione had asked her nurse for something to read.

The nurse had acquiesced—really, she was quite nice. Hermione had accepted the thin book from her without registering the title, or anything else she had prattled on about as she fluffed Hermione’s pillows and checked her vitals.

Her mind is surprisingly blank. She reads the first sentence over and over. The words are sounds without meaning. Hermione moves her tongue with the word there. She likes the way it pushes against her teeth and forces her lips to part. There is something romantic about the way her tongue starts off obstinately pushing an immovable object, before stilling in the middle of her mouth.

She repeats the word again—no. No, her tongue isn’t fighting her teeth. It’s working together with them, and her lips too—and then inviting her throat to join in. She keeps whispering the word there. What an overlooked gem, she thinks sadly. Her favorite word had always been rouge. She loved the infinitesimal movement of her tongue between the slightly rolled ‘r’ and the ‘zh’ that vibrated in the middle of her mouth.

It just made the word sound so luxurious.

But now, she wonders how many unimportant words like there she ignores. There’s also that. That. It feels so powerful, the way the final ‘t’ bounces off her palate, the way she pulls her tongue from her teeth to her palate, yes, yes—that. That is powerful.

She sinks into her pillows, feeling blissfully empty for a moment.

Mum.

What a sad word. It tries to escape her mouth, but her lips fight to keep it in. Mum. Yes, mum is an ephemeral, beautiful soap bubble. It pops out of her mouth with a slight exhale and quickly ceases to exist. It’s too short. It’s too—

She tosses to her side, gazing upon Ron’s profile. His nose is very straight and very long. She remembers suddenly the summer before her fifth year, ages and ages ago, when she and Ron would go to feed Buckbeak when Sirius couldn’t. Under the shy London sun, Ron’s red hair looked like a glorious fire. She remembers how hard she had to fight her hand not to grasp it, hold it, stroke it, eat it… own it… tear it out of his head…

She turns to her nightstand, fumbling with the stupid drawer in which she knows the too-friendly nurse left calming draught. She unstoppers the vial and gulps its contents down.

Ron is really quite pretty, she decides. How natural that she should notice Ron before Harry. First of all, Ron is incredibly tall. Too tall, she thinks critically. Tom—

She closes her eyes, pulling her sweaty hair away from her face. No, she tells herself firmly. She will not think about Tom. She has spent enough time thinking about him. 

Instead, she'll think about anyone else. Take Ron, for example. Ron is tall. Much taller than Harry. She and Harry are barely the same height. And then, there are Ron’s eyes. Harry’s eyes are very nice too; she always wished she could have green eyes. Green is nice, she thinks, but Ron’s blue. The dark, dark blue of his eyes—they almost look brown in dim light because they are so dark, and really dark eyes are the best eyes. Dark brown—almost black—that pull you closer, encased in thick dark lashes and prominent black brows…

No. Not Tom. Anyone but Tom. 

Ron’s smile is also very nice. Very even lips, if a bit thin. Thin lips become him, however. Some people have full lips, lips that are almost feminine; but she doesn’t think about such persons—why isn’t the potion working?

She turns over, the thin hospital blankets piled on her legs twisting around her ankles, and yanks the drawer of the nightstand open. She pulls out two vials this time, downing them one after another.

It’s too quiet. She wishes Ron would snore.

She picks up her abandoned book and puts it over her face, trying to block out the sun leaking in through her frosted window. It must be charmed to appear bright—there’s no way London has been this sunny for two days in a row.

Ron would never notice such a detail. He would happily accept that it’s sunny, and smile about it too. So careless. No, care-less. Without a care. Nothing bothers him, unless she goes around snogging people. She wonders what he would think if he knew she'd kissed To—

No!

Ron. Ronald. Donald. Duck. Lake. Black. Sirius. Dead. Tom—

She throws the book against the wall. She misses by a mile, hitting the gathered curtain at the end of her bed. The book falls limply at her feet, its pages splayed and undoubtably folded.

Ron stirs at the muffled noise. She watches him take a deep breath that expands his wide chest. He falls back asleep, his breathing once again quiet and even.

Hermione tries to copy his breathing, hoping it will bring her sleep as well. She plays her little word-association game again. Ron. Rice. Food. Ron. Molly. Weasley. Ginny. Harry. Voldemort—

Ron. Round. Slughorn. Potions. The Prince. Cheating. Jealous. Derrick—

Ron. Harry. Malfoy. Buckbeak. Hagrid. Hogwarts. Dumbledore. Grindelwald. Volde—

Ron. Crush. Lavender. Pink. Black. Dark. Eyes—

Ron. Burrow. Home. Sick. Homesick...

Hermione abandons the exercise, her heart catching on the word homesick. Such a clunky word. First in the throat, then round in the mouth, then pouncing off the tongue like some kind of wild animal, only to retreat with a sharp kick. Homesick. Even its sounds are displaced, as if her tongue doesn’t know where it can find rest.

She leans over to collect the book at her feet, trying to fix the pages that are now folded at haphazard angles. I don’t deserve rest, she thinks meanly. My mother is dead.

What a misnomer; homesick. She isn’t sick with longing over a house. She’s yearning for a time; a time when she was a child, safe in her parents’ arms, safe from wands and potions, safe from the unpredictability of the wizarding world. What she is really suffering from is timesickness.

Nostalgia, her inner snob corrects her.

She cleans off another vial; it’s obviously not working.

Hermione looks over at Ron, and feels another pang in her heart for the freckled boy in the bed next to hers. She loves him. Every cell in her body screams this love—a love that can only exist after extended separation; intense, forlorn, unhappy, jubilant all at once. She wants to wake him; she wants to speak with him—

How had she messed up so badly that she’d killed her mum? She grips the loose hairs along her temple, willing herself not to yank them out. What happens when she’s thrown back again? What if next time, she hurts Harry or Ron? Or her Dad, too? A more frightening question pops into her head, and she clenches her fists tighter around her hair. What if her mother stays dead?

The thought is too final, too awful to bear. She springs out of bed, but immediately clutches her chest, her face creased with pain. Damn Dolohov, she thinks viciously, breathing as shallowly as she can to avoid irritating her ribs further. Her only consolation is she is sure Dolohov is being tortured right at this moment by his master for failing him.

After a few moments, she’s able to sit up straight again. She stares out the hospital window, trying to make out the shapes of London landmarks through the frosted glass. If she turns her head just right, she can almost make out the very beginning of Diagon Alley…

“Hermione?”

She nearly jumps out of her skin. Ron’s sleep-filled voice calls her name again, and she stands up carefully to take the seat next to his bed. He attempts to reach for his face but the casts around his arms prevent him, and he looks put out.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nose itches,” he says, wriggling his nose.

She itches it. He smiles, and then frowns.

“I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Me too,” she says, looking down at her folded hands in her lap.

“Have you seen Harry?”

“Not yet.”

“Sirius?”

Hermione avoids looking at him directly. “Ron, I’m sorry.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes.”

They sit in silence for a moment, until Ron says, “Harry’ll be devastated.”

“Yeah.”

“We should ask to see him.”

“I tried. They made him go back to Hogwarts.”

“At least we know that means he didn’t get hurt,” Ron tries, as always, to see the positive side of things.

“I don’t think Harry would agree with that exactly.”

“Yeah. He always blames himself.” Ron agrees in a somber tone. They both frown, Hermione at her lap, Ron at the ceiling.

“Hermione?” Ron says, after another stretch of silence.

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re alive.”

“You said that already.”

“I really mean it.”

Hermione smiles, and then frustratingly, she bursts into tears. Ron tries to angle his body towards her in order to pat her shoulder, but he’s prevented by his stiff casts, and awkwardly bumps her side with his elbow instead. They both grimace. Ron reluctantly settles back into bed.

“I’m s-sorry,” Hermione murmurs, wiping her face, “I’m just a little overwhelmed.”

“Yeah,” Ron breathes, his face pale with pain, “me too. Reckon I can get some pain medicine?”

“Let me call the nurse,” Hermione jumps up, ignoring the jabbing in her ribs. She’s just glad for something to do.

She runs out of the room, clutching the back of her hospital gown. She's going crazy sitting in this white box called a hospital room. How many times can she play word games in her head before she admits to herself that even if she is the best occlumens in the world, she’ll never be able to trick herself out of grieving. 

Unbidden, her mind produces the Urdu word جانُو (jaanu), borrowed from the Turkish canım, which itself is a loan word from the Farsi جانم (jānam). In English it translates to ‘dear one’ or ‘dearest,’ but it doesn’t mean that at all. What would be a better translation? Hermione thinks frantically while running past open hospital room doors, seeing brief visions of wheezing old wizards, groaning hags moaning over commodes, young witches screaming with their legs propped up above their heads—

Beloved? Loved one? Darling?

No! The ancient Persian jān means ‘life’, but also ‘soul’. The two ideas are not separated by sounds; they sit unified in the mouth.

Jān.

Adding the ‘am’ suffix indicates possession. In English this equates to the word ‘my’. This ancient form of intimacy is jealous; it covets. It says to its lover: my life, my soul.

If only she could go back. She should have cared more. She was too angry at Tom, too hell-bent on revenge, still too filled with rage from the last time. She squandered her opportunity because it felt easier to say he was hopeless. 

If only she could go back! But there are no short cuts for Sisyphus. Hermione has no control over the loop in which she is trapped. Even Dumbledore has failed to reverse the curse, and she doubts that Dolohov even knows what he has done to her.

Here she is, in St Mungo’s, seemingly intact, physically intact, but a piece of her soul has been ripped from her by Dolohov, damned Dolohov, and it is lost to her, lost to Tom, because Tom is dead, and he is dead because she killed him. She is wicked, worse than anyone, worse than Lord Voldemort himself, or at least equal to him, because she knew a piece of herself was in Tom, and she still killed him, she still performed the vilest act known to man, because don’t the Muslims preach that to kill one innocent is equivalent to killing all of mankind?

And now, because of her disgraceful performance, her mother is dead, Lord Voldemort is alive, and Tom is lost somewhere broken souls wait.

Her thoughts are racing, racing, racing—and why won’t the potion work?

She finds the nurses’ station.

She opens her mouth to speak, to tell her Ron needs a nurse urgently; he’s in pain.

She faints.

-

They’re discharged the next day, after Hermione is reprimanded for taking so many calming draughts at once. Her nurse is also changed—an older, meaner witch who looks at Hermione suspiciously whenever she is in the room and keeps reminding her that there's a call bell she can use if she needs anything. Hermione feels guilty about the other nurse. She must have gotten in trouble.

Ron is excited to leave, despite the fact that they are only returning to Hogwarts for end-of-year exams. They run into a small problem prior to discharge. The St. Mungo’s healers cut off all Hermione’s clothes when she first arrived unconscious, so she doesn’t have anything to wear back to school but the hospital gown. Molly Weasley protests this arrangement. She absolutely will not allow Hermione leave in such a state. She looks scandalized, and does not let Hermione argue.

After jumping up in that harried way of hers, she rushes from the room, promising to return within a few minutes. Ron smiles, a little embarrassed, and tells her at least she won’t attract so much attention if she returns to school in a jumper and trousers.

She has to admit he’s right, and ultimately, she’s grateful to Molly for thinking of it.

Hermione arrives in the headmaster’s office shortly later, wearing one of Ginny’s bright red Gryffindor jumpers and an old pair of jeans that are a little too loose around her hips. Ron is right behind her, dusting floo powder from his hair, and finally, Molly Weasley, who glides into the room almost effortlessly and ushers them out like a clucking hen. The moment Ron and Hermione are in the hall, she unceremoniously shuts the door.

“Reckon she’s got a meeting with Dumbledore,” Ron mutters, and they begin to make their way to Gryffindor tower.

The halls are mostly deserted, and it’s only when they cross the quad do they see other students—loads of them, in fact. Almost no one is wearing their uniforms, so Ron and Hermione do not stand out. The atmosphere is jovial, with some students outright sunbathing on the lawn, all of them talking and laughing, and some of them even napping under the shade of scattered trees by the Black Lake.

“Oi! You, second year.” Ron calls out to a young boy with dark hair and thick eyebrows to match.

“My name is Manus.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Ron nudges the second year’s arm in a way that’s clearly playful. “Why is everyone in the quad?”

Manus shrugs his shoulders, “It’s a nice day.”

Ron playfully smacks the back of his head, and then boy grins.

“I realize that, MacDuff. The question is, why aren’t they studying? Where are all the stressed out sixth years? The panicking fourth years? I don’t see a single first year even crying.”

“Where have you been, mate?” Manus peers at Ron queerly, “Don’t you know Dumbledore canceled all exams? Whole school has been celebrating since Monday morning!”

Ron ruffles Manus’s hair, and tells him he’s not his mate. They walk away, waving at friends as they pass, but not stopping to talk to anyone.

“Blimey, am I happy!” Ron tells Hermione once they’re out of the sun and back inside the castle walls. “Can’t believe no one told us! Bet you’re down about it though,” Ron thinks, sliding her a sympathetic look.

She laughs. “Quite the contrary, Ronald. I’m as elated as you are.”

Things suddenly feel very lighthearted, and the devastating effects of their excursion in the Department of Mysteries feel easier to ignore. They talk of silly things like quidditch, excitement for the summer hols, and what they’ll eat for dinner later now that they don’t have to suffer through hospital food. Despite the difficult exercise of climbing up all the steps to Gryffindor tower, Hermione feels some of the constriction in her chest ease a bit.

They’re at the Fat Lady’s portrait when Ron stops and turns fully towards Hermione so that they are facing each other. It’s an unusual thing to do, and Hermione freezes. For one insane moment, she’s scared he’s going to kiss her.

“Thanks for walking me all the way up here, Hermione. You really shouldn’t have.”

Ron rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, misunderstanding her silent stare. “Really, I should have walked you back to your common room—I know your chest still hurts and I made you climb up all those stairs…”

He trails off, because she is still staring at him.

All of the cogs in Hermione’s mind are firing at full speed, turning and turning, in order to comprehend the strange cocktail of words Ron just presented to her as sentences.

It is almost as if he is implying she does not belong in her own common room. As if she is not a Gryffindor.

The idea is too horrific for her to accept immediately. He’s looking at her intently, expecting her to answer whatever meaningless thing he says next. She resists the urge to hold her face and scream.

“It’s okay, really.” She says, her voice a little too high-pitched to sound natural, “I wanted the chance to talk to you.”

Idiot! she thinks to herself, because now he’s looking at her anxiously as if she is gearing up to say something important.

“I… er, it’s about Harry.”

This is evidently the correct thing to say, because Ron immediately begins repining all of angst they can expect from Harry, worrying if Dumbledore will once again give them strange orders not to contact him this summer, wondering if Harry will be allowed to stay at the Burrow, because surely, they won’t use Grimmauld Place as headquarters anymore now that Sirius is dead?

He whispers the last part, as if the word ‘dead’ is on par with swear words like ‘bollocks’ or ‘twat.’ Hermione listens attentively, feeling more and more relieved as he speaks because the history is all familiar. She belongs to a different house, but somehow, she’s still managed to become close with Ron and Harry—close enough that she evidently did spend the summer at Grimmauld Place last year, and is still somehow connected to the Order.

“I’m not sure,” Hermione responds pseudo-thoughtfully, because she already knows the answer to his question, “maybe the Burrow will be the next headquarters.”

“I doubt it,” Ron rubs his nose, “house is too small, innit? Mum would have a conniption trying to find enough room to house anyone who’d need to stay over.”

“But what about when we’re back in school? The Burrow will be almost empty then.” Hermione starts regaining her center. She can play the part.

It’s just that… normally, she knows all her lines in 1996. This year shouldn't require her to do more than go through the motions. All she has to do is question all of Harry’s obsessions, act jealous of Ron’s cringey first relationship, and badger them both about homework. It's a bit easier than playing the role of Hermione Granger in Tom Riddle and the Cursed Time Traveler.

The Fat Lady’s portrait swings open, and suddenly Hermione is sandwiched in a tight hug between two Weasleys.

“Er… it’s good to see you too, Ginny,” Hermione mutters against her shoulder. They do things very differently in Slytherin.

“Sorry, couldn’t help myself.” Ginny pulls back, grinning ear to ear as she lets go of both Ron and Hermione. Hermione looks away quickly, suddenly terrified she might cry again if she looks at Ginny’s fresh face one moment longer.

“I saw Harry in the common room just now,” Ginny tells them, “He went up to his dorm to pack his things. He said he wanted to meet us in the Great Hall for dinner. You’ll be there, Hermione?”

Hermione waves goodbye, but the movement feels mechanical. There’s nothing she wants more in the world than to follow them inside, to return to her cozy common room after suffocating in the damp dungeons for so long.

The portrait closes, and Hermione is left standing in the corridor alone. She stares at the Fat Lady for a moment, trying to gathering her bearings. The Fat Lady stares back and sniffs haughtily. Hermione quickly calculates her chances of success if she pulls a full Sirius and simply threatens the Fat Lady to let her in, but decides she doesn't currently have the luxury of a full mental breakdown.

She turns to leave, not knowing where to go. Obviously, between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, it’s quite easy to deduce where she would have been sorted. After all, the sorting hat had recommended she go to Ravenclaw. Perhaps in this version of the universe, she chooses what feels safe. Her heart stutters. It was always her mum who had made her feel brave. Too bad she doesn't know where the Ravenclaw common room is; she could really use a private cry. 

Lost in her reflections, Hermione meanders aimlessly. She considers finding Albus and demanding a debrief on her life, but quickly dismisses the idea. The last thing she needs is for him to be breathing down her neck, worrying about the fragility of the time loop.

Just when she decides to return to the quad and hunt down a potential housemate, she comes face to face with Terry Boot.

They look at each other, stunned.

“Hermione!” Terry exclaims, drying his hands on his shirt, “You’re back!” He steps fully out of the prefect bathroom, looking extremely friendly and excited. She smiles at him, not feeling safe enough to say anything.

“Is it true? It’s all anyone will talk about. The Prophet confirmed that You-know-who is back, you know. Insanity! After an entire year of denying it and calling Potter and Dumbledore insane. Michael was telling me you were one of the students caught by the Squad? How did you get away?” He lowers his voice, “Umbridge has been missing since then, you know. No one knows where she is, although Marietta says the minister likely called her back from her post,” with this he slides her a sidelong glance, “Is it true that you and Luna went with Potter that night? That’s incredible. A really good look for Ravenclaw, eh?”

So, she is a Ravenclaw. Terry talks a mile and minute, so Hermione feels safe just nodding along and listening. He doesn’t seem to expect her to respond to anything anyway. He starts walking, and Hermione falls into step beside him, hoping he intends to return to his dorm.

“Didn’t you need to use the bathroom?” he asks suddenly, pausing mid-step.

“I—er, I don’t have to go anymore.”

“Oh, okay. That happens to me too sometimes. Have you seen Luna, yet? She was looking for you. She knew you would be released from St. Mungo’s today—well she didn’t know, she guessed, but you know how she is. Did you really fight Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries?”

Terry asks so many questions at once that it would be impossible to answer any of them in the time allotted. Hardly pausing between sentences, Hermione does her best to follow along both mentally, and physically. Boot makes a sharp turn, and begins climbing a twisting set of stairs Hermione has never noticed before. It is narrower than Gryffindor tower, and steeper too.

“Did you know they’re saying Malfoy was amongst the Death Eaters? Ernie swears they’re going to print it in The Prophet any day now; he says his uncle saw her being carted off by Dementors with his own two eyes, but you know how he tends to embellish—”

The dim, cramped staircase stops suddenly in front of a very tall door with a singular but massive bronze eagle knocker. The impressively detailed sculpture has its wings extended, and they cover almost the entire expanse of the wide door. Terry stops speaking long enough to lift the small loop on the bottom of the eagle’s tail feather and knock it three times.

Hermione listens carefully as she waits for him to speak a password, but he doesn’t. In fact, it’s the first time since she ran into Terry that he’s completely silent.

She begins to worry that he might be expecting her to say the password, but no—he’s not even looking at her, he’s looking at the bronze eagle.

“In a hot bath, I soak. Into the water, I bleed. I age, but do not die. I smell until I’m no good.” 

The eagle's beak closes, and a smiling Terry turns to Hermione. “Too easy, eh?”

Hermione has the distinct impression that he’s dying to impress her. Before she can respond, he says, “I’m tea.”

The door opens without a sound, and Hermione is briefly blinded. Terry walks through the opening confidently. Scurrying in behind him, Hermione is immediately struck with the width and breath of the room. It’s magnificent—not just in its massive size, but it’s ornate ceiling, resembling a solarium with model planets and constellations hanging according to their celestial locations and built to scale.

The windows retain the gothic arches seen throughout the castle, but are unique due to their bronze casements and occasional blue stained glass. The floor is covered with wall-to-wall plush royal blue carpet decorated with drawings of historical events. She notices she is standing on an elaborate weaving of the 1752 Goblin Accords. And then the shelves; oh, the shelves! Rows and rows of books, all the way to the ceiling, stacked impossibly high, in all sorts of colors, and bindings, and sizes. It’s gorgeous and exhilarating. It’s glorious.

While the common room is beautiful, it isn’t exactly adorned with helpful signs that point towards the girls’ dormitories. She’s not keen on making a fool out of herself by trying to find it. Hermione feels awkward lurking behind Terry, but by the way he puffs out his chest as they walk by other students, she can tell that he’s proud to be seen with her. The sorting hat was right then, she thinks. She’s a sort of celebrity here.

Hermione spots a blonde head of hair levitating a trunk down a set of stairs off to the side. It is unmistakably Luna Lovegood.

Hermione hurriedly excuses herself. She is certain Terry is used to people leaving him mid-sentence anyway.

“Luna!” She greets her, and she surprises herself by pulling her into a hug.

“Hermione!” Luna returns, with a slightly dazed but pleased smile, “I knew you’d be back today.”

Hermione beams at her. She’s never been so happy to see Luna in all her life.

“I’ve got to go to my dormitory and pack my things.” Hermione tells her.

“That is a logical thing to do, and say.” Luna responds.

“My dorm is the fifth-year dorm.”

“Correct, but only for one more day.”

They nod at each other in agreement, as if this were the most natural conversation in the world. Hermione tries again.

“I’ll just go up then, back the way you came.”

“Are you thinking of visiting my room?” Luna asks. “What a shame I’m no longer in it.”

“Ah, yes,” Hermione clenches her jaw, “It doesn’t make sense to visit you if I know you’re not there.”

“That depends. Perhaps you want to examine the aura I leave behind once I’ve vacated a space. It’s a very accurate way to capture a color on a friend you see too often.”

Hermione has no idea what this means.

“I don’t think I’m interested in capturing your color at the moment. I think I’d better go pack my own things.”

“Then, you should.”

Luna gazes dreamily up at the constellation Andromeda while she waits for Hermione to formulate a response. Hermione is horrified to feel her cheeks heating up the longer they stew in silence. Eventually Luna ceases to stare upward and instead turns her penetrating stare at Hermione, her silver eyes shining.

“You seem a little confused, Hermione. Are you alright?”

“Me?” Hermione stammers, “Yes, completely alright. I just—I guess the spell that hit me affected my memory a bit.” Her face is on fire. “I thought my dormitory was here, but it’s not. Your dormitory is up this staircase.”

Luna blinks. “It’s unusual that a spell aimed at your heart would affect your memory.”

Hermione says nothing. Frankly, she’s certain if she opens her mouth again, she’s surely only going to put her foot in it.

This strategy seems to work, because Luna’s eyes go out of focus, and her dreamy smile returns. “Are you embarrassed about it? You shouldn’t be.”

Hermione goes with it, fidgeting with discomfort. “Memory is linked to intelligence.”

Luna seems to find her insecurity about her intelligence believable, because she says, “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.”

“That would be great, thanks Luna.” Hermione smiles a genuine smile.

“My dorm?” Hermione prompts, and Luna nods towards the winding staircase just next to the one they’re standing by. Hermione squeezes Luna’s arm in thanks, and practically skips away.

The staircase is even narrower than the one leading up to the common room. Hermione runs up, taking two steps at a time, and almost falls face first a few times. She catches herself with her hands, and for a few seconds climbs on all fours. She feels giddy, like a child about to open a gift. She’s silently thanking God as she reaches the landing, praying that the room is empty.

Five identical four-poster beds sit in a circular room with blue and bronze drapes to match the curtains, which match the carpets, which match the duvets.

Hermione will have to get used to the color scheme.

She begins frantically searching each bed, looking for her trunk, or her books, or really anything that indicates it’s hers. She doesn’t know when another girl might walk in, and it would look very bad if she were caught looking through someone else’s things.

She abandons the first bed when she finds a leather notebook inscribed with the initials SL. The second bed is empty—nothing under it, nothing in the nightstands or the drawer-chest, and the wardrobe is empty, too. The third bed looks promising—the nightstand is stuffed with texts and notebooks, and underneath it she finds a Gryffindor scarf, but the clothes in the wardrobe are all old frumpy witches’ robes—nothing muggle about any of it. Hermione is still a muggleborn—she would have muggle clothes in her possession.

She moves onto the fourth bed and immediately retreats when she finds a pile of racy underwear in the drawer chest. She turns to search the fifth bed when Parvati Patil enters the room.

No. Padma.

Hermione is caught red-handed. Padma must have seen her rummaging through the drawers of the fourth bed, and now she’s hovering between the fourth and fifth beds, not knowing which way to look. She’s trying to think of a plausible explanation when Padma walks up to the fifth bed and plops herself down very unceremoniously.

Padma grins at her, “Luna said you’d be back.”

Hermione tries to smile back, but she is utterly confused. If the fifth bed is Padma’s, which of the three other beds is hers?

“Funny how Luna sometimes knows things before they happen.”

Padma shrugs, “I keep telling you she’s a seer.”

Hermione scoffs. This seems to be in line with her character because Padma’s grin widens.

“Such a skeptic. I heard you had quite the adventure with Harry.” Here, she wiggles her eyebrows, much to Hermione’s horror.

“Luna was there, too.” She says, not really knowing how to fend off such an attack. Next thing she knows, she’s getting hit with a pillow.

“Hey!” She protests, but Padma only climbs on top of her. “I cannot believe you didn’t wake me! Tell me everything! What happened? Luna said you all went to the Department of Mysteries and fought You-know-who!” She whispers the last bit of the sentence in awe, “Is it true?”

“Erm, yes.”

“Did you really get hurt? You look fine! Flitwick wouldn’t tell us anything!”

“I’m fine now.”

“Well, tell me! What happened?”

“It would be easier to talk if you weren’t crushing me!”

“Oh, sorry.” Padma sits up next to her. She then kicks her trainers off and scoots up to lean against the fourth bed’s headrest. She’s so comfortable there that Hermione isn’t sure which bed is hers, the fourth or the fifth?

“Well, as you probably know by now, Umbridge caught us.”

Padma is watching her expectantly, but Hermione is determined to keep things vague. She can’t be absolutely sure events transpired as she remembers them without confirming with Harry first, so it wouldn’t do to say something inaccurate. Also, she doesn’t know the extent of her friendship with Padma. Part of her had assumed she wouldn’t have been able to forge sincere friendships in Ravenclaw because her housemates would be too jealous to befriend her sincerely.

“Anyway. We… we got word that someone was in danger—”

“Who?”

“Just someone.”

“Harry wouldn’t tell you?”

“I—yes, he wouldn’t say. But it was really important. And we shook Umbridge and the Inquisitorial Squad off somehow and—"

“How?”

“We just did. So—”

“Urgh!” Padma sighs, flopping herself back on the pillows. “You’re no fun. I got more details out of Terry!”

At this Hermione laughs, and it feels and sounds refreshingly natural. Padma laughs too, and it seems all is forgiven. It must be normal for Hermione to be dodgy; Padma seems to expect it.

“I’m sorry, Pads.” Hermione has no idea how this term of endearment slips out—”It’s best not to say too much.”

“Anything for Harry, huh?” Padma says knowingly.

“We’re just friends.”

“Oh, and I dance just for fun.” Padma rolls her eyes. Hermione gathers she’s a rather serious dancer from this statement, and stows that information away for later.

“Believe me. He’s like my brother.”

“I wonder if he knows that.” Padma says, pulling a trunk out from underneath the fifth bed. She begins to haphazardly empty her drawers by dumping their contents into the open trunk.

Hermione watches this in half-horror, half-amusement. Padma does not seem to notice.

“He likes Cho.”

“Still?” Padma glances up at her without pausing her packing, “After that Valentine’s Day fiasco? Come on, now.”

Hermione smiles. “That was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”

“Bad for her, not so much for you. She still complains about you—only behind your back though. Last time I caught her doing it I thanked her for making Harry realize who he really should be in love with.”

Hermione listens to this speech aghast. She is strangely touched that Padma would defend her—something only Ron has previously done. Her heart is in the right place, even if she is completely wrong about Harry. Hermione can see that topic may be a never-ending argument with Padma. It’s better not to take the bait.

Padma continues to pack her things, which is really just her throwing her items into her trunk and then forcing it all in with a few charms and a little bit of brute force. When she finishes, she turns to Hermione and asks, “Aren’t you going to pack yet? I’m starving.”

“Go down to the Great Hall. I’ll meet you there in a bit.”

Once Padma is gone, Hermione searches the fourth bed in earnest. The nightstands are organized; a bottle of water, some pain potions, a brush, a comb, her hair ties, two blue and bronze ribbons, and a journal. She flips through the journal quickly and sees her own handwriting; she keeps meticulous notes of all her classes, dates, times, topics of discussion, homework, suggested reading—and something even more interesting. Experimental ideas is written in her neat script, with a bullet point list beneath. Somehow, the Ravenclaw version of herself is even more studious.

Her desk is neat as well. Notebooks in one drawer, textbooks in the other. Quills and ink bottles in the slim drawer in the center. Her wardrobe is filled with muggle clothes—finally, something as familiar as her fifth-year study material!

She glances furtively at the offending drawer again, wondering at herself. Why did she have lingerie as a sixteen-year-old? At this point in her life, she should be drooling after Ron, and he should be hopelessly oblivious. She doesn’t have use for such things.

Unless… did being sorted into Ravenclaw change that, too? Maybe she isn’t in love with Ron, maybe—Hermione sits down with a thud on her bed, her head almost spinning. Is it possible that Padma is correct about Harry? Does she have a thing with Harry Potter?

Oh, God!

Hermione jumps up, rubbing her temples, feeling absolutely sick. This is disgusting. This is all wrong. Harry! Impossible. Harry! And after Tom Riddle?! Not in a million years, not in a million timelines—just no! He’s her brother! Is Padma just guessing, or does she know something? She is Ravenclaw; they’re not exactly known for making guesses willy-nilly. She wouldn’t say anything unless she felt absolutely sure. Ravenclaws do not like to be proved wrong.

Hermione tries to calm herself, looking at the drawer again. She convinces herself she’s acting like a fifty-year-old ninny. It’s just underwear. It doesn’t mean anything. Loads of teenagers buy that kind of thing; it’s normal to experiment at this age! To assume Harry is in love with her—that she’ll have to turn him down—that she’ll break his heart—it’s all so very presumptuous! She’s definitely putting the cart before the horse.

It's just underwear.

That’s all.

She dumps it unceremoniously into the bottom of her empty trunk, copying Padma. She’s surprised at how easy it feels, how frankly good it feels not to give a rat’s arse about organization. She begins to dump all her things into her trunk, not caring that her clothes will get all wrinkled, or that her books will be crushed; their pages folded or ripped.

They’ll be as good as new in a year anyway, she thinks viciously. If she’s being forced to re-live the same nightmare year again and again, all because she can’t get it together enough to defeat Tom Riddle, or whatever the hell she’s even supposed to do, she may as well give into her baser instincts.

She slams the lid shut, and kicks her trunk for good measure.

She goes down to dinner, the pain in her big toe a reminder of the consequences of letting loose.

Chapter Text

The first week of summer is the dullest.

Her father is mostly mute, and with her mother gone, the house seems to echo every stray sound. Hermione climbs up to the attic twice to check if a ghoul has moved in, and her father frequently leaves her home alone for hours at a time to go fishing.

After six days, Hermione is beginning to go a little insane.

She’s preparing to do something reckless when an owl pecks at her bedroom window the morning of the seventh day at home.

Hermione rushes to open it, grateful to have some connection to the magical world.

The owl is one she’s never seen before. Hermione pets his head, deciding he must be one of the owls of the public post. Knowing, therefore, that the message tied to his leg could not be from Harry or Ron, she fumbles with the small parchment in her haste to figure out who could be owling her at home.

Please.

Nothing else is written on the torn scrap, and Hermione flips over the piece of parchment multiple times before staring after the owl who flew directly away without so much as a hoot.

The source of such a mysterious message can be investigated in other ways, but unfortunately, Hermione is not yet seventeen and still has the trace placed on her person.

She holds the message to the light, thinking perhaps if invisible ink was used, she may be able to see faint scratches.

Nothing.

-

On the eighth day, Hermione decides to call Harry Potter.

After the fiasco of third year, Hermione knows not to ask for Harry directly.

A man’s voice answers the phone.

“Hullo?”

“Hello, sir! My name is Vanessa Pinkler, and I am calling on behalf of your energy company. You have won a free month of gas to use in the winter to heat your home! Congratulations!”

“What?” Hermione can hear some shuffling and a muffled, “Petunia!” in the background.

“Er- thank you! Will this be sent to me in writing?”

“Yes, of course! Everything will be confirmed via standard post within six business weeks—plenty of time before the cold begins settling in.”

“Good—good. Well, thank you!”

“It’s my pleasure! However, sir, please wait just one moment. Before we end this call, I’ll need to confirm every member of your household to see if you are eligible for this very generous gift.”

“Of course! We are a family of three.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Oh! I’m so sorry, sir. Unfortunately, in order to be eligible, there must be at least four members of the household living there for a minimum of two months out of the year…”

“Wait—wait!” Vernon Dudley interjects before another muffled and more insistent. “Petunia!”

“Yes…?” Hermione prompts him.

“My nephew! My nephew lives with us two months out of the year.”

“Oh? Can you please put him on the line so I can confirm this?”

“I will. Just hold on one moment—Petunia!”

Hermione waits patiently, listening to the arguing, scrambling, and shouts coming from her receiver. Finally, she hears Harry grumbling about being dragged back inside from the street, while Petunia loudly rues the day she agreed to take him in.

“Here—here’s my nephew! Talk boy!”

“Hello?” Hermione says.

For a moment, Harry does not speak at all. She hears a smack, which she can only assume is his uncle Vernon smacking the back of his head.

“…This is?”

“Hello, sir! My name is Veronica Dinkler. I am calling to confirm that you are indeed a member of this household for a minimum of two months out of the fiscal year.”

“Tell her!” Petunia’s voice calls out.

Hermione suppresses a sigh. “In order to confirm, you must be the only person on the line. Furthermore, in order to ensure privacy, I ask that all other occupants of the room vacate to another region of the house.”

Hermione listens as both his aunt and uncle warn Harry not to mess this up, threatening to take away his nice things. Harry simply tells them, “What nice things?” After which Hermione hears another smack.

After a few beats of silence, “Hermione? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Hermione assures him, “I was just wondering if I could come visit you.”

“I would love to see you, you know that. It’s just—”

“I know, I know. But we wouldn’t meet at your uncle’s house. Is there anywhere we can talk privately?”

Harry is silent, and for a moment, Hermione’s stomach sinks thinking that he’ll tell her no.

“We could meet at the Silver Spoon. I can walk there.”

“Perfect! Thank you so much Harry. Let’s meet tomorrow at ten?”

-

The next morning, Hermione takes the train to Surrey. Her wand sits uselessly in her backpack while she counts the minutes until she gets to see her friend.

She hugs Harry the moment she finds his booth.

“Let’s go for a walk instead,” he tells her, “I haven’t got any money.”

“No matter!” Hermione tells him brightly, trying not to stare at his already-jutting cheekbones, “I brought plenty. Sit, sit. I’m in the mood for a full English. Let’s just order two.”

Harry finishes his food in minutes. Hermione fights the urge to ask him if they’re not feeding him enough, knowing it will only set him off.

“How—” she stops herself. Asking him how he’s doing will only make him moody.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “I got a strange message two days ago.”

“Strange message?”

Hermione pulls out the scrap of parchment from her backpack and hands it to Harry to investigate while quickly telling him the story of how she received it.

“Strange,” Harry frowns when she’s done, handing the scrap back to her.

“Do you have any ideas of what it could mean?”

“I dunno… Did you ask Ron?”

“I’m going to ask him next week. I’m going to the Burrow.”

“Dad ignoring you again?” Harry asks casually, taking a sip of his coffee.

Hermione tries to ignore the sudden pang in her chest. So, her relationship with her dad is distant, and her friends know her well enough to guess that bothers her.

“Yeah, you know. The same.”

Harry nods, smiling sadly. Despite traveling for over an hour to see him, Hermione has a sudden desire to leave.

“Anyway, I’d better go. I don’t want to get you in trouble with the Dursleys.”

“Do you think…” Harry asks as she calls the server over to pay the tab, “Do you think you can come again before you leave for the Burrow?”

Hermione reaches over and squeezes Harry’s hand.

“Of course.”

For some reason, he flinches away.

-

Visiting Harry did have an ulterior motive.

After everything Padma had told her, Hermione couldn’t shake the need to confirm that she and Harry are just friends. Being alone with him in the summertime was the perfect opportunity to find out if her lacey choice of underwear in this timeline is indeed for him.

She can now safely say it is not.

In fact, rather than being romantic, Harry was aloof. He seemed especially uncomfortable with touch, visibly shirking away from her goodbye. Hermione supposes that it has to do with his way of processing grief. Harry is hardly the type to seek comfort from others, let alone physical comfort from friends.

Hermione rifles through her things, hastily throwing some of her unpacked clothes into her open trunk. Her dad said he would drive her to the nearest floopoint tonight so she can floo to the Burrow. He didn’t even seem disappointed when she told him she’d cut her summer with him short. In fact, he seemed perfectly content to bring the two most boring weeks of Hermione’s life to an end.

Hermione practically ransacks her wardrobe, trying to make sure she isn’t forgetting anything. Her dad calls her name from downstairs, his tone impatient. She shouts down, “I’m almost done!” before trying to shove her trunk out of the room.

She hasn’t moved the clunky thing since her dad brought it upstairs for her. Hermione tries to lift the trunk herself, but finds it too heavy without the aid of magic. Too proud to ask her dad for help, she tries heaving it up so that it rests on its side, instead toppling it roughly against the wooden baseboard. Her dad questions the noise from downstairs as Hermione examines the damage. The wood is noticeably knicked, and the lock of her trunk has smashed open. No matter how she tries to jam it back into place, the mechanism will no longer clink the way it’s supposed to.

“Perfect,” she mutters.

“Hermione!” Her dad calls again.

“Coming!” She yells back, slamming the trunk shut as best as she can. She’ll have to get Mr. or Mrs. Weasley to fix it with magic later.

“On second thought, Dad, I’m going to need some help.”

-

Ron runs out the kitchen door, excited for a chance to escape the house, if only briefly. The twins are practicing apparition again, and even he is sick of the chaos.

He reaches into his bucket, throwing feed at the chickens. Bruce, his favorite, jumps at the sight of him, clucking happily as she pecks directly at Ron’s hand.

“Hi, friend,” Ron greets her, petting Bruce’s head once she’s had his fill. She’s very old for a hen, almost nine years old. She stopped laying eggs years ago, but Ron begged his mom not to kill her for meat. They bought Bruce when Ron was only just a child—he didn’t know all hens were girls until later, and had happily named her Bruce. His brothers had thought it hilarious, so it stuck.

Bruce clucks for more feed, and Ron sits down next to her, spilling the bucket on to the ground so all the chickens can have their fill.

“Now, don’t be greedy, Stinker, let everyone else have some too!” He chastises another hen, much younger, who always pecks away at her companions in order to have her fill first. Bruce gives her a disapproving look.

“Hermione’s coming today,” Ron tells Bruce, petting her silky feathers. “It’ll give me a chance to… keep an eye on her.”

Bruce says nothing. She’s neutral, Ron decides.

He leans in close, whispering so only Bruce can hear, “I think Hermione is a time-traveler.”

Bruce pauses pecking for a brief moment, as if to say “What?”

“She said she killed Tom Riddle in 1944…” Ron continues, “But Dumbledore… Albus… couldn’t find the ‘horcruxes,’ so ‘the Dark Lord lives,’” Ron pauses, thinking hard. “I wish I knew how to find out what a horcrux is.”

He laughs. “I usually just ask Hermione, and then she works her magic in the library.”

Ron frowns. He supposes he could be the one to go to the library. There’s really nothing stopping him from doing so. But it’s just so strange.

Ronald Weasley, in the library, doing research.

How would he even begin to explain that to Harry?

-

When Hermione arrives through the floo, dressed in a pink jumper and baggy jeans, she certainly doesn’t seem like a killer. She coughs up soot and dust, giving Ron a watery-eyed hug before being shooed away by Mrs. Weasley into the kitchen.

Ron returns her a smile before his mother takes over, calling over her shoulder for Ron to carry Hermione’s things to Ginny’s room. Ron hauls Hermione’s trunk towards the staircase amid her rushed instructions to be careful with it as she recently broke the lock. The kitchen door closes behind them, and Ron can hear his mom hurriedly filling Hermione’s bowl with leftover stew.

The Burrow isn’t a large home, being mostly held together with gluing spells and extension charms, but it is cozy. Normally, Ron doesn’t mind the narrow staircase, but right now he’s grateful Hermione is staying in Ginny’s room directly above the kitchen and not his on the seventh landing.

Ginny’s room is spacious, but her doorway sits within a low, arched passage only about two feet long. Getting a heavy trunk through such a door would be hard enough without magic, but it’s made more difficult by the fact that it’s also a bit crooked.

Ron slams his fingers against the door, which flops relentlessly against the frame as the entire house rests at an angle.

“Ouch!”

He lurches forward, his body colliding with one end of the trunk. He snatches back his hand on the other end just in time to avoid smashing his fingers between the trunk and the floor.

“What was that?” His mother calls from the kitchen. Ron can hear her quite clearly through the floor.

“Nothing!” He returns hastily, picking himself up. Hermione’s things lay strewn on the floor all around him. Mum must have accepted his answer, because he can hear her arguing with the twins now, occasionally asking Hermione questions about how her dad is doing.

Ron rolls his eyes. Mum will never accept that Hermione does not want to talk about her family. Ron has warned her a million times, but she insists on doing it because it’s ‘the custom of all polite society.’

Amongst the jumpers, robes, sweaters, and trainers on the floor lay a messy pile of books. Ron attempts to organize those first. Hermione will have a fit if she discovers a torn page in one of their assigned summer readings.

That’s when he sees her journal. Having watched Hermione write in the thing year after year, and harboring a bit of a crush on her since their fourth, Ron is overcome with illicit curiosity. So strong is that curiosity, that it overcomes his natural desire to protect her privacy.

Certain that he can still hear her chatting with Fred right below him, he flips through the pages, searching for any mentions of his name.

Instead, his eyes rest upon a name he hadn’t quite expected.

He reads, the blood draining from his face. So engrossed is he in the text, that he almost doesn’t hear Ginny offering to take Hermione up to her room. He slams the journal shut, swearing simultaneously to read every word at first opportunity, and to never look upon the cover again. He hastily throws Hermione’s clothes inside her still-open trunk, and slams it closed right when he hears Ginny’s voice traveling up the stairs.

It's too late for him to escape through the door, as he will surely run into them. He doesn’t think Hermione would think much of him being in Ginny’s room for so long, but he knows for certain Ginny will interrogate him like it’s the Spanish Inquisition.

Ron does have enough time to escape through her window, however. He jumps out onto the chicken coop directly below just as the door opens, safely entering the garden unnoticed.

-

Over the past two weeks, Ron has had plenty of time to replay the events of the hospital in his head. He feels prepared, even, when Hermione tells him she’d like to visit the Burrow a little earlier than expected this summer. Now, sitting dejected and confused in his father’s garden, he’s not so sure.

What is worse, he pondered, dealing with hospital Hermione or journal Hermione?

He wants to yell at her; he wants to sulk. He wonders briefly if he would be able to perform some illegal disapparation if he tried. It would be nice to run away for a bit; to not be Ron Weasley for a while.

In chess, biding your time is of utmost importance. Premature moves can cost you your middlegame, or worse; your endgame. Right now, they’re in the opening of the game, and Hermione has every tactical opportunity—well, almost. He has two small advantages she doesn’t know about, but saying he’s in a position to control the center is a stretch. Still, she doesn’t know he heard her conversation with Dumbledore, and she doesn’t know he’s looked through her journal.

What he needs to do is plan. Be patient. Avoid hasty moves. Create weakness in his opponent’s board; pieces he can exploit later.

He needs to read the rest of the journal.

He needs to learn what a horcrux is.

Although he suspects that the horcrux issue is of vast importance, Ron elects to deal with the matter currently within his reach. There is no point in sneaking into Ginny’s room to read the rest of Hermione’s journal. He’s already seen what he needed to, and knowing each and every grimy detail isn’t going to make him feel kinder towards his friend.

He makes the hard decision to let it rest. The spark of a crush he’d been harboring for his brunette friend since he was thirteen begins to peter out as he accepts that whether she’s here with him, or traveling through time, it’s always someone else she’s interested in.

Open with the Queen’s pawn. Develop knights before bishops. Pick the most suitable square for a piece, and develop it there.

­-

Hermione is alone when Ron enters the sitting room. She’s curled up on the sofa, a book in her lap.

“Reading?” Ron asks, taking the seat next to her.

She holds up the cover in response—their transfiguration text book for the upcoming year.

“It still looks quite new. You must only be on your second read, then.”

She cracks a smile. “It’s rather fascinating stuff, actually. It’s good to review the basics.”

Ron sees an opening. “Only you would think material we haven’t even learned yet is basic.”

She slowly shuts the book. There is no indicator on her face, but Ron knows she’s realized her fumble.

“That is to say, isn’t everything we learn at school just the fundamentals? We’re meant to expand on our knowledge after, in university.”

Ron stretches, extending his arms around the back of the sofa, careful not to brush his knuckle against her shoulder as he does so. “Yeah, ‘spose. But I’m not going to go to university.”

“Why not?” Hermione demands.

“Don’t want to. But you should go; you’re brilliant.”

“Oh…” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear and carefully avoiding looking at him directly, “Thanks.”

Ron thinks she’s a very good actress. Has she always pretended this way around him? Dumbledore had made it seem like she’s done this before.

Fifty years ago, you stood before me and informed me of what I told you fifty years before that.

“Just being honest,” Ron says nonchalantly. “Bet you’re dying to go to the library right now. There’s a really good one in town, but it’s muggle.”

“I don’t mind.”

“We can go tomorrow, but we’ll have to go alone. Fred and George aren’t allowed there anymore.”

She doesn’t ask why. “But Ginny can come?”

Ron doesn’t ask her why she came to the Burrow if she’s so nervous to be around him. He suspects she knows something about their sixth year that he doesn’t, and given what he’d read from her journal today, he assumes it has something to do with the strange tension in the room.

Develop knights before bishops.

“Of course. She isn’t the one who threw a dung bomb inside and then sealed the doors shut.”

She cracks another smile.

They open their mouths to speak at the same time.

“Did Harry write—

“Hermione, I hope you—

“You go first,” he tells her.

“Did Harry write to you recently?”

“I got a letter yesterday, why?”

“It’s just that,” she shifts in her seat, “I visited him before coming here.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that. Said it was the only proper meals he’d had since the summer started.”

Hermione frowns. “Did he say anything else?”

“Like what? About Sirius?”

“No… I know he wouldn’t talk about Sirius. I mean,” she pauses, “I’m not sure what I mean, actually.”

“Harry is Harry,” Ron reassures her, “You know how he gets. Probably blaming himself about it right now. Any attempt to dissuade him will just result in a temper.”

“Yeah…”

They sit in silence for a bit until Hermione says, “What were you going to say?”

“Just that I hope we’ll always be friends.”

“Ron…”

“I know I can be a bit thick sometimes,” Ron shrugs, grinning to break the tension. Hermione only looks more worried.

“What brought this on?”

“You warned us about Sirius…” he stops her from reassuring him by withdrawing his arms, placing them firmly on his knees. “There’s more to it. I should have been there to protect you. I was bested by a fish tank instead.”

“Oh, Ron, the Department of Mysteries—”

“I know, Hermione. It’s okay. I just need you to know: you can tell me anything, because from now on, I plan to listen.”

Her face is carefully neutral while she processes this speech. Ron is careful, too. He doesn’t remember Hermione being so calculated before. He can’t help but think she knows more about the rules for opening then she should.

“Thank you.”

This time, when she tries to reassure him by reaching for his hand, he doesn’t stop her.

-

One of the most important rules about the opening is often ignored by novices. There’s a certain excitement to bringing out your queen, and if one doesn’t keep a cool head, that excitement could lead to disaster later on the board.

All summer, Ron reminds himself he’s playing a long game and that he mustn’t bring out his queen too early. Castle, castle, he reminds himself. Maintain one pawn in the center. Gain control first, then deflect the enemy.

Summer goes by uneventfully. He takes Hermione to the library as promised. He takes her to get fish and chips. She reads books while he practices Quidditch. They de-gnome dad’s garden. He introduces her to the chickens. He even floos with her to meet her dad’s new girlfriend. It’s very embarrassing because the lady—Veronica, or Victoria, or whatever—is only slightly older than Hermione.

He buys her a packet of bombastic bombs from his brothers’. It’s a new product that they agree to sell to Ron at under market value since it’s for Hermione.

They spend the afternoon throwing them into the wheat fields, watching them spark angrily and then explode once thrown upon the ground. They do this until his mum chastises them for ruining so much crop.

She only gets angrier when Ron suggests she regrow what they’ve blown up with magic.

Harry joins them after his birthday. Mum fusses over him as usual, and even Ron has to admit he’s gotten much skinnier. Normally, he’d be happy to blame it on the Dursleys, but he suspects it has more to do with Harry’s grief than his aunt and uncle’s neglect.

Ron continues on as usual. He isn’t dawdling. He’s pacing himself. He knows the cardinal rule of the game—never sacrifice without a clear and adequate reason.

Ultimately, he understands that the summer is meant to be a lull before the chaos. Still, he follows Hermione closely. Even when she goes off alone, he has ways of keeping tabs on her. The extendable ear hidden in Ginny’s floorboards is just one way he does this. He also always goes to bed last, and even if he falls ‘asleep’ in the sitting room, it’s only so she won’t grow suspicious.

What could be more natural than Harry and him following her everywhere she goes? They’re a trio. Plus, there’s the excuse that they both need to keep Harry occupied to keep him from drowning in grief. It’s all very convenient and very carefully planned.

The only interesting development during the summer is the arrival of Fleur, or as Ginny names her, Phlegm. Ron tries hard not to blush like a splotchy tomato when she’s around, but he receives an ear-full about it from his sister every time he does anyway. Eventually, they receive their O.W.L.s. Harry has been made Quidditch captain, which doesn’t surprise Ron. Hermione acts desolate over a singular E, and Ron carries on being perfectly average.

A few days before the term is set to begin, the group travels to Diagon Alley for the necessary shopping. They unfortunately run into Malfoy, of all people, and Harry makes them tail him into Knockturn Alley. Through the window of Borgin and Burkes, Ron watches Hermione fumble her way through a very poorly executed performance before getting kicked out of the shop. He wonders what she’s thinking, and to what purpose. Has she done this before?

Will she have to do it again?

Fifty years ago, you stood before me… and fifty years before that.

Harry becomes obsessed with the idea of Malfoy being a Death Eater. Hermione scoffs at this notion, so Ron does too. Privately, he isn’t so sure, but he knows Hermione has her own motivations for dissuading Harry. She frowns at the idea of Malfoy taking on the dark mark to avenge his mother, who was very publicly arrested after fighting for Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries.

Hermione had spent the summer pouring over every Daily Prophet, keeping track of any developments in her case. Ron doesn’t voice it aloud, but he hopes Hermione is sincere when she says Draco Malfoy isn’t capable of joining Lord Voldemort’s cause, or at least, that Voldemort would never initiate a sixteen-year-old.

Things are still relatively calm, despite the brief excitement while school shopping, until the night before they board the Hogwarts Express.

Harry is sleeping in his bed next to Ron’s when he begins muttering in his sleep. This is not an unusual occurrence. In fact, Ron has grown quite used to it over the years, and he’s learned to pay special attention to what Harry says, in case it’s important.

“It’s her. It’s her!”

Ron turns over in his sleep, opening his bleary eyes to bring a thrashing Harry into focus.

Harry groans loudly, his hand instinctively going to his forehead, hovering around his scar. Ron jumps out of bed, trying to pull Harry’s arms down and wake him as his nightmare grows more intense. Harry swings at him, and Ron narrowly dodges.

“Harry, wake up!” He yells, not caring that he might wake up Bill and Fleur below.

“She must die! She must die!”

Harry is sweating profusely when he wakes up. He stares at Ron in confusion before rubbing his eyes and sitting up.

“You alright?” Ron hovers awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Harry says, wincing as he touches his scar. He turns around and punches his pillow. “Just a stupid dream.”

Hesitantly, Ron asks, “What about?”

Harry frowns, lying back and kicking his twisted covers completely off his legs.

“Nothing important.”

Chapter Text

On the first night of term, Ron steals Harry’s invisibility cloak. He doesn’t dwell on the ethics of his actions, or lack thereof. The fact of the matter is the cloak will not be missed in the dead of night, and it will be safely tucked back into Harry’s trunk before sunrise.

Shadows lurk on every corner of the castle as Ron moves silently through its corridors. It doesn’t take very long for him to get to there, which isn’t a coincidence; Ron knew patrol would be laxest on the first night back. The heads of houses, especially, would be too tired to do much after dealing with the freshly sorted first years.

“Alohamora,” Ron whispers against the lock.

The library door pops silently open, and he creeps inside.

It’s a short walk to the restricted section, which is closed off only by a fraying rope strung between two rotted wooden posts. Stepping over what was meant to deter him, Ron peers through the rows and rows of illicit reading material, trying to remember what Hermione had once explained to him about library organization and cataloging.

Forests of the Damned by Philadelphia Abke

Clever Curses for Nasty Shrews by Joann Alum

Death by a Thousand Hexes by Leonardo Amirault

Ron reads through several titles before realizing that the books are organized alphabetically by author last name. His brows furrow; this makes things so much harder. He hasn’t a clue what he’s looking for, much less who wrote it.

The restricted section is too large for him to go through each title—that might take him all night. Ron grits his teeth. He hasn’t a choice.

-

Ron makes it back minutes before sunrise. The room is quiet and calm when he enters it, and it’s no trouble to pull the cloak off and stash it away. Harry snores gently in the bed beside his, creating a sort of white noise that begins to lull him to sleep.

“It’s her.”

Ron’s eyes fly open at the sound of Harry’s raspy voice, so unlike him in its tone.

“It’s her,” Harry says again, voice unnaturally shrill.

Ron pushes himself upright, and looks around nervously at their other dormmates. Still fast asleep. He scoots to the edge of his bed, intent on catching every word.

“All this time!” he cries, as if in pain, his back arching.

It freaks Ron out. Bad.

He considers waking Harry, but he’s already started snoring again, his face slack with deep sleep. Ron watches him as long as he can, anxious that he ought to do something.

Eventually, exhaustion wins, and he’s out cold.

-

All too soon, it’s time for breakfast, and then lessons.

The day drags, the fatigue from the night prior haunting every moment of Ron’s day. He’s not built for operating without rest. Hermione and Harry both ask him several times if he’s coming down with something, and he half-heartedly coughs in response, muttering something about the late-summer flu.

McGonagall tells Harry he can take Potions now that Slughorn’s teaching, and somehow Ron gets roped into the scheme. Since they don’t have the required text, Slughorn digs a couple battered copies out from the storage cupboard.

Ron’s potion goes worse than usual—not that that’s saying much. His mind keeps drifting, and he barely registers Hermione getting more and more worked up over Harry’s bizarre success.

It’s odd, sure. But Ron can’t even summon the energy to panic over his own shoddy potion, let alone spy on Harry’s bubbling cauldron.

His thoughts are elsewhere. The restricted section had been a bust, and he still doesn’t know what a horcrux is.

He peers at Hermione through the corner of his eye, wishing he could just ask her.

“Oi, Hermione!”

“Yes?”

“What’s a horcrux?”

“Oh, that silly old thing? It’s obviously a form of magic which is very dark and very ancient. You didn’t know that? Do you never pay attention to lessons? Honestly, Ronald…”

He smirks to himself at the imagined exchange, and Hermione mistakes it for cheek—he’d forgotten she was still complaining at him—and begins badgering him with another million questions about Harry’s sudden talent in Potions.

Class ends with a bottle of Felix Felicis tucked safely into Harry’s hands. Ron has to admit it’s quite brilliant. It’s especially nice to see Malfoy moping like a kicked puppy.

High on the rare reversal of outcomes in Potions class, Ron scoots closer so only the blond ferret can hear, and mutters, “Can’t go complaining to mummy now, can you?”

Malfoy’s scowl deepens.

-

At supper, Harry and Hermione have a minor row. Nothing too serious, because Ginny steps in and begins reading “the half-blood Prince’s” notes aloud in a funny, posh sort of voice. Hermione doesn’t find it as amusing as Harry and Ron do, but eventually, even she has to crack a smile at “You must crush the beetle legs, Harry, darling—not slice them!”

Later they reconvene in the library so they can work on their homework, as they’ve already been assigned a mound.

“Ron! Pay attention,” Hermione chastises him for the hundredth time.

Ron twirls his quill in lazily between his fingers, eyes fixed on the ceiling. A damp wad of parchment smacks against his cheek, trailing wet saliva into the fine hairs that’ve finally started to grow there. Disgusted, Ron peels it off, responding to Harry’s assault by creating wet wads of parchment of his own.

Within seconds, sopping wet missiles are flying across the table, discarded paper littering the floor. Ron and Harry are both in stitches when Madame Pince swoops in, kicking them all out of the library.

“I can’t believe you, Ron. You’ll do anything to get out of doing your homework!”

“Harry started it!” Ron protests, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Puberty struck Ron quite hard over the summer, and after growing another three inches and gaining more than twenty pounds, he doesn’t quite know his strength. His bag swings wide and accidentally knocks Hermione over, and she stumbles into Harry’s side.

“Watch it!” Harry snaps, jerking his arm away.

Ron is just as stunned as Hermione, whose mouth hangs open. A flush creeps across her cheeks as she hurriedly stammers out an apology. Glancing briefly at his arm before straightening up, Harry responds in a much lighter and friendlier tone.

“No bother. Just caught me off guard, is all.”

As he walks away, Hermione and Ron turn to each other in tandem, a silent communication passing between their locked eyes.

On his face, concern; on hers, fear.

-

It isn’t as easy to keep tabs on Hermione now that they’re no longer all staying at the Burrow. Ron is forced to wake up early each morning to crouch behind the very large potted Monstera at the base of Ravenclaw tower, which provides adequate cover, even for someone as tall as himself. It isn’t comfortable, but thankfully Hermione is always one of the first students to come down.

Very quickly Ron realizes this exercise in sleep deprivation is pointless. Hermione never does anything in the morning before she’s had breakfast, but on the off chance that she does, Ron can’t justify giving up his new found routine.

Lessons are a bit easier. Ron shares every class with her, thanks to his perfectly average OWL marks. And while she’s off tackling more difficult subjects like Arithmancy, it’s simple enough to loiter the halls between bells.

He’s no stalker, but he’s not bad at it either.

The only threat to Ron’s constant surveillance comes—ironically—from Harry, who nearly ruins everything with a single flippant comment during lunch.

“Quidditch try outs are this weekend.”

This sentence rings in Ron’s ears, bouncing off the inside of his skull. Hermione places a comforting hand on his elbow.

“You’ve got this,” she murmurs reassuringly, but it just makes Ron feel rather sick.

He excuses himself before making a beeline for the toilets. After heaving a couple times with no results, he pulls the lever, watching the clean water swirl away down the drain.

It’s the longest he’s left Hermione fully alone expect for sleep. Realizing this, Ron washes his hands quickly and runs out of the bathroom, just catching sight of a bouncing head of hair moving toward the grand staircase.

Ron hurries after her, slapping his wet hands against his robes, heart pounding from such a close call. If he had left the loo even a second later, he would have missed her completely, and instead walked back to the Great Hall to find her gone.

She climbs up one, two, three flights of steps. Ron tries to balance keeping up with hanging back far enough to avoid being seen. His excitement begins to outweigh his nerves; she’s supposed to be in herbology this morning.

Where is she going?

They’re on the fifth floor before Ron allows himself to conclude she’s going to the headmaster’s office. The gargoyle that guards the headmaster’s office looms in the distance as he racks his brain for a way to follow her inside unnoticed.

Ron desperately wants to listen to what they have to say to each other, but he doesn’t have enough time to run down and borrow Harry’s cloak. And who is he, anyway, to fool the greatest wizard of his time? Dumbledore would spot him in an instant, even if he was covered in the best invisibility cloak in the world.

NEVER SACRIFICE WITHOUT A CLEAR REASON.

With this chess principle in mind, Ron begrudgingly ducks behind a large trophy cabinet, listening carefully as Hermione slows to a stop.

She speaks the password in a high, clear voice, utterly unaware she’s being followed.

“Jelly slug,”

-

Quidditch tryouts come to an end, and Ron walks away with the keeper position once again. His happiness is very short-lived, however, when faint echoes of Weasley is Our King drift from the Slytherin stands.

Malfoy and his gang are singing at the top of their lungs, seemingly celebrating his win as their own.

Ron scowls at his shoes and trudges back to the changing rooms.

“You showed them last year, and you’ll show them again.” Harry tells him sternly in his captain-voice, but Ron only grunts in response.

After a shower and a fresh change of clothes, they meet Hermione on the quad, who quickly congratulates Ron on his performance.

“I was in the stands; did you see me?” She asks, tucking a hair behind her ear.

“You and Lavender, yeah,” Ron replies noncommittally, scanning the crowd for the pretty blonde. She usually tries to hug him when they run into each other, and it feels nice. He could use that hug right about now.

Hermione looks annoyed, and stops talking to him.

Ron ignores her, lying down in the grass as she scolds Harry for prioritizing physical activity over coursework. The sun is warm, casting yellow-red hues behind his eyelids. He watches the dancing light battle the darkness as their chatter slowly soothes him to sleep.

“What do you think? Ron?”

He opens one eye, squinting up at Hermione, who looks expectantly at him for an answer.

“Wasn’t listening. Sorry,” he mutters, sitting up, “About?”

“Hogsmeade. Want to go together?”

Ron looks at her for a moment. She looks down shyly. It’s very convincing. In fact, if he hadn’t read her journal or known about the literal time-traveling romance she’d been having with Lord Voldemort… he might have believed the act.

He squashes the bit of jealousy unfurling in his chest.

“What about Harry?”

“I’ve got a meeting with Dumbledore,” Harry says, lowering his voice, “He tells me he’s going to replace Snape as my occlumency teacher.”

“That’s brilliant, mate,” Ron congratulates him.

“So,” Hermione asks again, “Hogsmeade?”

The light catches her hair, illuminating her in a soft halo. Her hands are tangled in grass, clutched tightly. She looks almost hopeful.

She looks angelic.

Ron closes his eyes, leaning back against the soft lawn.

“Sure,” he tells her, voice flat, “Why not?”

-

On the Thursday before their first Hogsmeade weekend, Ron is handed a deus ex machina.

After days of tailing Hermione almost everywhere, and learning nothing about either horcruxes or what she’s up to, he receives an invitation from Dumbledore himself to meet him in his office.

Luna hands him the note, saying she had run into the headmaster while searching for nargle puffs or whatever, and Ron stares at it in disbelief.

“He asked for you to come now, if you can, but he has this funny way of giving orders as questions, you see. He really ought to stop doing that. It’s turning him rather orange.”

“Huh?” Ron asks, looking up from the parchment in his hands. He’d forgotten Luna was still talking to him.

“You might want to hurry,” she tells him lazily, reaching over to pull a piece of lint out of his hair. Ron obliges her by bending his knees into a slight crouch; there’s no way she would reach his head otherwise.

“Thanks, Luna,” He smiles, resisting the urge to pet her head affectionately.

“You’re welcome, Ronald.” She walks off, holding the lint against her nose, breathing deeply.

Disturbed but not quite surprised, Ron brushes off Luna’s strange behavior and practically runs to Dumbledore’s office. He pauses in front of the gargoyle, trying to catch his breath so it won’t be so obvious that he’d legged it up seven flights of stairs. The statue looks at him patiently, but Ron remembers he isn’t supposed to know the password—not officially, anyway—so he keeps his mouth shut.

After a few moments, the thing moves aside on its own, its stone legs creaking and its bat-wings tucked safely into its sides. Ron resists the urge to say thank you, and climbs up the winding staircase, trying to breathe through his nose.

“Mr. Weasley! I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

Ron stares at the headmaster, ears growing red. “Luna said…”

Dumbledore smiles, extending his hand to offer him a forever-lolli. Ron takes it, mostly out of reflex.  

“Would you like me to come by later, sir?”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary.” Dumbledore says with a serene wave, “Please, sit down.”

The only seating available in the large office is an overstuffed sofa facing the headmaster’s desk. Patterned with red roses and green twisting vines, it looks uglier than even his great-aunt Muriel’s furniture. Ron sits, or rather, sinks into the cushions. He resists the urge to wriggle into a comfortable position, suspecting that any movement will only push the sofa to swallow him further.

He waits awkwardly for the headmaster to explain why he’s here, trying not to look too uncomfortable. Unable to fathom a reason on his own, Ron unwraps his lollipop for something to do.

“How are you?” Dumbledore finally asks, breaking the tense silence.

“Very well, sir. And you?” Ron responds, fighting the urge to bat away the pillows. The lollipop is asparagus flavored. Great, now his piss is going to stink.

“I am very well, Mr. Weasley, thank you for asking!” Dumbledore responds heartily, looking disproportionately pleased with such a basic exchange. It must be astounding that Harry Potter’s stupid friend could muster up the bare niceties of conversation, Ron thinks glumly. He chomps angrily at the lollipop, but of course the thing is bite-proof to make it last longer.

The silence stretches between them again.

“And how are classes?”

“I’m keeping up, sir.”

“Very good; very good! I’m sure your mother must be proud.”

Ron swallows a mouthful of asparagus-flavored saliva, doing his best to keep the revulsion off his face.

“Er… thank you.”

Another pregnant pause. This time, Ron breaks, unable to bear the awkwardness.

“You asked for me, sir?”

“Ah, yes. That matter.”

Dumbledore rises from his chair, moving toward an ornate corner cabinet to his left. As he turns to rummage through a small wedge-shaped drawer, Ron’s eye drifts to a floating shelf directly behind where the headmaster had been sitting.

It’s bare except for seven archaic-looking books, neatly arranged in a single row. They appear to be volumes of a set; their spines marked with a roman numeral at the top, and a single letter at the base.

I        II       III      IV      V       VI      VII

H       O       R       C       R       U       X

If Ron had been unfortunate enough to suffer from aneurysms, he’s certain one of them would have burst upon this sight.

The sound of the drawer sliding shut puts a sudden end to Ron’s gawking. Quickly, he schools his expression into something appropriately curious before Dumbledore turns back around.

“What is that, professor?” He blurts, his voice still a bit too eager.

If Dumbledore notices, he gives no sign.

“This is a small invention of mine, called a deluminator.”

Ron leans forward, adopting a tone of polite curiosity.

“What does it do?”

“What doesn’t it do?” Dumbledore sighs happily, and for a moment, he gazes at the deluminator in his palm with open admiration. It feels oddly conceited, considering he’d just told Ron he’d invented the thing.

“Perhaps it’s better that I demonstrate its most basic function,” Dumbledore says at last. With a flick of his wand, the heavy curtains draw closed, flooding the room in darkness before the various lamps flicker on to provide light.

He flips the metal lid of the silver cylindrical tube, revealing what looks very much like a Muggle lighter. Ron had seen one once, on a camping trip with Hermione’s dad in the summer before their third year. He remembers flipping the cam over and over, mesmerized by the tiny burst of fire. It had felt like magic to Ron and his father, but Hermione’s dad had simply smiled, assuring them it wasn’t, drawing diagrams in the dirt to explain how it worked.

“It’s technology.” He’d explained.

“Muggle magic.” Mr. Weasley had concluded.

Now, in Dumbledore’s hand, the lighter-like device clicks open. For a moment, nothing happens, and Ron can’t help but feel the whole ordeal had been very anticlimactic.

Right as this thought enters his mind, the lights around them begin to flicker. Orbs of pure light lift from the sconces and float toward the device before being sucked inside one-by-one until they are sitting in darkness.

They sit silently as Ron’s eyes adjust, when he hears the click of the cam once more. The lights return, re-entering their lamps in reverse, as though rewinding time.

“Magic,” Ron says in quiet awe, the same tone his father often uses when standing in a Muggle car shop.

“Indeed, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore replies with a warm smile—one so genuine it throws Ron for a moment. It makes the powerful, enigmatic headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, almost seem like a young boy, thrilled by the simple wonder of magic.

It’s unsettling.

“What was it called, again? An Illuminator?”

“Deluminator,” Dumbledore corrects gently, handing it over for his perusal.

Ron accepts the generous offering, handling it carefully. It’s heavier than he expects, but he likes the weight of it in his hand. He flips the lid, bringing the eyelet close to his eye.

“May I?”

Dumbledore nods his assent, and Ron switches the cam a few times until he feels it might be rude to continue to play with what is obviously a priceless object. He reluctantly returns it, his arm extending across the desk. It remains suspended until his shoulder begins to ache, but Dumbledore does not reach for it.

“It’s for you to keep, Mr. Weasley.”

Ron’s arm remains suspended, floating between them as he processes Dumbledore’s words.

“I couldn’t.”

“I insist.” The headmaster’s words carry a tone of finality, and Ron’s arm falls back to his side, encased in flowery throw pillows once more.

Turning the deluminator in his hands, Ron struggles for something to say.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Dumbledore smiles serenely, as if the matter were trivial. Hardly satisfied with this answer, Ron places the deluminator in his pocket. Despite his distrust in the unusual attention he’s being given, he feels possessive of the deluminator, and is almost afraid Dumbledore will try to take it back.

“In truth, Mr. Weasley, I have often thought it rather silly when wizards my age wait until they are dead to give gifts.”

“Are you in poor health, sir?”

“Not at all, thank you for asking.”

Still in doubt over Dumbledore’s reasoning, Ron looks about the room, his mind ticking.

Every rule has its exceptions, and the rules of chess are no different. There are four scenarios in which a sacrifice in the opening can be justified. One, if the move secures three tempi at once, two, to deflect the enemy queen, three, to prevent the opponent from castling, and four, to build a stronger attack.

According to his chocolate frog card, Albus Dumbledore is an incredible wizard, scholar, inventor, orator, potioneer, and master Legilimens.

He has only ever shown interest in Harry before this moment. Now, he lets Hermione call him Albus. He gives Ron gifts, claiming it’s his inheritance. Ron thinks Dumbledore is too clever to concede so many pieces at once.

What kind of chess board has Ron stumbled into?

Ron’s wandering gaze finally lands on the headmaster himself, feeling conscious of the weight of the deluminator in his pocket as blue eyes pierce his own. Suddenly, his thoughts meander to the moment he saw his dad in St. Mungo’s, white as the sheets he was lying on, wrapped in bandages with pus oozing out of the sides. How blue his own eyes had looked against his pale white skin, framed by stiff white hospital sheets. He remembers his relief at seeing his dad chatting merrily under the Christmas tree days later, still wrapped in those bandages, but cleaner, happier, alive. He remembers the grief and guilt that came six months later, when he found out Sirius was not.

These thoughts flick by quickly—emotional, abrupt—in a way that doesn’t feel natural to Ron, who’s mind tends to be devoid of thoughts outside of quidditch, girls, chess, and occasionally, dread. In fact, he’d tried rather hard not to think of his dad’s attack since it happened, and spent very little time dwelling on Sirius’s death, feeling it uncomfortable to acknowledge that he would never speak to the man again, and that his body didn’t even receive the respect of a burial upon its demise.

He realizes then, he’d been staring at the headmaster outright for quite some time, a bit dazed.

Dumbledore smiles approvingly.

“You may leave, Mr. Weasley. Thank you for indulging an old man such as myself.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ron mumbles, struggling to pull himself out of the sofa, his hand and mouth sticky with melted candy, “Goodbye.”

His hand pauses on the door handle when Dumbledore’s voice fills the room, revealing the possible reason behind his charade of indulgent gift-giving.

“Has Harry had any interesting dreams lately?”

Ron turns to meet the headmaster’s gaze, once again sharp and discerning. Harry had been talking in his sleep, yes, but Ron wouldn’t exactly describe these nightmare-fueled mumblings as interesting.

No, the term could only be applied to his own dreams—which had gotten raunchier since he’d spent the summer ogling muggle girls in the village. Dreams of Lavender, and the way her shirt bounces when she bounds down the stairs into the common room. He thinks of Parvati’s shiny dark hair, falling down in sheets to her waist. He even thinks of Luna, her eyes wide and mouth pulled into a smirk. And because he’s just a teenage boy, and really any girl is fair game; he thinks of his last dream about Pansy Parkinson, her smug face grinning as rain smudges her makeup around her eyes, her usually perfect hair messy and ruffled, her top button undone…

The torrent of memories stops as quickly as it began, and Ron finds he can think again, instead of being accosted by horny images of teenage girls.

“No, sir.” Ron tells him firmly, “But if he does, I’ll be sure to inform you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Weasley. I believe that would be for the best.”

Ron leaves, in his head the echo of the cardinal rule of the opening game.

Never bring out your queen too early.

-

Ron spends the rest of the week fiddling with the deluminator. He thinks about showing it to Harry, but it’s so rare for Ron to own something this valuable that he decides to keep it to himself—just for a few days. He gets rather good at manipulating the thing, testing its limits whenever he can manage to be alone.

By Thursday, Seamus is convinced their dormitory is haunted, and Dean begins to agree with him when he’s forced to shower in the dark for the second time in three days.

When Saturday rolls around and it’s time for Hogsmeade, Ron walks down to meet Hermione at the grand entrance as promised. Harry comes with him—it’s an overcast day and pleasantly cool, and he plans to fly a bit before meeting Dumbledore for his occlumency lesson. Ron can’t help but feel a bit sullen for not being able to join him.

He and Hermione set off for what starts out as a very awkward walk, filled with quiet stretches and failed small talk. For one, she’s wearing a dress, and it still disconcerts Ron to be reminded his best mate is actually a girl. He doesn’t like seeing her that way—not since reading her journal.

Her loose brown dress isn’t revealing; but the color brings out her eyes, and the sun highlights her hair in gold, and when she turns back to listen a joke he makes, he can’t suppress the pang he feels as her eyes crinkle up in laughter.

Ron looks down at his trainers—second hand and worn thin from years of use. He thinks they used to be Charlie’s, maybe. And his trousers—those used to be Percy’s. He’s the only one tall enough to borrow from. Fred often jokes that the only reason Ron keeps growing is to force mum to finally buy him something new. Ron tries not to sigh. He’s got to steel himself against the reality of being Ron Weasley.

He'll never win. He’ll never get the girl.

Things ease up between them once they get to Zonko’s, now that they have something to occupy them other than conversation. Hermione accidentally tears open a package of Willy’s Wild Wompus Weiners, and the little sausages go bouncing every which way, ricocheting off customers’ heads, shelves, and knocking over a small pyramid of sneakoscopes. Hermione apologizes profusely to the shop owners while Ron doubles over in laughter.

They’re quickly shooed out of the store.

“You’re really making a habit out of this, aren’t you?” Ron teases once they’re outside.

“Oh, please. That only happened because you told me the bag was impenetrable!” Hermione argues, trying to look annoyed but failing.

“I said they ought to make the bags impenetrable. Not my fault you weren’t listening properly!”

They continue their bickering and good-natured teasing through Honeydukes, Scrivenshaft’s, and Tomes and Scrolls, before they arrive at the Three Broomsticks for a late lunch.

The pub is packed, as usual. The cacophony of voices, clinking glasses, and exuberant laughter briefly puts a pause in their conversation. They stand by the door, surveying the dark insides of the pub to try to find an empty table, eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden loss of sunlight. Hermione puts a hand on Ron’s elbow, leading him away from where the professors dutifully ignore them at their own table in the middle, to where Neville, Luna, and Ginny sit at a booth off to the side.

“Merlin, it’s loud,” Ron complains to Neville as he slides in next to him.

“What?” Neville shouts back, grinning happily.

“So loud!” Ron raises his voice, to which he receives several empathetic nods.

Madam Rosmerta appears, ready to take their orders, but before anyone can get a word in, Hermione jumps up from her seat.

“I left my package at Tomes and Scrolls! I’ll just run over and be right back.”

She hurries off without waiting for a response. Because of where they’re sitting, it’s easy to spot her through the window, and Ron watches as she disappears into the shop on the other end of the street.

As bright and sunny as it was moments ago, the sky once again becomes overcast, darkening with the threat of rain. It’s not unusual for Scotland this time of year, so Ron doesn’t think much of it when the street lamps—charmed to sense the fading light—automatically flare to life, casting light against the descending gloom.

“Having a nice day?” Neville asks, wiggling his eyebrows, his face adorned with a butterbeer mustache.

Ron responds by smacking Neville in the shoulder, and is rewarded with a heavy oof. Ginny is wise enough not to pile on, and Luna looks briefly confused, before staring off into a random corner of the ceiling.

A patron distantly shouts at Madam Rosmerta in a thick Scottish accent, sounding friendly, if not a bit drunk.

“Rosie! Turn on the lights, will ya?”

The stained-glass lamp swinging overhead flickers on with the sudden surge of Madam Rosmerta’s magic.

The conversation veers into safer territory—classes, homework, the new Potions professor—but Ron keeps his gaze fixed on the street outside, barely listening.

Like Harry and Hermione, Ginny has been invited to the Slug club, and she loudly complains that it’s a total waste of time. Ron suspects she’s saying it for his benefit, but he avoids chiming in. Pity from his little sister is the last thing he wants.

He tunes her out entirely, sipping his butterbeer as he stares out the window, a few raindrops smattering here and there as he waits.

He spots Hermione at last, emerging from Tomes and Scrolls with a parcel clutched to her chest. Just as she steps outside, the sky opens, releasing a torrent of rain.

A thick sheet of water coats the glass, obscuring her silhouette into a shifting brown blur.

At the very same moment, a blaring siren erupts overhead. It cuts through the din, deafening and shrill.

Ron jumps, covering his ears on instinct as he looks over his shoulder at the source of the noise. A flashing emergency alarm, right where Luna had been staring at earlier, casting his friends’ faces in a foreboding crimson sheen with each pulse.

They were installed all over Hogsmeade this summer, he remembers Bill saying, after the Ministry had confirmed the return of You-Know-Who. A village-wide warning system. Important to look like they were doing something, Dad had joked.

Students scream in panic, rivaling the noise of the siren as they run to the exits in confusion. The professors push them back as Madam Rosmerta bolts the heavy doors. Professor Snape smacks a particularly unruly Slytherin seventh year named Montague upside the head for being too insistent on being let out.

McGonagall shouts, “Inside! Stay inside! YOU MUST STAY INSIDE!”

Ron spins back to the window, wrenching it open. Hermione is still out there.

An icy blast of freezing wind smacks him in the face, stealing his breath. He needs a second before he can open his eyes against the sting of hail pellets.

Once he does, he spots Hermione instantly. A moment ago, she had been racing toward them to avoid the downpour. Now, she’s standing in the middle of the street, her muddy parcel discarded on the ground.

Her dress flutters wildly in the wind as the frozen rain soaks her through, hair plastered to her cheeks as she stares ahead, caught in some kind of trance.

Ron calls her name, but his voice is swallowed up by the howling wind, inaudible even to his own ears.

If she runs now, he can get McGonagall to open the doors for her. He calls her name again and again, but it’s like screaming into a void, any sound he makes either sucked away by the storm, or blending in with the shrieking inside.

Why won’t she run? What is she staring at?

Ron leans father out, twisting his neck to follow her gaze, his heart stuttering when he realizes what cements Hermione in place.

Standing across from her on the other end of the square is a dark-haired wizard with pale, sharp features, his mouth twisted in an odd mix of disgust and delight.

His long black cloak hangs open, sodden at the hem—the only evidence that he’s been standing in the rain. In his right-hand dangles a wand, its wood pitch-black and warped by years of corrupt magic, his grip characteristically loose.

Ron recognizes the man, not because he’s ever seen him, but because even in the dark of the sudden storm, his eyes glow blood red.