A/N: This was going to be a oneshot, but it was starting to get too long and I can't yet foresee a clear ending. I am guesstimating a chapter or two more and then the story will be complete. Also, please excuse my lack of editing—every time I went back to edit, I ended up substracting several paragraphs and adding even more, so this will have to do.

Timesick

Chapter One

She never spoke to any of them if she could help it. Not only would it affect the timeline, but she would bring attention to herself.

Hermione Granger could not afford any kind of attention—not in the year 1944.

Thinking back, when Horacious Gringell went missing shortly after the war, Hermione should have suspected that it might have something to do with time turners. Horacious Gringell was the first Auror to experimentally use time travel as a crime solving method, back in the late 1980s. He had used time turners many times to solve murder cases, successfully, with no ill effects—until he disappeared in Hermione's year, 1998.

Horacious Grigell came back days later and was interviewed by The Daily Prophet. The headlines went on for days: 'New Magical Illness Discovered!' 'Timesickness: Could you have it?' 'An Exclusive Interview with Horacious Gringell About His Time in 1978'. Hermione grew concerned, as did Harry and the Weasleys. Excessive use of time turners had been found to eventually cause Timesickness, a new disease that made the sufferer susceptible to randomly travelling across time without any control of when and where this happened. There was no cure, and currently Healers thought that anybody who'd used time turners frequently was in danger of having the disease.

Hermione's third year at Hogwarts certainly qualified as frequent use of time turners.

Still, when Hermione suddenly found herself at a 1944 Hogwarts one morning, she hadn't been too worried. Horacious Gringell had been missing for four days. Surely she could manage to survive a few days alone, hidden in the Room of Requirement. So she hid herself, only coming out at night to ask the House Elves for food and secrecy.

The days slowly turned into weeks, then school began.

It was the 5th of September 1944 when Hermione became desperate enough and went to Professor Dumbledore for help. She was eternally grateful when he asked her no questions, but instead he and the current Headmaster welcomed her as a new if unexpected student.

By September 6th, Hermione was attending classes as a Seventh Year Gryffindor.

Other students and teachers were curious. They had never seen a new student arrive so late and suddenly before. Hermione did her best to mitigate their intrigue: She was a new student from Beauxbatons and she and her family had recently moved to England. Obviously she could not talk much about Beauxbatons and the school's secrets, as they'd understand.

She then—through great personal effort—managed to become such a seemingly average student with a shy personality that most people forgot about her after the newness died off.

All of them, of course, except for Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Hermione dreaded the Head Boy's attention the most. Gryffindor had Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins, and every class Riddle would not keep from studying her. It made Hermione feel paranoid as she purposefully sliced her beetles too thickly in Potions and did terribly in nonverbal magic. Hermione was not the best Occlumens, but surely she managed to get by enough for Riddle to be fooled by her disguise?

It was October 3rd when Profesor Slughorn inevitably paired Riddle and Hermione together. She should have known.

They were about to learn how to make Felix Felicis—a dangerous potion for Lord Voldemort to learn, Hermione thought grimly—when Slughorn suddenly announced that he wanted them to work in pairs so that the Houses could intermingle. "That means you with Romil, Ms Vance—and you with Ms Granger, I think, Tom—let's show Beauxbatons our very best," he'd said with a wink.

Hermione remained calm as Riddle approached her desk, thanking her lucky stars that Lord Voldemort would never learn of her name in the future. She had not thought it possible to lie to Professor Dumbledore about her name when she was already going to lie to him about everything else—and she hoped it wouldn't matter, as long as she kept a low enough profile.

"Ms Granger," Riddle said with a polite nod as he sat next to her. He exuded confidence, which made Hermione nervous. "I believe we've never spoken before, but I'm sure by now you should be aware that I do well in Potions. Felix Felicis is a very complicated potion, but you don't have to worry. I will help you."

The idea of Voldemort helping anybody was hilarious. She almost snorted.

"Thank you, Mr Riddle," she managed to say. "I'm afraid I'm not as good as you at Potions, they can get very complicated."

"You do them well eventually," he reassured her, and it unnerved her greatly how that implied he had been watching her. "And you can call me Tom. We're classmated after all."

"Oh, right, sorry …Tom," Hermione said with what she hoped came across as a shy smile. "I still have trouble with this. I've been going to Beauxbatons my whole life, you see—and now I'm suddenly here."

There was a brief silence as they both from their Potions books the directions that Hermione already knew.

"You speak English very well, for a foreigner," Riddle said casually. Hermione knew it for what it was: he was probing. She hadn't convinced him.

Hermione was calm as she shared a bit of partial truth. "I grew up in London. My parents had practice there. But most of my dad's family is from France, and my grandma was getting old so we went to take care of her."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Riddle said. "I hope your moving back here means good news."

"No, grandma died," Hermione said abruptly. "I'm sorry but I really don't like talking about it."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Riddle said softly. Lied softly. "Does that mean your family has moved back to London? What is their practice on, perhaps I've heard of them."

"They're both dentists," Hermione said proudly and she hoped that his proximity with a Muggleborn was making Voldemort squirm. "And they're working on opening up a new practice, yes, but it takes time since we've only been here since September."

"I see," Riddle said politely. Hermione noticed with a grin that he remained mostly quiet after that.

They spent half an hour in near silence, with Riddle occasionally correcting Hermione here and there. Although it cost Hermione great effort to purposefully do badly in school, she found there was a vindictive satisfaction every time Riddle was derailed from his work in order to show her how to do something she already knew.

"I've been chopping up the Murtlap too thickly this whole time!" Hermione exclaimed the third time Riddle corrected her, stopping what he was doing so that he could chop the Murtlap up for her. It was clear that her incompetence was unnerving him. Hermione grinned as though she'd just suddenly gotten this wonderful Potions revelation, but secretly she was just laughing at Riddle's frustration. He deserved it, the asshole.

When the potion was nearly finished, she purposefully started stirring counterclockwise and almost ruined the whole thing.

"Just stop helping. Don't touch anything," Riddle said with so much exasperation, Hermione Granger felt victorious.

Even negative attention was still attention, so Hermione resolve to commit herself to do only the most absolute average in class. She handed her papers on time, with just enough perceived effort to do either Poorly or Exceed Expectations. Once in a while, she did enough to Exceed Expectations, and once during Potions she did Dreadfully. She often wished Ron could do her homework.

It was a miserable existence. Hermione was dying inside.

Halloween came and went, and with it died her hopes of getting back to her time anytime soon. She had been foolish. Just because Horacious Gringell had only vanished for a few days in his time, it didn't mean he hadn't been stuck for months in the era he'd ended up. He could have lived in a different time for years, but Hermione tried hard not to think about that. She couldn't panic.

The wait was driving her mad, though.

Just a book. Just one book in something advanced yet seemingly harmless, like Advanced Arithmancy, and she would get through the next few days with her sanity intact.

Hermione wandered the Arithmancy section of the library, looking for a book thick enough and obscure enough to be a challenge, when she saw him. Tom Riddle. Doing homework in a rather quiet corner of the library.

Her chest tightened. Of course he would be at the library.

She tried to backtrack her steps but he looked up and saw her. Saw her with Second Derivatives and their Magical Properties firm in her hands.

Oh shit.

He smiled politely at her.

"Oh, hi, Tom," Hermione said casually, forcing a smile. "I didn't see you there. I was just… Just browsing." The book felt heavy in her hands.

Tom Riddle quirked an eyebrow, still smiling. "Hello, Hermione. I didn't know you took Advanced Arithmancy."

"I don't," Hermione said. Awkwardly.

There was a small, uncomfortable silence.

"It's just… My parents owled me this morning and their letter mentioned second derivatives, so I was hoping maybe this book explained what they were about."

"Your parents wrote to you about second derivatives," Riddle repeated, looking thoroughly amused. "Your parents. The dentists."

"Yeah," Hermione nodded, trying not to look distressed as she sank in her own pile of bullshit. "My mom… likes math."

"And do you?" he asked her.

"Oh, no…" she lied. "No…"

"Second derivatives are essentially the rate at which the rate of change itself changes," Riddle explained cordially. "A good example of this would be acceleration: it's the derivative of velocity—that is, the rate of change of velocity—which makes it the second derivative of an object's position. Position, velocity, acceleration: Position, its derivative, and its second derivative. Second derivatives are particularly useful when determining if any change in the future will be permanent."

Although Hermione was pretty sure she could have explained it better, she still had to try to look impressed. "Wow, Tom! You sound so good at this."

"I am," Riddle said with a humble smile. "I could tutor you, if you wished to learn. But honestly, if you're seeking to know the future, Divination is a better bet."

Hermione's eye twitched.

"So, um, what are you working on?" she asked casually in a firm attempt to not strangle him. Divination over Arithmancy? Are you kidding me?

"The essay for Professor Merrythought," Riddle said, "Have you started it? It's due next week, but I'm just editing mine. I could help you with yours, if you have it. I have been told I'm very good at tutoring for Defense in particular." He flashed her a smile so bright, it blinded her. He was so ridiculously handsome.

"Oh, I'm not too worried again," Hermione said, remembering Ron's usual words verbatim. "I'll just ask you to let me copy off yours once you're done."

The way he looked at her, people might have thought she had slapped him.

"I—I don't mean you, obviously," she said quickly, trying to correct her mistake: she had "Ron"ed too far, with the wrong person. "I mean—I'll—I'll copy off Hermione."

His stare changed. "But—you are Hermione." There was a brief pause. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine!" she exclaimed, too loudly and too quickly. "I must be going now. Bye, Tom!"

When she left, she shamelessly took the Arithmancy book with her.

She had done so poorly in Potions that Professor Slughorn had forgotten her name. Hermione felt strange to be pleased by this, yet she knew being forgettable was entirely necessary.

Now, if only Riddle would leave her alone…

Following their interaction at the library, she felt the Head Boy had bestowed upon her his renewed interest. She wasn't sure of what had caused this—if it was the book or the math or her awkwardness or her escape—but she knew she didn't like it.

He had taken to sitting next to her at Potions, as well as at Defense Against the Dark Arts.

It was unnerving.

"You're rather strange. Did you know that?" he asked her over her Potions essay. They were sitting at his usual quiet spot in the library and she was getting tutoring lessons from him—at his insistence.

Hermione swallowed. "How so, Tom?"

"The way you write: It's very good. Yet somehow you never quite give all the information we learned at the lesson, and some of the things you write are wrong, even though I know you were taking notes and paying attention." He looked at her. "It's almost as if you're setting yourself up to fail."

Hermione waved her hand. "I just can't remember all there is to write!"

"Then read your notes," Riddle said, raising an eyebrow. "You brought them with you, I'm sure?"

The way he was looking at her made Hermione feel entirely self-conscious. "I—erm—they're doodles."

His gaze intensified. He looked accusing and very curious. "No, they're not. I saw what you wrote."

"Erm," Hermione articulated, shifting in her seat. She now wished she wasn't sitting in front of him, and the table was so very small. She had only noticed the short distance between them when Riddle's hand grabbed at her own.

She swore she was having a heart attack. His hand was surprisingly gentle.

"I have a feeling I am wasting my time tutoring you," he said softly. There was a warm smile on his lips that caused her heart to flutter but when his dark eyes met hers—they looked empty. She looked away. "Tell me, Hermione—won't you ever show me what you can really do?"

She abruptly got up from the table. Quickly gathered her things. Riddle got up as well, and they walked out of the library together.

"I've neglected to mention something about myself," he told her calmly as they walked through the library door. She began to quickly walk towards the Gryffindor Common Room. He followed her easily; he was much taller than her (why was she noticing that now?). "I am very good at magic"—he continued, rather openly prideful this time—"I was born good at it, actually. So I've gotten quite good at picking up magic auras, if that makes sense. Each living magical thing, each magical object—it emits a faint magical frequency of sorts, and I can usually feel it."

She ignored him. They were in the third floor now. A few more hallways and stairs to go and this castle was too—damn—big…

"Anyway"—he opened a door for her—"your magic feels different than others I've met. It is also really, quite strong—but unique. Almost—wrong, somehow. Can you tell me why?"

She ignored him and kept walking until he stood in front of her. She could tell she was trying his patience, even as he patiently smiled at her. Always smiling at her. It was unnerving.

"I wouldn't know," she answered, more than a little irritated. "I can't really feel these 'magic auras'. Maybe I'm sick. Now, if you excuse me, my friends are waiting for me at the Gryffindor common room."

She tried to move past him and he grabbed her arm and he chuckled darkly—actually chuckled freaking darkly—sending a wave of fear down her spine. "Now, now, Hermione. We both know very well you've made no friends."

She swallowed. That much was true. She had tried so badly to remain forgettable and invisible so as to not harm the timeline, she'd never actually made any friends or acquaintances to miss her if she'd gone. Ideally, this meant that she wouldn't be missed when she returned to her own time. She had never thought it would make her more vulnerable to Voldemort, hadn't thought he would even look at her twice if she kept enough of a low profile.

But that hadn't worked, had it? As a matter of fact, they had been spending so much time together lately—and he was dead in her present, so why would she care?—but it horrified her to realize that if she had ever made anything close to an acquaintance here, anything even close to a friend, it would have been…

She shuddered.

Him.

She was too surprised at her mental revelation to be afraid when he pushed her against the wall, too stunned at the prospect of a friendship, of sorts, with Voldemort to notice at first how close his body pressed against hers. Her head was on her chest and she looked up to him, saw the menacing gleam in his eyes, and—oh.

Not friends, then, of course. She'd almost forgotten.

Harry and Ginny had more than once told her how charming he could be when he was this age.

She felt rather silly now, actually. Somehow that feeling got rather broadcast across her face, instead of the panic that she should feel.

He smirked at her—Legimens!, of course—and began laughing softly. Hermione could feel the alluring sound vibrating on his chest. She blushed—this as too intimate.

"You are a… very strange little witch, Hermione Granger," he told her. He sounded almost jovial. Teasing.

She put her hands up against his chest and pushed gently. "If I'm the strange one, I wonder what that makes you," she countered matter-of-factly. "The one who pushes strange witch against the wall in corridors."

"Against deserted corridors," Riddle corrected her. There was a wicked tone in his voice. "Today is the Quidditch match, had you forgotten? Gryffindor against Slytherin. Nobody would ever miss it."

Her heart felt heavy on her chest. She had forgotten. "I don't follow Quidditch," she told him, and she hated how small and how frightened her voice sounded now.

Riddle took a step back and smiled at her. Then he took out his wand and started playing with it, finally giving her a little space. She found, now that she could see his wand, that she much preferred his previous position and her face against his chest.

"A wise thing," he agreed with her, casually fiddling with his wand. Her breath stopped whenever it pointed at her. "Quidditch is a waste of time. Although a very useful distraction in times like this."

She was desperately searching for the words to say when he finally pointed his wand at her, his gaze eerily serene and guiltless. She remembered he was 17. He had already made a horcrux, already had plans to make another in the summer.

He had already killed Myrtle and his father.

He was already Voldemort and she felt another wave of panic at that.

He smiled approvingly. "Ah, there you go. I was wondering when you would start to be properly afraid." He moved closer to her then, and with a hand lifted up her chin in order to press his wand against her neck. Hermione whimpered, hating herself for doing so. She had never been as brave as Harry.

"Good girl," purred Riddle approvingly as he caressed her cheek. She didn't dare look at him. "Now, Hermione, be a good little witch and tell me anything you feel I should know about you."

She closed her eyes and kept quiet, ignoring the lound thumping in her chest. Breathe in, breathe out, empty your mind…

"Tut tut tut. Keep in mind it is only my duty as Head Boy to ensure you are no threat to this school, Miss Granger." He pressed his wand even harder on her neck, it hurt… "And remember, I can always make you tell me."

"My name is Hermione Granger," she recited mechanically. "My parents are Muggles. The Head Boy, Tom Riddle, is currently holding his wand against my neck…"

A very painful shock of electricity struck from Riddles wand onto her neck, and Hermione vividly remembered the torture she endured under Bellatrix Lestrange at the Malfoy Manor. She was a coward, she was clever but she was a coward… She felt warm tears falling down her face and hated herself.

"I am good at magic," she admitted, not sure if she was giving away too much, but feeling desperate to escape. "I am very good. I was the top student at my school, previously. But I pretend to be average because I don't want to bring any attention to myself, because I am a Muggleborn"—she half-lied—"and I've found that a lot of Purebloods take particular offense to being bested by a witch raised by Muggles. I've learned this the hard way," she said, pulling her robe sleeve back and showing Riddle the word MUDBLOOD Bellatrix Lestrange had carved on her arm while she tortured her. She was not even lying. Not entirely, at least.

She heard Tom Riddle hiss as he took in her scar, pulling her arm towards him to inspect it even as he maintained his wand against her neck with his other hand. She felt his thumb caressing the carvings and got goosebumps.

"And you chose to continue your education here?" he whispered. His voice sounded mildly accusing. "Wouldn't it have been better for you to just return the wand and give up magic entirely?"

She pulled her arm away from him and glared at him. "I love magic," she said fiercely. "I would never give it up. I am a witch, in case you hadn't noticed, and I am not letting any bigot"—she looked at him accusingly—"keep me from who I am."

Riddle raised an eyebrow. "It's not just the Continent who has a problems with Muggleborns, you know. Even here at Hogwarts, most of the Purebloods… Why, only two years ago Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets was opened, and—unfortunately—a Muggleborn died. I helped put a stop to that, of course, but it could happen again. Muggleborns aren't very welcome in the Wizarding world."

She had a curious feeling between wanting to laugh and wanting to punch him. She resolved to sarcasm instead. "Well! When you put it that way," she said, exaggeratedly rolling her eyes. "I guess I have no choice. I mean, if the Chamber of Secrets is going to be opened again by another adolescent. I might get petrified by another Acromantula somehow, even though anybody with less prejudice and half a brain cell would realize Acromantulas can't petrify shit."

"You've heard about the Chamber of Secrets," he stated, more than mildly surprised.

"I've read Hogwarts, A History," she snapped at him.

"So have I," Riddle said quietly and Hermione knew she had just made a big mistake. "There's nothing in it about the recent reopening of the Chamber. It happened only two years ago. How were you so informed?"

There was a pregnant pause during which Hermione cursed her big mouth, cursed her timesickness, and weighed her options.

Telling the truth was out of the question, not like he would believe her anyway.

Telling a lie was the way to go, but how in the world would she explain knowing what happened to Hagrid?

"I might have overheard it at the Gryffindor Common Room, then," she mused. "Although I really don't believe there was ever a Chamber with a petrifying Acromantula in it. More likely, a student brought the Acromantula into the castle, and mass hysteria caused people to blame it on lore." She rolled her eyes. "Now are we done here?"

Riddle considered her for a long moment before removing the wand from her neck, making Hermione inhale deeply with relief.

He moved away from her. "I suppose you aren't really a threat then, like I suspected," he said, businesslike. It was bizarre to think a moment before he might have been close to cursing her. "My apologies for the rough questioning. With the war in the Continent, and you being from France… I'm sorry, but I hope you understand why I felt so suspicious."

Hermione moved to rub her aching neck. "I suppose I shouldn't blame you. But honestly, I'm just trying to lay low for a while until I graduate."

"Here, let me help you," Riddle said, and he nearly gave Hermione another heart attack when he pointed his wand back at her neck. "Episkey. Good as new," he said, and Hermione didn't have to see it to believe he had successfully healed her forming bruise.

As well as the evidence.

"I should probably return to my Head Boy duties. Shall I escort you to your Common Room?" he said cordially.

Hermione snorted at the irony of that. "No thanks."

He nodded in her direction, and then walked away.

That night, Tom Riddle couldn't sleep. He kept tossing and turning and thinking about the Mudblood.

She hadn't been lying about her Muggle parents. He wouldn't lie to himself and say he wasn't disappointed. Her magic was strong, but to think it came from someone whose background was so filthy… And here he had been trying, not even two years prior, to rid his home—Hogwarts—from Mudbloods, and now they were getting imported into the castle all the way from France.

So inconvenient, really—Hermione's existence. It was clear she had to go. The fact that she had caught his attention only meant that she might be a suitable opponent, and with her being only one step up from a Muggle, that simply wouldn't do. What would his Knights say if they saw the Heir of Slytherin competing against a Mudblood?

It was clear that he would have to tell his group of followers about this witch. Of course, after they knew of her heritage, he couldn't guarantee her safety…

Tom Riddle turned in his bed again, and tried not to think about the warm brown eyes of the witch and how oddly at peace he felt whenever she was close to him.

Riddle no longer sat next to her in class, no longer spoke to her in the hallways, and completely ignored her.

She found that she missed him.

Hermione hadn't realized how much of her time and energy was spent monitoring Tom Riddle, anticipating his questions, thinking up ways to twist the truth so that he wouldn't suspect her. Now, with him gone, all she ever did was think about Ron.

And Harry.

And her parents.

And Ginny and Neville and—

She needed to find a place to have a good cry, because she couldn't bear the solitude anymore. She had been stuck in this time for months with no friends and no family. She even missed talking to the Dark Lord Voldemort, for Merlin's sake, and he might have killed her!

Her dorm was out of the question and her Common Room was out of the question. She was never alone there, not really—

And she couldn't risk bringing attention to the Room of Requirement, not during Riddle's time…

A place sprung in her mind and she started walking towards the library. Riddle might be in their usual solitary spot, but sod it, he could sit there and watch her cry for all she cared. The git. She didn't care.

There was a group of students blocking the hallway. Slytherins. Four of them.

They didn't seem very friendly. Hermione's hand went to her pocket, and tightened her grip around her wand.

"Well, look. If it isn't the French Mudblood," said the tallest of them, a dark-haired Sixth Year whom Hermione swore she'd seen hanging around Riddle. Looking at all of them, she was fairly certain she had seen all of them with Riddle, including Lestrange and Avery.

Her mind made a click. Ah. The Knights of Walpurgis, then. Excellent.

Just bloody freaking great.

"Nice vocabulary," Hermione told them. "Can I help you?"

They laughed, and Hermione was slightly offended that they thought they had the upper hand in this. Riddle had probably taught them dark magic, but come on. She'd fought grown Death Eaters and won, and these schoolboys lacked experience.

"It's too late to leave the school of your own accord, love," said the one she recognized as Avery. His smile was pretty sadistic, and was beginning to unnerve her. "Now we get to have our fun with you, and show France how we treat Mudblood scum."

Hermione took out her wand.

"Locomotor Mortis!" yelled one of the Knights, Hermione did not know which.

Hermione waved her wand in front of her "Protego!"—a blue shield of light emanated from the tip of her wand and protected her. As soon as the shield did its job, she pointed her wand at the most tallest of the group and conjured a wordless Expelliarmus.

She felt very pleased with herself when the boy's wand fell on her hand. "I should perhaps warn you that dueling in the corridors is forbidden," she smirked.

"You filthy Mudblood!" Lestrange yelled, face red. He pointed his wand at her at the same time Avery did—

Hermione defended herself with an early offense, and launched two Bat-Bogey hexes in their direction. Avery and Lestrange screamed. And then of course they ran away.

Bullies were cowardly by nature, Hermione thought.

"You will pay for this, Mudblood!" the tallest Knight yelled as the four of them ran. Feeling uncharacteristically Ginny-like, Hermione flipped them off.

Riddle was, of course, sitting at his usual table at the library, but since Hermione no longer felt like crying, she found she didn't mind.

"Here," she said, putting the wand at the table brusquely. Tom looked up at her with a quizzical look. It was clear he had not expected her. "I really should have snapped the bloody thing in two, but here. This belongs to your Sixth Year friend, the tall one. Tell him that if he ever tries to corner me again, a Bat-Bogey Hex is the least of his concerns."

"I do not know what you are talking about," Riddle said innocently. "But if you're referring to Dolohov, I can be sure to pass the message."

Hermione shuddered at the name, too surprised to repress it as she remembered the nasty curse she'd gotten from Dolohov at the Ministry. Tom Riddle noticed. "Something the matter?"

"No. Just—just tell your friends to not be complete prats. Alright? I mean it. I know you sent them to it. So tell them to stop. Life is already difficult enough for me here," Hermione groaned.

There was a brief moment in which Riddle considered her, and she could practically see it, could see the way the wheels turned in his head to come to a charming enough answer to her accusation. And then he came up with "I assure you, you are mistaken. But I'm sorry to hear you feel that way. I am here if you need somebody to talk to, if you think that might help."

And she knew that he'd only said that to make himself look good, she knew that he didn't mean it and couldn't care less about her, but she was so tired of waiting, so desperate and sick of not being able to talk about home that she—

That she—

She collapsed on the empty chair in front of him, elbows on the table, hands on her face, and groaned. "No, you can't help. Nobody can help. I miss my home in—in France. I had friends there, and family, and I miss them terribly but I can't write to them and it's driving me insane, and no one here can understand but we'd just gone through some pretty horrible things due to—to Grindelwald—and now that we were finally safe from him I get sent here and—oh, Tom. This really sucks."

Tom Riddle listened, and he put up such a perfect caricature of caring that she couldn't care it wasn't the real thing. "Why can't you owl them? Your friends."

"It's complicated. Owls are easy to intercept"—not to mention utterly impossible to send across time—"Let's just say I need to see them in person. But I don't know how long the wait for that might be."

There was a pause, then silence, and Hermione's face fell on the table. "I might never see them again." The thought terrified her.

Riddle, looking thoughtful, opened his mouth and then closed it, then opened it again. It became clear to Hermione that he was debating on what to say. She looked at him accusingly. "If you are thinking of telling me to leave Hogwarts again, I swear I will kill you."

His eyebrows raised. "Then I am unsure of what it is you want me to say."

"You're fine keeping quiet," she mumbled, picking up one of his Advanced Charms textbooks. It was almost December. Was he studying for the finals? She would have started studying weeks ago. "Just don't be a prat."

They spent the rest of the afternoon in silence, each studying on their own, Hermione's façade of as an average student forgotten in front of him (he already knew; so what was the point?)

The next day, when he reviewed Arithmancy, Hermione went and joined him.