Author's Note: I started writing this because I saw a lot of Professor/Student Tomione fics and wanted to flip the usual roles so Hermione was the teacher. That, and I wanted to find a way to work the Victorian Language of Flowers into a fic. That's how this was born and I'm running with it.

Hogwarts had always been the only place he had ever felt at home, and his second year was even better than his first. He had learned quickly that having muggle parents was looked down upon, so whenever he was asked about it he either directed the conversation elsewhere or heavily stressed that his parentage was unknown, could be anything, even pureblood.

It was annoying that they all depended so heavily on heritage. That was a big thing in Slytherin -who your family was, how much money they had, how many generations your last name went back. Quite frankly, it was pathetic. To depend so heavily on other people was never a good thing, and especially people who haven't earned it. It bothered him that no one seemed to understand the importance of self sufficience, but it was pointless to argue with people too stupid to understand.

At least stupid people were easy to manipulate. Decent manners, good grades, and a well placed smile was all it took for most people. It was easy.

Though his second year was better than his first, that only made it seem as though it was over that much quicker. Before he knew it, he was back on the train and headed back to Wool's, where he could no longer use magic at all unless he was willing to risk expulsion. Given that Hogwarts was the only place he had any opportunity to learn magic, and the only place he knew where being magical was embraced rather than shamed, disbelieved, or feared(which, to be fair, was rational), being expelled was not an option.

Staying in his room for the entire summer, however, was. For the most part, the other orphans were too afraid of him to bother him. He appreciated that. Mrs Cole only ever came by to tell him it was time for meals and to attempt to bring him to church on Sundays. If she offered him something in return, he'd sometimes go. His friends from school didn't understand how to mail a letter, but they knew how to send owls that came directly to his window.

When Malfoy had sent him an owl inviting him to meet up with a few other people at Diagon Alley, he considered ignoring it. Ever since his first year, he had always chosen to go and get everything himself, alone. It's not like he needed help, and he didn't like having someone looking over his shoulder all the time. Still, he hadn't seen his friends all summer and he couldn't call himself a Slytherin if he didn't understand the importance of networking.

Stupid or not, they were rich and gullible and eventually they'd be worth the hassle of having them around.

He got to Diagon Alley early; He didn't need any pompous brats to watch him buy the secondhand robes the school gave him money for. He was always careful in selecting the ones that looked the most gently used, and so far no one had noticed his robes weren't new(he never so much as let a stain form on a shirt), but in his house nearly everyone came from a background of wealth and arrogance. He'd not let them have any further reasons to think themselves above him.

Over the summer, he had taken the time to ask Mrs Cole for any records she had about his family. Unfortunately, there was nothing more than a birth certificate and an old woman's story of the night he was born. Though he knew his mother's name, he didn't have anything he could use to track her family down. All he knew was he was named Tom, after his father, and Marvolo, after her father. It was still a start, and any information could be useful.

He'd go though the school's records when he got back to Hogwarts, he decided. He'd be able to find something. He'd be able to prove that he wasn't the mudblood his peers has accused him of being, and that he was more worthy to study magic than all of them. Obviously, he already knew that, but he wanted to have proof for anyone who dared question it. They might have their families and their last names and everything they could ever want bought with their parents' money(which, admittedly, was good for a lot of things), but they didn't have power. They couldn't even grasp the concept of true power, let alone have it.

But Tom had always known he was different in that sense. He had always had power, control, that others didn't and he knew how to utilize it. Pure blood and money aside, he would always be stronger than them.

After he had gotten his robes and potions supplies, he went into Flourish and Blotts to grab his school books. Eventually his friends would find him, so he saw no need to go looking for them. As he was gathering the last of his textbooks, he heard someone call him.

"Tom!" He turned around, immediately recognizing Malfoy, Lestrange, Avery, and Mulciber. "We thought you weren't coming. We waited for you up at the entrance but we didn't see you."

The idea of a Malfoy waiting around for anything seemed unlikely, but he didn't comment on it. "I've been here for a few hours now."

"Oh, okay. Well we were just going to grab our books."

Tom nodded, and gestured to the books he'd grabbed already. Before he was done, he browsed through the Dark Arts section. It had a limited selection, but the section was interesting nonetheless. He put the textbooks down, picked up a book about the legalities of dark magic, and began reading.

After a few minutes, Malfoy came back with his textbooks and asked if Tom was ready to go. "You can go if you want," Tom answered, not looking up from his book.

Unsurprisingly, they didn't. Since Tom had taught Malfoy how to use a headache jinx in first year, the boy rarely left his side. Mulciber and Lestrange were more Malfoy's friends at first, but since Malfoy listened to him, they did too. Somewhere along the way he had managed to acquire Avery as well, though truthfully he wasn't sure how. It seemed like he just sort of started following them and since no one told him not to, it eventually became normal.

At the orphanage, he didn't have any use for friends. He didn't really like anyone at Hogwarts either, but having friends could occasionally be helpful.

"Do you want me to buy that for you?" Malfoy asked a few minutes later, and Tom couldn't help but be annoyed by the question.

Obviously, he would like the book, but Hogwarts didn't give him much for school supplies and he definitely didn't have enough to get anything extra. He didn't want to be in debt to Malfoy for anything, even if it was completely inconsequential to him.

"No."

He heard a disappointed hum of acknowledgement from Malfoy as he continued reading. He didn't care. They could leave anytime they wanted. It's not like he was holding them hostage. It was hardly his fault that they couldn't figure out how to manage their legs without someone telling them where to go.

So he continued reading, not much caring about the restlessness of the boys next to him or the passing of time, not until-

"Hey, kid with the book!" He looked up into the face of a burly looking man. Based on his clothing, Tom was able to assume he worked here. He looked up at him questioningly, waiting for him to continue. "Some lady just bought you the book you're holding. You can take it."

"Excuse me?" He frowned, not entirely understanding what he had just been told.

"Some lady," the man repeated, dragging each word out as though he were talking to an idiot, "bought you," he pointed to Tom, "that book," and then to the book, "So you can take it. It's yours now."

For the time being, he decided he would ignore how insolent this man was being. "Who?"

The man sighed, looking exasperated. "Bushy hair, tiny, uh, she just left. Just -the book is yours, okay?" He muttered a few things to himself while he turned away, but Tom wasn't listening.

As though his feet had a mind of their own, he walked out of the store and back into Diagon Alley, looking for the woman in question. 'Bushy hair' and 'tiny' didn't give him much to go on, but it was enough. He saw an unruly mop making its way down the street, and he recognized her.

Last year, he had initially compared her hair to that of a dog's.

"Professor Granger!" He called out, and he knew it was definitely her when she stopped and turned around. He walked towards her until he was standing only a few feet away, and she was looking at him with an expression of confusion, like she hadn't expected him to follow.

"Professor Granger, you bought me a book." It wasn't a question, but the uneasy way the words left his mouth made it sound like one.

He watched as she shifted her weight on her feet and her eyes flickered away every time they met his own. "Yes, Tom, I did. You looked rather invested in it."

"It's an interesting book. But why did you get it for me?" He asked, almost defensively, as he urged her to explain. If it were socially correct, he'd just demand that she define her motives. Unfortunately, it wasn't.

"As I said, you looked like you were interested in it. Consider it an investment in your education. Try not to let me down." Her tone had shifted into something more lighthearted, almost like she was joking, but he could feel her nervousness and he was sure she could feel his own apprehension.

"Thank you" he told her, and he knew he probably sounded as uncertain and confused as he felt, before he turned and quickly walked away.

The night back at Wool's, he held the book in his bands like it was a puzzle, and if he just held it a bit longer he'd understand it. He ran his fingertips along the spine, flipped through the pages, and let his eyes follow the words even though he was too distracted to understand a damn sentence of it.

Why had she bought him a book? It wasn't relevant to her class, and it's not like he needed help in that way anyways.

Maybe she just felt bad, a voice in his head whispered, and he felt his stomach clench in disgust. He hated pity. He had no need for it and he definitely didn't want it.

He had been given nothing his entire life, and yet he had always managed to care for himself. The care at the orphanage was the epitome of bare minimum, but he had not only managed to survive but to excel above his peers. Eventually, when he was no longer a student, he'd excel in everything. He didn't need pity. He didn't need help.

Maybe it was just a gift, the voice in his head whispered back again.

Usually just the thought of the word 'gift' was enough to send a shudder down his spine.

Every Christmas, people would donate 'gifts' to the orphanage in what he understood as a pathetic attempt to make themselves feel like good people. Every family Mrs Cole ever forced him to meet declined to adopt him, choosing instead to leave him to rot. They'd always leave 'gifts' though, as if that made it better. Like leaving him a toy truck would somehow make him forget that he was living in a dumpster for children.

Eventually, they'd all regret it.

But this wasn't a toy truck. Even metaphorically, it couldn't compare. It hadn't been handed to him out of guilt or sympathy. It wasn't grabbed off the shelf of a toy store with the thought of 'this will work for a little boy'. It wasn't generic. She bought it for him simply because he liked it. Not because she had to, or because it would make her look better.

But what did she want in return? When Slughorn was nice, it was because he wanted to invest in a person. In his first year, he was barely even old enough to hold a wand and Slughorn still tried to pressure him about his future. When Malfoy was nice, it was an attempt to display superiority. In one way or another, it was always political.

He refused to ever be in debt. Not to her, not to Malfoy, not to anyone.

But, then again, it didn't seem like she wanted anything from him. Which was ridiculous, obviously, but it bothered him that he couldn't understand her motives. She had bolted from the store so fast he barely even knew it was her. How could she benefit from this if he didn't even know who he should thank(which, let it be noted: he did not regularly thank people beyond the bare minimum required to be considered polite)? It really did seem like she just wanted him to have it.

Frustrated, he ordered himself to stop thinking about it.

He had the book now. He hadn't asked for it, so she couldn't demand anything of him for it. He never agreed to anything, but it was his now anyways.

Before he had even gotten back on the train to Hogwarts, he had read it cover to cover four times.

The beginning of the year wasn't unusual. He had made it through a few months with nothing of significance happening. Usually, he ignored the mindless chatter of the hallways. He didn't much care about Quidditch or what fifth years were caught snogging in which broom closet. However, when he had heard Melanie Lovegood, a fourth year Ravenclaw, mention to Malfoy that Professor Granger was supposedly doing something different in class that day, he listened.

When he had asked Meanie what she meant, she said she didn't know exactly but that she had heard people talking about it. Supposedly something really scary, it would seem.

When he got to class that day and saw a wardrobe sitting in the front of the room, he couldn't help but wonder what the lesson would be. Normally, she didn't bring any actual creatures in. He noticed a quiet rattling coming the dresser, though it seemed he was the only one. No one else had even looked up from their conversations. Not until a massive bang nearly tipped the dresser over, the noise causing half the class to jump in their seats.

He looked back to the Professor, and noticed just a hint of a smirk grace her lips before she willed it back into the neutral expression she preferred. "I see that some of you have noticed that I brought a guest with me today to help with the lesson. Any guesses as to what it is that is in here?"

Surprisingly, people actually did guess. Though their suggestions ranged between unlikely(a trapped poltergeist -if trapping a poltergeist was that easy, they'd have gotten rid of peeves by now) and completely ridiculous(a rabid house elf would be killed, not locked in a wardrobe and used to terrorize children), so it wasn't much of an improvement from the usual silence. "Very creative guesses, but incorrect. What is actually in here is a boggart. Can anyone tell me what a boggart is?"

While he may not have been familiar with the term, another Slytherin tentatively raised her hand. Her answer was short, and most likely oversimplified, he was sure. A shapeshifter that turns into something you fear.

"Correct, but is that all it does?" Most of the class started looking around, trying to see if anyone knew. He had a suspicion that it was a trick question. "Yes, that is all it does. A boggart can't hurt you, only scare you. You're probably wondering why I've brought it here if it's not a dangerous creature you'll need to know how to protect yourself from.

"As stated, a boggart is able to turn into something you fear. More specifically, it takes the form of your worst fear. Now, let's very briefly get one thing straight: fear is not your enemy. Due to its unpleasant nature, fear is often misunderstood. Fear is, in a way, a gift. It protects us, keeps us safe, and warns us of danger. That's a very good thing. Fear can help keep us alive. The problem comes when we let fear control us, which is precisely why we're having this lesson today. To learn to control a boggart is to control your fear. Keeping your head despite fear can be the difference between life or death in some situations."

He liked the idea of that, he decided. Taking fear, something unpleasant, usually a hindrance, and dealing with pragmatically, turning it into a tool to be used.

She continued to explain more about the nature of a boggart, as well as showing the class the Riddikulus charm, before she set up a conjured barrier dividing the class. She explained that they'd each have the opportunity to deal with the boggart privately with her supervision.

Typically, he would volunteer to go first to be involved in these activities. He loved the hands on learning and any time he got to practice magic he would. But this time, he was hesitant.

Nervously, he watched as person after person took their turn to literally face their worst fears. He wondered what they had seen. Some of them looked normal, seeming to be unaffected by it. Some of the other students, well, they didn't. They looked pale, fingers nervously shaking, and their skin had taken on a bit of a sheen caused by anxious perspiration.

He didn't want that to be him.

Still, he needed to practice. He needed to know how to do this, so he would. He reminded himself over and over again in his head it can't hurt you. Only scare you. He remembered what Professor Granger had said, about fear being a gift, about how it served a purpose. With that in mind, he forced his legs to push him from his chair and walk him forward. She looked to him for a sign of acknowledgement, or an agreement he was ready, but he refused to look back, keeping his eyes fixed on the wardrobe in front of him. With a flick of her wand, the wardrobe opened.

If he could have known what he would see, it would be easier. He would have been able to prepare then. He had never liked the unknown, hated feeling vulnerable, and watching the thing in front of him half shift between a million different frightening forms wasn't helping. He reminded himself again, it can't hurt you, it can't hurt you, it can't hurt you, waiting for it to take form.

When it finally did, he swore he could feel his blood freeze in his veins, weighing down his limbs, paralyzing him, forcing him to look at the scene in front of him.

It can't hurt you, she had said. She had been right. The thing in front of him couldn't do anything anymore.

His own lifeless eyes, glass-like and inanimate, stared back at him from the floor, the boggart having taken the form of his own corpse. It's skin was sickly, and though he refused to touch it, he was sure it was cold as ice.

Dead.

He thought of his mother, and how he never got to even know what she looked like because she had died only moments after he was born.

Dead.

He thought of how a few years back, there was a measles outbreak in London, and two of the kids at Wool's didn't live through it. Mrs Cole had made all the kids stay in their rooms when they removed the bodies, but he knew what had happened. He knew they had died.

Dead.

Unable to move, he kept staring at its cold, pale form. Dead. He was dead and he was going to die and he didn't want to die, but he didn't have a choice because he was dead and-

Fingers snapped in front of his face, startling him out of the panic.

"Look at me." He snapped his head towards the voice, his eyes falling onto Professor Granger, who had leaned in next to him. "You're perfectly safe here. It's just a boggart; It can't hurt you. You know how to handle this. You're stronger than this. We both know you can do this. Control your fear. Get rid of it."

He closed his eyes and inhaled, willing himself to be in control again. He wasn't dead. It's just a boggart. It was just a boggart, and he was a wizard. He could get rid of it.

He opened his eyes and grasped his wand, determined to control the situation. He looked at the boggart again, this time separating its appearance from his own fears, allowing himself to see it for what it was.

He tried to think of something, anything really, that would be classified as 'funny', just so that the charm would work. His first thought was to change it to someone else's body, but he had a feeling that would bring up a lot of questions he did not want to answer. So he decided instead to remember the ragdoll that Amy Benson had had when he was seven, the way he used to cut it open with the scissors in the art supply bucket, and the look on Amy's face when he had magically made the stuffing look like intestines.

Yeah, that would work.

Raising his wand, he pointed it directly at the body, imagining that stupid doll Amy used to play with, and the look on her stupid face when she saw it.

"Riddikulus"

If he hadn't been watching so intently, he'd have missed the way the skin of the corpse started to melt into a fabric, and the way the hair became stringy and red until it resembled bright red yarn. The lifeless eyes replaced themselves with buttons, just as lifeless, though no longer menacing.

He had done it. Professor Granger encouraged him, reminded him, and, admittedly, helped him, but the action was his. The control was his.

In that moment, he was reminded of what it meant to truly feel powerful. Of why he loved magic so much in the first place.

After classes ended, the boggart was nearly all anyone was talking about in the Slytherin common room(and, he assumed all the other ones too). Usually, he ignored these conversations, not much caring for anyone's opinions.

But he noticed something out of the little bits and pieces he had actually listened to: Granger hadn't helped anyone else.

"Avery, what did she say when you told her you couldn't do it?"

Avery suddenly looked embarrassed, and Tom wanted to tell him he couldn't care less about his magical incompetence, that he just wanted him to answer the question. "She told me it was alright, that it was a hard charm to get the hang of, and that eventually I'd get it."

He said something else then, but Tom had stopped listening.

We both know you can do this -that's what she had said. To him, though. Only to him. Not to Avery, and, by the looks of it, not to anyone else. She knew he was different.

Without further thought, he got up and walked out of the common room.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do once he got to her office, but he felt like he had to go there. It felt like strings were dragging him forward, telling him he needed to see her now. She knew he was special. She'd proven that.

He knew he was special too, but until now it seemed he was the only one who did. Slughorn had called him "bright" but he completely missed the point. His brilliance didn't exist to be marketed off of by a talentless old man.

But, once again, Granger had shown that she understood, appreciated it, even, but didn't demand anything in return. She just wanted him to succeed because, like him, she knew he was supposed to.

He stopped a few corridors short of her office when he realized he was being ridiculous. Normally, everything he did was thought out, careful, planned -always controlled. But now he only had a vague notion of what he was going to do.

It frustrated him to know that she could do this, make him so unsure, and it bothered him even more because he was sure it was unintentional. He didn't know what he wanted to say her, and even more, what he should say(he did not want a repeat of the Dumbledore situation).

He couldn't just thank her, could he? 'Thank you for doing your job' -No, that's ridiculous. But he felt compelled to say something, or do something, just to show that he knew. That he understood.

He resumed walking until he reached her office door, and knocked. No response. Sometimes, he knew, she ignored the knocks, or just didn't hear them. Hesitantly, he lightly turned the doorknob, wondering if she was even there.

It was locked.

He frowned. Why would it be locked? None of the teachers locked their offices. Their private rooms were hidden and the offices didn't really hold anything personal, so there was no need.

Feeling more than a little curious, he glanced around the corridor. It was empty. Perfect. He took out his wand and cast an Alohomora, feeling satisfied when he heard the lock click open.

When he stepped in, the first thing he noticed was that her walls were covered in bookshelves. Where Merrythought had hung portraits, Granger had removed them to create as much room as possible for books. He thought books were a nice improvement; Portraits talk too much.

Browsing through the shelves, he noticed that they were all meticulously organized, having them divided first by subject, and then by author and publication date. She'd notice if he took one, or even so much as moved one, he was sure.

He had just moved to another shelf when suddenly he stopped in his tracks. A subdued banging noise came from the shelf(more accurately, behind the shelf) in front of him, and the books bumped against each other in their places. He raised his wand, thinking that maybe it was another boggart(she did say they have a habit of hiding in dark places), when he heard another noise.

"Mreow!"

Scratching. More banging, and then another hideous wail.

He grinned. He had most likely just found the entrance to her room, even if he didn't know how to open it yet. She had a cat. Nothing of value to hide that he could see, but she had to keep her office locked, lest someone hear the desperate wails of this animal and mistakenly let it escape.

Or, she really was hiding something. That was still a possibility.

He heard the clock tower, and he knew he couldn't stay much longer. Any further investigation would have to happen later. If she liked him now, which he was sure she did, she wouldn't anymore if she came in and found that he had broken into her office.

That thought only dragged him back to his original problem, before he was distracted by books and locked doors and screaming cats: what was he doing?

The rational answer would be 'nothing'. If he didn't want to get caught having snuck in here, he would leave immediately. She wasn't here yet, and if waited until she was, the conversation would likely revolve around how much detention he'd be getting for doing this.

He knew he should just leave, he really did, but he didn't want to. That compelling force was still there, and he knew leaving wouldn't get rid of it.

One time in Transfiguration, Mulciber spent twenty minutes helping Longbottom turn a matchstick into a needle. Dumbledore had left a lemon drop on his desk for all his efforts(pitiful as they were).

This wouldn't work in his own situation for a number of reasons; You can't conjure food and stealing from Dumbledore's desk would take so much effort it would defeat its own purpose, not to mention that he highly doubted Granger was stupid enough to eat mysterious objects that appear on her desk simply because they looked like food.

He could apply the same theory, though. A gift to show appreciation for her efforts.

He remembered a book he had read the summer after his first year about unusual forms of communication. It talked about the Language of Flowers, and how the flowers could be used to say things that a person couldn't. It was a way to nonverbally send a message -any message, as each flower had its own meaning- without fear of repercussion. If it weren't for the romantic associations, it would be perfect, but he could work around that.

She had given him a book. He'd give her a flower. They'd be even. She'd understand. She was smart -smarter than Dumbledore, definitely.

He used his wand to conjure a sunflower. Gratitude. Appreciation.

He left it on her desk. He knew she'd understand.