The Scientist

Author's Note: WOW. I cannot believe the amazing responses I got from the first chapter. You guys are so awesome! I'm trying to keep this story brief. We will see, lol. Please keep the reviews coming!

Disclaimer: see chapter one.

Chapter Two: Undertow

Tom Marvolo Riddle did not dream. He had never once before had a dream in his entire life. Nightmares? Yes. He generally had nightmares. Waking in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, shaking and clutching his covers around him, was a common occurrence. Ever since the orphanage, when he'd found out...

The usual nausea at the memories was quelled when he got out of his bed and stumbled across the hardwood floors to his study. Normally logic helped him: critical theories, cold and cruel logic, the beauty of icy fact. Tom Riddle felt if he could simply live in logic itself he could find that elusive thing that other people possessed, the one thing he himself could not possess: happiness.

But tonight logic did not help him, for he had not been awoken by a nightmare as he usually was. Tom traced a path back to the large window in his apartment overlooking the city street with glimmering neon lights and brake lights and street lights. What had he dreamed of? It was strange, to have dreams. It was both fleeting and returning in waves, yet all the while fading. His fingers curled against the glass as he rested his forehead against the cool surface, closing his eyes and hoping for clarity.

Warmth...

Abruptly he pulled away from the window and, mechanically, returned to his study. Tom Riddle had no patience for self-indulgent wonderings. He found his glasses and switched on the light, immersing himself in his latest case. As always, the rest of the world faded away, as he wished it would always. Still the feeling of warmth clung to him, the notion of being wrapped up very tightly in a blanket. It had been so pleasant.

"Disgusting," he said aloud. There was no response because his life was empty. Only the noises of the city outside filled the silence in which he lived.

Weeks passed, though no pleasing developments occurred in her quest to glean insight into the mysterious Dr. Riddle. His name is entirely too fitting, she mused as she bustled down the road towards the future location of Weasley Wheezes and Co. She had broken out her oldest, baggiest, most embarrassing pair of pants and a sweatshirt riddled with holes. Today she was going to help Fred and George paint their new store, although considering the avalanche of work she had, it had not been wise to agree to such a thing.

The air was crisp: fall had certainly arrived, carrying with it a sense of excitement. Hermione was happy for Fred and George...but she was also excited to see Fred. She had not seen him since the night at the Three Broomsticks. Now Dr. Riddle's words came back to her just as she stopped in front of an empty storefront, squinting into the front display window.

Either fuck him or not.

Did he have to put it quite so crudely? Still, he was right: this dithering sort of flirting was no good. Fred and Angelina were probably going to marry soon, and it was her responsibility, as both a moral person and as a friend, to not hit on Fred Weasley.

If only things with Ron and I had worked... In high school they had had the sort of romance that had never gotten off the ground and mostly involved melodramatic tears and shouting. College had brought not maturity but higher self-esteem and it had only taken one night of drinking for them to tumble into bed together. Since then they had been picking up the pieces of their friendship and awkwardly fitting them back together. It was a shame things had not worked out, but in bed it had quickly become very clear that they had been very mistaken, and what they had interpreted as chemistry was actually just friction between two very different people.

Hermione put aside her reminiscing when she realized she had found the right shop. Hesitantly, she opened the front door which had peeling, graying paint.

"'Mione!" George greeted cheerfully and Hermione burst into laughter at the sight of them. Fred and George seemed to be more caught up in painting each other than the walls around them. They had chosen a lurid orange with violent after-effects on the eyes. Behind them, Harry was doing a rather poor job of stripping hideous mildewed flowery paper from the walls, swearing loudly in the process.

"Thank god you're here," Harry grumbled, ducking out of the way as Fred sailed by, wielding a paint-covered brush particularly irresponsibly. Unfortunately, Hermione's reflexes were not quite as impressive as Harry's, and she found herself sputtering at a large glob of paint dripping down her face.

"Fred Weasley! That stuff is toxic!" She wiped it off her face and lunged for the Weasley twin, managing to slap an orange hand-print on his ratty tee shirt where the orange clashed horribly with his hair. She flushed when her hand came in contact with lean muscle. They began laughing, chasing each other around, as George and Harry looked on in uncertain amusement.

Harry turned away from the giggling pair and back to his job, shaking his head to himself. He had known both Fred and Hermione longer than he hadn't known them at this point, and he knew the telltale signs of when they were attracted to someone. And judging by their behavior, Hermione knew she liked Fred but was unwilling to accept it and most likely fighting at her attraction, and Fred...was probably pretending to be oblivious to his own actions, as usual. Harry was a bit relieved when Hermione finally gave up and began delegating tasks to everyone rather bossily, because it meant that when Angelina came in, she wouldn't find her boyfriend of over ten years chasing around Hermione. Angelina was no fool and would see what was going on immediately. Rather like he had, and rather like he somehow knew George had.

He resolved to talk to Hermione about it later. Knowing her, she didn't need telling twice to stay away from Fred. And he knew Fred would never cheat on Angelina intentionally. But it seemed silly to disrupt a relationship that had lasted over a decade quite peacefully because of a moment's attraction.

Hermione winced, feeling guilty that she had interacted with Fred at all. But we've behaved like this before without any undercurrent, she reminded herself, taking to helping Harry strip the horrifying wallpaper from the plaster. I just need to get over it. Still, she knew Harry was shooting her rather shrewd looks, and she took to not meeting his eyes for the rest of the morning.

Later on, the other Weasley siblings showed up—even workaholic Percy—as well as Angelina and Lee Jordan. Ron brought his friends Dean and Seamus, who later invited a girl named Luna that Hermione had never met before. Apparently, Ron had never met her either, and it was amusing to watch as Luna seemed instantly attracted to Ron. Every time he made any joke, she laughed far harder than anyone else. Luna was definitely an oddity, and Ron seemed too surprised by the look of pure wonder etched on the blonde's face every time she looked at him to even be flattered.

There was also the bitter exchange of retorts between Harry and Ginny, who had arrived wearing clothes not suitable for painting in in the slightest. Hermione found herself unintentionally meeting Fred's eyes as Harry and Ginny's snipping began to take over as they argued about the proper method for stripping wallpaper (neither was doing it right, actually.). Hermione looked away quickly, as did Fred. Guilt wrenched her gut every time she looked at him, especially in front of Angelina.

You are too moral for this absurd behavior, she reminded herself. After a day of painting, they all went to the Three Broomsticks for drinks and dinner, still wearing paint-splattered clothes and perhaps a bit wonky from the fumes. But Weasley Wheezes was coming along: the walls were all excruciatingly orange, and tomorrow, the purple accents would be added. Hermione was filled with a sense of accomplishment as she ate with her friends. More butterbeer was consumed, but by ten o'clock, the drink of choice seemed to be straight firewhiskey which did not bode well. Knowing she tended to spill things better kept to herself under the influence of firewhiskey, Hermione declined.

She looked around at her friends as they laughed and talked with each other, and found herself mulling over the most recent reading for Dr. Riddle's class. It had been a particularly complicated piece that she still wasn't quite grasping. As usual when she did not understand an assignment, Hermione's stomach began to tie itself into knots of anxiety. Normally she might've gone to the professor's office hours to get a fresh point of view, but in this class her pride forbade her from asking for help from Dr. Riddle. It was likely he'd just make fun of her and inform her that she was too stupid to pass his class. As usual her contrary spirit roared to life and Hermione frowned in determination: come hell or high water, she was not going to get anything less than an A in this class.

"I think I'm going to head out. Really tired and all," she said to Harry. Luckily Harry was too involved watching rather rapturously as Ginny drank from her beer bottle, and could only grunt unintelligibly at Hermione's words. Only Fred seemed aware that she was leaving, but when they made eye-contact, they each looked away as though scalded. Hermione got out of her seat and left the bar without any actual goodbyes. It wasn't that she was antisocial, but she always keenly sensed that some of her friends found her to be a bit of a spoilsport, with her apparently absurd work ethic. She always felt embarrassed about leaving early, but not embarrassed enough to stay longer.

It was bitingly chilly outside, and she shoved her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt as she rushed down the sidewalk, across Hogsmeade, back to her lonely flat. It's not lonely, she reminded herself. Crookshanks is there. It's cozy. You'll have your tea and your reading...

A flash of recognition jolted her from her inner musings; Dr. Riddle and the woman that Hermione had seen him with at the Three Broomsticks a few weeks ago were walking towards her. Hermione contemplated crossing the street to avoid them, but they were closing in on her now and she knew it was too late: Dr. Riddle had seen her.

"Well, if it isn't the infamous Miss Granger," he greeted as they each slowed to a stop in front of each other. Hermione noted his dark eyes sweeping over her form, taking in her apparel with a flicker of amusement. "Bella, darling, this is one of my most promising students. Miss Granger, this is Bellatrix Lestrange."

"She doesn't look like much," Bellatrix sneered, her hooded eyes roving over Hermione with deep disdain. Hermione felt her cheeks flush with irritation, but before she could speak, Dr. Riddle had interrupted her.

"I assure you that Miss Granger will be a name you'll hear again, Bella. It would behoove you to at least try to play nice," Dr. Riddle drawled. Bellatrix's face flushed as a gleaming black car pulled up to the curb next to the trio.

"Rodolphus," Bellatrix explained resentfully as the window rolled down and an impotent-looking man peered out of it. "Night, Tom," she said breathlessly, breast heaving, turning to Dr. Riddle momentarily. To his credit, Dr. Riddle looked supremely indifferent to her lust and merely nodded as the woman stomped around to the passenger's side, slamming the car door shut. This left Dr. Riddle and Hermione alone together.

"Well, I suppose you chose to not fuck him, then," Dr. Riddle concluded, his stunning grey eyes lingering on her paint-splattered sweatshirt.

"What on earth is that supposed to mean?" Hermione demanded. Dr. Riddle's pale lips twisted into a smirk that left her weak in the knees.

"Oh, just an observation that had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with the fact that your getup is oddly reminiscent of a lesbian artsy type," he said innocently, raising elegant brows at her. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I've had enough ego-razing for one evening, thanks," she said shortly, making to push past him.

"But you haven't even told me what you thought of the article yet, and I am positive you've already read it," he called after her. Hermione turned back to him, trying not to focus too much on how his charcoal suit exactly matched his eyes.

"It was... muddled," she said hesitantly. Her pride forced her to not admit that she hadn't understood it. "Badly written." Dr. Riddle's eyes were set aglow with pleasure.

"Or is there a chance you simply did not grasp the meaning?"

Hermione bristled.

"No chance. It was a bit crap, actually, and I'm appalled you'd have us read the ramblings of a disgusting man such as Salazar Slytherin," she snapped. "I don't care if he was a venerated philosopher; he was a megalomaniacal psychopath with no grip on reality. His theories have no logic to them whatsoever, and frankly, I don't think he should even be included in the same school of philosophy as Gryffindor and the others."

She paused to catch her breath. Dr. Riddle was staring at her with those haunting, penetrating eyes again. Her skin warmed under his stare. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a thirty minute walk home and I'm rather exhausted, as I was painting all day." She turned again and again his voice stopped her in her tracks.

"I'm heading to my car. I'll drive you home," he said quietly. Hermione looked over her shoulder at him warily. Was it right to accept a ride home from a professor? But she doubted Dr. Riddle had any 'motives.' "I'm intrigued by your view of Slytherin," he explained. "Come." And without a furhter word, he began walking again. Out of sheer curiosity, as was often the case for why Hermione did things, she followed him.

"I live down the road from Gladrags," she said as she trotted to catch up to his long, graceful strides.

"Convenient. I live around the corner from Gladrags."

His car was a Firebolt parked illegally (big surprise there). Hermione gasped; Harry was a car-lover and he and Ron had been frothing at the mouths about the firebolt for ages nonstop. It was a green so dark it almost was black, and inside was sleek black leather. Hermione felt guilty about getting into such a fancy car in paint and dust covered clothing, but as Dr. Riddle apparently was not worried, she decided she wouldn't either.

And surprise, surprise: it was a stickshift. Hermione snorted at the sight.

"I suppose being a professor pays better than I thought," she observed as the car started smoothly. Dr. Riddle scoffed.

"Being a professor is little more than a hobby. My true occupation is in the court," he explained, hitting the gas so hard that Hermione was thrown back. The engine purred in such a way that even Hermione, whose knowledge of cars was limited to being able to identify which logo went with which car, could appreciate. "You really believe Slytherin was a psychopath?" They zoomed through a red light and Hermione winced. She chanced a glance over at Dr. Riddle, whose skin was lit up by the neon signs from outside. She was quite suddenly possessed by the ridiculous notion that it might be nice to run her tongue over the shell of his ear. Blushing furiously, she shook that thought away.

"Of course he was, Dr. Riddle," she said emphatically. "His ideology about intelligence and how society is inherently flawed is just...immoral. It's simply wrong."

"And you'd argue that Hufflepuff or, god forbid, Gryffindor were any less skewed?" He seemed genuinely intrigued. His interest in her was like a warm light shining overhead and she warmed with the flattery of his attention.

"I never said that. They're definitely skewed, but at least they're not evil. And don't forget Ravenclaw; she was no angel herself."

"Maybe not evil, but Hufflepuff's ideas are essentially early Communism, without even the sensible parts of that theory. It doesn't get much more idiotic than that," Dr. Riddle sneered. Privately Hermione agreed with him, but she somehow could not bring herself to agree out loud with him. It was like her very blood commanded her to argue with him.

"Forget Hufflepuff," she said dismissively, "the interesting one is Godric Gryffindor."

"I admit I'm impressed you're so well-read, but I'm a little disappointed as well, Miss Granger." They were coming to the crossroad now near her apartment; how had the drive gone by so quickly? Perhaps because he completely ignored red lights and, for that matter, road rules in general? she pointed out to herself with an inward smirk.

"Disappointed?"

"You failed to understand that Gryffindor and Slytherin have, for the most part, the same essential views...Just different manners of expressing them. Perhaps Gryffindor was a bit more...politically correct, shall we say, but in the end hardly distinguishable from his colleague, Slytherin."

"I guess," she agreed, chewing her lip. He did have a point, sadly. "Looks like we're here."

Dr. Riddle pulled up to the curb in front of her building so fast that when they braked, she was nearly pitched into the glove compartment. "Thanks. I appreciated that," she said, feeling uncomfortable. For a moment they were silent as they stared at each other rather appraisingly. Then something occurred to her, and Hermione frowned. "And thanks for...the advice, I guess, that you gave me a few weeks ago. It made me realize I was being a crappy friend by flirting with that guy."

Dr. Riddle's gaze was scorching as he tilted his head to regard her carefully. Finally, after what seemed an age, he spoke.

"But...you could win, you know," he said thoughtfully.

"Win?"

"Win. Steal the guy."

"That's completely wrong. I would never do something like that," Hermione sputtered. "Good night, Dr. Riddle," she added hotly as she moved to get out of the car.

"It's just a hypothesis." His words stopped her again and she watched him, waiting for him to continue. "You want to be a lawyer, correct? Well, sometimes you are faced with something you need to do that seems wrong or unpleasant or disagreeable. You might be against it morally. You might feel your client is completely guilty. But you have to make your case, or else you'll be out of a job. You can't be a good friend; you must learn to be a good winner."

"Always going for the kill?" Hermione asked wryly. Dr. Riddle smirked. "Sorry, but first of all: I don't believe in that kind of behavior. Second of all: that guy is very happily in a relationship with his girlfriend, and he has been for over ten years now." She didn't even know why, really, she was telling Dr. Riddle all of this. He looked pensive for a moment.

"But you could do it. You could charm your way into his life. Odds are you already have."

"No, Fred's not that type of guy," said Hermione flatly.

"If you still are under the impression that you can know a man without him having imagined you naked at least once, you've a lot of growing up to do. Now, what are you still doing in my car? Get out."

In a daze, Hermione stumbled out of his car and up to her apartment, feeling like she had just been given a ride home by the devil himself.

"Wait, where did Hermione go?" Angelina said suddenly.

"She left like half an hour ago," Fred said automatically. Angelina looked guilty but shook her head.

"We should call and make sure she's okay. If you saw her leaving, why didn't you walk her home or something? I hope she's alright..." Angelina began dialing Hermione's cell phone; Fred carefully avoided both George and Harry's eyes. He knew they both suspected something, and he wasn't about to give them any more reason to. "Hermione!" Angelina greeted brightly.

Angelina listened for a moment and, quite suddenly, let out a shriek.

"What's going on now?" Ginny, who tended to be a bit of a surly drunk, demanded with a glare at Angelina. Angelina smirked.

"Guess who got a ride home from the lovely Dr. Riddle?" she waggled her eyebrows lasciviously and Ginny let out a shriek as well.

"The hot professor? So jealous!"

"He's not hot, he's a complete arse," Harry argued immediately. Angelina rolled her eyes and questioned Hermione further. Finally she hung up.

"You know, I'm worried about that girl. I think she actually has a crush on Dr. Riddle. We should set her up with someone, you guys..." Angelina's eyes drifted to Percy meaningfully.

"Why don't you just let her do what she wants?" Fred asked, feeling irritated for no good reason. Angelina looked taken aback and he instantly felt guilty. "Sorry. I just think she seems happy enough on her own," he explained hastily. Angelina looked angry though now, and for the rest of the night was notably cold towards him. He couldn't blame her, as he had been a real git lately.

Staring into the bottom of his glass of firewhisky, Fred considered his behavior. He loved Angelina, and she deserved more than he could give right now. She didn't deserve a guy who was preoccupied with thoughts of his little brother's best friend. He decided he would have to ask her to go on a break until he could get his head on straight, as he realized he could not quite act responsibly around Hermione. When they had been painting that afternoon, his mind had been clouding with ideas of how to make her laugh, or to get her alone. It was just plain dishonest, even if it was just a stupid passing crush.

And later that night, Angelina was understandably pissed when he told her he needed a time-out from them and their relationship. Thus Fred joined George at their new flat above the shop, which was entirely devoid of furniture. Yet he could not bring himself to feel too upset as he tried to curl up on the softest bit of floor in his room.

Perhaps he'd ring Hermione tomorrow.