Title: The Pensieve

A/N: My apologies, since a part of this story was written while sleep-deprived. If you can guess where that was, I'll need more sleep next time.


The next day, Hermione was cranky. Neither she nor Tom had slept. They had sneaked out of the Magic Room a little before sunrise. Hermione, a nervous wreck—for even the Head Boy and Girl were only supposed to be allowed out of their dorms until their corridor patrol was finished at around 11 PM. Yet Tom Riddle, the smug bastard, had strolled to the Slytherin dungeons with relative ease. It was obvious he had misbehaved before.

At sunrise, unable to sleep, Hermione grimaced at her tired face before quickly brushing her bushy hair. She mentally wondered why she even bothered. No matter what she did, she would never be pretty like Willow or Edwina, or any of the other girls she shared her dorm with. Tom Riddle, on the other hand, was devastatingly handsome—

Hermione blushed.

The fact that he had suddenly come up in her mind was nothing to be happy about. Hermione kicked herself for casting him in a favorable light, superficial as it was. True, Riddle was handsome, if some other girls were to be believed, but Hermione knew better. He was an insufferable, narcissistic bigot with a nasty condescending attitude and a penchant for intimidation. She wouldn't be surprised if he ended up being as evil a wizard as Grindelwald.

But he did have some redeeming characteristics. Hermione smiled as she remembered her last few hours stuck with him. They were studying the Pensieve Tom had found, the first one she'd seen up close in her lifetime. Riddle taught her how it was used and told her all about the one in Headmaster Dippet's office, how he'd seen him place a memory once, what it looked like when someone used it—it was all fascinating to her. Then they started pointing out interesting characteristics and throwing ideas about how it worked. Tom was especially interested in other possible uses and Hermione, she wanted to know everything. Tom had been wonderful, she had never had such a profoundly intellectual conversation with another person before and—

And she just wished Tom didn't have to be such a horrible human being, when he had such a brilliant mind.

The excitement Hermione got from remembering the Pensive was quickly deflated when she remembered whom she was thinking so highly of. Tom Riddle was not her friend, not that Hermione the bookworm ever had any friends. After seven years at Hogwarts, the closest thing to friendship she had found was with the teachers and the students she would offer to tutor. And Tom, who was so blatantly prejudiced, who was so openly disdainful of everyone and anyone he considered to be beneath him, who frequently scorned her just for her muggle-born blood, he was surrounded by people who loved and admired him, succumbing to his superficial charm. The world wasn't fair. Hermione hated Tom Riddle for it.

The Gryffindor Head Girl got dressed, took her book bag and went to the Great Hall for breakfast. The seats were mostly empty due to the early hour and, to be honest, Hermione liked it that way. It had always been uncomfortable to sit in crowds, painfully aware of how she was left ignored with her books while others engaged in friendly conversation. No, no, she told herself. It was much better to catch up on her Defense Against the Dark Arts homework if she wanted to get the best grades on their next test. Oh, but it was so difficult to concentrate while sharing a class with the Slytherins! And Hermione had never been as good with Defense as Riddle was.

Speak of the Devil, she thought, as Tom Riddle entered the Great Hall. He was early to breakfast and without his cronies for once. Hermione nibbled on a piece of toast as she pretended not to notice him sitting down at the Slytherin table and serving himself some toast and tea. Tom Riddle, on the other hand, did not have to pretend his detachment. She saw him take out a quill from his bag as well as a piece of parchment and busily scribble in it. Hermione wondered what he could be writing about before remembering her own Defense homework.

"Good morning, Hermione!" the cheery voice of Melvin Abbott, a second-year Gryffindor she had once tutored, greeted the witch. Hermione glanced up from her books and parchment and gave the boy a half-smile and a quick "Oh, good morning Melvin! How are you?"

"Couldn't be better! I'm doing very well in Transfiguration now, thanks to you," the little boy beamed proudly. Hermione smiled politely as the back of her mind wondered what Riddle could be doing.

"Oh, you're busy, right?" Melvin blushed, looking at her books and parchment sprawled rather freely all over the almost empty dining table. "Heh… Sorry. I know how you are with your classes. Can't beat the great Hermione Granger!" he joked, beaming his approval and grabbing a few muffins. "I was really here for breakfast on the go, actually. We're going to play an early match of Quidditch and—oh! Yeah! Your studies! Sorry! I've gotta run now—Good luck, Hermione! Gryffindor is bound to get the House Cup this year!" And with that last cheerleader-esque bout of encouragement, he left.

Hermione was left wondering if she should have encouraged him to stay.

No, but he was busy, she reasoned. He was just being polite. She just wished they all wouldn't treat her like she belonged to a different species who subsisted only on books. Even though she did, in fact, subsist almost only on books, and knowledge.

Once again, she glanced at Riddle only to see him deeper into his parchment, his brow furrowed in concentration. She briefly wondered what brilliant thing he could be thinking, it was marvelous to watch.

A fleeting thought passed through her mind and she contemplated the vague possibility of someday getting into his mind.


Independent study was a privilege assigned to those seventh year students who were deemed to be considerably ahead in their own classes and therefore capable of independent research. Most years, the only students considered capable of independent research had been the Head students. Sadly, this year was no exception.

Hermione inconspicuously glared at the boy sitting across from her. Tom Riddle's incessant note-writing was getting on her nerves. It was needless to say that, since September, the small confined section of the library they shared had become the place of biggest torment. They signed into the hidden room, spent three hours together Fridays through Sundays, and then signed out. In exchange for this, they got extra credit, several valuable letters of recommendation and the most valuable resource either of them could ask for: unrestricted access to the Restricted Section of the library.

Tom Riddle, of course, also had an added benefit to all this: a chance to further aggravate Hermione in what could only be a twisted plot to cause her cardiac rupture.

Yet today he had been strangely quiet. No thinly-veiled insults to her intelligence, no comments about her alleged low birth, nothing. It was almost as if she didn't exist. Hermione found she would have quite enjoyed the silence, had she been able to concentrate at all on her own essay, On the benefits of the liberation of House Elves ("a rather boring, unimaginative title," Riddle had professed, after snatching her notes but a week ago).

She found herself staring, but she couldn't help it. Where Hermione's own writing was hesitant, full of double checking and bibliographical annotations, Tom Riddle's writing was more dignified, fluid. She hated to be forced to wonder what on Earth he could be writing about, having never been able to see Hogwart's current Head Boy so dedicatedly poring over a subject. His focus was so intense; it was like she wasn't in this room at all. She caught a glimpse of his writing—runes.

Of course he would be writing in runes. So bloody brilliant, that could practically be his code language. A nasty pang of envy reached her as she once again became aware of the fluidity of his actions, how naturally it all came to him. Yes, Hermione Granger also excelled in the study of Ancient Runes; but where her rune writing came with excruciating headaches and as well as occasional trips to a dictionary for translations, Tom freaking Riddle was already using runes as a way to keep whatever it was he was writing from—from who?

Probably from her, most likely.

Hermione's lips pursed at the implications of the act. It was no secret she had exceeded at every class; Runes was not an exception. The fact that Riddle thought he could get away with writing in runes to keep information from her was not only insulting, it was so preposterous she wondered who he thought he was dealing with at all.

She read again, and even upside-down she was able to make out the words mirror, gate, and—

"If you think I will allow you to steal my ideas," Tom Riddle said suddenly, causing Hermione to jump and redden visibly, "you are sadly mistaken. We are partners now, are we not? All will be learned in due time."

"I'm sorry—partners?" she questioned him in disbelief. Dark patronizing eyes raised up to meet her own.

"We swore an allegiance last night," his tone didn't ask, it declared. "You serve me and I give you what you want the most. Lord Voldemort is generous."

"Who?" her head was spinning, this was entirely bizarre.

"Me," Riddle said simply as he got up from his seat in one smooth movement, a tiny smirk forming in his handsome features. His attitude exuded a complete authority as he looked down at her. Hermione would have snorted had she not been talking to someone who was not only a complete megalomaniac, but had the power and aptitude to back it up. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort. It's an amusing anagram, don't you think? Flight from death."

"It sounds like a bad precautionary tale," Hermione muttered. It did not seem to bother Riddle in the least.

"Look, I don't want to be your partner," the witch continued, already feeling a migraine coming on due to sheer Riddle exposure. "I don't even want to be in the same room as you. You're malicious, selfish, bigoted… Can't you just say we're working on a… a mutual project? After all, what would all your little cronies think?"

Tom smiled. "Our agreement stays between us. You know I need you, Hermione."

Whoa. Whoa. Was Tom Riddle flashing her his pearly whites? She suddenly felt her inadequacy, and it stung. "Are you trying to charm me? Don't you think I've seen you at the Slug Club enough?"

He chuckled just as she'd seen him chuckle a hundred times before: it was measured, rehearsed and completely charming. Then his eyes darkened, and a surprisingly warm hand forcefully grabbed hers, pinning it to their desk.

"Listen to me, Hermione Granger. One of these days, you will learn not to question or disrespect me; but until that day comes I am perfectly willing to settle for your most absolute obedience in this particular subject. And you did swear obedience."

"Riddle, let go," Hermione ordered, though the authority she tried to convey on her voice somewhat faltered as she tried to free her hand. She wasn't comfortable touching him like this—the thought that such a disgusting bigot was currently holding her hand repulsed her.

Almost as if he sensed her discomfort, Riddle leaned down, his face edging closer to hers. She could practically feel his breath on her skin as cold, hard eyes stared defiantly at hers and she could have sworn the sudden contempt she saw in him was reacting to something deep within her soul.

"Don't fight me, Granger," he said softly, casually. "Pretty soon, you'll find I'm not as bad as you think I am. We're both remarkably alike, after all."

"Please let go of me, Riddle," she whispered, defeated. There was no point in confronting Tom Riddle, the man who had even Hogwarts' headmaster in the palm of his hand. He was so stubborn, he'd probably hold on to her until hell froze over if she tried to agitate him further. And besides, she had promised. And it wasn't like what he was asking for was completely abhorrent—she suddenly remembered the room filled with magical trinkets, old books and the pensieve.

"I expect to see you tonight at the Room of Requirement, immediately after our patrol," he informed her.

"We'll study the pensieve?" In her Gryffindor pride, Hermione hoped this sounded more like a condition she placed and not an agreement. Tom smirked.

"I'll tell you all there is to know about creating one," he promised, like a man promising Santa Claus. With an absentminded stroke of approval, he let go of her hand.


To a reviewer, who wondered: I am trying, to the best of my ability, to keep all book characters as in-character as possible while remaining flexible enough to their circumstances. Please keep in mind that the only thing that changed in this universe is the fact that Hermione was born in Tom Riddle's time (born Dec. 1929). Yet this means she has spent her entire Hogwarts years without a Harry or a Ron, and with a competitor such as Tom Riddle to boot, which is entirely unfortunate for her but maybe a redeeming opportunity for Riddle. When I picture Hermione I see her closer to how I saw her in the first book and quite different to how she ended up. Tom Riddle has retained all his nasty qualities, as you may see.