Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah. Non sum Rowling. Esne Rowling? Non cogitabam te esse. Igitur componamus tacere de dominio Harrii Pottris.

A/N: I believe the above Latin to be correct, but please tell me if there are any mistakes I missed.

Chapter 10

In which Hermione gets a job.

Sunlight streamed in through the bars of a single window at the end of the room farthest from the door. The rays illuminated the face of a teenager lying in bed, apparently asleep. Around him, smaller boys tiptoed about, getting dressed, making their beds, and otherwise preparing for another day in Hell. Tom Riddle watched their attempts to be simultaneously silent and speedy through slitted eyes. A herd of centaurs galloping through the room would have been quieter. But of course he couldn't tell them that; they would only wonder why the fearsome Tom Riddle was rambling on about fairytale creatures.

He sat up. The effect was that of a kraken rising from the sea in front of a group of hapless sailors. Half of the children scattered and dove for cover, and the other half remained standing exactly where they had been, rigid with fear. Riddle resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Stretching, he acted as though he had no idea why they hid. "Frankie? Jamie? Walt?" At this last he stood. "Why are you all hiding? And you, Richard, you act as though you've seen a ghost."

Richard practically whimpered with terror and clutched tightly on to the hand of an even littler boy, age perhaps five, whose presence Riddle had just noticed. "And who's this?"

Still quivering with fear, Richard did not answer.

"His name is Hadrian." Catherine appeared in the doorway. Riddle had heard her footsteps in the hall long before she had actually entered the room, but he quickly swiveled his head towards her, feigning surprise. "Good morning." Looking back at Hadrian, he remarked, "A big name for a little boy."

"He'll grow into it." Catherine entered the room, the light making a halo of her wavy locks, and scooped Hadrian up into her arms, clutching him protectively to her chest.

Ah, so she still has that absurd desire to save the poor waifs from big, bad Tom Riddle. Good for her. Pity it won't help. "I'm sure he will." Tom smiled angelically at the little boy, who, to Riddle's genuine shock, offered a tiny grin in return. Tom stared at the child. Had he not seen how the others feared this strange, older newcomer? Perhaps he was just masochistic. Anyway, he bore watching.

"Catherine, may I speak to you for a moment?"

She stiffened and he mentally derided her pitiful inability to hide her emotions. "I'm a bit busy at the moment. Maybe later—"

"This will only take a second."

She glanced around for an escape, but no opportunity for flight presented itself. "Richard, help Hadrian get dressed. The rest of you—" she addressed the other boys, some of whom were still cowering under the furniture "—finish up in here and go down to breakfast."

She set Hadrian down, whirled around, and practically ran out of the room. Tom followed at a more leisurely pace. When they were a little ways down the dingy hallway, she spun and faced him. "What was it you wanted to say?"

"I was wondering about—Hadrian, you said?—Why is he here?"

"His parents were killed in a car crash, and his grandmother is too old and sick to take care of him." Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know?"

Riddle pretended mild surprise at her suspicion. "He's the only new inhabitant I've seen here. I was just curious. I only brought you out here because I didn't want to ask in front of him."

"I'm sure."

He watched as she turned on her heel and stalked down the hall.

The same sunlight that had played across Tom Riddle's face now filtered in through a motel window in an even less reputable part of London. The figure it illuminated had been awake for more than an hour already. Hermione was sitting on her bed, reading, with her wand hovering above her left shoulder, a Lumos augmenting the weak natural light. She was shaking her head, marveling at the gross inaccuracies of the tome on Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, which had been written by one Proteus Lovegood. Some of the information the author stated to support his Snorkack research was just blatantly untrue.

For example, surely if dragon blood could be used as "a perfume which draws these elusive creatures out of hiding," Dumbledore would have noticed this when he found the other twelve uses. And she was almost positive that Acromantula venom did not give the Snorkack, or any other magical creature, the power to levitate. And what was that about vampire semen? Oh. Now that was just ridiculous.

Hermione snapped the book shut in disgust and rose from the bed. So the Lovegoods weren't sane even sixty years ago. It makes me wonder what Luna's mother was like, that she married into the family.

She dug in her suitcase for a nicer set of clothing than what she had worn last night. She wanted something clean and relatively decent—she was going to look for a job—but not too nice, for this was still Knockturn Alley, after all. A short black skirt and top fit those criteria well enough for her purposes.

Her stomach growled, but she had no food in her pack. She would leave Knockturn Alley for a little bit, perhaps head to Diagon Alley. There she would grab a bite of breakfast before she set off on her job hunt.

Neither Kiki nor Madam Gladys was in sight when Hermione stepped into the lobby. This was something of a mercy; she looked nothing like their usual customer, and they thought her odd enough already. She stepped out into the street, which was gray and sober in sharp contrast to the colour of the nightlife. Gone were the small-time criminals who dealt in sex and magical drugs. The diurnal inhabitants of the place were, to a man, concerned with the Dark Arts. And Hermione didn't fit in.

She walked to the end of the alley that was connected to the outside world and waited there until a gaggle of fresh-faced youths passed on their way to Diagon Alley. She slipped in among them and followed them there. Doubtless she could have left the alley alone, but when one was staying in a place like Knockturn Alley, any stealth training one has had in previous years tends to kick in and one tends to automatically work at being inconspicuous.

Hermione ordered a pasty, fended off the halfhearted advances of the teenage boy serving them, and ate slowly, pondering her current situation. Then she threw her rubbish in a bin and headed back towards Knockturn Alley.

Every step she took back towards the dark eeriness of her current residence was harder. She wanted to stay in Diagon Alley, among the merry shoppers and vivid umbrellas, but if she stayed here for the holiday, she was bound to run into someone she knew from school, and that would raise unpleasant questions. Just being here for meals was risky enough.

In Knockturn Alley, it was highly unlikely that anyone would know her, and even if they did, two things would be true which would help to ease her mind about the danger.

Firstly, they would not expect her to have family or friends with her, as they would in Diagon Alley. Knockturn Alley was not a place for social gatherings. Thus she would not have to explain why she had no one to whom to introduce her school friends.

Secondly, anyone wishing to interrogate Hermione about why she was in Knockturn Alley would first have to answer the question, "And why are you here?" Most people down this particular street were unwilling to state their business.

So, Knockturn Alley it was to be, if she wanted to be safe. And years of fighting a war against the most powerful Dark Wizard the world had ever known had made safety Hermione's top priority, ranking well above comfort and short-term pleasure. And into the alley of disrepute walks Hermione.

On her way to the motel, she had noted, across from Borgin and Burkes, Alexandria: Rare Books. It was here that she had intended to seek employment, but as she looked through the windows into a room that appeared to have no light save for a bluish glow from the depths, she reconsidered. Books are all very well and good, but I'm not sure this is exactly my cup of tea. But, despite what the Sorting Hat thought, she was a Gryffindor, by Merlin, and she wasn't going to back out just because the environment into which she was about to step was a little bit creepy. All right, a lot creepy. Besides, if I walked into what was basically the front for a brothel, I can enter a bookstore. So she did.

It smelled much the way used/rare bookstores often do, of old parchment and dust. Letting the door swing to, Hermione closed her eyes and inhaled as deeply as she could. There's nothing like a good bookstore. For a moment, she could almost forget that instead of being in a respectable used bookstore in muggle London, rather than in an environment of shaky legality.

But when she opened her eyes and looked about her, her eyes gradually becoming used to the near-total darkness, her location came rushing back. The stacks of books were old and leather, as was traditional in such a setting, but many of the titles were in ancient Runes or ancient Greek, with Latin and the modern languages greatly underrepresented. The titles Hermione could read were all along the lines of The Science behind Mudblood Inferiority and The Noble Art of Poison. Well, wasn't this exactly where she had pictured herself working once she got out of school? Selling books of eugenics and murder. What fun.

Atop the precarious piles of books were assorted random objects, among them a rolled scroll, which must have come from the back wall, the shelves of which held many similar, a broken wand, and a large painting that looked like a graphic depiction of some kind of torture, though it was difficult to be sure in the dim room. I had no idea the human body could contort like that. Hermione grimaced and shivered in spite of herself. The air of creepiness, already great, was increased by the fact that the only light in the room was a blue sphere of light hovering some eight feet off the ground in the center of the room.

Her head snapped to the left as she saw a flicker of movement on the shadows, and then a pair of bright green eyes with slitted pupils. She didn't really need the waving tail to identify the bookstore's watchman as a cat.

Specifically, a small grey cat that was probably very young and didn't seem to have mastered feline superiority. He seemed more curious than anything else. From what she could tell at first glance, he didn't tend towards any of the peculiarities common among animals routinely exposed to magic. Still, the eyes are creepy.

Hermione wasn't all that fond of cats, to be honest. Crookshanks had been the exception; he was big and fluffy and somehow familiar. Other felines, however, were almost as alien to her as dragons or mermaids, and without the benefit of having magic to explain their oddities.

And so Hermione made no move to get to know the cat, or even to acknowledge its presence. She simply examined the décor of the room. Her eyes fixed briefly on the floating sphere, and then on the candleholders along the wall, the occupants of which were stubby and covered in dribbled wax. From there her gaze traveled to the shelves, which took up the greatest part of the area, running from where Hermione was standing to the far wall. At a quick count, she would guess that there were twelve, but it was difficult to tell. Her eyes were playing tricks with her in the eerie light of the mysterious orb.

She heard a creaking from the back of the store, and then footsteps on the wooden floor.

The man's bulbous, bespectacled nose was first to appear, followed by his bald pate and gnarled hands, which held tightly to a simple, crooked dark wood cane, almost invisible in the darkness. As the doddering Methuselah approached, his eyes gleamed, and she saw that they were opaque. If he's blind, then why bother with light? Because the store was open, of course. But then, why not make it comfortable for the customers, and light the room?

"It never goes off completely, even when the store's closed, which it is now." He stopped and hacked for a moment. "Nature of the magic."

"How did you know…?"

"First question they always ask."

"Oh… Did you say the store was closed? I can come back later."

"I don't open until one on Sundays." He continued, answering Hermione's next question, "Even I need a break once in a while, and it just seemed best to go along with the Muggle tradition. Makes it easier for businessmen who work in both worlds.

"But as long as you're here, I may as well help you. What was it you wanted?"

"Well," she swallowed. Her plan, which had made so much sense earlier, now seemed a bit ridiculous. Who's to say that he needs a worker? And even if he did need one, why should he hire her? She had no references from purebloods associated with the Dark Arts. He might think she was a Ministry spy. She certainly wasn't dressed like the typical denizens of Knockturn Alley, nor did she talk like them, or walk like them... Stop panicking! she chided herself. You're being stupid. Just ask already.

"I came in to ask for a job."

His bushy brows shot up. "Did you? And why would one such as you seek employment here?"

"One such as me?"

"Let's talk about you for a moment, shall we? You're a young girl—but that much is self-evident, and in any case, doesn't preclude your working here.

"Now, your accent. Very proper. The faintest hint of a drawl, but that seems to be an affectation." Hermione flushed. She had been trying to slip into the pureblood vernacular, but it clearly hadn't worked. If this gutter-dweller—not insult, just fact—can tell that I'm working at it, how transparent must I be to the purebloods themselves?

"Mind you, it's a very good imitation drawl. I've heard but one better. But you lay it on a bit thick. Only the snottiest of bluebloods actually talk like that. Lighten up a bit, and you'll have it down."

Hermione squirmed. "The job?"

"Ah, yes. As it happens, I do have something. I will leave tomorrow and will be gone for the week preceding Christmas. I was planning to close the shop while I was gone, but I would rather not lose the income. In my original plans, before my sister decided she could not do without me, the shop was to have been open until Christmas Eve, on which day it was to close and remain closed until the 27th. If this is to happen, I will need someone to stay in the shop until I return on that day." He paused, somehow managing to convey the impression of a look weighted with significance, without actually seeing her. "That would give whomever I hired more than enough time to get back to school. No, don't protest. You reek of boarding school. My guess is Hogwarts. Possibly Ravenclaw, but with that accent, more likely a Slytherin. Anyway, that person would take care of customers, both buying and selling, and would have to be willing to respond immediately if my security wards went off."

Perfect! He gets a holiday and I get a job that I won't have to feel like I'm abandoning when I go off to Madam Chevalier's.

"I have just one question. Why should I hire you? You are obviously too high-class"-he placed ironic emphasis on that-"to be asking for this for on-the-level reasons, I have no assurances as to your reliability and honesty, and, even if you do a good job, it's a foregone conclusion that you'll never be back. Why shouldn't I hire someone who wants to work here full-time, and who won't disappear when the week is out?"

Hermione drew in a breath. He had brought up all of the points that had made her hesitate to ask the question in the first place. "Firstly, I don't think you yourself are so low-born that you can afford to reverse discriminate. Secondly, you would doubtless have little trouble setting up some wards that can at least prevent me from robbing you blind—" she halted awkwardly, "—(no pun intended), though I'm not sure what you can do about my reliability or lack thereof. Lastly, you said you were leaving tomorrow. You don't have time to find someone else to stay with the shop. If you don't hire me, the shop is closed and it's a certainty that you won't make any money. But if you do hire me, than you have the possibility of gaining a great deal."

There was a moment of silence, and then the old man turned and began to hobble away. Hermione's shoulders sagged. And then he spoke. "Well, the cat likes you." That's odd. Cats hate me. Crookshanks was the sole exception, and she suspected that that was his Kneazle blood.

"You'll need to be here by eight on weekdays—we officially open at eight-thirty, one on Sundays. No matter what the day, we close at eight. If you wish, it is acceptable for you to take a lunch break at noon. I would prefer that you get food and bring it back, but if that is not possible, you may go out. Be back by one." He stopped.

"Why are you still standing there?" She hurried after him, and he walked on towards the back of the store.

He led her to a smaller room, and indicated that it was his office. This room was completely dark until he murmured "Lumos!", at which point the room became as bright as day. Hermione, whose eyes had adjusted to fit the half-light of the main chamber, was dazzled.

When the spots faded from her eyes, Hermione saw that on one side of the room, there was a chintzy armchair not unlike those she was accustomed to Dumbledore conjuring. Beside this was a long, dark wood table, on which rested a set of tarnished silver scales, along with a black, ink-spattered ledger. On the other side of the room were two shelves of books, one full and the other, smaller one, nearly empty.

"The smaller one," explained Mr. Hedgewick—for so the shopkeeper had identified himself—"holds books that customers have specifically requested that I obtain. Those are waiting to be picked up. I send an owl notifying the client as soon as I find a copy meeting his price and condition specifications—which can take years—and he has two months to come for it. If the time elapses without the client coming here or sending for it, or if he sends an owl to the effect that his interest has waned, I put it either on the shelves or one the other bookshelf here.

"That shelf holds books that I consider too rare to be placed on the shelf in full view of the common folk. If a book that you deem quite rare comes to you while I am away, place it on this shelf.

"I allow very few people into this room to see these books. There are wards, which I will teach you to deactivate and raise again, but I wish to take no risks. The only people who see this shelf are those who are both wandless and carrying gold, and those who have shopped here for many years without my having any problem with them. The first category you can judge for yourself. As for the second, there is a list in the ledger. But if you don't feel comfortable, if anything seems off, you don't have to take him in here."

"If someone meeting one or both of the criteria comes into the store and wants to enter this office, mark his name and the date and time in this log." Mr. Hedgewick held up a red book, somewhat slimmer than the ledger, but still substantial. "You probably won't have anyone ask to see the rare book shelf. Even if someone does, the likelihood is that you won't let him."

He went on to demonstrate for her the working of the silver scales to determine how much to pay a seller for his book, and to impress upon her the importance of keeping the ledger accurate down to the last detail. He revealed to her some of the various wards on the shop (though not the ones intended to insure her honesty) and showed her the cat food for Aristophanes. Finally, he pressed an alarm into her hands—it would go off if the shop was broken into—and ushered her out the door with orders to be at the shop at seven-forty-five the next morning, so that he could give her the keys to the shop and leave.

The door clicked shut behind her and Hermione just stood on the pavement, dazed. Despite her attempt at confidence—I will get a job—she really hadn't expected to find one so easily, especially not one that suited her so well. The hours were fairly reasonable, the pay was better than she had expected—four Galleons, fifteen Sickles, with a bonus of two Galleons if she sold more than twenty-five Galleon's worth in a day (not likely, but still)—and she would be surrounded by books all day, even if she was unable to read many of them and was repulsed by others.

When she finally set herself in motion, heading back to Diagon Alley, she had to force herself not to skip down the street. If she worked five days, as she had planned, she would have just over thirty Galleons. She had had to borrow ninety Galleons from Dumbledore to pay for clothes befitting a pureblood. She still had a few Galleons left, even after paying for her room for the week. The lessons with the first-years won't pay for all of what he gave me, not by a long shot. If I give him, say fifteen Galleons, spending eight on lodging and keeping the rest for whatever happens after graduation, then I can feel just a little bit better about it.

Hermione stopped dead, and a chill ran down her spine. When had she stopped thinking of it as a given that she would be gone long before graduation and started believing that she would have to make a new life for herself in these dark times? I can't think like that! I won't!

She made her way to Diagon Alley at a half-run, trying to outrun the sinking feeling as it came to her that she should probably resign herself to the idea of living in the forties. Please, no.

She halted abruptly at the end of Knockturn Alley and waited for an opportune moment to slip into the crowds going past. Her timing was perfect, and she once again exited the Dark Arts-oriented street with the minimum of fuss. But what good did that do when she had no destination in mind?

She ambled up and down the thoroughfare for an hour or so, eventually taking refuge from the crowds in Magical Menagerie. A strange haven indeed, for in here her ears were assailed by the howling and cawing and screeching of an untold number of magical animals. But as she headed deeper into the shop, the sounds blended together and the cacophony became a sort of animal symphony. It was almost peaceful once she got used to it.

Hermione was observing a curiously alert black rat when she felt something on her leg. She jumped and looked down. At her feet was a tailless Jack Russell terrier puppy. Or was it..? Not a terrier. A Crup. Just what I need, a dog that hates Muggles, attacking me. That wouldn't look suspicious at all, considering I'm supposed to be a Pureblood.

But the creature, who was sniffing her shoe, didn't seem as though he was likely to turn mean any time soon, so she bent down to examine him more closely. He wagged the stump of his tail at her. "Hey, boy."

"He likes you." The speaker was a young, bespectacled woman with thick, black hair, who had come out from behind the rat cage. She smiled. "What'll you call him, then?"

Hermione was startled. "Oh, I don't want to buy him."

"You don't have to." The shop girl pointed to a box that bore the legend:

Free Crup Puppies!

House-trained, good with children and other animals.

Feed meat only.

WARNING: Do not place in a household with squibs or muggles. Exercise extreme caution in Muggle-populated areas.

"He's the last one left. The females always go fast, because they're meaner, and he was the only male. No one wants the boys, because people only buy a crup to keep muggles off their property, and the males have much sweeter personalities as a rule. The oldest female in this particular litter only reacted well to purebloods. She nearly bit the hand off a half-blood who decided she wanted a puppy. This one loves Muggleborns like anything, is fine around Squibs, and he can tolerate Muggles if they don't get too close. And you don't seem to be looking for a guard dog, so you don't need a mean one."

"I'd love to, but I really can't. I'm in school. Besides—" but she stopped herself. The ministry wouldn't regulate Crup ownership until the 1950's.

"Okay, but if no one takes him by Christmas, we're going to have to got rid of him, one way or another."

"What do you mean, 'one way or another'?"

"My mother—she's the owner—will probably put him down. Not using an Unforgiveable. Her husband is a muggle veterinarian. He can't come near, of course, but he'll tell her what to do and give her the supplies."

Hermione felt a twinge of horror. But she really couldn't take him. Wait a second. Riddle has a snake that he makes no attempt to conceal. And doesn't some fifth year have a bat? Neither of those fits under cats, rats, and toads… Of course. Dippet, the fool, must not restrict the students' pets. Not until Dumbledore assumed the office of headmaster would Hogwarts have the sense to see that it was probably not wise for students to be allowed to bring fire slugs, malacaws, and the like to school. That lapse in judgment was probably in Hogwarts: A History, but, contrary to popular belief, she did not have the tome memorized. Just the parts she found interesting, and regulations regarding students' pets had never fascinated her. She had probably read over it without giving it a second thought.

Well, no one would doubt that I was a pureblood if I got a Crup. But there was another problem. If—When—I go back, I'd have to leave him here, and that wouldn't be fair to him.

Hermione looked at the creature, who cocked his head at her, bright eyes fixed on her face. True, it wouldn't be fair to abandon him, but she was sure one of her Pureblood colleagues would take him. And if she left him here...

"So what do I need to know about how to care for him?" The girl beamed at her, and Hermione saw how much pain letting the creature die would have caused her.

Half an hour later, Hermione walked out of Magical Menagerie with the terrier trotting behind her, and a package of supplies under her arm. So excited was the young lady that Hermione had saved the crup that she gave her everything she could possibly need to keep a happy, healthy pet, and more besides. Hermione was the proud possessor of a leash—solely for appearances when formality was needed, crups never strayed—a grooming brush—for a short-haired animal, honestly—miscellaneous toys and treats, as well as various odds and ends.

I really should stop going in there. I keep coming out with pets I'm not sure I want.

Having a Crup by her side did have some benefits. As Hermione returned to Knockturn Alley, the other denizens gave her a wide berth.

A/N: A Crup is a wizard-bred dog that is very loyal to wizards and ferocious to muggles. They have forked tails, so their owners are required to crop their tails at six-eight weeks.

Fire slugs live in the Brazilian rainforest. Malacaws are lobster-like creatures whose bite inflicts bad luck upon the recipient.

Sorry if the long bit in the shop was boring. There were things I needed to establish for your benefit and mine.

I was reading a review as I wrote this, and a reviewer made the excellent point that Tom is more sociable than he was portrayed in the books. I wanted to address this, since I don't like reading stories where the main characters are ridiculously o.o.c.

While she is an amazing author in many respects, JKR is not perfect. In my opinion, her tragic flaw is her tendency to slip into archetypes. Ron is the sidekick. Hermione is the geeky girl who turns out to be hot. Harry is the tragic hero who feels that no one understands him, and who falls in love with his best friend's sister (does this not sound like the insert-name-here type of fantasy character?). Ginny is quite the little Mary Sue (beautiful, funny, smart, kind, totally in love with our hero, with whom she cannot have a relationship because of circumstances beyond their control) at times. Dumbledore is the wise mentor who turns out to be fallible after all. Sirius is the cool surrogate father. And Tom Riddle is the evil overlord. That's it. He's a total sociopath.

I'm not buying it. Yes, there's symbolism (loveless union coming about because of the potion, etc.), but it seems that Tom never really had a chance. So I have decided to give him a real personality besides "Die, Mudblood scum!" while trying to stay fairly close to the books as far as his cold demeanor.

Also, I believe I stated somewhere that this story is A.U. This is such a convenient cure-all. I really hate it when authors use it to cover inconsistencies, oddly enough, within the story itself. This is not A.U. This is what is known as a major screw-up. If the plot is so complicated that you can't keep the facts straight, chances are that the reader can't either.

I shall try not to do that. But the story is A.U. There is no way in Hell that it will come out anything like the books. As for the standard pairings: Epilogue? What epilogue?

In the next chapter, I will give a day-by-day account of what is going on with our main characters.

Give me an R! Give me an E! Give me a V! Give me an I! Give me an E! Give me a W! What does that spell? REVIEW!