She was doing something to him. He had never, ever, thought about the softness of a girl's mouth before, and yet here he was, lying awake at night, thinking about it. And a muggleborn's, for shame.
Tom rolled over. He was disgusted with himself. Hermione Granger had dark magic at her disposal, and she was using it on him.
To what end? He asked himself. I've only just met the girl.
God, she smelled like honeysuckle when he leaned in close to her. And she fought like a damn tiger. He hadn't duelled like that in years. He had thought about it every day since then, had been tortured by it, for weeks – though it was nice to know he wasn't too much out of practice when it came to duelling. He only lifted his wand these days to punish those who crossed him, those of his followers who fell out of line. The only curses and jinxes he cast were on the disobedient rank and file. He certainly didn't get himself into an excited tizzy, throwing spells around the school with some other student. No matter how much fun it had been. How much it had lit a fire in his belly. He was above it. He was… Lord Voldemort.
Tom smiled at the name he had invented for himself. If the other Slytherin boys had shown him respect before, now they bowed and scraped at his very feet.
Would Hermione bow and scrape? He thought, his mind inevitably wandering back to her. She had come crashing into his life all mysterious brown eyes and brown curls. No, she'd give me lip. He wondered at her bravery and her ballsiness, and if she had been sorted into the right house.
The grandfather clock chimed dimly from the common room, marking it as 5am. Time for his morning exercises – he always liked to get them in before breakfast.
"Avery, Mulciber," he hissed as he got out of bed. "Get your robes on. Now."
The two boys, heads thick from sleep, slowly got up, dressed themselves as Riddle had done, and followed him out.
"What are we doing this mornin', d'you think?" One boy asked the other.
"No idea," yawned the other. "I hope we get to mess around with the first year Hufflepuffs again. Hanging them in the greenhouses by their hair was such a laugh."
Tom stayed silent as the two guffawed behind him. Let the boys have their fun – they served their purpose to him well enough. He led the way upstairs and out of the dungeons, checked the coast was clear, and then headed out across the lawns towards the lake. Another of his followers, Lestrange, was waiting for them. He was standing by the shore, rubbing his arms for warmth, a large potato sack at his feet. Every now and then the sack wriggled. As Tom and the other boys drew closer, a muffled "Let me out!" could be heard.
"Good morning, Lestrange," Tom greeted as they approached. He reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves.
"Good morning, my Lord," nodded Lestrange. His smile never quite reached his eyes.
"What little present have you got for us this morning?" Tom asked as he slowly put on his gloves. The chill in the air made their breath mist up as they spoke.
"You'll like this one." He bent down and began to untie the sack, which kept wriggling in earnest.
"Stop." Tom's authoritative tone cut through the autumn air like ice. "Perhaps somewhere a little more private, for this one? We don't want anyone interrupting our target practice."
Behind him, Avery and Mulciber's eyes lit up.
Lestrange nodded. "Levicorpus," he muttered, lifting the sack into mid-air before them, and then trailing it along as the group headed into the outskirts of the forest. Once safely under the cover of the trees, he set the sack down. Tom stood in front of them all.
"There is a specific jinx I want you to practice today, gents," he said. He had always fancied himself a natural teacher, helping those below him learn the craft of magic. Perhaps one day he would apply for a job at Hogwarts, if the time was ever right.
"What jinx, my Lord?" Asked Avery, craning his neck to see who it was they'd be practising on.
A smile played on Tom's lips. "Oppugno," he said. "Make any conjured creature or object attack someone else."
The boys nodded and jeered their approval at this idea, and Lestrange untied the potato sack. A timid, terrified first-year girl was bound and gagged inside.
"I hope your memory charms are up to scratch, Lestrange," Tom warned, looking the girl over.
"Yes, my Lord. Of course, my Lord."
"Have at her, then." Tom waved a dismissive hand and settled back to watch the others jinx an array of pinecones, twigs and the odd squirrel to attack the young girl, who tried and failed several times to run away. It was ten minutes to 6 before Tom called it to a halt.
"Alright then, that's enough! Not the best display of the jinx I've encountered," Tom said, as he thought back to Hermione's use of the spell. "But not the worst, either. Tidy yourselves up and then go back to the school."
"That was a good session today, my Lord!" Avery panted, his cheeks reddened from all the activity. "When will we get to practice again?"
"No doubt we will have plenty of time during half-term."
Tom took a step towards the battered and bruised first-year girl. He looked down at her, cowering at his feet, begging him for mercy with her eyes. How much he'd love to see Hermione doing that.
"Lestrange – I trust you will take care of this?"
"Every time, you know me."
Tom tore his eyes away from the girl, forgetting about her as soon as he looked up. He headed back to the school and settled himself at the breakfast table in the Great Hall. He poured himself a cup of coffee and, relaxed and composed, began to read that morning's edition of the Daily Prophet.
...
Hermione was getting used to his routine. He took his coffee black, first thing in the morning, in freshly pressed trousers and hair elegantly brushed back. It was 6am, and Hermione felt her stomach tie into a knot when she entered the Great Hall and saw him; he was pouring over a copy of the Daily Prophet in the early morning hush when she arrived.
He did not look up when she sat down beside him. He just nudged a second cup of coffee her way and flipped the newspaper to the back to read the latest Quidditch scores. Hermione drank down the caffeine gratefully, still half-asleep, and was extremely impressed that he had made it just the way she preferred: milky, with two heaped spoonfuls of sugar.
"How did you know how I take my coffee?" She asked.
"You seem like a milk and two sugars kind of girl, Granger." He continued studying the scores with nearly as much intent as Ron used to.
"Hmm. Well I have to say that you don't seem like the Quidditch kind of boy, Riddle."
He sighed and put the paper down, looking up at her for the first time. "I'm not. But I like to read an entire newspaper. You don't leave a piece of homework half-finished just because you're disinterested in the topic, do you?"
Hermione nodded absently, unable to argue with that one, and looked around the Slytherin table for some breakfast. They had been continuing in this polite vein for some time now, all "how do you do's" and "yes I'm fine thank you's". It had been a pattern they had both fallen into since their fight, though the strain was starting to show.
"So," she said awkwardly, spooning some eggs and bacon onto her plate. "Have you been practising your lines?"
"Please don't remind me that we have to participate in that gruesome performance," Tom said, pulling a face. "This entire situation is..."
"Ridiculous? Demeaning? The worst punishment they could have given us?"
"You hit the nail on the head, Granger."
"Well, just get through it, and then by January we can go back to being mere acquaintances, passing each other innocently in the hallway."
"Wonderful." Tom's voice was cold, but his gaze was like a warm flame. He kept staring at her lips, and Hermione hated the thrill that ran through her.
"And I can go back to hating your guts," she said, with a little more bitterness than she had intended to reveal; she was tired. She was always tired. She crawled into bed each night, hoping the dreams would return, but they eluded her.
"Hate? What a strong word, considering we've known each other for… what is it now? Almost two months?"
"Is that all it is?" Hermione replied, glancing down at his Gaunt family ring. He twitched when he noticed her looking at it. "Feels like a lifetime," she murmured.
She couldn't stop looking at the ring. She knew what it meant – this boy in front of her had already severed his soul in two. As she thought this, the memory of a ghostly girl wailing in the second-floor bathroom came back to her.
Three, she thought. He's severed his soul into three already. She was abruptly put off her food.
"Why do you keep staring at my hand?" Tom asked her, startling her with his forwardness. Hermione glanced around – it was only the two of them, a few Ravenclaws and the odd teacher in the Hall.
"I don't keep staring," she muttered, her gaze falling back down to his hand. "But your ring…"
Tom leaned as far away from her as he could. "What about it?"
She wondered how he could go down a path so full of hatred and despair, when he had the whole world at his feet right now. She could see the intelligence in him: he could be anything he wanted, even Minister for Magic one day – but it was all marred by the darkness in him.
"What about it, Granger?" Tom asked her, his face openly frightened.
Hermione was surprised by his honest fear. It wasn't an emotion she had imagined the boy version of Voldemort would possess. But then she thought... the man she knew of in the future – the monster – was desperate and at the end of his life, and clinging onto power by any means. This boy in front of her was young. Malleable. Though it may be damaged, he still had a soul in him. She all at once felt she knew him better, even if only by an inch. She now realised the delicate, delicate potential there was in Tom, and that perhaps – by somebody's intervention – he could be saved.
"I..." She started. They were interrupted by several Slytherins joining their table for breakfast.
Their awkward dance of courtesy and politeness continued. Tom kept his hands resolutely in his pockets, before excusing himself from the table a little while later.
Potions class. Transfiguration class. Standing lonely in a cold courtyard, knuckles freezing in the wind. More classes. The days were endless, isolated, and Hermione ignored them. Her vision blurred. The only person in her year who spoke to her was Tom bloody Riddle. Hermione walked, legs like lead, back to the common room that evening, a book tucked under her arm: 'A Collection of Wizarding Conspiracies', by Renaltus Perfidy. She hoped it would glean some insight into these 'deathly hallows', since she was out of other options. Figuring out the puzzle was the only thing getting her through the days, since any information on time travel had dried up. Dumbledore refused to speak to her about anything other than the weather. He did try to pry, from time to time, by asking her questions about the future – and then it was her turn to refuse to speak about anything other than the weather. She was going around in circles with everyone and everything.
The common room was busy when she arrived, with several students milling around the notice board. "I can't believe this," one of them muttered to another.
"Come off it, did you really think they'd let us go gallivanting about after the entrance hall was practically destroyed?"
"Don't be so overdramatic, Dawkins. A couple of windows were broken."
Hermione pushed her way through to the front of the crowd to see what the fussing was about. A pinned notice read:
ATTENTION ALL STUDENTS
DUE TO RECENT EVENTS AND CONCERNS FROM STAFF OVER STUDENT SAFETY, HOGSMEADE VISITS WILL BE POSTPONED DURING THE HALF-TERM PERIOD.
THERE WILL BE NO EXCEPTIONS. PLEASE STAY INSIDE THE SCHOOL GROUNDS.
PLEASE SPEAK TO YOUR HOUSE PREFECTS IF YOU HAVE ANY QUERIES
(N.B. THIS DOES NOT AFFECT QUIDDITCH MATCHES. GAMES CAN CONTINUE AS NORMAL)
"Can you blame them, after everything that happened last year? Best to play it safe and keep the school govenors happy."
"I don't give a tosh about the ruddy school govenors. I was looking forward to a butterbeer down at the Three Broomsticks."
Hermione turned to one of her fellow Slytherins. "Are the teachers worried that the ghasts will make another appearance?" She asked. The student she spoke to gave her a frown and walked off, muttering something about 'insolent mudbloods'. Frustrated, she tried another student, tapping a girl nearby on the shoulder. When the girl turned around, Hermione's stomach sank. Rhonda.
"Something I can help with, freak?"
Hermione gritted her teeth and pointed at the notice board. "Do you know what's going on?"
"Muggle mummy and daddy not teach you how to read, freak?"
"Look, if you've got nothing useful to say, don't bother-"
"Oh, please," Rhonda tutted, rolling her eyes. "Clearly the teachers are being cautious. We had a lot of trouble happen last year. There was dark magic being performed in some chamber under the school. A girl died."
"I heard about that," Hermione said. She played with the chain of her necklace, which Dumbledore had promised would protect her, provided she remain on the school grounds. Was he worried it would stop working?
"Well, obviously the teachers are concerned about it happening again," Rhonda continued. "That was quite a to-do at the start of term feast. The perpetrator was caught last year, you know... some third year half-blood boy... My mother thinks it's revolting that they let anyone join this school nowadays. She says it's going to the dogs..." Rhonda sniffed, then looked down her nose at Hermione. "Speaking of," she spat, flouncing away, all pleated skirt and bouncy blonde ringlets.
Hermione settled herself into an armchair by the fireplace. She opened the book she had borrowed from the library but couldn't focus past chapter two. The crackling fire in the grate grew louder and louder as she grew sleepier and sleepier. She really was tired. She thought back to Ron and Harry, in the tent, reading her note. She hoped they had seen it. Biting her lip, Hermione worried if she had overexerted herself. She hadn't had a single dream of the future since that night. She felt as though she was in sinking sand – the more she tried to struggle, the more she was sinking, getting herself stuck in this world.
It all swam around her now as she began to doze: travelling in time, falling through an endless fog; a familiar symbol, leering at her from her subconscious; reaching with outstretched fingers towards her boys, her two boys, her best friends; Dumbledore, running down a dark hallway, slamming a door in her face; Tom Riddle, smiling at her knowingly, wearing a large gold ring and writing in an old, burnt diary.
The devil was in the details, and it was the details she couldn't get a hold of.