Not a huge response, but I shall keep on keeping! There probably won't be updates this frequently, I just hate leaving single chapters floating alone for too long.
Thanks so much to those who did review and follow! Keep your seat belts cinched tight, ladies and gentlemen! It's gonna be a dramatic and horror-filled ride!
-XXX-
The job is hers. They owl her before the next week is out. Hermione promptly writes Dumbledore – he's the only person she can relay good news to, and this really feels like something she should share with someone. The owl returns with a Honeyduke's chocolate bar and a note of congratulations.
After her second morning shift, Hermione decides she needs some fresh wormwood. However, there's a potion she's never heard of further down the Alley – a patron of Flourish and Blotts mentioned it today. She sets off to find it –
And promptly gets lost.
She's usually not so bad at finding her way. After all, hadn't she navigated when they'd all been running from Voldemort's regime?
Somehow, Hermione finds herself in Knockturn Alley, which is notably darker and dingier than Diagon Alley. And colder. She works her way down the snow-covered cobbles, desperately searching for a way back. Backtracking hasn't helped, and after nearly twenty minutes of being leered at by various wretches, she's feeling quite uncomfortable. Her hand in her cloak pocket, Hermione keeps a firm grip upon her wand.
"Constant vigilance."
The thought of Mad-Eye pains her briefly, and Hermione closes her eyes for a fraction of a second. It's a fraction of a second too long.
"Hello there, beauty."
One of the men who have been watching her comes out from beneath the shadowy awning. He gives her a mostly-toothless grin. "What brings a sweet little chit such as yourselves down here?"
Before she can answer, a pockmarked hand has attached itself to her wrist. Hermione attempts to tug away, but with no avail. The wretch has a lock-like grip upon her. She's about to whip out her arm, send a bat-boey hex towards him, but she's interrupted by another's spell.
"Everte Statum!"
The fool goes flying, hitting a garbage can with a squeal. Hermione turns around swiftly to see Tom Riddle breathing heavily nearly a block away. He jogs towards her, catching her arms to hold her before him.
"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?" Tom demands, searching her face, eyes sparking with fury.
"N-no," she manages. "I'm f-f-fine."
He doesn't look convinced. Without a word, he leads he back towards the man in the garbage. Coldly, Riddle regards him. He then abruptly flicks his wand. The wretch screams. Both wrists, Hermione can see, are broken, with thick bands of burns upon them to top.
Her first thought it to be impressed with Riddle's voiceless magic. Her second is to scold herself for thinking as much. And her third is to feel slightly appalled by his display of vigilante justice.
"You shouldn't touch people when they don't want to be touched, sir," he hisses. Hermione feels an urge to draw away, but his grip upon her is tight. Funny how her savior is scaring her far more than her attacker. Except, it really isn't funny.
"One creep in exchange for another."
Tom says nothing as he leads Hermione away from the whimpering man. She's unfocused, too surprised by his past actions to notice the ones currently being executed – namely, the fact that she is being lead to Borgin and Burkes, probably one of the last places she wants to be at the moment. But Tom doesn't appear to have a mind for what she desires, so she stays quiet and lets him take her inside. Her guts twist unpleasantly as she scans the merchandise. Cursed opals, polish bones, chess sets that kill…not her kind of store.
"Come on," he says, gently touching her shoulder. He'd dropped her hand since they entered the store. "You look like you could use some tea."
"I –" She can't get out any protest. Her stomach makes a sudden noise, effectively shutting her up.
Riddle's eyebrow rise. "Hungry, too, then? Come on, Garner."
Hesitant, Hermione follows.
In the messy, cramped backroom, she is offered a seat at a table piled high with various papers. He starts the kettle, then rummages around in a black tin lunch box, removing a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. He uses is wand to cut it – diagonally, just the way she likes her sandwiches cut – and splits it with her. Hermione eats slowly, avoiding eye contact. In a few minutes he pushes a cup of tea in front of her. It's drained quickly. He makes her another cup, then pulls an apple from his lunch sack to split with her. All the while, Tom watches.
"What are you doing down here?" he finally asks. "I don't mean to sound snobbish, but this isn't exactly your kind of place."
Her nose wrinkles at his bad joke. "I didn't mean to come down here. I was looking for a potions shop on Diagon Alley. I must have made a wrong turn…and ended up here." She shivers. "And you're right. This isn't my preferred part of town."
"What kind of potions supplies are you in the market for?" The question is a casual one. Hermione stares at her tealeaves.
"Just a few things. Moonstone, bit of nettle, ginger root, sage," she rattles off ingredients, failing to mention a few key ones. She does not list enough in common to allow him to suspect what it is she's truly after. Riddle holds the silence a little longer than necessary.
"Well, once you're up to it I can show you back to Diagon Alley and point you in the right direction."
She protests – it is too much trouble, he mustn't. "Besides," she thinks. "I've long had my mind made up that I'm going to avoid you as much as humanly possibly." But Riddle insists, saying he has a delivery he needs to make that way anyways. So she grudgingly lets him lead her out of the shop and back to the light.
A few eyes follow them down both Knockturn and Diagon Alley. Both stare straight ahead. Hermione keeps close to Riddle, despite her reluctance. When he stops before crossing the street, she runs straight into his back, nearly breaking her nose with the forceful contact. He turns back to her, smirking slightly. She rubs her nose, glaring back.
When they're standing before the apothecary, near the Leaky Caldron, Hermione offers a hand. Riddle stares at it for several seconds, glancing between the limb and her expression before accepting the gesture. They shake firmly. Tom smiles at her, almost genuinely. Then again, she can't really tell what's true and fake of Tom Marvolo Riddle.
"Thank you," she says sincerely. "I really appreciate it, Mr. Riddle."
"I am glad you appreciate it." He leans back, looking at her curiously. "I wonder, now will you tell me your name?"
"You know my name."
"Not your first name. Garner isn't much to go off of – there are hundreds of them in this city alone. Come on. I think we've had enough instances of running into one another to merit that, don't you? You know my name. It's a fair exchange."
Hermione looks at him for a long moment, considering. His eyes are locked onto hers, stormy and keen. They're just a little too bright for her liking. She doesn't want to tell him – to tell would be giving a piece of her mystery, her security. "But it is just a name…."
"Very well," she sighs. "Beatrice. Beatrice Garner, if you must know."
He's still holding her hand. Riddle squeezes briefly. "Thank you," he says. "Beatrice."
Hermione draws her hand back. She doesn't say another word as she heads inside the apothecary.
-XXX-
Somehow the fiend finds out her work schedule and begins appearing in the shop just often enough to drive her bonkers. She cannot stand that the work in such a relatively close proximity to one another. What's even more terrifying is the idea that he might even live close, too. Hermione doesn't know much about nineteen-year-old Riddle – much like the whole of his life, it was a blurry. She knew he worked for Borgin and Burke, against the speculation of many who thought he'd start a promising Ministry career. She knows he's destined to kill Hepzibah Smith, then disappear, not to resurface again in the 1960s.
Aside from that, she knows positively nothing about this younger version of the Dark Lord. Except, of course, that he's already killed his father, grandparents, and that miserable Moaning Myrtle.
So when she finds him lurking about the aisle right before she's supposed to be closing down the shop – by herself, mind, with no other witnesses around – Hermione is understandably anxious. Not that she lets him know that.
He's browsing the Dark Arts section – no surprise there, though it was a bit of a surprise to her that Flourish and Blotts even had such a section, in her day it had been eradicated. Hermione approaches lightly.
"I think you would find this quite interesting." His back is still to her. He closes the book with a snap, waving it out to her. Hermione snatches it, moving to reshelf the tome. Tom steps back to watch her. She reads the sanguine cover, fingers brushing over the gold lettering. Secrets of the Darkest Art: Runes and Transfiguration Not for the Faint of Heart. She nearly drops it.
"No, thank you. I can't read runes, anyways," she lies. The trick is to appear ordinary. Bland and ordinary. Then, maybe then he might not spend so much time pestering her.
He shrugs, leaning against one of the cases. "Doesn't mean you can't learn. I'm surprised you don't already, an accomplished young witch such as yourself." The words are said like a compliment, but Hermione feels the slight.
"Whoever said I was accomplished?" she scoffs, finding the book's spot on the shelf.
"No one needed to say anything, I can tell."
"I'm closing the shop, you need to go."
Riddle purses his lips. "Ah, have I kept you late? You must be famished."
Hermione begins moving towards the till, shaking her head. "I'm perfectly fine, thanks."
"No, you must be hungry," he insists. "And it's my fault, keeping you past your shift. Let me buy you dinner."
She freezes in the midst of locking the register. "Oh…oh, no, I couldn't let you do that, Mr. Riddle."
He's suddenly behind her – how did he get behind the counter – breathing on her neck. Hermione jumps, spinning to face him. Tom Riddle is close – very close, too close, unbearably close. She backs away, spine pressing into the register.
"It's Tom," he says, friendly. "And I insist, Beatrice, please."
"No, thank you," she replies, wiggling out from between the deranged psychopath and the counter. Starting towards the door, she summons her purse and coat. Tom follows, talking all the while.
"Why not? It's just dinner."
"I'm not interested," she murmurs. They're outside now, and she's tapping the door, muttering incantations to lock the shop down for the evening. "That's all."
His hand is on her wrist. The fingers are caressing her pulse point. "But Beatrice –"
She doesn't let him finish. Instead, she apparates to her apartment, terrified. Before she's gone, however, Hermione catches a glimpse of his expression. It's one of fury.
-XXX-
Ah, the start of a tension-filled relationship!
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