take the bit between your teeth;
two
She sweeps into the room, fully breathless and almost late. It's not so much that it bothers him – it's the fact that he's bothered at all. It would be remiss of him to think it is anything but deliberate.
(But she's not one for games. Not now, anyway. There is nothing left for her to prove.)
"Sorry, Professor-" she says in a whirl of Gryffindor red and riotous curls. Slughorn allows this of his second favourite, only a hint of a reprimand. She is only almost late, Slughorn says, so he won't dock any points.
Tom thinks there would be no need for any reproach, fond or not, if she'd had let him mention that last month's supply of Crystallised Pineapples were from her as well.
Anyway.
She slips into her seat, cheeks pink from exertion, so busy trying to make it look as if she's not paying attention to him that she's not paying attention as she puts down her instruments for today's potion. One hand rapidly flips the textbook to the instructed page whilst the other pulls out three paring knives and a bronze dagger from her leather roll.
"Hermione," he says quietly.
She stills. He wonders if he is still allowed to call her that. He finds he cannot go back to calling her Granger. It is – annoying.
He extends his forefinger onto the table, taps once. He slides it to the right.
She looks down at what he's pointing at. Her cheeks flush pinker.
"Oh, right," she says, flustered.
She likes her bird's beak paring knife first, and then the spear point, and only then the serrated knife. She has her own system; she's never explained it to anyone as to why she likes her tools in this particular order. The order is all wrong today. She looks upon her arsenal with a more critical eye, rearranging it back to its usual order. The slight furrow of her brows tells him she is bothered that he knows this; bothered that he is not committing to non-committal as she is.
Good. That makes both of them.
Hermione finds the page she'd been looking for, and he notes the way her front teeth find her bottom lip.
They are brewing Aggrotentia today.
He's irritated to find that he barely hears what Slughorn is asking, distracted as he is looking out for her tells.
They are both slow in raising their hands to answer. Reluctant, really, and it's not lost on Macmillan, who chucks a probing glance at their table. His hand is still in the air, waiting to be called on. Slughorn looks mildly perplexed now.
"It has the, uh - opposite effect of Amortentia. Sir." Macmillan is unused to answering in class. Everyone else, only half-paying attention at best, seems to stir to life upon hearing a voice that isn't his or Hermione's. "Whoever ingests it will start developing an unnatural hatred for the maker the potion. It's an Anti-Love Potion, essentially."
Tom's eyes meet Hermione's, unbidden.
The irony is not lost on her either.
They look away.
Slughorn, the walrus-moustached idiot, is still waiting.
"Very well, m'boy, very well," Slughorn says finally, quite put out. "Take five points for Hufflepuff. For another five, could you tell me the conditions in which the potion must be brewed?
Tom's gaze does not waver as he listens to Macmillan's answer, does not clench his teeth as he watches Macmillan get ten points for Hufflepuff even though he so obviously left out the fact that the cauldron has to be chilled to exactly three degrees above freezing.
He waits for Hermione's elbow in his face, waits for her to point out this very important fact.
Hermione disguises a choke as a cough.
Tom feels—
"Well then!" Slughorn booms, clearly having recovered, clears his throat and then booms once more: "You may begin!"
Tom takes in a breath and releases it slowly, before picking up his pestle and mortar. He will start on grinding the Komodo dragon scales into fine dust. She is already at work on the Knottgrass, fingers deftly plucking off the tiny leaves and cutting the stems lengthwise into thin slivers.
They'd both agreed this way would be best. It's not in the textbook.
The silence between them is not strange. It is tinged with efficiency, their actions in perfect synchrony.
She sets down her knife only to pass him the bronze dagger so he can scrape the pith from a long, if slightly withered devil's snare, taking the bowl of powdered dragon scales he's already nudged towards her.
He's already charmed their cauldron; she reinforces it with a stasis charm.
Fluxweed sap is dripped into the bottom of the cauldron, Hermione already pointing her wand in a whisking motion. The textbook had said twelve turns of the wand – he does not need to still her hand at ten and a half. She looks up at him. He inclines his jaw. She turns her wand another two inches. The sap turns clear.
Malfoy had gone as far to – rudely – suggest that as wordlessly they had learned to cast their spells and charms, if they had learned to speak wordlessly as well. Hermione had laughed.
She drops in the minced knotgrass, one pinch at a time, whilst he conjures spiralling arcs of steam to ensure a uniform descent. None of this is in the textbook.
By now Hermione is no longer on edge. They had picked apart the stupid textbook, cross-referenced old tomes and visited Thornton Tonics one Hogsmeade weekend, together, and Hermione had smiled so brilliantly when he'd coaxed the homely shop attendant to allow them some samples they may study. They had planned, they had prepared.
She still trusts him. She will not touch him and she will not look at him, but she still trusts him.
He feels—
it doesn't matter.
He tells himself it changes nothing.
.
.
.
Granger is in his corner again. He wonders what she would say if the situation was reversed: if she'd been looking forward to a double-free period before lunch for some solitary reading only to find him perched on the sill by the table she prefers simply because nobody bothers to read up on muggle law reforms, not even the muggleborns.
Maybe she would say, "Are you lost or something, Riddle?"
Maybe something like, "I thought my swot senses were tingling."
Or perhaps, "It's not a standing invitation, Riddle."
He wonders if she thinks she has a standing invitation to his table. He wonders if she would've been less inclined to join him if Malfoy and Nott were here too, but Malfoy is in one of his episodes over Potter again, which means it's Nott's turn to help him lick his wounds. Maybe with a fly around the pitch, or maybe they're cooped up in the Room of Requirement fixing that old Vanishing Cabinet they'd found last week, since Tom had suggested Malfoy take up arts and crafts to assuage his … urges.
Malfoy needs to get out of his rut. He was an effective Granger-shield, and Granger approaching him for conversation three times in the span of a week was not something he'd seen in the bottom of his teacup. He'd have to reorganise his entire schedule this week.
He holds back a sigh, but does not hold back from a quick cursory glance through Granger's head – just a soft ripple across the surface of a pool – and confirmed that yes, she does smell different today because the youngest Weasley had spritzed some sort of hair mist on her this morning; a stack of mails waiting to be read - he pauses when he sees a return address to Bulgaria – do they still keep in touch?—
"None of that," Granger sniffs as she, again, drops into the seat across him.
"I beg your pardon?" he replies smoothly.
"You," Granger fixes him with a glare, "are reading my mind. Anything you want to know, just ask."
It wouldn't bode well for him to insult her intelligence, so he just says, "You don't Occlude."
He knows she can.
"No," is all she says, setting down a roll of parchment, a quill that has seen better days, and three reference texts in front of her in a neat row. She uses muggle stationery to mark her books, strips of lime green and bright, bright pink sticking out from between the pages.
His jaw ticks. "Why not?"
"Is there a reason I should be armed right now?" she questions with a tilt of her lips.
"Curious, how you describe Occlumency as a weapon as opposed to a defence."
"Curious, your dexterity in avoiding questions," she slings back.
She had never used Occlumency against him before, not even during exams.
He had been appalled to discover this last year when Snape had just concluded their lessons on basic Legilimency, something that was offered to Fifth Years after Igor Karkaroff had taken to sending odd dreams that inspired some rather anarchic behaviour amongst students.
This was in retaliation to Dumbledore's precisely-worded and infuriatingly-polite letter to him that if he did not stop sending undercover Durmstrang students to his school to uncover their secrets, he would set Tom's Basilisk on him—never mind that Tom had never agreed to it in the first place.
He would've agreed. Eventually.
Granger had been an obvious target, but Tom would rather not get into that at the moment.
Instead, he says: "I thought you were of the opinion that I am dangerous."
Granger laughs quite genuinely, but she doesn't disagree. "How's Bassy?"
Tom scowls. He dislikes when Granger calls her that. He chooses not dignify her with a response.
Granger flicks her wand and three books flip open - Advanced Potion-Making, almost as annotated as Potter's by now; Potions, Herbs, Oils and Brews, absolutely smothered in muggle highlighters; Atomic and Molecular Collision Theory, a decidedly muggle textbook – and promptly says, "I know what you're thinking."
That is certainly one way for him to prod a proverbial finger into his shields to make sure they're still up.
Granger rolls her eyes at whatever she sees in his. "About the textbook. Obviously I do not need to point out which one."
Unimpressed, he fortifies his shields further.
"It's actually proving quite useful, because something Harry said to me in class got me thinking. In this book," she violently stabs a paragraph in Advanced Potion-Making with a finger, "the instructions were to stir counter-clockwise, but he said something about adding a clockwise stir every seventh counter-clockwise stir. Now how would that make a difference, you ask?"
Tom glances at her muggle text with distaste, but says, "Chemical chirality, I'm assuming."
He does not want to elaborate.
"It was rhetorical, Riddle, but yes." Granger huffs. And then she looks slightly cheered when she realises she doesn't have to get down and dirty into explaining the theory to him. And then she frowns. And then she looks exasperated. And then she looks like she's losing an internal debate, only to gain the upper hand at the last minute. And then she chews on her lip.
Tom remembers his Wool's-mandated therapist's advice to count to ten when he starts having urges to dismember.
This is why he chooses to employ Legilimency; he does not have time for this – this waiting while one fumbles with a simple response. He stares at her forehead, very much wishing he could just crack it open and unspool her thoughts into a flat surface, pin a corner down, make notes on another. She's a creature ruled by emotions, man-and-wizardkind's greatest hindrance. In her animation, a curl falls and interrupts the smooth expanse of her forehead, and without thinking he flicks his wand wordlessly and the rebel curl finds its way back to its rightful place.
"You're not telling me I shouldn't be applying muggle theories to magical practices," she finally says, perplexed, when he's counted up to seventy-three.
"It's also raining today," Tom says, jerking a thumb towards the window. "Just in case you felt the need to point that out as well."
"From a purely scientific point of view, the most probable answer to the ever-pervading question of 'What is magic?' would be that magic is a form of energy. Energy can be found all around us, and is used to accomplish many impressive feats in muggle society."
Merlin's tits, it's like she's reading from a teleprompter.
He grips his quill. A teleprompter. Really. There Granger goes again, reminding him of just how much the sum of his parts are muggle. Perhaps that is why his sigh is more aggressive than it should be. "Yes, and some forms of energy are easily observed or measured, while other forms are more discrete and require specialised methods and equipment to detect-"
Granger's eyes widen.
"- and if we follow this theory to its logical conclusion—"
Granger appears to be holding her breath.
"—then magical energy falls in this latter category, with only a very small percentage of individuals being able to detect and utilize it." He eyes Granger, who looks about to combust, and knows he is going to regret finishing this thought, but does anyway: "These being wizards and witches."
Granger absolutely vibrates.
Tom does not pinch the bridge of his nose. He really wants to. Needs to. "You may emote now, Granger."
And she does, in spectacular fashion, with: "NOBODY ever agrees with me when I bring this up!"
"It's because your persuasion leaves much to be desired," he says, since they're clearly still playing the Let's Point Out The Obvious game. "But more than that, conventional wisdom has long held that people generally will act in ways that support their fundamental views and preferences. And you, Granger…"
Tom stares very pointedly at the Monty Python sweater peeking through her robes. He wonders if she's missed a button, or if this is yet another one of her deliberate acts of rebellion.
Granger ignores this in favour of chasing the tail end of their debate, "I'm of the opinion that magic is a unique form of energy that can infiltrate and manipulate matter in order to alter its nature in infinite ways. Think electromagnetic waves, we could describe magic as that, yes?"
"Suppose I agree with you," Tom obliges reluctantly. Talking to Granger is like a lesson in restraint. He does not know what it is about her that makes him want to not oblige, something many would deem out of character. "What then?"
"Well," Granger beams at him – has she ever, before? He can't quite recall – and leans her chin on her hands, "as with any form of electromagnetic energy, we can assume that magical energy can easily be transmitted from one source to another, because the intended target can either absorb or resonate the source energy." She pauses, chewing on her lip. He keeps wanting to tell her that it's a terrible habit, but his eyes follow her ministrations every time and he just - forgets. "However, to obtain the desired effect, the transferred energy has to be very specific, so that only certain types of molecules - or targets in this case - are activated."
"Granger, magical energy follows its own complex and intricate laws, and as such, its use requires careful study and knowledge of its properties and effects. I do not need to remind you that I'm quoting The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. Nothing you're telling me is something I have not considered."
"You sound disappointed."
"There's a difference between applying and conflating."
Granger looks affronted. "You think I'm wrong?"
"No, Granger. I think your argument is flawed. You're greatly over-simplifying all the variables you need to take into account—"
"You were greatly over-simplifying with your non-answer, what, magical energy follows its own complex and intricate laws," Granger snorts. "Just say you've no interest in looking into it, and go."
"But Granger, you're in my corner." Tom simpers at her. "And you've yet to ask me what you really want to ask me."
"What makes you think—" Granger changes her mind, then squares her shoulders. "Fine. I want us to be partners for Potions."
"No," he says.
"You looked like you almost swallowed your tongue when Harry shoved that Bezoar in Slughorn's face yesterday."
"Spend a lot of time observing me, Granger?"
"I've never heard a more Janus-faced 'congratulations' in my life."
"You turned into a magnificent tomato and nearly burst into tears."
"By the end of this year we'll both be committed to St. Mungo's if Harry manages to get an Outstanding over us." Granger leans in, widening her eyes so much it's like she wants him to commit all of her eyelashes to memory. "And not even on his own merit, Riddle! Not even! On his own! M—"
"I'd rather partner with Malfoy, if I'm being honest."
He's not being honest.
Granger tilts her head. "Really? But you enjoy my company more than his."
Tom's mouth falls open at her audacity. "I barely know you."
"Riddle, in the two conversations we've had you have not once cast a tempus and made up some shoddy excuse of a whatsis meeting or a – just - just a terrible lie to escape conversation," Granger contributes to the Let's Point Out The Obvious game. "You're always entertained."
Tom glowers. "Always is a bit of a strong word considering we've only had two conversations."
And both had gone much the same way if he cares to recall.
"Yeah, as it stands statistically, always is an apt word."
He tries again.
"It's too small a sample size."
"Am I wrong?"
Well—
"Granger-"
"Am I wrong?"
"No, but it's only because half the time I have no idea what direction you're steering the conversation in," he seethes, and then he realises with dawning horror his mistake, because—
"You let me steer," Granger finishes, triumphant.
"I have, in my control, a Basilisk," Tom reminds her murderousl—okay, time to count to ten.
Fifty-six counts and two Granger rambles later, she pushes a piece of parchment his way.
He scans it quickly. "Is this a merger?"
"Of sorts."
"Why does it say here that I am not allowed to commandeer Potter's Book? Specifically, me?"
"Because," Granger sniffs, "if we're going to best Harry we're going to do it fair and square."
"We're not besting Potter, we're besting the previous owner of his Book."
"The Book in which he obstinately refuses to exchange!"
"You're worse than Myrtle."
"Don't let her catch you say that, she's lingering right over there, staring at that glorious head of curls you have."
"Does this merger have a no-flirting clause?"
"I was not flirting, I was merely –"
"Pointing out the obvious, I know," he finishes with a long, over-exaggerated sigh. And then he signs away his free periods along the dotted line.
"Remind me again what you said about my persuasion skills?" Granger bats her eyelids.
But only once the contract was tucked safe into her bag, lost to its cavernous space he suspects. He also suspects that it might have been charmed – he's seen what had happened to Edgecombe after she'd ratted out her secret duelling club last year. Her face had never recovered. He'd been impressed. Intrigued, even.
Granger's faux coy expression slowly drops as she studies his face. Her eyes grow warmer. "Are you smiling, Riddle?"
.
.
.
The weekend before the Slytherin-Gryffindor match, all hell breaks loose in the halls. Someone had upended a Great Hall's worth of Halloween decorations onto Crabbe and Goyle, and Katie Bell was in the Hospital Wing after coming in contact with a nasty hexed locket.
Halloween dinner had to be cut short due to a scuffle between – extraordinarily, the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, and he had been duty bound to settle that, and had to forgo dessert.
Tom was not happy about that, and clearly neither was Granger when they bumped into each other during patrols. Or at least, he assumes it's her by the voluminous soft thing he walks face-first into, because he can't see a single bloody thing.
He'd been following a sniggering set of footsteps down this corridor when everything had suddenly plunged into darkness.
He smells something herbal and something citrusy, and he remembers a heady afternoon of double Potions when he set next to a pleasantly bubbly vat with a luminous, pearly sheen, and feels all the tension drain from his shoulders.
Until the soft, voluminous thing steps away with an uncertain, "Riddle?"
And he is reminded of what it means.
Before he can rationalise it away, he feels soft fingers grasp on his shirt front. He catches the tips of them, then does not quite know what to do with her fingers.
"Granger," he greets into the darkness. Her hands immediately drop.
"Lumos appears not to be working," she says sheepishly, "nor any of the bluebell flames I can usually conjure in my sleep."
Yes, he's checked every iteration possible. "Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, do you think?"
"I'm going to kill Fred and George," her voice mutters. "Might I borrow Bassy for one evening?"
Tom sighs. "I don't actually have a Bassilisk, Granger," he lies, cursing Albus Dumbledore and his loose lips under Butterbeer and duress and his affinity to Gryffindors of the Potter lineage.
Granger-voice snorts.
It echoes all around them. The darkness provides some kind of lull to their usual predispositions. Maybe he should make small talk. He has participated before, yes, but he's never started one. He says:
"Reckon it was a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw that started the food fight?"
"God knows. I've never been more grateful for your ineptitude for Quidditch."
"Excuse me, Granger?"
This is probably why he's never initiated small talk.
"Okay, fine, for your dismissal of Quidditch." He imagines Granger shuddering, from the sound she's making. "You as Quidditch captain? It won't be the school divided between Harry and Malfoy. It'd be the entire school against one team. Imagine the bloodshed."
There is a pause, partly because he is still miffed about her assumption about his … aptitude, and mostly this is the most they've said to each other outside of the library – Slughorn's ice breaker notwithstanding – and this is where she usually goes on. Instead, he feels her fall into step with him.
"I can't see," she whispers.
"Clearly," he says.
"Ha."
"Did you happen to see anyone run this way?" he asks, feeling his way in the dark. Granger grabs his wrist and drops it just as fast.
"I can't see," she says again, and he imagines it is through clenched teeth.
"We just need to get out of this corridor—"
"Thank you for pointing out the obvious—"
"Seems to be a recurring theme with us," he says, or would have said, had she not bumped into his space again.
"Merlin, Granger," he finds himself saying. "Are you afraid of the dark?"
"Of course I'm not," she tsks. "I'm only afraid of what's lurking in it."
"It's only me," he smirks.
Another pause.
"Exactly."
He follows her scent, finds her shoulder, turns her around. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I don't quite trust you enough not to leave me here plonking around in the dark."
"Granger." He breathes in, finds some of her hair in his mouth, swats it away, and breathes out again. "You coerced me into being your Potions partner."
"That's in an academic setting, and I know how you feel about – about the sanctity of it, or something like that."
"We're in a bleeding school."
"I've never heard you curse."
"You've never had someone's expansive hair in your mouth whilst trying to have a conversation."
"You've never insulted me, either."
"I'm not –"
"You're the only Slytherin who's never insulted me, in fact. I used to think it was because, I don't know, some kind of blood-related kinship? It was why I left the stupid book out in the first place."
He is suddenly unsure of his footing, yet objectively he knows both of his feet are planted firmly on the ground. "What book?"
It's funny how he can clearly imagine the scoff on her face, the roll of her eyes, the slight toss of her head. "Pipes, Riddle."
All the blood drains from his face.
Granger had –
But no, why would she have –
He keeps walking. She follows.
No, he'd figured it out on his own, his legacy, his –
Granger had?
"Riddle?"
They stumble down a narrow spiral staircase, he knocks her into brick, she steps on his shoes.
"Riddle."
It was impossible, because Dumbledore had explicitly said—
Just how much does she even see—
"Riddle!"
And even if she had, how could she have –
No.
Because if she had, and he also had, that means he wasn't –
No.
Yes?
"Tom."
"Yes."
"Come here."
He comes.
She pushes him into a door.
"I found the door."
"Yes."
It creaks open and they are lead into another dark hallway, but this time their wands light up. In the golden glow of it, Granger takes in the look on his face. "Oh, Riddle," she sighs.
He turns away, but she catches his arm. This is also another recurring theme of the night.
"Riddle, you're Occluding so hard you can barely hear me. Are you alright?"
"Yes."
"Riddle, you're having an existential crisis in an abandoned sixth-floor corridor."
"Yes."
He keeps walking. She is dragged along with him, since she refuses to let go of his arm.
"Riddle."
"Stop saying my name," he finally snaps.
"Why are you freaking out?" she tugs on his arm so he faces her. Whatever she finds on his face prompts her to say, probably out of charity, "You're the brightest wizard of our age."
He doesn't need reminding.
"I'm the brightest witch of our age."
He doesn't need reminding.
"If it wasn't you it wouldn't been me. And you'd already done all the preliminary research, I'd just – nudged."
He laughs darkly. "You're very good at that."
She is a witch.
Her grip around his arm tightens. She pulls him closer; she's so small he is forced to lean down, to listen.
"You think you're all alone, you think you've never had a choice in that matter. I have no idea what you must have gone through, growing up the way you did, but – look, Riddle, we're in a bloody magical Castle in the arsecrack of Scotland, surrounded by hundreds of people capable of absolute, pure creation. It would be very silly," she says, and how is there no trace of venom at all in her voice? "-to cling on to old – beliefs, shall we say. You're still – you're still special."
"You didn't capitalise," is all he says.
He is special, he knows, but he's not –
He's not Special.
This is very fucking pathetic.
"Your head's already so inflated you're having trouble walking in a straight line right now."
"Very original," he says.
"Your eyes are doing that thing I've only read about when you Occlude too deep into your own head. Where are you right now, Riddle?"
In his old room. In a corner.
Huddling.
Dead rabbit at his feet.
His lip curls.
His face turns.
It's her hand on his jaw.
She's waving her Lumos stick in his face.
She's looking into his eyes, eyes blown golden with concern, a very human face, a very capable mind. Soft hands, rough touch. Her hair in his mouth. Standing. In a corridor. Her hands. On his face. He is breathing.
He looks down.
Her small shoes by his feet.
"Granger," he says.
"Yes?"
"You can let go of me now."
She does, but reluctantly, looking into his eyes the entire time. He elbows aside the shields and scratches his way out of his head, and finds them standing very close together. It is strange how her scent assaults him after the momentary sensory deprivation of drowning in one's own mind.
She pulls a piece of her hair out of his mouth, and when a thin line of saliva follows she doesn't make a face, doesn't say gross – just runs her finger down the sleeve of her robes.
"Are you al—"
They hear a scuffle from somewhere round the corner, heading to the Prefect's bathroom.
"You take the—"
"Left. You can go—"
"Right."
She looks at him one last time, everything crashes into place, the sound of the castle, the snoring portraits, the uneven footsteps of naughty children and a fistful of pranks.
He spreads his lips into a smile he's seen on the cover of a magazine once.
Granger, to his unease, does not smile back.
"You don't have to do that, you know."
"And what would you rather do," he begins, a cool mask back in place, his heart not pounding, his mind steadily thawing, "keep standing here whilst we let two detention slots run amok?"
"Fair point."
"I have them often."
The laughter sounds far away now.
"Godspeed," Granger says, tip of her wand illuminating her sombre, sombre face.
He frowns. "I'm an atheist."
She laughs softly at that. Following her lead, they head back down the hall before diverging, into the dark.
.
.
initially this was supposed to be hermione-centric the entire way, but then a tom pov wandered into my head and this happened. i'm v v nervous about this chapter, please let me know what you think!