Chapter 1
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On Hallowe'en, an unearthly calmness reigned over the castle.
Rain battered the windows on the second floor, casting teary shadows across the floor, and what remained untouched by the weak light of the night was clothed in deep darkness. The corners and the alcoves, the paintings, and even the flickering light of the torches, were swallowed by it.
The ghosts wandering the hallways were unusually dispirited after tonight's celebrations, lamenting their deaths without a sound- out of tradition or real sorrow, Tom didn't know.
He and Abraxas were on their way to patrol the corridors, a duty normally carried out in silence, but Abraxas Malfoy wouldn't be able to grasp the concept of silence if it were to rip out his tongue.
Unperturbed by the sight of the Bloody Baron floating in and out of walls carrying a bloody dagger, the boy was walking by his side, bragging about the last bird he'd managed to woo into his bed. It wasn't that Tom needed the focus to keep an eye on their side of the castle – other than catching Peeves vomiting ectoplasm behind a tapestry, or finding couples snogging in alcoves, the nightly vigils were uneventful – but he still preferred the quiet of his mind to his companion's incessant voice.
"She's a Hufflepuff," he was explaining. "Seriously, you would think they're shy- but they're mad…mad."
"Hmm." Tom honestly didn't care about Abraxas' extracurricular activities, but he didn't interrupt the one-sided conversation either.
"Her friend fancies you, I think. Potter dumped her for that redhead-"
Tom drowned out Abraxas' voice altogether and his thoughts easily moved onto something else, something much more interesting, a challenging subject that would lead to intensive reading sessions in the Restricted Section. He was anxious to quench this thirst for knowledge but he'd decided to wait for the holidays, for the library to be at his sole disposal at night.
"So, what do you think?"
Tom looked at Abraxas. Right, the Hufflepuff girl.
Before he had the chance to say anything, a sudden sound of footfall echoing off the empty corridor made both boys go still.
"Oh, Tom, Abraxas."
The headmaster appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing a toothy grin and almost jumping on the ball of his feet as he descended.
Tom was about to greet the clearly tipsy Professor Dippet, an easy smile plastered on his face, when he caught a glimpse of the figure following just behind; the unpleasant sight made the corners of his lips immediately curl downwards.
With what could only be described as an imposing appearance barely soothed by a serene smile, and an unmistakable aura of power wrapped around him, walking towards them was a redhead, middle-aged man. The candles floating around the corridor faltered at his presence and even the usual faint creaking of the old walls seemed to mute at his passage.
But Tom knew that only he could sense the real shift in the air. In the eyes of Abraxas Malfoy, standing beside Tom with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his slacks, and in the eyes of Dippet, who was grinning up at one of his favourite teachers, Albus Dumbledore was nothing more than a brilliant, albeit eccentric, wizard.
Tonight Dumbledore was wearing a violet, star-patterned robe paired with purple shoes of silk. Once again clothed for the part, old Albus, that of the odd, whimsical wizard who preached good and offered the ultimate moral, the words of love and peace that boys like Tom needed to hear to escape their dark realities- or just their small and grey bedroom in an orphanage.
Tom kept his expression impassive when the Trasfiguration professor nodded at him, giving him a rare smile. Most of the time Tom couldn't tell if those smiles were fake or not. Dumbledore was a fool, but he could easily fool anyone as well.
Then, Tom's gaze shifted.
It took him some time to make out the shape of her. Standing hidden in the shadows there was a girl, definitely not a student.
He couldn't see much of her under the dim light in the corridor, but he made out a petite frame, pale skin, baggy clothes… he thought her hair was somehow big.
Was she staring at him? Tom furrowed his eyebrows. Yes. Yes, she was. She kept on staring at him longer than necessary, hard and unblinking, until Dumbledore gently grasped her shoulder. The action wasn't wasted on him.
Tom didn't give in simple courtesy, he didn't introduce himself or Abraxas. In fact, he said nothing as Dumbledore bade them goodnight and led the strange young woman away, into the darkness of the castle.
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Granger was new, or she would have been two months ago, Tom realised with a moderate amount of confusion.
Only now he was aware of her existence, and yet he knew he'd seen her, just a figure hidden in the gloomy corridor and walking behind Albus Dumbledore that night, but the sight had left an impression. It was the same of this morning, the same shock distorting her features and, somehow, the same hostility.
For two months she'd eluded his notice and now- now he couldn't help but see her everywhere. His mind would tune in her presence ahead of time, his eyes tracking her a heartbeat later. A couple of times her eyes would meet his as well, as she sat down at her table in the Great Hall or walked down a corridor heading to the greenhouse, but she would always avert them, not acknowledging him. With almost the entire female population and part of the male one determined to stumble into his path, Granger's was a reaction he just couldn't place. Even Clearwater, often seen by the new girl's side, would openly smile at Tom.
It was odd but he didn't overthink it.
When the last day of first term came around, the whole school was on a sugar high, teachers included. All that could be heard passing in corridors were the excited talk of plans for the break, charmed armours singing off-key Christmas carols, or, if one was really out of luck, the nasty sound of couples snogging under the mistletoe.
The presence of the sodding plant was annoying, if not a serious inconvenience. Tom risked accidents with hopeful girls quite often, and a charming smile and a small wave of his wand behind his back usually fixed the problem, but some times he would find himself stuck. The situation out of his control.
This morning the mistletoe had caught fire in the Entrance Hall. A small triumph. Peeves had zoomed by with perfect timing, and no one had suspected anything – well, perhaps except Professor Slughorn, who'd been walking by and winked at Tom conspiratorially.
By dinner time, the noise in the quaking Great Hall reached maximum levels, resulting in a splitting headache and a minimum level of tolerance on Tom's part. Honestly, he just wanted to eat in peace and return to the quiet of the library, stay there while the school emptied; instead, he had to endure Malfoy and Rosier's pointless discussions and pretend to be blind to all the unnecessary cheeriness that came with far too many bright colours for his taste.
Tom massaged his temples.
"Tom."
Tom clenched his jaw, suppressing the snarl that threatened to leave his throat, but after snapping his eyes up at Feodor Nott, who was sitting across from him and holding a book upright in front of his empty plate, he just frowned.
"Dumbledore," Feodor warned him, returning to his book. For a second, the action reminded Tom of a bushy head.
Banishing the weird thought from his mind, Tom looked at the High Table and found Dumbledore indeed observing him from behind his half-moon spectacles. Unfazed by those penetrating blue eyes, Tom held his stare until the professor was forced to divert his in favour of a chatty Slughorn.
Albus Dumbledore had been studying Tom's every move, or lack thereof, very closely since last year's episode, keeping an eye on him during classes and whenever he could, going as far as to ask a few trusted portraits to follow the young Slytherin throughout the castle. Fortunately, Tom knew more secret passages than the whole stuff and students put together.
Tom was aware that Dumbledore had been suspicious of him for a while now, all because of that Warren girl's death. Tom, he…
He hadn't considered it, hadn't wanted for a student to die, but how could he have known that the girl would have found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Tom had tried to command his pet to slither back to its chambers, but it had been too late, the damage done. He'd felt sick to his stomach. The girl may have been a Mudblood, but Tom hadn't wanted to kill her.
"He's mental," commented Feodor, finally closing his book - Motion and disappearance of Celestial Bodies by Corvus Sinistra – and shoving it in his bag.
Tom hummed in agreement and helped himself to a bowl of pudding. "Are you going home for the break?"
Feodor shook his head, a forlorn expression painted on his face. "Not unless I want to suffer my mother. And my father. He sings on vodka with his friends, remember? In Russian."
Still better than the orphanage, Tom thought, but didn't say it out loud. Not that Feodor didn't know where his friend stayed during the summer, but the students sitting around them had the despicable tendency to eavesdrop.
Activity on the other side of the hall caught Tom's attention. The girl with the odd hair was rising from the Ravenclaw table. For a moment Tom thought she'd looked right back at him, but he didn't wait to find out.
"What do you know about Granger?" he asked, scraping his spoon along the bowl of half-eaten pudding.
Feodor shrugged, leaning back on the bench. "She's a seventh-year, so we share the same classes. She's smart, I guess." As an afterthought, he added, "She spends a lot of time with Clearwater… and the Gryffindors."
They both made a face at that.
"When did she arrive?"
"'Round November," the older boy replied, glancing over his shoulder at the Ravenclaw table, where Clearwater was still chatting with her classmates. Catching Feodor staring at her, she stuck her nose in the air and turned away. His lips narrowed into a tight line.
Finished his last spoonful of dessert, Tom collected his things and stood.
"See you later." He gave Feodor a nod and walked out of the Great Hall.
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When Tom stepped into his haven, only silence greeted his ears and he almost smiled. He could feel the stabbing pain in his head finally easing its hold.
As expected, the library was deserted and dark, illuminated only by the dim light of a few oil lamps. Relieved to be alone at last, Tom headed for the Restricted Section without demur: he'd found an interesting reading the other day, quite illuminating, about an old ritual that was just the answer to what he'd been searching for the past seven months.
He didn't waste time. He approached the third row of bookshelves, knelt before the third shelf from the bottom, reached a hand to grab the book, and-
Tom's eyes widened in shock.
The book he was holding wasn't the one.
Perhaps this wasn't the right place… but Tom could have sworn it'd been right here.
Tom began to search every bookshelf, every dusty corner of the library. He tried to Summon it by its title, the one he remembered, but to no avail. He even asked the librarian for help, something that rarely occurred, but, after checking the archives three times, the old woman gave up and told him that no such volume had ever been property of the Hogwarts Library. Tom was about to ask her to check a fourth time when he registered her irritated expression and thought better of it.
"Now, Mr Riddle," she said sternly, pushing her thick glasses up the bridge of her upturned nose. "I'm sure you're eager to study and perfect those already impeccable grades of yours, but it's late, don't you think?"
Standing, she fished in her pockets for a ring of keys. "If you want to continue your… research, feel free to do so. I trust that you'll put on the usual Security Charms on the Restricted Section and close the doors."
Tom assented weakly, blinking back his displeasure. How?
"Return these tomorrow." The librarian thrust the keys into his hand. "Good night, Tom."
Tom watched the woman quickly vanished behind a tower of books.
He inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm down and think.
Books didn't get lost, so…
He didn't want to cave, didn't want to accept the most logical reasoning yet, the one caressing his head with a hint of alarm. But he had to, didn't he?
Dragging in a shaky breath, Tom concluded that the book he remembered holding in his hands, Bullock's Secrets of the Darkest Arts, didn't exist.
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No fawning girls around, no jostling bodies racing down the hallways. The only sound that broke the eerie silence the next day was the echo of Tom's footfall against the tiled floors as he walked out of the Library.
Few students had decided to stay in the castle for the holidays and Tom was grateful to have a place like the library to himself, even when said place had betrayed him. He'd woken up early this morning to search it again, top to bottom, but needless to say, he'd just stridden out empty-handed. He'd spent a good part of the day confined in there and now, walking to the Great Hall, his stomach grumbled.
When Tom entered the hall, the ceiling was filled with a blanket of clouds. The room was still decorated in bright colours, but the sight was much better with all the students gone. The traditional twelve Christmas trees stood along the side walls and the five House tables and the High Table had been replaced by a much smaller one.
He felt a bit uncomfortable when he realised that everyone was already sitting, talking jovially among themselves; they had clearly been waiting for his arrival to dig into the delectable food, untouched and hot. He could sniff its appetising aroma from where he stood.
"Tom!" Professor Dippet called out. "There you are! I was worried you wouldn't show up."
"I apologise for my tardiness, sir," Tom said, nearing the table while looking for an available seat. He spotted one next to Feodor.
"No need, my boy," Dippet said airily. He clapped his hands and happily tucked into his roasted turkey. Everyone at the table followed suit, filling their plates with the delicious food prepared by the house-elves. Tom served himself some chicken with mushroom sauce, something he wouldn't have been able to eat at Wool's Orphanage. Maybe he could have eaten chicken wings within those detested walls, but definitely not the mushrooms or any other fine food laid on this table.
While savouring the tender meat, Tom casually peered his eyes around: Dumbledore was chatting amiably with Professor Merrythought, the Defence against Dark Arts teacher (he inwardly rolled his eyes at the red and green robes the former was sporting); Professor Noel and Dippet were interrogating two timid Gryffindor first-years who hadn't even managed a taste of their meal yet; finally, a third-year boy from Ravenclaw was sitting across from him and, to Tom's surprise, next to Clearwater and Granger.
"Had a good day?" Feodor whispered when Tom placed his fork on the empty plate, finished with the first course.
Tom scowled, knowing Feodor had taken notice of his mood, but he eventually sighed, "Yes. I was in the library. I… couldn't find a book."
He saw Granger shift in her seat from the corner of his eye. The girl was quietly nibbling on a slice of bread, everything she'd been eating until now. On her right, Evelyn Clearwater was immersed in an animated conversation with Slughorn about the collateral effects of Dreamless potions.
Tom waited patiently, lightly drumming his fingers on the table. When the professor directed his questions to the first-years, Tom openly looked at Clearwater.
"Evelyn," he smiled, taking a sip of pumpkin juice, "How are you?"
She gave him a small grin. "I'm well… and, about that morning with Charlus, I'm sorry about that."
Tom shook his head. "I did nothing. Miss Granger, on the other hand..."
He finally acknowledged her. The corners of his lips tilting, he met her eyes. "She can hold her own."
If he was expecting her to blush or look away in embarrassment, he was completely wrong.
"I can," she said, an unperturbed expression on her face.
Tom managed another pleasant smile. "Had the choice been mine, I wouldn't have taken points from your House. I'm sorry about that."
"The choice was yours, Riddle," Granger countered dryly, "but it doesn't matter, I feel no resentment towards you."
She clearly did. He doubted the witch was this cold to everyone.
When all the plates on the table disappeared to be replaced by desserts, Granger showed interest in the food for the first time this evening. Tom eyed her curiously as she cut a generous slice of chocolate cake and proceeded to eat it greedily.
"Honestly." Evelyn rolled her eyes, and Granger would have responded if the sudden sound of flapping wings hadn't boomed in the Great Hall. Several owls descended to deposit-
"Post at this hour?" The third-year boy asked just as a copy of the Daily Prophet was placed under his nose in a quick flutter of feathers.
"It's the evening edition," Dumbledore said loudly, grabbing his own copy mid-air.
Feodor pushed his book aside to lean over the table and take the closest newspaper available, but Evelyn snatched it, sparing the boy a glare.
"Read your own," she muttered, her eyes quickly scanning the front page- until they stopped. Colour drained from her face. Her voice was a quivering whisper into the palm of her hand, "Oh God."
"It's Grindelwald." Granger took the newspaper from her friend's shaking hands and began to read in a monotonous tone,
"Suspected terrorist activity resumes after three months of silence, away from the continent and closer to our coasts. Traces of magic left in southern villages appear to lead once again to Grindelwald's army, a unit of Dark Wizards based in Europe commanded by Gellert Grindelwald. 'Aurors are working day and night to defend our country', Minister Spencer-Moon tells the press. "Minister Churchill and I are cooperating to ensure the safety of both our communities against the two fronts that are trying to penetrate the country-"
When Granger abruptly stopped reading, it was to take a swift look around and the others did the same for good measure, but no one was paying attention to what was going on on their side of the table. Yet the girl didn't say anything but flattened the Evening Prophet on the table so Feodor and Tom could finish reading the article in silence.
"Plans for a new attack," Feodor finally said with a grimace, "Grindelwald's idea of Christmas present, very creative."
"That's horrible," Evelyn hissed. She glowered at Feodor, who grew truthfully mortified.
"I'm sorry, that was insensi-"
"That symbol."
Tom didn't realise he'd said it out loud until he felt four pair of eyes on him, waiting for him to go on. Clearing his throat, he pointed at the photo flashing in the top corner of the page.
It was a strange symbol, very similar to an eye, and something about it seemed oddly familiar... he couldn't exactly place what it was. Its meaning had to be somewhat important if someone had cared enough to paint it on Nurmengard's walls.
"What is it?" The Ravenclaw boy asked when no one had said anything. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw Dumbledore tilt his head in their direction. The man's gaze was still trained on Slughorn, who was the centre of an uncharacteristically serious conversation.
Feodor answered simply, "It's the symbol of the Deathly Hallows."
Evelyn tapped her lips with a finger, thinking, but Tom crossed his arms and inwardly frowned. Of course it was. Now he could discern the three objects in the symbol. The Wand. The Cloak. And the most dangerous of all three, the Stone.
Feodor spoke softly, "It's from an old tale for children. Written by Beedle the Bard. It's just a story to convey a moral through the death of three characters, three brothers."
"Oh," Evelyn snapped her fingers. "I remember it. So, the Deathly Hallows are… the objects the three brothers obtained from Death?"
"Precisely."
Evelyn nodded, pleased that she'd figured it out all by herself, the bloody Ravenclaw. "Do you think they exist?"
Feodor parted his lips to answer, but Granger chose that moment to stand, yawning.
"I think I'll turn in," she said to her classmates. The Ravenclaw boy made to stand as well but Tom smoothly pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.
"I'll accompany you, then." Tom's wasn't as much an offer as a statement considering he too had to go back to dungeons, but there was note of approval in Evelyn's eyes and that was a point in his favour.
Granger, however, didn't seem too excited at the idea. Tom still waited for her by the heavy oak door while she collected her bag and bade everyone at the table goodnight. Predictably, Slughorn tried to delay her departure with a series of anecdotes, but Dumbledore successfully redirected the conversation, giving Granger a kind smile and a way out.
Some time later, Tom and the girl were walking along the corridors in a strained silence. She kept a cool, steady pace, her hair bouncing on her shoulders in rhythm with her firm steps, a painting of calmness he'd have commended were it not for the obvious tension. It radiated off her in waves.
Why was that? She'd looked fine during dinner, talking normally with Evelyn. He wouldn't go as far as to say that she was a happy person, because, hell, she wasn't. There was something about her expression, something bitter beneath her dispassionate mask. And Tom couldn't tell what it was, that secret emotion dulling her eyes and shadowing her face.
Reached another set of moving stairs, Granger finally turned her head over her shoulder.
"There's no need to accompany me the whole way," she said tightly, still avoiding Tom's eyes.
"I'm a prefect, Miss Granger," he countered sharply.
"You're off duty. I can make it there safely."
"Of that I have no doubt," Tom agreed, staring down at her. She was much shorter than him, her head barely reached his shoulders. The difference in height gave him a strange sense of power over the girl and, finally, something felt right.
"I don't want to... bother you," she said carefully, her eyes slightly squinting, "the dungeons are in the opposite direction. I'm sure you want to go to bed."
"Why-" Tom cocked his head, feeling his brow furrow. "Why do I have the impression that my presence causes you discomfort?"
Granger opened and closed her mouth, taken aback.
"Is it because I took points from you?"
She shook her head, "N-no." She said it again, more resolutely, "No. I appreciate rules. It's not you. I apologise for this misunderstanding."
Her voice was strong and Tom almost bought the apology, but didn't fail to notice how the half-smile she stretched on her lips didn't reach her eyes. What's with this witch? Why-
"Well, since everything's alright, I insist," he said, climbing the first two steps to make a point. Granger followed him without further objections.
Arrived at the spiral staircase that led to the Common Room's entrance, Tom silently thanked Salazar the Slytherins didn't have to walk this path every day.
"Thank you." Granger gave him a quick glance and started to walk away.
"Wait." He called her back, his voice coming out more commanding than intended.
The girl stopped in her tracks; Tom thought he heard her sigh, but when she swung around, she just regarded him quizzically.
Tom shortened their distance with a slow step, getting closer than necessary, so close that he could feel her breath on his neck as she strained hers to look up at him. He peered into her narrowed eyes and she swallowed inaudibly.
He stepped back and held out his hand. "I haven't even properly introduced myself," his lips twitched. "I'm Tom Riddle."
Granger blinked at him. After a few seconds of uncertainty, in which he thought she looked so wary he wouldn't be surprised if she were to sniff at the appendage he was offering, she nodded and, finally, shook his hand. Her fingers were cold but he didn't let them go.
"I'm Hermione Granger."
Hermione. He already knew, but it sounded like a secret coming from her lips.
"Hermione." Her name rolled off his tongue. "Like the daughter of Helen of Troy."
Tom wanted to believe that the poor half-grin he'd stolen from her before she disappeared up the stairs was real.
Then, he turned around and headed back to the dungeons.