"And that's another goal for Gryffindor!"

"Boo!"

Lee Jordan announces the overall scores of the teams through the cheers and booing from the small crowd in the stands. A spectre of scarlet and gold robes spin in the air as the team players clap hands, before swerving away to get back into their positions. Meanwhile, the Slytherin players huddle close, discussing their next manoeuvres to overcome their opposing team. The chase continues in the air, with both teams dodging bludgers and trying to throw the Quaffle through the hoops. Angelina Johnson scores yet another goal for Gryffindor, and there's more cheering from the Gryffindor supporters.

Tom, however, is currently lying down on the unbarred grass field at the far end of the pitch. Arm propped behind his back, and an open textbook splayed carelessly across his face, he recounts for the umpteenth time as to why he agreed to watch the Quidditch training match. He has not been forced to join the team(a situation he would've never being able to comprehend), but to just view the brawny spectacle from a distance. As Draco had said—pleaded, actually, "Just sit there and watch us, give us the morale boost for once, Riddle? Can't let Potter one-up me again." And so he agreed, begrudgingly, only to stop his pestering.

But Quidditch has never appealed to him, and he would much rather spend his free time pursuing more useful activities such as revising for his N.E.W.T.s. Draco may have forced him to sit out here, but he fails to see how his presence is achieving anything for his house team's 'morale'. Not that he hasn't been able to incite them to congratulatory pat-on-backs before. He only has to speak a few words during their study groups and debating sessions with the other houses, and he has them on his side. He is acutely aware of the effects of his mannerisms upon others, and he is aware also, of how to use that to his advantage. But right now it was useless, and therefore a waste of his time.

"Gryffindor is leading the score!" Bellows Lee's voice from the tower. "They're showing us time and time again how they live up to their reputation as fierce lions!" There was another round of cheers from the Gryffindor players and the spectators, intermingled with some swearing from the Slytherins.

Tom scoffs, and places a free hand on his book, the pages pressing against his forehead. This game was dumb and senseless. It was just another boorish competition, really, between the rival houses. A tough and rumble row of who had the biggest ego. And while the Gryffindors truly were air-headed imbeciles, the other houses never passed an opportunity to overpower the others either, including his own.

"Slytherin takes goal! Finally a win for our green-team!"

Tom looks up from under his book to the shouts of joy from the Slytherin players, and a string of creative insults from Blaise Zabini are hurled towards the Gryffindor team. He also hears Draco's "Take that will you, Potty and Weaselbee!" and watches his form spin through the air while the players take a break, touching the ground on their broomsticks.

Well, at least his house players finally showed their competence. Although, how much longer is it going to last? It's been a joke of a practice match so far, and his peers are proving to be a lot less proficient than usual. He won't be here for the proper match if it's a rehearse of today, no thanks. And right now he was so bored, he might as well go to the library, or practice spells in an empty classroom in the dungeons. That way no one will disturb him. He'll make his way up, soon. With that final thought, he places the book back on his face and shuts his eyes.

"Hermione!"

His attention piqued, Tom peers from under his book. Not because it's specifically her who was called out, but rather because Potter had just yelled her name out without preamble. After all, there is no one else on the pitch beside the players, and all spectators are seated in the towers. He hadn't noticed her sitting there, he was sure.

He watches her then as she walks across the pitch. Her ridiculous hair is tied up in a bun but the ribbon is failing to keep it contained. She's carrying a satchel heavy with textbooks, slung over her shoulder and held with both hands. Her skirt is of regulation length and her shoes are worn and practical. But there's tension in her shoulders and her eyes seem wary, as though she doesn't want to be here. Which makes sense, of course, because he knows she never rides a broomstick outside of compulsory classes, let alone shown any interest towards joining the Quidditch team. Potter and Weasley must've forced her to come down here, too.

She meets up with the two boys and exchanges some greetings, which he can't hear. They're talking with each other, and she's smiling at them, genuinely, warmly, and he feels the corners of his mouth twitch down.

Tom understands social etiquette and he knows how to interact with his peers and teachers, and he knows what pleases or displeases someone. To be accepted by the crowd you need to know as much, especially in consideration of his heritage and upbringing. And especially, being in Slytherin, you can never show any sign of weakness that revolves around your ancestry. To socially strengthen oneself is much safer, and leaves little conspicuousness to your heritage. His mother is a witch, and he doesn't know his father, that's all there is to be said. It's why he maintains connections with the Malfoys and other pureblooded wizarding families, even if certain family members do not make the most pleasant company.

But seeing her—Hermione, no, Granger—like this, he doesn't understand how her simple-minded friends can keep her attention without so much as lifting a finger or twisting a word. They're not even—intelligent like her, at least academically, to put it mildly. And even more perplexing, is that they use her for their own academic purposes, as though their friendship is built upon their dependence of her. He can never tolerate someone using him like that. He assists his peers when needed, but keeps it limited, instead passing some encouraging sentiments, and they leave him alone. Her Gryffindor self doesn't know how to say 'no' to those close to her, but her Gryffindor self is just as capable of throwing lots of big, capital letter 'NO's' his way.

And yet, she fawns over the two and looks at them as if they're the greatest wizards she's ever met. She looks at them the way most people look at him, but she never spares that glance his way.

Perhaps he's being inconsiderate, and he should account for the whole drama that occurred during his third year. He hadn't meant to say what he did to her during the competition, he really hadn't, it just sort of, happened. It wasn't even a derogative insult that she hears from Malfoy, and dammit he even tried to apologise to her. However, it has been a few years to that incident, surely one cannot keep a grudge for that long. But then, he realises, he knows how to keep a grudge, too. But still, still, she shouldn't have just—

And then he stops his irrational, rambling thoughts and questions why he even cares. It doesn't matter to him what Granger thinks of him, he just kind of enjoys vexing her, that's all. Although she's intelligent, sure, but also—

She was such a spitfire

Without warning, Tom's textbook disappears from his face and he blinks against the sunlight. Draco is standing over him, his book in hand. The sun behind him filters through his pale hair, making it look like he has a halo. He is anything but holy, for sure.

"Great support today, Riddle," Draco scowls at him, thumping his Nimbus 2001 into the grass below,"you really gave us all the back-up today. Real charmer you are when you're always bloody reading."

"Draco, I'm here, and I watched, what more did you expect from me?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe first you ought've kept this shut," he waves the book in Tom's face, "and secondly, joined everyone else in the stands," he continues, dropping his broomstick and running a hand across his forehead, "even a single cheer might've done it, I can't always rely on Pansy's alone."

Tom sighs, and places a hand against his face to ward off the sun. For Salazar's sake, he isn't a "Pansy Parkinson". Draco is not stupid, but sometimes his metaphorical comparisons confused even him. He refuses to reply and fixes him with a glare, instead.

"Okay, I get it. I know you don't do the whole 'open motivation' stuff," he says, shifting on his foot and throwing the book back at Tom, which he catches, "But Potter, he always has his crew to support him, including the rest of the Weaselbees and that Mudblood—"

"Language, Draco, we've discussed this before." The word sounded crude in contrast to his noble heritage. Draco really doesn't care for how his speech affected his reputation, Tom thought. Even if he's not one to go out preaching for the muggleborns, he doesn't need to engage in open hostility. He has his own grievances with his partial muggle background, after all.

"Whatever. Just for once, Riddle, support me properly, yeah?"

"Hmm, let's see, maybe I'll feel sorry for you one day. In the meantime, Pansy's 'cheers' should suffice you," he jeers, sitting up now, "or how about you get your trusty sidekicks Crabbe and Goyle to rally for you instead? I'm sure they'll be more than willing. Complete with the Malfoy family emblem poster decorated with your face. And throw in a couple of cute rosettes for fun."

Draco glowers at him, "if you're so keen to describe how they should dress up, I think you're a better fit to turn up all cheery and flashy. 'Cute' rosettes and all."

Tom laughs, and Draco looks at him in exasperation, mentioning something about him attending the final match(no questions). Broomstick in tow, he then swaggers back to the pitch for the next round of practice.

And just as he's setting himself down on the grass again, arm behind back and the textbook at its rightful place on his face, he sees her again. Walking his way—towards him—but not to him, just going past. Well, he's not one to pass up on an opportunity, he thinks as she gets closer, shoes squelching in the shaded parts of the grass. And he notes, the way she purposely avoids looking at him, the way she purposely makes a beeline to the entrance—

"Granger," he calls out from under the book. She finally looks at him, mouth set in a frown. "Here," he points to the spot beside him on the grass.

"Not in your dreams, Riddle."

Ah, yes, here we go. She's the perfect antidote to his boredom on this dreary afternoon. Just a means of distraction before he needs to go and complete his impending tasks. "Only for a short while, I promise I won't make you late for class," he replies, sitting up to place the book down beside him. He transfigures it into a rug.

She gives an eye-roll but throws her satchel onto the rug, before sitting next to him—at an appropriate distance away, of course. "I don't even know why I'm sitting with you. I never sit with you," she glowers, adjusting the ribbon around her bun.

"There's always a first time for everything," he leans on his arm, cheek clasped in palm, to look up at her. He knows this is his best angle when lying down.

"No, I assume you want to say something important, that's all," she replies, clutching her satchel close. "And obviously, if you're just going to waste my time, I'll be on my way," she moves, about to stand up.

"This is important. Very important, in fact," he stops her. She mutters something he can't hear properly, but he thought he heard the words "self-important git." Ignoring it, he continues anyway,"it's related to your O.W.L.s."

She stalls, and turns to him again, sighing as though frustrated. Is she already so fed-up with him? He's barely said anything to her. All the more better. And if discussing anything related to studying will make his boredom dissipate, so be it.

"Speak, then. What is it about the O.W.L.s.?" she questions, tucking a curl behind her ear. It bounces out again. By now he's positive that her hair has a mind of its own. In relation to her, it's completely understandable.

"Well, you know the topic on Invigoration Draughts in Potions? They're not going to be testing it this year."

"And your source is?"

"Professor Slughorn," he lies. His source is actually his own self. Because he's still improvising before he needs to move onto the next tactic.

"When ever did he tell you about this, and why?"

"I innocuously gifted him a box of crystallised pineapples, and in general terms, asked him about the topics that won't be tested in this year's O.W.L.s., and then he just told me." The box of crystallised pineapples was a truth. He did give out sweets to the teachers from time to time, just to keep them sweet.

She bites her lower lip, and there's a crinkle next to her eyebrow. He has noticed it's there when she's deep in thought. It seems she was about to unravel the little story he'd just spun. She's a clever witch, after all.

"I don't recall being told anything about Invigoration Draughts in past O.W.L. exams."

"They've changed certain rules in the course, modified it to make it more coherent to understand." She doesn't reply immediately, deep in thoughts again.

"You're lying. There is no topic on Invigoration Draughts, at all," she fumes, cheeks turning a faint shade of red. Her hair is definitely crackling, he muses.

Clever, indeed.

"Why do you always lie to me, Riddle?"

"Why must you always assume the worst about me, Hermione?"

"Stop that! It's not going to work, you can call everyone on personal terms in hopes to get chummy with them for your own, selfish reasons, but it's not—it's never going to work on me."

It was both amusing and infuriating how she somehow always linked every conversation back to him. Quite annoying, in retrospect, that she thought him the absolute worst. And that she always, always found fault in his manners. "Get off your high horse, Granger, and stop thinking you're special."

"Fine." She stands up, satchel in hand, her expression thunderous, looking all but about to hex him.

"I've got the practice papers on Defence from the wizarding school of IIvermorny. They sent them to Professor Snape, who gave me a copy last year before my O.W.L.s."

She eyes him suspiciously, clearly not believing a word he just said. "Look—" with a flick of his wand, he conjures the parchments from his bag. He had totally not placed them there in case he ever had to show her—to show-off, that is. "The papers include details for the exact procedure in producing a Patronus charm."

"Hmm, I see," she replies coolly, sitting down again, their previous confrontation seemingly forgotten. Her eyes are glued to the papers in focus. Who knew it was this easy to win over bookworms? But he's not trying to charm her, this is all just a game to pass time.

They then go over the requirements for the written component of the O.W.L.s., and how the practical exam is carried out. She highlights the important sections on the sheets with her quill.

"But wait, why are you telling me all this?" She asks, closing the sheets of parchment.

"Because I've discussed these notes with the other students in your year, and so I thought to show them to you, as well." Another lie, he hasn't shown anyone these papers. She doesn't need to know that, however.

"Well, I'll read them in more detail during my study break. I have to go perform my prefect duties now, though." Already? He wants her to stay, but then also not care if she does or not. And anyway, he wants to irritate her some more before she leaves.

"Right, that's why you're wearing a badge."

She makes a face, looking confused."Obviously, it's not like you're not wearing one, either."

"But Granger, are you sure that's a prefect badge you're wearing?" He turns to face her, glancing at her badge and leaning in. She scoots back. He leans in some more.

"I think the 'P' stands for something else, but what can it be?" He continues, looking up at her as though it's a conspiratorial matter. "'Pleasant?' 'Proper?'" He locks eyes with her and is pleased to note how her cheeks flush. "'Peach?'—"

"—'Piss off.' It stands for 'Piss off, Riddle.'"

And with that eloquent closing statement, she gets up, satchel flung over shoulder with ferocity.

Face hidden in arms, covering his laughs, Tom doesn't watch her leave. He has no regrets about calling her over, and in fact is glad he did so. He only wishes she had stayed for a while more, and be given further opportunities to raise her ire. Rage—that's how she reacts to him, and if he was quite honest with himself, it was a refreshing attitude after all the cooing and simpering smiles from their peers. Next time however, he'll try being more smooth—which may or may not work on her. But he's not personally invested in any of this—in her—he just likes to annoy her, that's all. Really, that was all.


Readers, let me know what you thought of this chapter! Also, send me your prompts, head canons etc., I may incorporate them in future chapters! I have a couple more ideas planned out including a scene in Diagon Alley and something for Christmas. So please let me know!