Brief Note:
I have now revised and re-written parts of this chapter, and the following chapters, as of 21/10/22. After a hiatus, I have decided to continue with this story and in order to do that I had to remove Chapters 4 and 5 (those who have been following for a while may realise their absence). I will update this story concurrently on AO3.
- Original Note -
So, another Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger pairing. Well, as much as I am a fan, I have become frustrated lately. I hate to think of Hermione as a blushing fool who allows herself to "fall in love" with a ruthless boy whom she knows is capable of mass murder. I doubt she would even call it "love" whatever she feels, if she feels anything at all.
This story is just an attempt to scratch an itch, which is to say, I am trying to satisfy my obsession with the possibility of two such unlikely characters feeling any sort of attraction at all. Many well-written stories have made Hermione and Tom fight on familiar battlegrounds: both characters are fiercely intelligent and competitive; there is the irresistible attraction of her secret (whether of the future or something else); his charisma; the influence of a good nature on Tom's violent ambitions and last but not least, the teeny tiny awkward complication (usually glossed over) that Tom hates muggle-borns and muggles whilst Hermione, the passionate founder of S.P.E.W, is, well, a muggle-born witch herself.
In my humble opinion, people don't change that easily.
No time travel. Story begins in the middle of first term of fifth year, 1942. It is an AU where Hermione is in the same year at Hogwarts as Tom Riddle, James Potter, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.
I have taken great liberty with the characters and their time frames, just for fun.
Grindelwald seen roaming Scottish Isles, ran the headlines on the front page of The Daily Prophet.
The mood in the Great Hall was sombre. Apart from the quiet clicks of forks and spoons on their breakfast plates, most were not talking. The head table was nearly empty, with only Professor Slughorn and Professor Northwood chatting quietly. Headmaster Dippet and Professor Dumbledore were notably absent. Hermione looked up from her bowl of Ingleberries when she heard an audible chuckle from the Slytherin table. It was Riddle, of course. Well, actually to be fair, the culprit was one of his usually sullen cronies, who were always accompanying him. He himself was sitting with his back admirably straight, legs crossed at the knee, reading a thick leather-bound book, pausing to hold a cup of tea to his lips.
James interrupted her thoughts in his usual way: "Hermione, I was thinking…"
"Yes?"
He looked a bit sheepish as he ran one of his large hands through his sandy hair (with the result that it was more dishevelled than before, though she knew he knew this).
"We have Quidditch this afternoon, I was wondering if-"
"Your Transfiguration essay?" Hermione asked simply.
"Well, no, actually."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, catching the eye of Remus, who just laughed and shook his head.
"I was wondering, afterwards, if you would like to go, you know," he swallowed, "out."
"Out where? It's freezing."
Amidst her confusion, she heard renewed laughter from Remus and also Sirius, who had just walked over to their table. His barking laughter was unmistakable. In fact, the whole Gryffindor Quidditch team was laughing.
James looked even more uncomfortable, though he tried to hide it as he reached out and touched her hair.
Then, as the possibility dawned on her, it felt like an unwelcome brush of cold air. "Oh, James. I, uh, actually had plans to go to the lib-"
Stunned silence came over the table and he jumped up, "Oh, look, uh, I understand perfectly, uh, don't concern yourself anymore about it."
Before she could reply, James had sped away from the table to the doors of the Great Hall.
Thinking about it, as she walked to the first class of the day, she felt slightly bad for him. She realised that with all the late evenings she had spent in the Gryffindor common room, helping him write his essays and debating whether there were actual merpeople in the Great Lake, he might have thought she was leading him on. They were friends, so Hermione still felt surprised (in a miss-the-last-step-on-the-stairs sort of way) that he had been thinking otherwise.
Her feeling of surprise soured during the day and she felt something more like annoyance as she noticed a very familiar face in the crowd turn abruptly away from her on the second-floor corridor. Why couldn't they just be friends? She supposed that his passionate stance on elf-rights was just a cover, an excuse for her to give him a chance, perhaps an opportunity. Thinking about it further, it was suspicious that he seemed to agree with her on every issue, from the inhumanity of using Dementors to torture Azkaban prisoners to the way students were allowed to experiment on, and kill if only by accident, live Olibrite pixies (sentient, intelligent creatures!).
It had all been a farce, she realised, and her annoyance gave way to embarrassment and betrayal. To think that she had allowed herself to believe that he, the boy who fell asleep in History of Magic every single time, was the first person to appreciate what she thought.
Feeling bitter and quite alone, not for the first time this year, she found herself in the library during lunch. Sighing, she strode through the bookshelves, stopping briefly to smile and wave to Amelia Goode, a nice girl who shared their dorm room. She passed the section on Harmful Spells and Ways to Deflect Them. There, at the very back behind some bookshelves, was a hidden alcove with a small wooden desk and chair, with a view looking out onto the Quidditch pitch. It was her favourite spot.
But today, she noticed the spot was taken, which was highly unusual. There was a bottle of ink and a glossy dark-green quill in a glass stand sitting on the desk already, as well as a pile of three or four voluminous books.
Huffing, she decided that this was definitely a very trying day. She turned around and was about to try the opposite end of the library when she found herself face to face with a boy whose shocked face she recognised immediately.
"Riddle," she said, nodding her head stiffly in acknowledgement, as she began to walk around him in the narrow space between the bookshelves.
She was surprised to find that she was stopped by a hand on her arm. Bewildered, she turned to face him again.
"Yes?" she said impatiently, when she realised they had been staring at each other for a few seconds.
Riddle shook his head. "I'm just surprised, Granger, that's all."
"Enlighten me."
"No one knows about this little spot in the library. I come here every day."
"Really? How is that? I come here every day too and I never see you."
He looked as if he didn't believe her.
"I come here every day, Riddle, I don't appreciate you playing games with me."
She made to keep walking when he spoke again, in that curiously calm voice he had.
"What usually happens during the hours of ten to twelve on Wednesday mornings, then?"
She spun around. A moment passed before she realised he was testing her. "I don't know. I'm not here then, am I? I have Herbology. On Sundays at eleven o'clock, however, Madam Pince usually comes along and dusts the shelves, although she always forgets to do this spot."
They both looked at the thick layer of grey dust covering the bookshelves.
Hermione sighed, trying to hide her impatience. "I don't ever come here during lunch. I'll find another desk."
She walked quickly away, her books and parchment floating in the air behind her.
The next morning, she walked out of Potions only to almost bump into Riddle standing outside the classroom. Assuming he was waiting for someone, she continued down the corridor. He managed to catch up to her easily, despite the fact that she was striding along at an almost unmatchable pace.
"Granger, I have something to ask you."
She stopped in surprise. This was the most they had ever talked to one another.
"What is it," she said wearily, glancing at a small silver watch.
"Do you have somewhere to be?" he asked courteously.
"Charms."
"That's on the way to Dippet's office. I can walk you there."
"Why are you seeing the Headmaster?"
He ignored her question. His voice was smooth and quiet: "Listen, I was in the library the other day and heard something … strange. A noise. I was wondering if you'd ever heard or seen something out of place in that part of the library."
He looked calm and polite, as he always did, his expression thoughtful and puzzled. His eyes, however, showed that he was curious. Very curious.
Hermione reflected briefly that whatever he was curious about, it must be something particularly compelling if he had been willing to waste time by cornering her after Potions and even walking her to Charms.
She stared at him and he stared back. Neither of them blinked. She broke her stare and continued to walk, trying to ignore Riddle who was still by her side.
"I just want to know if this is something we need to alert a teacher about. Goodness knows, this castle is old and full of hidden things that could turn out to be … unfriendly."
They had reached her classroom. "Look, I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione said stiffly. She didn't really know why she disliked Riddle, couldn't quite put her finger on it. He was a popular boy, at least among the Slytherins, who treated him like he was their leader or something like that, and he was liked well enough by the other Houses. She was never in any of his classes as it had long been a rule that Gryffindors and Slytherins never shared classes – "Too risky," Professor Dumbledore had once wisely advised the Headmaster. But she did know that he was rather a teacher's pet. With all the teachers.
Then again, they had not really had the opportunity to meet. Why would they? Gryffindors and Slytherins avoided each other when they weren't furiously duelling behind the backs of passing teachers, or, Merlin knows, battling it out on the Quidditch pitch. Most Slytherins, in fact, did not deign to waste time on open hostility. They treated with silent contempt any who were not within their tight pureblood circles. Perhaps she distrusted Riddle because those very Slytherins worshipped him like he was the greatest wizard ever to set foot in Hogwarts. She thought to herself that he may very well be the best wizard, but she was definitely the best witch and, probably, the best student.
"I'm sorry, Riddle, I realise I was a bit rude just now. I really have to go." Without waiting for him to reply, she stepped through the door.
She hadn't realised she was late until she saw that almost everyone was seated at their desks, except her. There was only one spot left and it was next to James, of all people. At least, he looked as uncomfortable as she was.
During the lesson, it became apparent that news of James' rejection had spread fast, somehow, when a rather haughty girl by the name of Claire Dubois 'accidentally' spilt ink all over her parchment. Angry, Hermione said tightly, "Claire, that's an hour's worth of work you just destroyed."
Waiting for an apology, Hermione was surprised to look up to see Claire fuming. "Who do you think you are," she replied, rather nastily.
At least three other girls were looking at her, including Josephine Tumby. Their stares were quite cold, indifferent. Hermione felt like she had been doused with ice water.
"Someone who should be angrier than you are," she replied. "What's the matter with you?"
Her pink lips quivering, Claire pointed to James, who tried to bury his head, unsuccessfully, in his parchment, scribbling furiously. What he was writing, Hermione could not possibly imagine, since he never paid attention in any class except for Defence Against the Dark Arts. "One would think," Claire continued in that snide way, "that you see yourself as quite the catch. Which is simply hilarious-"
Hermione slammed her book shut. "You have some nerve," she snapped. Everyone looked over at them now, including Professor Northwood. She rarely made a sound in class, except to answer questions, and it seemed by the look on their faces that they were all astounded by the emergence of Hermione Granger's temper.
Flicking her wand over her things, they flew up and arranged themselves neatly in her bag, the cap on her ink bottle screwing itself shut along the way. Without another word, Hermione, stood up and announced quietly, "I will be switching streams, Professor. I hope you understand." She looked pointedly at Claire and James, who flushed and looked as if he wanted to speak, "I don't have the time nor the inclination to be distracted by such pettiness in class. Especially when exams are only six weeks away."
Without a backward glance, and ignoring James who tried to grab her arm as she passed, she strode quickly to the back of the classroom and, seizing the heavy door handle, she stepped out, slamming the door loudly enough that the sound reverberated along the corridor.
If it had been any other student, Professor Northwood would have dragged her back by the ears. But it seemed that he had been as shocked as everyone else.
She decided briefly to go back to the common room, only to halt mid-stride when she realised that the class would end soon and she would have to face all of them again. Turning, she decided to go to the seventh-floor.
Pacing next to the empty stone wall, she muttered to herself, "I need a place to vent and- and be angry and … I miss my parents and goddamnit I hate everyone."
A small red door appeared and she disappeared gratefully into the sanctuary of the Room of Requirement.
When she slipped back into the common room, just before curfew, she was not expecting to see the whole Quidditch team lounging about before the fireplace. As she walked across the room to the girls' dormitory, James leapt up. Sirius and Remus exchanged looks.
"Hermione!"
She considered ignoring him but resisted the temptation to avoid the inevitable.
"I, uh, I'm sorry about what happened in, uh, Charms today. Don't mind Claire-" he faltered as she narrowed her eyes. Sirius rolled his own eyes to the back of his head. "Honestly, you'd think he'd be better at talking to girls," he whispered not so quietly to the burly boy next to him, Nuben, the Keeper of the team. Remus shushed him.
"I- I mean, look-"
"Do you really think that house-elves should be freed?" she interrupted.
"What? Um, Hermione-"
"Do you really believe that witches and wizards ought to make peace with the giants and stop treating them like third-class citizens?"
"No-"
"Then everything you told me was a lie," Hermione's eyes flashed. "You lied to me about everything, so that what? So you can get into my pants?"
"What? No! Hermione!" James looked stricken, his eyes wide. He was still wearing his Quidditch robes, dirt-streaked as they were. Their team practice had ended three hours ago, she recalled, which had to mean that he had waited for her for that long, not showering or changing as she knew he probably longed to do.
The boys whistled lowly in commiseration.
"I thought I had finally met someone who thought the same way I did. But, clearly, the joke was on me."
She allowed her eyes to glisten a little for the first time as the hurt welled up inside. He had hurt her more than she herself had suspected.
"You don't understand- I only said those things because I-"
"What you like me? Just like how you, Sirius," she said, jabbing at the dark-haired boy who stopped grinning immediately, "liked Isobel last week before dumping her cruelly so you could fuck Beatrice. Oh, I know," she said, voice continuing to rise, as they flinched at the word, "how you boys talk on the pitch."
In the heavy silence, she turned and walked up to her dormitory.
Hermione usually had Potions at nine a.m. but she slept in. She will not be attending the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff classes. Merlin help her, she would argue her way into making Dippet concede. She knew they would talk about her, eyeball her every move surreptitiously, or conspire against her to make her patch things up with James. She knew that Sirius was a lady-boy, much more than James, who had more dignity. Still, it was the principle of it. One does not lie, or worse, manipulate, your way into going 'out' with someone. Yes, that was it: she did not like to be manipulated.
At almost a quarter to ten, she went to the Headmaster's Office. The door to his office was merely an archway (he had an "open door" policy, whatever that meant) that opened out into a waiting room. As soon as she entered, a large goose-feather quill and parchment whizzed across the room stopping just short of her nose.
"Do you have an appointment?" A disembodied female voice asked in clipped, business-like tones. Hermione couldn't work out whether the voice came from the quill or the parchment or from some other place. Nevertheless, she replied, "No. But I am here to-"
"Have a seat, please, Miss Granger." The quill wrote something on the parchment, presumably her name, and whizzed back to its position beside the second archway, which led to the Headmaster's Office.
Annoyed, she sat herself down on one of the colourfully embroidered Arabian cushions, complete with tassels. She didn't know whether it was more comfortable to cross her legs or stretch them out on the floor, or draw her knees up to her chin. In the end she had just settled on crossing her legs, when her name was called.
Walking across the thick oriental carpet and through the second archway, she passed through a short corridor displaying various artefacts in glass cabinets (including a mummified hand, she noted with a shiver) and finally arrived at Dippet's rather large desk. It was surrounded by a simply enormous collection of books and of course, portraits of previous Headmasters, stretching back all the way to the year 1308.
"Ah yes, Miss Granger. What may I do for you?" Dippet, a rather short man with a fastidiously kempt beard, smiled kindly at one of his favourite pupils, a little knowingly.
"Yes, as I am sure you may have heard, I would like to request to change streams, sir."
"Change streams?"
"Yes, sir. To the Slytherin-Ravenclaw shared classes."
He looked thoughtfully down at her, clasping his small hands over the front of his rather lavish robes. "We do not normally allow this, unless in exceptional circumstances. May inquire as to the reason?"
"My fellow members of House are giving me a hard time, sir. I only wish to concentrate on my studies for the upcoming exams."
When she mentioned exams, he smiled and said, "Of course! I should have guessed. Our Miss Granger is a fine pupil. The very best."
She smiled too, crossing her fingers in the pockets of her school robes.
Dippet moved to sit down at his desk, adjusting his little gold-rimmed spectacles. He raised his eyebrows. "Well?"
"Sir?"
"Off you go, Miss Granger! Your schedule has already been updated. Best of luck for your studies." He smiled again and turned back to his reading.
It was definitely not allowed at all for students to change streams, the school rules were clear. Smiling and shaking her head at his blatant favouritism, Hermione let out a sigh of relief as she walked out of Dippet's office, ignoring the portrait of Sir Wickleby who, as always, shouted out, "One should bow or curtsey on the way out. Manners, I say!"
Taking out her timetable, she saw that it had indeed updated itself. Instead of Potions at nine, she had it at two in the afternoon, with Professor Slughorn in the dungeons.
It took a while to find the classroom, as she had never been down near the dungeons. But she followed a few Slytherins, who looked like they were also in fifth year, down a few passages. They looked back suspiciously at her, but did not stop or approach her.
The dungeons were indeed gloomy. The room they were in had a low ceiling and there were metal bars on the windows, which looked out into the grey-green depths of the Great Lake. They were, of course, underground and the waters of the lake cast a sinister green glow that rippled across the ceiling and walls of the classroom. She sat in a random seat towards the very back and set up her parchment and quill.
The classroom filled up quietly, with none of the hustle and noise that Hermione had been used to. Ravenclaws were chatty usually, but they walked in with a studious air holding their books against their chests. They sat and filled the seats on the other side of the room and it wasn't until it was too late that Hermione realised she had sat on the wrong side. She would be sitting next to a Slytherin.
Sighing deeply, she made room for a tall dark-haired Slytherin who, after a moment, sat down quietly next to her. Looking at him, she realised it was Riddle.
He caught her staring and he gave her a courteous smile. "I didn't realise you could switch streams."
"You can't usually, but I spoke to the Headmaster and he allowed it."
Riddle looked at her for a long moment, without saying anything. Of course, he knew too that an exception had clearly been made.
"Did you switch because of someone in your class?" He asked, resuming his unravelling of parchment and uncapping his bottle of ink.
"Yes," Hermione answered shortly, making it clear that she did not wish to talk about it any further.
She needn't have because Professor Slughorn had entered at that moment, a few minutes late.
"Well, well, well. I see we have a new Slytherin!" he beamed, winking at Hermione. "Who is, I hear, excellent at potion-making."
Hermione didn't bother to correct him because Riddle spoke up next to her, "Professor, Miss Granger here is actually in Gryffindor."
"So I heard, so I heard," Slughorn said smiling affectionately at Riddle who returned the smile almost as warmly. His face looked rather nice when it lit up like that, Hermione observed. "Yet today, she is a Slytherin!" Slughorn moved to the front of the classroom and waved his wand. A large black cauldron appeared at every desk. "Now, it is our mission this afternoon to brew a potion that can allow one to breathe underwater. Ten points to whoever correctly guesses the name of this potion!"
Hermione raised her hand, and so did Riddle. But for the first time in any class she'd been in, quite a few other hands were raised as well. Professor Slughorn swept his gaze across the classroom.
"Now, now, let's give our newest member a chance."
"Subaquaenus aspiratare," Hermione answered.
"Well," said Tom next to her, "It could also be aquamentis fieris."
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed Slughorn, clapping his hands together. "Yes, now-"
Hermione interrupted him. "It could be aquamentis but that takes months to brew whilst subaquaenus aspiratare takes only a couple of hours, depending on the skill of the potion-maker. Of course, we could all save ourselves the trouble and just use gillyweed."
Riddle raised his eyebrows. "Well, if one had certain pre-prepared ingredients at hand, such as Horntail saliva, aquamentis fieris could also be made in a few hours. It is far more efficient as an underwater breathing potion anyway, it gives you gills and fins. Whereas the subaquaenous –"
"-Doesn't give you gills and fins, yes. But such transformations are frequently dangerous. There have been cases where-"
"-people have died, yes, but those cases are far and few between. Just look up the McGill case in 1922-"
Their debate was interrupted by a loud cough. Hermione looked up to see a rather bemused Slughorn. The rest of the class had turned in their seats to look at her. The Ravenclaws looked politely curious, while the Slytherins mostly wore annoyed expressions.
"Now so it happens, our potion today is neither. We are brewing a potion that mimics the effect of a bubble-head charm, except it lasts longer and is more durable. Nevertheless, ten points each for an outstanding discussion!"
If he was annoyed, Riddle didn't show it. For the rest of the class, Hermione and Riddle worked together silently but efficiently. He gathered the ingredients from the cupboard and she sprinkled ground crumpet horn into their simmering cauldron and stirred twice while waiting for the beetle juice and boggart flesh which he carefully sliced with a small silver knife.
Hermione quickly realised that Riddle was Slughorn's favourite student. And that Riddle, in turn, appeared to be really quite charming. He excelled at potions, no doubt. Their potion turned exactly the required colour of dead autumn leaves before sheering out into a glimmering pink, releasing long thin tendrils of steam.
But other than the thrill of receiving full marks, as did her diligent partner of course, it was an otherwise uneventful lesson.
It was just after dinner. Hermione ran up the stairs to the seventh-floor. Pacing before the stone wall, she entered the large wooden door that appeared. This time, it was a large high-ceilinged room with rows upon rows of books lining the walls. There was a small cheery little fireplace that crackled when she approached and she threw herself down into the soft armchair that appeared before her.
Placing her feet up on the wooden stool, which also appeared, she lay back with her eyes closed.
This state of near bliss was ultimately broken when she heard a quiet cough behind her.
Whirling so fast she felt her neck crick, she found herself doubting her own eyes.
"What are you doing here?" she exclaimed at Riddle who was lying reposed on a dark green embroidered chaise longue, a book on his chest, his wand held loosely in the long fingers of his right hand.
He looked at her thoughtfully, though she could see a glimmer of her own annoyance reflected in his eyes. "I might ask you the same."
Groaning, Hermione sat down, her back to him. She whispered to herself, "Why, oh, why. Just wanted some peace."
"How do you know about the Room of Requirement?" he asked, pretending not to have heard.
"I don't know," she snapped, turning around, "How do you know about it?"
It all happened quite quickly. Riddle's calm mask fell away as he stood up abruptly and, pointing his wand at her, he whispered furiously, "Oblivi-"
Hermione reacted without thinking. "Expelliarmus!" she shouted, jumping out of her chair.
He swiftly blocked her attempt to disarm him but she had still stopped him from casting a memory charm that would have been highly illegal in the circumstances. The sheer audacity shocked her.
Riddle's eyes were dark and furious. He seemed quite transformed in his rage. Although his features remained fixed in a neutral expression, apart from a slight curl of his lips, it was his eyes that changed everything.
She took a step back but to her horror he strode forward and closed the distance between them within moments. His wand remained pointed at her. "Tell me how you found out and I'll let you go."
Whilst she had been momentarily struck by the sudden drop of his mask, she did not allow herself to flinch. Steeling herself, she lifted her wand and he suddenly flew away from her and crashed into a bookshelf, thick books raining down upon him.
With a hiss, he flicked his wand and the books stopped falling and instead hovered, facing her with deadly intent. Hermione managed to throw up a quick shield around her as the books spat out paper daggers, which she knew were as sharp as real ones.
She allowed herself a grim smile while holding up her shield, as he sent flaming books her way. "I knew there was something off about you," she said.
He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head slightly. "You know nothing about me, Mudblood."
Like a spark landing on dry tinder, her annoyance exploded into rage. "Don't - call me – that – you – evil – prat," she hissed back, with every word hurling a new curse. They sped towards him so quickly and viciously that he had no time to erect a shield. Instead, he ducked the first three and sent a cascade of books falling down in front of him, the rest of her curses hitting them and causing them to variously go up in flames or explode in a furious flurry of paper.
Riddle's face twisted into an ugly snarl. He broke her shield with a well-timed spell and sent a venomous volley of curses her way.
Yelling, Hermione dodged, and sprinted for the door.
He got there before she did, which forced her to back away, her wand still aimed at him.
"Not bad for a girl. But I can hurt you as easily as the others."
She bristled at his arrogance. "Try it and I will make you wish you hadn't," she said just as viciously.
He laughed coldly, stepping closer to her. "When I'm finished with you …"
Hermione surprised him, and herself, by stepping closer too. "Try it," she hissed, giving him a very fierce look. Her wand was a few centimetres away from his exposed throat. So was his, she realised.
They glared at each other, face to face. Both silently refused to back down, like a pair of snakes, coiled and tense, unmoving, ready to strike.
Up this close, Hermione could see his face in detail. From the arch of his dark eyebrows, to the slight flush of his usually pale cheeks. She found herself studying his face, the way his eyelashes cast long shadows, the surprisingly full lips, the mystifying symmetry of his features … and the large dark eyes that were studying her just as closely.
Abruptly, he turned away and stalked out the door.
