((A.N. Chapter 6, on time as usual. Things start getting exciting... and alsofar more complicated. Looks like there's going to be some snogging soon... but no promises! Thanks to everyone that reviewed,including blue ice2, sexy-jess, Black-rose23(I thinkyou like this chapter if you like academic competition ;D), candice, EuphoniumGurl0, Magic and Sparkle, silver gaze, SaTiNk06, Lady Moofin, Kou Shun'u, LilytheSpitfire, divinething, and ramones4me. You're all so great! Hope you like this chapter!))

It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us most.

– Marianne Williamson

Chapter 6– Enemies Closer

Dumbledore paced back and forth in his study, an action he seemed to be performing frequently as of late. It was not a very big study, really, but it was what Dippet had given him. He was startled by a brisk rap on the door.

Straightening his robes, he strode over and pulled open the door. He was quite surprised at what he saw on the other side.

"Good day," he said to the young witch standing just outside of his office. She was younger than him, in her early twenties, he would have guessed. She had long, raven black hair and sharp hazel eyes. She was nothing short of beautiful, with imperious high cheekbones and petite lips. At the moment, her face was filled with what seemed like hopeful enthusiasm.

"Professor Albus Dumbledore, am I correct? I'm Minerva McGonagall, and it's an honor to meet you, sir," she said reverently, beaming as she stuck out her hand. Dumbledore took it, amazed at the young woman's animated excitement.

"Ah, Minerva McGonagall, so glad that you've come. The Ministry has assigned you to be my assistant, is that correct?"

Minerva's rosy cheeks flushed, and she nodded vehemently. "Until a job opens at another school, yes, Professor."

"No need to call me Professor, now is there? After all, I'm afraid we have the same qualifications."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled and she nodded.

"I am so pleased to be working here at Hogwarts, Prof–Albus. It's been my dream for so long, and I hope to be here for the rest of my life . . ."

Hermione entered the Potions classroom apprehensively. She had thought about Tom Riddle quite often, and had come to a startling conclusion.

From the moment she had arrived in 1943, Hermione had not had the least clue about what to do. All she knew was that she had to kill Tom Riddle before he killed her. It had seemed like a simple task, except for the fact that he was on the verge of figuring her out and was absolutely impossible to sneak up on. So, she had started thinking of other ways to kill him.

Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.

She had come to the conclusion that she would do something impossible. Namely, befriend Tom Riddle. When the time was right and he was completely comfortable around her, she would strike, and he would not even see his death coming.

Now there was only one thing left to do. Go about befriending him.

She laughed inwardly. If someone had told me a month ago that I would be jumping at the chance to make friends with Lord Voldemort, I would have committed them to an insane asylum, no question. Such irony.

She sat down next to him.

"I'm sorry," she said bluntly, and a little stand-offishly. He stared straight ahead, ceasing to acknowledge that she was speaking.

"I shouldn't have even–"

Tom rounded on her suddenly, his eyes thunderous with temper.

"You don't get it, do you? I guess you missed it last night when I told you never to talk to me again. I don't know you, and I don't want anything to do with you. Ever," he finished. She could tell by his voice that he meant every word of it. This is going well, she thought wryly. What did I do to hack him off so much? This was a bad idea!

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He had not raised his voice in the least, and his face was as calm and unruffled as ever. She narrowed her eyes in frustration.

"Can I do something?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer, smacked him across the face.

He gasped as her hand made contact with his cheek, raising a hand to the welt that was forming where she had hit him. Next he turned to her, high pink spots appearing on his pale face.

"What is your problem? You filthy, Mudblood, temperamental Gryffindor lunatic!"

The Potions bottle on the desk suddenly exploded, drenching Hermione in a sticky yellow liquid. To his utter vexation, she only smiled.

"You're insane," he whispered in a deadly tone. "You have no idea what I can do to you for this."

Well, that solves that mystery, Hermione thought smugly. He does have actual feelings, and that's helpful to know. Maybe not the friendliest feelings, but it's definitely a start.

"What is going on over there?" Professor Alonzin roared, once he had seen the mess. Tom immediately straightened up in his seat.

"I'm terribly sorry, Professor. I . . . accidentally . . . knocked that potion off of the desk. I'll stay after class and clean it up," he offered earnestly.

"No need, Mr. Riddle, no need. I'm sure it was an accident," Professor Alonzin replied immediately.

"I will try to be more careful, sir," Tom assured him as the professor walked away.

"You make me sick," Hermione said, once the professor was out of earshot. Tom did not look at her, simply grabbed a rag and began mopping the yellow liquid on the floor.

She could not help wondering, though, if this was how she herself looked around teachers. Nah, she thought, smiling in an amused fashion, no one could ever be as big of a teacher's pet as him.

Tom stalked down the hall, in a terrible temper.

I hate her, he thought with feeling. He paused for a moment, however. He had never, in his entire life, lost his temper as he just had. In fact, if he had not used every ounce of his strength to restrain himself, he was sure the ceiling would have come crashing down around them. What had she done to make him so angry? He had been hit many times before, and surely harder than that. Perhaps it was that smug expression on her face, or possibly that the slap had been completely unprovoked.

Or perhaps it was why Tom had not wanted to talk to her in the first place. When she was around, everything was different, and Tom hated it. He had spent all of his life building up barriers against his feelings, but when she was there they seemed to disappear. Feelings resurfaced that he had thought long dead. She was no doubt using some kind of complicated magic to weaken his defenses. Besides, he would not risk associating with a Muggle-born

Gryffindor. He did not want to talk to her, and he did not need to talk to her. She was of no political advantage to him, and therefore useless. Logic had always been a strong part of his character, and this logic seemed unflawed.

"Riddle! Hey, Riddle!" he heard a sharp voice from behind him yell.

Rhion Malfoy caught up with him, silver eyes flashing in what seemed like amusement. The two boys had not liked each other much until the end of sixth year. Tom had hated Malfoy's sulking arrogance, and the fact that he had had everything in life handed to him on a silver platter. Malfoy had resented the fact that a worthless half blood had beat him in every subject, and had gained the position of Head Boy. Tom had realized, however, that he did not want a family as powerful as the Malfoy family as his enemy, and had formed a tentative alliance with Rhion.

"I saw what happened in Potions today," he drawled, voice grating against Tom's ears. "That Nestowe girl slapped you, and not very lightly, I might add. You must have done something awful to make her so angry. Filthy mudblood."

Apparently my presence is enough to provoke her, he thought wryly, but instead said, "I threw a couple of insults at her, belittled her family and social status a bit, and she blew up. You know how Gryffindors are."

Rhion nodded solemnly, failing to catch the sarcasm in his words. "You're not going to let a Gryffindor Mudblood get away with that, are you? It would ruin your reputation."

Tom thought about that for a moment before saying, "Certainly not. I'll have to think of a horrendous way to get her expelled in front of the entire school. Do you think that's harsh enough?" Tom asked facetiously.

"For laying a hand on the great Tom Riddle? Hardly," Rhion said, laughing along with Tom.

"Late for Transfigurations, later, Malfoy," Tom said easily, with a nod of farewell.

As he walked away, Tom grimaced. What a bloke, he thought with conviction. It was a measure of his power that even the people he liked least felt blindly comfortable around him. After all, Tom Riddle was a charming, charming boy.

Then again, so was Adolf Hitler.

Malfoy will be a good pawn. They will all be.

"More Veela in Germany?" Hermione asked, her eyes flashing amusedly towards Chistoph Black. "Nope, not any more than there are here, I'm afraid."

Emma, who was sprawled in an armchair doing her homework, laughed as Chistoph's face fell. He had never met a Veela, and hoped that Hermione had known one in Germany. It would help if I'd ever been to Germany, Hermione thought with some amusement.

"I've heard they like Bulgarian men better. They probably all live over there," she invented nonchalantly.

Christoph's grin came back relatively quickly. "I saw you slap Riddle in class today. What was that all about?"

Emma gasped and looked at Hermione.

"He threw some insults at me, belittled my family and social status a bit, and I blew up. You know how Slytherins are."

Christoph, ironically, failed to catch the sarcasm in her words.

"Slimy Slytherin git," said Christoph, clearly disgusted.

"Well . . ." Emma cut in shyly, "He is one of the best looking boys in our class. Oh, c'mon, Helen, don't look at me like that . . . those dark, mysterious eyes . . ."

"Emma! Do you realize who you're talking about!" Christoph exploded suddenly. "Tom Riddle, leader of the Slytherins, evil extra ordinaire!"

"I'm only saying, Chris. Besides, you make Tom out to be the Dark Lord himself! As if! I don't mind a boy who steps over the line, occasionally . . ."

Hermione, who was becoming very uncomfortable with the conversation, put up a finger in protest, but her squeak was drowned out by Christoph's voice.

"So if I go around hexing Muggle-borns for no good reason, will you like me more! Is that it?"

Emma stared at him in disbelief, before yelling, "You are impossible, Christoph Black!"

She commenced in dramatically storming out of the room.

"Was it something I said?" Christoph asked Hermione when Emma was out of hearing, before cracking a grin.

Is that what Ron and I sound like? Hermione thought suddenly. No wonder Harry goes nuts when he's around us! She realized that she still thought about both of the boys in the present tense . . . a sad misconception on her part, since they were both dead.

" . . . so, can you?" Christoph finished.

"Huh? Sorry," said Hermione quickly. He rolled his eyes.

"There's a Quidditch match, Slytherin versus Gryffindor. Are you coming to watch me, or not?" Christoph's eyes seemed hopeful as he looked at her.

Hermione restrained herself from rolling her own eyes. Some things never change, do they? Boys and their sports.

"I don't know, Chris, I–" she broke off, about to say that she had a lot of studying to do, except for the fact that she did not. You're not Hermione, you're Helen, remember?

"Sure, I'll be there," she said finally. As a grin spread over his face, it was eerie how much he resembled Sirius.

"A Quidditch match?" Minerva asked Dumbledore as they walked back to his office. "I'm quite partial to Quidditch, actually," she said, a blush creeping along her cheeks.

"You don't find many ladies who enjoy the game. An honorable aspect of you," Dumbledore said politely. His opinion of her was growing with every word that she said. That, and the fact that he found her devastatingly attractive.

Dumbledore checked his wristwatch. "It is time for me to give one of my students a private lesson," Dumbledore said, with a wave of goodbye.

"May I come? I'd love to help," Minerva piped up, her eyes shining at a new challenge.

"I'm afraid not, Minerva. This student is . . . troubled, shall we say. Perhaps I will let you meet him in the future," Dumbledore said gently, though in a tone that suggested the subject was closed. Minerva frowned thoughtfully before nodding.

"I will see you at the Quidditch match, then," Minerva replied brightly, only a touch of disappointment in her voice. "I daresay I'll be rooting for Gryffindor."

"The Quidditch match," Dumbledore agreed with a smile.

Consequentially, Hermione, Minerva, Dumbledore, Christoph, Tom, and even Emma found themselves on the Quidditch pitch at half past nine on Saturday morning.

It was a blindingly beautiful October morning, and the wind pitched through the trees in a crisp, wistful fashion. Hermione was sitting high up in the stands with Emma and a few other Gryffindor seventh years. There was that electric, contagious sort of excitement in the air that was always present at the beginning of a match.

"And here's the Gryffindor Quidditch team!" the announcer roared as seven red robed figures darted out on the field and into the air.

"And the Slytherins!" the announcer roared again. Green and silver blurs made a loop around the Quidditch pitch before landing. The captains shook hands, and the game was on.

Hermione gazed up at the two figures flying highest in the sky, A pang went through her heart as she realized that neither one of them was Harry. One, however, had a style that reminded her of Harry's flying. She squinted, but couldn't make him out. Who was he?

As the game progressed, Gryffindor took a definite lead, partly due to Christoph's excellent goal keeping. Now it was only a matter of the Snitch being found, and the Gryffindors would win. Emma was cheering along with the others, and suddenly grabbed Hermione's wrist and dragged her through the crowd.

"C'mon, Helen! I want a better view!"

Hermione found herself leaning on a balcony in the stands. They were level with the thirty meter goal posts, and could see the game much more clearly than before. Hermione peered up, squinting, and now had a closer view of the two Seekers.

Emma's eyes were riveted on Christoph, and her expression was changing at everything he did. Hence, neither of the two girls saw Rhion Malfoy pull up short on his broom, gazing maliciously at Hermione. There she was, obviously straining to see something far above her, leaning over the edge on her tiptoes, barely balanced. Just one small push . . .

And then the Bludger came hurtling towards Malfoy, and he took the club in his hands and slammed the ball with an immense amount of force at Hermione.

I know who it is! Hermione thought finally. That's– but her thought was cut short as something thwacked her in the back and sent her careening over the edge.

"Helen!" she heard Emma yell, but the pain that jarred her was setting in, and Hermione did not realize that Emma was yelling at her. Who's Helen? She thought vaguely. She also did not realize she was screaming, screaming so loud that the announcers voice was drowned out.

Then she felt strong arms wrap around her, felt the solidity of a chest at her back, and had the vague notion of slamming into the ground. Finally, she blacked out.

((A.N. Hm... I guess the question isn't 'who caught her?', because that's obvious, but 'Why?'))