Entwined Love

Chapter Three

Hermione hesitantly opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, which was thankfully deserted. The hallway looked almost exactly like what she remembered, save for the lights lining the walls whose holders were significantly less tarnished than in the present.

Taking a left, she headed towards what she knew would open up into a mass of sometimes-moving staircases and the bustling of students late for classes. As the hallway did just that, she was a little disappointed to see that it was just as deserted. There were faint mutterings from paintings nearby, and high above her, two staircases shifted positions, but other than that it was eerily quiet.

Choosing the first set of stairs she came to, she slowly walked down the steps, marveling at how little Hogwarts had changed through the years. Harry had, of course, seen its past self during his journey into Tom Riddle's diary, but the décor and scenery hadn't exactly been what was important about the visit.

She only got to the first landing before the desertion becomes inadequate.

"Hey!" a voice shouted from her right.

She started and then turned towards it, seeing now that it belonged to a man a good deal taller than her, with strikingly handsome features and perfectly coiffed hair; his face was pale, his fingers long and, she noticed, clenching around a wand. Upon closer inspection she noted that his robes were just a tad less black and a tad too short, like they were second-hand.

"Who are you?" he asked. "I don't recognize you."

"I—er…" Hermione stumbled, realizing then that—unlike every other moment of her life—she hadn't quite planned this all through.

His eyes, a dark hazel-green, bored into hers, and it rather unnerved her. His gaze was sharp, she supposed not really cruelly so, but there was a coldness in them as well that set her nerves on edge. It was hard to dwell on that, though, given his other features. Long lashes outlining his eyes accompanied by his angular cheekbones and firm build she imagined made more than one person of the female persuasion swoon. Even she had to admit he wasn't lacking in the looks department, but still, she couldn't shake the cold stare.

"Are you listening?" he snapped, fingers gripping his wand harder.

I can't imagine why, Hermione mused to herself. What does he expect, I'm going to shout a curse at him? She wondered idly if maybe there'd been experiences in his past that caused him to be overly cautious, and supposed she couldn't necessarily blame him if that were the case.

"Oh. Yes," she answered quietly. "My name is—Hermione Granger." She hesitated briefly on her name, questioning whether or not she should give her real one, but considering she was decades away from even being born, she guessed it was safe enough. The man stared at her some more, eyes narrowing as if trying to judge the validity of her words. Crossly, Hermione continued, "May I inquire as to yours?"

She didn't know if he decided she was telling the truth or if she somehow caught him off-guard (or if he simply decided it wasn't worth his time), he paused, and then replied, "Tom Riddle."

Hermione blinked. An icy wave splashed in her very bones, as if a ghost had floated through her. As she searched his face, she acknowledged she should have noticed it before. She'd seen pictures here and there of him after all, and the tales of him being dually fair-featured and not very rich were plain to see now.

She wasn't quite sure what to do with the information. Here she was, standing three feet away from Lord Voldemort. Well, she reluctantly amended, the future Lord Voldemort. Since Riddle looked like the kind of person who hardly aged, she couldn't tell precisely what year this was, nor how far into the Dark Arts he'd gotten. She hoped not Myrtle-killing far.

As if studying a particularly strange insect, Riddle asked, "Are you…all right?" The words probably tasted like vinegar coming out of his mouth, she presumed, but he didn't show discomfort. He had, of course, had substantial practice in fooling others. "You're white as a sheet."

Hermione wildly considered whipping out her wand right then and there and yelling "Avada Kedavra!" and ending it all, but thought better of it. She wasn't a murderer, no matter how much he deserved it, and, again, she wasn't sure exactly how evil he was at this point. She had been sent here for a reason; perhaps this was it. To reverse Riddle's path of darkness. Inwardly, she scrunched up her face at the dismal prospect, but kept her face blank.

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied. "Just—feeling a little ill is all." It wasn't a lie, really. She did feel ill at the sight of him. She forced a smile though, one she hoped was convincing.

"Well, if you're sure," said Riddle. Peering at her robes with the red and gold crest emblazoned on the breast, he added, "I see you're in Gryffindor." This time he didn't even try to hide the hatred. She ground her teeth together, thoroughly displeased, but forced herself to not act on it.

Take the high road, she recited to herself. Take the high road, take the high road, take the high road…

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Hermione retorted. "Certainly wouldn't want to be in Slytherin." She glanced meaningfully at his silver and green crest, before her eyes moved back up to his.

Riddle smiled, but it was devoid of any sort of warmth. "What would Hogwarts be without some good, old-fashioned rivalries?"

Hermione refused to dignify that with a response. She knew full well—as did he—that rivalries, of all things, were not what made Hogwarts great. Besides, though she had as much dislike towards Slytherin as the next Gryffindor, she preferred to use her smarts against them and not devolve into petty insults. Harry was able to take his frustration out during Quidditch matches, and Ron was more or less content fuming not-so-silently, and she had her own methods. Certainly intellect was what she prided herself on, and nothing felt more pleasurable than outwitting Draco Malfoy or Pansy Parkinson.

Riddle didn't seem to expect a response from her anyway, seemingly just fine standing there towering over her. She abruptly wished she were in a classroom where she could outsmart him. She could feasibly win a duel against him as well, but facing off against him in a hallway, little more than a staring contest, was grating.

Without warning, Riddle stowed his wand then grabbed her wrist tightly, his short nails digging into her skin. "Get off of me!" Hermione exclaimed, trying to relinquish his hold on her. It was like a vise, though, and wouldn't budge. "For Merlin's sake, where are you taking me?"

Tom slowed his absurdly fast walk to turn and look at her. He had a faint look of amusement on his face, although it was soon tinged with surprise at the venom displayed on Hermione's expression.

"I will hex you until you're nothing more than pieces that not even the best wizard could put back together," Hermione snarled. "So help me I will."

He must have seen something there that told him she was far from kidding, and after a couple seconds' deliberation, dropped her wrist. Though it ached, she would not give him the satisfaction of rubbing it to reduce the pain.

"Where, pray tell, were you trying to drag me?" she inquired, curious despite herself.

"To Dumbledore," replied Riddle. Hermione didn't miss the note of unhappiness as he mentioned the name. She knew there was a grudging respect there, respect at his abilities, but she also knew he didn't much like the man. Not that she could hold it against Dumbledore, of course; Dumbledore didn't know for sure whether Riddle would become all-evil, but signs had showed, and he was right to be skeptical and watchful.

"Why?"

"You'll see," was all he offered. He turned back around then and took off at as fast a pace as before.

She fully intended to not follow him, but knew it would only be out of spite. She wouldn't mind seeing Dumbledore, actually. He always did have the perfect things to say in reassurance and guidance. Admittedly this plan of hers had been fairly hare-brained, and she could use his wisdom.

With a sigh, Hermione jogged after Riddle, glaring daggers at him the whole way.