Author's note: As a heads up, some canon events (the Chamber of Secrets opening and the Riddle summer fun patricide bonanza) will happen but will be moved forward one year in this fic.

"Yeah, so shape up, Williams, or you'll be hearing from me," Tom said smugly, slamming the door shut on the aggravating fifth year Gryffindors, and continuing down the Hogwarts Express.

"Did you hear me?" Abraxas asked.

"Hm?"

"When are you going to get tired of this?" Abraxas asked wearily.

"Ah," Tom said, giving him a pitying look. "I see, Abraxas. You know, they say jealousy is the most complicated of all the devil's sins."

"If I had any envy, it left about five compartments ago," Abraxas replied flatly. "Do you plan on lording your badge over every student at Hogwarts before we even get to Scotland?"

Tom frowned. "I'm not lording it over everyone," he said, tugging on the next compartment door.

"Listen up, you – oh, hello Hermione."

Amongst the small children, someone with enormous curly hair turned around.

"Tom! Hi – AHH!" Hermione shrieked, wide-eyed and pointing at Tom's chest.

"Ah, yes –"

"You got prefect!" Hermione squealed.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Abraxas muttered, somehow making Hermione's reaction even more delightful with how much he hated it.

"Oh, Tom! Congratulations," Hermione exclaimed, jumping up from her seat and staring a hole into his chest. "I knew you would get it! Well, you're the best student in your year, so of course you would –"

"Oh, you knew, did you Hermione?" Tom repeated, turning to look at Abraxas. This was really the gold standard of reactions to the incredible (but of course, expected) news that Tom had been made a prefect this year. "Hear that, Abraxas?"

"Yes, Tom," he said sullenly. "I don't think there's a soul on this train that hasn't heard you made prefect."

"Knew I would make prefect, pal," Tom corrected him, winking. "There's a difference." Abraxas looked past Tom to give Hermione a withering stare, one that Tom had only seen him give the worst plants in Herbology.

"Good job, Granger. I didn't think it possible, but you've somehow managed to make his head swell even bigger," he said savagely. Hermione, rightly, paid him no mind.

"So you'll have patrols now?" Hermione asked, bouncing up and down. "And you can be out after curfew, right? That's so cool, Tom…"

"Yes. In fact, I can make life singularly difficult for each and every one of you," Tom announced to the second years in the compartment, ignoring Abraxas rolling his eyes behind him.

One of the children went white; terrified, as he should be. Most of them looked uneasy at least – good, that was acceptable. Hermione, of course, was a picture of suitably impressed rapture. But one of the small humans rolled their eyes, as dramatically as Abraxas had increasingly been doing all afternoon. Combined with her long, blonde hair, she even looked like him in miniature.

"Don't worry, Riddle," the tiny Abraxas said. "No one here picks on Hermione. You should go tell the other Slytherin second year girls, though."

"Great. More twelve year olds," actual Abraxas grumbled.

Tom frowned. Obviously, it was good that Hermione had found some associates that wouldn't fight her every moment of the day, like those beastly young girls in Slytherin seemed to do. But he hadn't brought Hermione up - of course, Slytherin looked out for their own, but it was him this tiny girl version of Abraxas should be worried about, not her. Besides, any twelve year old should be frightened by his new power and threats, not regard him with a glazed, annoyed expression like a certain annoyed Malfoy heir did.

"Who are you?" Tom asked bluntly. Hermione looked between them and patted the girl on the shoulder.

"Tom, this is Cynthia Clearwater - she's my best friend in Ravenclaw. She got the top spot in Charms last year," she admitted, a bitter smile twisting on her face and a toe kicking the floor abashedly. Tom stared at Hermione.

"Why didn't you get first in Charms?" he demanded. What did she mean, best friend in Ravenclaw? That made it sound like she was collecting acquaintances in all four of the houses.

Maybe that was wise. There certainly weren't many collegial students in Slytherin given Hermione was out and out muggle-born. But still – how many friends did one need?

"Well, Hermione got second," mini Abraxas interceded. "And top in about half the other subjects."

"You can do better than that," Tom said reproachfully to Hermione, whose gaze suddenly fell to the floor, her hand limply sliding off small Abraxas' shoulder.

"How? She got the most top marks of any student in our year," small Abraxas said rudely. "Do you mean she should have gotten first in every subject? The rest of us would have to be totally shell-shocked to not–"

"Shut up," Tom said shortly. "I wasn't talking to you."

"I'll try harder," Hermione said quietly, still staring at her shoes.

"Good," he said, turning to the rest of the small Ravenclaws. "Well then. I have far more important things to do than speak with annoying children –"

"Really?" Abraxas commented. "That's funny, because we've spent the last hour –"

"- and with that," Tom said, talking over Abraxas, "I'll take my leave."

"Do we really have to go find Thaddeus' sister?" Abraxas whined as Tom slammed the compartment door shut and continued heading down the train. "Just get Thaddeus to tell her to pull her neck in."

"She won't be far. I haven't seen a kid that ugly yet, and we're almost at the end of the train," Tom said, making Abraxas groan like death was upon him.

Abraxas continued his annoying, aggrieved sounds even after the train came to a stop and hundreds of students were milling about on the Hogsmeade train platform.

"What, Abraxas?" Tom asked, cricking his neck after Abraxas clicked his tongue and threw Tom an annoyed look for the third time. It was – uncomfortable, to be shoved into a small space with so many people –

"Loathe as I might be to bring up children and prefect duties again," Abraxas said, the complaint practically bursting out of him, "aren't you meant to be helping ferry the first years onto the boats?"

Tom wrinkled up his nose. "Ugh. I don't want to do that," he said.

"What do you think being a prefect is about?" Abraxas said, exasperated. "It's all arbitrary administrative work."

"No it isn't," Tom disagreed, thinking of free reign to walk the corridors without a Disillusioning Charm after curfew, of hexing Williams and letting the cloak of authority shield him instead of a Memory Charm.

"First years! Are you – yes, you are. Come this way!" a plummy, bossy voice declared. Tom and Abraxas watched as Hermione started directing eleven year olds to the end of the platform.

"Wow," Abraxas said blankly.

"How good is this?" Tom asked incredulously, gesturing in Hermione's direction as she picked up a kid's dropped wand and handed it back to them. "I don't have to do anything. Didn't even need to ask her."

"You should probably thank her," Abraxas sniffed. "I sense a pattern of all your tedious prefect duties stretching out ahead of Granger, without even the badge to show for it…"

Just another part of her destiny as his weapon in Slytherin, Tom supposed. Not every job called for fire and brimstone…particularly if it was a job to shunt tiny children from point A to point B, with an authoritative adult at the end checking for any physical or mental maiming. He wandered over to her as Abraxas left to find a carriage.

"This all of them?" he asked, doing a quick headcount. Close enough, Tom figured. If you got lost between the train and the castle, becoming a great witch or wizard was probably never written in your stars.

"Oh – yes," Hermione said, glancing up at him and back at the eleven year olds with a serious look on her face. "Some of them are a bit – hopeless," she whispered. "One's lost their wand already."

"Not like you, eh, Hermione?" Tom said, nodding approvingly. "Good of you to round them up."

"Oh – well – they didn't know where to go, and I was just trying to help –" she started babbling. The new Head Girl interrupted at that point, sweeping along the platform with a dozen small children following closely in her wake.

"Oh, and here are the rest of you – thank you, Riddle," she said crisply. He smiled at her widely.

"Not a problem, Minerva," he said, but her eyes only narrowed slightly at him as she carried on towards the lake, leaving Tom and Hermione with the rest of the stragglers on the train platform.

"Hmm," he said, watching her stride off. If Abraxas' gossip was to be believed, standard witchy charm wasn't going to get him very far with McGonagall. And it would really be preferable to have her on side, in case students started whining about Tom abusing his privileges –

"Do you like her?" Hermione asked, looking between him and Minerva. "It's just, um, my friend Mo is in Gryffindor, and he says she's -"

"Mo?" Tom interrupted, giving Hermione a disparaging look. "Can the children of Gryffindor not even spare a second syllable these days?"

"His real name is Mohammed. Mo is his nickname," Hermione said.

"I don't agree with nicknames," Tom declared. "Cutting a name in half destroys all its power."

Hermione nodded, a thoughtful look on her face. "To," she said tentatively.

"Herm," he shot back.

"Ok, you're right," she relented.

"I'm always right," he reminded her. "Come on, let's go."

It was easier to breathe, now the platform had cleared out and there was a comfortable amount of personal space available. It made it easier to remember why he had even wandered over to Hermione in the first place, when she was already so helpfully doing the worst of his prefect tasks for him. "You seem awful keen on this prefect business…for someone who's not a prefect," he suggested to her, as they headed to the line for the carriages.

Her head dropped again, like it had earlier when he asked why she hadn't taken first place in Charms. "…e prefect," she mumbled.

Tom leaned in. "What?"

"I – I wish I could be a prefect, when I'm in fifth year," Hermione repeated louder. "But I know – I'm a Muggleborn, it's impossible." Her voice wavered up and down like she was about to burst into loud, wailing tears.

Tom tried very hard not to laugh. Of course she wanted to be a prefect; the way Hermione hesitated to say it, when it was so plainly obvious, was the funniest thing he'd seen since he pushed Amy Benson into the lake in that cave.

"Hmm," Tom hummed instead, biting his tongue so he wouldn't burst out laughing while he considered her wish. It would be good for his blade to have additional authority, that was a given. Even if he would have already left Hogwarts by the time she was in fifth year. Actually – on second thought, that was an even more important time for Hermione to have extra power. When he was not here to project it himself, Hermione would be the means through which he could influence and terrorise at Hogwarts.

"Yes, it would be great if you were made a prefect," he agreed, crossing his arms and tapping his fingers under his chin as he thought through the path to this outcome.

Obviously, the Muggleborn hurdle would be significant to overcome. Hermione was already working on Dumbledore, though, who would surely salivate at the thought of the first muggle-born prefect in Slytherin. Slughorn was well in hand too with her grades, and Tom had an in with him as well – many seeds could be planted and cared for over the next three years ahead of prefect selection for Hermione's year. And she was already the top student across her entire year, so that was taken care of. All that was left was knocking out any possible competition.

Three years would be plenty of time to set Poorly Named Rosier and whoever else was in Hermione's dorm off on the wrong path. Hermione might even work on some of them as well, Tom thought suddenly. Yes, that would be brilliant – this was the way he could introduce her to the manipulation and violence he was sure his weapon would be able to deliver unto his enemies. With a dearly-held wish at the other end of it, he was sure she would be willing to push the boundaries of any morality rattling around in her head.

"It's not impossible," Tom lied, drawing the words out with a convincing, doubtful tone. Like any other Slytherin girl in her year had a chance in hell now he had decided Hermione would be prefect. "But it won't be easy. You'll have to work very hard."

But Hermione merely shook her head, her eyes closed as she grimaced. "I don't want to – get my hopes up," she said haltingly. "I shouldn't get any ideas –"

"What did I just say?" Tom interrupted, very displeased she wasn't going along with his generous plans. "Are you so unambitious you'll give up before you even try?"

Her eyes flew open, huge with devastation. Getting prefect probably did feel rather life or death to her, Tom thought…her dreams were so small. Another thing they could work on, he supposed.

"No!" she exclaimed, looking stricken. "I…I will try, Tom!" Her tiny hands were balled up into determined fists. "I'll try my hardest!"

Tom blinked. Her reaction was rather more – dramatic, than he had been expecting. "Uh…well, good," he agreed awkwardly. "You'll need to try even harder in your classes," he instructed, as they reached the front of the queue and an irritated, waiting Abraxas. "The best marks you can manage in every subject. And keeping Sluggy and Dumbledore in your good books will be absolutely critical."

"Right," Hermione said, nodding deathly seriously. "I'll do that."

"Are you quite ready?" Abraxas asked, voice heavy with sarcasm. But Tom ignored him.

"Yes," he said, jumping into a carriage and waiting for him and Hermione to follow. "Now, aside from Thaddeus' ugly mug of a sister and Hermione – Abraxas, what do you know about the Slytherin second years?"

A finger tapped on his shoulder, pulling Tom out of the surprisingly graphic account of Hesphaestus Gore's use of torture techniques to quell eighteenth century goblin rebellions, and back into the Hogwarts library.

It was Hermione, twisting a quill in her hands and getting ink all over her fingers. "Tom?" she whispered. "Sorry – I have a question."

Like she always did. He rolled his eyes. "About what?" he asked.

She looked around furtively. "Is Polyjuice Potion the best way to impersonate someone?" she whispered.

Tom sat up straighter. Now that was an interesting question, by far the most intriguing query Hermione had ever put to him. He abandoned his history textbook and turned in his seat to face her properly. "Yes it is, Hermione," he replied, watching her closely. "Why do you ask?"

She pursed her lips, an angry look crossing her face. "There's a – plan I'm working on," she said quietly. Hermione got even closer to Tom, practically breathing into his ear. "Have you had any luck with the librarian's wards? I know the book I need is in the Restricted Section, but I'll never get a teacher's note for it."

This was the best news Tom had heard all week. The Sorting Hat truly hadn't lied when it said it was placing a blade into Slytherin house. An unrefined weapon, true, but that was obviously where Tom came in. "I admire your resolve, Hermione – and you'll certainly need some sticky fingers for the ingredients – but not every problem requires a thieving solution," he said, standing up. "Wait here."

Tom unlocked the corridor, spent a couple of minutes finding the textbook with the instructions, and walked back to his table where Hermione stood, fidgeting. "Here," he said, handing it to her.

Her eyes grew as big as dinner plates. "Tom!" she exclaimed quietly, taking the book and holding it out in wonder.

"Copy down the instructions, I need to return it," he replied, sitting back down and trying to find his place in 'Legislative and other responses to Urg the Unclean's Campaigns'.

"But how -? You have access to the Restricted Section?" Hermione asked. "You can take any book you want?"

"I'm doing so many special research assignments across so many subjects this year, the librarian got tired of unlocking it for me and gave up," he replied. The carefully constructed annoyance was worth doing two extra papers in History of Magic and fucking Herbology – what he had already found in the Restricted Section about cheating death was worth several painful more hours in the dirt. "I just have to return the key before I leave."

"Oh my goodness," Hermione said, flicking through the Bourne textbook he got her. "How do you get special assignments?"

"You impress your professors. Which you're already doing, aren't you?" Tom said. Hermione looked up from the book.

"Yes. Well – I'm trying to," she said.

"Trying?" he repeated, the disapproval clear in his tone. They had this conversation about effort versus results often, it seemed. Hermione's fingers tensed on 'Moste Potente Potions'.

"I'm doing third year content in Transfig, now," she said. "I'm going to work on Slughorn next."

"Well done," he remarked. "One professor in hand. Several more to go."

She nodded. "Anyway - thank you, Tom – I'll copy this now –"

"Good," he said, but she was already hurrying back to her desk, finding a new quill after breaking the one in her hands.

"Any gossip about thieving lately?" Tom asked Abraxas, as they stomped down to Greenhouse Five. The sky was clear and the full moon hung in it, making him think of potion brewing cycles and a certain illegal concoction that may or may not be stewing somewhere in the castle for a devious twelve year old's plans.

"No?" Abraxas said, his ears perking up. "What have you heard?"

"Oh – nothing," he said, but Abraxas harassed him until Tom eventually said he might want to ask Sluggy if anything had gone missing.

It wasn't really giving Hermione away. Sure, Abraxas would probably ask the Potions professor about it with all the tact of Nancy Lawrence asking Tom if he wanted to review her Runes translation…but unless Hermione had been too careless about taking what she needed, Abraxas' shameless hunt for gossip wouldn't lead back to her…

"Tom? You don't look well," Abraxas said, peering around at him, his stupid plaited hair blowing in the breeze.

"It's Herbology. How anyone faces it without feeling nauseous is beyond me," Tom said shortly. "And actually - don't ask Slughorn about it."

"Oh but Tom, I have to –"

"No," Tom said shortly.

"I was looking for you," Hermione's voice said accusingly, pulling Tom from the depths of historical record hell. "Didn't think you'd be here. I haven't seen you in the archives for a while."

"I'm sure when you are in fifth year, you will realise it can be somewhat busy," Tom said icily. "Leave me alone, I only have thirty minutes to try and find my useless fucking father today, I don't have time to talk to you."

Hermione peered over his shoulder. "Alternative spellings for 'Riddle'?" she asked.

Tom ignored her.

"You have checked 'Marvolo', right?" she asked. "It's so uncommon, I th-"

"That won't help," he replied icily. "It's a maternal name."

Was Reedling, Corwin close enough to bother exploring? He was really scraping the –

"How do you know your mother isn't your mag-"

"Silencio."

"Are you interruptible today?" Hermione asked stiffly.

Tom looked up blearily from the dozens of Transfig books sucking away his will to live, but was distracted by several jars of different coloured flames on Hermione's table behind her.

"Not really," he said, unable to keep an Abraxas-like whine out of his voice. "What are you doing over there?" He nodded towards the table she was studying at.

Hermione turned to follow his gaze. "Oh – charms practice," she said. "But – all right, what if I do one of your prefect jobs?" she offered. "And you answer my question?"

Tom reached through a gap in the books threatening to drown him, picking up a scroll Minerva had given him that he hadn't even opened yet and handing it to Hermione. "Can you do this for me?" he asked.

She unrolled it and skim read it quickly. "Yes," she said. "Consider it done."

It was interesting how it made the mountain of work feel a little bit lighter. "Fine," he said, sitting back in his chair in defeat, closing his eyes against the reading headache for a moment. "What's the question?" he asked.

Hermione put a potions textbook in front of him, pointing to a line in a chapter about Sleeping Draughts.

"It says here if you add twice the lavender and a powerful wormwood, you can make a stronger Sleeping Draught," she said. "Do you know if they mean potency, or duration?"

"Both," he replied. "Lavender goes to the strength, and wormwood the length of sleep."

"So if I just wanted length, I can add more powerful wormwood alone, and that will work?" she asked, and Tom nodded. "Thanks," she said. "I'll leave you –"

"Is it going well?" he asked, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. Hermione closed the textbook and nodded curtly.

"Why do you think I'm researching Sleeping Draughts?" she said ominously, leaving him to chuckle into the stack of technical Transfig books he was banging his head against for Dumbledore's damnable human transfiguration literature review.

One exciting day in December, it happened. Tom was revolted as Thaddeus' kid sister ran up to him in the library, gasping for breath and covered in smeared makeup.

"Eurgh, go aw-"

"It's me, Tom – please, Disillusion me!"

"Wh – oh!"

The Polyjuiced Hermione melted into the warped invisibility of the charm, and he felt her dive under the table mere moments before a livid looking Slytherin girl strode past, clearly hunting someone down.

"How long does the Charm last?" an almost-invisible Hermione whispered by his feet a few moments later.

"Ages. Shut up," Tom muttered back.

Half an hour and two furious pre-pubescent Slytherin girls stalking past later, he sensed Hermione crawl out from under the table and stand back up straight.

"Thanks," she whispered. "Can you lift the charm now?"

Tom Disillusioned her, and a half-normal Hermione fully appeared, looking truly hideous as the Polyjuice wore off.

"God, that nose is unfortunate," Tom remarked. "Well, then?"

Hermione nodded. "I think it worked," she said. "But I'll have to find out from the others later to be sure."

Abraxas must be wearing off on him, Tom was sure, to be this engrossed in some twelve year old's scheming. "What did you do?" he asked.

Hermione looked away, smiling guiltily. "Rosemary and Hazel are the worst, in my dorm. And Hazel likes my friend Mo. He was going to reject her, but – I had a better idea."

"Anyway," Hermione continued, wiping the errant lip gloss off her face. "If that worked, the dream team should be proper split up, now…or have other things to worry about, besides attacking me."

Tom was stunned. "Holy shit," he said blankly. A twelve year old came up with this? "Churchill would want you for the SOE."

"Oh, I hope the war's still not going on when I finish Hogwarts," Hermione said, looking dismayed. "Do you think it will be?"

Tom looked away. He didn't like to think about it. It was easy not to at Hogwarts, with all the pureblood Slytherins who barely knew that the muggles were throwing total war production at each other.

"It was a joke," he deflected. "Wizards don't fight in muggle wars." Or at least, most of them didn't – the rumours of Grindelwald joining in the German fight made Tom feel very cold, made the dread of the British war machine dragging him in alight in his chest. "The point was – inspired work, Hermione. I'm impressed."

She smiled at him, with her mouth more than Rosier's kid sister. "Really? Oh – it's all thanks to you, Tom, I couldn't have done it by myself –"

"I think you might have found a way," he admitted. Her drive to steal anything that wasn't otherwise available which she needed for her manipulative plan seemed quite determined. "But – yes, I did help you, didn't I?" he said, realising the opportunity in her words. "You owe me several favours, you know."

She nodded. "Yes! Just let me know," she said. "Ok, I need to go start this essay for Transfig, It's due tomorrow but I've been so busy with – this, that I haven't even started it yet…"

"Yes," Tom said sympathetically. It was hard to balance school work and one's personal passion projects for glory and revenge, he knew this too well. "Well – I'm sure you can do it," he said.

And sure enough – Hermione slid a scroll towards him the following week at dinner, only ticks and compliments in thin, slanting handwriting from that wretched man.

"You could have come to the Manor for the holidays, you know," Abraxas said, as he and Tom left the Great Hall after the last breakfast before the Hogwarts Express arrived to take students back for the yuletide break. "Christmas here will be grim."

"It will be quiet," Tom said. "Which is exactly what I need." It was hard to make much headway into N.E.W.T. level regeneration potions research with people like Abraxas droning in his ear, or Rousseau Lestrange whispering about roughing up Williams if Tom could just sneak them into the Gryffindor yule party. His work for Lewis on Gubraithian fire was done, but it had come at the cost of ignoring everything due for Slughorn before term resumed.

"Have it your way, then," Abraxas shrugged. "If Rousseau gets Williams on the train, I'll let you know." Tom waved him off as he left the castle, but before he could throw himself into potions research -

"Tom!" a voice hissed behind him. It was Hermione; she was clutching a scroll of parchment tightly in her hand.

He frowned. "What?" he asked. She jerked her head over to the wall, not wanting to stand in the open space in front of the Great Hall.

"I have something for you," she said as he approached, shoving the scroll towards him.

She handed him her graded homework all the time, so Tom wasn't sure what was so different about this essay that it required being half-heartedly pulled aside, outside of the library or in passing at mealtimes. "You're staying here for Christmas?" she asked.

He pulled off the clip on her scroll, unfurling it. "I always stay for Christmas," he said shortly, glancing at the scroll. "Besides, I'm up to my neck in assignments…"

Dear Tom, /I think/ I've found it:

1925 Court of the Wizengamot against Marvolo Gaunt [case reference WZG-1925-CDLXXIX]. Five charges of: attacking the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, resisting arrest by an authorized Ministry of Magic Law Enforcement official, attempted assault on witch, contempt of the Wizengamot.

They didn't even charge Marvolo for the original offence they were trying to arrest him for, which was attacking a muggle – I wonder if it was a random anti-muggle attack, or if there was a reason they fought? You might want to look further into it.

The House of Gaunt was once a very esteemed house, quite pure-blood from what I've read in 'International Magical Education' by Frederick Smirling (see page 184). They're descended from Slytherin! That's probably why you were destined to be in Slytherin, Tom -

"Oh, I hope you can get through them!" Hermione said. "I'm going home, apparently the air raids aren't too frequent recently, so my parents want me to –"

"Hermione," Tom interrupted. His vision felt like it was closing in on him; he couldn't breathe. "What is this?"

"Oh, um, well, I –"

He looked around for the closest classroom and pulled her into it, ignoring her spluttering and shutting the door behind them.

"Where did you find this?" he demanded, pointing the scroll at her. Hermione looked confused.

"Um - in the Wizengamot records?" she said uncertainly. "Um – look, I know it's personal, so I didn't pry too much, but – well, I was worried you were – stuck on the wrong track," she said, folding her arms defensively. "And you didn't want to talk about it, so I just – I looked into it a little bit for you."

She stared at her shoes abashedly, possibly misreading Tom's shaking hands. "I was – I was trying to be helpful. Sorry if –"

"No, don't be sorry. This is incredible, Hermione," he said firmly, unrolling the scroll again – it was almost as amazing to read it the second time. This was the most helpful thing anyone had ever done for him (well, aside from Dumbledore showing up to confirm he was in fact special, Hogwarts invitation in hand, but Tom was sure that didn't count). "The Gaunts…I've read about them somewhere –"

"Oh, I found a little bit about them," Hermione said, stepping closer and pointing to a paragraph on her scroll. "They're related to Slytherin!"

"Of course they are," Tom said excitedly, re-reading her reference to education. Of course his family was in academia, it made complete sense they were focused on the pursuit of knowledge beyond all others. "An ancient, pureblood family – oh, I sometimes thought I would never find it – but of course I'm not a filthy Mudblood! Of course I'm related to Slytherin – oh, it all makes sense – yes!"

"Um," Hermione said. "Right. Well, er…I'm glad it was a good Christmas present?" she said, a rising inflection in her tone as though it were a question.

Tom thought of Abraxas buying him useless, expensive coffee that he hated, ignoring Tom's instructions to just hand over the gold instead, and Peggy Corbyn slobbering all over him at the Gryffindor yule party, slurring about sexual favours. "Hermione – this is the best Christmas present I've ever received," he said, honestly and certainly - but this truth made him realise he had come up short. "Shit. I don't have anything to give you."

Hermione shook her head. "Oh, no need, you've helped me so much Tom, so –"

"Absolutely not," he said, shoving the scroll in his bag and digging around in it for inspiration. Like Tom was leaving a debt this big hang over his head. But there was only one thing of worth in his bag, amongst broken quills and insipid notes from Abraxas and Peggy.

Tom looked at his Charms assignment, considering. But this knowledge was so great, that Hermione had found for him where he was, he could admit now, too blind to see. And she did like her fire charms, he recalled - bottles of multi-coloured flames and charms amendment textbooks in the library. It wasn't like he had time to steal anything halfway as decent as what he could magic up, anyway.

He could redo the assignment over the break, he decided. Tom pulled the flask out of his bag and handed it to her.

"Gubraithian fire," he stated. "It's everlasting fire – it'll never go out."

Hermione's eyes were huge as she stared at the tiny burning branch in the glass jar. "I know what Gubraithian fire is," she whispered, the light reflecting in her pupils.

That made sense, given she spent any time not sowing dissent amongst twelve year old girls doing experimental fire charms. "Well – it's yours," Tom said, slinging his bag back over his shoulder and heading to the door. "You should get going, if you're getting the train back to London."

"Ah – oh, yes," Hermione said, gingerly placing the flask of fire in her bag and running after him. "Um – I hope you have a good Christmas, Tom!"

It would be an excellent Christmas, thanks to Hermione – he couldn't wait to half-ass his Charms and Potions work and spend every moment he could tracking down information on the Gaunts in the library. The look on Rousseau's face when he came back from break and Tom could tell him he had magical blood…Hastings could do with another stabbing too…

"I will," Tom said decisively.

Author's note: Something that definitely happened right after Tommy and Abraxas left the fifth year Gryffindor compartment at the start of this chapter: all the Gryff girls saying "CHRIST I'd fuck him" and annoying the Gryff boys even more, rip.

I'm trying to slow burn but it's turning so quickly into the Tom and Hermione show lolol. I did a little doodle of the train scene, my favourite part is Abraxas wondering when it will be time to stop showing off to twelve year olds lololol. You can see it on the version of this fic posted at AO3!

It's been fun to do research on 1940s Britain for this fic :) here's some of the interesting things I found while writing this chapter:

Muhammad was on the top 100 baby names list in Britain in the 1930s. I knew it was the number one name recently, but didn't know it had been a popular contender for so long. The more you know!

The SOE, or Special Operations Executive, was a British volunteer force in World War II that included sexpionage. So many amazing accounts of women spies being total badasses *_*