"What did Professor Merrythought want?" Cynthia asked, as Hermione joined her and Philip at the Ravenclaw table for dinner.
"There's a third year Defence practical next week on boggarts," Hermione replied, ladling vegetable stew into a bowl. "She said I should attend too."
"Wow!" Cynthia said. "Boggarts – they can be quite intimidating, Hermione. You'll need to prepare well for them."
"Yes, an expedition into the bleak. What's your deepest fear?" Philip asked. Hermione frowned, staring at the celery in her dinner.
"I haven't thought about it before, to be honest," she admitted.
"Well, now's the perfect time," Cynthia said, pointing her spoon at Hermione. "Any childhood trauma? Is it a basic fear like a beast, or a more abstract concept?"
"I had a perfectly lovely childhood," Hermione replied loftily. Cynthia did love to strike at the heart of uncomfortable matters. "I don't know. I suppose death is scary."
Hermione thought of the way Mama's mouth grew ever thinner as she read the newspaper over breakfast, tense fingers as her eyes darted across the article headlines quickly; the way Papa's usual cheery countenance became quiet and bleak as he huddled over the wireless in the evenings as the war got closer and closer to home. Until it was almost right on top of them, loudly exploding only a few miles away as Mama's arms wrapped around her in the midnight of the Amsterdam shelter in their backyard.
"What about getting stabbed," Philip said, looking at the butter knife with a blank gaze.
"No, Hermione's not afraid of Riddle," Cynthia said, in her too-honest way, ignoring Hermione's shushing gestures. "I'd wager he's a boggart for a few people, though. What about Rosemary and Hazel," she said, staring at Hermione very intently through her narrowed, pale eyes. "Any nightmares about turning into a pig?"
Hermione made a dismissive psh noise, shaking her head, although she could feel the traitorous scarlet crawl across her face as she did. "No, of course not," she said, too quickly to convince sharp Cynthia.
"There's no use lying about it to us, Hermione," Cynthia warned, digging some potato out of her bowl. "The boggart isn't going to believe it, so you'll need to face your fears."
Those were the precise words Professor Merrythought had used, too. "Yes, I know," Hermione replied reproachfully. She didn't try to hide from her fears on purpose, but – well, wasn't it too much to expect people faced them head on, to know exactly and precisely what they were most afraid of? They weren't all Gryffindors like Mo, bravely jumping into any situation head-first; nor were they all scaredy-cats like Philip, who spent a really inordinate amount of his time dwelling on all the things that frightened him.
It was too cold to walk around the lake, like Hermione enjoyed doing when it was warmer and she needed to mull something over in her head. Instead, she slowly paced the corridors all the way up to the Astronomy Tower, trying to uncover in herself what she was most scared of.
It wasn't the war or the bombs, she decided as she climbed the stairs, nor was it death. Of course those things were scary, but if she thought of the concept of fear, they struck more of an inevitable dread into her heart than an immediate terror. Professor Merrythought's lecture notes said that boggarts would go to the heart of a person's fear, something in the hypothalamic lizard brain rather than the limbic system or cerebral cortex. Things like wild animals, phobias and recurring nightmares – something with its teeth deeply sunk into your physical body that would trigger the fight or flight response. This was the trick with the counter-spell – you had to overcome this response with a more distinguished mental assault, imagined in the higher levels of evolutionary neurological development.
But she couldn't figure it out. Hermione climbed all the way up to the very top of the Astronomy Tower, trying to jolt something in her brain. Think, she thought, heart rate increasingly picking up from the flights of stairs and a nervousness, she had to admit. If she couldn't figure this out and failed the practical, and Merrythought stopped her taking third year Defence material –
Hermione gasped. "That's it!" she whispered to herself, the thrill of enlightenment overtaking the panic. That was her inner-most fear – failure and rejection.
The bubble of successful happiness lasted all the way back to the dorm, until Margaret rolled her eyes as Hermione left the bathroom, and said she was surprised muggle animals used shampoo.
Cynthia let out a great belly laugh the next morning at breakfast when Hermione told her she had figured her fear out. It rather poured cold water all over the triumphant psychological expedition.
"Hahaha! Oh Hermione, you are funny," she said, wiping her eyes on the sleeves of her jumper. "Really, failure – you can be so obnoxious sometimes, you know."
Hermione stood up again quickly, grabbing a piece of toast so she wouldn't go into Charms hungry. "That's so funny, Cynthia, because I was just about to say the same thing about you," she huffed, stalking off as dignified as one could when they held jam bread in their hands all the while. Cynthia could be too blunt, sometimes – it was her deepest fear, was a little bit of sensitivity too much to ask for?
Hermione headed to the library that evening to prepare, poring over Professor Merrythought's textbook and making notes. But she came stuck again on the second phase of the defensive spell:
The second phase of the 'Riddikulus' counter-spell is that of visualisation: after the boggart takes the form of the spellcaster's most heartfelt, inner fear, they must focus on seeing a twisted version of that fear. It must be transformed to something amusing in their mind's eye…
So identifying the vague concept of her fear was insufficient, Hermione realised, slightly crestfallen. She would have to dig further to know what precise form it would take, to be able to brainstorm a funny version of it which would Banish the boggart back to the ether.
She bit her thumb, trying to concentrate. Would it be an assignment or a test, coated in red failing marks and comments? That in itself didn't seem very terrorising… What if it transformed into Professor Merrythought herself, telling Hermione she was failing the practical? That would be rather self-referential and confusing…goodness, and any counter-spell would surely insult the Professor, that would be really difficult –
"What do you need help with," Tom's voice next to her interrupted, making Hermione jump. She hadn't notice him approach while she had been deep in thought. He stared past her, looking towards the Merrythought book. "Boggarts?" he asked, tilting his head slightly to read the chapter heading.
"Oh – hi Tom," she replied, looking between his eyes and the textbook. "Um, yes, I've been invited to Professor Merrythought's third year practical."
He nodded approvingly, eyebrows raised. "Good work," he said, and Hermione grinned, suddenly feeling a warm swell of pride in her chest. "Why are you worried about it?" he asked, putting his hands in his robe pockets.
He had picked up on the matter at hand quickly – but then, Tom was very clever. "I just – I'm not sure what form my boggart will take," Hermione explained, gesturing vaguely as though she could outline the nebulous shape of what she might face. "So it's hard to imagine what I might visualise for the counter-spell."
"The curriculum spell is nonsense," Tom said viciously, his expression turning angry. "You know, I can destroy a boggart before it can shapeshift."
"Oh, wow!" she said. That was really impressive – and surely wasn't a spell in any of the textbooks she had read so far. What an improvement on the curriculum counter-spell that would be, to be able to defeat a boggart without it scaring you? "That would be so much better – what's the spell? How do you do it?" Hermione quickly pulled her Defence notebook out, ready to write down Tom's superior counter-spell.
"Er," Tom said. Hermione waited as his face went oddly blank, watching him blink like something had gotten in his eye. After a time, he said he'd tell her later, and that she needed to demonstrate the Riddikulus spell for the assessment.
Hermione supposed he was right. It was still a disappointment, though. Thinking so hard about what exactly your deepest fear was – well, there was no way around it, it seemed, and it was –
"But – I'm curious, Hermione," Tom continued, his dark eyes wide and interested. "What is it that you fear?"
Hermione frowned and looked away, remembering how Cynthia had cracked up into tears over her morning coffee. "I – I don't want to say," she responded, folding her arms, hands tucked under her elbows. "When I told Cynthia, she laughed at me."
Hermione blinked as Tom leant in, shifting back in her seat as he moved closer to her.
"I would never do that, Hermione," he said quietly, and she stared as he looked at Professor Merrythought's textbook, playing with the edge of the page. The magical illustration of the boggart shade warped in and out of the scribbled shadows, and Tom's eyes were dark and clear under his eyelashes –
"You can tell me," he said, gaze suddenly turning to her. Hermione's mouth felt dry; she swallowed and tried to breathe in, unfolding her arms in case that would make her lungs feel less compressed. For someone who needed an absurd amount of personal space, Tom could get far too close to other people, sometimes.
She didn't know why Tom wanted to know what she was afraid of so much – especially when he'd previously been so disparaging of people who were careless with details about their fears. But exploring the specific depths of one's fear was required for the Defence practical. And Tom had told Hermione she needed to try and get the top mark in every subject, to have a chance at making prefect.
He was trying to be helpful, Hermione thought, and she felt bad for hesitating. Tom said he wouldn't laugh (and really, when did he ever laugh; she could only remember that one time at Christmas, her surprise at how bad he was at it). Given everyone would find out what her fear was anyway after she faced the boggart, she might as well prepare as best she could. Any help Tom had to offer, even if he couldn't share his amazing pre-shapeshift curse, would be useful.
"Well – ok," she agreed, swallowing her pride and looking away from his gaze – and also his hand; that was distracting, somehow, his fingertip under the edge of the page, flicking the corner of it back and forth. Hermione settled on looking at the gap between his arm and her table. "It's – I'm a failure, I'm the worst student Hogwarts has ever had – I can't do magic – they say I'm a filthy muggle and I have to leave."
She blinked. Where had half those words come from? It was the strangest thing, once she started talking more words emerged from somewhere else within her. Hermione recognised them, though; the common phrases of Hazel, Rosemary and Margaret. Perhaps sleeping in the Slytherin dorms had soaked into her hypothalamus brain in some way. She wouldn't put it past Rosemary and Hazel to whisper sadistic things to her while she slept, come to think of it…
Tom said something about the counter-spell incantation, pulling her out of her thoughts. "Yes, that's the spell," she said, not wanting to be told off for not knowing the basics. "But I'm not sure –"
"No," Tom said; something in her chest clammed up coldly as his tone turned short again and he shook his head. Despite the shiver in her body, her face felt like it was on fire. Maybe she was coming down with a cold.
"I mean – your fear is unfounded," he said.
Hermione breathed in slightly, ready to say something in response, but there was a fluttering feeling in her chest and throat, up and down her body, and her brain froze up. There were no words to say in response, when what Tom had said was perhaps the kindest, most comforting thing anyone had ever told her.
But Tom had always said she belonged, she thought. Not just at Hogwarts but in Slytherin. All of first year he had stubbornly repeated that she was a Slytherin when Hermione expressed doubts about her Sorting. Hermione suddenly wondered if she had missed his reminders this school year. The girls in her dorm hadn't stopped telling her she was an aberration and a stain on the pureblood house of Salazar, at any rate. Maybe, without Tom's reassurance, their nasty words had started to sink in a bit, like a dementor through a flickering patronus shield. Circling the reptilian brain's fight or flight response, ready for a boggart to latch onto and reflect into reality.
Hermione suddenly realised her and Tom had hovered silently in place for far too long, shallow breathing and awkwardly close. She shook her head and tried to summon the words to continue the conversation.
"Um, you – you think?" she asked weakly, glancing at him and shifting uncomfortably in her seat to try and break the moment. But Tom did not shift away like most people would have. He just continued to stare.
"Yes," he said, suddenly pulling at his collar – and Hermione had to turn away – why wasn't he backing up? "What, so – Professor Dippet rescinds your Hogwarts invitation or something?" he asked.
Hermione gasped, hands at her mouth as she turned back instinctively to face him, embarrassment suddenly evaporated.
"Oh – that will be what the boggart shapeshifts to, won't it!" she said excitedly. Hermione felt enormously relieved. "That makes so much sense! Great, Professor Dippet…I can work with that."
Everyone knew Professor Dippet was afraid of heights; he made the same inoffensive joke every year when quidditch season started about barely making it up to the stands, let alone managing to watch the players zoom around on broomsticks. Interrupting a boggart Professor Dippet with a school quidditch player would be easy to imagine. Easy to laugh at, too, watching him avoid a Chaser trying to pull him onto their broom or something.
"Thanks, Tom," she said happily, as he finally broke away, pushing off from her table and leaving her to finalise her notes.
"Well done, Barny!" Professor Merrythought yelled, as the boggart mummy unravelled at his feet, tripping over itself and spinning back into a shadow void of nothingness. "Okay, Hermione, you're up."
I can do this, she thought, taking a calming breath and holding her wand out steadily. The boggart shifted from the shadows, and Hermione imagined the Gryffindor quidditch team captain, broom and beaters bat at the ready to cow a boggart Dippet into retreat –
But the figure that pulled itself into Professor Merrythought's classroom was not wearing the frame of the Hogwarts Headmaster. It was Tom's form that pushed itself up from the ground, and Hermione started screaming.
"No – come on Hermione, pull yourself together!" the Professor yelled, jogging over to hold her wand arm steady. "Really, again – look, he doesn't even have a knife –"
"Silencio!" Hermione screamed at the boggart, backing up unsteadily against the wall. She realised exactly and rather too late what the boggart was going to do, wearing Tom's face and about to spit Rosemary and Hazel and Margaret's words, and she could not –
"Something amusing, Hermione!" Professor Merrythought reminded loudly. "Adapt your plan!" But there was nothing funny about this, Hermione thought, her hands jumping to her ears as Tom looked at her with utter disdain. His sneer curled into her respiratory system and froze it; how could she laugh when she couldn't breathe, with her heart beating so painfully hard it was about to thump right out of her chest?
Adapt - Dippet was afraid of heights, she thought wildly, and Tom –
The war, the way Tom looked away when she asked him if the war would still be going on when they left Hogwarts, the only time she heard uncertainty in his voice when he said wizards didn't fight in muggle wars. The war, exploding over her head and Mama, who was made of steel and nerve, quietly shrieking in her ear, shaking violently all around her –
"Bombarda!" Hermione screamed, pointing at the boggart Tom. Then, the four other students she was taking the practical with started yelling too, as they ducked out of the way of the small explosion and magically summoned shrapnel went everywhere.
"Okay!" Professor Merrythought said cheerfully. "Let's try that again, shall we, Hermione?"
The other students were stood well back at the end of the classroom this time, which had been hastily remedied with magic ("don't worry, Defence classrooms are built to withstand a bit of damage Hermione, no harm done," the Professor had said reassuringly). The boggart had been "turned about" by Hermione's Exploding Charm, as Professor Merrythought had put it; safely back in a large cabinet, it kept bumping into the sides of it and making confused groaning noises.
"Now, do we know what we're going to visualise, now that we know what is going to emerge from the cabinet?" Professor Merrythought said. "You know, a few students have taken to replacing the boggart's wand – "
"I know what will amuse me," Hermione said confidently, wand arm up as she took a deep breath.
"Oh. Well, here we go, then," the Professor said, waving her wand at the cabinet. But the boggart had barely transformed before Hermione had cast the spell, summoning a vision of a snivelling Rosemary that made the boggart Tom's eyes light up and change course. Hermione's heartbeat calmed as his gaze shifted and the magical apparition of Rosemary cried ugly, loud sobs, and the reimagined memory of the delight on Tom's face as he'd torn Rosemary to shreds pulled Hermione's laugh and the boggart's failure into being.
"Here, give me the sickles, Hermione – I can buy the cake," Elsie said, and Hermione handed over the silver coins from her satchel. "I'll get them to wrap it up so we can take it with us. Let's go walking up the hill for a bit."
"Oh, do we have to?" Cynthia moaned, but Elsie raised her eyebrows meaningfully and Cynthia held her hands up in defeat. Elsie had helped both Cynthia and Hermione out as their test subject for their extra Charms assignment on Cheering and Sadness Charms, and now the time had come for the favour to be repaid. But as Elsie was a kind soul, the price was hardly a cost, and she demanded to be repaid in cakes and reluctant hikes on spring Hogsmeade weekends.
"I'll be right back," Elsie said, ducking into the café.
"She's going to buy three slices of carrot cake," Cynthia complained, rolling her eyes and kicking at the cobblestone path. "I hate carrot cake."
"Well, that is the nature of a favour called in," Hermione said, swinging around a lamppost as they dawdled. "She gets to dictate the terms."
"Spoken like a true Slytherin," Cynthia said, nodding past Hermione. "Speaking of. A boggart approaches."
Hermione whipped around guiltily. Tom, a fifth year Slytherin boy Hermione was pretty sure was called Lestrange, and a pretty girl with perfectly pinned brown hair, red lipstick and a lit cigarette were heading to the Three Broomsticks.
Hermione turned back to Cynthia with a very narrow gaze. "I don't know what Barny told you –"
"Well, it's Barny, so you can safely presume he told me and everyone he knows everything," Cynthia drawled.
"– but Professor Merrythought said everyone's fears were supposed to stay in the classroom," Hermione finished.
"This is Hogwarts School of Gossip and Hearsay," Cynthia replied primly. "And you took the practical with one Barnabus Cuffe. You're lucky he didn't take out an advertisement in the Prophet with all the grisly details."
It was a good thing Hermione had already figured out her cover story in case Tom found out and asked her about it. Maybe it would work on Cynthia too. "Tom's the most talented student at this school," Hermione said, folding her arms and turning her nose up at Cynthia. "It is perfectly logical to fear duelling him."
"Got it!" Elsie announced, the café door swinging open again as she stopped, having walked into a tense staring contest. "What are you two doing."
"Discussing Hermione's Defence practical," Cynthia said, gesturing in Tom's direction and turning on her heel, starting to head to the pathway up the mountain.
"Oh," Elsie said, glancing over as the girl with Tom and Lestrange laughed loudly. Elsie looked back at Hermione with an expression like she had a stomach bug, and Hermione groaned.
"Barny really did tell everyone," she said, putting her head in her hands. Elsie was too nice for gossip and was always the last to hear anything.
Elsie put the cake in her bag and gently tugged on Hermione's elbow, pulling her towards the mountain. "I thought…um," Elsie trailed off, looking back over her shoulder. "Well, you always spoke well of Riddle, Hermione, and he is a prefect. But I suppose –"
"There is nothing to suppose," Hermione said firmly, pulling at a tall dandelion growing out the side of the hill as they started heading up the incline. "Tom is a talented wizard. I would not want to duel him. Would you?"
"No," Elsie said quickly.
"Exactly. It's a completely rational fear," Hermione said.
"Er," Elsie said, forehead wrinkling up as she considered it. "I – I guess."
It was silent for a moment as they walked up an incline and caught their breath on a flatter part of the hillside path, Cynthia waiting for them rather impatiently for someone who had not been keen to go at all.
"So – so Riddle hasn't attacked you?" Elsie asked breathlessly. Hermione gaped at her.
"Wh – no! Of course not!" Hermione looked between Elsie and Cynthia, who were a mixture of concern and sceptical. "Tom helps me. He's going to – uh, he always helps me," she backtracked, suddenly remembering Tom had told her not to tell anyone about his plans to tutor her more formally once she had finished third year content.
Cynthia tilted her head to the side as she fixed her bun, her hair coming unstuck in the wind and sweat as they climbed. "Mm. Out of the kindness of his heart, I'm sure," she said.
Hermione felt incensed at Cynthia's baseless accusation and the doubt in her tone. Ravenclaws could be such shitey gossips, sometimes. "Tom knows what it's like to be in Slytherin with no proven heritage, Cynthia," she spat back, as venomously as she could when slightly out of breath. It was technically true; even if he knew of his magical heritage now, Tom had surely gotten even worse than Hermione dealt with as the first Slytherin with suspicious magical background in the house.
"I don't tell you half the nonsense I put up with living there," Hermione continued, shaking her head and allowing herself a tiny, bitter laugh. "You thought Hazel and Rosemary turning me into a pig would be my boggart?" she scoffed. "That doesn't even come close to the scariest encounters I've had in Slytherin."
Just that morning, Margaret's older brother had chased her out of the common room with some sort of illegal-looking fire hex. He had yelled at her as she ran, explaining his theory that Mudbloods might make good kindling for the fire: "It's a cold day, blood filth, you see." But complaining about it would only demonstrate weakness. In this case, a weakness for warmth that overrode common sense, making Hermione linger by the fire on a cold morning after loud, older boys also approached it.
Hermione looked away, down the hill at Hogsmeade village. Lots of students were wandering about fit or the weekend, laughing and chatting. The green was starting to push through the earth now that spring was here. Daffodils waved at the edges of the settlement and up the mountain hill.
It was very pretty and fun. But there were some difficulties one had to put up with to enjoy the privilege of attending Hogwarts, to wield magic as a Muggleborn. She didn't much care for Cynthia's Half-Blood doubt about how she went about dealing with them. What if Tom hadn't helped her out in her first week at Hogwarts, or answered her questions about magic and Slytherin house, or taken Rosemary down a peg, or helped her get back at Hazel and those other nasty girls in her dorm? Hermione would be thoroughly miserable with no allies in the snake den with all the prejudiced purebloods. Cynthia was safe with her heritage up in Ravenclaw Tower, and didn't understand.
"We're sorry, Hermione," Elsie said. Hermione turned to look at her; she seemed absolutely uncomfortable, panic on her face as she looked between Hermione and Cynthia rapidly, trying to mediate. "We just asked because we were worried. But he hasn't, so that's good, and we can talk about something else."
"Well, actually, I asked because –"
"Cynthia?" Elsie interrupted pointedly, glaring at the sweating blonde girl something fierce. "We can talk about something else," she repeated, a firm air of finality about her words.
And it was Elsie's favour being called in, after all. Cynthia looked away, and they continued up the hill, the argument soon forgotten as they managed the ascent and reached a good lookout near the top. Elsie kindly pulled out carrot, coffee and orange cake slices. Hufflepuffs really could be such considerate friends.
"Come on," Hermione whispered to herself, biting her fingers anxiously as she checked her watch and saw curfew tick ever closer. Tom was talking in hushed tones with Malfoy, and Hermione knew enough not to interrupt when he was speaking to other Slytherin boys like they were planning something bad.
It was a week before exams started, and they were both about to sit their O.W.L.s. They probably were planning something bad. Although Tom didn't need to cheat to get top marks – maybe Malfoy needed assistance.
But the end of year exams in second year were important, too – especially when Tom had said she needed to try and get top in everything to have a shot at prefect a few years from now. Hermione had dutifully written all the questions she wanted to run past Tom down so she wouldn't forget them, and there were well over fifty at this point. The library closed in ten minutes – when would Malfoy finally finish scheming whatever he was plotting with Tom and leave?
After an agonisingly long period of time, the fancy blond boy sighed and stood up, walking out. Hermione jumped up and ran over to Tom, before he could turn back to the essay he was writing.
"Tom!" she hissed. He groaned dramatically; she did hate to annoy him, but all of these questions werer really important to get the top marks in all the subjects he said were important – and anyway, he had said she could come to him with questions, hadn't he?
"Good grief, Hermione," he complained, making some remark she was sure was supposed to be clever about human cannibals, but she didn't have time – the library closed in five minutes, and there were so many questions to confirm –
"In a Hiccupping Solution, when you –"
"I told you to stop doing that," Tom said viciously, and Hermione faltered. He was looking at her hands, she realised.
Oh. He was not a fan of biting one's nails when under stress, she recalled. They were a bit of a mess, she realised glancing down at them now.
Well, she could try to remember the questions by heart instead of read them from her notebook. Hermione put the book and her hands behind her back so as to not bother him, and continued.
"When you add the baneberry stem," she said, moving onto the next Potions question, "should you –"
"I'm going to pretend you didn't just assume I lack object permanence," he said. His voice sounded dangerous – this request for help was going really poorly, she thought regretfully.
"Well – I'm sorry. I know it bothers you," she apologised, heart thumping in her chest wildly thinking of all the exams she had to take shortly, and how important each and every one of them was. "I try, Tom! I'm trying – it's a bad habit, I know it is, it's just that the exams –"
"You need a better bad habit," he said, giving her a calculating look with narrowed eyes. The freckle under his eye jumped as he – surveyed her, it felt like. Then he sighed, and waved his wand in precise, quick ways – all the books he had on the table floated back to their shelves, his scrolls all packed up in his satchel. "Come along."
They were leaving? Hermione ran back to her table, struggling to shove all her review notes back in her bag and return the Charms Reference (27th edition) to its shelf.
"What's the spell you do to return the books?" she asked, as Tom fiddled about for something in his bag while she shoved the heavy tome back onto the top shelf. It would be much easier to do the magic he did at the end of a library study session, than try to return everything by hand.
"I'll give you…maybe two questions," Tom said as she jumped off the shelf and onto the floor. Hermione ran behind him as he headed to the library doors, putting her bag on as she went. "Do you want that spell, or the questions that will be on one of your silly second year end of year tests?"
She gasped. Barny had been right about a rumour, for once? That was almost more shocking than the substance of what Tom had said. "Wait – it's true, Tom?" she asked, following him down the stairs. "You know what will be on the end of year exams?"
Tom half-laughed, finally finding what he was looking for in his bag – cigarettes. "Which test do you want, Hermione?"
He turned back to look at her, holding out a lit cigarette between his long, pale fingers. Somehow they were not stained or ashy like other smokers' fingers were – Tom was always perfect.
It felt like her heart stopped for a moment, until her brain kicked back into action. This was a tip to avoid biting your fingernails, she reminded herself. When Tom swapped cigarettes with the girl Barny had told her was named Shirley Brown, another fifth-year Gryffindor, one that had fallen out rather coolly with Tom's ex-girlfriend Peggy Corbyn – that was something quite different.
She took the smoke from him, careful so as not to touch his hand, and followed him to stand by the columns looking over the Black Lake. The sunset made the water shine a beautiful orange as Hermione contemplated Tom's offer.
She couldn't turn it down – one didn't do that with Tom Riddle. And Hermione knew, Tom had told her, she needed to get first place in as many subjects as she could to have a shot at prefect. But it felt – well, it felt confusing. It was wrong to cheat, and this was cheating, there was no way around it. Yet Hermione didn't think it was the guilt of a bad deed alone that was making her heart stutter rapidly in her chest. There was a nervous excitement there, too. How many people got favours from Tom Riddle?
This was special, even if it was bad.
Hermione looked out over the glittering surface of the lake. So, if she was accepting this favour (and Hermione wasn't sure it was a choice, to be fair), the only remaining decision was – which test. There was one subject which easily came to the front of her mind, that more than any other, she needed to take first place in.
"The Charms test," she replied flatly, inhaling the smoke. And quickly coughing on it, in an extremely undignified manner, interrupting her mental apology to Cynthia.
"Right answer," Tom said, sneering at her coughing fit. Hermione blanched, dismayed. God, that had been a test? She hadn't even realised – what if she'd said the wrong subject, or worse, said no?
"Getting second again in Charms would not do," he continued, and her stomach shrivelled up. She did not think it was only from the chemical inhalation. He had remembered, then, that she had placed second in Charms last year.
"Movement, antithesis, and a surprising amount of light phasing and colour changing material from first year," Tom told her, leaning against a column and drawing on his cigarette in an infinitely more adept manner then Hermione. He looked – he looked beautiful, there wasn't another word for it, staring blankly into the distance as the orange sunset phased over his pale skin. If Hermione hadn't been busy tearing up and hacking up a lung over nicotine, it would have been hard not to stare.
But wait – light phasing and colour changes? That was material from last year, not this year. "I – wouldn't have thought to cover first year material," she replied raspily, trying to wipe her eyes discreetly.
"Fundamentals are important," Tom said. "Don't make yourself sick."
That did make sense, she supposed – the first three years of magical teaching were about core basics. That was why she had to finish them before Tom would start teaching her other magic.
And as for being sick – too late. She had missed dinner to spend more time in the library, and on an empty stomach the smoke probably felt even worse. "Papa says smoking is bad for your teeth," she thought out loud – first Acid Pops and now this. He was going to think the magical world was a bad influence if she didn't hide it from him. "But – you're right," she told Tom. Like he so often was. "It's not good to bite your nails," she admitted, flicking the ash off cigarette by tipping the smoke slightly with her fingers.
"You'll hardly pass your exams if you've bitten off so much dexterity you can't write down your answers," Tom said. Hermione stared at her nails – was it really that bad? True, it hurt a little if she pressed down hard to write with her quill, but she was hardly in danger of biting off her fingers. "Who's your competition?"
She blinked, looking up at him. Tom rolled his eyes dramatically, putting his hands in his pockets. "Your concern is rather obvious."
Hermione jerked her head in annoyance, crossing her arms and looking away. Of course she was concerned – she was trying to take first in as many subjects as she could. For people who weren't Tom Riddle, that wasn't a simple feat. Maybe his year was full of dullards, but Hermione's was not – there were students sharp as knives in the second year Hogwarts class, such as –
"Cynthia," she informed him. "And Margaret Nott." Both from magical households, with the inherent advantages that came with a lifetime of soaking up magic that Hermione didn't have. She drew on her smoke again – somehow, Tom had already finished his.
"Nott…that's a Slytherin, right?" Tom asked, eyes looking somewhere above his head. Margaret's older brother, Thoros Nott, was in Slytherin, too, in sixth year – Hermione was slightly surprised Tom didn't know him.
"She's quite good," Hermione admitted grudgingly. "At Potions and Transfig." Margaret wasn't as diligent a student as Hermione, but that made her competence all the worse. The moment Margaret decided she wanted to focus, Hermione wasn't sure she would still be able to compete.
"Really," Tom said, sounding bored. "I wouldn't worry about it."
Well of course he wouldn't worry about it, Hermione thought annoyed – had Tom ever been beaten in a test before in his life? But for mere mortals, such confidence would be quite misplaced. No, Hermione's only chance was studying harder and more diligently than Margaret and Cynthia. Which is what lead to the bitten fingernails in the first place.
Tom kicked her foot, heading towards the stairs that lead down to the Slytherin quarters. "Come on. It's past curfew," he said, and Hermione stubbed out her cigarette and followed him. If she was with a prefect, hopefully she wouldn't get in trouble if a Professor ran into them. As Tom said – she needed to keep them all on side.
And there was no trouble to be had, until she walked back into the dorms. There, her stress and blood status combined with Hazel, Margaret and Hazel's frayed nerves and lead to an angry spat, complete with Stinging Hexes and swinging fists.
"What were the three political objectives of the Sardinian contingent at the 1289 International Warlock Convention?" Philip asked, quizzing Cynthia and Hermione from his History of Magic revision notes over lunch. The test was the first of the end of year exams, and it was taking place tomorrow.
"Which contingent – the official one, or the witches excluded for being women and also necromancers?" Cynthia asked from across the table, cutting up her steak pie.
"Well, you're obviously familiar with it. Hermione?" Philip asked, turning to her so she couldn't read his notes as he sat beside her. Hermione screwed up her face as she tried to recall.
"The official contingent was anti-secrecy, and was unhappy with the power the Bulgarian –"
"Do you ever sit with your own house?" Tom's voice cut in, and then he was jabbing at her painfully, pointy fingers digging into the top of her arm. Hermione retreated out of his grasp by getting up off the bench, but Tom still looked annoyed, gesturing for her to sit back down.
"Why would she?" Cynthia challenged; Hermione looked over at her and glanced sideways at Philip as she sat back down again. Philip was, predictably, rather pale – he was not the strongest-willed person. But Cynthia was sneering, her eyes narrowed at Tom as he continued nagging at Hermione.
"No, stand on it," he said; Hermione didn't understand, but gripped the edge of the table and Tom's arm to steady herself and did as he said, standing up on the bench. Cynthia carried on, leaning over her plate as Philip rather obviously moved his chair further away.
"The Slytherins treat Hermione like dirt. Present company excluded, of course." Hermione looked at them both as Tom finally realised Cynthia was talking to him. She had her Plotting Smile on, and Tom, she realised unhappily, was Disappointedly Frowning, first at Cynthia, and then at her.
"I thought you sorted out the girls in your dorm?" he asked, and Hermione realised he was much too close. Tom was so tall she had never been at his eye-level before; now, his face was so close to her's, dark eyes glaring at her unhappily, and she was trapped on the bench between him and Philip, unable to back away –
"It's everyone in Slytherin, Riddle," Cynthia said loudly, while Hermione tried desperately to keep her cool by staring intently at her abandoned pie. "I thought you might have noticed –"
Cynthia suddenly stopped and shuddered; Hermione presumed Philip must have kicked her under the table, cutting off what Hermione assumed was going to be a rather brash comment about Tom's heritage. Which was still vaguely Muggleborn, as far as most students at Hogwarts were aware. When Hermione had told Tom about his Gaunt link, Hermione wondered if he would announce to the entire castle that he had magical blood – heritage, she corrected herself mentally; everyone at Hogwarts had magical blood, even if they were the first in their family with magic.
But though she had noticed a few more of the Slytherin boys hanging around him, for the most part Tom seemed to have kept the knowledge to himself. Something about that felt warm and special, like the jar of Gubraithian fire on her bedside table he had given her in return. It was a secret only a few people knew about, and it – felt nice.
And Tom was looking at her again.
"Everyone?" he asked. Shoot, she didn't want him to think she had been complaining about her weakness in fighting off nasty pureblood Slytherins. Thank goodness Philip was there to shut Cynthia up. The dark freckle under his left eye twitched as he narrowed his gaze at her, and the sight of it was too much – god, she hated disappointing him. Hermione folded her arms across her racing heart and looked away determinedly at her shoes – which were digging into the edge of the bench precariously; why was she doing this again?
"Why am I standing on the bench?" she asked, trying to will her face not to burn with the embarrassment of personal failure.
"Which one is Margaret Nott?" Tom asked. Hermione saw Cynthia's expression change in an instant; anger to wide-eyed opportunity, and then she was suddenly clambering to stand up on her bench, too.
"Blonde curls, those squinty eyes half the purebloods have," Cynthia described; Hermione watched her searching finger scan the Slytherin table. "She's – there, in the middle," Cynthia said, jabbing towards where Margaret sat with Rosemary.
The two Slytherin girls stared back at them, and Hermione wondered what sort of expression was on Cynthia's face. She couldn't see it, as Cynthia was turned away from her and towards Margaret and Rosemary. If she saw Cynthia pointing her out across the Great Hall, she'd be quite worried…
She could feel Tom doing his Look again, and unwillingly turned towards his too-close face. His eyebrows were raised and he nodded in Margaret's direction, questioning. Hermione nodded, and his attention finally broke away; a breath she didn't realise she was holding escaping in the new space created as he backed off.
"Right," he said, turning back once more to glare at her again as he left. "Sit with your own house in future," he warned, heading back to the Slytherin table on the other side of the Hall.
Hermione stared across the table at Cynthia, who was looking conflicted, half frowning as she watched Tom leave.
"It would feel better to order a hit on Margaret if he wasn't such a smug bastard," she said, looking back at Hermione. There was an expression on Cynthia's face that Hermione wasn't sure how to interpret.
They both sat back down on the benches. "Do you think that's what that was about?" Hermione asked.
"Are you kidding?" Philip asked. "God, Margaret will be lucky if she's not dead by the end of the week."
"Tom doesn't murder people," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Stop exaggerating, Philip."
But the nature of Tom's inquiry became evident as end of year exams began. The post-exam review the next afternoon trailed off into silence as Cynthia shook Hermione violently, gesturing as subtly as she could in the direction of a crying Margaret.
"What do you mean, you couldn't remember anything about the Werewolf Wars?" they overheard Hazel asking a sobbing Margaret as they walked out into the Northern courtyard. Cynthia could barely contain her delighted giggling, a truly strange, evil grin twisting her face into a goblin-like expression.
"Ooh that was a good way to get her. And – hmm, wait, who else in Slytherin gets good grades?" she asked, giving Hermione a knowing look and glancing around. "Where's Barny when you need him, he knows everyone's marks by heart…"
But Hermione suddenly felt rather ill, swaying with nausea as a memory came to the front of her mind. Choking on cigarette smoke by the exterior columns near the library last week, telling Tom who she was worried about beating her for the top marks in second year.
She reached out and grabbed Cynthia's hand.
"Did you do ok in the exam?" Hermione asked, looking at Cynthia intently as she grasped her fingers.
"What? Yes, of course I did," Cynthia retorted. Her face suddenly fell as she understood Hermione's question.
"Wait, what do you – but why would –?"
She pulled her hand out of Hermione's suddenly. Hermione felt a rush of dread as Cynthia looked at her with a hardened, angry expression.
"I'm supposed to be your friend," she hissed.
"You are!" Hermione said anxiously. "I just mentioned you and Margaret were my competition for first – I didn't know what he –"
"Didn't know what he would do? It's Tom Riddle, Hermione, what did you expect?" Cynthia sneered. "Go find him and fix this before I report you both to Dippet."
Hermione's mouth fell open with shock. She had never known Cynthia to threaten anyone with snitching before.
"You're the one who identified Margaret for him!" she pointed out, trying to regain control of the situation. The rebuttal came out as more of a scared whisper than anything.
"Yes, because you were too busy blushing like an idiot," Cynthia said, her face red too, blotchy with fury. "You've got until dinner." And she stormed off, leaving Hermione feeling horrified and like a truly bad friend.
Clenching the straps of her bag, Hermione ran downstairs to the Great Hall. Lots of older students taking O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s were milling around, chatting and laughing in the post-exam relief. Tom wasn't there; but the Malfoy heir Tom was friends with was present. Taking a deep breath to steel her nerves, she walked over to him. He was talking to Rosemary's older brother, gesturing and talking loudly.
"Malfoy?" she asked, trying to make her voice as loud as she could, though it still wavered. The jubilant smile on his face flickered and fell; Rosemary's older brother, by contrast, sneered.
"What does a Mudblood want with you?" Rosemary's brother asked, looking at Hermione like she was a brave rat that had crawled out of the shadows. Hermione stared determinedly at Abraxas, ignoring the slur.
"Where's Tom?" she asked, but Malfoy merely snorted and started walking away. Ignoring her.
She reached out to grab his arm, but yelped as her hand suddenly stung. Rosemary's brother's wand was out, his Stinging Hex burning and trickling over her hand. Hermione gripped onto Malfoy's sleeve tighter, refusing to let go.
"It's important," she ground out.
"Let go, you uppity muggle filth," Rosemary's brother hissed, his wand twirling again. Malfoy shook her hand off; Hermione willed herself not to grab the painful sting bubbling across her knuckles, continuing to stare at him intently.
"He's still in the Hall for his Transfig practical O.W.L.," he finally said, his eyes leaving her gaze to look at her blistering hand. "Come on, Thaddeus."
"You're going to let that go?" Thaddeus Rosier asked, disbelief in his voice as he pointed with his wand between Malfoy and Hermione. "They get bolder the more you let them get away with, you know. Listen here, you little –"
"If it's important, Tom won't thank you for holding up his warning," Malfoy said shrewdly, regarding Hermione with a narrowed, pale stare that reminded her, coincidentally, of Cynthia. "And if it's not important, Tom will want to teach the Mudblood a lesson himself."
Malfoy gave Hermione a final contemptuous look and left again. Rosier stepped towards her suddenly, but Hermione stood firm and unblinking as he tried to intimidate her while he passed by. She watched them go, and then turned to wait closer by the doors, moving her right fingers painfully as her hand blistered under Rosier's hex. She could go to the hospital wing afterwards, but she had to catch Tom and then tell Cynthia before dinner…
What felt like a long time and several students later, Tom finally emerged from the Great Hall, with a familiar brunette girl in Gryffindor robes and red lipstick. Shirley Brown was – well, there was no other word for it – gushing about how great Tom was.
Hermione had a moment of queasiness, before an embarrassed empathy clicked into place for Cynthia's upturned, sneering lip whenever Tom showed up. Hermione would like to say she'd never been as – well, as giddy as Tom's new girlfriend was over his accomplishments. But in all honesty, Hermione wasn't sure that was true. And she felt a stab of envy as Brown described how amazing Tom's Transfiguration was – Hermione would have loved to have seen it, too.
"– amazing, Tom, I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will be so impressed. Your work should really be published –"
"Excuse me – Tom?" Hermione cut in. "I'm sorry, I've got an important message for you."
Brown smiled at her, elbowing Tom and tilting her head towards him flirtatiously. Somehow, even though this was so important, Hermione couldn't stop herself from looking away. It had been easier to stare down Malfoy, even while Rosier tried to hex her hands off, for some reason. That had been less – embarrassing, she supposed.
"Aw, prefect duty calls," she said, and Hermione watched her body lean closer to Tom's and then skip away, pointy witch shoes clicking pleasingly on the stone floor as she left.
She dared to look up again; Tom's expression was one of vague confusion, his eyebrows knotted together.
"What?" he asked. Hermione looked around before standing closer to speak quietly.
"Don't attack Cynthia," she said, wondering how much to say that wouldn't get Cynthia Obliviated like Margaret had been. "It's – it's really important, Tom – please leave her alone."
Tom's face was blank.
"Who's Cynthia?" he asked.
Hermione blinked. "Oh. Uh – um, never mind," she said hurriedly. If he had forgotten that Hermione had mentioned Cynthia when she was complaining about academic competition a few evenings ago, that was definitely for the best. "S-sorry Tom, I'll let you go –"
And with that, she ran away, into the hospital wing with a stupid excuse about Defence practice going awry for Rosier's Stinging Hex injury. Hermione tapped on Cynthia's shoulder at dinner that evening with a newly healed hand.
"It's done," she said stiffly. Cynthia looked over her shoulder at Hermione, and nodded once before turning back.
"Good," she said; the dismissal was obvious. Hermione felt quite miserable trudging over to the Slytherin table; she sat down beside some nervous looking first years and half-heartedly put some salad on her plate.
"You're Hermione Granger – aren't you?" one of them asked. Hermione looked up from her plate to see a boy watching her. His eyes were wide, and his blond curly hair was too long; she presumed once he got home for the summer holiday, his mother would quickly be at him with scissors to cut it.
"Yes," she said, shoving carrot and lettuce onto her fork. "What's your name?" she asked.
"Jeffrey Baker," he said, fidgeting with his knife and fork. "You don't normally eat dinner with us."
Hermione rolled her eyes, thinking of Cynthia's anger and Tom's reprimand. "Yes, well, I plan to more often," she said tersely. Nearby, Hazel snorted into her goblet; Hermione gave her a withering look.
"Is there a problem, Hazel?" Hermione asked loudly, dropping her knife to grab her wand underneath the table and aim it at Hazel's knees. Hazel shot her a judgmental, sneering look, before turning in her seat away from her.
Jeffrey leant over his plate, closer to Hermione. "I heard you fight back if they call you a Mudblood," he whispered.
His standard English name clicked into place. "You're Muggleborn, too?" she asked him. He nodded, jerking his head towards the dark-haired girl sitting beside him.
"Yes. Roni is too."
"It's Veronica," the girl corrected hurriedly. "Hello. Veronica Taylor. Nice to meet you."
Hermione scratched her head, feeling slightly abashed. She had known there were new Muggleborn students in Slytherin this year – she had handily used them to win Mo over for her scheme to take Hazel and Rosemary down. Hermione felt slightly guilty she hadn't even introduced herself to them before the end of their first year had arrived. "How's your first year at Hogwarts been?" she asked them. They exchanged knowing glances, and Hermione's guilt grew larger. At least they had each other to be friends with in the bigoted snake pit.
"Never mind," she continued bracingly. "It'll be better next year. Each year you go, you'll learn more magic and become more powerful."
"Even if we don't have magical blood?" Veronica asked. Hermione frowned at her.
"What are you talking about? You have magical blood," she told Veronica. "If you didn't you wouldn't be at Hogwarts."
"But we – we don't," the girl explained. "I tried looking up my ancestry in the library –"
"Ah," Hermione said knowingly, slicing hard cheese and breaking it into her salad. "You got Tom's Muggleborn research assignment, I see."
Veronica looked between Hermione and Jeffrey, confused. "Tom?" she asked.
"Tom Riddle," Hermione clarified.
"Oh, the stabby prefect," Jeffrey said.
"Don't say that" Hermione scolded him. That was not a nickname Tom needed following him around.
"Sorry," he said quickly, shrinking back in his seat. "Er – no, we've never talked to him."
"I'd rather stay well clear of him, personally," Veronica said, slicing up her pork chop vigorously.
So Tom hadn't told them they should hunt for their magical heritage. Maybe he had been too pre-occupied with fifth year coursework and being a prefect to also herd Muggleborns.
She probably should have told them, Hermione realised, once again a pang of guilt thumping through her chest. Tom had passed along his hard-learned lessons to her when she was Sorted into Slytherin; she, on the other hand, hadn't even bothered say hello to the new Slytherin Muggleborns (though, on reflection, Hermione recalled that Tom had rather rudely ignored her outstretched hand in her first week at school). At least they seemed to have figured it out for themselves at some point.
Though, as Hermione had found, it was a rather pointless exercise in some cases. Sometimes, Muggleborns were just Sorted into Slytherin. The sooner the Purebloods got over that, the easier it would be for everyone to just get on with their lives.
"Anyway," Hermione continued. "You do have magical blood. Everyone Hogwarts student has magic. Magical blood is different to magical ancestry."
"But – it does mean we're at a disadvantage," Veronica said. "We have several times less strength than the Purebloods –"
"What utter tripe," Hermione interrupted, glaring at the two of them. "Have you been listening to this lot about blood purity?" She jerked her head up the table, in Hazel's general direction. "Because they're wrong about that."
"We're right, Granger," Hazel sung out, standing up to leave dinner.
"Shut up, Hazel," Hermione shot back, turning her head to stare down Hazel directly. "You know, you got so red and sweaty in Herbology the other day that Mo said you looked like a pig. No wonder you go around trying to turn other girls into swines."
Hazel made a rude hand gesture and hurried away, but her reddening face told Hermione the jab had hit. Which was good, because otherwise Hermione would be ruining Mo's flawless kind reputation for nothing – he had of course said nothing of the sort, living blissfully unaware of Hazel most days.
"Wow," Jeffrey said, looking slightly shell-shocked. "You do fight back!"
"Of course I do. What are you teaching them if you just let them get away with it?" she asked him, stabbing a tomato with her fork. "I mean, be careful of the older students, but don't let them walk all over you. Blood purity is rubbish. I'm the top student in my year, and I'm Muggleborn. Magical ability has nothing to do with heritage."
In hindsight, it was presumptive to think the Muggleborns in Slytherin would know that blood purity was a nonsense. They would spend most of their time around prejudiced snakes, if they didn't branch out to make friends in the other houses. Hermione hadn't been a very good Muggleborn comrade, as Cynthia had once put it.
"Are there any subjects you're worried about for your end of year exams?" she asked Jeffrey and Veronica. Maybe there was something she could do to help out before the school year was complete.
"Potions," they both said simultaneously.
"That's no good when Professor Slughorn is your Head of House!" Hermione exclaimed, shoving the last of her salad down. "Let's head back to the Slytherin quarters. You can borrow my exam prep notes from last year, if you like. I got top in Potions in last year's exam, so they're pretty good."
"That – that would be helpful," Veronica said, sounding surprised.
"Don't lose them," Hermione warned. "I can't do a Doubling Charm yet, so I want them back tomorrow evening."
"We'll be careful," Jeffrey said hurriedly.
"Hermione?" a girl's voice asked tentatively.
Hermione looked up. Elsie was hovering near what Hermione had quickly learned from Jeffrey was the Muggleborn-end of the Slytherin table – right by the teachers, where the least bad behaviour could be gotten away with.
"Good morning Elsie," she said, putting her Charms revision notes and cup of tea down. "How are you?"
Elsie only nodded in response, shooting a conspicuous look towards the Ravenclaw table. "I'm good, I'm good..." she said, trailing off. Hermione sighed.
"Cynthia's not very happy with me right now," she admitted. "So I'm eating with my own table, for a bit."
Elsie kept nodding, biting her lip as she did so. "Should – shall I join you?" she asked in a rush, quickly glancing up the table at the older Slytherins with a look of pure terror.
Something warm curled up in Hermione's chest, alongside the English Breakfast she was drinking.
"You don't have to, Elsie," she said gently, letting her off the hook. "But if you would like to, you're very welcome."
Elsie's eyes narrowed at Hermione and Jeffrey beside her, and with a quick movement she suddenly sat down at the very edge of the bench beside Jeffrey, fingers balanced tentatively on the edge of the wooden table.
"Are you ready for the Charms exam today?" she asked. "I've been practicing with – I've been practicing. I think I'm as ready as I'll ever be."
"How about the theory?" Hermione asked, pulling her notes up again. "Want me to quiz you?"
Elsie made it all of five minutes half-answering Hermione's Charms theory questions, along with a hurried introduction to Jeffrey, before she pushed her fingers back up off the table and fled back to the Hufflepuffs.
"She seemed very nervous," Jeffrey commented, spooning a ridiculous amount of marmalade onto his second slice of toast.
"Nervous?" Hermione repeated, rolling up her Charms scroll. "I wonder when a Hufflepuff last sat at the Slytherin table. Elsie O'Connor is the bravest Puff I've ever met."
Jeffrey snorted. "Well, it's not the brave house, is it?" he said snidely.
"Don't be obnoxious about my friend, Jeffrey," Hermione said seriously. It was quite satisfying how quickly his chuckling ceased.
Cynthia approached with all the warmth of a blizzard after the Charms exam.
"Want to review the exam?" she asked stiffly.
Hermione frowned. "Do you want to?" she asked doubtfully; Cynthia still seemed quite unhappy with her.
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't," she replied; and as they discussed Charms theory and the ideal wand movements to use for different Locomotion Charm applications while walking around the Black Lake, the wall between them seemed to break down. It was a friendship grounded in a mutual love for magical study, after all.
"Ah, I wonder if you'll take first this year, Hermione," Cynthia said ruefully as they almost completed the circuit around the lake edge. "I think you covered light refraction models better than I did. I only quickly skimmed the material from first year."
Hermione looked at the lake, feeling dreadfully guilty about the inside knowledge she had been passed about those questions which Cynthia hadn't received. But…if Hermione got second again in Charms, she hated to think what Tom might say.
"I'm sorry I said I'd go to Dippet," Cynthia said suddenly, making Hermione turn back from the glittering water to look at her. She was pouting something fierce, staring at the pebbles on the shore. "You were right – I helped Riddle go after Margaret, too. It wasn't – very loyal of me."
Hermione didn't miss the curious description of Cynthia's behaviour. "Elsie's been talking to you," she guessed. Cynthia nodded, tucking her thin, blonde hair behind her ears.
"She thought you sitting at the Slytherin table was all my fault. I got quite the telling off," she said reproachfully, making Hermione giggle.
"I'll clear that up," Hermione replied. "Look, I really didn't know what Tom was going to do. We were just talking about exams. I swear it."
"I believe you," Cynthia said, though there was a hesitation in her tone, a however about to leave her mouth, Hermione could tell. "But – now you do know. I – hrm." Hermione watched as Cynthia struggled to put something into words; no doubt she was trying to make her unkind instinctual remark into something more diplomatic. "I know it's hard in Slytherin, as a Muggleborn," she began carefully. "Elsie said we don't know what that's like to deal with, and she's right. But –"
There was a rather pregnant pause as Hermione watched Cynthia, who looked rather at pains about what she was going to say. Finally she shrugged, shaking her head and giving up.
"Just be careful with the prefect that stabs people," she finished lamely, and for once Hermione laughed at the rumour about Tom stabbing Hastings, rather than try to quash it.
All the studiousness evaporated from Hogwarts as end of year exams finished. Hermione tried valiantly to get as much practical learning in as she could before the summer break formally began. Once the Trace was tracking her at her home in Croydon, she would have no chance to practice until September.
She was really looking forward to seeing Mama and Papa again – but having to leave magic behind? And to delay mastering third year content by months just because of the Ministry's anti-Muggleborn laws…it made Hermione feel very conflicted about returning home.
Plus, the war. It was easy to forget it in the Scotland highlands. If the muggle papers could be believed (and they often couldn't), the bombing wasn't as bad as it had been – nowhere near as bad as the year before she started at Hogwarts, in any case.
"You haven't heard anything from your brother about how it's going, have you, Mo?" Elsie asked one afternoon, as they walked around the edge of the Forbidden Forest, seeking out the shade from the beating sun.
"They're not allowed to send intel in letters, Elsie," Hermione reminded her absently, aiming her wand at a stone by some jumpy rabbits on the edge of the trees to practice her Lapifors Spell. "Wait – I can't walk and Transfigure, one moment –"
She wrinkled up her nose as she concentrated. The rock transformed, although still rather greyer and stiffer than she would have liked.
"I don't even know if I'll see him this summer," Mo said forlornly. "I'll ask Ma when I get home. She doesn't talk about him much, in letters…"
"I suppose it's hard for her," Cynthia remarked. "Muggle wars sound so much harder on homelife than wizarding wars, without Apparition."
Elsie approached the rabbits carefully. Hermione held her wand in place, controlling her rocky rabbit to stay in place and allow Elsie to pick it up.
"Is it soft?" she asked. Elsie patted its ears gently.
"It's amazing magic, Hermione," she said. "But – still a bit rocky."
Hermione pouted angrily. "I really want to master it before we head home on Saturday," she said tensely. "I'm so annoyed about the Trace. I'll hate not having magic this summer."
"Well, I won't have it either," Cynthia said reasonably. "Not every magic household lets underage children do whatever magic they please. It is illegal."
"We'll all be behind the scrupleless purebloods," Hermione grumbled.
"You've almost finished third year content!" Cynthia said, poking Hermione in the ribs ticklishly. "More like you'll give them a chance to catch up. Particularly ones who might have suddenly forgotten everything they know?"
Hermione ignored her, moving out of the way and aiming her wand at the stone rabbit to transfigure it back and try again.
"Anyway," Cynthia moved on smugly, taking Hermione's silence as a win. "I'll be busy trying to catch up on muggle technology. I don't want to be behind the Muggleborns looking for an easy grade in Muggle Studies next year." As a Half-Blood raised in a magical household, Cynthia had a passable knowledge of muggle history, but hadn't lived in the muggle world.
"First time I'm going to beat Cynthia in a class," Mo said, breezily and unashamed.
"Have you picked your elective subjects yet, Hermione?" Elsie asked, putting the stone back down on the forest floor.
"Er – I haven't had a chance to look yet," Hermione said.
"What do you mean?" Cynthia asked. "I would have thought you'd be excited to pick new subjects."
"I am!" Hermione replied. "I've just been busy. And there hasn't been a good opportunity to sneak into the common room yet."
"I can borrow the information pamphlets and an enrolment form from the Hufflepuff common room if you like?" Elsie offered, her eyebrows pinched together in concern.
"It's ok," Hermione declined, shaking her head. "It has to be a Slytherin enrolment form. Plus, there's two parties going on tonight, so the common room will be empty enough. I can slip in late this evening."
"What? Which house is having a party aside from Gryffindor?" Mo asked, looking between Cynthia and Elsie for answers.
"It's not another house. Professor Slughorn is hosting his end-of-year do," Hermione said.
Mo snorted. "That hardly counts as a party. A bunch of snobby Slytherin boys drinking brandy."
"It's not just Slytherins," Elsie said.
"It is only boys," Cynthia sniffed disapprovingly.
"I guess you're right, though, Mo," Elsie said, giggling. "No one will be hanging upside down from the ceiling in Professor Slughorn's office."
"Exactly – the Gryff party is always better!" Mo exclaimed. "You're both welcome to come, everyone's invited. Hermione, you too, once you finish sneaking into your own common room."
But Hermione left the library after curfew, after being distracted by finishing the last chapter of 'Intermediate Potioneering', and sunk right into the elective subject descriptions in a dark corner of the mostly empty Slytherin common room that evening. The filtered sunlight through the lake outside the windows grew dim and Hermione magically lit the fireplace with a shiny white fire charm she had been practicing. It provided a great reading light as she read all the primers provided on Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Care of Magical Creatures. Students were only allowed to pick two electives, but they each seemed so interesting in different ways – how was she going to choose?
Time had gotten away from her entirely, she realised, as the entrance to the common room opened and what sounded like loud, drunk obnoxious older boys returned.
"- I'll take her off your hands," one of them slurred loudly as the others laughed uproariously. "Bet you haven't found the clit yet."
Hermione froze where she sat, aside from a dispassionate sneer crawling across her face. Teenage boys could be so disgusting sometimes.
"What a claim to make," Tom replied, and hearing his voice, Hermione swivelled around and stood up without thinking. "I, unlike you, actually sleep with girls Avery. But please – do try to convince Shirley of the power of your virgin fingers, it would be a great foray into comedy."
Ouch, Hermione thought, wincing as Malfoy and an older student she thought was called Lestrange burst into mean laughter. Tom looked past Malfoy, who was doubled over in howling laughter (really, it wasn't that funny; he must have been drunk), in her direction, and – greeted her. Happily and loudly.
Tom was never happy or loud. They must all be completely to the wind.
"Hermione!" Tom yelled, walking over and grinning. Something in her brain short-circuited. It was – it was a Tom she hadn't seen before. He was both formal, in his summer suit; and a mess, undone collar and sleeves, alcohol blush and wide smile.
Tom strode up to her, far too close, like he was wont to do sometimes, and any further thought left her head on the scent of whiskey and cologne and boy.
He said something and she missed it entirely, her mouth on autopilot as she watched his mouth twist, the small crinkles around his eyes as he focused his glassy gaze.
"N-no," Hermione said, guessing from his facial expression that might be the right response. What was wrong with her? She looked away, staring at the floor and willing her brain to turn back on, cursing it like a faulty muggle gas hob that flickered uselessly instead of steadily functioning. "Uh – wait, what?"
"The common room?" Tom said. "You're not often here."
"Oh," she said. That did make sense. Hermione wasn't sure if she'd ever seen Tom in the common room before. They were very much library acquaintances.
"Yes," she said, trying to think of something more verbose to say. "Well, it's not a very – welcoming…"
The thought about the older Nott hexing her out of the common room recently was lost in a barrage of scents. Wood tones and burning and something sweet curling on the roof of her mouth. Hermione blinked hard, trying to get her mind to focus again as she tucked her hair behind her ears.
"You should," Tom said decisively. "You're a Slytherin. This is your common room."
Not this again. If earlier this year she had wished Tom would keep saying these sorts of things to her, Hermione suddenly wanted him to never say anything like it again. It was making her ears ring and her face burn.
But there was no way to say that politely, so she just silently prayed for it instead. "Um, y-yes, I know Tom," she choked out, looking down and trying to take a steady breath to get her bearings. Why was she so taken aback? This was really embarrassing. "I – ah – I was just – deciding which third year electives –"
"Oh yes," Tom said, interrupting her feeble attempts at discourse by taking the booklet she had been reading from her. "And – no, you're not doing Arithmancy."
Hermione looked up, alarmed. But – suddenly she realised, though she had a top three list of elective subjects, Arithmancy was the one she wanted to take the most. Funny, how realisations like that sometimes only hit when faced with a stark choice. Or no choice at all, the way Tom framed it. "O-oh," she stammered. "I thought –"
Tom's hand was on her shoulder, and her brain turned to static noise again, like an untuned radio searching for broadcast waves. God knows what would come out of her mouth if she tried to speak, so Hermione just focused on being quiet and trying not to self-combust as Tom pushed her to sit down and shoved two booklets into her hands. Ancient Runes and – Divination?
"I – but – I thought – don't you need the Sight, to be any good at Divination?" she asked, fluency in the English language returning to her with her specific question. Tom sighed next to her; she peeked up at him nervously.
"Divination is…" Tom said, and then – started hissing.
Hermione blinked hard. And again. She must be hearing wrong. Was she going mad? That would certainly explain what on earth was going on over the past five minutes, that this was all in her head and she was having some sort of episode.
The hissing finally stopped, and Tom looked at her expectantly.
"Sorry, what?" she asked. "I think I missed that."
"Di-vi-na-tion," Tom enunciated clearly, looking annoyed. He did hate to repeat himself, but – she was certain, he had just been hissing at her instead of actually saying anything. "And Runes."
Ah. He meant these were the two subjects she should take. Divination, really? Hermione looked at the booklet for it and frowned. Whenever it had come up in her reading for History of Magic, it was always someone like "Yulia of the Great Sight" or "Bati the Ancient Eye" doing Divination with any real meaning. No great diviner was ever called anything like "Hermione the Studious". This was a particular form of magic where an innate specific talent was a pre-requisite; general magic capability would not do. And Hermione had never had any sudden insights into the future, or strange dreams that came true, so she doubted she had the ability for it.
She was not keen at all on taking a subject she was not confident she could get a top grade in. Arithmancy, on the other hand. One time Margaret and Hazel slowly counted out the coins in their purse one by one to settle a Butterbeer bill at the Three Broomsticks, while Cynthia tapped her feet impatiently and muttered about "purebloods without a lick of basic math". Mama had always been strict with Hermione about studying for each subject, mathematics most of all. Last summer was filled with intensive lessons Mama prepared personally based on the local prep school math textbook ("I don't care if you're magic or muggle, a grounding in arithmetic is essential!"). So it seemed like a magical subject that Hermione might, for once, have a starting upper hand in.
"But Arith-"
"Christ almighty, Hermione," Tom said, putting his fingers to his eyes as though he had a headache. He stared up at the stone ceiling of the common room, clearly irritated.
This would normally have been a great cause for concern – Hermione hated annoying Tom. But the flames from her fire spell flickered light across his exposed throat, and somehow that was all she could think about for a moment.
He was pretty, Hermione knew. She had recognised that when they'd first met. She should really pull herself together. Tom's appearance wasn't anything within his control. It was rude to be distracted from the conversation by it.
"– mathematics in the weekend if you're that keen on it," she caught, after blinking and trying to concentrate on what he was saying. "It's not hard."
Tom turned to face her again and – oh, he was mad. He didn't want her to take Arithmancy.
"Ok," she said, nodding firmly. The words were out of her mouth before she could think it through properly – she just didn't want him to be unhappy with her, anything but that – "I'll do Runes and Div."
They were the magic words, the right thing to say; he immediately broke out into a smile that made her breath die in her throat. All perfect teeth – Papa would have had no complaint had he taken a look in Tom's mouth.
So he could smile well, she realised. Of course. Tom could do anything well if he wanted to.
"Good," he said, and then with a look of concentration, he stood up and headed to the dorms. Hermione waited until he left and then hit her face with both hands.
"Pull yourself together!" she whispered to herself. Divination, really? That was at least three years of magical study in a subject she was sure she wouldn't be that good at. What a pain it would be to prepare for over the summer, especially if the bombing continued. One could hardly meditate on the vibrations of the universe when the vibrations of a German air assault were raining down overhead in a much more direct and life-threatening manner.
But she had promised. If Tom thought it important to study Divination, it must be. He was almost always right. Hermione sighed and pulled out a quill, scratching her choices onto the enrolment form and signing it. At least one of the subjects he said she should study was one she wanted to take. Runes looked fascinating – she was excited to learn how ancient British wizards had studied and discussed magic.
It must be past bedtime, if drunk fifth year boys were heading back from Professor Slughorn's party. Hermione grabbed her bag and headed for the dorms, too. She couldn't wait to get to the library tomorrow – now that her electives were decided, her pre-reading list before getting on the Hogwarts Express in a few days had only gotten longer. Tomorrow would be a day of speed-reading introductory Div and Runes books alongside finalising that damned rabbit Transfiguration spell. If she didn't have a persistent reading headache by the time she got on the train that weekend, she wouldn't have made the absolute most she could of the library before she was back to muggle London for three months.
And that simply would not do, when there was fundamental magic to learn as fast as she could. Tom's offer to tutor her was a shiny key to magical power she wanted to unlock as fast as possible.
Author's note: MORE TWELVE YEAR OLD OCS, I'm sorry, in the early years there's a lot of world building and two firmly different circles that Tom and Hermione move in.
Tom's lil freckle under his left eye is an idea lovingly stolen from Hana, the premiere manga tomione content creator. If you like manga tomione check out her lovely art at twittter himenochou.