A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews, favorites and follows after last chapter! And huge thank you to lanamarymack and Angela 007 for alpha/beta reading this :) Please let me know what you thought of this one.

Summer, 1952

Tapping his fingertips against the glass counter, Tom Riddle Jr. sighed for the fifth time since starting his shift at Borgin and Burke's, trying to remind himself that his plans would all be worth it in the end. He was well regarded as an ambitious wizard — even applying for Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts when he'd graduated from Hogwarts several years before. He had been denied the post (and he suspected that was Dumbledore's doing) which would have made him the youngest Professor the school had ever seen in its extensive history.

He knew that selecting his current employment at the odd little curio shop was considered strange by many. Even if he had been snubbed by Hogwarts, he was expected to go work somewhere noble, like the Ministry of Magic, as Abraxas suggested. In fact, his blond friend hadn't stopped suggesting it since the day they graduated, thinking that it would be a better stepping stone towards their ultimate shared goals.

Tom was sure that the Ministry would have liked to snap him up — his test scores were rather impressive — but he would simply not be constrained to working somewhere where he was expected to conform to their rather narrow way of thinking. No, he much preferred the sort of freedom that Borgin and Burkes gave him.

The shop was well known for its collection of dark and unusual artefacts and Tom was rather good at convincing people to part with their more interesting objects. If there was one thing that he knew how to do, it was charm people into doing just what he wanted. After all, he'd had years of practice.

Not only that, but there were long periods of downtime at the Knockturn Alley shop, giving Tom plenty of time to continue his studies into the Dark Arts. Not to mention, he was able to help himself to any of the objects in the shop to examine so long as he left the owners in the dark. And, since coming on after graduation, Mr. Borgin and Mr. Burke seemed more than happy to leave him to his own devices if it meant that they didn't have to do any work.

And that was how he liked it, of course. He would hate to have some wizard who thought they were better than him simply because they employed him breathing down his neck all day, trying to tell him what to do. No, as long as Tom continued to bring in money - a feat that the two older men put down to his looks - they were happy to stay away from the shop.

So, he would bide his time by working at the little shop, even if he knew people looked down on him for it. He was only doing it to gain knowledge and the occasional useful artefact. One day, once he'd learned all that he could, he would move on. That wasn't to say that he loved every minute working at the shop. It could be somewhat demeaning to have to cater to the wealthy witch or wizard who couldn't see him for what he was. But mostly, he was plagued by stretches of boredom, like on this afternoon, when there was nothing of interest that caught his eye lately.

So he would stand behind the counter, drumming his fingers, and wait.

The bell above the door chimed, announcing the arrival of a new customer. Tom straightened himself and glanced at the mirrored wall behind him to ascertain that his hair was still perfectly coiffed. Only then did he turn his attention to the person who'd walked into the shop.

He was surprised to see that it was a young witch, as they were not the usual clientele of Borgin and Burke's. If he had to estimate, he would guess that she was only a bit younger than he was, though he did not recognize her from Hogwarts. Perhaps she was foreign?

Tilting his head slightly to one side, he drank in the sight of her as she slowly walked around the shop, her delicate fingertips caressing the edges of shelves as she made her way to their collection of poisons. Her high-heeled shoes clicked against the wooden floor, the sound dampened by the still air in the shop. She wore a cranberry-coloured cloak and a matching witch's hat pinned on top of her head. Her hair, which appeared brown and vaguely wavy, was done up in a twist, not a hair out of place.

She stood in front of the poisons and brought her hands up to her neck, where she unclasped the cloak. Pulling it off, she held it over one arm. He didn't blame her. The shop was always quite warm this time of year. He watched as she reached out towards the shelf, those long fingers picking up one glass vial of blue poison. She unstoppered it and sniffed at it as though it was a new perfume.

Intrigued, Tom stepped out from behind the counter and made his way over to the mystery witch. With her cloak removed, he could see the delicate curve of her neck before it disappeared into a white blouse made of crepe silk.

Clearing his throat, he startled her out of her own little world. "Careful Miss," he warned. "Some of those can be quite fatal even if they are merely inhaled."

She restoppered the vial and spun around on her heels, finally coming to face him. "It's only Hellebore Syrup, hardly the most dangerous poison among your impressive collection," she said with a smirk. Her brown eyes were filled with mirth and he found he liked the look of her. "I quite like the smell of it. It makes me think of the Draught of Peace."

"A tricky potion in its own right," he said, feeling unexpectedly impressed with the witch. She had a pretty face, with rosy cheeks and perfect pink lips. Her nose had a handful of freckles, suggesting that she must spend a lot of time in the sun, but it did nothing to detract from her beauty. But mostly, he liked the challenging way that she raised her chin at him. She was used to being underestimated — he recognized the look. "Do you intend to brew it on your own?"

"Oh, no," she said, with a shake of her head. "I don't partake if I can help it. And I would never be so desperate as to brew it myself, though I don't think I'd find trouble with the brew."

She was confident in her abilities, something that he appreciated. "I am sure that you are more than capable, Miss—?" he flattered, waiting for her name.

Her lips pursed together, before parting to reveal straight, white teeth. "You may call me Hermione," she said, before turning and placing the vial back onto the shelf. "And you are?" she asked, facing him once more.

"Tom," he said with a winning smile of his own. "Tom Riddle. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Oh? I thought you might be Borgin or Burke," she said, before taking a step away from the poisons, her eyes trailing over the curiosities that she found here and there.

He laughed. "Ah, no," he said, following one step behind her. His eyes trailed down her body. Now, without her cloak, he could see that she wore a long, grey skirt that clung to her backside enticingly. Was she dressed to ensnare, he wondered? Or did she have no idea how she affected others? "I'm much more handsome than either of them."

She turned the corner and pressed her hands to the top of a low cabinet, its glass top revealing an assortment of bones inside. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips, as though she didn't want to admit that she found him amusing. "I'm sure you are," she said, before her attention was captured by the cabinet's contents. "Are these real doxy bones?"

Once again, he found himself impressed with the witch — Hermione. Most people wouldn't have been able to identify the magical creature simply from their bones alone. "Yes, we keep a small collection for those who keep the old ways," he said smoothly.

She nodded. "For Imbolc," she said knowingly. Twin pearls shone in her ears, the pale pink just a shade lighter than the colour of her skin.

"Do you keep the old ways?" he found himself asking, wanting to know everything that he could about her.

"No," Hermione answered, continuing down the opposite aisle from him, fingers gliding along the glass, unbothered by the dust that she disrupted. "But I am absolutely fascinated by them. Each ritual is so unique and... well, there aren't many people left who practice them."

"Is there anything that I could help you find?" he asked, wondering what this unusual creature was doing in his shop. "I know this place like the back of my hand."

"I'm just browsing," she answered breezily. "And if you are busy, you certainly don't have to keep me company. I promise that I'm not going to steal anything."

He felt his face flush, wondering if she was put off by his following her. He didn't want her to think that he didn't trust her, because that wasn't it at all. No, it was rather that he was somewhat drawn to her and it wasn't just because she was the most interesting person to walk into the shop all week.

Before he could excuse himself, she was gasping in delight. "Is this a real Glasir's wreath?" she asked, picking up a delicate circle of twigs, covered in pale green moss and leaves.

Her question caught him completely by surprise as she was the only one to have ever correctly identified the arcane object. "Yes," he said, impressed with the level of knowledge that she undoubtedly had. In fact, he was vaguely worried that she might even know more than he did. "I'm surprised that you spotted it. Most people think it's just a Beltane crown." Even the shop owners had no idea what a rare object they had on their hands.

She snorted. "Then most people are fools," she said, giving him a secret smile. "But then I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. Many times, I find that people have no idea what is hiding right beneath their noses. Has it ever flowered before?"

"Not that I've noticed," he answered, wishing that he could give her a higher degree of certainty. "As you can see I have a lot of things to look after. May I ask how you came to know about such an artefact?"

Hermione set the delicate wreath back down. "I suppose that you could say I have an interest in the origins of magic," she said. "For a long time, I've studied ancient magics, eager to learn whatever I can find."

He wanted to say something, anything to let this enchanting creature to let her know that he was a kindred spirit. It wasn't often that he found someone who had an interest in old magic, let alone someone of an age with him. Even his Slytherin roommates who did keep the old ways hadn't been interested as he was, just completing the ritual because it was the way that their families always had.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a thin, cream-coloured card and handed it over to him. "Well, this has been an illuminating afternoon, Mr. Riddle," she said, biting her lower lip while he took the offered visiting card. "I'm almost disappointed that I didn't find something illegal. You have a very extensive collection."

Illegal? He was confused but remained a bit dumbfounded while he watched her walk to the exit, slipping out the door in a swirl of cranberry.

Looking down at the visiting card, the text matched the colour of her cloak. "Hermione Granger, Ministry of Magic," he said under his breath. "Improper Use of Magic Office." He turned the card over in his hand, almost wishing that there was some other instruction on how to contact her, but to his dismay, he found no floo address.

Frowning, he couldn't even find it in himself to be annoyed. That was easily the most enjoyable Ministry raid that he'd ever experienced. Still, he was glad that he hadn't decided to show off and show her the truly terrible things that they had in the back, as he was sure that his employers would not be impressed at having anything confiscated. Stroking his chin, he wondered who would have reported them and what they would have said they had. Of course, it was no secret that Borgin and Burkes had forbidden and illegal objects, but they usually did not catch the ire of the Ministry of Magic, typically allowed to operate if they didn't cause trouble.

He wasn't likely to get the answer to those musings, but he was certain of one thing. He was unlikely to forget Hermione Granger any time soon.