Author's Note:
I just realized that the thought of Hermione going back to the Tom Riddle era isn't exactly original. I mean, it was my idea, I didn't copy it off anyone... Still, I think the twist I put in is just my own. I know how the ending will go.
Anyway, here is Chapter II.
2
Solving a Riddle
Hermione found herself in what seemed to be a study, with dark wood bookcases lining the walls and some leather armchairs sitting near them. A beautiful, lacquered desk and a matching chair stood just below the window, covered in notes and drawing. Resisting the need to look at them, Hermione wondered whose house this was – probably Dumbledore's, she assumed. But why would she want her to come back to speak to his young self?
She heard voices coming from the laboratory, the only room that had still been furnished when Ron, Harry, and she had moved in. The first to speak was a man's voice, sweet and reassuring, a voice she found herself liking very much.
"Anton," it said, that name ringing a dusty bell somewhere in the recesses of her memory, "I think this bit of our research is pointless, we'll have to invent one."
"I'm sorry, Tom, but you know I'm not very good at potion brewing, you'll have to do it yourself."
Hermione did not listen to the rest of the conversation as she put together what she had just heard. This is Voldermort's apartment. She couldn't get the thought out of her head, though it might not necessarily be so. There were other Toms. Other Toms 47 years ago that were doing research and might be very important? Then it was replaced by, Why did Dumbledore think I should come here? She worked out the math in her head. World War II was over, Grindelwald was defeated, Voldermort – no, Tom Riddle still – was just out of Hogwarts, after about five years. He was working at Borgin and Burkes, and would for... She wasn't sure how much more.
Hold on, Dumbledore had said it was after the murder of a lady named Hepzibah Smith. That was in 1954, a bit more than 43 years ago – no, four years from now.
Now she had that straightened out, Hermione started thinking up a cover, thinking despite the fear that trickled down like cold water from the top of her head. This was what she was good at, thinking. Thinking and remembering, not action, not fights. She had never been good at those.
This was the part she would play in the war, and she had to play it well.
Tiptoeing towards the door of the apartment, she hoped fervently she would not be heard. Her hand brushed against an empty potion bottle, which fell to the floor with a thundering crash and the tinkle of glass. The young witch thought Reparo with fervor as she whipped out and waved her wand, sending the pieces of the bottle back together, before it floated back to the table with another motion.
Anton shouted, only the smallest soupçon of anger in his voice, "Rodolphus!"
"He's away at work, you ought to know that," responded Riddle (if it was Riddle), his wonderful voice slightly annoyed. "I'll go see who this is." He Apparated behind Hermione with a loud pop and put his cold hand on her shoulder.
"Who are you?"
She turned around and found herself looking into black eyes and an incredibly handsome face, thin, with a straight nose and perfectly carved mouth, a face set off by the longish black hair that framed his face in straight locks. This is Tom Riddle?
"I'm sorry, I- I mis-apparated, I meant to be outside your door, I'll be going then," she stuttered fast, looking into those eyes and finding it very difficult to lie. Her mind concentrated solely on that thought, on that false mistake.
His eyes narrowed in suspicion as he took his hand off her shoulder, and for a second she dreaded that he knew she lied. "I didn't hear you Apparate," he stated, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.
"It- It was drowned out in the crash of the bottle. I repaired it." She thought of the bottle crashing and being repaired, saw it furiously in her mind.
"Why did you want to see me?"
"My cousin, Hepzibah Smith, she told me about you, the young cultured wizard who admired her collection, who was doing research into new potions and spells, who worked at Borkin and Burges. I mean..."
"I know what you mean."
Hermione, flustered, continued under the cover story she had come up with, certain now he knew she lied, concentrating as best she could on the story, trying to empty her mind of emotion. Had it not been too risky, she would have thanked Harry for the Occlumency lessons he had given her.
"So, since I'm a potion maker, I thought I would offer to work for you, if you're still doing research, because I am fascinated by researching new potions, it's a hobby of mine, I'm currently working on a potion to let the maker enter the dreams of the drinker, but she said you were such a bright, nice young man, and I would do well to speak with you about it." All this was said really fast, as Hermione wove the truth of her research into her lie in order to make it more believable.
"What an extraordinary coincidence!" he exclaimed, every inch the gentlemen. "My partner and I were currently despairing over our lack of potion-making capacity. Let me introduce you to him. Anton!"
Anton entered, and Hermione shivered. She remembered that calm, impassive face twisted in anger, and the agonizing pain of that line of purple flame. I'm being introduced to a man who almost killed me – will almost kill me... She quickly took her thoughts away from him.
"I never saw you at Hogwarts, Miss..."
"Jeanne Grangère, à votre service. I'm from Beauxbatons. My English relatives call me Jane Granger." Thankfully for the "French" witch, her accent was nigh flawless, as she had studied the language in her free time. "Of course, you work at Borgin and Burkes, don't you, so I suppose you might be interested in a magic less... mainstream than that taught at those schools," she said conversationally, her voice trailing off.
Tom Riddle smiled, not the smile Harry had described as bestial, but a kind sort of smile which did not reach his eyes. "You have nerve, Jeanne," he said, speaking her middle name (not that he knew that) as a Frenchman would, "we might get along. But you lied to me. Your cousin is not Hepzibah Smith."
Hermione smiled. "No, you're right, she is not. But I don't know very much about you either. I'll work with you, but I don't think I have to tell you everything about me. Not yet." Now she felt really scared. This is Voldermort! What am I doing, what am I doing?
Anton looked at her suspiciously, and while Tom's nonchalant attitude did not falter, she was certain both were examining her. It was Tom who spoke.
"A researcher would be useful, I'll admit. Of course you understand if we would like you not to ... wander while we get acquainted?"
Hermione smiled. House arrest would have been inconvenient had her spying (for this was Tom Riddle, and that meant she was here to do what had been her project all along – discover the location of the Horcruxes) had she been intending to pass it on to people in this time, which she wasn't.
"I'm staying at the Leaky Cauldron," she informed him, one eyebrow raised. "Would that not defeat the purpose?"
Anton's lip twitched with disgust, the first emotion she had seen on his face, and he stormed out of the hall.
"This is a big apartment," Tom Riddle responded with a shrug. "Rodolphus is a man of means. There is a parlor which we haven't used in three years. You can make it into a bedroom."
She nodded and thanked him, following him to where she guessed the parlor to be – a small room off the main living room, with magnificent parquet and plaster molding. She had passed the first test.
A/N:Thank you to both my reviewers, and as you requested, I updated soon.
I would like a beta, if anyone can do it.
Also, there are four people with this story on Story Alert! (does a little dance)
So, thanks everyone who read the first chapter of this story.
I assumed Tom Riddle was not as good a Legilimens as Voldemort later became, which explains here getting away with the lie.
Next chapter: TR and Bellatrix POVs.