Chapter 5: Meeting Cute, Again

23 December

Hermione quickly turned towards the fireplace and scooted her bean bag as far away from the counter as possible. The last thing she wanted was for Riddle to notice her. She strained her ears to hear his deep baritone at the register.

"One black coffee, please." His normally smooth voice was rather rough, as if he'd just woken up… or hadn't slept at all. What did that mean? Was he sleeping in because he already had a handle on the case, or was he working overtime to find a way to take control? Hermione wondered if his shirt would be wrinkled and worn from a long night working, or perfectly pressed and annoyingly wrinkle-free as usual. She looked down at her own day-old clothes in dismay, realizing that she hadn't changed before leaving the flat.

Oh shut up, Hermione. Who cares what you look like, you're trying to avoid him.

She wondered if she could sneak off to the bathroom until he left. If he was still waiting for his drink, then he wouldn't be facing her direction, and he wouldn't notice if-

"Granger? Is that you?"

Shit.

Hermione slowly turned around to find herself looking up into the stormy grey eyes of Tom Riddle. He did look tired, with slight bags forming beneath his eyes and his normally impeccably styled hair tousled out of place. It reminded her of Harry's messy locks after he combed his fingers carelessly through it. She thought about how neither of them were really ever able to get to know their parents, either.

Realizing she still hadn't answered, she cleared her throat and replied, "Oh hello, Riddle! I didn't see you come in!" Immediately she wanted to melt away. He smirked and sat himself down on an empty pouf next to her.

"You look tired. Preparing for your inevitable loss?"

"I could say the same of you. I didn't realize vampires needed sleep," Hermione shot back.

"Hmm, I didn't realize Bird's Nest was the newest trend in hair styles." He eyed her frizzy tangles with amusement.

"Oh haha very funny," Hermione consciously tried to pat her hair down, though it refused to behave. "Maybe they wouldn't have to nest in my hair if they had a natural habitat to live in, like a certain park."

"Give it up, Granger. The hearing is tomorrow, and we both know what will happen." He hesitated slightly, then added, "But I do commend you on your efforts."

Hermione was taken aback slightly. No double meanings, no back-handed compliment, no vitriol. He had sounded… sincere. "I- Thank you. I really do believe in what I'm fighting for."

"I know," he said quietly. An awkward silence fell as they both took to staring into the fire. She wondered what he was thinking. Was it about the Gaunts? The court casel? He was much less intense than normal, and their interaction hadn't pissed her off yet, which was a first.

"Er, well. I should probably get going. I'll see you tomorrow," Hermione broke the silence. She wasn't used to this side of Riddle, and the cold outside would be a relief from the suffocatingly warm atmosphere next to him. Thoughts of the Gaunt murders kept swirling around in her mind, and he was perceptive enough to pick up on her discomfort. She tried to stand up, but struggled for a moment getting out of the large beanbag. She felt her face flush. Hermione opened her mouth to say something else, when she was interrupted by the sing-songy voice of Madame Trelawney.

"May I get everyone's attention please!" she called from the center of the cafe. She was standing on top of a chair. "I am afraid that the storm outside has gotten too strong to leave. But do not fear! I foresaw these circumstances and made sure to have extra stock on hand. Please do not worry, I sense this shall soon pass."

A collective groan rose around the space. A few people started complaining about places they needed to be and about Trelawney holding her customers captive for more profit. One man crossed to the door and tried to open it, pushing with his shoulder. The door opened only a few inches, and the violent flurries of snow that rushed in through the opening confirmed the truth of Trelawney's statement. He quickly closed it.

Hermione froze, unable to believe her luck. She turned back towards Riddle and plopped down into the beanbag again.

"Fancy seeing you again so soon," Riddle said, amusement curling his lip.

Hermione harrumphed. "I can't believe this. It was barely snowing when I got here." She looked over at Riddle and bit her lip before looking away. How was she supposed to sit with him for who knows how long after just discovering his tragic past? Knowing him, he would not appreciate her thorough research.

She cleared her throat. "Did you happen to get anything… interesting in the mail today?" She looked over in time to see him scowl, though his eyes were tinged with… was that humor?

"Interesting is an apt word for it. Yes, I received your shoes, though I'm not sure they can justifiably be called that." He was definitely enjoying this.

"Oh please," Hermioen rolled her eyes, "even you have to admit that they're stylish. They look just like your old ones, but without the stench of cruelty. And they'll last just as long."

"Are you their newest spokesperson? Yes, fine, they are… adequate." Riddle sniffed and pompously put his nose in the air, with a little too much exaggeration to be real.

"High praise," Hermione said dryly, taking a sip of her latte.

There were a few moments of silence, both of them staring into the roaring fire. Hermione watched the tongues of flame as they danced gracefully around each other. It was mesmerizing. Riddle's voice tore her out of her stupor.

"It's the first real gift I've received in a very long time." It was said so softly, she thought she might have imagined it. She looked at him quizzically, tilting her head slightly to the side and raising one eyebrow. Was he about to talk about his childhood?

"No Christmas, birthdays, Valentines…?" she trailed off, waiting for him to respond.

"Oh sure, I get plenty of useless junk from the grovelling junior kiss-ups at Borgin and Burkes, and occasionally my friends might actually care enough to have their assistants send an impersonal present." He snorted softly, and drew his eyes from the fire to meet her gaze. "But they all want something in return, be it a promotion, a favor, more power, or whatever else they think a box of chocolates or cuff links can buy."

Hermione saw the bitterness in his eyes grow as he continued talking. She had never thought about what being a powerful executive at a high-profile, elitist company truly meant for one's personal life. It must be lonely, she thought, seeing power plays and manipulation in something so innocent as a Christmas gift.

"What was the last real gift you received, then?" Hermione asked, not knowing really how to respond.

"When I was a little boy," he started, eyes softening, "my mother got me a snake for my birthday. She had found it in the garden, and knew that I liked them. My father wasn't too happy, but it was the one time she really stood up to him about something, and I was allowed to keep it."

There was a lot to unravel in those few sentences. When he was a little boy? That must have been at least twenty-five, maybe thirty years ago. Was his family really that poor? Did he not make any friends at school? Did he have any friends now? And from the way he phrased it, it sounded like his family dynamics weren't the best, either.

Before she could answer, though, he said, "But I suppose the next gift I get will be my victory at the hearing tomorrow." He had shifted back into his hard shell, hiding all the signs of vulnerability and softness she had just started to see.

She played along, intending to circle back around somehow later. "Mm, you might have another couple of decades to go before you get another present, then. I'm not in much of a giving mood, especially after realizing those shoes are wasted on you."

"Not entirely wasted," he paused before adding, "I'm sure they'd make great kindling for my fire." He smirked as he took a sip from his cup, though his eyes were laughing as he took in her indignant expression.

"Oh go right ahead, burn the only real gift you've received since you were a child."

Hermione hesitated, then took her chance to ask more about her earlier questions. "Why didn't your family give you any gifts?"

He stared sharply at her. "That is none of your business, Granger."

She flushed, but stayed her course. "If you don't feel comfortable talking about it, just tell me so. But we have who knows how long before this storm clears up, and until then we can either get to know each other a little better, or sit in silence. If you're going to be unpleasant, I'd rather have the latter."

Riddle considered this for a moment. "I don't like discussing my family, and I'd prefer to talk about other things."

Hermione nodded, a little disappointed, but more relieved that he was not going to flat out ignore her.

"Well then…" she trailed, before her lips quirked up in a half smile, and her eyes lit up. "Come here very often?"

He snorted. "You are a terrible conversationalist. But generally speaking, I only come here occasionally, after long nights at the office."

"You pull all-nighters that often?"

He shrugged. "I naturally don't need much sleep, and I like it when the building is completely empty. The peace and quiet is a nice change."

Hermione nodded in agreement. What she wouldn't give for more of that.

Gods, how had this situation come about? Hermione actually found herself enjoying this conversation with Tom Riddle of all people. Sure, he was still a bastard, but a funny, witty, smart bastard. She found herself wondering whether they might be friends if circumstances were different.

"I suppose you have some disgustingly bland plans for Christmas with your little group of friends? Let me guess, decorating the tree, having a turkey dinner, exchanging gifts, and getting cornered under the mistletoe by the one you weren't on a date with?"

That was a little too accurate, unfortunately.

"I suppose you have utterly depressing plans to spend Christmas alone in your giant, cold house, refusing to show festive spirit of any kind, getting drunk and pretending you don't care."

He raised an eyebrow. "You say that as if it were a bad way to spend Christmas. Who needs all the tiresome festivities, repetitive singing, and insufferable traditions? Why entertain guests with whom I share no personal interests, waste time and money on Christmas gifts, and falsely exclaim my gratitude and praise for their impersonal gifts to me?" His voice was filled with bitterness and dripping with cynicism, but there was an underlying current. Some part of him that just sounded tired.

"Have you always felt this way about Christmas?" Hermione asked softly, hoping this soft and ambiguous inquiry would circle back to his childhood.

Riddle looked at her sharply, then sighed and sat back in his chair. "No, I suppose there were a few good Christmases, but they are distant memories now."

"Tell me about them," Hermione prodded. She might as well push until he told her to back off. It seemed that he had realized what she was doing, and while he didn't seem too inclined to answer, he hadn't yet changed the subject.

"Why are you so interested?" He eyed her suspiciously.

She shrugged. "Christmas has always been a happy time of year for me. My gran made the best cranberry sauce in the world, and my mum would help me put the star on the tree. My whole family gathered at my house, and after dinner we'd sit together, drink hot cocoa, and open presents." Hermione stared into the fire, feeling a little ball of sadness swell in her throat.

"If it was always so happy, why do you look so sad thinking about it?" Riddle inquired. His voice was surprisingly gentle.

She met his gaze. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, the raging storm outside, or the disarmingly genuine expression on Riddle's face, but Hermione found she didn't mind sharing. "My gran passed away when I was in university, and my parents were in a car crash two years ago. They didn't survive." She sighed deeply, feeling the pain and sadness wash over her again. "Christmas isn't quite the same without them."

Riddle stared at her for a moment, then turned toward the fire himself without saying a word. Hermione could have kicked herself when she felt a tinge of disappointment. What was she expecting, sympathy? They weren't even friends. Far from it, they were still on opposing sides. She took another sip of her latte to fill the silence. She was about to start talking again about something else when Riddle began to speak.

"My family was dirt poor. We could barely afford to have anything special for the holidays. If we were lucky, my father brought home the unwanted turkey bits from the butcher. It was very hard on my mother. She had grown up wealthy, and to be in such a destitute state broke her." He hadn't looked at her again, just stared into the fire. His words were quiet and held a note of bitterness.

Hermione could barely breathe. She didn't want to say anything that might make him reconsider telling her anything. Instead, she remained quiet.

"I suppose I had a single happy Christmas with them, one of the first I remember. Before my father lost his job. It was still very modest, but we had a small tree and turkey. My mother made cookies, and I got a whole bar of chocolate to myself. The last good Christmas I had… I was a teenager. It's complicated, but I was able to experience at least one regular holiday before…" he trailed off.

She waited for him to continue, but he didn't. "Before…?" she prodded.

He sighed. "Before circumstances changed." His demeanor shifted. His tone became more guarded, brisk. "It doesn't matter now anyway."

"What do you mean it doesn't matter? How did your circumstances change so much?" Hermione did not want to let this go so easily.

"It sounds like you should know about how things can change in an instant, without warning. It isn't always a car crash."

"So then how did the Gaunts die?" The second she said the name, Hermione cursed herself. How could she be so stupid? The lack of sleep must be affecting her more than she realized. Damn it.

Riddle tensed. "How do you know that name?"

"I-" Hermione floundered, looking for an explanation, anything that could possibly explain it without seeming like a stalker. Coming up with nothing, she opted for the truth. "I found an old interview you gave when you were still at Hogwarts. You mentioned growing up in Little Hangleton and finding your birth family who lived in the only mansion in that town. My friend, Harry, is a police officer. He was there that night as a trainee. He had previously told us about the Gaunts' case, so I recognized the town name. I put two and two together."

While she was talking, his gaze grew colder and colder. She knew she was babbling a bit, but she couldn't stop herself. She had always been like this. Whenever she knew that she had done something questionable, she would ramble on and on about it, hoping to somehow justify it.

"I really didn't mean to pry, but I was just interested in your background and I happened to stumble upon it, and I didn't mean any harm. Of course, I understand if you don't want to talk about it."

Riddle glared daggers at her. "And all this pleasant conversation about past Christmases and gifts, sending me the shoes. What was that, pity?"

"No!" Hermione started, but was cut off.

"I don't need anyone's pity, Granger," his voice was low and colder than ice, "least of all from an overeager, self-righteous woman who is fighting for something no one else cares about. You're wasting away with your nonprofits and probably swimming in debt, when you could be actually achieving something. Go look in a mirror if you want someone to pity."

Hermione felt her own anger bubble to the surface. How dare he? "No, you may think it's a waste, but I'm happy to fight for the environment and for those who have no voice. I would think that someone from your background might actually have some sympathy for others in similar situations. Instead, you just turned in a cold, unfeeling bastard with no capacity for altruism."

Tom Riddle's eyebrows had slowly started migrating up his forehead as she continued, "And at the end of my life, at least I'll be able to look back and think that I helped others have better, happier lives. That my life had meaning. What will you be able to say? That you made as much money and as many enemies as possible? What good is a bank full of money with no friends or family? Mock me for being poor, or zealous, but not for helping others. In a way, I do pity you." Hermione stopped, cheeks red from emotion. Just as she thought he might be a decent human being, he managed to pull everything back to the start.

They stared at each other, the silence painfully obvious amidst the myriad conversations around them, the crackling fire, and the soft thuds of cups against tables. Finally, Riddle said, "You do really believe in spew and your little park, don't you?"

Hermione glared, but was generally happy the subject was changing a bit. It wasn't an apology, but she suspected it was the closest she would get. "It's S.P.E.W, and yes," she said simply, "I do."

Tom Riddle sat back and sipped his drink, his brows slightly creased. "You're going to lose, you know," he stated. There was no mockery now. In fact, there was something akin to sympathy in his tone.

The curls on Hermione's head shifted as she tilted it, her sharp gaze piercing the man sitting across from her. "Why?"

"Borgin and Burke's has this city in the palm of its hand, Granger. It may not control the courts, but it controls practically everything else. This war that you're waging is but a squirmish to us, and it was over before it even really started." His voice was weary, tired. He didn't sound happy about it.

Instead of being discouraged, Hermione straightened her posture and lifted her head. "I suppose we'll find out tomorrow."

"How can you possibly want to continue fighting a losing battle?" Riddle seemed genuinely confused.

"Because the outcome doesn't change my beliefs." she paused, considering how to continue. She thought back to her childhood, when she was constantly bullied for befriending the loners, the weirdos, the outcasts. She pictured Neville Longbottom's face in her mind when she had asked to eat lunch with him, since he was always alone. Back then, with his chubby cheeks, buck teeth, and clumsy tendencies, no one had wanted to spend time with him. Hermione had been ostracized for it, but the sting was greatly dulled in the knowledge that Neville was no longer alone.

"I was taught to always stand up for what I believe in. If there's even the slightest, infinitesimal chance that I might win, and there always is, then I will continue to fight. Even if I lose over and over again, if I ever win once, any small victory, I'll be happy."

Riddle was watching her face closely and intensely. Suddenly, he changed the subject. "My mother used to be dirt poor, working at a local pub with no future prospects." He wasn't looking at her anymore, but somewhere off in the distance. "Somehow, she started an affair with my father, who was married at the time to another woman. She got pregnant by him, and he said that he didn't want the child, that he would not leave his wife. So she gave me away to an orphanage," his tone became bitter. "She told them to name me after my father. Well, two years later the wife was killed in a plane crash, and six month later my mother became a Gaunt."

Hermione was silent. She was not sure why he was telling her all this now, but she didn't want him to stop. She was scared any comment or even unexpected movement from her would somehow break the moment.

"I never knew why my parents adopted me. They were already too poor to sustain themselves, much less another mouth to feed. They tried their best, but poverty made my father grow bitter and spiteful. My mother tried her best to appease him, but it usually never stopped his episodes. He grew abusive, nasty. He was uneducated, and resented me for doing well in school," Riddle's voice was full of hate. "I used to hide my marks to avoid being beat." His mouth curved up slightly as he said, "Most children fake having good grades.

"Well, as I grew older, it became impossible to ignore the uncanny resemblance between myself and the richest man in town. Everyone knew about him, and many speculated about the whirlwind romance between him and my birth mother. After getting kicked out of my house for the night, I found myself in front of the mansion. I knocked, and my mother answered. She recognized me instantly, and she invited me inside. She told me all of this, and introduced me to the rest of the family. They had another boy, a few years younger than me. They were everything I imagined a family should be." Now his voice turned wistful, yet so full of sorrow. Riddle's grey eyes seemed to darken. "They took me in, invited me to spend that Christmas with them. It was the best time of my life." He stopped, pain clear on his face.

The crackling of the fire once again filled the space between them as the both stared into it. Shocked was an understatement. Hermione was appalled at his treatment during his formative years. What must it have been like, growing up in such a violent and unaccepting household? What does that do to a person? Perhaps it made them cold, guarded. Perhaps his father's resentment translated into a determination to be as educated and successful as possible, to graduate from the most prestigious Universities and work at the most sought-after law firm. Perhaps it made a person all the more determined to win, to do anything for success. She looked at Tom Riddle in a new light.

Tentatively, Hermione prompted, "What happened?"

"My adoptive father grew jealous of all the love and attention I was receiving. I don't think any of us knew how deranged he had become. Two days before Christmas he broke into their mansion and murdered all three of the Gaunts. It was horrific."

Hermione's heart broke for him.

"Before he died, Tom Riddle Sr. helped me apply to Hogwarts University. He even gave me my own account to fund my education. That was my Christmas gift." Riddle's voice was so very soft, almost a whisper, but it contained a wealth of pain and anguish. He looked at her then. "Well, it was going to be. Except, I was never able to receive it. Mr. Riddle died before everything had been signed into place."

Suddenly, he reached out his hand, and Hermione flinched slightly before realizing he was wiping away the tear that had trailed down her right cheek. Embarrassed, she quickly wiped her eyes.

"I had no idea," she said, not knowing what else to say. "That's possibly the worst thing I've ever heard."

"I typically don't spread it around," Riddle said.

"Well, I'm sorry I called you a cold, unfeeling bastard," Hermione genuinely meant it. "I can't imagine how most people might have turned out with the same situation. I think I might have gone mad. I certainly wouldn't have been able to put myself through law school and graduate top of my class."

"Is that an actual compliment, Granger?" Riddle teased.

Hermione scowled, if half-heartedly. "Still an arse, though."

He smirked in response, and they fell into a comfortable silence. Hermione was still reeling with all of the information she had just learned, when her eyes suddenly widened and she sat up. "That means that today-"

"Is the day of family's murder, yes," Riddle finished for her.

"Oh." She sipped her latte, unsure of how to respond. Somehow, she didn't think Riddle would really appreciate gushing sympathy. "What happened to your adoptive father?"

"They found him at the scene, bloodied and in a frenzy. The neighbors had heard screaming and called the police. He has three life sentences on him." His voice once again turned hard and brittle as he spat, "I hope he rots and withers away there."

"Me too," Hermione said, and meant it. She was about to continue speaking when Trelawney's voice cut across the din.

"I sense the worst of the storm has passed! It may take a little budging, but the door is once again able to be opened."

Both of them snorted at this statement. "Sensed it? Any dimwit can look outside and see that it is no longer snowing," Riddle remarked dryly. Hermione chuckled.

"Well Granger, it has been a pleasure," Riddle said, rising to stand. A slight smile graced his face as he looked at her. She rose with him.

To her surprise, Hermione felt a pang of disappointment. She had really enjoyed their conversation, and wanted to get to know more about Tom Riddle. Especially now after opening up about his past. There was just so much to unravel there.

"Please, it's Hermione," she smiled back at him.

"It's been a pleasure, Hermione."

Something about the way he said her name gave her chills. It was in the way he stood, tall and confident, graceful like a cat. The arrogant tilt of his head, those stormy grey eyes, chiseled features, oh gods. She needed to stop.

"Thank you. For talking to me," Hermione suddenly felt awkward. She didn't know what to do with her hands. Without thinking, Hermione stepped forward and hugged him. He stiffened beneath her touch, then brought his arm up to lightly pat her back. "I'm glad I got to know you better, Riddle." She said into his chest.

"That's Mr. Riddle to you," he chided, and she slapped his arm as she pulled away. "Alright, fine. I suppose you can call me Tom.

She flashed a smile at him. "I'll see you tomorrow, then, Tom. Maybe we can grab a drink after the hearing so you can toast my victory." With that, she grabbed her purse, turned and walked out of Trelawney's, bushy hair blowing wildly as she stepped out into the wind.


A/N: This chapter's a bit of a thickie compared to other ones, I hope it isn't too much of a bore ! Life's been pretty eventful recently, as I'm sure it has been for everyone else. Thanks for taking the time to read, I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it :)