"I always value bravery."
He meant the statement in seriousness, but he expected her to laugh or smile or, at the very least, berate him for such a low sensibility. But, in between her tense shoulders and distasteful expression, it looks as if her body, and she along with it, aren't sure whether to be uncomfortable or annoyed, so settle on an unimpressed cross of the two.
Obviously assuming that he had ended his interaction with her, she continues scribbling the notes she had missed furiously onto her paper, for she had been late, for what just might have been the first time in her life, her quill moving over the page faster than she casts him a sour glance whenever he catches her eye.
But, he was not done.
"However."
And he can almost feel the exasperation rolling off of her in unrestrained waves.
"I do believe you have hurt yourself."
And she tenses and he almost, almost smirks. She doesn't want to talk about the bruises adorning the right side, the side closest to him, of her neck, so, he'll talk about it. He couldn't possibly stop now that he's started, that would be rude, especially if the lady is in trouble.
"And no amount of bravery can make you invincible, especially if you need help, Hermione."
His smile stretches wide over his face, his mock concern infuriating her, and, the way he said her name, whispered or murmured, only happened so because he knows it annoys her whenever he employs such a practice over her title. He practically beams at the bushy-haired witch and she nearly cracks her quill with how tightly her hand clenches around it.
And then, suddenly, her hand relaxes, her teeth unclench, even her hair seems to calm down. Her voice is light and airy and she looks at him and smiles, almost sweetly, almost sincerely, "What ever do you mean, Tom?"
And he knows she's only calling him Tom because she knows it annoys him, and he's about to point to the bruises adorning her neck, to force her to answer his questions, to get a solution for the mystery that she is, to understand the only thing that he ever hasn't, but, she only brings more mystery, because the bruises are gone, only the pale, creamy skin beneath the collar of her wrinkled white shirt left behind.
She didn't mutter a spell, she didn't pull out her wand, and he doesn't understand. Her smile falters for a second, slipping into what it really is, a smirk, a smirk because she has won, if not the war, then the battle. A smirk, because he is still staring at her neck, as if willing the purple marks to bloom back onto the blank slate. A smirk, because his eyes darken as he meets hers, that are so alight with glee.
And she leans in a little closer, letting her quill rest on his page, and whispers to him, "It's a bit rude not to answer a lady's question, wouldn't you agree, Tom?"
And her smirk is unrestrained now and he's angry, he can at least admit that to himself, but, more than anything, he's curious. This strange girl and whatever her strange world has led her to become, to feel, to think, to will, has piqued his curiosity, and Tom Riddle has really always been very good about having his curiosity sated.
He's about to retort, with some politely worded jab at her that anyone outside of their little duo would deem perfect cordiality, as everyone had come to expect from the two's interactions, but, their professor, Slughorn, has announced that they are to brew Felix Felicis and they quickly split up the ingredient gathering and the tasks listed to make the potion, their earlier battle forgotten as they have school-related matters to attend to.
"Could you juice the squill bulb? I'll grind up the occamy eggshell."
He nods and hands her the eggshell and she hands him the bulb and he smiles and she's instantly on edge.
"Of course I'll juice it. We wouldn't want a repeat of the Draught of Living Death, now would we?"
And she smiles and would have swatted his arm if her hands weren't preoccupied, but she laughs.
"Hey! That wasn't my fault!"
"Right, right, whatever the lady says."
And she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but the smile is still present on her face. They cut up the ingredients in relative silence and relative comfort. Tom thinks they would get along just fine if they always had something else at the forefront of their minds.
Professor Slughorn bounds up to Tom and Hermione as they are leaving, Hermione gathering up her things quickly and clumsily in an effort to get away from Tom as quickly as possible, and Tom amused by the notion, but the Professor halts their progress.
He smiles adoringly, proudly, almost fatherly at Tom, and then he has to turn to Hermione and the same smile simply becomes a stretching of the lips. And, again, her irritation amuses Tom. That special stretching of the lips is a look reserved for Hermione, especially whenever Hermione is anywhere near Tom.
"My boy, I hope I will see you at the Slug Club meeting this evening."
And Tom nods, bowing his head at the man that adores him so.
"Yes, of course sir. I wouldn't dream of missing it."
And Slughorn beams as if he had just been presented a box of crystallized pineapple, except, his treat this time is the company of one Tom Riddle and, because he believes the two to be in love, Hermione James. Tom watches Slughorn as he takes a breath before turning to Tom's lovely companion and the stretching of the lips coming over him once again.
"And Miss James, we'd be delighted to have you."
She smiles, her smile as fake and as forced as Slughorn's own.
"Of course, professor."
And the man looks between the two, smiling tightly.
"Professor, if you are done, I do have another class."
And her words, just on the verge of rude, amuse Tom even more and he can see Slughorn is disgruntled by it, but he nods and waves her away.
"Until later, Hermione!" He calls after her and she doesn't turn or speak, only raising her hand in a half wave as she rushes out of the classroom.
"My boy."
The apprehension in his voice, the way Tom sees his hands wring when he turns back around to him, tells him all he needs to know about what kind of a conversation this will be, so he plasters the familiar polite smile on his face while he prepares for the dull words ready to erupt from Slughorn's mouth.
"My boy," He repeats, and Tom's polite smile almost twitches.
"I could introduce you to good girls, from good families. My boy, you deserve at least that."
And a look of practiced interest, vague confusion.
"Whatever do you mean, Professor?"
"It's just that- that James girl isn't a pureblood, is she? No special familial connections? Nothing she can offer you if you were to marry?"
A moment's hesitation, just as he knows would be expected.
"Not that I know of, no, sir."
"My boy, I do not mean to offend you, but I can marry you into a good, prestigious family."
And then the polite smile tenfold. The conscious decision not to tell Slughorn that he is not dating the James girl, because he knows how much she hates the looks Slughorn gives them whenever he sees them together.
"Thank you, sir."
"Honestly, Tom, there is absolutely no need to ever use an unforgivable curse. The truly unforgivable thing is that you couldn't find suitable and legal replacements for such vile spells in between all your grand knowledge of magic."
Amusement sets off a spark in his mind and it translates into the slightest hint of a smile on his lips, the lightest lick of a flame in his eyes.
"That is not at all true. What could you possibly use to replace, say, the Imperius curse?"
She's silent for a moment, a beautiful silent where she lets her lips part to form a tiny gap, where her eyes glaze over and the stars visible from their place atop the astronomy tower shine in them, where she her nose scrunches up the tiniest bit.
"Amortentia."
"Amortentia?"
"Amortentia."
"Please, do explain."
And she smiles and he does not know why. Maybe because he is playing along. Maybe because her mind has left thoughts of death, for the very reason she was at the astronomy tower at three in the morning, the very reason he had followed her, was because she had meant to kill herself, and he had meant to stop her, just as he has been doing the entire year.
"Amortentia is the most powerful love potion in the world. It is distinctive-"
"I do not require a textbook definition."
She glares at him, but continues nevertheless.
"Well, Amortentia creates a deep infatuation and, say this deep infatuation is between you and I. I could ask you for whatever information I desired, or I could ask you to do whatever it was that I wanted, and you would do it, if only to make me happy and to please me."
He thinks about it for a second and, she's right, of course, but he is Tom Riddle and he cannot possibly be shown up by Hermione James.
"I see your point, but, by those standards, wouldn't Felix Felicis work much better?"
She stares at him for a second, possibly considering why he's even playing along with her, "How?"
"Well, for one, you wouldn't have to sneak the potion into a drink or force someone else to take it. It's all you. If you wanted someone to do something for you, you would only need to attempt to persuade them and you would undoubtedly be successful."
Silence, gratitude, and then:
"Besides, love couldn't possibly be that strong, Hermione."
"Oh, and I suppose luck is?"
He smiles at her flurry of hair, blowing lightly in the wind coming in through the large glass-less window. He smiles at her furrowed eyebrows, annoyed with the possibility of being wrong. He smiles at her scowling mouth and sparkling eyes, at her sharp tongue and quick wit.
"Hermione, honestly, we both know I'm right. Felix Felicis would be a much better substitute for the Imperius than Amortentia. Just think about it. You can do just about anything when using Felix Felicis and it'll turn out right, so, if you set yourself to persuading someone, how could they not do your bidding?"
And she's shaking her head, ready to go back to her same argument.
"Tom, honestly, have you never seen someone under the power of Amortentia? It's almost scary."
He scoffs.
"Few things are 'scary' and 'love' is definitely not one of them."
She rolls her eyes and the gesture fits in so perfectly with a teenage girl, so apart from what Hermione has been, that she finds him smirking when she looks at him again.
"You're awful."
"And, yet, you're still talking to me and not jumping off the side of the tower."
The silence that follows is cold. She wraps her arms around herself and he, for once, doesn't know what to say, what would be the right thing to say, what society dictates he should say. And, for once, it doesn't really matter.
"I always value bravery."
And she scoffs.
"Killing yourself isn't brave, Hermione, it's weak."
And she doesn't say anything.
And he doesn't say anything.
And the air whispers and the stars stare back at them and it's quiet.
He needs strength. He craves strength. Strength and power are all he searches for, all he wants. She deserves to die if she's not strong enough to handle life.
Yet, he's still here. Still watching her. Still making sure she won't end her life tonight. Still trying to help her, just as he has every three nights for the entirety of the school year.
And, besides all of this, besides the weakness he claims to hate, besides her dislike of him, besides everything and anything, he likes her. Maybe she's not weak at all, maybe she's just been strong for too long.