1948
It was cold, so cold, in this dark, airless room. Hermione stared across the room. A boy, well, little more than, he couldn't be much more than twenty four, sat by the fireplace. He had a glass of dark liquid in one hand, a thin book in the pale other. His dark hair fell in curls across his eyes, just long enough to get in the way. He sat with the fire behind him so it gave the effect of a large, fiery halo illuminating his hair. The subtle irony of this statement was not lost on Hermione.
The room itself was expansive, several hundred metres across. Hermione sat at one end, him at the other. His liegemen had arranged themselves in congregation in chairs and other small furnitures around him. The closest, a blond boy with hair so colourless it was almost silver, was the only one who looked mostly unaffected by the other's presence. He too, read, not too close to the fire, which could be considered a prime spot, but close enough to feel the warmth at least. The rest of the dark group of ravens seemed to have taken to simply observing the boy in quiet reverence.
Hermione watched the petit genre with fascination. It was true that the boy by the fire had a certain magnetic quality to him. He was attractive in a refined, Grecian way. His skin, alabaster, carved from marble. His posture was impeccably straight and casual at the same time, accentuated by the fine lines of his expensive clothing. Occasionally he made a dissatisfied expression, his eyebrows knitting together at some unknown happenings of his book. It was addictive. Hermione wondered whether he was reading fact, or fiction. Muggle or magical?
This club wasn't exactly known for its social scene - there was a certain hush among the candlelight and no music playing. It was the way of the Slytherin house. The common room had been much the same in Hogwarts. They weren't a friendly bunch, and preferred to say little without purpose. She didn't even know why she was here - why she'd felt compelled to step into the rich, dark building. Hermione had not possessed much house pride in Hogwarts and she hadn't intended to start now. She'd always privately believed she belonged in Ravenclaw. Why the hat had not put her there in the first place, was his prerogative, she guessed.
Still, she'd ordered a drink and taken a seat in the corner. She'd brought a textbook to dawdle with, but it had become an excellent vantage point in which to sip the warm cognac and people-watch.
It was her second visit here now, but she'd noticed him immediately. At first, she'd taken sneaky furtive glances through the smoke haze every so often, guilt warming her cheeks. With practice, she was able to raise her book just so and take longer, greedy glances. She wasn't bothered so much by him having caught her, more the accusing glances of his entourage. They sent glares around the rest of the room at periodic intervals, daring the general public to go on and have a go. They were Slytherin through and through.
She knew who they were of course, you'd have to be deaf and blind not to hear. Tom Riddle and his Knights were infamous in the Wizarding World. They were the most powerful, influential group in polite (and impolite) society - brought forth to manipulate society into the malleable form they desired. Society's Sacred 28, brought forth in a terrible and corporeal form.
She hadn't spoken to any of them personally, his Inner Circle were all five years older than her - she'd barely been a measly Second Year when they'd all graduated, off to shape the minds of less powerful wizards than her. Still, she'd heard much of their rhetoric whispered in the annuls of the Slytherin dormitories. Nobody dared say a thing when Professor Dumbledore was in eavesdrop, but with only Dippet with the authority to do something about it, it was hard to miss it.
Hermione was no slacker either. She knew she was a very powerful witch in the core of her being, but it was a dangerous thing for a Muggleborn witch to have power in these times. Especially a Slytherin Muggleborn at that. She'd concealed her power, and her blood status, throughout Hogwarts, achieving bashful, middling grades, while the core of her soul seethed in the injustice.
The boy moved his head slightly, signalling to the silver one - a Malfoy, that much was obvious. The Malfoy bent his head closer towards Riddle and they exchanged words. Hermione could see the movement of his lips in the reflection of the fire. Malfoy looked back up, his gaze flickering towards Hermione.
She forced her eyes back to her book, feeling hot all over. She had been spotted. She kept her eyes fixed at the page of her book - something about Advanced Transfiguration, but she hadn't even tried to work through it. She was still on the first page.
A tactical clearing of the throat to her left. It was a waiter, clad in black-and-white tails. "A drink for you, Miss Granger." He said in an upright voice, the upturn of his moustache quivering slightly. "Compliments of Mr Malfoy."
A cocktail glass full of amber liquid lay resting on his tray - another sidecar. She plucked the glass from it warily. She had not anticipated being noticed. Whilst Malfoy had sent the drink, she'd watched the encounter herself. It was very clearly at the request of someone else. To her knowledge, Riddle had not looked at her the entire time she'd been here, which begs the question, how did he know what she drank?
She held the slender glass between two fingers and turned back to the fire. Malfoy had turned back to his book, clearly uninterested or otherwise commanded to be so. Riddle however, was watching her with undisguised curiosity. Hermione's back prickled with unease at the intensity of that look, never having looked him in the eyes, or even the face before. It filled her with unease.
She raised her glass to him slowly and took a slow sip. The smooth cognac dripped like honey down her throat. Riddle continued to stare, quirking his brandy glass as if to say, game on. She drained her glass in two nervous gulps. He smirked very slightly, a subtle upturning of his mouth. Hermione bit her tongue.
Has anyone told you, Miss Granger it's rude to stare? A level, deep voice echoed around her ears. She jumped in surprise, earning a rich melodious chuckle.
"Mr Riddle?" She said quietly. She watched him draw his head backwards and raise his eyebrows slightly, as if to say, yes?
"How is it you're doing this? Nobody else can hear you?" She asked
It's a spell of my own invention. I find it useful when I wish to conduct conversations away from prying eyes. His eyes flickered once to his entourage.
Hermione swallowed.
So, have you? The voice echoed.
"Have I what?" She answered nervously.
Have you been told it's rude to stare? To her mortification, the voice continued. You've been watching me almost constantly the entire time you've been here. The voice paused. Both times.
Hermione repressed a whimper of embarrassment. "Well," she started, paused, and then finished lamely. "Yes. Sorry."
Interesting.
The faint muffled feeling vanished from her ears. The psychic telephone call, as it was, had ended. Hermione rose quickly, feeling her face hot, gathered her things, and left. It was only when she'd gotten halfway down the street, the cool air clearing her head, that she realised she'd never told Tom Riddle her name.
