Chapter 2
It does not take long for Riddle to show up with a teacher's note.
"Good afternoon, Madam Granger. Here is a pass from Professor Slughorn. He has given me permission to investigate the properties of certain lesser known potions in the Restricted Section."
The soft autumn light streaming through the windows warms the sharp hollows of his cheekbones, giving his perfect smile a self-congratulatory air.
Hermione taps the note with her wand to verify its authenticity. She looks up. "Could you name those lesser known potions, Mr. Riddle? They are not included in the note."
His smile does not falter, though there is a slight crease at the corner of his eye.
Tom Riddle came prepared of course. He lists them off quite casually.
"I see. I did not know you were so interested in hair loss," she notes, staring at his rich and groomed head of hair.
"There's no such thing as a frivolous subject. Only a frivolous approach," he counters smoothly, a faint flicker of condescension in his eyes.
Hermione smiles coolly. "Indeed, no one can suspect you of a frivolous approach, Mr. Riddle. Follow me."
She does not like walking ahead of him. She does not like the way his eyes take her in. She has never met anyone whose gaze was so intense and precise, yet also, strangely detached.
There is only a blue rope which closes off the Restricted Section, but of course, that blue rope contains strong wards which can only be unlocked by her and the Headmaster. Normally, Hermione would use her wand to unlock the passage, but Riddle is a special case. She does not wish for him to learn the movements. Most students at Hogwarts could not, even if they watched attentively, mirror a spell this complicated, but she won't make the mistake of underestimating this particular young man. So, she merely traces one finger slowly down the ridges of the rope and nods her head twice.
She does not see the look on Riddle's face when she performs this bit of wandless magic. Though he is quick to school his features, there is a glimmer of genuine admiration in his eyes. He especially lingers on her forefinger, on its strange, silky movement, almost as if it were a separate enchantment.
Hermione unties the rope and steps aside.
"You have an hour and a half, on the clock. I will be patrolling regularly to ensure that you are not abusing your privilege, but I am only telling you this for protocol's sake, for I am sure you would do nothing of the sort, would you, Mr. Riddle?"
Her words may flatter, but her tone warns him.
Tom smiles like a guileless cherub. "I would never wish to disappoint you, Madam Granger."
As she walks back to her desk, Hermione wonders what exactly he will be researching in that Section, for, he has fooled no one with his hair potions and he knows it.
At the end of the day, when all students have left the library, she walks briskly into the Restricted Section and casts a charm that should reveal which books have been used last. She is quite peeved when the charm brings up only a few gnawed and dusty tomes on domestic potions which were made illegal due to unfortunate mishaps.
Hermione leans against a shelf. Her instincts tell her he was looking elsewhere, but he must have covered his tracks somehow. Yet this only makes her more curious, for the question is, why would he need to cover his tracks?
She shakes her head, snuffing out the charm. Better to leave curiosity aside. She will gain nothing from it but trouble.
Stepping out the door of Hogsmeade's Post Office, Hermione gives a small shudder and raises the scarf to her mouth. It is unseasonably cold for October, even in the Scottish Highlands. The chill does invigorate her a little. She spent a good quarter of an hour with the Postmaster, explaining to him what the Muggle newspapers she'd received in the mail were concerned with. The grizzly man had no idea about the Wehrmacht and the Allies. Of course he did not.
Hermione has Medea Lovegood to thank for this package, Medea being the only witch bold enough to send her Muggle newspapers in the vicinity of Hogwarts. Grateful though she is for her friend, at times like these, Hermione has to push aside the painful memory of her parents sending her letters with news of the world. This was before Grindelwald's efficient coup. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Granger are known as Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins and reside in Wales, where they keep a vegetable shop and have no memory of a daughter. Only Hermione knows how difficult it was to relocate her family during a war. She did not manage to ship them out of England, but she prays daily they will catch no one's eye in the little hamlet where they live. Though she has been tempted many times, she steadfastly resists the urge to reach out to them, knowing how reckless that would be. Still, it stings very much to be voluntarily orphaned, and it will forever sting. The last time she spoke with Fleamont and Septimus, they assured her she would, in time, bring her parents back home. This state of affairs could not last long, they believed. Even if Grindelwald continued to rule through his puppet ministers, he would become more relaxed in his approach, and the government would return to normalcy in due time. Septimus claimed that there were good men in the Ministry, slowly restoring – or undermining, if you want to look at it that way – the course of politics, and, as a Weasley man, he would soon number among them. Hermione did not wish to contradict her friends, and so she did not. In their myopic way, they meant well. She let them play at being naïve, while she continued to make plans for herself.
All such plans are, of course, contingent on the Muggle war. It is just Hermione's luck that both sides of the world are wracked by chaos at the moment. The fact that the wizarding side can hardly move a finger to help the Muggle side does not surprise her anymore. She scans the headlines hungrily. The newspapers are two weeks old. So much could have happened in the meantime, but she will not stint her gratitude. This is more than she could have hoped for. Naples has been liberated by the Americans! That is good news, very good news indeed. She rushes eagerly to The Three Broomsticks where she can get out of the cold and have a glass or two of Firewhisky to celebrate.
This being the first Hogsmeade outing of the semester, she anticipates that most students and teachers will be busy shopping for supplies. She is not incorrect. The inn is half empty when she arrives. She asks Madam Goshawk if she's got any kidney pie left and the innkeeper smiles brightly because very few people submit themselves to the terror of her cooking, but Hermione Granger is a nice young woman who will eat just about anything. Madam Goshawk likes her very much. Hermione orders two shots of Firewhisky and rum-spiced tea. Yes, she will have a very nice afternoon of reading and quiet celebrating. She will also enjoy writing a thank you note to Medea.
She's slightly undecided for a moment as she looks about. Professors are usually expected to retreat upstairs, but there are also tables reserved for them on the ground floor. The students usually sit to the front of the room, next to the windows. Hermione finally chooses a corner table in the back, concealed by a wooden beam.
Madam Goshawk sends two floating glasses filled with amber liquid her way. Blue and white flames dance on the honeyed surface of each glass. Hermione salutes the old matron with glee. She takes very unladylike pride in her ability to down two shots of Firewhisky in one breath. And so she does. Naples has been freed, after all. The Allies are making progress. Her throat burns and scalds, but she is instantly filled with courage and boldness and hope. She's almost tempted to order a third. She wipes her mouth and licks her thumb in equally unladylike fashion. And slowly realizes, as she reaches for a paper napkin, that she is being watched. Even outside Hogwarts, the feeling follows her. A familiar feeling, with a name attached to it.
She casts her eye around the room, casually. It's not hard to spot him. Not hard at all. He must have come in when she did not see him.
Tom Riddle is sitting diagonally from her at a well-lit table by the window. He has his arm draped elegantly on the back of his chair, body leaning towards a young girl sitting next to him. Though Hermione cannot see her face, it is clear the girl is delighted and awed by his company. She seems to hang onto his every word.
He is, of course, not looking in Hermione's direction at all, even though she is in his line of sight.
Why would he?
He is obviously in the middle of telling the girl a story. Two other boys walk up to the table with tankards of Butterbeer, but do so quietly, so as not to interrupt.
Hermione feels rather foolish.
Perhaps her work in the library has made her more attuned to the students' presence, especially his. Perhaps she merely sensed his arrival. And yet, she would bet quite a few galleons that he had seen her knock back those two glasses of Firewhisky. She wonders, briefly, what he made of that.
Hermione shifts her chair behind the wooden beam and opens one of the newspapers, effectively barricading herself behind it. Let him watch her now.
It is no fault of hers that the reports are so captivating. Some of the best writing is done during wartime. In another life, she might have become a war journalist, following in the footsteps of Martha Gellhorn whom she admires a great deal, but alas, fate has made her a witch, and she has to make peace with that.
She is so caught up in a detailed narrative about Rommel – popularly dubbed the Desert Fox - and his complicated retreats on the coast of Libya that she fails to notice the proverbial peeping Tom.
He is clearly reading the back of her paper.
When Hermione finally looks up, he does not even have the decency to find a good excuse.
Hands in his pocket, Tom smiles appealingly. "Good afternoon, Madam Granger. I hope I am not disturbing you. I was wondering if I could borrow one of your newspapers. They look like very gripping reading."
Hermione blinks. How dare he, she thinks, and yet is almost impressed by his daring.
"I do not believe they'd interest you very much, Mr. Riddle."
"On the contrary, I find the Muggle war quite fascinating."
Hermione raises one eyebrow. "Do you, indeed?"
He nods eagerly. "I have never read a more senseless account than that of Stalingrad last year. The butchery alone was unparalleled."
Hermione raises the second eyebrow now. "You've read about that?"
He nods again. "Muggles are certainly talented at the art of destruction. They know how to kill, and kill well. But it only underlines our superiority as wizards and witches. We would never act quite so barbaric, I like to think."
Hermione's mouth quirks up almost against her will. "Barbarism can take the form of clean hands too, Mr. Riddle."
His eyes flash with something like surprise. He lowers his head humbly, hands behind his back. "Indeed. You make a very astute point."
Hermione looks down at the papers. "But yes," she admits," the butchery was unparalleled."
It feels quite bizarre to talk of such morbid things in a cheery pub that has been visited by no wartime restrictions, where the adults and children consider the Muggle war to be a remote aberration.
They know how to kill, and kill well.
She shivers.
Her eyes fall on the table by the window, where his fellow Slytherins are waiting for him.
"Isn't it quite rude to read the newspaper in the company of your friends?"
Tom smiles. "You are right again, Madam Granger. May I borrow it now and return it to you tomorrow afternoon? I shall find you at the library, of course."
Oh, he is a devious one, indeed.
But the alcohol is no longer warming the blood in her veins. Suddenly, she is quite sober. She ought to be heading back to Hogwarts and she does not want him shadowing her path. She has the absurd feeling that, unless she gives him the paper, he shall do exactly that.
How strange and foolish – to be at the mercy of a seventeen-year old.
"You may," she says, pushing one of the papers forward.
He bows and takes it, rolling it up and tucking it under his arm.
She waits for him and his party to leave first, before she pays her goodbyes to Madam Goshawk and begins the trek up the hill to the school.
He makes good on his promise. The next day being a Sunday after a Hogsmeade outing, there is almost no one haunting the halls of the library, except for him of course.
The paper looks almost ironed, pressed and lined perfectly, not a mark or wrinkle on it. It even smells, faintly, of spearmint.
Hermione slides it quickly under her desk, as if it were contraband, which in a sense, it is.
"Thank you for a most edifying read. I am quite famished for news of the outside world. Hogwarts can feel very large and yet very small, don't you think?"
Hermione shrugs noncommittally. "It certainly depends on one's perspective. Shall you occupy a table, Mr. Riddle?"
He does not seem to mind being cut off. He smiles in that artless, yet totally contrived way that never fails to annoy her, and he calmly retreats to one of his regular desks.
For the next few hours, Hermione keeps busy with her own reading and indexing, opting to eschew patrolling in order to sort through a catalogue of Ancient Runes books. Time catches up with her. Sunday being a shorter day, the library closes at six. It is two minutes to six before she realizes she must make the announcement. Touching her wand to her throat, she makes her voice heard throughout the library.
A few Fifth Year stragglers bound past her desk with sleepy faces. A Seventh Year Hufflepuff walks out with a disgruntled gait.
Hermione heaves a sigh. Tom Riddle is not among them. He must still be at his desk.
She marches towards his corner, determined to kick him out without a fuss.
She finds him with his head bent over his books, a ringlet of hair artfully falling over the page.
"Though you deplore the state of your Common Room, Mr. Riddle, I am afraid I must ask you to retire to it, because the library is closing."
Tom doesn't look up. "Just a moment, I am finishing a sentence."
Hermione frowns. She folds her arms over her chest. "You may finish the sentence next time, if you please."
Her crisp tone makes him pause, quill in hand. "But what if I forget?"
"Then perhaps it is not a sentence worth setting down."
He looks up at this remark and smirks. "I have a feeling you would be a much better judge of my essays than my Professors, Madam."
Hermione lifts her chin. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Riddle. Now, do hasten to –"
"It is certainly not flattery, but truthful observation," he says, rising diligently and gathering his parchments. "I believe you are far more qualified than many of them."
She knows what she ought to do. She ought to put him in his place in a manner befitting her station. But, as mentioned previously, her temper is never quite exemplary.
"And which Professors do you believe lack sufficient qualification, Mr. Riddle?"
Tom surprises her by chuckling. "Oh, I would never tell."
This is a funny little joke to him, is it? She has a mind to tell his Head of House, because she has a feeling Professor Slughorn is on the list of teachers he deems substandard.
"I would keep such idle thoughts to yourself, Mr. Riddle," she responds archly.
"Of course, I would never dream of speaking about it with anyone else."
Hermione knows what he means. This is just between the two of us. She frowns. "If you are quite finished –"
"Ah yes, how thoughtless of me. What sort of example am I setting as a Head Boy with my tardiness?" he drawls, angling the strap of his book bag over his shoulder. "I am sure you were a much more responsible Head Girl."
Hermione straightens her back. "You're right that I am never tardy, but I was never Head Girl."
He mimes surprise. "Oh but – but how is that possible? You must have been the most accomplished student in your year. That is what Professor Slughorn intimates. And I am sure Professor Dumbledore would agree."
Hermione's eyes flash. So, he's asked about her? Slughorn would happily loosen his tongue at such inquiries, since he dotes on Riddle and loves gossip, but Dumbledore would never offer such information. Does he know that she is on close terms with him? Dumbledore sometimes invites her to tea and sherbet in his office, it's true, but those meetings are irregular, and surely Tom couldn't have noticed –?
But then, of course he had.
"It is a travesty you were not made Head Girl," he concludes angrily. His anger sounds genuine too. That is the problem with him; even if he is merely taunting her, he also sounds credibly outraged.
Hermione reins in her turbulent emotions. He must know why she was not made Head Girl, why the position went to a Pureblood instead. She opts for silence.
"Perhaps if we lived in a better world, things would be different," Tom adds as an after-thought.
How would that world look, she wants to ask. But that would only encourage him.
She clears her throat. "I thank you for your impassioned speech, but I have no need for championing. You may take your leave, Mr. Riddle."
Her cold goodbye does not seem to dampen his spirits. He saunters towards her, coming close enough that she is half tempted to step back, unwavering in her stance though she may be.
It does not help that he is quite tall.
"I was only in my second year when you were in your last, Miss Granger. Had I been older, I might have championed harder. Good evening."
He moves past her so seamlessly that she has little time to react, much less reply, but his words leave an indelible mark.
She watches the back of him, the shadows growing around him as he steps through the large open doors.
Had I been older, I might have championed harder.
Hermione releases a breath.
She realizes he's called her Miss Granger again and she forgot to correct him.
A/N: thank you for your reviews and encouragement! I hope you liked this chapter!