Chapter 3
It is very difficult to tell when Albus Dumbledore is troubled by any important matter. He usually does a very good job of hiding his worries behind a mask of serenity, but this evening he seems consumed by a particular subject which Hermione feels she will be made privy to.
The Transfiguration Professor has always been something of an avuncular figure, often lending an ear to her troubles. But Hermione does not mind returning the favour. In fact, she feels very proud to be included in his circle of friends. She does not mind admitting how much she admires the man.
"May I speak in confidence, Miss Granger?" he asks, steepling his fingers.
Hermione sets down her cup of tea. The fire in the hearth crackles ominously. The dark window above it is spattered with icy rain.
"Of course, Sir."
The older man nods. "I could ask you this favour without telling you what it is for, but I believe you ought to know. I must depart for London and the Ministry the day after tomorrow. The Wizengamot is holding a secret trial to condemn a friend of mine. I wish to save him, if I can. The Wizengamot banks on me and others like me not knowing about the trial, but if enough of us show up, we may at least delay the proceedings."
Hermione has heard of quite a few such sham trials in the past year. "May I ask who the friend is, Sir?"
"Argos Lovegood."
All colour drains from her face.
"Medea," she blurts out without thinking.
"Yes, that would be her brother."
Hermione only met Argos briefly one summer. He and Medea shared a devious sense of humour. She remembers his laughter when he told her what a lark their parents had had with their names.
She suddenly feels sick to her stomach. What if Medea got in trouble for sending her Muggle newspapers and they're punishing her brother?
"What are the charges?" she asks, gripping the edge of the chair.
"Oh, nothing truly substantial; something to do with one of his botanical periodicals. Some imaginary slander brought against the current government."
Against Grindelwald, you mean, she thinks bitterly.
But she is a little relieved that she has not inadvertently caused them harm.
"Will you be able to stand up for him, Sir?"
"I will do my very best."
Hermione is already composing the letter to Medea in her head when Dumbledore issues a small cough. "I can see your line of thinking, but I would not advise writing to your friend just yet."
She looks up guiltily. "I –yes, you're probably right." Caution before all else. That is the motto which has guided her these past few years, but the mercurial Gryffindor inside of her often wishes to damn it all to hell.
"What will you need of me?" she asks instead.
"It's only the matter of a few hours. The Seventh Years have a small written examination scheduled the day of the trial. I don't wish to involve any other teacher, if I can help it. I would like to ask you to monitor them for me while I am away."
"Of course. Consider it done, Sir."
Albus gives her a faint smile. "Thank you, Miss Granger. I believe you shall do a better job than me, for I always tend to go easy on them. But you are far more vigilant. I hear that "Madam Granger" is almost as fearsome a librarian as Madam Pince before her."
Hermione flushes slightly. "Hardly, Sir."
"Oh, let them be the judge of that. Have any of the students given you trouble?"
Yes, she is tempted to say. There is one insinuating boy…
But can she truly say that he has given her "trouble"? Or does she simply have a feeling about him? His behaviour is certainly too familiar and he has a tendency of being where he is not wanted, and his watchful eyes do have an eerie quality, but –
She stops herself before she continues on this unfounded path. This is only wild conjecture at best.
"None so far, Sir," she replies with an uneasy smile.
Their conversation returns to Argos and the trial and she puts the matter behind her.
The matter returns with alacrity on the day of the examination. She had not considered before, or perhaps had not wanted to consider, that one of the students she was to monitor would be Tom Riddle.
Yet it cannot be avoided now. The chattering students are waiting inside. She steps into the classroom without pausing to master herself, knowing she would only make it worse if she tried. It is nonsense to feel nervous, anyhow.
She walks briskly between the desks, robes billowing in her wake as she flicks her wand at the windows, throwing open the heavy curtains. Light spills into the room like water.
She reaches the podium without stumbling.
"Good afternoon. Professor Dumbledore has been detained by an important errand, which is why I shall be sitting in for him today, but do not be deceived into thinking I shall be more lenient than him. I expect you to be on your best behaviour. If you do not adhere to the rules, you will be escorted out of the exam and deducted House Points. Are there any questions?"
Her eyes roam over the room, avoiding a particular spot in the middle row. Of course his eyes are trained on her like arrows, but she will not give him the satisfaction of looking his way.
The rest of the students shift in their seats, exchanging wary looks. Hermione is rather pleased. Fleamont and Septimus had often told her she was quite "bossy" when she wanted to be.
"Good. Then we shall begin."
She doles out the instructions without a hitch, after which she taps her wand against the blackboard and the exam topics materialize in chalk outlines.
She flicks her wand again and a clean roll of parchment unfolds on every single desk.
She can hear a few mutters of surprise. Professor Dumbledore usually allowed them their own parchments since he could easily detect those which were charmed, but Hermione is far less patient with that sort of chicanery.
"You have an hour and thirty minutes. If I see anything on your desks except a quill and parchment I shall escort you out and deduct House Points. You may begin."
She can see some unhappy glances cast her way. The Slytherins are downright scowling.
Well, not all of them.
Tom Riddle is idly twirling his quill as he watches her. Judging from his playful smirk, he is not at all bothered by her stipulations.
Hermione turns her head away.
She begins to patrol the rows. Every student whose desk she walks past straightens their back in anticipation. She must admit; it's not an unpleasant feeling, being a little feared.
Soon, the only sound in the room is the scratching of quills on parchment.
Though the weather outside is viciously cold, the sun pouring through the windows warms her back rather forcefully and the heavy robes weigh her down. Hermione regrets throwing the curtains open. She is loath to use a cooling charm in front of the students. She walks to the end of the room and shrugs her robes off, hanging them on a peg in the wall.
Hermione thinks nothing of it until she resumes her patrolling, but she soon comes to feel a different weight on her back, more forceful than the sun. She tugs at the sleeve of her black dress. There was nothing wrong with it this morning when she looked at herself in the mirror, and yet it feels entirely unsuitable now. Hermione has always been sensible about her appearance, precisely because she knows there is little outstanding in it. Her plainness has often come in use in settings where it was better not to draw attention. This floor-length dress is nothing special.
And yet – he won't stop looking.
His head is seemingly bent on his paper, but she can feel his slanted gaze, the way it sneaks up on her, the way it brazenly lingers on the shape of her. She has never felt this sort of attention before, not like this, and it unnerves her, because it is unnameable and vague and inappropriate and – after all, he's just a teenage boy.
Perhaps that's all it is, a teenage fancy.
Why she should feel so self-conscious is beyond her.
And yet, she cannot make herself indifferent to it.
She cannot avoid passing by his desk, either, seeing as he's sitting at the end of a row. Every time she does, his head turns a little in her direction, following her figure. It is a very small yet perceptible movement. The fourth time she passes by his desk, Hermione decides she's had enough. She lifts two fingers and a small volley of magic whips his jaw, forcing him to look forward.
He stills for a few moments, probably in disbelief.
When she walks past him again, she is gratified to find that he keeps his head forward.
Yet, if she expected him to be chastened, she is sorely disappointed. Reaching the front of the class, she casts her eyes over the room. Tom Riddle's mouth is curved into a noticeable smile as he looks down at his parchment. He touches the spot where her magic clipped him – now faintly red – with something like tenderness.
Hermione grinds her jaw. He cannot possibly have enjoyed that. He is only saving face.
But she will not show how much it bothers her. She calmly walks to the back of the class and positions herself against the wall, arms folded over her chest.
After a while, the tension leaves her shoulders. Ridiculous, she thinks, though she's not sure if she is referring to him or herself.
Time passes slowly. The quills keep scratching. Her mind wanders.
And then it snaps into attention. She had not noticed it before. This particular bent of magic, the tendrils shooting out intrusively. Legilimency. Where is it coming from?
The question is rather superfluous. Of course it's him.
She has been distracted by his staring; meanwhile, he's been slowly reaching into his classmates' heads.
The little bastard is cheating.
Hermione knows she cannot prove it, not without reliable witnesses, not without Professor Dumbledore, but she is not about to let him get away with it.
She clears her throat.
"Mr. Riddle. I suggest you concern yourself with your own affairs and cease attempting to penetrate the minds of your colleagues, unless you wish to be escorted to Headmaster Dippet's office."
Everyone freezes in place.
The students look visibly shocked. There is a ripple of movement as they all turn to stare at Tom Riddle, who has lowered his quill.
At first, Hermione thinks they're surprised he has attempted to enter their minds, but it soon becomes clear they are more amazed that an authority figure has admonished him. This seems to be a singular event. For a brief moment, she wonders whether this is stepping out of line, whether she might be putting her job at serious risk. But she cannot back down now. Her conviction is too strong, and, after all, Dumbledore did put her in charge of his class.
"I was not aware I had done anything improper, Madam Granger," Riddle speaks out, rising from his seat. "But I will happily come with you to Headmaster Dippet's office if you wish to clear the matter."
He may be good, but she's not that bad herself.
"Actually, I believe in this case I shall leave the matter to Professor Dumbledore. I will inform him of what you have done and let him decide whether your examination stands or whether you must take it again. He will also decide whether to restore the seventy House Points I have just deducted from Slytherin. I might also add, on this occasion, that you are hardly setting a good example as Head Boy."
The mention of Dumbledore unsettles his nonchalant attitude, but it's her last remark that truly hits the mark. His lovely features sharpen and mottle.
"Thank you. I will submit myself to his judgement."
Hermione nods. "You may sit down and continue."
Yet, it seems futile to do so, and he knows it. He does not write another word. He simply waits for the exam to end.
Hermione can't say she feels sorry.
The students watch her now with something like awed disbelief. She has done something quite unheard of; accused Hogwarts' golden boy of being a cheat.
And yet, she can't believe he was cheating. There is no one in this room whose mind works quicker. The very fact that he is practicing Legilimency, even though it was scratched from the curriculum a long time ago, tells her he knows magic at a far more advanced level than his colleagues. He doesn't need them. They need him.
She is still thinking about it when the exam ends.
She gathers the students' parchments and diligently seals them off, all the while watching him from the corner of her eye. He has slung his book bag over his shoulder and is shuffling towards the door with the rest of his classmates.
But something tells her he won't leave. Not yet.
Indeed, even after everyone has filed out, he still lingers in the doorway, waiting for a signal.
She caves in.
"Mr. Riddle. A word."
Hands in his pocket, he strolls back towards the middle of the room. He is effortlessly dignified, even though he has just been shamed in front of the entire classroom. How annoying.
"Why did you do it?" she asks him without preamble. "We both know you do not need to cheat, least of all from your colleagues."
A strange little smile settles on his lips. "You are being quite hard on them, Madam Granger. They are not as stupid as that."
Hermione narrows her eyes. "Very funny. What did you hope to accomplish? You couldn't have been fishing for their responses."
Tom cocks his head to the side. "Do you really want to know?"
Hermione knows what her answer should be. She ought to throw him out. But she cannot stand not understanding something.
"Yes," she says, unwisely.
He takes a step closer. "You are right, of course. I wasn't fishing for their inane answers."
A few moments pass in silence as they are at each other.
Hermione taps her foot impatiently. "Well then?"
"I was merely looking through their heads for any… interesting information, personal or otherwise," he continues casually, as if discussing a particularly boring game of Quidditch. "It is precisely when one part of the mind is deeply focused on a particular subject that other submerged areas become rife for exploration. An exam seemed like a good occasion. I was not hurting them, I assure you."
Hermione feels gooseflesh on the back of her neck.
He shouldn't be telling her this.
And yet, her gears turn furiously.
"That's – that's from Vanbolt and Kurtz, isn't it? Their theory on the psyche and the effects of mind-reading?"
His eyes brighten. "You've heard of it."
Hermione frowns. "You shouldn't have. Vanbolt and Kurtz's work has been disqualified on account of their use and citation of Muggle studies."
Tom blinks innocently. "Oh…I had no idea. How unfortunate. Still, some of those Muggle scholars are not entirely useless, are they?"
Hermione watches him intently. "I thought you believed in the superiority of wizards. I recall you pointing out the Muggles' barbarism to me."
He seems quite unruffled by her argument. "Muggles may be deeply inferior, but it would be sheer idiocy to ignore the knowledge they provide, wouldn't you say?"
"I would not. Such opinions are not sanctioned anymore."
He nods affably. "Yes, that's exactly it. We live in uncertain times. That is why, you'll agree, it's useful to know a little bit about the people you sit next to." He casts his eyes about the room.
"If you think that excuses your actions, you are quite mistaken –"
"No, of course not. I am merely trying to explain myself. I ought to have known better. I truly regret my actions."
Hermione knows he does not mean it. He is not repentant at all and never will be.
"I believe your only regret is that I have caught you," she replies coolly.
His eyes glimmer with a strange intensity. His beautiful features ripple with a desire to become ugly. But he is, as always, self-contained.
"I am sorry you think so little of me, but I suppose I deserve it. Let me assure you I will not be making the mistake of underestimating you again, Madam Granger."
Hermione fights a small shiver. That sounds very much like a promise he will keep.
"Please do accept my apologies," he adds more contritely.
"It is Professor Dumbledore who must accept your apologies," she reminds him, folding her arms.
"Certainly. But I hope you will not think too ill of me in the future. And I hope you will not tell the professor everything we've discussed."
"Then perhaps you shouldn't have told me," she retorts.
Tom smiles obliquely. "I suppose I couldn't help myself. I very rarely find people like you."
"Like me?"
His eyes roam over her figure quite shamelessly. "Like-minded people."
Hermione scowls. "Believe me, Mr. Riddle, you and I are very different people."
Tom lifts a hand to his cheek and touches the faint red mark she has given him. "I shall endeavour to remember that difference."
His words are innocent enough, but his tone is anything but. Hermione swallows the dryness in her throat.
It is high time they stopped being alone in a classroom.
She flicks her wand and the door opens behind him.
"You can see yourself out, Mr. Riddle."
Perhaps she ought to have expected some backlash from the students, since Tom seems to be their uncrowned king, but nothing can prepare her for what she hears the next evening in the library.
She is sorting out some shelves, taking out the tomes whose spines must be repaired and reinforced, when she overhears a particularly nasty conversation a row over.
A few Slytherins have gathered around Tom Riddle's desk and are asking him if he's "put the librarian in her place".
"She can't possibly be allowed to think that's any way to talk to you, or any of us, for that matter," Malfoy remarks.
"Hear, hear," Mulciber agrees. "Besides, I don't think she even understands the art of Legilimency, much less be able to recognize it. She may read a lot of books, but that's not enough to know things. Someone of her birth ought to know her limits."
Hermione releases a slow breath.
Of course, they are all very much aware she is only a few feet away. In fact, they'd only need to raise their heads a little to see her. They must want her to hear. They must want her to get angry and speak out of turn. But most of all, they must want her to feel humiliated.
No. She won't call them out on it. She won't hex them into oblivion, even though she could do it with her eyes closed. She won't storm off in a fury.
She won't do any of those things. She won't give them the satisfaction. She will turn herself to steel before she gives in.
A Fifth Year student suddenly chimes in, eager to impress. "What can you expect from a sorry little Mudblood? I assume she was hired out of pity. Hogwarts is really coming to rot if we allow someone like her to pollute the school halls."
Hermione almost lets a tome fall. No, she no longer flinches at the slur. What truly rankles is that the idiot is not entirely incorrect. As much as Albus Dumbledore values her intellect, she is here on his mercy.
She hears Riddle's melodious peal of laughter. He is thoroughly delighted by their barrage of insults. He must feel quite vindicated among his bullish peers.
Hermione's shoulders sag. So much for championing her. Not that she ever believed him.
She exhales angrily and continues to pick out the damaged tomes from the shelves.
It's only when she swallows that she realizes how hard she has been gritting her teeth, because she can nearly taste blood.
Hermione does not get a chance to speak properly to Professor Dumblefore in the coming days because he is exceedingly busy with preparing Argos Lovegood's case. She gathered from the few words exchanged at meals that, though he managed to delay his sentencing, there is going to be a second hearing where the prosecution is prepared to levy heavier charges.
Hermione knows this is not the time to bring up Tom Riddle. She merely informs Dumbledore that he tried to cheat using Legilimency, which he takes rather in stride, almost as if having expected such a thing from him. Perhaps Dumbledore knows Riddle's ways better than she does. It would explain why he is not as overly fond of him as the rest of his teachers. She makes a promise to herself that she will have a more serious discussion about him when Argos' case is resolved – if it is resolved.
In the meantime, she does her best to comfort Medea, though their letters always have to be carefully-worded. Hermione wishes they could meet in person, if only for half an hour, but they know that anything Medea did now would reflect poorly on her brother.
She is so caught up in the affair that Halloween almost comes as a surprise. She can't see how anyone could be in the mood for celebrating, but she forces herself to attend the feast. She has always loved the Great Hall at Halloween: the extravagant fiery streamers and floating pumpkin heads, the gleaming black cauldrons full of sugary sweets, the House Ghosts all riding across the tables and knocking about unrestrained, Peeves singing bawdy songs about unicorns mating with pixies. All of it used to put a smile on her face. Now, she smiles out of habit and chews on a pumpkin pasty as if it were ash in her mouth. Making conversation is a chore, but she gets Professor Beery going on the topic of wiggentree bark and the very potent wine which can be extracted from it and he is happy to natter away all evening.
Halfway through the feast, there is some commotion at the Slytherin table – something to do with the Bloody Baron passing through a student – but Hermione refuses to look. She's happy to ignore that table for as long as she can.
Towards the end of the feast she considers retiring early, when a small note lands next to her plate. She unfolds it cautiously. Madam Erwin, the school matron, is summoning her to the Hospital Wing. Hermione blinks in astonishment. Making her excuses to Professor Beery, she leaves through a door behind the High Table, wondering what could have possibly happened to involve her.
"I couldn't get him to quiet down. He has been asking for you since he arrived. The fever has made him quite hysterical, but he will be himself in no time," Madam Erwin explains as she ushers Hermione inside the ward.
"But what has happened to him exactly?"
"Oh, the poor boy almost choked on his swollen tongue. His throat was all closed up and he was as hot as coals. It looked to me like an allergic reaction, though I have not identified the allergen yet. It's possible it could be some sort of respiratory hex, but I have traced no wand magic in it. Apparently the Bloody Baron was passing through him when it happened, so I have a good hunch it was that awful man playing his usual tricks. I shall have to talk to Headmaster Dippet about that ghost. He cannot be placing students in danger. It was a lucky thing his friends brought him here in time."
Hermione frowns. She cannot imagine the Bloody Baron, however bloody, being inclined to choking students to death.
"Lucky indeed…yet I can't see why he would call for me."
"I've tried to ask him why he requires your presence so urgently, but all he could tell me – and it was rather incoherent, mind you – was that he had not managed to return some books to the library. I cannot sedate him in his condition, nor do I wish to tamper with the serum I have administered him, so I was thinking you could give him some peace of mind and tell him not to worry about those books. Here, let me take you to his bed. You won't mind if I leave you with him? There are four more children I have to look after. Everyone overeats on Halloween."
Madam Erwin walks her to the curtained bed, happy to be relieved of this task, and dashes off to her other patients.
Hermione parts the curtains.
The sickly boy propped up on the pillows looks slightly purple. He is gulping the air, rather than breathing it.
"Madam G-Granger!" he exclaims with sweeping relief, eyes wide and tearful. "Oh, I thought you wouldn't c-come!"
It takes her a moment to recognize him. He is the Fifth Year boy who called her a Mudblood in the library.
"I'm D-Darius Avery." He inhales sharply. "I don't know if you know m-me."
"I do know you, Mr. Avery," she replies, staring down at him in pity and revulsion. "Madam Erwin said you wanted to speak to me about some books."
He shakes his head miserably.
"It's not that. I wanted to say I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said t-that word about you. I'm v-very sorry."
He gulps and shivers under the blanket.
Hermione looks away, feeling uncomfortable. "Let's consider it an unfortunate incident and move past it, Mr. Avery. You ought to be resting –"
"B-But please, will you tell him I've said sorry? Will you tell him I really mean it? B-because I do."
Him.
Hermione stares at the shaking Avery. "Tell who?"
"You know who."
Yes, she does know. She supposes she knew the moment she saw Avery's terrified face.
"I will," she promises, since nothing else will quiet the boy.
Hermione pulls the curtain behind her. Her legs are shaking and her heart is beating like a wild drum.
Fuck, she thinks for the first time since having returned to Hogwarts.
A/N: Thank you for your reviews! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!