Chapter 4

November brings with it early snow. The courtyards are latticed with ice and sleet, the bridges and walkways covered in grandfatherly hoarfrost. The evergreens look ghostly in the window. Winter is extending her fingers everywhere.

Hermione sits in her armchair with her knees tucked to her chest. The large dressing gown she has bundled around her trails to the floor in burgundy folds. The cheerful colour does little to dispel her dark thoughts. Perhaps it was a mistake, coming back to Hogwarts.

She stares into the dregs of her tea mug. She remembers those wasteful Divination classes where she was told that the accidental arrangement of leaves and the arbitrary scattering of herb seeds foretold a particularly devastating fate. Madam Vablatsky had once memorably looked into her cup and "seen" a large serpent which appeared to be devouring men's very souls. Her conclusion, naturally, had been that Hermione would either be a victim of the beast's, or become the beast herself, unless she opened her mind to the possibilities of the future. In all fairness, Hermione had been quite dismissive of her class, so perhaps the woman was exacting some small revenge.

Looking into the mug now, Hermione laughs an ugly laugh. All she can see is little green and black dots of nothingness. Perhaps they signify the bombs falling over London. Perhaps they are the ant-like soldiers dying on the beaches. Or perhaps the dots predict that there will be caviar at breakfast. Hogwarts eats well in comparison to other places.

If she's lucky, Professor Dumbledore will make an appearance at the table, but she does not feel very hopeful. The past week has seen him leave Hogwarts more than once and the evenings are occupied with Argos' case, which has now extended to the entire Lovegood family. Medea is being held under house arrest, though Dumbledore seems to think this is only a punitive measure to ensure that the brother talks. Hermione dreads to think of what may come next. She knows this is not the right time to bring up Tom Riddle. It may never be the right time. There are dangerous young men everywhere in the world. Riddle just happens to live in close vicinity. And he is dangerous and strange and obsessive. But he is still a teenage boy. It would be a good thing if he stayed at Hogwarts forever, if his ugly tendencies were kept in check by the school, but he will soon be released upon the unsuspecting world, and that is a far more troubling prospect.

He'll make an excellent career in government, if nothing else, she thinks sourly.

But as long as he is here, she realizes he will keep trying to get under her skin. Ignoring him is probably unwise, confronting him more so. She cannot quite guess at his behaviour. He wishes to impress and intimidate her in equal amount. He does not tell his friends in public not to call her names, but he punishes them in secret. Hermione has noticed that ever since Avery's incident, the Slytherins who come to the library are always politely reserved. They lower their eyes in her presence. If they mutter behind her back, they make sure not to do it within hearing distance. They still gossip and scorn those they consider beneath their worth, but there is no mention of her any longer. As if she has passed beyond their sphere of interest.

And yet, nothing can be laid at Riddle's door. He covers his tracks in all things, it seems. It must have been a shock when she had reprimanded him in front of the entire class, because he was not used to getting caught. He must have been quite angry. But anger alone does not motivate him. He is hungry for power, and hungry for other things she does not wish to consider.

The darkness of morning has lightened into a soft, milky grey. Hermione stares longingly at her bed. She'd like to sink into it and only wake when everyone else has already died. She pictures walking through the ruins of Hogwarts by herself, the only living thing, wiping the magic clean off it, stashing it in her charmed handbag.

She is suddenly jolted by the imagery. How perfectly awful. Why should she contemplate something so morbid?

And yet, the thought turns around inside her head all morning long.

In the afternoon, Riddle appears before her desk with another pass from Professor Slughorn. He is the picture of serenity as he gives her a small, decorous smile.

Hermione examines his slip without so much as a greeting.

"I'm afraid Professor Slughorn's signature is not clear enough. He must have given you the note in haste, because he has forgotten to proof it against forgery," she tells him coolly, casting back the piece of paper.

Tom tilts his head to the side. "Oh, I believe he does not always bother to do that because he trusts me implicitly."

"While I do not doubt the quality of your relationship, you must still give me a proper pass to the Restricted Section."

She can see the irritation in the twitch of his lips, but his eyes are full of provocation. He looks at her as if he were a cat eyeing a bird perched on the branch above.

"Then I shall return to Professor Slughorn and ask him for a new slip, though I imagine he won't be pleased to be troubled a second time."

Hermione shrugs her shoulders pertly. "I suppose that is entirely your problem, Mr. Riddle."

He parts his lips for a moment. But then he resumes his smile, a coiling little parenthesis, the smile of a whip. "I suppose it is."

Hermione does not expect to see him for the rest of the day. She is thinking about Medea's last letter, squatting over a shelf, trying to remove the charms off two books which have become entangled (as magical books sometimes do), when she senses a presence behind her.

She stands on her haunches, breathing out. "You may come forward, Mr. Riddle."

Tom turns the corner of the nearest bookshelf.

"I did not wish to interrupt you, Madam Granger."

Hermione rises to her feet, holding the shelf for support. "I hope you have not been standing there, waiting for me."

"I don't mind," he says, taking a step closer.

Of course you don't.

"I have brought you a fresh pass from Professor Slughorn."

Hermione eyes him carefully. "The library will soon be closing. It is too late to go into the Restricted Section. You'll have to come back some other time."

"Oh, I know that. I only wanted you to verify that this pass is legitimate."

He holds out the slip of paper.

Hermione reaches out and takes it. His forefinger brushes against her forefinger, quite by design.

Hermione suppresses the small jolt that rushes down her spine. She runs her wand across the piece of paper.

"It is legitimate," she confirms, slightly disappointed.

"I'm relieved to hear that," he says with a smile. "I want to assure you that, despite my performance during the exam, I strive to be fair in my dealings."

His little speech sounds so unconvincing to her ears that she cannot help but snort. "You must not strive very hard."

Tom shrugs. "We are all prone to making mistakes from time to time."

"Invading someone's mind is quite a mistake to make."

He lowers his eyes. "I don't believe I was doing much harm."

Hermione knows she should end the conversation here, but this unfathomable game between them demands that she respond.

"Your colleagues certainly have not challenged you on the matter. You have corralled them into perfect submission."

He smiles with half his mouth. "You give me too much credit. I can barely keep them civilized, half the time. They have some very appalling tendencies, for wizards."

Hermione folds her arms. "I expect some of those tendencies are more easily fostered than curbed."

"I hope you are not inferring that I am doing the former. As Head Boy, I do my best to improve their manners."

"Then perhaps you should improve your manners to help your cause," she replies tartly.

Tom takes another step forward, leaning his arm against one of the shelves. "My manners? Have I offended you?"

Hermione takes a step back. She feels the hardness of wood behind her back. She realizes she is more or less trapped in this corner with him, for he has skillfully blocked her exit. But she does not feel afraid. She has her wand with her, and even without it, she's confident she could knock him flat. She almost yearns for an opening. Her fingers twitch around the wand impatiently. She hasn't set loose in such a long time, always needing to be careful. She misses putting everything into a curse and watching it land.

He must see something of these dangerous thoughts in her eyes, because his own eyes darken and he releases a soft breath, waiting for her charge.

She clears her throat. "What happened to Mr. Avery certainly offended me. The boy told me to tell you personally how sorry he was. I do not appreciate being on the receiving end of such distasteful messages."

Tom affects surprise. "He must have told you to tell me because he knows how much I respect you and how much I dislike discourteous behaviour."

Hermione scoffs. "You are a more sophisticated bully, Mr. Riddle, I'll give you that. But you are still a bully. You simply hide it better."

Tom stares at her beneath lowered eyelashes. "A pity you should think so, for I am most sincere in my desire to be your friend."

"Sincerity aside, you are a student, and as such, can never be a friend," she points out coolly.

Tom considers her for a long moment. "Yes, you're right. Perhaps friendship is too narrow a term for what we might be."

He is close enough now that his breath falls on her hair, disturbing a few locks which have escaped her knot.

Hermione presses the tip of her wand into his chest. "Whatever delusions you harbour, you must keep them to yourself. I want little to do with you outside my professional duties."

He sketches a smile. "And yet, I believe we could help each other."

"I do not."

"Not yet, but if you let me show you -"

"I'd rather you showed yourself out instead."

Tom chuckles. "I must admit, no one has denied me before. Not like this, not like you." His eyes fall to her lips. "It is a singular experience."

"You will get past it, I'm sure," she drawls, retreating into sarcasm.

"No… I don't think I will. I still think about the mark you gave me." He lifts a hand to her cheek, showing her the spot where she hurt him, but he does not touch her.

Hermione watches the movement of his hand. She does not flinch.

"No one knows you did it, except me. I suppose I could tell Professor Slughorn about it...but I won't."

Hermione hates the way her breath hitches in her throat. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want anyone else to know. I want to keep it to myself." His fingers dance in the air, almost touching the side of her throat. "I can still feel your magic on my skin, you know. It is quite distracting."

She tightens her grip on the wand. She could release herself from this moment. She knows she could. But – she's curious.

At night, especially," he murmurs, bending his head. "I lie awake in bed and relive the moment. It ought to be humiliating. I should want to crush your skull, and yet it thrills me like nothing else. I almost want you to do it again. Don't you want to do it again?"

Hermione swallows thickly. Yes. Yes, she wants to. She'd gladly do it again. She'd gladly hurt him, which –

Which isn't right.

It's what he wants: for her to lose control.

She lowers her wand and gives him a scathing look.

"Frankly, Mr. Riddle, you are not worth the bother. The library has closed for the evening."

Tom takes a step back. His eyes flash almost red with fury. He grips the shelf above him. His knuckles are white from the effort.

He smarts from the rebuff and yet - yet, he is also captivated by her continued dismissals.

He straightens himself. "I see. I don't suppose you'd come with me to Slughorn's Christmas party, then."

"What?"

She is so taken aback by the sudden shift in topic that she almost loses her footing.

"No, I guess not. Students and staff must not mingle," he drones, shoving his hands in his pockets. "But you will be there, won't you?"

"I - I certainly won't. I have no reason to be. Professor Slughorn's parties are private."

Tom Riddle smiles a gratified smile. "I know. I shall see you there, Madam Granger."

He turns on his heels without another word. She listens to his receding footsteps for a long time.

Hermione cannot bear the tension coiling in her stomach. She twists and turns between the covers, trying to push away the images that haunt her, the smoking ruins of Hogwarts, the acrid smell of sweat in crowded courtrooms, the thud of dungeon cells, the scraping of quills on parchment, the slant of his mouth as he asks her if she wants to do it again. She reaches between her legs with trembling fingers and touches herself in shame.

I should want to crush your skull.

She comes so fast she nearly keens. In fact, she has to bury her head in the pillow and bite.

The following morning, a small green envelope with her name on it awaits her at the breakfast table. A few seats down, Professor Slughorn beams and waves at her, trying to catch her eye.

"I shall expect you there, Hermione!" he cries out, wagging a finger. "And you aren't allowed to say no."

Hermione sinks into her chair with a blush. Never mind that the man is so tactless that he has announced himself to the whole table; he's also called her by her first name, as if they were anything like friends. She feels thoroughly mortified.

This time, however, she doesn't avoid looking at the Slytherin table.

Tom is resting his chin in the palm of his hand. She can see the smile playing on his lips. He raises his goblet in amicable fashion.

Hermione twists the envelope between her fingers. She'd like nothing better than to set it on fire. And him, if possible.

She fishes out a book from her handbag and buries her head in it, not reading a single word.