Chapter 5

Hermione had never been invited to a Slug Club meeting as a student. Despite her excellent academic credentials, she had never seemed like a valuable asset to Professor Slughorn before. But as she was now the resident librarian and Dumbledore's protégée, Slughorn was all too happy for an occasion to pick her brains. Riddle must not have had a very hard time planting the idea.

Still, she is quite taken aback by Slughorn's friendliness the minute she steps through the entrance of his office.

"Miss Granger! Come in, do come in! I have been expecting you!" his reedy voice greets her. His eyes are crinkled in a not very sincere smile. He smells of some very noxious, sweet cologne and tobacco. "So good of you to join us."

"Well, I –"

It's almost on the tip of her tongue. It's not as if I could have said no.

The whole thing had been more or less forced upon her. There was no polite way of rejecting another teacher's invitation.

"I thank you for inviting me," she says instead, shaking his hand. Slughorn quickly takes hold of her fingers and raises them to her lips.

Hermione forces herself not to flinch. When he releases her hand she tries not to wipe it against her dress.

"What do you think of my little soiree? Are the decorations to your liking?" he asks, ushering her inside.

Hermione takes it all in. The rooms have been altered for the party. Large and sumptuous green draperies hang across the beams, and twinkling lights trail down from the ceiling in an imitation of snow. House elves carry floating trays of Christmas-themed hors d'oeuvres and a few reindeer-shaped tables have been set up for his guests around the room, all festooned and garlanded in Christmas regalia. But the main event, he tells her, will be a lavish dinner of seven courses which is to take place in the adjoining drawing room.

"It's all quite lovely," she murmurs in appreciation, although she finds the colors garish and the music dreary. A string quartet of self-playing instruments has been arranged in a corner. The whole thing looks vaguely sinister.

"It's a pity Albus couldn't be here to enjoy it with us. Still busy with that case, is he?"

"Oh…yes, I'm afraid."

"Well, perhaps he will pop in later. I have it on good authority that he is in the castle tonight," he says with an oily wink. "Perhaps we'll go fetch him together, entice him with a piece of cake, eh?"

Hermione is spared having to answer such a preposterous suggestion by the arrival of a stout, bespectacled man at Slughorn's side. He wants to know when dinner shall be served.

"Ah, Miss Granger, I'd like you to meet my good friend and celebrated author, Eldred Worple, a specialist on vampires. You may have heard of him."

Eldred bows his head and sketches an impatient smile in her direction. He is clearly more concerned about dinner.

"I have," she nods. "I have read your book. Blood Brothers: My Life Among the Vampires, was it?"

Worple stares at her with a befuddled expression.

"Oh, I did not expect to meet a fan. How positively charming," he simpers, looking her up and down, as if she were one of the vampires he's wont to study.

"Well…I don't know about fan, but I found your account very interesting, if rather personal."

"Whatever do you mean by personal?"

Hermione balks. "I…only that it's very particular. Surely, you meant it less as a scientific treatise than a personal diary?"

"That was on purpose. A great author can do both, you know," Worple explains with a raised finger. Hermione notes how hairy his knuckles are. "What I've done is, I have managed to objectively analyze a particular strand of vampirism while bonding with my subjects and humanizing them, you'll agree."

Hermione is on the verge of telling him that giving his subjects names like Sanguini, Mortellini, and Iugulum (the Latin for jugular) does not really make them more three-dimensional, but she is once again spared having to argue the matter with him when more guests converge on Slughorn, wanting his opinion. Hermione manages to slip away between introductions.

The rooms are surprisingly packed. Slughorn has managed to invite quite a few people outside of school, which makes Hermione think longingly of Medea and Fleamont and Septimus. There is only one other professor in attendance; Professor Saracen who teaches Astronomy and who is trying to chat up a shapely-looking redhead, a singer by profession, who has promised to sing a special number for Horace after dinner. There are also a number of students flitting about, most of them Slytherins, but a few from other Houses as well, all notable children from notable families. Most of them nod at her politely in acknowledgement and murmurs of "Madam Granger" echo in her wake as she makes her way to the buffet. She must admit it is nice to see the Slytherin brats acting nice around her, or as nice as they can be.

And, of course, there's their de facto leader.

Tom Riddle, dressed in elegant, but simple dress-robes, is standing with his back to her, chatting up a Slytherin girl at a small table in the corner. She's not the same girl he was charming in The Three Broomsticks, but Hermione supposes he never lacks for admirers.

He appears not to have noticed her arrival, which works in her favour. Hermione pours herself some spiced wine into a cup and decides that she is going to do her best to avoid him all evening.

"I wouldn't drink any of the spiced wine, if I were you. I'm afraid Horace has spiked it with one of his party concoctions. He always wants his guests to feel nice and jolly."

Hermione turns around.

The older man standing before her is dressed very soberly, the only extravagant item in his attire being a silver tie clip with a glittering diamond at one end. He smiles coolly, his expression narrow, despite his broad, toad-like face.

"Miss Granger, is it? Emilius Umbridge. How do you do?"

Hermione is quietly relieved that the man shakes her hand instead of kissing it.

"I'm afraid I have not made your acquaintance."

"To be expected. I am a friend of Horace's. I work for the Ministry, the not very glamorous Department of Magical Transportation."

Hermione's heart gives a lurch. A Ministry official, at Hogwarts, at this very party. And he seems to know her name. Usually, people were more wary of the officers in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but one couldn't speak of regular Ministry subordinates anymore. All of them answered to the new power, one way or another.

"Transportation?" she echoes mechanically. "I have always been fascinated by Portkeys." A good rule of thumb is to fall back on platitudes. That is what she has always done when confronted with the so-called establishment.

"Indeed? Perhaps you should be working in my Department," he says with an unctuous smile. "But I suppose a cozy job at Hogwarts is the next best thing."

Hermione does not miss the barbed insinuation there. This man must know about her blood status, since it's no secret at Hogwarts.

He studies her closely.

Hermione knows she must speak. Silence can be deadly, in its own way.

"I've always been a bit of a bookworm," she says, trying to sound casual. "When I found out about the opening, I knew I had to come back."

"Ah, yes. Hogwarts is that sort of place. One always wishes to return. I myself – well, I do miss the golden days in the Slytherin Common Room. Were you a Slytherin yourself?"

"Gryffindor, actually."

"Well, I shan't hold it against you," he says with a fake titter. "All the Houses deserve credit and their professors too. The school has always been in perfectly good hands. I imagine you must be the youngest member on the staff."

Hermione forces herself to smile. "Yes. I don't mind it."

"No, why would you? I don't mind telling you, you look like a very self-possessed young lady. Mature for your age," Umbridge remarks and his toady eyes gloss over her figure.

She swallows. "Thank you."

"In fact, the staff would benefit from more new blood, if you ask me," he adds, patting his chest and his silver pin.

"I suppose that is a suggestion for Headmaster Dippet."

"Certainly, but Dippet himself might benefit from a holiday, brilliant man though he is. He has given so many years to this school. I'm sure he's grown softer with age. One cannot help it. But one needs a firm hand when dealing with so many wizards and witches in one place, don't you think?"

Hermione can't help the small twitch of her eyebrows. "I thought you said the school has always been in perfectly good hands."

Umbridge smacks his lips in annoyance. "Of course it has. I only meant that it must be rather difficult work. There was talk of Horace taking over the position last year. Or even Albus Dumbledore. But I think the latter is too busy with causes outside of Hogwarts, wouldn't you say?"

Hermione knows there is some kind of trap laid behind these words, but she does not know how to avoid it exactly.

"Professor Dumbledore has prodigious energy for both curricular and extracurricular activities," she replies, settling on a neutral response.

Umbridge rubs a finger across his chin. "Prodigious energy, yes. Who could doubt that, given his recent activities? But I know that he values you a great deal, Miss Granger."

How do you know? she wants to ask. She's almost tempted to take a page out of Riddle's book and probe his mind a little.

Instead, she fortifies her own mental wards. She nods. "I value him equally."

"Still… should Hogwarts ever become less than ideal, you might consider a job in the Ministry. We are always looking for fresh, young talent."

The temptation to laugh is strong. A job as what? she wants to ask. The few Muggleborns still working in the Ministry must be fearing for their welfare daily, but are unable to leave.

"I will keep that in mind. Thank you, Sir."

"I hope you do. I'm sure your parents expect a more brilliant career for you than librarian."

The mention of her parents is what stops her breath. It could be just a passing remark, mere speculation. She, like most people, must have parents and those parents must expect great things for her. It does not mean that he knows about them. And yet, she cannot move past the terror of the moment. Her tongue is heavy in her mouth. She stares at him, feeling the weight of all her secrets on her shoulders.

"Pardon the intrusion, Mr. Umbridge, Madam Granger."

For once, Hermione is almost glad to hear the velvety voice behind her.

Tom Riddle stands before them, hands behind his back, a courteous smile on his lips. He carries himself with total confidence, yet not so much as to appear insolent. "Professor Slughorn has been looking for you, Sir. He wishes to speak to you on the matter of some travel permits."

The mention of Ministry business unsettles Umbridge. He does not like to talk shop, not if it's under his purview. He grunts, embarrassed, but he thanks the young man in front of him and he bows to Hermione with the same chilly smile, excusing himself for the need to leave.

Hermione releases a breath as she watches him go.

"I don't suppose I am the only one glad to see the back of him," Tom comments wryly, standing close to her. "Frightfully unpleasant man, isn't he?"

Hermione takes a step back. She stares at him critically. "Mr. Riddle. I hope you have not come all the way here to tell me that."

Tom chuckles. "No. I came because I saw that he was making you uncomfortable."

"That is rather ironic, seeing as, were it not for you, I probably wouldn't be at this party."

She can see how it thrills him, her acknowledgement of his power over her on this occasion.

"In my defense," he drawls, shoving his hands in his pockets, "I did not know that a Ministry man would be attending. I would have made sure you did not have to meet him."

Hermione shakes her head. "I do believe you overestimate your influence."

"And you underestimate your charm, Madam Granger," he replies, his voice low and thick with meaning. "I believe Umbridge approached you in part because you look more appealing than half the guests in this room. I hope you will not take offense in my saying so."

Hermione feels warmth on the back of her neck. He is only looking at her face, but she feels his eyes travelling across her body, seeing it from all angles, the heavy woolen dress, her second best, concealing little from him.

"I tend to ignore your more ridiculous remarks. You should return to your companion, Mr. Riddle," she says dryly, turning her back on him and stepping firmly away.

His eyes do not seem to leave her, even when he turns away himself.

The dinner is an elaborate, tedious affair. The food is too rich, the sauces too thick, the garnishes too exotic. Hermione chews on a golden piece of pineapple, since it seems like the only edible thing on her plate. She washes it all down with water. She would have liked to have a taste of the port, but she is not sure whether the wine was not also diluted with Slughorn's festive potions. It is quite hard to stand the dining ordeal without some fortifying drink. She has had to make a last-minute dash and sit next to Eldred Worple, so as to avoid Emilius Umbridge, who had drawn the seat next to him as invitation. Now, Hermione has to listen to the slightly inebriated author explain to her why his book on vampires is a "serious" scientific inquiry, while Umbridge stares at her from across the table. He's not the only one. Tom Riddle is also paying careful attention to the table conversation. From time to time he catches her eye. There's a shadow of a smile on his lips as he stares at Worple. He must find the whole thing quite amusing.

Slughorn talks over all of them, issuing encouragements from time to time and repeating words like "Capital, dear fellow, capital!" until they lose all meaning. The atmosphere is gregarious and animated, but in a forceful way, because most people have drunk from Slughorn's party stimulants and their euphoria is artificial. Saracen, for instance, is a clear victim. He's given up on the vivacious singer who kept ignoring him, and now has turned his attentions on her.

"Did you know, Miss Granger - Hermione," he starts boldly, forgetting all niceties, "that the best way to go star-gazing is to do it without any clothes on? There is a particular pagan magic in nakedness. I once tried it when I was looking at the Cassiopeia constellation and I tell you it was the most invigorating experience of my life –"

Hermione suppresses a laugh. "But surely, it must be too cold at this time of year."

"Not if you're in the right company," he says, stretching his arm over the back of her chair and leaning forward. "There are many ways to keep warm."

She can feel Riddle's intense stare from across the table, but it is Umbridge who speaks up first.

"What sort of behaviour is this, Sir? You are speaking to a lady, not the barkeep at The Three Broomsticks."

Saracen pulls back his arm quickly, but Hermione is more discomfited by Umbridge.

She frowns. "I happen to know Madam Goshawk and she is a very respectable lady too, Sir."

The Ministry official issues a small scoff. "Why, certainly, Miss Granger, but you must allow for the differences in station and circumstance."

"I do not see how she and I are different in either," Hermione protests.

Umbridge eyes her carefully. "You cannot mean that. Hierarchies are in place for a reason."

Ah, there it is. This is less about Madam Goshawk's profession and more about the fact that she is a Half-Blood. She had heard that some wizards were more inclined to tolerate Muggleborns and be prejudiced against Half-Bloods because of the great "degradation" of the Pureblood line. Not that any of it made sense. Grindelwald's rhetoric was rife with the idea that the wizarding community was slowly shrinking, that there were fewer of "us" than there were of "them". Muggleborns came in direct contradiction with this idea, which is why he could not stand them. Not to mention, many of those Muggleborns would have something to say if Grindelwald planned a war against their Muggle loved ones.

"I usually mean what I say," she replies calmly, looking directly at Umbridge, even though her nails are digging into the flesh of her palms.

"I was only proposing an innocent pastime, nothing more," Saracen intercedes, in a drunken attempt to mollify. "And anyway, the only one who would get naked is me -"

It is, thankfully, at this moment that the redheaded singer rises from her seat and announces to the party her first number of the evening. Chairs are scraped back and turned in her direction and Hermione takes this felicitous occasion to excuse herself from the table.

She has always been fond of alcoves and window seats. There have been many times when she retreated behind a well-positioned curtain or screen, curled up with a book. The beginning of Jane Eyre has always held a special place in her heart because of it. It is no wonder that she finds solace behind one of the heavy green draperies. She sits down on the cold stone and stares out of the small window at the dark-green lake beyond. Water swirls in complicated patterns across the pane, but little else seems to be moving.

This is how Tom finds her.

"I would not abscond for too long if I were you, Madam Granger."

His soft voice barely startles her. It seems to melt into the quiet of her hiding place.

Hermione looks up at him. Suddenly, she is too tired to get up.

"Have they noticed my absence already and sent you after me?"

"Not quite. They've started dancing, actually. I came to find you on my own. I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"Did you?" she asks, none too kindly. "The other day, you told me you were tempted to crush my skull, as you so succinctly put it."

Riddle stares at her nonchalantly. "Yes, I did say that, didn't I? But I am not tempted at the moment."

Hermione almost laughs. He is truly stripped of conscience, unapologetic and unrepentant. It is refreshing, in some ways.

"No, I was merely worried," he continues, undeterred. You seemed at a loss back there. I don't fault you for it. Slughorn's friends are a pack of slavering hounds."

"Aren't you one of his friends, Mr. Riddle?"

He smirks. "As you keep reminding me, Madam Granger, there can be no friendship between a student and a teacher."

She narrows her eyes at him. "I'm glad the lesson is starting to stick."

"Even so, I'm not yet discouraged."

"Why not?"

"I won't be a student forever," he says, leaning artfully against a pillar. "If that is your only objection."

Hermione cannot help a snort. "That is not my only objection."

Tom looks down at her with something like amusement. Hermione turns her head towards the window. Against all odds, sitting here with Riddle is more companionable than returning to the party.

"Since you stood up for Madam Goshawk, I don't suppose you have any objections against Half-Bloods," he remarks very casually.

Hermione blinks. "Of course I don't. Why? What do you –?"

But it doesn't take her long to connect the dots. The Riddle name has never rung any magical bells. It all clicks into place now. A Slytherin Half-Blood. Not the most common of things.

Tom smiles when he sees her expression.

"You see, we are both outsiders, one way or another."

Hermione looks at him in a new light. Suddenly, all of his mannerisms and affectations make a lot more sense. The care he puts in his appearance, the perfect politeness and attention, the way he marshals those around him before they can marshal him, dressing himself up in power so as not to appear naked.

His greed may go beyond blood, but it is rooted in it too.

"You seem to have mastered the art of belonging better," Hermione notes, not bothering to hide the fact that she is impressed.

Tom inclines his head. "No art is perfect. No matter how well I perform, there will always be an element of doubt, which is why it's not enough to belong, but to command. One must be superior, or perish."

He looks at her intently as he tells her this, his eyes gliding over the plunge of her shoulder line. Hermione stands up from her stony seat.

"You shouldn't confide in me with such ideas, Mr. Riddle."

"I am merely telling you, outsider to outsider. What I have done tonight by bringing you here is trying to make you look as if you belonged as well."

Hermione blinks in astonishment. His logic, though deeply flawed, has a certain design to it.

"Aligning yourself with Dumbledore is not wise, at the moment," he goes on, his voice more hushed. "Slughorn, for all his parading foolishness, is astute enough to have cozied up to the Ministry."

Hermione considers him for a moment. "And where do you stand in all this, Mr. Riddle?"

He smiles as he parts a drapery fold with his fingers. "Right by your side, of course, Madam Granger."

He waits for her to pass.

Hermione suppresses the urge to roll her eyes, but she cannot entirely fault him the evasion. She would have never answered that honestly either. But the real answer does pique her curiosity.

She takes a step forward. Tom holds the drapery for her.

As they come out together, he is the one who looks up first.

The white berries stand out against the green.

"Mistletoe," he says, looking down at her with amusement.

Hermione darts away so quickly that she almost walks into another pillar. Tom lowers his chin with a chuckle.

She scowls, brushing the skirt of her dress. Lifting up her wand, she casts a non-verbal spell and the mistletoe slowly withers and expires.

Tom raises both eyebrows. "Was that really necessary?"

"It may be infested with Nargles," she offers by way of explanation, knowing full well that there is no such thing as Nargles and the creatures are only the invention of Medea's and her brother's. But she does not care to explain herself further. The evening has been taxing enough already.

Tom can hardly suppress another chuckle.

Hermione brushes past him.

She can hear the music and dancing coming from the other room. With a resigned sigh, she walks back in, with Tom Riddle following closely behind.

A/N: thank you for all your reviews and support! Next chapter might be a Tom POV (including some flashbacks too), stay tuned!