Chapter 7

The school grows quiet with the approach of Christmas. Emptied of swarming children, the hallways acquire a certain echo. The castle starts to look like a deserted relic, a familiar image across the war-ravaged continent. Except here, the children will come back.

How long can it last? Peace and war are ever changing states, coming and going, never allowing one to settle.

Still, there is a reprieve, small but significant.

Argos Lovegood has been released from custody, though he and Medea are still under house watch. But he will spend the holidays at home with his family, which is a great relief to the Lovegoods, and it is all thanks to Albus Dumbledore.

Hermione reads Medea's letter while the bespectacled wizard pours her another cup of tea. It was safer for her friend to deliver the missive to Dumbledore himself.

"We must remain vigilant, Miss Granger. I believe the Wizengamot still has something in mind for Mr. Lovegood… but we may take solace in small victories. It's Christmas, after all."

Hermione accepts the cup.

"It is your victory, Sir. The Lovegoods are in your debt, as am I."

Dumbledore raises a weary hand, dismissing her gratitude, but a shadow passes over his face, thinning his smile. His eyes grow distant, contemplative, almost as if he were staring into the abyss.

"Sir?"

"I am not very comfortable with gratitude, Miss Granger, though I thank you. But I do not feel I have earned it, quite."

Hermione cannot help an incredulous smile. "Have not earned it? I believe you're doing everything you can, given the circumstances."

Dumbledore lowers his eyes behind his half-moon glasses. "I'm afraid I could be doing a lot more."

It would be a show of humility from anyone else, but from her professor it feels quite genuine. He almost sounds upset, despite his efforts to remain festive. But she can never tell with Dumbledore. He always keeps his cards close to his chest.

What more could you be doing, and why are you not doing it, then?

It is tempting to ask, but she would never forgive herself such rudeness, and besides, she has complete faith in him, or as complete as she can muster.

By the time she leaves Dumbledore's office, it is long past curfew and the hallways are deserted. She's always liked Hogwarts at night. The castle seems to change when no one's watching; rooms and corridors appear where there were none before and the staircases may take you to an entirely unknown part of the castle.

Hermione is thinking about the castle's secrets when she rounds a corner and runs into a solid body.

Two hands come up to steady her, but their grip is rather tense.

Hermione steps back.

"Ah, Madam Granger. I almost thought you were a student."

"You thought wrong, Mr. Riddle," she stammers, trying to control the shock in her voice.

His hands fall to the side, skimming down her arms. Even in the relative dark – for there is only the weak light coming from the window at the far-end of the corridor – Riddle's grey eyes pour over her features with an alertness that betrays anticipation.

He looks as if he had been expecting her. She wonders if he was waiting at this junction to meet her. No, he wouldn't put himself in the caretaker's path for her sake, would he?

"My apologies. You often appear younger than your age," he explains, lowering his eyes demurely, or perhaps giving her a once-over. One is never sure with him.

Hermione surveys him critically. "Speaking of age, may I ask why you are skulking about at this hour? The last time I checked, you are still a student."

One corner of his mouth lifts at her barbed tone. "I like to do more patrolling than is necessary. I suppose I sometimes take my duties as Head Boy a little too seriously."

"Indeed, since it's past any kind of patrolling hour. You ought to be in your Common Room."

"You are right, of course," Tom nods, "but I've been following a number of Gryffindors who have snuck out of their dormitories. I have it on good authority they're trying to get to the Kitchens unobserved. I mean to catch them in the act."

Hermione cannot help a small snort. "Oh, give it a rest, Tom. It's almost Christmas. They're probably just stocking up on gingerbread."

She does not realize her mistake until his eyes give it away. Their grey turns a darker shade of milk.

Tom. The name slipped out by accident.

It's fascinating to see the change on his face, the small betrayal of emotion.

"I can't give it a rest, I'm afraid," he says, voice taut. "I'm like a dog with a bone."

Hermione suppresses a small shiver. He has a talent for steering them away from regular conversation.

"Perhaps you simply like to wander the school after curfew, and this is your excuse," she remarks wryly.

He gives her a guilty smile. "It seems I cannot hide much from you. I suppose it does drive the boredom and loneliness away."

Hermione stares at him. She did not expect the confession to come so freely from his lips, but she's not entirely surprised. The revelation of his blood status at Slughorn's party has certainly given her more insight into him, into the way he thinks. Yes, it must be lonely to always perform for the crowds, to fashion yourself the idol they want you to be, to feel like an outsider, despite your best efforts. It must be lonely and boring, never facing a real challenge, always limiting your abilities, always hiding pieces of yourself.

The way he's looking back at her, he knows she understands. We are both outsiders, she recalls him saying.

Still, she does not know what to say in return.

"Aren't you going home for the holidays?" she asks uneasily.

Tom leans against the wall. "The orphanage is not exactly a home."

Hermione is stumped. "Orphanage?" she echoes.

He nods. "That's where I've lived most of my life. I was not a particularly wanted child. My consumptive mother died after giving birth to me, and my wretched Muggle father wanted nothing to do with me. Hogwarts was and is my home."

He tells her all this in a very casual, indiscriminate manner, as if recalling a particularly dull game of Gobstones, but she can't help but notice the tension in his shoulders, the clenched fists inside his pockets. He's waiting to see how she'll react.

Orphaned, unwanted, abandoned. Wretched Muggle father. He's laid it on rather thickly, but it must not be easy to talk about it, anyway.

She licks her lips. "I'm sorry."

It's a rather pithy reply, almost stupid in its simplicity. But no one must have told him that before, because his face spasms with surprise and some kind of buried emotion.

"It isn't your fault. And you must not pity me," he says, a slight, petulant warning in his voice.

She almost smiles. He may think himself an adult, but Riddle still has some of the instincts of the child.

"I don't," she says automatically, because it's true. As much as she may sympathize, the boy standing in front of her is far more than just a miserable orphan.

Tom seems quite pleased with her response.

"Thank you. What about you, Madam Granger? Are you going home to your family?"

Hermione catches the glint of moonlight in the distance, spilling down the corridor. The window panes are silver with it. She looks up at him.

"No."

Her tone invites no further inquiry, but she can tell he is itching to ask her more about it, when they both hear shuffling footsteps down the corridor.

Without warning, Tom takes her by the arm and drags her round the corner, behind the stone sconce. He steps in front of her, pressing her up against the wall.

Hermione opens her mouth. "What are you –"

"It's the caretaker, Pringle," he whispers, lips almost brushing her hair. "We wouldn't want to get caught by him."

Hermione pushes a hand against his chest. She can feel the warmth radiating off him. She can see the place where his shirt collar cuts into the skin of his throat. He swallows against the constraint. They are standing far too close.

She wants to tell him that it doesn't matter whether Pringle "catches" them. She is a member of staff. He can't do anything to her. But …she does not relish confronting the ornery old man who is known to carry a cane, which he uses far more liberally than his wand. His memory is also not particularly reliable. He might still think her a student.

You often appear younger than your age, Tom had said.

Perhaps it would be better, after all, to wait it out.

But does he have to stand so close?

"Tom –" she starts, but the young man lifts a finger to his lips, asking for her silence. Pringle's shambling is getting closer.

Hermione feels a strange sense of déjà vu, though she can't explain why.

Moments pass in strained suspension as Pringle moseys wearily down the corridor, punctuating each step with a rap of his cane.

Tom leans even closer to her, his chin nearly touching her forehead as they wait for a denouement. Discovery or evasion.

And what would it look like from the outside? The student and the librarian, caught in what appears to be an embrace? She shudders to think it.

Eventually, the sounds grow dimmer. Pringle has taken a turn down another passage. They listen to his fading footsteps.

Hermione releases a breath. Tom looks down at her.

His hand falls to her shoulder, thumb scraping against the bare flesh of her neck.

"Close shave, wasn't it?"

His wry voice pulls her out of the trance. She shoves past him, knocking a sharp elbow in his chest.

Tom releases a cough, mixed with a chuckle.

Hermione keeps her voice down as she touches up the loose locks from her knot. "That was quite foolish, not to mention unnecessary. It's high time you returned to your Common Room, Mr. Riddle. And I should return to my quarters."

Tom straightens his tie. "Yes, we should. It is rather late. Was it Professor Dumbledore who kept you so long?"

Hermione stares. She feels as if she's been doused in ice-cold water. The question is not a question, but a crude insinuation.

The ice is quickly replaced by the warmth of anger, though she does not let him see the brunt of it.

"Twenty points from Slytherin for breaking curfew," she says coolly. "And five more points for that unwarranted question."

Tom pushes himself off the wall, looming over her. She can see an angry twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it is quickly replaced by a smirk, or rather, the two are nearly indistinguishable.

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Madam Granger."

Hermione stands very still. She gives him nothing. "After you, Mr. Riddle."

Finally, he must wrest his eyes away from her. He must do as he is told. It is probably an alien notion to him, obeying, yet also fascinating, like trying on a new pair of gloves.

Hermione tries not to think about it too much as she watches him walk away.

Christmas dinner finds her sitting next to Albus Dumbledore, their heads bent together in pleasant conversation. It wasn't a conscious choice on her part, but, if it bothers Riddle, all the better.

The Great Hall is empty enough that she has no trouble picking him out of the sparse group of Slytherins. To anyone else, his wandering gaze would seem perfectly neutral, but she detects the iciness immediately.

He looks particularly angry when Dumbledore slices an orange in two and offers her a half.

"I always like an orange at Christmas," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "I have this silly superstition that it will bring good luck."

Hermione takes the other half. "Thank you, Sir. Let's hope next year will be better."

Relinquishing the cutlery, she brings the fruit directly to her mouth and bites into the veiny pulp, drinking the juices before they trickle down her chin.

It is an almost greedy display. One must eat well when one has the chance. She has learned that steep lesson in the Muggle world.

She wipes her mouth and hands with the cloth napkin, but her fingers are still sticky.

When she looks up, Riddle is watching her, lips pressed into a thin line. He is almost looking through her, admiring a much vaunted fruit he has not yet attained.

She thinks about the greed of orphans.

Is Riddle jealous of Dumbledore, or jealous of her? His greed feels large enough to include both.

The library is closed for the next few days, and Hermione finds it hard to stay unoccupied.

She walks the castle grounds aimlessly, straying close to the Forbidden Forest, watching as the birds fly right up to the dark treetops, then veer away. She treks up to the owlery and sends letters to Flea and Seven and Medea, thanking them for their Christmas cards and gifts. The boys got her a very snappy-looking book cleaning set, with tools more appropriate for an archaeologist than a librarian, which does make her feel a tad more professional. She, on the other hand, sent them pairs of gloves knitted by her, woven with additional charms to protect them from fire and damage. A wizard's hands are essential, after all. It is, she admits, a more practical than impressive gift, though the boys seemed delighted with it. Fleamont even invited her to the Potter manor for the duration of the holidays, but Hermione had to turn him down. She knows she would have got into pointless arguments with her friends over Ministry policies and their naïve allegiance to the status quo. It would have soured the merriment of such an occasion.

A part of her also yearns for solitude at such times. Holidays used to be events spent with family. Now that she does not have one anymore, she is not eager to replace it. Not yet.

On the third day of Christmas, she returns to her quarters after dark, almost frozen with the cold. She sometimes likes to feel that sharpness in her bones, a reminder of a more elemental force that goes beyond magic. She sinks half-naked under a mountain of blankets and tucks her knees to her chest and shivers her fear away. There is something delicious in that precarious state of vulnerability.

On her bedside table, she spies an extra pair of gloves. She was thinking of giving them to Dumbledore, but she knows, deep down, she's thinking of someone else. She's sure his group of sycophantic admirers have given him plenty of gifts already, and yet, the picture of a sad, loveless Muggle orphanage keeps haunting the edge of her consciousness. Can an orphan ever have enough gifts?

Of course she won't give him the gloves. It was only a thought.

She almost falls asleep in this suspended state when the vibration of her wand under the pillow startles her awake.

The tip of it is pulsing red.

Hermione stands up in bed.

She knows what that pulsing means. It's coming from the library.

Someone has set off her wards. The additional wards she cast inside the Restricted Section. Which means they got past the first wards contained by the partition rope.

"They" is a misnomer, of course. She knows exactly who did it.

Hermione grits her teeth.

To think she was considering him with a little more kindness.

She grabs her wand and throws a dressing robe over her nightgown.

First, she's going to find out how he did it, then she's going to hex his head off.

A/N: Thank you for your reviews and support! And sorry for cutting it off here, I wanted a narrative break before their confrontation. Also, the Argos/Dumbledore subplot is going somewhere, I promise.