Chapter 10
With a soft pop, the house-elf materializes before her.
"He's still sweeping the floors, Miss."
Hermione raises the steaming cup to her lips. "Is he?"
"He looks very serious about it," Netty adds with a shake of her head. "Never seen anything like it."
"Thank you, Netty. Yes, I told him to take it seriously. Now, Mr. Dobby," Hermione turns to the senior house-elf sitting by the fireside, roasting chestnuts over the grate. "Will you be so kind as to relay the message from our mutual friend?"
The elf in question goes red with pleasure at the formality.
"Miss can call me Dobby, if she likes. But Dobby daren't call that great man a friend."
"If he has given you his trust, then you have more than deserved it," Hermione argues, accepting the small bowl of hot chestnuts from him.
"Dobby is not worthy of the honour, Miss."
"I'm sure you are."
"There isn't a less worthy creature."
"Come now, that is patently untrue –"
"Dobby is woefully unfit to speak of such a great wizard –"
"Please, he wouldn't like you saying so. He values you greatly," she reassures him hastily, privately wondering how many more such remarks she will have to amend.
"Oh, but Dobby does say so –"
"The message, Dobby. You said he left some directions for me?"
"Ah, yes, he did." His ears suddenly flopped dramatically. "But Dobby dreads telling you the directions! Oh – you shouldn't follow them, Miss!"
"Why ever not?"
"It's far too dangerous! Dobby couldn't forgive himself if something happened to you!" he moans rather noisily. Hermione looks around, shifting in her seat. The other elves are preoccupied with dinner, but she can't be sure they are not eavesdropping. Any sort of silencing spell would have drawn their attention more. She must hope the clamour of pots and pans is enough to drown their voices.
"Let's try to keep this between us," she warns them both. "We wouldn't want others to catch wind of it."
Dobby suddenly adopts a solemn mien. "We house-elves never gossip, Miss. We like to keep to ourselves."
Netty, his current paramour, shakes her head with a disbelieving huff.
Hermione presses on. "I'm sure that's true. All the same, it wouldn't hurt to be vigilant, which is why I must know the full extent of the message. If you say these directions are dangerous, then I should know them in order to protect myself."
Dobby heaves a tremulous sigh. "Very well…Though Dobby humbly thinks he shouldn't send young Miss into the Forbidden Forest. Dark things dwell there."
Hermione takes a small chestnut and passes the bowl to Netty, who takes several. The prospect of exploring the Forbidden Forest does not scare her exactly, but she doesn't find the notion appealing, either.
"Well, it's certainly not a welcoming place… but if one is well equipped, one can manage. What am I supposed to find there?"
"Not what, but whom. He said when the moon is a sickle you're to go into the Forest and meet with Master Firenze, the leader of the centaurs. A centaur, of all things! Dobby wouldn't like running into him!"
Hermione furrows her brow. "Centaurs? That is unexpected. I thought they rarely communicated with humans."
"As they should!" Dobby adds vehemently. "They're wild and dangerous creatures."
"Oh, no. I've met far worse," she mutters, lost in thought. "Centaurs are known to be quite civilized, in fact."
"Oh, they can be terribly uncivilized when they want to, Miss."
Hermione places her chin in her hand, staring into the fire. "Aren't we all?"
Though Dumbledore's office has been parsed at length by the Ministry Aurors, Hermione still looks over each remnant piece of furniture and scrap of parchment that was not confiscated. As she's only allowed inside the office before Transfiguration classes, she takes advantage of the opportunity as often as she can, but either the Aurors were very thorough, or Dumbledore knew ahead of time to leave no trace because she finds nothing conclusive.
It feels very strange to stand in the middle of its emptiness and reflect on the wizard who occupied it before.
He must have planned it all, she thinks one afternoon as she readies herself for class, sitting at his now rather bare desk. Nothing else makes sense.
There is a knock at the door. Her magical wards tremble with familiarity. A student. The student.
"Enter."
Tom Riddle opens the door and climbs up the short flight of stairs.
Hermione pretends to look over a few marked assignments.
"Mr. Riddle. How may I help you?"
She can feel his eyes, two grey pits, hungrily assessing her and her surroundings.
"Pardon me, Madam Granger. I wanted to make sure you were satisfied with the job I performed the other day."
"Remind me, which job was that?" she asks, setting aside one parchment after another.
Tom is not discomfited, though he places emphasis on his words. "Cleaning the floors, the desks, and the blackboard."
Hermione makes sure her voice carries with it the indifference of a superior. "Ah, yes. It was tolerably well done."
"Only tolerably?"
"I'm sure you will do better next time."
She doesn't need to look up at him to sense the way his body tenses and grows mean at the possibility of a 'next time'.
"I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing."
Hermione forces herself not to look up, not to give him what he wants. But the image makes her breath come out a little uneven. "I am glad to hear you threw yourself into the task. I didn't think you would."
"I told you I would. I saw you had the house-elves check up on me. You needn't have."
Hermione smiles. "What I need or needn't do is not your concern. Is there anything else?"
He takes a small step forward, keeping his hands behind his back. "Yes. I must say, I rather enjoy seeing you at that desk instead of him. You wear it better."
Hermione looks up, finally. He always finds ways to disarm her.
Tom meets her stare. His smile is almost provocative, but it is also tinged with need. Is this all she is going to give him?
Hermione leans her back against the tall chair. "That is not a very sensitive thing to say, Mr. Riddle, especially since Professor Dumbledore left the school under critical circumstances."
Tom lowers his head in mock-humility. "I am sorry if I have insulted his memory."
"He's not dead, mind you."
"Not yet," he lets slip, keeping his eyes on the floor.
Hermione almost chuckles in shock. How else to react? Riddle seems desperate to please and scandalize in the same breath.
"You realize I cannot leave such a remark unpunished," she says, leaning forward.
Tom nods obsequiously. "Shall I clean this office too?"
Nice try, she thinks.
"No. I have something else in mind. During class this afternoon, you will write "Professor Dumbledore deserves my respect and obedience" one hundred times. You will hand me the parchment at the end of class. Naturally, I will know if you've magicked the sentences. I expect you to write them by hand."
Riddle's face blanches. He clenches his fists at his side. His eyes turn lustreless with rage. They almost reflect a strange red light, muted and inward.
"I will not write such odious lies."
Hermione cocks her head to the side. She knows she is indulging, but she can't seem to stop. "You once told me you'd do anything I asked. If you can't bring yourself to write a few lies, then how will you ever make a Horcrux?"
Tom parts his lips. His eyes flash with a kind of torment. He is so much like a chameleon, his features so quickly altered by the whims of the moment, and just as quickly hidden. Hermione wonders what the true cause of his animosity could be. She senses there is something here, something beyond Dumbledore not appreciating him.
After a few moments, Riddle recovers.
"You shall have the parchment after class, Madam Granger."
"That's what I like to hear. You are dismissed."
He doesn't leave right away. He stands there, hands at his side, unable to grasp anything, wanting to seize everything. He is doing his best to suppress his instincts, while being a slave to others.
Hermione stares at the space between them, the few shallow steps he'd have to take to reach her desk. What would he do, if given the chance? How far would the hungry boy go? When would he be satisfied?
It is so easy to become addicted to the power she has over him.
She only exhales after he closes the door behind him.
He takes his time, petulantly.
He dwells on his penmanship with exaggerated care, drawing perfect loops and curlicues and arabesques. He dabs the blotter carefully, making sure there are no ink stains. His hand moves slowly and laboriously.
When Hermione passes by his desk, he drops his hand, allowing her to see his elegant work. His smile is a little boastful. He's barely written twenty lines.
Hermione smiles back at him. Oh, does he think this was the punishment?
"Mr. Riddle," she says, out loud. "What have you been writing all class? This doesn't look like notes."
She snatches the parchment from him before he has time to do away with it.
"Ah...Professor Dumbledore deserves my respect and obedience. How touching." She lifts the paper for everyone to see. "You must miss him greatly. I know we all do."
No one in class dares laugh at him, but there are covert smiles and suppressed giggles everywhere.
Hermione shrugs. "Noble as your sentiments may be, this is still a classroom. I hope you manage your personal feelings better next time. Ten points from Slytherin."
Given her busier schedule, Hermione's librarian duties have fallen short of her usual standards. She spends the evening trying to rectify her negligence, sorting through indexes and reordering shelves. Tonight, she must make her journey into the Forbidden Forest and she is more than a little nervous. Books are always a happy distraction, if nothing else.
But no book can distract her from Riddle's presence. He is waiting for her at the front desk, no doubt wanting to exact some form of retribution for his recent humiliation. She wonders if he will try to attack her in public. It would only be a show of weakness on his part if he surrendered his carefully-bottled control. But his expression alone could make Grindelwald wilt.
Hermione walks towards him without reaching for her wand. She will not be unnerved by him, though her heart is beating like a drum, and Riddle is ready to pounce, he is about to take a step forward and –
Kneel.
At the last moment, he kneels before her.
Hermione's mouth falls open.
Tom's hands are on her shoes.
"Your laces have come undone, Madam Granger. It would be very dangerous to walk further."
Hermione stares down, nonplussed. It's true. Her shoelaces have loosened. She watches, mesmerized as Tom carefully ties them each into a perfect bow. The loops remind her of his delicate penmanship. His hands linger. His fingers brush against the flute of her ankle.
He looks up at her, eyes full of mischief and warning, a schoolboy in disguise.
"You should know I hate being made a fool."
Hermione feels his fingers on her ankle, gentle at first, then tight like a vise.
She knows it's not a good idea. She knows toying with him is dangerous. There are other ways to keep him in check. She doesn't need to do this. But Merlin, his hand on her ankle is like heady wine, going straight to her head.
"I think you rather like it," she says boldly. He may hate that he likes it, but he likes it all the same.
Which is why, instead of trying to deny it, he asks, "Have you given any thought to my request? Will you take me under your wing?"
Hermione is tempted to brush away the curls from his forehead.
"You haven't quite proven your docility, have you?"
The shadows that fall across his face have nothing to do with candlelight. She seems to be their source. She feels a tug inside her, a deep pull towards those dark diagonals.
She slides her foot away from his grasp. His fingers trail against the threadbare carpet.
Riddle rises slowly, snake-like.
"How can I prove it?"
Hermione moves past him. "That is up to you, isn't it?"
A few hours later, she makes her silent way out of the castle, chastising herself for her recklessness, promising her own conscience that she will stop, that she can stop.
But it doesn't take her long to realize she can't shake him off that easily. He is her shadow, as she is his.
Literally, it seems. She has barely taken a few steps inside the forest, the dark foliage pressing upon her, bare of snow yet filled with almost warm, pungent decay, when she realizes he has been following her.
Of course he would.
He might have done a better job of hiding, but he wants to get caught. He wants her to know.
Hermione could hex him where he stands.
Instead, she turns her head slightly over her shoulder.
"Stay," she says firmly. As you would a dog.
There is a twinge from him, the sound of broken bark and dry leaves.
"I said stay."
This time, the dog listens.
Tom stands still. She can feel him acquiesce, his magic withdrawing, lapping against the shores of her mind.
"Wait here," she says, a degree softer.
It's not that she needs him. But he could make himself useful, should anything go wrong.
She sends this thought to him. She throws him a bone.
The dog lies down with it.
Yes, Madam Granger.
Satisfied, Hermione stashes her wand and walks on, knowing she will find him there when she returns.
A/N: thank you for your patience & lovely reviews!