they say that hell is crowded, yet,

when you're in hell,

you always seem to be alone.

- Charles Bukowski


Hermione's run of sleepless nights continue during her first night in Ravenclaw Tower. Sharing a room with strangers was hardly ideal: she woke several times clutching her wand, torn out of nightmares.

It was hard, alone in the dark, not to long for Ginny. Ginny who had always come to get in with her when one of them couldn't sleep in that strange last year at Hogwarts. Ginny who had fallen asleep there with her. Ginny who had helped talk her fears away.

Their nightmares had often been the same after all. Seeing Harry lying there darling, defeated, dead. Every night for months afterwards, again and again and again.

(In her dreams he never stood up.)

Some nights Bellatrix loomed over her, laughing as she cast the Cruciatus over and over, pressing that cursed knife into Hermione's neck, breath hissing, hot and rancid. She dreamt of the Snatchers, of Fenrir Greyback's leering eyes, of the Horcrux in the locket, of getting it wrong and dooming them all.

And that first night there they all were, parading through her mind like a hellish army.

But the most vivid dream she had night, the one that clung to her as she woke yet again, the cool grey of pre-dawn lingering at the edges of the blue curtains around her bed, was of chasing Harry and Ron through a forest. Hermione was trying to catch them but got left further and further behind until she stopped, gasping for breath next to a pool in a clearing. They walked in from somewhere else, but did not recognise her.

You're not Hermione, they hissed as they left, ignoring her sobbing and pleas. And when she looked down at her reflection it was not her face looking back, but Bellatrix's.

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.

She began the practice she had started in the tent every morning and every night: a form of magical meditation to clear her mind and help ease tension.

She'd developed the practice after reading Harry's Occlumency books, and had tried to learn it by herself in case she was ever captured. It had proved helpful when that had, perhaps inevitably, occurred. The mind healer she had spoken to at the end of the war had told her she could have gone mad under such prolonged torture. She probably would have, he'd said, if she'd had a less compartmentalised mind.

(Sometimes she dreamt she had.)

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.

Hermione abandoned sleep and dressed quietly. It was a Saturday, and she had picked up in the House Meeting after the feast it was customary to dress in non-regulation robes at the weekend, but Muggle clothes were frowned upon. Not that she now owned any fitting for this time.

The first thing she was going to ask for was a single bedroom. Hopefully some sort of nepotistic exception could be made for Dumbledore's cousin. Something she would have fervently disapproved of before. But it was hard to maintain silencing charms in a dorm without arousing suspicion, and it would be even harder to explain why a girl who had allegedly lived out of the way of the world all her life was having such terrifying nightmares.

She out on a set of grey robes, and once again scraped her hair into a bun. It made her look plainer than she was but plain was good, plain was exactly what she needed to be. Unremarkable Hermione Dearborn, who no one would think to wonder about later in life, whose face would pass from their memories.

She slipped quietly out of her dorm, hoping she hadn't woken any of the other girls, and then caught her breath as she walked into the Common Room. It had been lovely the evening before, but in the early light it was breathtaking, as though it had been designed exactly for her. Airy and light, huge windows opening up the spectacular landscape far below, the sun rising over the distant mountains to the east.

It was huge and round and blue bue blue: the deep blue of the carpet offset by lighter blue and bronze hangings. White shelves of books lined the west side, and everywhere there lay signs intellectual pursuits.

It thrilled Hermione, who had always found the Gryffindor Common Room a bit much, a bit too cluttered, a bit too cushy, a bit too red.

She had rarely had enough time to walk for pleasure in the grounds at Hogwarts and indeed had had little interest in doing so, but when she'd seen the grounds spreading out from the tower on that lovely, misty morning, the sun just beginning to break through the pearlescent grey to gleam off the shining lake, she couldn't resist, and set off down to the lake. Scotland was often magnificent in September (when it wasn't raining). The heather still glowed on the mountains, the air cool enough to remove the risk of too many midges. It was chilly enough, in fact, for her to wish she'd run up to fetch her cloak before leaving but a warming charm and the brisk walk soon warmed her, and served to lift her spirits further.

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.

By the time she returned to the castle Hermione was pink cheeked and starving. Her hair had fought its way out of its restraints in the breeze, as it always did at Hogwarts (it was far more unruly there than anywhere else she'd been and she wasn't sure if it was the climate or the magic imbued in every stone).

Two of the girls from her year were sitting at the Ravenclaw table and sent smiles of welcome indicating that she should join them as she cautiously scanned for somewhere to sit.

"Good morning, Hermione. Did you sleep well?" the brunette one asked politely.

Hermione struggled for her name then seized it: Ancha Burke. And the other one was... Sophia, she thought, unsure. She was a handsome, cool-eyed girl with dark blonde hair. Selwyn, her mind supplied.

"Good morning! I didn't sleep too badly, thank you," she lied. "I woke up quite early though and went for a wander. I got a bit lost on my way out! Did you sleep well?"

Hermione smiled as genuinely as she could at these strange girls and helped herself to some creamy porridge.

"A walk? That's a nice idea. What did you think of the grounds?" Ancha had blue eyes and pink cheeks and didn't look like she spent her holidays cursing Muggles, despite her last name.

"Oh they're so beautiful!" Hermione exclaimed, without having to feign anything. "I grew up in Wales so I thought I was used to mountains, but it's magnificent out there."

"In Wales? I'd heard the Dearborns had a residence there," Sophia probably-Selwyn commented.

"We're all terribly curious about you, Hermione. What was it like not going to school?" Ancha asked. She was a notably pretty girl but it was Sophia who drew the eye. Those grey eyes were quite sharp. Sharp as a warning, sharp as a knife.

"Well, I don't know really – it was all I knew, so it seemed fine to me," Hermione said with a light laugh. "Now I'm supposed to be meeting Professor Dumbledore in half an hour but I need to get some things from the tower first. How long will it take me to get there and to his office?"

"Not quite half an hour! Relax, we'll make sure you're on time." Ancha again. She seemed the nicer of the two.

"Thank you, that's kind. Before I go… would you mind telling me about some of the people in our year? I hardly remember meeting everyone last night, I'm afraid."

Deflection proved effective as an escape, and as they ate and then walked up to the tower, and over to the other side of the castle to Dumbledore's office she kept Ancha and Sophia chatting with endless questions about the students and the school. Anything she'd wondered about in first year that she could remember. She had tried to convince them she could find it by herself, but hadn't wanted to press the point when they'd insisted. It was, of course, the set of rooms that Professor McGonagall would one day occupy, on the first floor of the Defence against the Dark Arts tower.

"Thank you so much for showing me the way. You were right, I'd never have found it without you."

The lies were tripping off her tongue more and more easily it seemed.

"We usually have lunch at half-past one on a Saturday, so we'll see you then?" Ancha replied.

"That would be nice, assuming I've been released."

They smiled, wished her luck, and left her to it, heading off back to the Tower.

Hermione realised rather late, hand half-raised to open the door, that she was nervous at meeting all her new teachers and the Headmaster in one go.

I will not show off, she reminded herself and hoped she could stick to it, even if it did go against her very nature.

She finished the moment and knocked on the door, which swung open on her touch.

"Good morning, Hermione!" Dumbledore said, smiling fondly at her and jumping to his feet. "Please come in."

He was dressed once again in deep purple robes that clashed magnificently with his auburn hair. He looked splendid, but it was still a surprise to see how sprightly he was compared to the Dumbledore she remembered. Towards the end he had started to look so drawn.

His office was quite different from how it would look in Professor McGonagall's day: leather-bound books lining the rich red walls, shelves of the spindly silver instruments that would later clutter up the Headmaster's tower.

"We will not be testing you in here for obvious reasons..." he waved a hand vaguely at the books and papers piled on every available surface. "I haven't sorted it out since my last research project, but mercifully Jingo will be here tomorrow and will bully me into it. Did you sleep well?"

"I think it's charming. I didn't actually sleep well to be honest Professor –"

" – You may call me 'Albus', Hermione. I've said so enough times..." he interrupted.

"Even at Hogwarts?" she asked, shocked. "I just, I couldn't!"

She didn't see what was so funny, as he just laughed in response and decided to ignore it.

"I was actually going to ask... I don't want to seem spoilt but if there is any way I could have my own room I'd be really grateful. I have nightmares sometimes, and it's much worse when I'm with strange people. I understand it might look like favouritism, but..." she trailed off.

He looked gravely at her, not laughing now, and she knew that, though he wanted to know more, he would not ask.

"I will see what can be done, but ultimately it is up to the Headmaster. I should warn you that he wants to check that you are capable of joining the seventh year - he's concerned about you missing the first year of NEWT preparation... That is the reason for these tests. Now, come Hermione. We will be late!"

She followed him up the spiral staircase in his office to the Defence classroom a floor above, but he hesitated outside the door and frowned at her.

"If you really want your own room you mustn't hold yourself back in here. I want to really see what you can do. Your new wand will not suffer fools gladly and I assume that you have used it enough to win its allegiance yet. A wand like that – it will do anything you ask of it, but first you must tame it and bend it to your will. Have confidence."

She nodded and fingered the wand thoughtfully. He had been with her in Ollivander's when she had acquired it, and perhaps the manner with which the jarringly-young Ollivander had handed it to her had struck Dumbledore as strange. She recalled his little customer-satisfaction speech: "A fine wand... a very fine wand indeed, even by the standards of this combination. One of the best I have made. It will serve you well, for if you have the strength of mind to tame it, Miss Dearborn... then it will do anything you ask of it."

She knew he didn't really mean 'anything'. He liked his customers to feel they were special. A wand that could do anything didn't exist: not even the Elder Wand itself.

But walnut wands did have a particularly peculiar reputation - one she perhaps ought to research further: it was too similar to Bellatrix's horrible, unyeilding thing for comfort.

There were nine members of staff in the classroom, but she could only identify four: Professors Slughorn, Dippet, her hew Head of House Professor Wolfe, and lastly a very-much-alive Professor Binns.

She hadn't taken the History of Magic NEWT before because she'd read all the books by the end of her fourth year. To try and change up the curriculum she'd asked to take it this time around, hoping it would keep her mind focused on this version of the present.

They were sitting in a line and the classroom had been cleared of all other furniture, except a single chair and desk facing them. Hermione had a sudden pang of sympathy for those held by the Spanish Inquisition.

"Miss Dearborn, please have a seat."

She obeyed, and listened while Headmaster Dippet introduced the other teachers.

"We have each set you a small task or set of questions. Albus, if you would like to begin as she is your, er, protégé?"

"Thank you, Headmaster. Now, Hermione I am going to ask you to perform some basic transfigurations. We will start at OWL level to warm up and work our way up through the sixth year."

The first spells he asked her to perform were simple conjuring and vanishing spells, and then a switching spell she could have done in her sleep. After a while, as they went through a whistle-stop tour of the NEWT syllabus, she guessed what he was building up to: the hardest piece of transfiguration taught at Hogwarts.

As she performed each one perfectly Hermione decided she really had earned her one-hundred-and-seventeen percent last year. The third highest mark in a century, after Tom Riddle and Minerva McGonagall.

"And lastly, Hermione, if you would be so kind as to transform yourself into a cat?"

Human transfiguration on oneself: Hogwarts went no further.

"Professor Dumbledore that's a little beyond NEWT level isn't it? I thought we were testing Miss Dearborn on the Sixth Year?" Dippet interrupted, fidgeting in his seat. She saw Professor Wolfe catch Professor Merrythought's eye and smirk. Clearly Dippet had no idea what the syllabus consisted of, as she had just performed most of the NEWT level transfigurations right in front of him.

"I believe Miss Dearborn's Transfiguration capabilities to be a little beyond NEWT level, Headmaster. I am confident in her abilities and after all she is a little older than her classmates."

Dippet shrugged, and she took that as assent.

"What type of would you like cat would you like me to be, Professor?"

"Your choice, Miss Dearborn."

Hermione closed her eyes and focused. Animate-to-animate transfiguration was extremely difficult magic, and equally morally complex.

It was exactly the same principle as turning a mouse into a bird, but the human body was so complicated it required immense magical control and precision. Both Viktor and Cedric had messed it up during the Triward Tournament, which stood as a testament to its difficulty. But she had learned it under Professor McGonagall's watchful eye the previous year: the Headmistress had not trusted her replacement to teach them that.

To perform it on oneself was the toughest test; unlike an Animagus transformation, you actually had to become the animal. If it were temporary, you would change back after a few minutes or an hour or so when the spell wore off, but it was possible to make it permanent if you were really talented and powerful. She was definitely not aiming for a permanent transfiguration.

She didn't say the incantation aloud, but moments later stood before them as an exact copy of Crookshanks.

"Well now that is impressive, Albus. Very impressive indeed."

There was a hum of agreement with Professor Wolfe's statement, as Dumbledore untransfigured her with the Homorphus Charm. He looked extremely pleased.

"Excellent work, Miss Dearborn. Excellent. I think that's enough from me now, Headmaster."

Arithmancy was next, and the teachers sat talking quietly as she worked through a set of equations with ease. She already liked her new Head of House, but that she taught one of her favourite subjects was especially pleasing.

"I've finished, Professor Wolfe."

" Are you sure? You have got a few more minutes if you'd like."

"No, thank you. I'm sure."

The Professor hadn't asked her to perform an Arithmancy spell, which was disappointing, but they often took a long time and really they were hard to get wrong as long as you were good at maths, logic, and had enough power. Plus they weren't on the syllabus until the final year anyway.

Ancient Runes was similarly easy, a simple translation and some basic runic spells. Then charms she could have done in her sleep, some typically Slughorn questions about the theory behind Potions and asking her to identify three apparently identical vials.

Hermione began to wonder if she wasn't going to get terribly bored going to classes every day. She hadn't, in retrospect (although she'd been a panicked harridan at the time) found her NEWTs particularly testing the first time she'd done them. In fact, after sending her parents away with completely recreated memories, hunting down the Horcruxes, breaking into the Ministry, Gringotts, and Hogwarts, and facing Voldemort and his Death Eaters, her exams had been something of a doddle.

The last subject was Defence Against the Dark Arts. This Professor didn't look especially intimidating at first sight, but Hermione knew from Hogwarts, A History this was one of the most qualified people ever to fill the position. She had taught many fine duellists – not least Dumbledore himself. And of course the so-charming Head Boy. This old woman with bright eyes and iron-grey hair was not someone to underestimate. If had Hermione not known, she'd learned enough in the war to pick up on her upright posture, deceptively loose shoulders, and quick eyes.

"Defence Against the Dark Arts is the hardest subject to test in school conditions, Miss Dearborn. Clearly you have no issue performing complicated spells, but do you have the ability to use those spells under pressure? To cast on instinct against an enemy who is aiming to kill? To be the fastest, the canniest? Can you go up against creatures you have never seen or even heard of... against those whose very souls are rotten... The Dark Arts are the most insidious branch of magic – alluring and seductive. They work on the caster subtly, strongly until they are in control. Part of the curriculum at Hogwarts is to teach our students how to resist the seduction of these Arts when they inevitably come into contact with them. Are you strong enough to resist? Duel with me..."

Hermione barely had time to throw a shield up to block the silent jinx that flew before her teacher had finished her words.

It took all of Hermione's ingenuity to hold of the barrage that followed – eventually she pulled the desk to block one, exploding into splinters, for her to gain enough control to get on the offensive and cast some of her own hexes back.

"Not unimpressive, Miss Dearborn. You are a quick and strong caster, and you think well on your feet. You are not a born-duellist but you compensate well. It seems someone has given you excellent coaching." She turned to Professor Dippet. "I am also willing to accept Miss Dearborn into my class, Headmaster."

Hermione sat back down on the chair, and bashfully vanished the fragments that had once been a desk.

"There is clearly no question of you needing to join the sixth year, Miss Dearborn. It is a pleasure to welcome such a talented student to Hogwarts," Dippet said, his tone kinder than it had been before. "The only question remaining is one of scheduling – you have one extra class as it stands so we must decide which you are to drop."

"I have a suggestion, Headmaster. Perhaps it would be possible in Miss Dearborn's unique case – given her age and her aptitude – to allow her a more flexible timetable? I think I speak for all of us when I say I am confident she could pass her NEWTs with little preparation at this point, so perhaps if we allowed her to er pick and choose her lessons so she could focus on her weaknesses? It would be a revolutionary experiment..."

"Hmm, I'm not sure about that Albus, not sure at all. Either she is a student or she is not."

The Professors began to debate and Hermione wondered if she wanted to be an exception. It would cause talk, whispers... but outweighing that was the thought of being bored for a year.

As she listened to them try and persuade the Headmaster she lit up with a secret: it was nice to be the special one for once. To be the one people made exceptions for, after growing up with Harry. These teachers hadn't experienced her more irritating classroom habits as a child and might respect her in the way only Vector and McGonagall really ever had. Unlike Ron, Hermione had never precisely envied Harry's treatment, understanding the burden of being him too well, but she had always longed to be allowed to shine without also being disliked for it.

"I would be delighted if Miss Dearborn were able to work with me on some of my projects. As you know, she began to do so this summer and will continue to do so after Hogwarts. I see no oddity in making an exception for an apprentice..."

"No, I'm sorry Albus. She's a talented witch, but I don't think we should be making exceptions. You'll have to find the time to tutor her separately."

"In that case, there is one other matter..."

Hermione left the room on a high: she would have her own room, and she had impressed every single teacher! There was nothing on earth that gave her greater pleasure than living up to her know-it-all reputation.

Howevermuch she had sworn to avoid notice she couldn't stop herself taking the maximum number of NEWTs. She was still Hermione Granger whatever name she had to go by, and even if there was no one to appreciate it she would still strive to be the best.

Riding high, she went to explain why she was being moved out of their dorm to her former roommates.

.

.

The days passed quickly at first and then began to drag, growing slower and slower as she sat silently in classes and silently at meals and silently in the library.

I not will lose my temper. I will not show off.

Hermione Dearborn, quiet pureblooded Ravenclaw. The role grew unbearable.

To make it worse, she had far too much time to sit and think and wonder and grow extremely frustrated. She'd thought she was getting bored before coming back to 1944…

Once students began to specialise, the house divisions for classes broke down, especially as there were only one or two sets for the smaller subjects such as Arithmancy. There had only been one in her time, but she reckoned there were at least two hundred more students at this Hogwarts than there had been in her time.

She'd known that, known the wars had taken a toll on the amount of magical children at Hogwarts by the nineties but seeing the Great Hall packed at supper, seeing the difference in classes had still taken her aback.

Hermione had hoped, therefore, given the additional size of the year, she might be able to avoid Riddle but there he was in her Arithmancy, Potions, DADA, Ancient Runes, and Transfiguration classes. She was only free of him in History of Magic and Charms.

And it was absolutely killing her to sit there and watch all those beautiful house points get handed out to other people – particularly to him.

Naturally, she wasn't going unnoticed without help. She'd had to put a subtle charm on necklace to help her avoid notice - especially from teachers who had been too eager to engage this bright new student in class.

She was rather pleased with the charm, which was a variation on one she'd used to protect the tent but much less powerful: people would register her presence but their interest would slide off. Teachers wouldn't think to call on her for answers, other students wouldn't try to engage her in conversation or befriend her. It was a brilliant piece of magic - and yet -

And yet - it was awful. Hermione absolutely loathed sitting there like a quiet little mouse when she knew the answer to every question. She hated battening down her hatches, shrugging on a role that came so unnaturally.

And the most hateful thing of all was sitting two rows away from someone she simultaneously violently feared, and wanted to beat.

.

.

It took exactly twenty-one days from her arrival for Hermione to crack. Three weeks of his unbearable smugness and apparently unmatched superiority. Three weeks to feel the force of exactly how annoying she must have been at school. It was worse than seeing herself mirrored back. In Tom Riddle, Hermione could see how she could have acted.

He hardly ever had to raise his hand. Teachers automatically turned to him for anything complex.

Handsome Tom Riddle, so talented, so clever and yet so modest. She'd had quite enough of it. Her arm was itching to either slap his smug face or shoot up in the air.

And so, on the fourth Friday in September, during the mid-morning break between Arithmancy and Potions, Hermione went to the girls' loos, ripped the necklace off and hurled it out of the window.

She'd had to listen to that arrogant, slimy toad get awarded ten points – ten! – for an answer in Arithmancy that was only partially correct. It was unbelievable! Insupportable. Professor Wolfe had practically cooed at him.

Urgh. She yanked her hair out of its prissy bun, shedding the role she had tried to force herself into. She was going to go mad if she carried on carrying on. She blasted a fly out of the air furiously, and then clutched the sink, taking deep, slow breaths to cool her emotions. If she turned up to Potions like this, she would probably blow up the dungeons. And then, suddenly she was crying, great desperate sobs because this was unbearable.

She was electrically aware of Tom Riddle's every move and every expression whenever they were in the same room. She felt like a gazelle grazing near a pride of ravenous lions - constantly poised to run like hell.

Hermione watched Tom Riddle without ever directly looking at him. She watched him all the time. He sat in the corner of her eye at meals, in the classroom, in the library.

It made her feel sick. It made her want to punch him in the face and curse him into oblivion.

Hermione wanted to show Tom Riddle she could be a predator too.

The promise of some future fight slid down her spine like a peace draught, giving her back control over herself.

"Tempus," she whispered, a little hoarsely. She had exactly seven minutes to fix her appearance and get down to Potions.

There is too much at stake for these amateur theatrics, she told the rather dishevelled image of herself in the mirror, washed her face, and picked up her bag. You are not Harry Potter, there will not be a magical solution to this. You are stuck here, and you have to make a life. So live it, but for Hecate's sake do not mess it up. You've faced worse.

Deciding that, if Riddle couldn't answer a basic Numerology question properly, it was no wonder he'd been stupid enough to make seven Horcruxes, she picked up her bag and began the long trek to the dungeons, feeling more like Hermione Granger than she had for weeks.

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.

.

It took her eight-and-a-half minutes to get to Potions, but Slughorn beamed at her anyway, waving away her half-hearted excuse and ushering her inside merrily.

"Have a seat by Tom over there, Miss Dearborn. We've got an exciting lesson on our hands!"

Oh no. She hesitated, but there was no choice – she had to sit next to him and smile calmly, even though her palms were sweating and she could feel the damn blush tinting her cheeks. No need to be embarrassed, he's the murderous one. You're just a bit late for class, and from fifty-five years in the future. Stop being so silly!

"Dearborn," he greeted her, smiling his stupid, smug, gleaming smile at her. He'd definitely fixed his teeth magically, she decided. Orphans growing up in the 1930s definitely hadn't had access to sort of dental care.

"Riddle," she nodded and looked away hastily.

"Today we will begin to brew an especially difficult potion. As I told you in your first lesson this term, for those of you who were listening at least," Slughorn chortled, "the majority of this term will be spent on brewing Polyjuice Potion! Now, who can tell me the ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion? You should remember this – I believe it cropped up in the theory section of your OWL."

Hermione's hand was already in the air before she'd even thought about it.

"Go on then, Miss Dearborn."

"Well it takes a month so the first ingredient is time. Then Lacewing flies - stewed for twenty-one days - , three measures of fluxweed - picked at the full moon -, two bundles of knotgrass, stir three times clockwise, then it has to brew for eighty minutes in a pewter cauldron. Then leeches, powdered horn of bicorn, and lastly shredded Boomslang skin, and er a bit of the person you want to turn into," she reeled off happily.

"Splendid, splendid! Five points to Ravenclaw. Nice to see you've found your voice at last," he smiled fatly at her.

Hermione sat back in her chair, glowing faintly. The next month was going to be fun. She had loved brewing Polyjuice Potion in her previous NEWT year. And in her second year even if that hadn't gone brilliantly.

(And oh how unfair - all her idea, her thievery, her work, and she was the one who'd ended up in the Hospital Wing and Ha- but no, she must not think about them.)

"Now, I appreciate the time constraints on you all so you'll be working in groups of three..."

Her good mood suddenly vanished.

"...This potion will count towards your final mark so I expect you to record your exact steps, who has contributed to each stage, ecetera. Now Tom, Hermione and... yes Algernon I think. Go on then get on with it."

Protesting was impossible and as she turned to face him, Hermione's quick mind was already working out how they could have as little contact as possible.

The other boy, a Gryffindor - Algernon something, came over to where they were sitting.

"Hi Tom," he said smiling and then offered his hand to Hermione. "Hermione Dearborn right? I'm Algernon Longbottom but everyone calls me Algie."

"Hi, nice to meet you." Neville's Great-Uncle Algie! she realised excitedly, and then remembered this was the man who had hung him out of a window and thrown him off Blackpool Pier.

"Well we don't need to go and find the recipe as you've already got it memorised, Dearborn." Riddle said, smiling warmly at her. She fought a scowl. There was definitely nothing charming about his smile. Rabbit murderer.

"Why don't we go and find a room we can use before we get started? There must be an unused classroom somewhere in this enormous castle." There were loads, actually, but she wasn't supposed to know about them.

"That's a good idea, Hermione," Algie said supportively. She would have thanked him, but - there - and she would have missed it if Harry hadn't mentioned it - sitting bold as brass on the Professor's desk. A box of crystallised pineapple. She swallowed.

"Professor? Is there a room we can use to brew?" Tom asked quietly as Slughorn returned to the front of the room, blocking the box from sight but not from mind.

Who was bribing him? Was this the box that helped turn one horcrux into seven? Or was someone else trying to sweeten the man?

"You can use any of the storerooms on the next corridor, Tom. They've been emptied for the class to use as workrooms. Now, Miss Dearborn, just before you go – I'm having a little supper for a few choice students tonight. If you don't have other commitments it would be marvellous if you could join us."

Riddle stiffened next to her.

"Oh, thank you Professor. That's so kind. I just have to check if I have an extra class tonight."

She definitely did not want to go to one of his little suppers, especially if this was the supper. She might have to live through history but she did not want to witness it.

"I'll have a word with Albus at lunch, don't you worry. Eight o'clock. Tom I trust you can direct Miss Dearborn?"

"Of course, Professor." Smarmy git.

She followed Riddle in silence to an empty room on the floor, not listening to Algie who was blathering about Quidditch and wind conditions.

"You don't mind do you Tom? I'm hopeless at Potions anyway you know, he's probably only put me with you so I don't fail."

"Oh, go on then Longbottom – but I'm afraid I can't make up how much you contributed on the project diary."

"Thanks! You are a brick, Tom. I promise I'll be around for the next one... just it's such a beautiful day."

And then he was gone and they were alone.

"He probably won't, Longbottom loathes Potions. I don't know why he chose it for a NEWT subject." Riddle said to Hermione as he held open the door to the bare stone room. "Or," he continued thoughtfully, "how on earth he got accepted. Must be brighter than he lets on."

She hesitated and then forced herself forward. Everyone loves Tom Riddle. Don't act suspicious. She did not want to walk through the door in front of him though, and had to fight to keep in control of her incessant urge for fight-flight-fight-flight-fight.

"We should be alright without him. It's not that difficult to brew as long as you time it perfectly," Hermione replied calmly, pulling out her textbook and wrinkling her nose at the damp smell.

"How do you know so much about it?"

"Oh I brewed when I was thirteen," she said thoughtlessly, still digging in her bag, a very Hermione Granger-like note of condescension in her voice, before she realised what she'd said. Shit.

"When you were thirteen? Why?" he asked, fascinated.

Cover cover... the lie tripped off her tongue with surprising ease.

"I saw the recipe in Moste Potente Potions – my Father's copy – and well, I thought it would be funny to transform into him and er go and scare him. But I messed it up and ended up using a cat hair instead. It was awful - all that work wasted." Not to mention the painful transformation back. That had been awful too; she would never forget it.

"What happened?"

"Well he thought it was quite funny, fortunately," she said, smiling as she remembered Dumbledore trying to tell her off in the Hospital Wing while looking delighted that a second year had been so clever. Harry and Ron had never asked, but she'd had to lie and say she'd brewed it 'for a challenge'. Madam Pomfrey hadn't been fooled by the transfiguration-practice-gone-wrong story for long. "But I definitely wouldn't recommend it. Rather a gruesome and slow-acting potion to undo the damage. I did brew it perfectly though, so he was quite pleased with me."

"Why did your Father decide not to send you to Hogwarts?" Riddle asked, transfiguring a pencil into a workbench apparently effortlessly. He was pretending to be casual, but something about the set of his jaw and his intense concentration on setting up the room made her think he was very interested in this answer.

She'd prepared one, naturally, and the well-practiced lie came out easily. Vague, clever Cerdic; precocious, lonely child. The story had been created before she'd even arrived at Hogwarts.

"To be perfectly honest I'm not actually sure. I think he just forgot about it, and then got used to teaching me himself."

Hermione thought about that agonising year after her eleventh birthday, the birthday when a letter and a visit from Professor McGonagall had changed her life. She had persuaded her parents to go to Diagon Alley immediately. They'd bought all the books first of course and Hermione had spent her evenings and weekends and holidays teaching herself as many spells as she could while she waited and waited for September to come around again. She smiled softly, remembering that wonderful period when everything had started to make sense – when she had started to make sense.

"Most of the time I read books and practised and then I'd go and find him when I couldn't do something. We're very different – I found all the text books you have here and tried to follow the course. I made myself all these lesson plans..."

She'd learned to always lie with a truth if it was possible, which was why people had usually believed her but not Ron or Harry, who were quite dreadful liars.

"That sounds idyllic."

She caught a note of longing in his voice, and supposed compared to the orphanage it probably did. And he would like the idea of not having any other children around.

"I was very lonely, in retrospect. I grew up without really having any friends my own age." Not a lie. Sadly. "We'd better start."

Hermione lit one of her trademark bluebell fires under the cauldron, as Riddle began to count out lacewing flies. They worked in silence for a while, and she hoped she'd made her life sound boring enough not to warrant further questions.

Oddly enough, however, she'd relaxed in his presence for the first time. Perhaps actual contact had soothed her: he clearly wasn't going to drag her off and torture her on a whim.

"What about you?" she asked eventually, unable to temper her curiosity. She had always wondered what he'd told people at school, how he'd made them follow him, shown them that he wasn't a Muggleborn. "Where did you grow up?"

"In a Muggle orphanage," he said simply. "I had no idea about magic until I came here. My mother was a witch, but she died right after naming me – she was very ill. I have no idea who my father was."

Was because he was already dead - murdered - as evidenced by the black-and-gold ring sitting proudly on his son's left hand. She shivered slightly. A truth paired with a lie, and he'd made sure she didn't think he was a Muggleborn.

"That can't have been much fun. Would you pass the scales please?"

"Most people here have no idea what an orphanage actually is. Apparently such a thing doesn't exist in the Wizarding world." He looked suspicious. Not good.

"Well, I read a lot. We have Muggle books at home. You know. Charles Dickens, that sort of thing."

"How eccentric. What's your connection with Dumbledore?"

And there it was. This was what he wanted to know, why he'd shared a little about himself. He was surprisingly transparent.

"With Dumbledore? Why do you ask?"

"I heard he was teaching you outside of classes, and he always stops to speak to you in the corridors. You seem... chummy."

Someone had been sneaking. She thought of the crystallized pineapple, uncomfortably. Perhaps it wasn't the day he wondered if seven Horcruxes were a bright idea after all.

"Everyone's been wondering about you," he continued, looking up from his workbench to throw her a smile that was presumably intended to be reassuring.

"He's my cousin, for one thing, but also a great friend of my father's," she said, pretending to be distracted by cleaning the cauldron. "He started giving me lessons this summer - it was his idea I came to school at last."

"Lucky you."

Jealousy flashed across his face, smothered with another smile that didn't reach his eyes. Hermione nearly missed it, but she didn't and his questions began to make sense.

He didn't care about her background. He wanted to know why Dumbledore – who had, after all, treated him with nothing but coldness and suspicion from their first meeting – would choose to take her under his wing.

He wanted to know what made her special, and that couldn't lead to anything good.


PAIRING THEM UP IS SUSPICIOUSLY CONVENIENT. That's because I'm trope trash. Love you all.

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