Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.
- Soren Kierkegaard
Albus stepped away from the Pensieve, deep in thought. He'd watched Hermione's memory several times over the week since she had left it with him, and what he saw both interested and concerned him.
Tom Riddle was even more interested in the girl that Albus had originally planned for. He'd hoped the boy would find her fascinating, had indeed set it up so it would be impossible for Riddle not to be curious, bait to get the boy to expose himself. Albus was as sure as he could be that Riddle was behind the deaths of Myrtle Warren and Mabel Jeffries, but any mention of it to other staff members only drew ridicule. He'd become certain after his future self's hints in the message Hermione had brought with her that summer.
He had never been a man to overlook such an opportunity.
The boy had always had a jealous streak, and so Albus had created a fairytale witch with the kind of background that might draw Riddle out a little. To keep her safe, he had publicly declared his own interest in her, though he had become fond of her on her own terms. An if that interest only added to her allure to Tom Riddle, well, that was just an advantage.
He'd hoped the boy would let something slip to Hermione, recruit her to some cause or indicate his future intentions. If he had done so, she had not passed it on.
It appeared, however, that he'd inadvertently sparked an obsession. If he was not much mistaken, Tom Riddle had set up the stunt on Halloween more to catch Hermione's attention than anything else. The boy had looked shocked; perhaps he had lost control of the situation.
He thought back to the conversation he'd had with his future self on the night Hermione had arrived in his life. What exactly had he said?
She may at times appear to be… tempted, but have faith in her… you must unlock her potential for greatness…
He'd explicitly told himself to use her to get to Riddle, had he not? Already hinted so much to the girl...
She can be your eyes and ears in the student body… one student in particular who might be made curious about her… Allow him this interest but he cannot know the truth.
He felt torn. He could continue to encourage this relationship, but Hermione seemed very reluctant to admit her obvious attraction to the boy. All the signs pointed towards her knowing and loathing him in her past and his future.
Instead she had chosen the insipid Blishwick boy, which was curious in itself. For someone so determined not to live fully in the past she seemed unconcerned with putting down roots. And likely it had only increased Tom's interest: even as a child he'd lusted after other people's things.
It had been Albus who had asked Slughorn to pair Hermione and Tom together in Potions. That had certainly helped forge a connection between them. But would Hermione pass on anything even if she did find it? And would he be pushing her towards danger?
Albus longed for a way to prove the boy's connection to the Chamber, even as he felt guilt for the way he'd treated him. The dislike he held for Tom Riddle was visceral. And yet, perhaps if he'd looked after the boy...
But he'd known as soon as he set eyes on him the boy would be a Slytherin – and to be a Slytherin orphan was a terrible thing. He'd only hoped to help prepare the boy for the cruelty he'd face at Hogwarts, and quash any bad behaviour before he arrived.
He hadn't meant to wholly alienate him, to turn him even more defensive and cold.
Hermione seemed to bring out something better in him. Throwing them together might even save the boy – even if they were just friends. Tom had never had a friend and Merlin himself knew the boy had needed one.
Certainly his elder self had indicated it was a good idea… And she was strong, brave and powerful. Albus was fairly sure she could handle anything Riddle threw at her. He was just a boy.
But how to go about it?
.
.
A few days later, an opportunity arose.
Snow had coated the lands around the castle overnight, a thick white blanket that transformed the world into something pure and bleak and majestic.
It was quite beautiful, though Albus preferred the warm colours of mid Autumn: winter in the Highlands was uncompromising and even magic could only ward off so much of the chill.
He was concerned about his protégée. She had withdrawn inwards again, as she had at the beginning. He'd been watching carefully and his sources in the castle agreed. On top of that, she and Tom Riddle hadn't spoken outside of classes since the day after Halloween.
He might have a use for her but he had come to genuinely care for the young woman. She was quite extraordinary after all and she brought… warmth to what had become a relatively lonely life.
His Seventh Years were working in silence, as they tried to silently conjure cats from thin air. Only two felines roamed the classroom so far neither wasHermione's. Albus knew she was more than capable of the spell, but she was sitting quietly, gazing out of the window.
Tom Riddle was watching her, ignoring the perfect tawny brown cat he had conjured mewling at the back of the classroom.
It was a fascinating dynamic. Was it possible the boy had a heart after all, but didn't understand it? Albus felt old and tired and regretful as he studied him.
Riddle's handsome face shifted slightly, and he almost looked relieved. Albus looked over and indeed Hermione had finally produced a cat – a scrawny, black haired thing with vivid green eyes. She stroked it idly.
"Mr Riddle, Miss Dearborn – a word please," he said, mind made up. If there was even half a chance Hermione could bring warmth to Tom's life and turn him away from the dark path Albus was sure he was set on, he had to take it.
And, if not, he needed to know the boy's plans.
They walked forward reluctantly. Hermione was frowning at him, obviously confused.
"As you have both finished, I wonder if I might ask you a favour," he said, making sure to send them his very best twinkle. "I am supposed to be decorating the Great Hall after this lesson, but there are some errands I must take care of. Could I possibly entreat you both to sacrifice your time? I will, of course, excuse you from the rest of your lessons."
Tom looked, not to put too fine a point on it, flabbergasted, and again Albus regretted alienating the boy. It had been a mistake.
"Of course, Professor," the boy said ingratiatingly, in what Albus thought of as his Head Boy voice.
"Thank you. I trust you will bring great Christmas cheer to us all tonight." A big, smile, directly especially at Hermione who was glaring at him. "Off you go."
.
.
.
Hermione was seething. How could her one ally in this world quite literally throw her to the wolves (well, wolf) like that?
And with her thus-far unsuccessful research into the Founders' connection with Avalon, the fact that Helena Ravenclaw seemed to have vanished again, and someone still playing nasty little pranks on her she was hardly feeling the Christmas cheer.
Decorating. It was unbelievable.
She picked up her books, and followed Riddle out of the classroom. He paused to hold the door for her, and then strode off.
She didn't bother trying to keep up. His legs were practically twice the length of hers and it was quite obvious he wasn't feeling chatty.
That ought to have been a good thing, but it didn't feel like it. Piqued, she deliberately paused to admire the snow-obscured landscape from a window until he'd turned a corner ahead of her and then took three shortcuts down to the hall.
But he was already there, holding open the doors to the Great Hall.
"The trees are here," he said, gesturing. "I'll do one side and you do the other."
"Fine. What's the colour scheme? I've never seen Hogwarts' Christmas decorations before," she lied.
He paused.
"Green and silver."
"Prat," she said, mildly, and just like that he was smiling slightly – the real smile that touched his eyes and sent her dizzy with confusion.
"Alright, that won't work. What colours do you have at home?"
She closed her eyes, a shock of pain running through her.
Home.
What a cruel joke that word was now. Christmas was going to be difficult. She remembered seeing the Hogwarts decorations being put up that first time, with her new - but already so close - friends Harry and Ron. She remembered streams of golden bubbles floating out of Flitwick's wand. Hagrid carrying the trees, Weasley jumpers and magical crackers. Her father holding her up to put the star on the top of the tree. Sugarfree chocolate, and sensible underwear and books and her stocking….
Her parents' tree had always just had gold decorations, and it had been so beautiful. As a child, when her mother had turned the lights off so they could see it in the dark, Hermione had believed the tinsel and lights were the most magical things on earth.
"Are there decorations somewhere? Lights or candles seem a good starting point." she asked, changing the subject.
"No idea. This is usually the teachers' job. Lights is a good idea, I know a really good spell actually. Auream Luminaream."
A string of tiny golden lights, drifted out of his wand and she watched as he directed them onto the tree. It was… distracting.
He looked back and caught her unguarded expression and she turned, confused.
"Yes, that's a good spell. If you show me again, I'll do the left side and we can work out decorations afterwards."
"I've never actually decorated a Christmas tree before. I'm not sure we're the best people for this job." His tone was off-hand, but she was already emotional enough and it stabbed through her.
Of course he hadn't. He'd never had a family, never had a home.
"Well – um – usually you decorate together. It's a… a ritual in many people's homes. Everyone has their own traditions. What's your favourite thing about Christmas?"
"Staying at Hogwarts."
She stared at him.
He's not a house-elf, Hermione. He's not Buckbeak or Crookshanks or Neville in first year. You can't just adopt him. He's not a cause.
He's a murdering psychopath who deserved everything that happened to him. Will happen.
But he wasn't, not yet. Not wholly. He was just a surprisingly awkward and emotionally – she didn't have a word to fully describe his lack of emotional growth – teenage boy who didn't know what Christmas meant.
Silently she conjured a glittering silver snake that looked like it was made of flowing diamonds, with gleaming emerald eyes.
"Well, here you go. A nice seasonal ornament for your very first tree," she said.
And he laughed. Properly, genuinely laughed.
It was amazing. He laughed so much he sank down onto the floor and then she was laughing too and the tears that had been pricking at her eyes faded.
.
.
"I like the purple one better," he said seriously. "It's more regal."
"Is purple secretly your favourite colour or something?"
The hall was… a bit of a mess, actually. They'd argued over every single tree (so much for doing them separately). Christmas – red and green and gold and silver – wasn't exactly a house neutral situation.
She'd managed to sneak some blue and bronze around, and he'd reacted by conjuring yellow fairies to sit all over one of the trees. She'd tried fifteen spells and they just wouldn't stop dancing around and the whole thing was such a mess but she was having fun and it was so weird and remarkable and she didn't want to stop.
"Why don't we pick six reasonable decorative schemes and mirror them?"
"'Decorative schemes'," he mocked.
"This is ridiculous! No wonder Albus didn't want to do it."
"Have you got some parchment?" he asked, suddenly.
She summoned some blank parchment and her quill from her bag and he pulled out a chair and drew the outline the hall with twelve circles.
"Right, if these four at the ends are silver, then the next four are gold and then the four in the middle can be, I don't know, covered in ice or something."
She watched him push his dark hair back. Watching him planning was… surreal. Almost sweet.
"That would be really pretty actually. Not the ice but – here," she took the quill. "If we don't do it so symmetrically… actually let's move these two trees so there's five up each side and two behind the High Table – they can be purple and gold, then there's a odd number so the first two silver and ice, then gold and then purple in the middle. How's that?"
"Frankly, it sounds revolting. But we can try it I suppose."
It turned out beautifully, with a few more adjustments.
She hadn't expected him to have any semblance of a sense of humour, but he kept conjuring more of the yellow fairies when she wasn't looking, and putting snakes in the trees, and generally being playful.
It was bizarre.
When they'd finished he turned the fairies into glowing silver and gold instead of yellow and they fluttered around the trees. The snake she'd made slithered around the top of the tree nearest where he sat in the Hall – he'd insisted on keeping it even though she'd meant it as a joke – so they she'd had to put all the house mascots on a tree, which took ages.
"Everything else is a bit bare, isn't it? I can't think what they normally do. I've never really noticed the details," he commented.
"We usually have holly and ivy at home. Do you think they'd conjure that or get it from the forest?"
"Well I'm certainly not going out to pick some useless greenery when we can just make some. What other," he gestured impatiently, "foliage seems appropriate?"
"Just evergreens, I think. Yew, mistletoe…" she blushed suddenly.
Mistletoe. The worst of all Christmas traditions.
Distracting herself, Hermione conjured a branch of yew and set it glittering with frost, before levitating it upwards, trailing ivy around the top of the panelling.
"Do you think you could get some more of your little faeries to sort of perch in the foliage?"
They were exquisite, now they weren't bright yellow, trailing dust as they flew like butterflies from leaf to leaf.
"I can try," he muttered. "I can't believe I'm spending my afternoon deliberately conjuring faeries. Makes me miss the cats."
She snorted.
"I think you've had fun this afternoon, Tom Riddle. Are you staying for the feast?"
"No, I'm – I'm not spending Christmas here this year," he murmured and she felt the playful mood dissipate. Surely he wasn't voluntarily going to the orphanage?
"Are you going to the um, going home?"
"I recently inherited my father's house. I'll be spending the holidays there."
Inherited was a strong word, she reflected. Had he imperiused some Muggle lawyer into doing his bidding? Or was his claim legitimate? It hardly mattered given that he'd murdered the man.
But if he was there surely that meant he'd be –
"Alone?" she asked before she could help herself and then wanted to hit herself over the head with a troll club. (Not Buckbeak, not Crookshanks!) It wasn't as if she was going to invite him down to Wales for the holidays so why ask?
Letting her guard down with him had clearly sent her completely round the bend.
Luckily a House-Elf chose that moment to pop into existence in the Hall.
"Jingo!" Hermione exclaimed in relief.
"Missy Hermione why has you not used the school decorations? If you'd have called, Jingo would have showed you. They is in the cupboard under the stairs."
Hermione thought she might cry. Of course they were. Right outside the Hall. Brilliant.
"Bit late now. Does it look alright in here? Oh, um, Tom this is Albus – I mean Professor Dumbledore's, elf, Jingo."
It probably wasn't polite etiquette to introduce an elf but it wasn't as though Hermione cared.
He nodded politely.
"It is looking beautiful in here, Missy Hermione. Jingo will bring you and Mister Tom a hot chocolate. Mister Tom is being quite pale."
She vanished again with a pop.
"She's an unusual elf," Hermione explained. "Just… go with it. She'll only try to feed you more if you refuse."
He nodded and sat down at the nearest table. It was, oddly, the Gryffindor table. In fact Hermione was pretty sure it was near enough exactly the very first seat she'd ever sat on at Hogwarts.
The elf reappeared bearing (predictably enough) a tray absolutely loaded with food and two steaming mugs of cocoa.
"Thank you Jingo. If you'd like, you can tell Albus we've finished so he can come and pretend he's been here all along."
The elf wrinkled her nose at Hermione in amusement and vanished again.
Tea with Tom Riddle.
The day couldn't really have been stranger, she thought, and imagined (as she so often couldn't help) what Harry would think when she told him.
And then he complimented the biscuits, Harry. Did you know he likes to dunk them in hot chocolate? And he's a cinnamon fan…
Smiling sadly, she joined him and eyed up the cakes: a big melting golden sponge, gooey looking chocolate, and some sort of orangey one that was probably something to do with pumpkins. There were hot buttery crumpets and sandwiches and biscuits and eclairs and custard tarts.
"Crikey," she muttered. "This is a lot even by Jingo's standards."
"The biscuits are excellent," he observed and she laughed.
Really.
She chose an éclair, and sighed in delight as the sour-sweet combination of cream and choux and chocolate hit her tongue.
When he eyes rose up to his, he was staring at her mouth and for the umpteenth time that afternoon the charge between them flickered up. She felt self conscious, and wished she'd picked a crumpet.
They ate in silence, too many questions weighing on her she knew she shouldn't ask.
Tell me about it, she wanted to say. She wanted to take his hand and say tell me about growing up in that place.
But she didn't.
.
.
"Very fine indeed. Prodigiously festive. Thank you, Tom."
As far as he could tell, the plan – or rather, the moment of inspiration – had paid off in dividends. The two children had laughed and talked throughout the afternoon, Jingo had reported, and from Tom's somewhat shellshocked expression he thought it had done the boy good.
The hall looked beautiful, if a little more elegant than usual. He liked a few more garish colours but all the purple around the High Table was very pleasing.
"Hermione, a moment?" Albus asked, as she made to follow after Riddle out of the Hall.
"Yes, Professor?" she asked.
She seemed slightly bit miffed with him, but not as much as she'd been earlier than afternoon.
"You've been quiet for weeks, even in our classes. Is everything alright?"
She nodded, her dark eyes inscrutable and features quite composed.
"Yes, I think so. Sorry if I've been quiet."
"Alright. I will see you after dinner for your lesson?"
She nodded, and turned away. He watched her walk out of the room and wondered if she realised how assured and elegant she was in comparison with so many of the young witches in the castle. There was something in the way she moved and held herself that drew the eye, a surety and self-belief that, when paired with grace, was pleasing even to his unappreciative eye.
The perfect trap, for a boy like Tom Riddle, he thought tiredly.
There's been too much angst lately, I thought it was time for something nice. The next chapter will be Slughorn's Yule Party.
Thanks so much for the wonderful reviews I've had since I last posted. Special shout out to those new readers who review almost every chapter as they read - you are what dreams are made of.
