Hermione stacks book upon book on the desk, building a fortress to surround and protect her. Books are still the same. Her one constant. After a week of normalcy her skin had begun to feel too tight, as if some animal inside of her needed, no— craved action. It felt irreconcilably odd to be attending classes while in the future a war raged on. As one did now, as well. However, this one she knew there would be an end to. And the cause of the end was currently sitting in the same castle as her.
Sighing deeply, she plucks a tome with white runic engravings promising to inform the reader of the broader implications of magical fire. The library had become her refuge once again and words cannot begin to describe how ecstatic she was to read things other than The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
Hermione had amassed quite a mix of genres for this Saturday reading. A few books on dragons because after riding one, she had become enraptured with them. A few books on recent history so she wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb as a time traveler. And more than a few books on practical Defense Against the Dark Arts because her worst performing subject would have to become her best. Ever proactive , Hermione already got access to the restricted section. So she also had two dubiously dark books on deadly attacks because she knew the Jellylegs jinx wasn't war material.
Hermione is done with feeling underprepared.
And in all honesty, her hands itched to hold a tome on time travel. But obviously if there were relevant and helpful books on it in Hogwarts it would be more of an occurrence.
As she becomes immersed in reading, Hermione can't help but be reminded about why she had never considered using Fiendfyre on the original Horcrux hunt. It was simply too unpredictable and they didn't want to have a fire they couldn't put out while on the run. But here she had access to the Room of Requirement. Once she felt strong enough in her understanding of the spell she would begin to practice it there, then grow proficient in aim and control of destroying random objects. Work her way up to a horcrux.
Hermione wasn't the owner of a large ego. But, she did like to think of herself as capable of applying knowledge successfully on most occasions. Fiendfyre, no matter the nastiness of it's nature, would simply be another spell for her to master.
Hours pass as a constant rain batters the tall window pane behind the witch. Books pass between her hands quicker than most, and with the monotonous sound of the rain and lack of other humans present in this end of the library, one could guess that days have passed.
At a quarter past eight, a dark figure blocks her reading light. Looking up, a monster stands outside her fortress. She has to let it in in order to kill it.
Her eyes blearily adjust to the difference in depth of focus as Hermione blinks rapidly. He was pretty good looking. For a monster.
Voldemort looms over her, dark eyes flickering between the titles of her books and her hunched figure.
She must be feeling lightheaded for numerous reasons as the day spent barely eating or moving catches up to her. But being in close proximity to the starring villain of her childhood takes the cake.
They had been circling each other, keeping polite distance, at the library all week. They shared NEWT level Defense Against the Dark Arts, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes, but thanks to house rivalries were sat among house ranks. There was a surprising amount of students attending Hogwarts at this time. Enough that there were two sections for every NEWT course. He still managed to send friendly waves her way whenever their paths crossed, which was suspiciously often.
"It appears you have found the best spot in the library, Miss Hermione."
No Mr. Voldemort, I have found hell.
"It appears I have."
She has to unwind her tensed muscles in order to reach for the sausage roll he offers as he sits down in the chair beside her. Her fingers brush against a ring and she stills.
Of course she had noticed the big fat jeweled horcrux sitting on his finger a few days ago. But she hadn't expected the feel of it to be so awful. It was the same feeling wearing Slytherin's Locket gave her. Even a second in contact with the dreaded thing was enough to startle her to her bones.
Dumbledore's decaying hand flashes across her mind's eye. Decayed. Will decay.
She lets herself sink into a comfortable train of thought on proper tense usage, sidelining what she felt was a fit of panic coming along.
Her static weary stare causes Riddle to assuage wrongly assumed worries, "I noticed that you missed every meal today." He leans toward her, cupping his mouth. "Our secret. The books won't tell."
"Thank you." She forces out in a breathy exhale before taking a bite of the buttery pastry. Contorting her body back into a comfortable reading position, Hermione hopes Voldemort catches her drift and doesn't try to talk to her anymore.
He does, for a few minutes.
"What is the best book you have read today?"
Awfully nosy, this young Dark Lord. And how bold of him to interrupt her reading, which she thinks he finds as sacred as she does. And to ask for a recommendation!
She decides to go with her honest answer. He wouldn't do anything to harm her for boring him. At least perhaps this version. This thought comforts her in a way nothing has in a while. Also, it would be best to establish a sort of relationship with him so she can establish her harmlessness.
At the same time as figuring out a way to destroy him.
She passes him a burnt orange tome and monitors his face as he reads the title All the Magical Uses For Tea That Are Not Divination.
Remembering her mother giving her chamomile tea with honey whenever she had trouble sleeping, Hermione had started consuming it every night before bed. Combined with the copious amounts of oolong she drank already, she mused that her body consisted of mostly tea and pastries at this point. They were the only things she could stomach consuming. Upon sitting herself at Gryffindor each meal and gazing upon the abundance of food heaped on the tables in the Great Hall she fought back the urge to stash piles of it in her bag. There had been no pastries when she was on the run. Those were safe and had always been her favorite.
Riddle rests his thoughtful gaze on her in such a way that a shiver runs down her spine.
"I am saddened to say I have never considered magical uses for tea. Although, it is thought to have many health benefits, which I do have a book on in my rooms. Shall we cross reference?"
She takes his eager form into consideration. It seems out of character for him to invite someone to his private Head Boy rooms. After keeping an eye on him all week she has figured out that he is rather particular about people not touching his things. When Cecily Longbottom had asked to borrow a spare quill he had almost painstakingly unfurled a delicate black feather from his grasp.
So far that was the biggest contradiction she had evidence of against his presented character.
She would take this opporuntiy. It could prove useful.
"I would appreciate that."
"Great," he beams, "Shall we?" He offers his hand to her and she reluctantly lets him pull her up. It doesn't make sense for someone living to be as cold as he is; she almost flinches at the icy feeling.
They hurry through the corridors. Hermione tunes out Voldemort's hushed tour of Hogwarts, automatically nodding along when his eyes drag over her for acknowledgement.
Coming to a stop in front of a painting of Julius Caesar, Riddle mutters the password under his breath and they step through to another small corridor with doors to the right and to the left. They go left and enter a massive common room looking space with a four poster bed set at a near awkward angle close to the fire place. There is a surprising lack of Slytherin colors and far too much black and grey.
He easily moves about his room, prattling on about a few of his favorite books as he peruses his shelves to find the right one. Hermione feels oddly about how comfortable he is about sharing his private space. Which is startlingly clean. Breathing in through her nose, expecting to find the scent of perhaps a rotting dead hare under his bed, she is met with clean linen.
Everything she saw of him caused a battle between what she knew and what she was observing.
In her dreams, she kills him every night.
In her nightmares, her friends die by his hands. Every night.
And right now, he was fussing over a book on tea she had mentioned interest in.
He isn't the chaotic, deranged devil she was expecting. Instead, he is much worse. He was charismatic, brilliant, and stunning. Kind, even.
She is beyond frustrated at his kindness. He is too nice. Too gentle. Too welcoming. Too friendly. Too many nice words. There has to be something wrong with him. How can someone who murdered his family be this normal?
Hermione wanders off to peruse the rest of his book selection. Waiting to see what he does.
He doesn't even glance at her.
She pulls a special edition of Hogwarts A History she hasn't come across before. Opening it she finds the tale of the founders in the style of an illuminated manuscript.
With a soft gasp her wide eyes dart up to Riddle who is leaning against a shelf and smirking at her.
"Is that one a favorite of yours too?"
Of bloody course they shared the same favorite book. How traitorous of Hogwarts a History.
— then —
He couldn't help himself. She was such a tempting individual. Such academic prowess wrapped in a war torn body.
He had to have that all to himself. Even if it meant existing outside his lines of personal barriers. Hermione seemed the type to respond well to friendship and devotion and kindness.
Give some now gain all of hers later, he figured.
He was decided.
He was to consume her. Devour her knowledge. Sup on the essence of her. Then spit her back out as a husk of a girl, lost to the wind.
His gaze shifts to her delicate hands grasping the book. So thin. He could use them as toothpicks.