Draco Malfoy was staring at Hestia Jones, dressed in perfectly fitting silk pajamas that only highlighted the stupidness of his expression; his face was blank and his mouth agape. "What?" He heard his voice say in a croak. His voice was partially compromised because he had just woken up and had a terrible cold, but he also was struggling to form words from his shock. Why would Dumbledore agree to meet with me in the midst of this war? The only explanation that kept cycling through Draco's head was that Hermione must have died. He kept trying to brush aside the obvious explanation, but was trying and failing to think of an alternative. "Are you sure he wants to meet with me? But not until next week?" He was too concerned to feel annoyed or embarrassed about how small his voice sounded, or about the tears threatening to fall from his beautiful gray eyes.

"Yes, Draco," Hestia responded gently, patting him on the arm gently, but awkwardly. "The Headmaster has agreed to meet with you. You should be happy; you've been asking to meet him him for weeks." That much was true, but Dumbledore's continual refusals had extinguished Draco's hope of a meeting, and he had started to think that the only assurance he would have of Hermione's safety would be had upon seeing her, so that Dumbledore's latest change of course did nothing but cause Draco anxiety. His concern was heightened by the fact that the meeting would not take place for ten days, and Draco knew that the next ten days would feel like a year as he waited to hear the worst.

"Thank you, Hestia," Draco mumbled before returning to his room and crawling back into bed, although he had no hope of sleep. The only comfort he had was a silly idea that he would know if Hermione died; that he would have felt it. And he hadn't.

Exactly fifty-five years earlier, Hermione was steeling herself to enter her common room. It had been several hours since her confrontation with Riddle, and she had avoided the common room during the day to put off the moment of confronting him once more. As she gave the password to the impatient portrait- which asked her "Are you coming in or should I go back to sleep?"- Hermione hoped that she would be coming into an empty common room, inwardly knowing that she hadn't enough luck for that to happen. Other than moving backward with regards to Riddle today, Hermione couldn't help but feel disappointed about her meeting with Dumbledore. She had been thinking for a while that he might have more information than he originally let on, and that she might have entered into his good graces enough for him to let her in on the plan, but if he did have any additional information, it would seem that he refused to share it with her.

As Hermione stepped into the common room, she didn't find it empty. Riddle had fallen asleep on the couch that was usually unused by either of them. He was curled up in a ball, as his tall frame wouldn't fit on their couch. His dark hair was messy over his pale forehead, the first time Hermione had seen it not perfect. He was still in full robes, and his tie was tight around his neck despite the fact that he was asleep. Crookshanks was curled up against him, purring contentedly and making no move to come to Hermione. Strangely, Hermione felt a surge of affection for him while looking at his sleeping form. She even thought of conjuring a blanket for him, but thought better of it after mulling over how he reacted earlier when she tried to assist him. Instead, she just mouthed, "Goodnight, Riddle," before going into her own room.

Riddle awoke early the next morning, annoyed to find that he had fallen asleep on the couch, and, to make matters worse, that Hermione's cat had slept next to him leaving him covered in orange cat hair. He had stayed up waiting to apologize to Prewett; he had appearances to keep up, after all. But as the hours wore on, he moved to the couch to rest for a moment as sleep enveloped him. He went up to his room and quickly got ready, fixing his hair and his robes with a few charms, and then headed downstairs to read. He was determined to get this dreaded scene with Prewett over with.

Around eight o'clock, much later than she usually rose, Prewett popped out of her room and glanced at him furtively. "Good morning, Prewett," Riddle used his best silky, persuasive tone.

"Riddle," she responded stiffly, nodding.

Riddle took a long breath in before bringing himself to apologize. He felt his mouth form what he knew to be an attractive smile. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday, Prewett. I know it was inexcusable, but I hope you can forgive me."

Prewett looked unmoved, which irritated him, but he strained to not show it. "How do you account for it, Riddle?"

"You're right," Riddle responded, knowing that those were the words that would have the most effect on a woman like Prewett. "Professor Dumbledore's behavior does upset me sometimes. I took it out on you, which was wrong of me. I sincerely apologize."

Riddle was annoyed to see that Prewett seemed as though she were about to roll her eyes at his response, but she responded with, "I accept your apology. I'm glad we could clear this up." She moved to go out the portrait hole, but Riddle stopped her by placing a hand on her shoulder. It was the second time that they had touched, and he felt something strange at the contact, the same feeling he had when he grabbed her in the hallway, but then he had assumed it was a product of his anger. Not it felt different, almost inviting. Prewett turned to look at him, but he didn't move his hand. "Did you need something else, Riddle?" Their faces were mere inches from each other, and he had a sudden urge to kiss her that only frustrated him. She smelled of parchment, chocolate, and tangerines. If he just leaned forward a little…

"Riddle?" Her voice was demanding, and it snapped him out of… what, exactly, was that?

"You didn't apologize," Riddle snapped at her. Immediately, he felt frustrated with himself. This was not how this was supposed to go; I was supposed to be charming and apologetic. For some reason, it was increasingly difficult to keep up his mask around her. She distracted him- no, irritated him- too much.

"Of course. I'm sorry, Riddle," she said in a sickly sweet voice, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. He knew she was mocking him, and it just infuriated him more. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to breakfast." And with that, she left through the portrait hole, and Riddle let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

Hermione could feel the heat of Riddle's frustration coming off him like waves as he cornered her in their common room. In the last month and a half, Hermione had succeeded in breaking down his facade, just not in the way she expected to. Even just now, she had tried to be nicer, and he had clearly seen right through her; in fact, it just seemed to irritate him more. Since befriending him seemed like an even more distant possibility than it had been in the beginning of the year, she would have to play to her strengths, to take a disguised Death Eater's advice. Hermione seemed to be able to rile up the Head Boy; she would just have to drive him so far out of his comfort zone that he slipped up. Despite her previous decision to not anger him too much, she had a mission to complete, and she would not allow fear to deter her. She was a Gryffindor after all, despite her blue and bronze exterior.

She walked quickly to breakfast, no longer irritated at herself for letting Riddle get under her skin, because she was certain she was getting under his, as well. As she sat down across from Lyra, Hermione couldn't help but notice a certain irritating Quidditch captain shoot her a dirty look from farther down the table. Reginald had continued to pursue her after the Slug Club party, finally asking her to Hogsmeade weekend that was coming up in two days' time, and she had taken the opportunity to squarely reject him. He hadn't taken it well.

Lyra's voice roused her from her thoughts. "You look frazzled this morning, Hermione," Lyra observed.

"It's just that I have a lot of schoolwork right now, you know," Hermione explained lamely.

"You don't have to tell me," Lyra responded, clearly seeing right through her. Hermione silently ate her breakfast until she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around to see a face that she hadn't quite adjusted to yet: Abraxas's. Once she had learned his first name, she forced herself to think of him in that way to distinguish him from her Malfoy.

"Abraxas," she greeted him coldly. After his impertinent behavior at Slughorn's first party, Hermione had purposefully kept him at arm's length, and he hadn't tried to remedy that, so Hermione didn't understand why he had come to have a chat with her now.

"Hermione," his voice was silky, but he had a more calculating look in his eyes than she was accustomed to seeing from the Malfoy line. "You are looking especially lovely this morning. I was wondering if you might accompany me to Hogsmeade this weekend."

Hermione looked past Abraxas to see Riddle looking calm and collected at the Slytherin table, but his eyes were flashing red. "I would love to." For whatever reason, Riddle looked irritated at Abraxas's question, and the new plan was fully in action. It was an added bonus that annoying Riddle gave Hermione such glee. Because waking the sleeping dragon that was the Dark Lord is an excellent idea. Still, it felt good to be doing something active.

"Perfect," Abraxas replied, smiling handsomely. "I'll see you in the Entrance Hall at eight?"

"Perfect," Hermione echoed, flashing him a coy smile.

The next couple days of class passed by quickly. She forced herself to raise her hand even more often than normal, transfiguring her and Riddle's tennis matches to hockey matches. When double Potions arrived on Friday afternoon, Hermione fully understood the feeling that Christmas had come early.

Apparently the curriculum had changed enough that they were making a potion Hermione had made at the start of her sixth year: The Draught of Living Death. And, just as in that class, Slughorn was offering Felix Felicis as the prize. This time, there was no Half-Blood Prince book to thwart her. And, Hermione thought, somewhat ashamed, this time I'm not above using some of Snape's tips. Hermione couldn't remember everything Harry had done to change his Draught of Living Death, but she did remember that he crushed his sophorous beans instead of cutting them; at the time, it had irritated her enough that it was now burned into her memory.

As Hermione began to crush her beans, she saw Riddle's mouth twitch, almost imperceptibly. We'll see how smug you feel in an hour, Riddle.

An hour later, Hermione felt her mouth twitch as well as she looked down at her beautiful, pale potion. She didn't bother suppressing her smile as Slughorn began to tour the room, assessing the potions.

"Oho!" Slughorn exclaimed as he reached her table. "Ms. Prewett, you have inherited your aunt's knack for potions. Excellent work, excellent work," he was muttering to himself. "I don't think- no-" Slughorn continued as she gave the Gryffindor table a sidelong glance. "No, no one has managed quite as perfect a potion. Your reward, Ms. Prewett." Slughorn pulled a small bottle of gold liquid out of his robes; Hermione took it enthusiastically, feeling elated. Riddle was staring at her, furious. She met his gray eyes, still smiling widely. Your Horcruxes are mine, Riddle.

The next morning, Hermione woke early to get ready. She decided she might as well try to use this date to her advantage, and see if Abraxas would let anything slip about Riddle, and if nothing else, getting close to him might be her best course of action right now. She still hadn't decided when to use the Felix Felicis, but she was now keeping it on her person at all times in case she needed it; her new strategy of irritating the Head Boy into submission was admittedly dangerous, so she might need to access her artificial luck with little notice.

Hermione had enough experience with her unruly mane of hair to know that straightening it, even magically, was not an option unless she had more patience than she was ever willing to give to her appearance. Instead, she used some spells from Witch's Glamour: Tips for a Magical Night, a "joke" present from Ron their sixth year. She had packed it mostly for sentimental reasons, as it was the last gift he ever gave her before their huge fight; however, it seemed to be coming in handy.

She finished getting ready by throwing on a long wool skirt and a tight-fitting cream sweater. It was luck for her that there had been a lot of inflation in the wizarding world in the intervening fifty-five years because fashions had changed drastically, and she had to completely change her wardrobe. Professor Dumbledore had warned her about the change, insisting she visit Hogsmeade before classes started. At the time, she thought it was a bit silly that her professor was sending her shopping, but she quickly realized that wearing jeans and a jumper would make her stick out a little too much.

She walked to the entrance hall as promised, passing dozens of students chattering excitedly about the first Hogsmeade weekend. Hermione was pleased to see that her outfit seemed approximately appropriate for the occasion. She immediately spotted a certain Slytherin, who was she surprised to see was early for their date. Unfortunately, he wasn't standing alone; he was with Riddle and the rest of the boys that Hermione affectionately thought of as baby Death Eaters.

She took a deep breath and walked confidently toward the green and silver group. Riddle saw her first, catching her eye and smirking. What was he so smug about this morning?

"Prewett," he nodded. She couldn't help but feel uncomfortable as he surveyed her, and suddenly had the feeling that maybe she should have worn a different top or done less with her hair. "You look really nice today," he said. His voice was kind but his eyes told a different story.

"Thank you, Riddle. You look exceptional as always," she retorted. Of course, it was true: a month of half of getting to know the younger Voldemort hadn't diminished the effect of his impeccable appearance. Today was no different; his hair was a beautiful dark brown, perfectly parted. His skin was pale and unmarred, and his gray eyes were even more beautiful when they mocked her; it made him seem lively rather than practiced and stoic, which was his general effect.

She felt an arm wrap sling over her shoulders and looked up to see the dark blue eyes of Abraxas Malfoy. Focus on the eyes, she thought to herself, lest you forget who you're with. "Abraxas," she greeted him with a smile.

"Hermione," he replied. "Shall we?"

"Of course. Goodbye, Riddle," she flashed him her best attempt at a sincere smile before walking out the large doors of Hogwarts, arm-in-arm with Abraxas.