The night that followed the encounter was not easy on Hermione's mind. Dreams, fevered, blackened, red eyes that turned to grey, burning castles and manic laughter, echoed through her skull. Several times in the night she woke up in a sweat, and it was only with dawn that she felt relief. The breath of sunrise turned the snow to gold, and every menacing shadow in the room disappeared.
After getting dressed, she spent most of the morning sitting in the empty common room, pouring over the books she'd used to conjure the enchantment that had brought her unexpected guest. Could she banish him? Lure him into a trap? The enchantment had been a relatively simple one. Ancient, that was true, relying on a slightly strange runic combination - it was designed to provide mutual assistance. Two individuals, each needing something from the other, would find themselves thrown together. Controlling who the individual would be.. or banishing them after having formed the contract - seemed impossible.
The book had been one she'd found whilst in France in the summer between her second and third year. It had been left in an old Muggle bookshop to rot - but she somehow felt the runes to be somewhat familiar to those she'd spied in the course outline for the next year. The book was written in a mix of an elvish dialect - mainly for the spells - and French - to explain the history behind them and the laws that governed them.
She'd bought the book for a pittance, and had been incredibly frustrated to find that the dialect in which it was written was not that which would be studied in school. In fact, she had spent a great deal of time thinking it was complete gibberish.
This had been until the start of this year. With the revelation of Harry and the Dark Lord's prophecy, she had spent most of her time searching for answers. How binding were prophecies? What influence did language have on the outcome? It was through this that she had finally stumbled on an old variant of High Elvish - spoken perhaps in the mid 1200s, in a very small corner of the world. This - this, was the other language in which her book was written! She'd rushed back to her trunk and started translating the book. Oh the possibilities which opened with this new magic! She could learn about anything, anyone. Her enthusiasm had now been met with sore disappointment and dread.
She steadied herself, all she needed to do was find a loophole. The spell could not be 'broken', per se. As of now, Tom Marvolo Riddle was free to waltz into her life at any moment - not something that she was going to let happen. Une fois que le sort est jeté, que le contrat est scellé, nul ne peut l'enlever. Once the spell is cast, the contract is sealed, none can remove it.
How did one seal the contract? Had she done so already? The next few pages were too moth eaten to read. Could she look for help? Should she seek someone's aid? More importantly Hermione, a voice murmured in her head, do you truly want help?
The castle was practically deserted. Earlier on, when she had determined she would need some basic instruction in the dark arts to understand the current war, she'd insisted on staying behind 'to study' - a proposition both her friends and parents had rejected. It was then she'd begun to craft her lie, telling her parents that she'd be going to Ron's for the holidays, and her friends that she'd be going back home. She couldn't now write to them and say that she'd stayed behind to form a pact with a mass murderer, could she? She shook her head. She was tempted to ask Dumbledore - but the magic she'd used, whilst not 'dark magic' per se, was certainly not 'white'. No, she'd made her bed and she would lie in it.
Besides, wasn't it more useful to keep Riddle in sight? She could study him. Learn his weaknesses, understand his every move. It was with this resolution that she made her way back up to her dorm.
"You're late."
He was sitting crosslegged on the bed - her bed - his dark hair falling lazily into his eyes, dark eyes, scanning her every move. On his lap there was a book, To Kill a Mockingbird. Her mother had given it to her for her twelfth birthday. She swiped it away from him. "It's rather rude to touch other people's belongings without asking."
"It's rude to be an hour late for a meeting." he drawled in reply. "I almost went downstairs to find you."
"Why didn't you? If this was so important you would have done." she said, struggling to stay calm, seating herself on the bed opposite him.
"I can't afford to be seen, now can I? Strange student, wondering the halls in a fifty year old uniform, looking for a girl he barely knows? That doesn't sit right, does it?" He smirked.
"Cast a disillusionment charm, you dolt. Or send a patronus to look for me."
She thought his cheeks went a little pink. He leant forwards. "Well, perhaps I couldn't be asked." he said defiantly, before adding smoothly, "Sorry, I don't think we got off on the right foot."
She shook her head, her shaggy curls catching the light. "No, no, no. That simply won't do."
Confusion, then annoyance flickered ever so briefly across his features, before he relaxed back into his usual charmer's smile. "What do you mean?"
"You need to pause for longer." She said. "No sincere person would immediately apologise for getting off on the wrong foot straight after having insulted the-"
"I didn't insult-"
"Shhh." she said, placing a finger to her lips as though she were speaking to a small child. His eyebrows knitted together at the gesture, but he remained silent. "You need to pause. Pause and look around furtively, pretend you're embarrassed by your actions - this will convince your interlocutor that you're at a loss for words. Then say I am so sorry or even better I'm sorry - by adding the personal pronoun in, you make it sound far more heartfelt. You engage with the person you are talking to. Look them in the eye. Pause, then say, I don't think we got off on the right foot." She said. "Although, well done for throwing in a common idiom - it's not too colloquial, but makes your tone friendly enough for the other party to sympathise with." she added pensively, before beginning a small rant on the use of idioms in persuasive speech.
He stared back at her in mild shock. "Hermione. Sweet Hermione." he grinned, "You- you are a godsend! This is perfect!"
Her eyes narrowed. There was something about being treated so familiarly that irked her.
Tom swallowed, and cast a nervous glance around the room. "Look," he began slowly, "I'm sorry." he paused, "I don't think we got off on the right foot."
"Oh, that's quite al-" she began. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Well done. Well done indeed. I'm impressed."
"Thank you. You seem to be a good teacher. Perfect for my purposes. Now, you're looking for instruction in the Dark Arts, are you not? Care to tell me why?" he asked nonchalantly, getting to his feet to stare out of the window, just as she had done the day before.
"Do I need a reason to learn about the Dark Arts?"
His eyes flicked back to her face. She held his gaze. He couldn't help but find this strange girl with the unkempt hair and nut brown eyes strangely unsettling. "You don't, ah, you don't seem the type."
"What makes you say that? There a plenty of evil Gryffindors. I could be one of them."
He picked up To Kill a Mockingbird from her lap, before carefully slotting it back in its place on her bedside table. "You see, though I haven't read this book completely - an hour was good enough to get through most of it. It's rather sentimental. I know the type. A story about morality, social justice," his mouth twisted into a smirk that rather resembled a grimace, " and love." He spat out. "It's a book obviously appreciated for its messages, rather than its prose. Honestly, the writing is all-over the place, it's as though the author had intended it to be several short stories, then changed their mind at the last minute."
"She did, I suppose." Hermione mused. "I rather like the prose though. The episodical nature of it rather enchants me."
"The messages are highly idealistic and impractical. That is clue number one in deciding that you do not fit the pragmatic character who would delve into the Dark Arts." He said in a steely tone.
"Clue number one?" She repeated, her eyebrows raised.
"Yes. Clue number two - you obviously associate the Dark Arts with evil. What was it you said? There are plenty of evil Gryffindors. No magic is inherently good or evil. I expected you to know that." He hissed.
"But there are spells that can be used for evil, is that not so? And the spells of the Dark Arts are seldom used for good." She said.
"To have a moral inclination is the prerogative of the caster. Not the spell." he replied.
"Surely then what is good or evil becomes subjective? And if so, any act of violence can be justified."
He stiffened. "Perhaps so. Or perhaps there is no good or evil. Only magic, and those too weak to learn of it." His eyes glinted with those last few words. "Will you learn, Hermione?" he asked, leaning in.
"Will you teach me, Tom?"
He grinned. Then leant down to press his lips to hers. Her eyes widened as she felt his touch, then it was as though a light in her mind had just flickered on, and she pushed him back, knocking over the bedside table. "What in Merlin's name do you think you are doing!?" She spat out angrily, barely noticing the hot golden chain weaving itself around her wrist.
He leapt back. Sweet Salazar, if looks could kill, Granger's face would have destroyed half of Scotland at that point. "Calm down! I was merely sealing the contract!" He brought out a crinkled piece of parchment, pointing hastily at it. Et, comme dans la vie, le contrat est scellé d'un baiser. The contract is sealed with a kiss. "Oh." was all she said.
"Oh indeed!" he spat back angrily, showing her a newly formed silver chain on his wrist. "How else did you think the contract was sealed? Or did you not read that part?" He ran a hand through his hair. "I've linked myself with a fool, Salazar have mercy on me."
"I-Well, it's not that. Just the book from where I got my instructions is all moth-eaten. I've already had to reconstruct half the spell from guess-work." she mumbled sheepishly. That, and I thought we'd already sealed the contract. Now there really is no way of getting rid of you, she thought.
"Er.. I.. I'm sorry." she glanced around the room furtively. "I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot." She said.
"It's fi-" he began. He then noticed the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, realising exactly what she'd said. He laughed. "I look forwards to working with you, Hermione. Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time tomorrow." she said, before taking To Kill a Mockingbird and handing it to him. "Why don't you take this away and finish it?"
He looked as though he was about to reject the offer. He tucked the book in the pocket of his robes, leant down and whispered, "This time, don't be late." And with that, he turned on his heel and vanished.
Hermione was thoroughly confused.