Two nights of bloody awful sleep in a row. Two nights! This must be what Harry feels like, she thought bitterly, absentmindedly playing with the delicate gold chain on her wrist. She couldn't help but admire it as it would catch the sun, it was rather beautiful. She'd never been given any jewellery - apart from the Time Turner, but that hardly counts, she huffed - then again, it wasn't as though she'd ever asked for it. She wore a simple leather wristwatch on her left hand and that was all. Jewellery often seemed too frivolous, too easy to lose, too easy to break, useless - she'd simply borrowed pearls from Lavender's extensive collection for the Yule ball. Occasionally, when receiving gifts all wrapped up in pretty packaging, and tied up with ribbon for Christmas or her birthday, she'd keep the ribbon, put up her untameable hair with it. After all, most of her hair ties seemed to break rather easily when coerced into holding the huge mane on her head.

Hermione had decided to take a walk in the grounds that morning - clear her mind. She was still furious at herself for not realising that the contract hadn't been sealed until it was too late. In fact, she was practically fuming for not only had she found no way of breaking the contract, but she'd also had no bloody idea how on earth Tom Riddle was getting from his time to hers! There was no indication of this whatsoever in her book - or if there was, it had been eaten away by mice - but most frustrating of all was that she had actually enjoyed their conversation.

There was no point in talking to Harry or Ron about books, or the nature of good and evil or magical theory. Whilst she never would have called her friends stupid - Harry was, after all, in her mind one of the most emotionally intelligent and empathetic people she'd ever met, and Ron seemed to be quite gifted for logic and strategy (she'd never allowed herself to play chess against him for fear of losing) - they lacked… What was it? This raw passion and thirst for knowledge, academic knowledge, magical knowledge, a burning desire to explore, debate, seek out information. This want to know more - to find out anything and everything about the world - was what had driven her for as long as she could remember. She'd expected to find more of it at Hogwarts - after all, how could you live in the wizarding world and not be fascinated by its secrets? Instead, she had been met with staunch apathy. No one cared. No one wanted to know why magic did what it did, no one cared whether certain spells and theories seemed illogical, whether such and such a book was well written, why a language could live and die in the space of a century. No one understood. Until now. And it irked her, that of all people to understand her was the man whom she had vowed to help destroy.

She couldn't reconcile the two personalities. Yes, Riddle had indeed appeared haughty, detached at first. He seemed to struggle with sincerity, she thought, selfish to the core. And yet… There was something in the way he moved and talked - a strange passion behind his defence of the Dark Arts, his tirade against her book, even camaraderie in his regard towards her. At moments, it seemed that he was just as relieved, no, happy, to have someone to talk to about all this as she was. He was so.. human. He looked nothing like the snake-like figure she'd seen in the Department of Mysteries last summer.

But that is exactly why he's dangerous, he may have the face of an angel, but he's already set on a path to destruction. You can't fix people, Hermione.

"Ten minutes late," he said with a slow smile. "My, my, Hermione. It's an improvement from yesterday, but what would your teachers say if you turned up so late to their lessons?" He'd conjured up an emerald green armchair, and was sitting in it comfortably next to the dormitory fire, an ankle wresting upon his knee, his dark eyes watching her, the silver chain on his wrist glinting in the firelight.

"What did you think of the book?" she asked, ignoring his question. "Be honest."

He reached down to his satchel. She noticed it the worn leather on it - he'd obviously been using it for years.

"Here it is." he said, handing it to her, before conjuring up another armchair for her. She sat in it tentatively.

"Tea?" he offered, reaching into his bag to take out a rather large teapot. She nodded. "How did you..," she began.

"Undetectable extension charm! I reckon performing these without a license will be outlawed by the ministry in a couple of years though," he said with a frown. There was an unmistakable hint of pride in his voice at the fact that someone had noticed what he'd done.

He poured her a cup, "Don't worry, I haven't put anything in it," he laughed. She sniffed the tea and narrowed her eyes.

"That's exactly what someone who'd have just poured in arsenic would say."

"You simply seem uneasy around me, I felt I had to justify myself." He grimaced, pouring himself a cup too. "No arsenic, just Ogg's personal Earl Grey blend. He puts in a little more bergamot than most, and adds in blackberries I believe, producing quite a delightful effect."

She raised an eyebrow. "Ogg?"

"The groundskeeper. You know, Luteus Oggsworth? Lives in a little hut next to the lake? Quite a solitary fellow, a squib, but always up for a chat about the latest gossip. Makes his own tea? And mead, now I think of it." He mused. "Though I suppose he's not going to last another fifty years, is he? Who's the gamekeeper now?"

This is the boy who single-handedly ruined Hagrid's life. "Spoilers." she said with a sly smile. Keep it together Hermione. "Which is also why I won't be drinking your tea."

"Oh?" he asked, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "Not fond of Earl Grey?"

"No, no. I love Earl Grey," she smiled, tipping the contents of the cup into the fire. "Not such a big fan of veritaserum, Tom. As I say, I'm not telling you anything about the future."

His eyes shone menacingly in the firelight. It was getting quite dark outside, a blizzard was coming. That, and the brightness flames, made him look all the more devilish. "Veritaserum is odourless and tasteless, my dear. I doubt you'd be able to detect it in the tea."

She rolled her eyes. "Indeed, your tea doesn't smell of anything. The tea is truly odourless. You've put far too much veritaserum in, an awful waste if you ask me. It's so much it's masked the scent of the drink. And don't think I'll ever try anything you offer me ever again, Riddle."

His mouth twisted into a smirk. "My, my, aren't we the clever one Miss Granger? It was worth a try." He gazed at her for a moment, scanning her features. He tipped his tea in the fire, and ran a hand through his dark hair, his porcelain features all the brighter in the shadows. "As for your book, I must admit… Perhaps I was a little rash. It was idealistic, of course, too much so. I'm not entirely sure what the author is hoping for. I'm expecting civil rights in terms of skin colour in the muggle world to catch up with those in the wizarding world anyway in a few more years. Is this propaganda for such a movement?"

Hermione shrugged. "And the writing?"

"Not quite as bad as I thought. It's still very broken up and too episodic for my taste. As I say, the story is too idealistic."

"But… he doesn't get away in the end! Tom Robinson isn't freed. He dies. How is that in any way idealistic?" she cried.

"The characters are far too… 'good'." he wrinkled his nose at this. "Atticus Finch - and his daughter, now I think of it - is made to seem perfect in every single way. Defending the underdog, sprouting self-righteous nonsense. Too two-dimensional."

"And yet he struggles with his role as a father. He admits to being over-protective, he's self-righteous to the point where he's-" Tom placed his finger on her lips to stop her. She trembled.

He handed her another book from his satchel. The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, by Victor Hugo. "This has real characters. It shows the truth of humanity. You will not find a single 'perfect' character, in it." He watched as her eyes scanned the pages hungrily. "Except for maybe Djali, the goat." he added with a smile.

"A Muggle book, I'm surprised." she mused.

"Victor Hugo was a squib. And a bright one at that. It hardly counts."

The subject then drifted on to the Dark Arts - once more, moral arguments were explored, once more they disagreed. Tom was horrified to find out that all of the books on the Dark Arts had disappeared from the Hogwarts Library. "All of them?! Even from the restricted section? Sweet Salazar. You do realise limiting access to books is how most oppressive political regimes start, don't you?" he'd told her. She'd laughed at that. The fact that he saw access to the Dark Arts as integral to freedom of knowledge seemed somewhat contradictory to her.

"Well, I suppose that the Dark Arts are mentioned in many books. And there are books with small shreds of Dark Magic in them. You know, nasty potions, hexes and all that." She began listing the names of books she'd found and read. Tom was visibly growing more distressed by the second. Each book mentioned was met with a, 'disgusting piece of filth', 'amateurs', 'should be used to muck out the hippogriff stables, not learn from', 'obviously published by a first-year hufflepuff and 'Ogg could have written better.'

He sighed, bringing out a small book - The Dark Arts, Divining the Hidden Depths of Magic, by Lucretia Shafiq. In his opinion it was the best introduction to the Dark Arts written so far. "But I'm sure more must have been done in your time." he'd said.

When it came to teaching him about sincerity - Hermione had decided that the best way to do so was to test his empathy. She selected a slim red book on her bedside table. Romeo and Juliet. Tom eyed it disdainfully, muttering something along the lines of, 'I prefer Macbeth'. He hadn't exactly read it, per se, but he knew enough about the story to think it a complete waste of time. He wanted to learn to manipulate properly, lie but appear sincere. Not fill his head with love-struct nonsense. Hermione smiled knowingly - "Read it. I want to see if you can empathise with the characters. Look carefully at the language."

He'd made a grunt-like noise of half-hearted discomfort, then turned on his heel and disappeared.

She let out a sigh of relief, sank back into bed, and began to read. By the evening, she'd finished The Hunchback of Notre Dame and was making progress on The Dark Arts, Divining the Hidden Depths of Magic - and it was with that book resting on her chest that she drifted off to sleep.

Her dreams were once more perturbed. Screams, cries of terror, flames, a beautiful face in the sky, with dark grey eyes and a small smile, a face which gradually crumbled away to reveal another one beneath, one with eyes of red, skin so pale it almost looked translucent, gaunt, tired features. Then laughter, a manic, cruel laugh, chasing her. She ran. The Hogwarts library became a maze in her mind, and she felt chased. She tore her way through pages and words, sprinted past letters until she reached the very last syllable of the last page on the last book, shaking, she tried to scramble her way up to the finish line, only the be held back by pale arms, she kicked and screamed and fought back, but then came the darkness. As if all the ink of the world had spilt into her mind and she was drowning. Time ceased to matter. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps this was the time to let it all end. Just lie back and disappear into the void. In her dreams, she closed her eyes. Then a voice. A calm voice sailing through the recesses of her skull with the sharp clarity of winter's dawn.

"Hermione. Hermione. Granger! For Salazar's sake won't you just wake up!"

Her eyes fluttered open. Tom. Part of her wanted to recoil back - fear perhaps. But instead it was shaking and sobbing that she threw herself into his arms, clinging onto him for dear life. She expected him to push her back. Instead he stroked her hair, whispered soothing words in her ear. He sat there, holding her for some moments.

There was a blizzard outside. Hardened pellets of ice and snow at her window. She got up, steadied herself, and closed the curtains.

"Sorry about that." she muttered. "I'm not usually this emotional. It's just been a strange couple of days." He nodded.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing here anyway?"she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He was still wearing his school clothes - well, minus the robes and the tie. He waved Romeo and Juliet at her. "I've now read this three times." he said.

She lit a few candles with her wand. "Oh? Good. And what did you think?" she asked absentmindedly.

He leant back against the headboard of the bed. "I don't understand." he half whined.

"Oh? Is Muggle Shakespearean English too much for you?" she asked cooly.

He gave her an appalled look. "I've read almost all of Shakespeare's plays thank you very much. Despite his… questionable heritage. I simply hadn't read that one. And now I understand why I'd avoided it for so long."

"Is that so?" she said, grabbing a quill and parchment to make notes from. "What precisely do you not understand?"

"Is the play supposed to be a warning against rash, foolish love or an example of 'true love'?" he asked disdainfully. "What I mean is, it seems to be set over an immensely short amount of time. The two characters barely know each other before eloping. Romeo himself is shown to be prone to small bouts of infatuation. He seems enthralled by some girl called Rosaline at the start of Act I. How do we know his love for Juliet is 'pure'?"

Hermione couldn't help but smile. "If we're going to be honest about this, I also believe it serves as an example of childlike infatuation."

Tom's ears seemed to prick up at this."Go on." he smirked. "What was the purpose of me reading this then?"

She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Well… Does it matter whether it was true love or not?"

He frowned, "Of course it mattered! They've thrown their lives away for nothing! You've read Juliet's speech, I take it, before she takes the sleeping potion? She speaks of being practically half-dead! Her descriptions of being entombed alive a horrific! How could she foolishly waste her life in such a way, for a ridiculous concept such as 'love'? It's ludicrous!" he cried, his gestures becoming more and more animated as he began to quote from the play.

She smiled, then began to laugh.

He paused, his arms hanging in mid air, like some puppet caught mid-act. "What's so funny?"

"Why do you care?" she asked with a sly smile. "Why do you care so much, Tom? It's not your life. It shouldn't matter to you if they've wasted theirs, now should it?"

He lowered his arms. "I'm not sure."

"It's because Shakespeare creates sympathetic characters. You at the very least sympathise with them. He creates an attachment to them. If you want to be able to manipulate people properly, you have to let them form an attachment to you," she said, before hastily adding, "Don't try with me, we're already linked enough." she grinned, showing her bracelet. "But, can I suggest you try to craft yourself into a sympathetic character? Then test out that persona on other people." What in Merlin's name was she saying? Teaching him to become even worse than he already was?

He sank down on the bed, propping his head up on his hands to gaze up at her. "What did you think of…"

And they talked.

They spent the whole night speaking, debating - at times arguing. They covered Hugo's characterisation of Esmerelda, 'But you see Tom, I do pity her though.' 'She was foolish Hermione. You can't have sympathy for a fool. She shouldn't have fallen in love with Phoebus.' 'It's not her fault.' 'Of course it was. It's her mind, is it not?', the Dark Arts, Arithmancy, argued intensely about Divination 'A complete and utter waste of time.' she'd snapped, then travel. He wanted to see the world too. You know, there are some wizards in Albania who've found a way to fly wandless. I'm going to learn from them, he'd said. She smiled at that. It had sounded interesting. She wanted to go to Neuschwanstein castle in Bavaria, I read that King Ludwig II became mad because of a curse cast upon him as a child. It gave him visions of another realm, hence his obsession with fairy-tales. His castles are supposed to be beautiful. He'd stared at her, then smiled, speaking more energetically about his plans, what he wanted to see, do, learn, discover.

And they spoke.

Until dawn crept in and the sounds of the first birds of the morning sang them to sleep.

A/N - Hi! Thank you so much for reading - please do review! (Thank you very much mama123 and JuliSt for reviewing. :) I really appreciate it!) Constructive criticism, comments, anything is very much appreciated, as this is my first story, so I'm keen to improve. I'll be updating at the very least every week - but at the moment it might even be daily. (Also - can I say, I do actually love To Kill a Mockingbird - Tom does bash it quite a bit (so.. spoilers ahead for To Kill a Mockingbird!) But even with the spoilers, it's still an amazing book, so if you haven't read that, or the Hunchback of Notre-Dame, please do!) The fic should be picking up the pace a bit more next chapter hopefully - I just thought it important for them to talk. Anyway, have a lovely day.

Calliope