"That's pretty." Lavender had said, eyeing the golden chain at Hermione's wrist. "Who gave you that?"

"A friend." Hermione had replied, refusing to look up from Pictures from Italy.

"Oohh!" had been the squeal from her dorm-mates. "Krum again?!" Silence. "No? Well, is he handsome at least?"

Hermione scoffed. "Who said it was a 'he'?"

"Only boys give jewellery, Hermione darling. So? Spill." Parvati had smiled, seating herself on Lavender's bed and giving Hermione a look of extreme interest. Lavender's little pig-like eyes shone with glee, or was it greed? Either way, she seemed to be eagerly anticipating this new piece of gossip, which her heavily lip glossed mouth would doubtless repeat almost immediately.

"Is he a muggle? Does he even know you're a witch? Ooh no!" Lavender had cried dramatically, her hands on her chest, batting her eyelashes. "Don't tell us! This is so good! Ah, the perils of forbidden love." she'd sighed. "Now you see, if only Ron would-"

Forbidden love. Hermione tried not to roll her eyes. She wasn't even friends with Riddle. Well, they were admittedly swapping books, but that was more because they seemed to have similar tastes - and it was so rare to find someone who did. Besides, he hadn't really 'given' her the bracelet. They'd formed a contract. It wasn't like she could take off this 'jewellery' either. Shackles are hardly a lover's gift, she thought bitterly, even if this chain is rather pretty.

But then there was the chance meeting she'd had with the older Riddle. The man who'd greeted her couldn't have been that far away in Riddle's future - and thus in her future. He'd treated her with alarming familiarity. It was as though she were an old friend, no, more than that. More than that? More than what? She shook her head. Impossible. He'd called her 'Mione', good godric, he'd even called her 'love'. No, she must have misheard. Another thing - there was such sorrow in his voice - not something she'd have expected from the Dark Lord himself. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Three options were drawn up in her mind - three versions of a potential timeline. She pictured them - mapping them out like glistening spider's webs - silken strands all leading back to him.

The first - delusion. Either Tom Riddle in the future was delusional - and somehow recognised her as a friend. Or her mind was at fault, and she'd misinterpreted his words and actions. Misinterpreting a hug and a wink is rather difficult, she'd thought.

The second - friendship, or something else. At some point in the near future, I, Hermione Jean Granger, muggle-born witch extraordinaire, form some kind of attachment to Tom Marvolo Riddle, pureblood supremacist and murderous sociopath, who has not only spent his whole life fighting against what I stand for, but is also singlehandedly responsible for the orphaned state of a beloved friend, and the nightmares of another.

This seemed the most unlikely. Harry had suffered so much due to Voldemort. And Ginny. Good Godric, Ginny.

Her first year had been a mess - for the next two years, she'd struggled with insomnia, the ghost of Tom Riddle still haunting her nights. It was during those long summer nights at the Burrow, when Ginny had wet the bed in fear, when Ginny had cried and screamed in her sleep, when Ginny had imagined the figure of a fearsome boy crouched over her bed, whispering horrors in her ears - that Hermione had stayed awake and read to the girl. She would tell Ginny stories, watch over her until morning swept her friend's fears away. Although Ginny had shown herself to be extremely brave, now nightmare free and very happy indeed, Hermione could never forgive the creature that had brought her friend's childhood to such an abrupt and cruel end.

The third option - deception. He'd finally learnt to lie convincingly. He had, after all, sounded incredibly sincere. A small smirk tugged at the corners. She was a good teacher, then.

Whatever helps you sleep at night.

- "Well? Hermione?"

She looked up. The whole dorm was listening.

"What's he like? Is he good looking?"

What was he like? Oh, nothing, he's just a mass murderer who hasn't quite gone on a killing spree yet, but doubtless he will soon. Don't worry, I'm sure he'll let me be privy to his hit list once he does draw it up, would you like me to pass on your names?

"He's very smart. And yes, I suppose, in a certain light, he is quite good looking." she mumbled. "But it's really not like that. He's a bit of a pompous prick, if we're going to be perfectly honest."

"Language Hermione!" squealed Lavender. "Don't worry though, the jerks are always softies at heart - I mean, if you look at Ron and me," she began, before launching into a small monologue regarding her relationship with Ronniekins. Hermione felt something in her stomach twist. She had definitely been jealous of Lavender when the two had started their relationship. Was she in love with Ron? She'd fancied him at one point. He made her laugh, and… he was sweet, in a slightly oblivious way. But did she like him now? No. Something had changed. She wasn't jealous of Lavender because Lavender had Ron - she was jealous of Lavender because she had something, someone. Someone to turn to when she felt scared or sad - someone who would be there for her alone. She was jealous of their closeness. And yes, perhaps she was frustrated at the fact that someone as foolish as Lavender, who hadn't worked seriously a day in her life, could be happy. Happy without even trying.

I'm becoming quite bitter, aren't I? she thought to herself, stroking Crookshanks.

But no. It really wasn't like that with Riddle.

She'd carefully avoided Harry for the past few days. Guilt perhaps? That evening, it was easier than usual to get away. Harry had one of his Dumbledore sessions, Ron was off… frolicking with Lavender. She wrinkled her nose at the thought. It was easy to sneak over to the hidden room in the restricted section and meet Tom.

He arrived, punctual as usual, carrying a selection of books with him. He'd barely looked up to greet her.

"These," he said proudly, a smirk plastered across his face as he pointed to the pile on the left, "are for you. There are books on simple Dark Spells, the history of the Dark Arts, as well as a biography of Herpo the Foul - he's very misunderstood, I can guarantee that." He then moved to the pile on the right. "All these are about the Protean Charm." He looked up, a hint of possessiveness creeping into his voice. "We share those." He doesn't seem to understand what sharing means, does he? she thought wryly.

He reached into his satchel, and pulled out Jane Eyre. "And this is yours."

"What did you think?" she asked, taking it back and seating herself at the table.

He shrugged. "Sentimental. Any reason why you picked it out for me?"

"Why did you give me Pictures from Italy?" she questioned, returning his book.

He sat opposite her, taking out some parchment, a quill and ink from his bag, before opening one of the books from the pile on the right. He scratched his chin with the tip of the quill, then dipped it in the ink, pausing over the page for an excruciating amount of time and beginning to make notes. He paused. "It's rude to answer a question by another question." he offered simply, his dark eyes scanning the book.

She sighed, before taking out the notes she'd made on the charm throughout the week, and passing them over to him. He eyed them suspiciously, before his expression shifted to one of slight appreciation.

"I lent you Jane Eyre, because I was hoping it would present a different side to loyalty than the one which you seem to expect from your followers." she said finally.

"Followers?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips, "Who said anything about followers? This is quite good by the way," he added, gesturing to her research. "I disagree with regards to your substituting my Koine Greek for Ionic Greek in the charmwork."

"Oh come on, they're clearly followers!" she scoffed. "A body-protean charm!? It's irrational. As is your dismissal of my Ionic element. More specifically Old Ionic. Koine is essentially a simplified version of Ionic Greek. Ionic Greek is far more analytical. Your spell requires detail. For this, the language needs to be able to convey a heightened level of analysis. Q.E.D. You need to use Old Ionic Greek. Opting for Koine is lazy."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. I don't think the spell needs to be quite that exact, but alright. You can redesign the Greek element." He pushed the parchment over to her. She eyed his neat, cursive script with dislike. Her handwriting was good, but not quite that good. "And whilst we're at it," he said, "the loyalty Jane has for Rochester is irrational too. The man has treated her incredibly poorly."

"Aha!" she cried triumphantly. "You said that it was irrational 'too' - implying you believe your followers' dedication to you does lack reason!"

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Well, I never claimed their judgement was sound, now did I?" he said with a slow grin. She smirked. They sat in silence for a while, each examining their respective books. She liked the stillness, as did he, she supposed. In turn, Tom gazed at the girl sitting across the table. He was surprised to find himself rather enjoying the moment. It was good to be alone - but not lonely. There was something comforting about the scratch of her quill across the parchment, the flurry of words and letters that followed. She seemed totally absorbed in the task at hand, her eyebrows knitting together in dislike at bits of stray latin which he seemed to have let drift in to pollute the greek, a few angry curls wandering onto her face.

"What's so wrong with Jane and Rochester?" she asked absentmindedly, correcting a verb and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Nothing's 'wrong'. But again, it's irrational. Unconditional love? Not only had he lied about having an ridiculously violent wife, but they lack chemistry." He wrinkled his nose at one of her suggestions. "Le Fay's formula is preferable to that of Mancini's. It's far more reliable - and Morgan le Fay had closer ties to the elfin world anyway, I'd trust her judgement more." he added, passing the formula across the table.

She sighed. "I think they have great chemistry. So, to you, the foundations of a good romantic relationship involve both honesty and chemistry? Oh, and yes to the Morgan le Fay formula - just make sure you use the octagonal formation."

"I'm not a huge believer in romance. I lack the time." he said. "But were there such a thing as a 'good romantic relationship', then yes, honesty and chemistry would be important."

He'd passed on a rough version the altered formula to her. She'd grinned. "Now all we need to do is add in the Greek, then you're good to go!"

They finished up the final plans of the charm at around two in the morning. "The first true example of a human body-protean charm in the history of witchcraft." Tom had said. And Hermione was surprised in realising that she felt pride in this. He'd brought champagne with him, somehow. They'd toasted to their success, then spent the rest of the night talking.

I love the Brontë Sisters, she'd said with a small smile, especially Anne Brontë's work. He'd grinned, Anne Brontë's work is the only one I can stand. I thought the ending to 'Agnes Grey' was a bit of a cop-out though. She'd shaken her head at that, she deserved a happy ending. He'd shrugged at the comment. She'd asked about his motives behind lending her Pictures from Italy - he'd just wanted someone to talk to about travelling.

He was filled with hopes for the future, marvellous plans for new and wondrous magic - spells she'd never dreamt could exist, let alone thought of casting. His mind - his beautiful, beautiful mind was an ocean of possibilities, stories, unfinished spellwork, dreams for the world, places he wanted to visit, books, art, music, poetry - he was fascinated by everything - and all she wanted to do was drown in him, forget everything, forget who he was, who she was, why they were there. But when will you find all the time to go to these places? Won't it take long? There's no possible way anyone could fit in so much into a human life! she'd laughed. He'd smiled, a small, clever smile, You'll see. Who said our lives had to be short? Who said they had to be finite? And perhaps it was drink, or perhaps it was merely the lack of sleep or the fact that somewhere, deep down, she too had felt the pressures of time against knowledge, that she'd asked, How would you do it?

And he, evasive as always, had whispered in return, You'll see, Hermione. He'd then searched her eyes, and asked, But will you join me? Come with me and spend forever seeing this world?

She couldn't remember what she'd said to that, but when she'd returned to her dorm with the promise of meeting him again the following week, she'd fallen asleep with a smile.

The next day, she'd started reading Herpo the Foul's biography. The man was brilliant, but clearly a lunatic - basilisks, curses and spells, violent and twisted ways of warping the soul into immortality - she'd never heard of a horcrux before - whoever was mad enough to make one had to be a truly vile character but yes, though the man was a lunatic, he did have his moments. Herpo was a philosopher, a clever one at that, a friend of Plato's, occasionally dabbling in politics and the arts. Was he misunderstood though? No, he was far too cruel for that.

Her day had been a long and tedious one. Snape was hardly an encouraging Defence teacher. Her arithmancy lessons seemed to be getting progressively easier throughout the year, a little counterintuitive, she thought bitterly, and Lavender was becoming gradually even more and more of a leech on Ron.

Harry had seemed tired most of the day. Why, she couldn't tell. It was only once the three of them were alone, Harry, Ron and her, that he told them.

"He's immortal." he'd said, shaking, his head between his hands.

He'd begun to explain the concept to them, and she'd just sat there, numb. Occasionally trying to nod. Something about the diary and a ring on Dumbledore's finger. And more. "What did you say they were called, Harry?" a voice had said. A voice. Her voice. Oh. Am I the one talking? Her mind had thought.

"Horcruxes, Hermione. Horcruxes."

You'll see, Hermione.

A/N - Hi! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you're enjoying the story so far! :) Please review!

(Thank you very very much to BlackFlameLady, JuliSt, mama123, Beth, Vaneesa85, the unnamed Guest ;) and CloudyDream for your wonderful reviews! I really appreciate it! [and CloudyDream, I admire your perseverance in reviewing! My emails are a bit weird, so I don't get proper notifications unfortunately…Sorry, I'm not sure that really helps. But thank you very much for reviewing! :)] )

So, Hermione's growing quite fond of Tom, and perhaps he's growing quite fond of her, too. Horcruxes aren't exactly fantastic for spurring on relationships though… (… or are they? Sorry, just kidding. Anyway, horcruxes = bad news.)

Have a lovely day!

Calliope

[Also, here's a 'little' side note on Ancient Greek, and why Tom's spellwork was almost lazy.

So - from my limited knowledge of Ancient Greek (three years of study people, three years! So.. er, yeah. Not a lot :p So please feel free to correct me on this if you disagree!) - Koine Greek, popularised mainly by Alexander the Great's army, is indeed far more simplified than Ionic Greek (sort of Homer & co.). Some scholars believe Ionic Greek to be the 'ancestor of Koine Greek' in a way - this would make some sense.

For the uninitiated - Ancient Greek is bizarre. Wonderful, but strange.

The aorist/past tense, adapts greatly depending on whether the verb is a 'strong' aorist or a 'weak' aorist. Whilst in most languages the stem of the verb doesn't change depending on the tense, it can do so in ancient greek if we are looking at a 'strong' aorist. A 'weak' aorist will just add on the aorist endings to the stem of the verb - like a normal, sane, regular language should do. In Ionic Greek - there are definitely those two types of aorist. In Koine Greek, there is a tendency to just completely ignore fundamental grammar rules and make almost everything look like a weak aorist - which is cheating. (Calliope, did you just criticise Alexander the Great? Why yes, I did.) Koine Greek does loads of these little simplifications, which render the language far less exact. This is why you must always trust Hermione, as opposed to Tom, who tries to cut corners through over-simplification. Admittedly, I may be wrong on this {I hope I'm not?} - so if anyone knows more on the topic and wants to correct me, do let me know, and I'll make some changes!]