Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or the world.

Chapter 5: Advanced Alchemy Classroom- October 6th, 1943

Hermione dutifully took notes on alchemic formulas to control how human anatomy regenerated diseases. Alchemy was a fascinating subject, it gave a rounded magical equivalent to what the non-magique perceived as the science of medicine.

Professor Shafiq had informed them that they would briefly be covering the alchemic practices required to heal from degenerative diseases, such as tumours and cancer. This was especially a subject Hermione was interested in as a personal matter close to her heart. Her papa had passed away five years ago from a grand-mal seizure caused by epilepsy, a condition he—a doctor himself—had struggled with most of his life.

However, despite how much she wanted to pay attention, Hermione found that she couldn't because she was absolutely positive Tom Riddle was glaring holes into the back of her neck.

She clenched her fist. She knew why he was staring.

Her maman had written to her of the relative discovery and informed her that she had personally written to Tom Riddle on the matter. She wasn't sure what the letter he received contained that resulted in his unwavering attention on her person but she was sure she'd find out soon enough.

All the same, her mind wandered. Would he be angry? Should she be concerned?

Harry and Ron had warned her that although not all Slytherins were bad—Ron's brothers being prime examples—there were still many who supported Grindelwald and his ideals in that house. Was Tom Riddle one of them? She was quite obviously a nouveau-sang or 'muggleborn' by British standards, and if he was personally bothered by being related to one, however distantly, should she be prepared for a less than positive reaction from him?

It was Wednesday; they usually met after class and headed to the library to discuss and work on their joint potions assignment.

Maybe she could steer them to a more populated table, she mused. He would probably be waiting outside the classroom once the lesson ended.

Hermione glanced down at her watch, noting there were only five minutes left to class, and Professor Shafiq was just wrapping up his lesson. She looked down at her notes to make sure they were comprehensive enough to read later, the bell chiming as she finished doing so. Packing her bag, she stood and jumped to find Riddle standing and waiting right next to her.

"That was fast," she remarked nervously, to which he only gave a slight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and held out his arm for her to take. Halfway to the library, crossing through the third floor, the silence was stifling, and a part of her joked about her not living to see supper.

She brushed it off and began the much-needed conversation.

"So, I assume you've received my mother's letter?" she prompted, maneuvering the figurative ball into his court.

"I did," he clipped, offering nothing more.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, feeling her ire build. If he wanted to act like a child, then fine, she would treat him like one.

"And do you have any questions?" she asked slowly as if she were speaking to a toddler, feeling slightly smug.

However, she didn't get an answer because half a second later she was roughly shoved into an unused classroom. Her wand pointed at him before she could even regain her bearings, panic briefly flashed through her mind before she stomped it into submission.

"I do not appreciate being manhandled, Mr. Riddle," she snapped, not even caring that her accent became thicker at that moment. She stepped back to put some space between them, while he was looking at her like she was the most amusing part of his day.

"Call me Tom, we are family apparently," he replied affably as if he hadn't just shoved and cornered her in an empty classroom. Hermione couldn't stop the incredulity that raced through her and she was sure it showed on her face.

"Are you out of your mind? Is this what passes for manners here in Britain?!" She retorted, unbelieving in the audacity of this boy.

She stilled, however, when she noticed something frigid enter his expression but it was gone before she blinked, briefly wondering if she'd imagined it. Perhaps he had not appreciated the comment on his mental faculties.

"Technically, we're in Scotland."

Ah, the charming persona was back. It didn't matter, Hermione was positive she had seen everything she needed to.

"To answer your earlier question—yes, I did receive a letter from your mother...and I suppose—yes, I do have questions," he began, his tone reeking of condescension as he observed her; it was almost as if he was conversing with an animal of lower intelligence.

Hermione bristled but tried not to snap. She wasn't foolish, no normal boy would corner her like this just for answers. As well, no normal boy would be so unbothered to having a wand pointed at them in self-defence.

"You couldn't ask me these questions in the library?" she asked but knew the answer; the fact that he even had to corner her in secret told her not to trust him at face value.

She nodded mockingly at him, clucking her tongue.

"Don't bother, I already know your answer. You just do not wish for anyone to find out that you are related to a nouveau-sang...but I'll tell you one thing now." she stepped up to him, her wand poking him in the chest. She had to lift her chin to look him in the eye, almost flinching at the vicious look that flashed there.

Nevertheless, she persisted.

"I am not inferior to you and you do NOT have the right to accost me like this for your own comfort," she almost whispered, tone savage. She waited for a beat, refusing to break eye contact before moving back towards the door.

"Whatever problem you have with my existence, you better figure it out and not bring me into it. When we can speak civilly on even ground, then I will answer your questions," she finished and with a quick flick of her wand, the door sprung open and she turned to walk away.

She purposely showed her back to him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of thinking he'd frightened her. He let her go, in any case, though if looks could kill she was certain she may have died at that moment.

Hermione fumed her entire way back to Gryffindor Tower.

She didn't even care that they hadn't worked on potions, the only thing she could feel right now was the persistent knot at the back of her throat and the burn behind her eyes. She wanted to rage and break something; she had dealt with some form of racism her entire life and she was sick and tired of it. If Tom Riddle wanted to be such a person, then she did not need to give him another minute of her time.

Empty Classroom - Meanwhile

He felt his nostrils flare, how dare she?

His jaw ticked and he'd decided what he wanted to do.

Later that evening after supper, he stood within the owlery, tying a letter to the leg of a horned owl, its contents bare:

Dear cousin Helen,

I accept.

Regards,
Tom M. Riddle Jr.