Tom Riddle sat quietly in a black armchair in the Slytherin Common Room, thinking quietly. He didn't often encounter an enigma in this place – the people were largely too uninteresting, and everything except his own academic pursuits bored him. Yet – here had come a girl, a quiet girl with sheltered emotions behind her eyes and more than a few vicious hexes up her sleeve, and he was... intrigued. For the first time in a while, he was interested by someone, instead of something.
She wasn't a threat to him, obviously, but she seemed to think that he was a threat to her, for whatever reason, and that attracted him to her like a magnet. Why would she be scared of him? He was as much the golden child as ever; no one at this false school really knew him well enough to dislike him. Her fear was completely mystifying.
Tom Riddle didn't like being mystified. She had told him that she was easily intimidated, and then strongly implied that her intimidation stemmed from his physical presence. That wasn't entirely implausible in itself, but if it were something that made her scared of men, then she would have been avoiding those Gryffindor friends of hers – King and Gryffindor. But he somehow liked that she was afraid of him – it gave him a raw and powerful feeling, although it was hardly as if she was cowering.
The girl had a certain unstable grace about her, a wiry strength, electricity crackling from her eyes. Since he had seen her in the Restricted Section, he had felt that their meeting was not one of chance. And the fact that she had been seemingly unfazed by a vicious attack of Araminta's just a few days after her arrival...
And this book!
Riddle hefted the book in his hand. The Quiescence of the Afterlife. Not exactly light reading. More concerning was the fact that he hadn't seen her take that book from the Restricted Section when she had walked out with a stack of books that he could only presume, now, were completely different than they had appeared to be. He ached to use Legilimency on her, but given her power for other spells, he could assume that she was at least a competent Occlumens, and she would notice his intrusion.
Riddle sighed and tucked the book back into his pocket, brushing back his dark hair. What was she hiding from him? What mattered so much that she needed to hide it from him? She was hardly a good liar – although the trembling he had felt when he got close to her was definitely not faked. She was attracted to him, of course, like every other girl in the school, but that wasn't an answer to anything. And yet it was the only thing he had managed to wring out of her, even after he had blown his cover as a nice guy. Whatever it was she knew, he wanted it.
And what he wanted, he always got.
The next month or so passed without event for Hermione. She only had a couple more emotional episodes, and she managed to control them quite well, to her immense relief. The thing that kept her going, mainly, was the Restricted Section. She barreled through the books on different death theories, although she never was able to get back that one that Riddle had...
Riddle was the only thing that unsettled Hermione anymore. He hadn't managed to get her alone again, but he'd started giving her bland smiles in the hallways and saying, "Hello," which unnerved her immensely. Not only that, but it made her friends uneasy. Every time it happened, Godric gave her a funny glance and R.J. glared after Riddle. Mina just elbowed her and gave her sleazy grins.
"Does he think you're best friends or something?" she once teased. "Maybe he's interested. I don't know; I wouldn't mind getting with him, even if he is a Slytherin—"
Godric shoved Mina, a look of repulsion on his face. "Ugh, Mina, that's disgusting."
Hermione laughed, but was secretly perturbed. What was Riddle playing at? If he thought that her friends would be scared away by her having a friend in Slytherin, he was sorely mistaken. She would leave nothing to chance. She would not encounter him alone again.
Still, though, she didn't – and couldn't – trust anything he did. Not one bit. She had attended every Dueling Club since arriving, but he hadn't challenged her again, nor had anyone else. The incidence of Riddle dueling was only once preceded, and he had defeated his opponent in under thirty seconds then, so the fact that he had dueled a new student – and with such ferocity – had caused quite a stir.
Hermione had managed to fade back into the background with relative ease. She spent most of her time alone in her room, reading, but she had also been coerced into exploring Hogwarts with R.J., Godric, Mina, Albus, and Miranda. They constantly surprised her with how much she liked them; she hadn't thought she could like anyone as much as Harry and Ron, but she had latched onto this new group of Gryffindors like they were her family. They might as well have been, although Hermione could not find a way to fill that ache in her chest when she thought of Ron.
Worse to think of, when she thought of Ron, was the way their relationship had fettered and stuttered and stopped before finally starting in earnest, although that was perhaps one of the best idiosyncrasies of their love – the constant banter, the way he would wave off her corrections, the slight frustration that was always satisfied by his smile.
Rumors were that the event coordinators – that group of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws that planned games and activities – were coming up with something for next week. Hermione was excited – apparently, there was one big event every couple of months, and this would be the first she had seen.
But the passage of time was something that niggled at her. Godric's rough estimate on the passage of time had hardly been accurate – Hermione was able to determine, from R.J.'s and her own dates of appearance, that for every day that passed in her world, back on Earth, about three days passed. That was better than she had originally thought – the original estimate had been a week or so for every day – and had put her a little more at ease while she was researching for a way out.
Thread theory wasn't mentioned in any of the books she had read thus far – she had only read one paragraph about it, ever, and that was by a previously-unpublished author, so there wasn't much to go off. She had faith, though, in her researching ability.
When she wasn't reading, she was being taught spells she had never dreamed of by Godric and Albus. Magic had never really challenged her in school – the only things that had ever taken her any time to learn were vague concepts, like nonverbal spellcasting, but even that had only taken a few tries before it was under her control. Yet now – being taught by two of the greatest wizards ever to live – Hermione rejoiced in a challenge. Wand patterns that were practically impossible to remember, incantations that had multiple parts and multiple movements, hexes that required cobbling together several hexes, like a chemical reaction – Hermione had never been so fascinated. She was progressing quickly, too, and delighted in it.
She wondered about what would happen if one were to be killed in this world, though. What would happen if someone got Avada Kedavra cast on them? The caster would surely suffer some sort of rip in the soul and be trapped longer, but the person who had been killed – would they just move on?
In any case, Hermione's eventual and secret goal was not just to move on, but to get back to the real world somehow. Harry had done it. Surely it could be possible, somehow...
"Quidditch today!" cheered Mina, sitting down at the breakfast table with a thump. Hermione couldn't help grinning at Mina's exuberant smile. The girl hadn't been able to shut up about this next match for the past week and a half, and as Quidditch Captain, she had been calling practices every day for three hours. Hermione had dropped by a few times – the team was phenomenal, unsurprisingly. With as much time to practice as they had, it was expected. Mina in particular, who was the Keeper, was incredible. She did things with the Quaffle that Hermione had never seen from anyone before.
"How's Slytherin shaping up?" Hermione asked. Mina made a face.
"They're a bunch of dirty players," Godric cut in, rolling his eyes.
"Surprising," Miranda said quietly from behind her book.
Mina sighed, glancing over at the Slytherin table. "Yeah, we've just got to, you know, keep our wands at the ready and pray they don't decide to pull some Dark Magic out of their sorry arses."
Hermione snorted. "Who's on the Slytherin team?"
Mina started to count off on her fingers, pointing at various Slytherins as she went. "Well, there's Malfoy, of course. He's the team captain. He's also the only one that plays fair. The rest... Melly, for one, and then her buddy Barda – the big guy, there, that one. They're both Beaters. The Seeker's Herpo, down there – don't know much about him – and the Chasers... Malfoy's one, and the other two are Kenji Takahashi and Andre Taylor. Those two. And the Keeper – Briene Flint, her."
Flint – any relation to Marcus Flint? Hermione studied the faces of the Slytherins. She didn't fancy being on the pitch when Araminta was in possession of a Beater's club, that was for sure. In fact, she wasn't so sure that she'd be comfortable sitting in the stands when Araminta could hit a Bludger at her. It might even be better to be sitting in the Infirmary at the ready, so when her friends got injured she could help them as quickly as possible.
Light breezes rushed through the Quidditch stands, spreading infectious game-day vigor. Hermione watched as the Gryffindor team emerged onto the pitch. Every single player had the same broom – a fairly standard Nimbus Two Thousand and One. According to Mina, they were the school brooms.
There was no Madam Hooch to blow the whistle. The players rose into the air, and then Mina called, "Alohomora," and the box holding the four balls exploded open. Mina levitated the Quaffle into the air, and as it fell, the game began.
Albus was the commentator, which was bizarre. His voice was strangely soporific to listen to, calming rather than riling. "Anderson Prewett's bat connects with that Bludger to the left over there," he mused, as if only vaguely interested. "Ah, yes, and it seems as if Araminta Meliflua has hit one, too. Ooh, it makes contact with Godric Gryffindor, and he loses his grip on the Quaffle. That Quaffle is descending quickly – oh, look. Briene Flint is taking out her wand. Ms. Flint, may I remind you, that's very clearly against regulations. Annabella Wespurt is just out of the Infirmary from the last match, and she's drawing her wand, too. Well, we'll get back to that in just a moment – the Quaffle is being passed to Abraxas Malfoy. Quite a fast flier, and he's passing to – oh, no, it's been intercepted by Gryffindor. Godric Gryffindor, that is, heh heh."
Hermione's eyes were fixed on Briene Flint, who was aiming her wand at Annabella Wespurt, a plump blonde Chaser. Flint raised her wand with a grim smile, but Wespurt flicked her own wand, and a jet of red light sent Flint's wand flying from her hand just as the Quaffle soared through the Slytherin goal. There was an uproar from the rest of the Slytherin team. "Come on, Flint!" roared Araminta's Beater friend. Abraxas Malfoy just sighed and looked skyward as if in exasperation.
Then a Bludger, which seemed to be moving uncommonly quickly, slammed into a Gryffindor Chaser with a sickening crack. The girl screamed and fell into a tailspin. She managed to right herself just before the ground, toppling onto the field gently, clutching at her left shoulder.
Dumbledore sighed. "Well, if a Gryffindor could please escort Ms. Jinnah off the field and to the Infirmary, that would be lovely. First casualty of our game today – oh, look, there's another one."
A Bludger connected solidly with the Japanese Slytherin Chaser, Takahashi. Another splintering crunch echoed throughout the stands. Hermione's nose wrinkled in disgust, but as she looked around the stands, no one else really seemed fazed by the developments besides herself and Miranda, who was shaking her head slowly.
Within the next five minutes, three more players were out of commission – both Gryffindor Beaters and a Slytherin. Both Mina and Godric had blocked the hexes that were now flying thick their way, and the counterjinxes they were casting were by no means insubstantial. In fact, Mina's Jelly-Legs Hex had Malfoy wriggling his way off his broom until he was hanging by both hands, his legs quivering helplessly. Godric had cast a Tickling Jinx on Flint, and she was laughing helplessly, holding onto one of the goalposts for support as her broom threatened to give way.
This isn't Quidditch; this is barbarism, thought Hermione as Araminta hit a well-placed Bludger into the face of Annabella Wespurt, whose nose promptly broke. Five Slytherins and three Gryffindors were left – Mina, Godric, and the Seeker, a tiny black girl who had a knack for aerobic spinning that left Slytherin's Herpo in the dust.
Then, just as Godric managed to charm Araminta into hitting herself in the face with her own bat, the Gryffindor Seeker whirled into a spectacular dive, and seconds later it was over. Cheering erupted from the stands, and the remaining Gryffindors took a lap around the pitch. Hermione sighed, snuck out of the stands, and back to the school. She could celebrate that night – but right then she just felt utterly drained, as if she had watched an exquisite torture instead of a Quidditch match.
She found herself ascending the stairs to the Infirmary. Inside, the six players who had been injured were sitting on beds, being given small vials of potions by a young, tanned man in Ravenclaw robes. As Hermione walked tentatively towards them, another student bustled out from another room, wand at the ready. He was tall and dark-skinned, and had a very businesslike look on his face.
"What have you given them, Jared?" he asked in a deep voice.
The Ravenclaw shrugged. "A little of this, a little of that," he replied. "A couple of pain relievers, for these three. I figure you can fix the others pretty fast, Mungo – it's not nearly as bad as last time."
Mungo! St. Mungo?
Hermione felt supremely awkward watching Mungo in action. His wand flickered up to Annabella's nose – Hermione recognized a silent Episkey – and the girl gasped as her nose realigned itself. Mungo pulled a small, white towel seemingly out of the air and wiped Annabella's face, then waved her on her way.
"Thanks, Mungo!" she called. "Appreciate it!"
Mungo glanced over at Hermione. "Are you hurt, too?" he sighed. "I'll be right there, just hang on a quick -"
"No, no," Hermione assured him, "I just wanted to see."
Mungo stared in disbelief, and then chuckled. "Not used to violence, are you?"
Hermione gave a hollow laugh at his words. Not used to violence – of course not, unless you counted seeing endless Unforgivables, curses beyond all imagining, torture – and of course, experiencing her own torture before being mercilessly killed. "No, I'm used to violence," she said dryly, "it's just Healing I haven't seen a lot of in a while."
"Well, I guess, if you're interested, go ahead and take a seat," said the other Healer, Jared. Hermione nodded quickly and sat down on one of the crisp white beds.
Giant boils had erupted all over one of the Gryffindor players. "What do you think this is?" Jared asked Mungo. "I thought it was a Furnunculus, personally, but I could see it being a few other more obscure hexes, too."
Mungo nodded. "No, that's a Furnunculus, all right." He raised his wand once more, and the boils melted away from the boy as if they had never been there. "Jared – could you get him a Desiit Draught?"
Jared walked swiftly over to a huge cabinet and opened it wide. Hermione's eyes opened large in surprise as she stared at the hundreds of vials that were tucked into small slots all over the cabinet. Jared reached into the back, tugged a small vial filled with blue liquid out, and handed it to the Gryffindor boy. "Take that before sleeping tonight – should help with the nasty side effects in, uh, other places," said Jared with a grin. The patient flushed crimson and hurried away.
After fifteen minutes or so, two of the remaining patients had been cured and sent back to their respective Houses, and only one remained – a Slytherin. Two hexes seemed to have mated in the air and reflected onto him, leaving him with a strange texture and color to his skin not unlike that of a dead leaf. Jared didn't go into the cabinet, but instead retreated into the back room, returning with several different bottles. Hermione watched in fascination as Mungo and Jared tossed around possibilities of combinations – they assumed that one hex had been a Stunner, as the Slytherin boy was completely immobile, but couldn't decide which spell could possibly react with a Stunner to give that skin result.
Hermione smiled as the two wizards debated. There was something comforting about the fact that there were countless witches and wizards back on earth who were devoting their lives to doing this, all day – helping everyone, no matter the malady, no matter who it was.
Eventually, Jared opened the Slytherin's mouth and poured in some gold potion, followed by a small bit of a clear, fizzing solution. There was a pop, and then Mungo tentatively rubbed at the Slytherin's left cheek, sighing in satisfaction as the leaf-like substance flaked off, revealing new skin beneath it.
"Evanesco," he said, and with a wave of his wand, the skin was removed and the boy was back to normal, if a little pinker and softer than usual. Jared placed a swirling green potion to the unconscious boy's lips and tilted it backwards. Hermione recognized that one, at least – a Replenishment Potion, designed to regrow certain body parts – probably to help with the layers of skin that seemed to have been scrubbed off in the cure.
Then the two Healers turned to Hermione. "So, interested in Healing, eh?" asked Jared, holding out a hand. "My name's Jared Pippin."
"I'm Mungo Bonham," introduced the other.
"Hermione Granger," said Hermione with a smile. "It's quite reassuring that at least two people in this place are taking some responsibility."
Jared laughed, and Mungo gave a serene smile.
"We could always use someone else," Jared said. "You any good at Healing?"
Maybe if I had had the chance to have a profession, a career, a life outside of that war –
"No. Well, I don't know."
Mungo shrugged. "Well, it's really just a mixture of all the most important things put together," he said gently. "Come by any time you're interested in helping out – we can always use a pair of hands for potion-making, or for experimenting on antidotes and remedies."
"Ooh, that sounds fascinating!" exclaimed Hermione. "I do love the principles behind antidotes as a whole."
Mungo and Jared exchanged amused glances. "Great!" Jared said. "Well, we'll see you some other time, then? We're going to go to get some food. Feel free to look around – just don't, you know, mess anything up terribly."
"Of course not," said Hermione, and retreated to the potions cabinet, opening it wide and looking through the fruits of Jared's labors. Wow, some of these are really advanced.
Hermione wondered how many leaps and bounds ahead of modern medical magic this pair was, given that they'd had hundreds of years of uninterrupted study.
Hundreds of years. Merlin – what was she going to do if she was stuck there for that long? Hermione sat down on the bed, a small vial of pink liquid in her left hand. She couldn't even fathom being there for more than a year, let alone a hundred. She had to get back to Earth.
What was she doing? She had a mission. She had a plan. She had research to do, and it was ridiculous to waste time when she could be researching. Shunting the vial back into its slot, she closed the cabinet gently and walked down from the Infirmary to the common room.
"Hermione!" cheered Godric as she made her way through the portrait hole. "Where in the bloody hell were you?"
"Lay off the Firewhiskey, would you, mate?" R.J. mumbled to Godric. "You're hurting my ears."
"The Infirmary," Hermione said. She looked around – celebrations were clearly well-executed here. An open case of Firewhiskey, and two of Butterbeer, sat on a table that looked as if it might collapse from the weight. Laughing, talking people were draped all over the chairs and sofas, and whistling, silvery charms spun through the air. They reminded Hermione faintly of the Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs. The gentle firelight cast a warm glow over the Gryffindors, and with the ephemeral beauty of the other world, the place reminded Hermione of a strange and joyful dream.
Hermione looked over at Mina, who was animatedly recounting her simultaneous blocking of hexes and Quaffle with a Butterbeer in hand. Even Albus and Miranda were enjoying the pleasantly loud atmosphere, and neither held their usual books or various academia.
"So, Hermione," said R.J., "what did you think about the match?"
"In a word? Violent."
R.J. laughed. "Yeah, that's apparently how Quidditch always used to be, back in the 1800s. Most people in here are from the 1800s, actually – and you used to be able to use light hexes and spells during matches."
Hermione looked skeptical. "I never read about that in the History of Quidditch..."
"When it got reformed, people thought it would make fans uneasy about the sport, so they just sort of omitted it from the original rules," said R.J., sitting down with a sigh on the sofa. "I like the non-violent version better."
"Yes. I quite agree," said Hermione. "Listen – I'm a bit tired, so I'm going to go up to the dormitory, if anyone asks after me." She didn't want to be abrupt, but it had been silly to attend the match in the first place, when she should have been reading.
In the dormitory, it was very dark and very quiet. Hermione lit a lantern and got into bed with three books, bed hangings drawn. She didn't get to sleep until far beyond midnight.
"Did you see her face?" giggled Araminta, her pointy features sneering into a laugh. The Slytherins around her chortled, drinking their Butterbeers in the dimly greenish half-light of the common room. "I might have done her a favor by breaking her nose– maybe now she'll have the sense to get it shrunk down a few sizes. The rest of her could use some shrinking, too." She took a swig of her Firewhiskey, then turned to face Tom Riddle, who was sitting in a black armchair, an unopened Butterbeer in his left hand, his legs stretched out in a casually dominant position.
"Did you watch the game, Tom?" she asked. He blinked, as if waking calmly from a dream, and turned to face Araminta.
"No," he said, and then turned back to the fire. There was a brief hush in the conversation – one did not question Tom Riddle's motives about anything, but there was nothing really to say to that.
Then Abraxas walked in, his blond hair soaking, carrying another case of Firewhiskey, and the common room relaxed back into its cheery state. "Merlin, those Gryffindors..." Abraxas grumbled. "One of them dumped a bottle of Butterbeer on me in the stairs." He whipped out his wand to dry his hair as he sat in the chair next to Riddle. "Are you… erm, alright?"
Riddle turned to Malfoy, taking quiet satisfaction in the nervousness he seemed to instill in the bigger boy. Yawning, he stretched out his long legs even further, then placed his chin into his hand and fixed his dark stare on Abraxas for a little longer than was necessary. "Yes, I'm doing reasonably well, Abraxas," he said quietly. "And yourself?"
Malfoy was taken aback. A bit of a smile appeared on the corner of his lip, and his grey eyes appeared genuinely grateful at the question. "Not bad, even considering we didn't win the match," he replied, his deep voice regretful. "You seem... pensive. Any reason?" He couldn't believe his own daring – he had never asked Tom Riddle any question in his life, and now two, in a few minutes?
Riddle looked back at the fire. Malfoy was the closest to him, and was definitely a competent and capable wizard. He could be trusted with just a little bit of information, surely... "Shall we take a walk?" Riddle suggested smoothly, standing up. There was a bit of a lull in the boisterous atmosphere as the Riddle strode from the Slytherin Common Room, Malfoy hurrying after him.
They strolled through the dungeons. Riddle didn't say anything for a long while, collecting his thoughts.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Where to begin? How could he impress upon Malfoy how irritating this issue was?
"Are you familiar with the new Gryffindor at all?" asked Riddle.
"The girl? No," said Abraxas.
Riddle stopped walking and opened a classroom door, checking up and down the hallway. He gestured for Malfoy to enter – he couldn't risk anyone overhearing this conversation. He flicked his wand, casting a simple charm to keep their words from slipping outside the classroom door. "I have a conjecture," he said, "that she knows something that I would very much like to know."
Abraxas nodded. He understood – Riddle would not tell him what that piece of information was, or even what it related to, and he expected him not to question it, ever. As far as Riddle went, that was pretty standard.
Riddle leaned against the teacher's desk, casually lighting the torches around the room. "And, as such, I would like to find out as much about her as possible," he said carefully, his quiet, cultured voice echoing around the dungeon.
"I would suppose you had already heard, but Araminta Meliflua discovered that the girl was Muggle-born just a few days after her arrival, if that helps," Abraxas said smoothly.
Riddle's head jerked up to look at Malfoy. The blond boy instantly averted his gaze, as if it were a crime to look into Tom Riddle's eyes. Not many people did. "Really," Riddle muttered, turning back to stare blankly at the back of the classroom.
A Mudblood? Able to duel like that? He found the concept just a little bit disgusting. A Mudblood, clearly endowed with magical talent that would have been so much better spent on a witch or wizard of purity... Although Riddle was a half-blood himself, he would never permit anybody to know it. After all, having dirty blood was just an unfortunate side circumstance of Riddle's life, one that he had quickly erased as a factor after he—
"Should I leave you?" Abraxas asked, never meeting his eyes. Riddle let him squirm in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds before asking, in a dangerously soft voice,
"Excuse me?"
Malfoy repeated, "Should I?"
Riddle stared at the boy's averted grey eyes, willing him to look up, and inevitably, he did, unable to evade the hypnotic stare that Riddle employed so well.
"Should I... what?" Riddle whispered.
Malfoy's eyes flickered back to the ground. "Should I leave you, Master?"
"Yes," Riddle said quietly. "Inform no one about this conversation. If anyone questions you, do not hesitate to redirect them to me."
His soft voice sent a tingle down Malfoy's spine. A redirected encounter with Riddle would never end well. Abraxas left as quickly as he could without it being considered fleeing.
Riddle sighed and stared at the ceiling. The huge gray flagstones overhead flickered in the soft red light of the torches. Had that been a mistake? Admittedly, he was devoting quite a disproportionate amount of his thought processes to the Granger girl – far more than he felt should be logical. Would it even help to explore it? If necessary, a well-placed Memory Charm on Abraxas wouldn't go amiss…
He had seen the Gryffindor girl's singularly bushy hair traveling across the grounds as she left the Quidditch match, and had been sorely attempted to corner her again and just use Legilimency on her. No, though; that would not do. How brash and uncivilized. He could do better than that.
He shuddered as he recalled Abraxas' words. Mudblood. His lip curled involuntarily – Mudblood. She was of no significant heritage, then – not descended from anyone important, anyone of worth. That was perhaps even more interesting in itself, that she would be capable enough to learn such advanced magic with no magical background, but still – it was just so repulsive, the notion of her being lovingly raised by a pair of Muggles, no better than alien beasts, no better than the creatures at his own filthy orphanage –
Riddle sighed and rubbed at an eye with a long finger. A spot of torture, surely, wouldn't be too terrible? Not if it allowed him to get what he needed... a simple Crucio, and then he could Obliviate her afterwards. Less of a last resort than Legilimency, anyway.
Yes, the idea was appealing, but it left too much room for error. Especially with a wild card like Granger to deal with – perhaps she, too, had Dark Magic to work with, but was hiding it. She was proficient in non-verbal magic, knew complex hexes and how to block them – Dark Magic definitely seemed like the logical next step. Though her being in Gryffindor complicated matters.
And after Araminta's friend Barda had smashed her nose, Merlin – she hadn't even cried. She had lain there, and then after a while, very calmly picked herself up, taken a deep breath, and fixed her appearance before striding back to the castle as if nothing had happened.
Perhaps worst was the fact that she seemed to have forgotten all about Riddle. It brought hot anger pooling in his stomach. These days, her cool brown eyes maintained their steady calm as they drifted over him, and when he greeted her in the hallways, she only ever blinked and looked mildly puzzled. The most she had shown was slight irritation, as if he were a bug that needed removal, and that made Riddle very angry indeed.
He rolled up his sleeves, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm with anger.
Riddle took out his wand, tracing his name in fiery letters in the air and casually rearranging them –
I Am Lord Voldemort.
Why was he even letting the issue of a single Mudblood girl occupy time in his mind? He had more important things to worry about – like the issue of how to get back to Earth, though that quest had gone unsolved for years.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
What was he like on Earth, now? Surely, if he had died, he would have moved on. That was how it had worked for everyone else with horcruxes thus far...
I Am Lord Voldemort.
Maybe Granger had known him back on Earth – but no, that was ludicrous. He would be in his seventies, and there was no reason to fear a seventy-year-old man.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
But if any of his plans of his youth had proceeded to completion, then he would hardly be judged by his age, but instead by his power. Besides, back in his schoolboy days, Albus Dumbledore had been ancient already, and had been a force to be reckoned with. Granger knowing him was not to be ruled out as a possibility.
Still – she was not so suspicious that he needed to alert his full force about the possibility of her being a threat. She might only be a very intelligent, very easily flustered girl, unused to boys showing her any attention.
Actually, yes – that was the one thing that seemed to unseat her cool – attention. She had very expertly managed to duck under the school's attention after the duel, a feat that Riddle had not imagined she could accomplish. She only ever seemed flustered when he kept his eyes on her.
That was the way to get to her – quietly, in private, where he could use all his wiles and charms, with which he was most certainly dexterous. All the better if she was at ease, so she would let down those fascinating barriers –
Riddle looked at the torches. They were burning low; it was time to get back to the common room, apologize deeply to Araminta for missing the match and being so distant – he did have his image to maintain, after all – and then ever so politely excuse himself to bed.
He slowly relaxed his face into that perfectly composed, unshakable expression, and extinguished the torches.