Thanks to beautiful reviewers. I shower you with flowers and lots of chocolate:
Imeralt Evalon, JC1988, , 13Nyx13, Anna on the Horizon, Smithback, leceilbleu, Kitsune, sexy-jess, ClaireReno, Galavantian, Vinwin, NougatEvolution, mngurl07, and iamweasleyfred.
"Come on, Hermione, it'll be fun. Stop being so... like that."
"Mina, I told you, I'm not feeling well. I just want to stay here and sleep, all right?"
That, of course, was a complete lie. An underwater scavenger hunt? First of all, Hermione had an extreme dislike for deep water. Second of all, in the Second Task, being kept hostage underwater had been unpleasant enough while unconscious; she could scarcely imagine participating in that type of thing while awake. Third of all, the memories barraging her of the Second Task – Ron's face when he saw Krum taking her out of the lake, Ron's relief to find that she was okay, Ron's stupid, hidden affection – were insuppressible and highly inconvenient. No, she would stay out of this one.
"Fine, fine," Mina sighed with a huge eyeroll. "I'll see you at dinner, then."
Hermione nodded. "Listen, I'm sorry – I'll do whatever the next event is, I promise."
"You will?"
"Yes."
Mina considered for a second. "Swear on... something."
Hermione snorted. "Fine, I swear on R.J.'s emasculation complex. Happy?"
That earned a laugh from Mina, who left Hermione alone in the dormitory.
It was starting to get tedious, sifting through all these books, though. Hermione had never been tired of books in her life, but all these theories were wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, and she just needed the one to help her get back, and it was just not surfacing.
After a few hours of reading through Beautiful Death: Subtleties of Passing, Hermione tossed it to the ground, disgusted. Letting out an animal noise of frustration, she rolled out of bed. I'll just go and get some dinner, then...
She picked the book back up and walked briskly to the Great Hall. The hallways were absolutely deserted – every single student seemed to be participating in this underwater scavenger hunt thing. Hermione sighed as she walked into the Great Hall. The usual feast was laid on the table, but a total of three other people were at the tables. Two were a pair of Ravenclaws, twin sisters. The first week, Mina had pointed out the sisters to Hermione, saying, "Those are the Marque twins. Leila and Lyla. Terrible names, right? They're incorrigible gossips." They kept giggling annoyingly and casting glances at the other person, who was, of course, Tom Riddle.
Frivolity, I would assume, is beneath the Dark Lord...
Hermione dug into some corn, laying the book on the table next to her and flipping to page 394, where she had stopped. Her eyes scanned over the words blankly, not really expecting anything of merit, and she was not surprised. Drivel, drivel, drivel.
Forty more pages of drivel...
Hermione stood up, having finished her meal, and shoved the book into her pocket. What a travesty to literature – the author obviously had no idea what he was talking about.
Her eyes trailed over to Leila and Lyla Marque, who were watching Tom Riddle leave the Great Hall.
She frowned. Why was he practically running?
Hermione slipped her hand into her pocket. She gripped her wand for reassurance before making a split-second decision and following. What a brash decision – but honestly, she needed something else to do. She would have gone outside if she didn't think that it would result in people calling for her to jump in the lake.
She peeked around the edge of the Great Hall's doors and hurried after him. Quietly rapping herself on the head, she cast a hasty Disillusionment Charm and walked quietly to keep about ten feet behind him.
He was most certainly walking with purpose, checking over his shoulder every few quick paces. His dark profile was watchful and serious, and it drew Hermione's eyes.
She observed how he walked – with pressed rigidity, the complete opposite of his casual, languid air when he was still. His perfectly shined shoes clacked on the stone steps, and he agitatedly stroked his hair back into place with great frequency, as if it were something to be worried about.
As they got off on the fourth floor, Hermione had a shock as he shot another hasty glance backward and happened to look right at her. She stopped still, her heart thundering, and only continued tailing Riddle after he had turned the next corner.
It was on the next hallway that he stopped and unlocked a classroom, slipping inside and shutting the door behind himself. Hermione cursed softly. If the door was shut, she couldn't get inside –
But that didn't really matter, after all, as she stood at the door and peered inside. A huge cauldron sat on a raised stone platform just a few feet from the door. Riddle emptied his pockets. Hermione pressed her nose to the glass carefully, trying to look at what the ingredients were.
Riddle's long fingers separated the items into different piles – there were two separate stacks of what looked like grasses, some brown stuff, a white powder in a glass vial...
His face as he examined the ingredients was unsatisfied. He patted his pockets, then closed his eyes in frustration, his nostrils flaring in anger. He turned and opened the door so suddenly that Hermione didn't even have time to think before being knocked backwards onto the floor with a loud thump. Her wand clattered away from her, but she didn't dare move.
"Hello?" Riddle said. He walked out of the classroom, looking up and down the hallway. Then he took his wand out, and with a broad sweep, muttered, "Finite Incantatem."
Hermione shut her eyes as her Disillusionment Charm faded away, as if her shutting her eyes would shield her from his gaze.
"Hermione Granger," said his deceptively quiet voice. "Why... are you..."
She opened her eyes, and was surprised to see that his hand was held out to her. She took it hesitantly and stood, brushing the dust off her robes.
"I mean... would you care to tell me why you were Disillusioned?" he asked. Hermione looked at his face and was startled by the apparent normalcy. The previous burn in his gaze was replaced by a quiet puzzlement.
"I, uh..." she started, but couldn't think of anything. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I just – I -"
He waited for her to finish, but she didn't. Instead, she cast a glance over his shoulder into the classroom and asked, "What are you making?"
Riddle glanced back at his potion. "Oh, that? Just a little personal project of mine. Interested?"
Hermione shrugged, tucking her hands into her pockets.
"Well, come on," he said, opening the door. She considered running, but her legs walked inside of their own volition. The room smelled like a typical potions laboratory – a pleasant sort of herbal aroma, with the tang of other, stranger ingredients. She stood on her tiptoes and looked inside the cauldron. It was empty.
Riddle casually waved his wand at the immense cauldron, shrinking it to about half its size so that Hermione could comfortably look inside. Then, a thin stream of water flowed from his wandtip and filled the cauldron to the top, and he lit a large fire beneath the cauldron.
Did he want her to ask what he was doing? Because she was perfectly content just to stand there and watch him work. She would probably be able to figure out what potion it was soon enough, anyway.
Riddle looked back up from shredding one of the piles of greenery meticulously and said, "You can sit down, if you'd like."
She remained standing. Got to be ready to run at any second. Or duel, for that matter.
He shrugged his slim shoulders, finished shredding, and dropped the green stuff into the potion, closely followed by all the white powder. The potion hissed and turned light pink.
Hermione sifted through options in her mind. The white powder, judging from the hissing, was powdered Grindylow horn, but she couldn't tell what the greenery had been. Before she could figure it out, Riddle took the knife, pulled out a small, withered purple pod from his pocket. He pressed it flat and scooped the resulting juice into the potion. Gold sparks came up, and the potion slowly swirled back to its original clear state. Riddle had a satisfied gleam in his eye. He took the other pile of vegetation and dropped it liberally into the cauldron, stirring it in with three counterclockwise turns.
She frowned – she should have been able to recognize it by this point, but she didn't even recognize most of the ingredients. So much for my Potions O.W.L., Hermione thought wryly.
"So, uh, what are you making?" she asked, shifting nervously as he turned to face her. He leaned against the stone block, gripping its edges with both pale hands, and a smirk turned the edge of his lip.
"Well, it wouldn't have a name, seeing as it's still in the experimental phase," Riddle said.
"Oh. Oh, so you..." Hermione said, waving her hand vaguely. She swallowed. Her throat seemed to be closing up when she tried to speak, completely foiling her chances at acting natural.
Riddle sighed. "Yes, it's my own invention. Come on, Granger, are you really scared by me?"
"Sure," Hermione deadpanned, as if to be sarcastic. "Because, you know, you're obviously such a terrifying force of evil."
Just because I use a sarcastic tone, doesn't mean it isn't true.
Riddle nodded, a small smile playing around his lips, and turned back to the cauldron. "Well, that'll need to simmer for two weeks."
Hermione looked at him incredulously. "Two weeks? Are you serious?"
"Perfectly," he replied, looking a bit surprised. "Why?"
"Oh, it's just – the initial preparation was short, and of course, usually, the simmering time is less than half that. It's just usually only in most complicated potions, or genre potions, like love potions, or… poisons… that... that the time you let it sit is more than a week..."
Hermione trailed off, turning an unfortunate stoplight red. Merlin! Calm the hell down!
Tom Riddle was looking at her curiously, that uncomfortable penetrating look that she felt she would never be rid of.
"What?" she said sharply, and he looked away.
"I hadn't pegged you as the type to be good at potions," he said conversationally. "Usually, it's just wandwork, or just potions. One or the other."
"Oh," said Hermione, and then she did sit down, if only because her right leg was shaking.
It was like he was attempting to have an actual conversation, but Hermione knew that the Dark Lord did absolutely nothing without purpose. It seemed almost surreal, that she was sitting five feet from a casually stretching young Tom Riddle, the exact carbon copy of the boy who grew up into that pasty-faced, vicious-eyed beast...
The fire under the cauldron was very hot and very bright. Tom Riddle slowly took off his robes, wiping a bit of sweat from his forehead. Hermione couldn't help but observe him as he slipped out of the robes. He looked like a young businessman, handsome and professional and certainly misleading in appearance.
"So, are you planning on telling me what that's for?" Hermione asked, gesturing to the potion.
"No, probably not," said Riddle, glancing back at the gently bubbling cauldron.
A scowl crept onto Hermione's face. "Why?"
Riddle was taken aback. It had been so long since anybody had questioned him about anything. There was a usual unspoken agreement between him and anyone he happened to engage in conversation – he had the upper hand, always, and he expected that status quo to be maintained. Now he let out an ungraceful "Um" and just looked at the girl opposite him, wondering why his mind was fumbling for an answer.
So he just shrugged.
"Well, you asked if I was interested, and I am," said Hermione, with a hint of a smile touching her lips.
"Perhaps we could trade information," suggested Riddle, pulling a chair from the nearest desk and sitting, his legs stretched, his back slouching against the straight wooden seat. It was his I'm-in-control posture. Riddle restrained a smirk as Hermione's eyes strayed over him for an instant.
"Trade?" she asked him. "What could I know that you'd want to find out?"
How about everything?
"Well, we could start out with this," Riddle said, tugging out The Quiescence of the Afterlife from his left pocket.
Hermione's face drew in shock. Why does he just have that? "So, what, do you just carry around possessions you steal all day?" she snorted.
"And if I did?"
"Then... you'd be extremely odd..." What is he playing at?
Riddle shrugged, flipping the book open and running his finger down the table of contents. "There's some interesting philosophy in here," he mused aloud.
Hermione scoffed. "Oh, do tell," she said. "I haven't had the chance to actually read it, since, you know, you've had it for the last month."
"Any particular reason you're so interested in death?" he asked, snapping it shut again. Hermione's eyes were stuck to the cover. What if that were to be the single book that could help her get out of here?
"What?" she said, blinking. "Oh, I just – I mean, isn't that normal, for people to want to learn about it after arriving here?"
"For the occasional Ravenclaw."
An awkward silence.
Hermione mumbled, "Most of the books about death are really speculative. It's annoying."
She reached out a hand. Relief flooded her body as he placed the book into it. "Anything specific you're interested in?" he asked. "Most people just poke through a few books on death after getting here, instead of doing a full-blown investigation."
This isn't getting anywhere, thought Riddle.
"So," Hermione asked him, "why aren't you outside at the lake?"
He looked down at his hands, which were twirling his wand. "Don't feel inclined to be there," he answered. "Anyway, I'd win, of course, which would be far too predictable."
Then, she laughed. She laughed at something he had said. His eyes whipped back up to her, but her cheerful laughter didn't peter out even as he fixed her with his signature stare. Some gut instinct in him thought that she had quite a nice smile. Better than the resentful glowers, to be sure. Her rosy lips were spread wide, revealing unnaturally even teeth. Had she charmed those or something?
"What is it?" he asked slowly, unsure as to exactly why she was laughing or why he was not hexing her in embarrassment. One did not just laugh at Tom Riddle.
"Oh, nothing," she sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "It's just – you're so confident. It's comical."
He raised one dark eyebrow. "Comical?" Yes, it'll be extremely comical when you are unable to breathe in from pain.
She cocked her head. "Does that make you angry? That I find something you said funny?" she asked, her hazel eyes shrewd.
"Well, generally I am offended when someone laughs at me," he said softly, looking back to the cauldron.
"Just because I'm laughing, doesn't mean it's at you," said Hermione, waving away his anger.
Riddle felt strangely mollified by her reassurance, which was strange and new in itself. The words of others didn't tend to affect his mood, unless he was secretly raging from their stupidity or incompetence. For instance, that morning Abraxas had very clearly mentioned Granger to the Slytherin table at large, and Riddle had seethed inside. What had he thought he was accomplishing, drawing attention to the girl? The last thing Riddle needed was for her to close up even more, be even more secretive.
He let out a vague 'eh' noise, turning back to the potion. "Why aren't you out there, with your Gryffindor… friends?" he asked.
"Well, I was planning on just staying in bed and reading, but that... didn't happen."
"That's not an answer to my question," Riddle said.
Hermione sighed. He really wasn't going to let her get away with anything, was he? "I don't like deep water."
He nodded, his fair skin lit up by the fire beneath the cauldron. "Bad experience?"
"You could say that."
Riddle watched as Hermione stared into the potion, her eyes glazed by the reflection of the fire. There was a haunted look beneath her eyes, a look that he wanted to understand – but surely, if he asked her about it, she would just give him another vague half-answer and leave it at that.
He wondered why she was still sitting there if she was terrified of him and had other things to be doing. Riddle fiddled with the ring on his hand, gold with that jet-black stone, and thought quickly. She really was looking rather dejected.
"Are you all right?" he muttered, words that he didn't think he had ever spoken in his life.
Voldemort is asking me if I'm all right. A bemused expression made its way onto Hermione's face. "As well as I can be, probably, under the circumstances."
"You mean your death?"
Hermione nodded. He was not looking back at her, but instead looking pensively into the potion, his back rigidly straight again all of a sudden. His mannerisms were so capricious – one second, he looked as if he didn't have a care in the world, and the next, every muscle was poised, as if to strike.
Remove some suspicion, Hermione. He is a boy you do not know. "Do you miss your friends and family?" she asked him.
At the word 'family', Riddle's jaw tightened for a split second, and then relaxed. "Yes," he said, which Hermione knew was a complete and bold-faced lie.
She couldn't stop herself from saying, "Really?", but as soon as she had, she wished she hadn't. That was not a reasonable question.
"Why would you think I wouldn't?" Riddle asked, turning his dark eyes back onto her. Dammit, not again!
"You just seem very at ease here with your Slytherin f – friends," Hermione said. She'd nearly said 'followers', but caught herself just in time. Thank Merlin. Disaster averted.
"Well, I'm still alive back on Earth," said Riddle, "and that thought comforts me."
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "How old would you be?"
He frowned. "Seventy-something, I believe."
With a small chuckle, Hermione said, "I can't picture you at seventy." As Riddle turned a questioning gaze on her, she clarified, "You just... seem like you'd never get a day older."
She wondered exactly how Voldemort had undergone his transformation. When had his pale skin died into complete whiteness? When had those dark eyes started to glare red? When had his strong nose shrunk back and clung to his face, leaving only slits for nostrils? It was absolutely unbelievable, the physical transformation that had accompanied the creation of his horcruxes.
"What did you look like when you were older?" he suddenly asked, studying her face so intently that her brain fumbled for words to say.
"Older?"
"You know, when you died – older."
Hermione still couldn't think, not with his eyes locked with hers. Something in her stirred, muttered the word Legilimency –
"I didn't – I never -"
She tore her eyes away and cut herself off. She hadn't meant to say those words. No, she hadn't, at all.
His face contorted in shock. "You've never been older than this?" he said disbelievingly.
Hermione cursed mentally. "Er... no." It was too late to recover the fumble. She swallowed and looked out the tall arched windows into the blue sky. She should have gone to the lake, deep water aside.
"How on earth did you die when you were – what, eighteen?" he asked, seemingly horrified.
Well, interesting that you should ask...
"I, erm..."
The first thing that came to mind was a car crash. Ludicrous, really – that same lie that had tided Harry over for eleven years, but it wouldn't work for her. As an overage witch, she could just Apparate. There was very little way that she could have been killed by accident, and she could say it was suicide, but would he even buy that?
"Well?" he said demandingly, and instantly saw that it was a mistake. She had been getting ready to say something, but now her chin got that stubborn set and her eyes burned defiant.
"Riddle, you're forgetting something. I don't have to say anything to you."
That openly contrary look on her face ignited anger deep within Riddle. He stood up slowly, unfolding himself from the chair, and was pleased to see a speck of fear make its way back onto her face. "You might find it wise to," he said.
There was a long pause as he scrutinized her sitting there. She swallowed, and he smirked. Then she looked away again, and her casual discarding of his presence irked him so much that his teeth clenched involuntarily. "You really are quite infuriating," he murmured.
She stood up, too, seeming to think it a grand gesture although he was a full head taller than she. Shaking her voluminous hair back, she said, "Oh, really? I'm infuriating?"
"I don't see why you seem to have some personal vendetta against holding a normal conversation with me," Riddle said calmly, toying with his wand, a small suggestion that she should back down. "All I wanted to know was how you died. Around here, that's a perfectly normal question to ask."
"Well, perhaps that's something I wouldn't like to reveal. To anyone," she said, the indignation in her eyes flaring higher. Riddle gripped his wand tight, restraining himself from just cursing the insolent girl on the spot.
He approached her. "Even though I'm sure you've told all your friends in Gryffindor about it."
Her mouth opened in disgust. "Oh, don't you accuse me of being prejudiced!" she snapped, holding up an index finger in warning. "Don't you dare imply that I would judge someone just because of a – a – circumstance!"
Riddle's hand flicked up and grabbed hers. "You should be careful pointing fingers," he commented, in a suspiciously gentle tone.
Judging someone because of a circumstance, huh? His mind recalled one of the only things he knew for sure: Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood "Being a Slytherin isn't just a circumstance," he said. "It's as much a part of who you are as your race, your height... your heritage..."
He trailed off, realized she had a look of mild, suppressed pain on her face, and stopped gripping her hand.
Well, this was going terribly.
Hermione stared coldly back at him. Your heritage. Of course. Tom Riddle, the enemy of Muggle-borns and Muggles in general. She shook her hand out – his grip had been strong. Painfully strong, although those slim fingers held a wand so gently, so delicately.
She suddenly realized how close she was to him, looking hesitantly up into his face, which had an unbecoming sneer on it. But even as she watched, his expression dropped into that indifferent mask, and his eyes fell to the ground.
He crouched down to get Hermione's books, which, at some point, had fallen onto the ground. As he stood up again, a slight breeze rushed against her from his straightening body. It had a tantalizing, masculine tinge of something dark and sweet, and Hermione found herself leaning in slightly towards him before catching herself. He placed the books on the desk behind Hermione.
Hermione realized that each of them was waiting for the other to apologize, but neither would. So she just sat on the desk, eyes level and connected with his, and she crossed her arms expectantly.
Riddle raised his left eyebrow, an attractive smirk pulling at the side of his mouth.
"So, Tom – can I call you Tom?" Hermione said, knowing full well how much he detested the name. She wasn't exactly sure why she was trying to incense Lord Voldemort – after all, they were, as usual, completely alone – but honestly, she was already dead. Nothing really mattered anymore, did it?
"No," he said, somehow still smirking while talking, still expectant.
"So, Tom," she continued, ignoring him completely, "tell me about yourself."
He was taken aback by her words; she could tell that much. "What would you want to know?"
"I don't know. Anything. I find it usually helps people who have loads of repressed anger just to talk about anything in general."
"Repressed anger?" he spluttered.
She nodded. Oh, come on, like there's anything about you that isn't repressed…
"Anything I can get in return?" asked Riddle slowly.
Hermione shrugged in nonchalance. "Maybe."
His eyes darkened, but Hermione found that – strangely – she wasn't afraid, not even with that menacing look in his eyes. When had she stopped being terrified? It hadn't been a conscious decision.
Riddle strolled over to the teacher's desk at the front of the room. "Can't think of anything a typical young lady would care to know."
"How about why all the Slytherins seem to hero-worship you?" she retorted, picking at a nail idly. He smirked again – apparently, he liked her use of the word 'worship'.
"I have a way with people," he said simply. "Most people."
Hermione wondered if he had already tortured the Slytherins into submission. Most of it was likely just charm and beguiling – like the way Araminta was all over him with such great frequency; one could not fabricate that through torture. "Why did you ask me to duel you?" Hermione suddenly asked.
Riddle just looked at her for a long moment, some sort of response formulating behind his calculating gaze. "Just curious," he said. "About you."
"That's another thing – why are you curious about me? Do you do this to every new student who arrives here?"
He gave no response, just looked out the window. The sun's long rays stretched through the windowpanes, carving out Riddle's still features in red relief.
Hermione sighed and looked down at her books. She was getting tired of reading about death all day. It was interesting, sure – but Hermione had always been fearful of death, one of the reasons why she always fretted over Harry and Ron and what they were doing. In fact, she still shuddered whenever she thought of the eleven-year-old Harry facing Quirrell, as if time could reverse itself and Harry could still be killed.
She thought aloud, not quite sure why she was doing so. "I miss being back on Earth. I just feel like I'm stuck here forever, like I'm still alive but I just can't do anything about my friends back home. They're going to miss me."
Her finger trailed absentmindedly along the swirly designs on the cover of Beautiful Death: Subtleties of Passing. She was almost surprised when he replied.
"I know. It's... helpless. Like nothing here really matters."
"Yeah," said Hermione. "Up in the Infirmary, Mungo and Jared are doing all these incredible things with medicine – but what's the use of them if they can't help people who are in legitimate danger? In legitimate suffering?"
Riddle probably wouldn't understand that example. He only ever used gain for gain's sake in his lifetime, after all, with no regard as to helping people or making a positive impact in the world. Just... power. Only ever power.
"You've been here for – what, twenty years?" Hermione asked.
Riddle nodded. "It's been a long time. A very, very long time," he murmured.
"I can imagine," Hermione said. "I've only been here for a month, but it's still... suffocating. What have you been doing this whole time?"
Riddle shrugged. He held up his wand. "Spellwork," he said, "and potions. There is always more to learn."
Hermione wondered about Riddle. He had had twenty long years in this place, but he still didn't seem to have any friends – just loyal followers, as usual. She felt a bizarre pang of sympathy. Even when he was surrounded by fellow Slytherins, he looked positively alone.
Was he alone because he was psychotic, or was he psychotic because he was alone? It was a conundrum.
Hermione realized that the sun was slowly setting. "I should go," she said. "I told Mina I was going to be in bed all day, and I already feel bad for lying, so I should -"
"Don't go," he said, but it didn't sound like an order, so she actually listened.
"Why?"
He shrugged casually again, looking over at her. "We were actually acting like two perfectly normal people there, just for a minute."
Hermione laughed. "Perfectly normal? That's a tall order."
Riddle met her eyes, and she could have sworn to God she saw his mouth turn up a little in a hint at a genuine smile. She really did want to leave, did want to go back to her dormitory, but at the same time, she didn't want to go back to the static tedium of death research.
"What's that one?" He pointed a finger at the book next to her. "More death?'
"Yeah," Hermione sighed. "It's getting just a bit depressing."
"I can imagine," Riddle said. "Why couldn't you just read something about living, instead?"
Hermione blinked. That was an idea. She was just as likely to find something in a book about eternal life as one about death.
Great – now I have twice as much to read.
"Hadn't really thought about that," she said. Just as she was about to say, 'Thank you,' the words died on her lips. She couldn't say those words. Not to him.
He really was completely unreadable. She couldn't tell what he was thinking at all – not the slightest inkling of emotion. When he blinked, it was slowly and deliberately, just readying himself for the next stare.
"Where did you learn all those spells?" Hermione asked. Riddle's wand was in his hands again, twirling around his slim fingers, and he looked down at it.
"Lots of time for research, of course."
"That's not an answer to my question," Hermione said. Riddle scowled as she turned his own words back on him.
"The library," was his response. "And yourself? Even if you refuse to tell me how you died at eighteen – that's a formidable knowledge of spellwork for an eighteen-year-old."
Hermione pulled out her own wand. "Learning spells has always come easily to me, so I did a lot of independent study at school." Independent study – if one were to classify attempting to get rid of Death Eaters an independent study, that was. Riddle had a sort of brooding look on his face.
"Wait," she said, "how old did you say you'd be on Earth now?"
He blinked. "Early seventies."
"So, you too?" Hermione asked.
"What?"
"Well, you said that you arrived here in 1945, and if you were in your early seventies in real life, that would make you about eighteen when you got here."
Riddle's jaw clenched slightly, and for the first time he looked a bit unsettled, as if someone had bested him at something. "Oh," he managed.
He got off the teacher's desk and started to walk slowly around the room, as if weaving a web. He hadn't accounted for that piece of math – stupid, really, how easily he'd let that one slip. Now he seemed just as guilty as she. Riddle instinctively touched the ring on his finger.
Yes, it had been then. He had been young – so young... And, yet, so lucid, so clear in his planning, to get rid of that dirty Muggle. And then all the rest after him. Especially those Muggles, Muggle-borns, that would have liked to pretend they were witches and wizards, so faintly and filthily reminiscent of his father.
Hermione was alarmed to see Riddle's eyes fill with hate, completely randomly, and as they glanced up at her, the expression did not cease.
Riddle's dark eyes flickered away, focusing on the wall. She had probably managed to glean more information about him from being here than he had from her. How had she done that? It was not an option to fail. And, more and more, as he spoke with her, he felt that she was hiding something. It was time for a different tactic. Less guile. More directness.
All the windows were a crack open, letting in the breeze, letting out some of the heat – but now a crack of thunder rattled the windowpanes.
Hermione looked out at the glorious storm that was brewing in the sunset. I never thought I would be so glad to see actual weather again! A crack of lightning forked down and hit the grass. Someone from the lake cast a charm at the spot of grass, presumably extinguishing a fire in the perpetually dry field, and Hermione observed as rain started to pelt down. "This Ravenclaw girl Melia Trueblood, she's a weather witch." She must have been a really powerful weather witch – this was a torrential rainstorm, glorious in its danger. Hermione nearly expected people to come sprinting out of the lake – it wasn't really safe to be in the water in this type of lightning – but then, she mused, Melia had probably made it so that it would avoid the lake.
Riddle flicked his wand, and all the windows slid shut with a loud 'bang', and locked with a collective 'click'. Hermione jumped, and then calmed herself. He's just keeping out the rain. Get a grip.
She's afraid again, Riddle thought, and smirked. Good. Fear was essential for his new – and far more familiar – approach.
Her wide brown eyes watched him apprehensively as he raised his wand again. He could tell that she was holding her breath, wondering what he would do next. Sometimes the expressions on that face were so utterly transparent.
He walked towards the front of the classroom and flicked his wand again. The door slammed shut and locked.
"What are you doing?" she asked. So predictable. He didn't grace her idiotic question with an answer.
Hermione's heart was beating hard in her chest now. This wasn't promising. She gripped the smooth handle of her wand as Riddle approached her, still silent.
Okay. Okay. Calm down, relax –
"Legilimens!" Riddle suddenly whispered, pointing his wand at her. Hermione closed her eyes and breathed out, letting the thoughts drain from her mind as the jet of blue light collided with her.
She let a simple image fill her mind – the Burrow. Just the Burrow, floating in a sea of bright whiteness. Oh, yes, she had become an accomplished Occlumens. It was absolutely vital that every person in the castle knew at least the basics of Occlumency, in case they were to overhear something that a Death Eater could chew out of their mind with Legilimency –
She pictured each individual story of the Burrow, each delicately teetering story, and felt Riddle's invasive magic shove at her barriers frustratedly, but she quickly returned to the Burrow and solidified its image. Then she started placing the yard down, blade of grass by blade of grass – no, there was nothing else with which she could possibly be concerned, nothing else to think about, nothing but this – Hermione could think of this all day, of her foster home, just a blank slate image of her favorite place in the world, besides perhaps Hogwarts –
Blade of grass, blade of grass, blade of grass, and it was as if Riddle's fingernails were scrabbling at a glass wall to attempt to get through. No, he would not find purchase here. And, as Hermione's vague resolve hardened, she felt her fingers tighten around her wand, and – "Iverbera!" she yelled, jabbing her wand at Riddle's body. His eyes opened wide as he flew across the room to slam into the wall, hard, with a sharp intake of breath, as if punched in the stomach with a huge stone fist.
Hermione's eyes slowly opened, her gaze meeting his with a clash. The utter hatred in his eyes was remarkable, intense and unbroken, a blazing inferno of deep loathing. Gone was all his hard-worked composure – now there was a snarl on his face, undisguised, plain to see. He probably hadn't expected that anyone – a girl, to add insult to injury, and a Mudblood, for even further insult – could block his Legilimency. Later in life, Hermione recalled with a curl of disgust in her lip, he had been so proficient at Legilimency that he hadn't even needed a wand to perform it completely. She waved her wand at the door, and it unlocked and swung open gently, but before she could do anything else, Riddle had flicked his wand at the door, and it was crushed into nothingness by stones that slid into its place. There was no door anymore, just a foot-thick rock wall.
Hermione eyed the wall as Riddle walked back towards her. That would need probably more than a simple Reductor curse to blast through, probably a Confringo would be more appropriate –
Riddle lashed his wand out at her, and a length of rope flew from it towards her, but she flicked her wand at it and it vanished. Then, before she could cast Confringo, it hit her – completely unexpectedly, out of the blue –
"Crucio," he said coldly, aiming his wand at her, and before she could dive out of the way, or even react, his spell blasted into her, knocking her to the cold stone ground, and she was in so much utter pain that she couldn't think at all.
It's back it's back it's back it's back in the Room of Requirement, what had she done? It had been so long since it's back it's back it's back she had had to deal with this and now as if a razor was ever so delicately slicing into her fingertips, her arms, her every nerve ending, it's back it's back it's back the curse that she had endured for days straight and – how had she dealt with it before? she couldn't even it's back it's back remember –
At all –
And –
AAAAAAAA a scream that quickly became verbal
A twisting, a thrashing, on the rough stone, and just flashes of rough cold images again when she managed to open her eyes in-between attacks –
a huge lightning bolt outside
the controlled smirk of Riddle's sculpted lips
the self-satisfied look in his eyes
Her throat felt like it was tearing from the screaming, and even when he lifted his wand and the pain ended, Hermione kept screaming, tears leaking helplessly from her squinted-shut eyes, her fingernails drawing blood from her palms.
"So, anything you'd care to tell me?" he asked silkily, kneeling down next to her huddled form as she suddenly fell quiet. On a whim, in a strange – almost caring – gesture, he gently moved her hair away from her face, which was flushed from her sobbing. "Come on, Hermione Granger – if you really have nothing to hide..."
"I never said I had nothing to hide," she whispered, opening her eyes, and Riddle was struck with the abject misery in them, but even more by the rage which burned behind that misery.
Hermione realized that he hadn't even noticed that she had managed to keep a grip on her wand. She very slowly rolled over, flicking her wand just so he would not see it –
It was not the spell she had intended – she had very little control at this point – but a door slowly formed in the wall, silently, and she kept her eyes very carefully off it. It opened a few inches, with no noise at all – she could see it in her peripherals – and Tom Riddle was very, very close.
She lay prostrate on the ground, leaning on one elbow, the watery results of the Cruciatus Curse invading her limbs. And he shook his head.
"It pains me, you know, to do this to you," he sighed, his dark, soft voice telling the lie so sweetly, so convincingly, that she could almost – almost – believe it was real, and just for a second, her eyes were not angry but filled with a desperate plea.
But she could withstand this. She had done so for days straight, in the Room of Requirement, and she had not gotten away then but she could at least pray to do so here... with that door only three feet away...
He flicked his wand and the desks and chairs all vanished. He hadn't even had to turn and glance at them – no, those brown eyes were firmly trained on Hermione's.
"Are you sure you have nothing to say to me?" he murmured, almost tenderly. It was absolutely sickening, the delicate way he held his wand, the mesmerizing grip of his eyes, the nearly sensual way he executed his torture.
Her lips clung tight shut, and as he lifted his wand again, shaking his head slightly, Hermione remembered how she had done it last time, and she did it again.
As his wand descended, Hermione clenched her eyes closed and sealed away all her thoughts, all her humanity, locking it tight into the recesses of her mind. The rest was just a blank roar as the pain descended again and consumed it.
She did not care about anything now. Not her dignity, not showing him that she could fight it, and certainly not her voice, and she rolled and thrashed and flailed and curled up tight and lashed out and above all screamed, and one of her hands managed to connect with his chest and knocked him back, and just that simply it was over again, and Hermione allowed herself to flood back, gone the mindless animal of torture.
Hermione's nerves twitched in relief as she lay there, her lungs rasping with frantic breaths, her outer robe half-on, half-off, her hair in a chaotic mess of static around her head. Riddle slowly sat back up from where she had pushed him, his face back to its mask.
And when she sat up a little, brushed her hair back into its place and said, "That's really not going to get you anywhere," she thought that he was going to kill her. Then she remembered that she was already dead, and her mouth smiled of its own volition.
Merlin... she's smiling. She's smiling. I used the Cruciatus Curse on her twice and she is sitting there and telling me it won't work and she is smiling at me
He couldn't even fathom it. If someone had managed to use Crucio on him when he had had the maturity of an eighteen-year-old, he would have been sobbing and telling all his worst secrets. It was perhaps this knowledge that was the most infuriating, that she was sitting there like she was better than he was, and that rosy-cheeked smile almost made him not want to curse her anymore, which was strange, because as absolutely furious as he was, that should have been the thing to tip him over the barrier to complete rage.
What do I do?
For once, Tom Riddle was at an absolute loss. He knew for a fact that there was no Veritaserum in the castle, nor were there instructions on how to brew the month-long potion, as it was considered highly classified information, so he could not use that. Torture, for whatever reason, wasn't... working...? The Cruciatus Curse was Riddle's friend, Riddle's go-to, and he didn't know what to do. He just looked into her glazed, slightly crazed eyes, and sat there. It was more than weird, more than strange. It was absolutely unnatural.
Hermione sighed – all the fight had gone out of the air between them, as if once she had foiled his torture, there was nothing else even to do. Riddle was looking very lost. She shrugged her outer robe back on shakily, fastened it into place, and hugged her knees to her, holding her wand tight. Her mind was still reeling, still unstable, unsteady, attempting to readjust to the sensation of not being in pain. They sat in silence for a few minutes, just looking at each other, and Hermione tried to put away the temporary insanity that always accompanied such torture.
It was dark outside. The sun had set, and Hermione had spent her entire day in the erratic company of Tom Riddle.
"Tom," she started woozily, and he said, as if out of habit,
"Don't call me that."
She rolled her eyes. "It's your name," she slurred. "What do you want me to call you, Voldemort?"
It was out before Hermione knew what she was doing, and only after his mouth drifted open and his eyes got wide did she realize what she had said.
"Oh," she said. "Oh."
"How -"
But then someone appeared at the door. It was Mina.
"Hermione, is that you?" Mina said, and looked at Riddle with something close to disgust in her expression. Riddle turned, shocked at the door's sudden seeming reappearance, and then looked back at Hermione.
Hermione saw Riddle flick his wand, and suddenly she felt revitalized, fresh, filled with energy. "Yeah," she said, and her voice was back to normal, too, as if it had never been rubbed raw by screams. Riddle had used Ennervate on her to give her energy, leaving no traces of having been under the influence of his Cruciatus.
Oh, Merlin, now she had to answer to Mina about why she had lied to her. Worse, why she had lied to her and then spent the day hanging around in a deserted classroom with a Slytherin.
Hermione got to her feet slowly and Riddle followed. "Okay, well, we've been looking for you for two hours," Mina told Hermione, her voice pointed. "Godric's been looking on the upper floors, and R.J.'s been in the dungeons."
"I'm so sorry," Hermione said, and she was the picture of apologetic innocence. "I completely lost track of time."
Riddle almost couldn't find his voice, but he said quickly, "I apologize. Hermione did say she had to leave a while ago, but I'm afraid I kept her here." Hermione restrained a scoff. You have no idea.
Mina's sharp grey gaze fixed on Riddle and softened a little. He put his hands in his pockets and waited a second while she gave him a once-over. Riddle sighed inwardly. Girls – so easily swayed by physical appearance.
"What were you two brewing?" Mina asked, after taking her eyes away from Riddle with reluctance.
"Oh, Tom won't tell me," said Hermione. "It's a potion he's inventing." She turned and gave him a vague, perfectly pleasant smile. His eyes never strayed from hers, asking all sorts of questions he could not voice aloud. But now, he found, with absolute frustration, her face was as unreadable as his. Her large, hazel eyes captured him, tantalizing him with what was hidden behind them, in that fascinating, unknown mind –
"Sounds interesting," Mina said, "but I'm absolutely damn starving. It's only a couple hours 'til midnight, Hermione."
"Oh. We'd better go and find the others, then – I'll see you, Tom," Hermione said with a wave to him, as if they were absolute best friends. Riddle restrained revulsion. No one had ever acted so jovially towards him, but here was this girl, daring to do so – and she was not being viciously cursed by him; on the contrary, she was walking out of the classroom, shooting a last glance through the crack in the door, the connection between their eyes broken only by the solid 'thud' of the door shutting.
Riddle leaned against the wall in utter shock, in utter disbelief. How did she know that name? How on earth did she know that name? He had told only ten people that name, only two of them here – he would be speaking some very harsh words to Abraxas and Revelend about this, if either of them had somehow leaked something, by some freak accident –
Riddle exhaled. Or, maybe – maybe back on earth he had done something in his lifetime to put him in the history books? Perhaps the schoolgirl Granger had learned about him from a textbook...
His mind was swimming with far too many questions. It was not right that Tom Riddle should have questions – only that they should all be answered promptly and without question, and that rule had been shattered today.
With one last bewildered shake of his head, Riddle wiped the frown from his face, getting rid of his trance-like state. All would be answered in time.