Chapter 9: Mr. I-Don't-Do-Formalities

Monday, September 29, 1944

9:02 P.M.

Hermione arrived at the Head common room before Voldemort did.

Dippet had told her the password was, ironically enough, 'Time.' When Hermione had come upon the customary Head Boy and Girl dorm entrance, she had suffered through three duelling challenges before Sir Cadogan finally relented and let her inside. Considering that, this year, she had gotten the reject knight as a portrait hole protector versus the entirely agreeable 'Ten Lords A-Leaping' painting she and Draco had had the year before, Hermione concluded that her luck just might be running out. Hopefully, she'd have just enough left for whatever more went down that night.

She sighed and padded across the wooden floor, making her way toward her favourite leather sofa, tucked away in front of the crackling fireplace. Massaging her temples, she sank down into its soft, cool material, her mind still whirling from the day's madcap events: From getting imploded to a speck and careering fifty years backward in time, to being re-crowned Head Girl of Hogwarts, to actually seeing the back, but not more, of the dark head of the twentieth century's most feared Dark Lord at the Slytherin table during the Welcome Feast.

A sudden chill rushed down her spine, and Hermione forced herself to study the differences between the Head dorm that she remembered and this current one.

Quite honestly, not much had changed, she realised as her eyes skimmed over the gaping, much-utilised fireplace, the four-piece leather den set (a divan, a plump, spacious armchair, a footrest, and the three-person sofa on which was lounging), a small, transparent coffee table behind her sofa but between the divan and the armchair, the small, square worktable in the far corner of the room, and, finally, the same ceiling-high west window, the stark outside darkness contrasting sharply with the dim light thrown off by the crackling fire.

Grinning contentedly, she glanced down and noticed the crisp but alien blue and bronze gleam of the scarf lying on the seat beside her. The colours were so completely opposite the red and gold to which she had grown accustomed like they were a second skin, but even so...

Hermione knew that Ravenclaw would align perfectly with her studious side, and, judging by the cheers which had greeted her arrival at the table, it seemed that she would align quite well with the Ravenclaws as well.

To no one's surprise, Draco had been sorted back into Slytherin. Harry, too, had joined Draco in the House of Snakes, which Hermione had also almost fully expected, and Ginny...

Well, Ginny's placement had been a bit of a shocker, but now, as Hermione reflected on the qualities of her friend, she could understand the Sorting Hat's reasoning. Ginny had the crucial ability to invent quips with the best of them, she could be sly, cunning, and sarcastic if she wanted to be, and she had seen her share of dark times...

After Ginny had been sorted into Slytherin, Lavender later claimed that she had had to stupefy Ron to keep him from screaming like a madman and leaping out into the Great Hall to manually rip the Sorting Hat to shreds. Ron himself had been willingly placed into Gryffindor, and Lavender had gleefully skipped to the Hufflepuff table the moment her House had been announced. After Ron had accepted that his sister and best friend were now in the house he most detested - or at least attempted to – he had seemed to be fairly content with the situation.

Which left Hermione with nothing more to consider save her own plan for the rest of the school year – a plan that had taken a very abrupt detour after she had been appointed Head Girl, with Lord Voldemort as Head Boy.

The way she saw it, she now had two options. She would have to select one of them within the next ten minutes, by which time Voldemort should have finished showing the Slytherin first years the way to their dungeon. When the future Dark Lord walked through the portrait hole, Hermione could easily act the way she wanted to act, could easily give Lord Voldemort everything he was worth... Or she could be the nicest person in the world, even if the very thought of doing so made her nauseous.

Thoughtfully, Hermione twirled a lock of unfamiliar dark hair around her finger, staring absently into the dancing, crackling orange and white flames. Yes, how this entire year was going to go would probably come down to her actions this very night. First impressions were everything; she knew that much. If she decided to wage war on Voldemort from Day One, then Ron in Gryffindor, Lavender in Hufflepuff, Draco, Ginny, and Harry in Slytherin, plus any others they could get on their side, would gladly follow suit. And, after all that the evil known as Voldemort had done to the world, Hermione could honestly say that she thought he deserved whatever they would give him...

But he hasn't done it yet, that same, little voice of yogic virtue that had calmed her in the Great Hall earlier floated in the corner of her mind. He's still young. Still not completely Lord Voldemort.

He opened the Chamber of Secrets at the end of his fifth year, for crying out loud! the other, more rational (or, at least it seemed that way to Hermione) part of her mind screamed. If that's not incriminating, then what is? He killed his own father when he was thirteen years old! He was born to kill!

"No one is born evil, Miss Nefertari". Dumbledore's cryptic parting words rang suddenly in her head as if he was sitting beside her, confusing her even more. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, completely torn about what to do next. She had never been in this sort of situation before – what she expected would be a long-term mental warfare against a dangerous man in an unfamiliar world. She alone would be sharing a common room with the future Dark Lord, for Merlin's sake! Never before that moment had Hermione felt so absolutely and totally alone.

Maybe, just maybe, if she thought hard enough, she would be able to hear Draco in the leather armchair behind her, muttering dark nothings under his breath about Hagrid and the mad new magical creature he had unveiled, would be able to smell the tantalising scent of the pumpkin bread that Harry and Ron had smuggled into the Heads' Common for a midnight party, would be able feel the cool butterbeer bubbles dancing lightly over her tongue and down her throat as Lavender and Ginny gossiped of the latest Quidditch match mishap in the background...

Abruptly, a soft squeak and subsequent scraping open of the portrait hole sent a shot of terror through Hermione's heart. Seconds later, brisk, agile footsteps somewhere behind her alerted her that the devil himself had just strode coolly into the common room. Her breath caught in her throat, heart suddenly thudding so hard it was nearly bursting from her chest. This is it. She was currently the only other person in a room with the man who had killed her parents, her friends, so, so many people -

You stop it this instant, Hermione Granger! You'll never get anywhere with him if you work yourself into an absolute terror!

The portrait hole audibly slammed again - closing behind him, she assumed - and Hermione was cruelly reminded that, no matter how constant the Head common room's appearance had remained, she was no longer in the safe place she had once called "home". No, that place had been lost to her forever. "Hell" would probably be a more apt term at the moment.

Hermione hastily slid down into the couch, and she couldn't help but hear Harry's words before the Sorting playing over and over on a closed circuit in her mind like a broken record: 'Voldemort's dangerous, he's manipulative, he's everything you don't want to be around day in and day out...'

Shielded behind the sofa and thankful for its inconspicuous position facing away from the entrance to the common, she warily poked her head up over the sofa's tall leather back so that only the curly top of her head to her suspicious, narrowed eyes appeared. As surreptitiously and critically as she could, she carefully scrutinised the recently-arrived seventeen-year-old Lord Voldemort.

Right away, Hermione noticed that Voldemort was quite good-looking. She didn't know why this fact surprised her, because she had seen the old pictures of him, but it hadn't struck her then like it did now. In the person, he was tall and he had a stiff grace about him, about his every move, that was at the same time decidedly dangerous and undeniably charismatic.

She sighed. At least she was looking at this completely objectively; she'd have to be a loony to actually consider the killer of thousands attractive. Everything about his appearance, though, seemed meticulously in place, from his thick, slightly wavy, neatly combed and right-parted black hair, down to the tidy tie and press of his uniform. Even his steps were vigorous and purposeful, and he calmly surveyed the common room without as much as a glance in the direction of Hermione's sofa.

Her stomach jumped to her throat, and she caught her breath, her brow inadvertently beginning to sweat. This really was it. There was no turning back. She would have to decide, and she would have to decide right now. Reminding herself to breathe, she sucked in a tiny, relieved gasp of air, glad that this book was still in her section of the library for the time being. She followed his intelligent, astute gaze as he quickly located Riddle's room and the staircase leading up to it. Still not noticing Hermione, he started toward it... passed her tan leather sofa completely...

No, the choice was hers now: How she wanted this game to play out; how she wanted to live this past life... Hermione's mind had not slowed, nor had it cleared, but a thousand thoughts were whizzing through it like racing brooms, yanking her in totally different directions, all calling to her like sirens, each side equally valid:

Ginny's hard voice, full of hatred, muttering darkly, We'll make him pay before he even knows what hit him...

Dumbledore's aura of calmness and complex wisdom, lecturing serenely, No one is born evil, Miss Nefertari...

And Hermione made her choice, as stupid and rash as it may have been. Swallowing back a wave of queasiness, she jumped to her feet before she reneged on her decision. "Hey!" she called after the disappearing Dark Lord, trying to sound friendly.

One foot already up on the first step up to his dorm, Voldemort stopped and coolly pivoted to the left until he faced her, his calculating grey eyes scrutinising her carefully. Hermione again forced herself to breathe. She felt like she was under a microscope, but she only drew her back straighter, lifted her chin, and met his gaze. No, she would not let him make her squirm.

It's 1944, Hermione. He is still an ordinary teenager — for the most part — and you can't treat him like an enemy without raising suspicion until he gives you reason. And then, by all means, you can become his own, personal roommate from hell. By all means. This is your one chance, Voldy...

Hermione had to give the Dark Lord kudos, though. Although surprise had momentarily flashed in his eyes when she had first greeted him, it seemed to be more from her being the one to make the first approach rather than from her appearing out of nowhere — or from behind a couch. So he wasn't easily ruffled. She would see about that.

"Hey", Hermione repeated. She moved around to the front of the sofa, never breaking his gaze, and threaded her way between the coffee table and the divan with all the confidence and poise of one who knew the Head common room like the back of her hand... which she did, of course. "You must be the Head Boy."

Voldemort's face showed no sign of emotion as he watched her approach and pause a few feet away from him. After a second, he evenly returned in a medium-but-not-especially-deep, slightly Irish-lilted voice, "Given that only the Heads and the professors know the password to the Head common room, it would appear that way, wouldn't it?"

Ooo, acidic sense of humour. Cynicism is the first symptom of the Dark Side, dear.

Hermione stepped back and studied his well-etched, decidedly handsome but almost too-thin face. Oddly, it was the sort of pale countenance Harry always returned to school with after spending an entire, battering summer with the Dursleys. She tried to decide if his comment was meant to be derisive or was just normal Lord-Voldemort-speak, but couldn't get anything from his expression... or lack thereof.

"I'm Hermione", she finally said, hoping the sour, bitter taste in her mouth didn't emerge in her voice. She forced to her face what she hoped came out as a friendly smile. "Hermione Nefertari", she added when he didn't immediately respond, opting to drop the 'Dumbledore' for simplicity's sake.

"I know", Voldemort said idly, calmly, while examining her indifferently, it seemed. His voice was surprisingly quiet but authoritative — the kind that made listeners lean in so as not to miss a single word. "You're the transfer in Ravenclaw. Dippet and McDewitt announced your name at dinner. Twice. Once for the Sorting and once for recognising your position as Head Girl."

Well, you don't miss much, do you? Of course, she hadn't really expected him to be the type to let anything slip by. She waited for some other witty line, but none came. Well, she thought sardonically, Dumbledore certainly wasn't exaggerating when he told us about Voldemort's complete lack of life and sensation.

Fighting to keep the smile on her face from turning into a scowl of loathing, Hermione quickly went in for another attempt at civility. "All right, since I'm new here, this is the part where you say, 'Hi, I'm blank, I'm in blank house. Nice to meet you."

Voldemort blatantly regarded Hermione momentarily, one hand casually in his pocket, the other nonchalantly playing with his wand. She waited both expectantly and uneasily, his stormy gaze a bit unnerving, to say the least. After a moment, she crossed her arms in front of her for the sole purpose of moving, wondering how far she had and could push him.

Suddenly, he held out his right hand as if extending it to shake hers. She nearly jumped back from the unexpectedness of it. "Hi, I'm Tom Riddle, I'm in Slytherin. Nice to meet you," he said with a slight twist of his voice that could have been considered genial were it not the future Dark Lord she was dealing with –

Wait... 'Tom Riddle?' Oh, that was right. She couldn't very well expect him to go around and call himself Voldemort to just anyone yet.

"I suppose I could have done without the direct repetition of my words", Hermione grumbled, "but pleasure, I'm sure". She gingerly stared at his hand, not sure if she should shake it, or if she even wanted to, for that matter.

"One thing you should know, Nefertari", Tom Riddle continued shortly, still loosely extending his hand as if her abrupt hesitation hadn't affected him, his eyes still locked on her face, "is that I don't do formalities." "You don't, do you?" she countered dryly, arching one thin, dark eyebrow at him. Her right hand had strangely begun to tingle, and on top of it all, his piercing stare was becoming more than slightly disturbing. "And why ever not, may I ask?"

"There's no point in it", he stated matter-of-factly, shrugging offhandedly. "I mean, how can you be so sure it's a pleasure to meet me when you don't even know me?"

"It's called being polite," Hermione retorted, unable to keep a touch of sarcasm from her voice. Almost exasperatedly, she uncrossed her arms and reached out to take his yet extended handshake, deciding that to leave him hanging might not be the best diplomatic move on her part-

And, like a booming, resounding thunderclap, she was struck— no, more like bowled over —with the most brilliant idea; an idea that had the potential to always give her the advantage, always have some sort of edge over Lord Voldemort. And if what everyone had said about him was indeed true, Hermione would need every edge she could get. Without thinking properly on it, without considering the logic of it for more than a split second, Hermione took her only chance, and acted.

The moment her hand fully connected with Tom Riddle's, Hermione gasped audibly, rolling her eyes back in her head enough to complete the effect before closing them firmly and letting every muscle in her body go utterly limp. Instantly, her legs buckled beneath her, the rest of her body quickly following suit.

Riddle's grip on her hand had been so strong, Hermione nearly dragged him down with her when she collapsed, praying to herself that he would at least be man enough to do something to prevent her head from smashing in on the wood floor. She heard him swear under his breath and simultaneously, thankfully, felt her right arm go taunt, his grasp stopping her body inches from hitting the ground.

As Riddle slowly lowered her the rest of the way down, Hermione lifelessly sprawled out on the floorboards. She mentally counted to five before mumbling, "Ermmm..." She made a rather large show of fluttering open her eyes... and found herself staring up into the startled face of Tom Riddle. "Did I..." Delicately, she reached up and massaged the side of her head. "Did I just pass out?"

Riddle's tempestuous grey eyes narrowed, and he answered her question with a sharp question of his own. "Does this sort of thing happen to you often?" "Erm...Yes... No - Well, randomly." Hermione gradually pushed herself up into a sitting position and gingerly rubbed the back of her head, inadvertently leaving her curls ruffled in all directions. "Sometimes, when I touch people... I see things." Shaking her head vigorously, as if that would help her fully regain consciousness, she noted with a considerable amount of satisfaction the rapid flash of alarm that crossed his features.

"It's a bit odd, actually", she continued a bit more boldly after seeing him take the bait. "Normally, I don't completely pass out. That only happens when I get really... strong... images", she grunted as she climbed to her feet, resting a hand on the armrest of the divan for stability, rolling her neck, and stretching herself out. "It's always a delightful little wake up for me, though. Hitting the floor, I mean."

As quickly as the apprehension came to Riddle's face, it vanished expertly, leaving him with an air of haughty apathy. "And what did you see, when you touched me?" he asked, leaning his shoulder against the stairway banister and crossing his arms, his voice contemptuously blasé, completely unconcerned.

Yeah, I never used to be a big believer in Divination, either. Don't worry, that'll change, that'll all change.

Hermione almost wished she had a witness present for her moment of glory. Professor Trelawney, if only you were here! Mentally chortling gleefully as she innocently blinked up at the next Dark Lord, she went in for the kill.

"What's a Voldemort?"