Chapter 14: Have You Ever

Thursday, November 18, 1944

9:01 P.M.

Hermione burrowed more comfortably into the far right edge of her favourite leather sofa, looking directly at the frizzy-haired blond girl lying on the floor in front of the couch in the Head common room. "And you're certain that the midnight snack trips of random first and second years have been appropriately dealt with?" she inquired of the seventh year Hufflepuff prefect, Janabella Williard.

Janabella nodded with a grin. "Switched the password to the kitchens just like you said to. They actually have to tickle the pear on the painting now", she explained to the 20 or so other prefects and Tom Riddle. "The little buggers'll never figure it out!" At least not for a few decades, anyway.

Riddle actually shifted his stoic eyes toward Hermione, a definite mocking ring to his voice as he asked in a surprised tone, "You actually thought that up on your own, Nefertari?" He was seated on the same leather couch as Hermione, but over so far to the extreme left of it versus Hermione's extreme right, they may as well have been sitting on different planets.

Hermione rolled her eyes, by now used to his derogatory remarks and thankful that they hadn't progressed to anything more physically hindering. "No, I usually hire a house-elf to do my thinking for me" – admiring chuckles from the prefects, several of whom actually began to applaud her ability to stand up to the covertly feared Head Boy— "and that about wraps up our business for tonight, prefects. Good work. I'll open the floor up to any further comments or ideas before I say goodnight."

"We'll", Riddle interjected, his initially derisive voice suddenly quiet. Hermione sighed in annoyance and reiterated, "We'll open the floor up to any further comments or ideas before we say goodnight". She hadn't the slightest idea how she was able to make sense of Riddle's "one-worders" so quickly, but she was discovering she had the uncanny ability.

She noticed immediately seventh-year Gryffindor prefect Phyllis Hardiman and her fellow Gryffindor prefect Jacobson Andrews, the recipients of Key E and Key R, exchange some kind of eye communication with the other prefects before Phyllis raised her hand from her spot on the floor, her back resting against the tan divan. Phyllis glanced briefly, almost timidly, at the Head Boy, and then quickly set her full concentration on the Head Girl. "Hermione, we have a strong suggestion for our Christmas activity."

Immediately, Hermione had a preconceived notion of where this conversation was heading, and she wasn't sure if she would be treading on friendly or enemy territory when it went there. "Yes?" she asked warily. "The popular opinion is leaning toward a dance for the upper classes," Phyllis said, grinning at Ravenclaw Perecles Jeffries - and confirming Hermione's fears - before elaborating, "A Christmas Soiree." Hermione could almost feel Riddle's gaze shoot over toward her, gauging her reaction to the proposition of a Christmas dance, but she refused to look in his direction. Instead, she steadily focused on Phyllis. "Your proposition's sound, Phyll, but I'm—we're", she corrected with a sigh, "going to need more information before it can start to become a reality."

"Tell me what, and we'll get it for you", was Phyllis' instant reply. Hermione's mind kicking into complete Head Girl gear, Hermione ticked off her fingers, briskly running through the fastest preparation list she could throw together. "A date that's been cleared with administration, catering, attendance rules, possible entertainment—"

"We were hoping", broke in enthusiastic Hufflepuff prefect Norman Beansfold, Key X, and he was bombarded with encouraging nods from the other prefects, "that it could be the same sort of thing as the Friday Night Dance, except on a much larger, more formal scale, of course."

Hermione frowned thoughtfully, momentarily forgetting that she wasn't the only one in charge, and mentally sketched out the possibilities. "If I were somehow able to transfigure the musical input into a live band..." An energised grin broke out across her face as a particularly animated fifth year nodded excitedly, nearly bouncing in his seat. "Oh, I think I could definitely have fun with that..."

"And you could make the lights coloured instead of white", Slytherin Miranda Wilkes suggested, waving her wand in small, loopy circles, off in thought. By now, all the prefects wanted in.

"But it would have to be a lot more elegantly decorated—"

"—need holly and ivy everywhere, and garland—"

"—and mistletoe!" (evil laugh)

"We could charm fake snow to randomly fall from the ceiling—"

"—But more waltzes and tangos and ballroom dances, just so Hermione and Draco can give us a few... you know..." Phyllis suggested dreamily, and Hermione held back a smile.

"Probably a bit more slow dances, though, d'you think—"

"HOLD IT!"

Like a candle snuffer, Tom Riddle's uncharacteristically elevated voice instantly silenced every prefect present. Great, of course he's not going to go for the idea. Hermione felt herself losing patience even as she pushed herself to fully face the clearly aggravated Head Boy. "Is there a problem, Riddle?" she asked coolly.

The Head Boy, however, briefly shot her an extremely intense and daunting 'Be assured I will be speaking with you later' stare in reply before looking down at the prefects, all of whom seemed to visibly shrink back from his gaze. But Hermione could see an actual question in his eyes as he icily demanded, "What?" Having to act so cluelessly about a topic everyone else obviously knew so much about must have been killing him. And, for that reason alone, Hermione had a sinking feeling that that question in his eyes was sincere. Tom Riddle really had no idea what they were talking about.

Most of the suspicious, sketchy Slytherins—and anyone else whom Hermione would have expected to follow a promising Dark leader, for that matter—had been in regular attendance at the Friday Night Dance. Theoretically, Riddle should have been invited sometime between then and now, but... had he not been? So, had Dumbledore somehow been incorrect when he had told them about Riddle's few 'close friends?' But what did that mean?

Jacobson Andrews, Seeker of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and one of Ron's new mates, was also one of the only prefects not chronically intimidated by Tom Riddle. Propping himself up on his elbows, his shockingly blue eyes evenly returned Riddle's piercing gaze. "What, 'What'?" he retorted unflinchingly, a clear challenge to his voice.

Hermione felt like Ron's big mouth itself had entered the room. Her mouth dropped open and snapped shut again, and she quickly turned her head to the right, resting her chin on her shoulder to hide a smile of amazement. She supposed the entire Common Room could hear the irritation dripping from Riddle's voice as, unnaturally slowly and articulately, he bit out, "Perhaps you could start with the entire 'Friday Night Dance' bit and go from there..."

Jacobson, to his credit, easily stared back at Riddle with eyes widened in mock-surprise, the expression on his fair, freckled face one of unabashed astonishment. "Riddle! D'you mean to say that you've never heard of the place to be every Friday night?" the Gryffindor asked incredulously, twisting the question so that there was a slight but obvious barb to it.

Hermione bit back another gasp at Jacobson's audacity, and she forced herself not to think of whatever storm would most certainly follow that. She was starting to have a very bad feeling that she was going to have to stay in the Ravenclaw dorms for a good month before the night was over... Her worst fears were confirmed when Riddle's annoyance rapidly boiled over to steamy anger. She knew the exact moment of the transition because his tone took on a dead calm, excessively composed edge, like he was struggling to keep his temper in check, as he carefully said, "Should I have heard of it, Andrews?"

Jacobson offhandedly shrugged in an 'I don't really care' way. "You tell me, Riddle; your Head Girl helps host it!" Instantly, Hermione's stomach jumped to her throat, and she struggled to swallow as her heart began to race frantically. Although Riddle had been harmless enough during the past month and a half, he had never unexpectedly discovered that the Head Girl was running an underground party operation right under his nose, either.

He wasn't supposed to find out this way! Somebody was supposed to invite him! Swinging her head toward Jacobson, she glared in a non-threatening sort of way and made a violent cutting gesture across her throat with her pointer finger.

Jacobson quickly glanced between Hermione and Tom Riddle as if he had suddenly realised what he had done. Immediately, he held up his hands apologetically, pointedly mouthing 'Sorry!' at Hermione. By then, however, it was too late. Slowly, Riddle swept his stormy grey gaze onto his Head counterpart and said in an authoritative but emotionless voice, "This meeting has just been adjourned." His tone alone was enough to strike a jab of terror into Hermione's heart.

The prefects exchanged 'Oh, boy' looks. The Head Boy and Head Girl's tendency to argue had become almost commonplace now. Phyllis Hardiman was the first to stand. Like she was a catalyst, all the prefects quickly jumped to their feet, uncurling themselves from the divan and the armchairs, ruffling papers, and rapidly gathering their notes, some sporadically yawning.

While the prefects were vacating the Head common room, Riddle lowered his voice so only Hermione and the few remaining prefects closest to the couch could hear his words. "We need to talk, Nefertari. Now." Hermione's face blanched at his dangerous undertones. "We are talking," she retorted flatly, and Jacobson Andrews glanced back at her sympathetically as he and the other prefects hurriedly made their exit, almost as if they could feel the tension, the explosive pressure filling the room.

Then the portrait hole swung shut with its usual CREEK, the prefects' quiet chatter abruptly faded to silence... And Hermione was alone. With him. And he was visibly furious. Desperately, her frantic mind began to scramble through eleventh-hour ideas of how best to make a run for it and get through the portrait hole before Riddle could Curse her or worse; how to somehow call Harry or Ron or Draco for back-up; how to bloody well fight off the next Dark Lord -

Her frenetic thoughts were interrupted as, without casting even a glance in her direction, Riddle stiffly rose from his side of the sofa and began to calmly, slowly pace back and forth in front of her, his footsteps pounding in sync to the heavy throb of Hermione's heart.

She prayed that he wouldn't be able to hear her trepidation as loudly as she could. From her spot curled up on the couch, her gaze uneasily followed him as he composedly walked across the floor to the opposite mutely tapestried wall and again back to the fireplace... but from his more-rigid-than-normal posture, she could tell that he was anything but cool, calm and collected.

Finally, he paused before the fireplace and crossed his arms in front of him, his eyes staring, unseeing, at some point in the crackling flames. "How long has this been going on without my knowledge, Nefertari?"

Cool voice. Deadly voice. Hermione knew she was about to step out onto a very dangerous ground, and she would have to tread very, very carefully. Apparently, the great lengths of secrecy concerning the Friday Night Dance through which the six time travellers had gone had been a little too... secretive.

"Well," she began warily, desperately trying to keep her voice composed, "if it's been going on without your knowledge ever since it started, which it sounds like it has... Then it would be four weeks previous tomorrow night." When Riddle's jaw visibly tightened, Hermione sat up straighter in her seat, gathered all the nerve she could muster and turned dark eyes on him. "And now that you do know, Riddle, why don't you come see it for yourself?" To her surprise, she felt a key materialise in her hand, but thought nothing of it and continued hotly, "People seem to actually have fun at it, and from what I've seen, that concept seems to be just a bit elusive in your life —"

"That's NOT the POINT, Nefertari!" Riddle abruptly shouted, his words echoing off the Common Room walls as he unexpectedly spun furiously to face her.

Hermione would later swear that her heart stopped beating for a good five seconds, and she instinctively gripped the square, puffy pillow on the couch beside her, her knuckles white. A fight-or-flight supply of magic suddenly surged through her veins, and she was having an increasingly difficult time squelching the desire to vanish into the tan leather of the couch as the young Lord Voldemort completely lost his temper for the first time since she had met him... or, at least, in her presence.

"That's not the point," Riddle repeated more calmly, taking a deep breath as if physically drawing his released emotions back into himself. She was shocked at how quickly the anger vanished from every section of his countenance save his stormy grey eyes... eyes that now appeared to be going through a violent hurricane, and they shot daggers at her as he said scathingly, "The point is, just because I'm a sodding half-blood doesn't mean that I don't have just as much a right as you do to know exactly what's going on at this school!"

"Just because you're a half-blood?" she echoed instantly, staring at him in disbelief. What did that have to do with anything? Had Tom Riddle just accused her of being prejudiced? "You think that's why I didn't tell you?"

Riddle's eyes lost none of their frostiness, though his eyebrows rose slightly, as if the answer was not at all the one he had expected. Abruptly, he shifted his gaze away from her. "Isn't it?" he finally ground out coldly.

"No!" Hermione instantly exclaimed in complete revulsion, and she almost snorted at the ridiculousness of it. Imagine her being prejudiced against anyone of lesser blood! "When have I ever given you any indication that I even care about whether or not you're a pureblood? And if you somehow think I do, then I've got news for you: I don't!"

Before she could dwell on this strange turn the argument had taken, Riddle shook his head and, through a tightly clenched jaw, snapped out, "Well, even if it isn't—" The volume of his voice rose slightly, and she had the apprehensive feeling that he was fighting to control himself, "Bloody hell, Nefertari, I'm the Head Boy—"

"And I'm the damn Head Girl!" Unable to just sit there and take his accusation-loaded barrage any longer, she threw the pillow down on the sofa and stood heatedly, throwing all caution to the wind. He hasn't done anything to me so far, let's just pray he doesn't break that pattern tonight... Without hesitation, she fired back, "And maybe I would have told you, had you not been constantly running from me since we finished the prefect schedule more than a month ago!"

"Running from you?" Riddle actually snorted in disbelief and turned his back on Hermione again, staring into the fireplace. "That's absolutely ridiculous, Nefertari, and you know it. You and I share practically every other NEWTS class, Head duties, and a common room. Just how am I supposed to, as you so refined put it, 'run' from you?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Please, Riddle. If we're going to argue, let's at least be honest with each other. Maybe you haven't seen much of yourself lately — as I certainly haven't — but if I had to wager a guess, I'd say that you were scared!" Crossing her arms stand-offishly, she shifted her weight to her back foot and glared more confidently than she felt at the back of Riddle's dark robes, then his face when he whirled back around.

"Scared?" he echoed scornfully, resuming his heated pacing back and forth across the width of the Head common room. An actual, cold laugh passed through his lips. Its frigid lack of humour was enough to send chills down Hermione's spine as he contemptuously continued, "Scared, Nefertari? Of what? Of you?"

Hermione's knees began to wobble unsteadily. "Not of me." She gritted her teeth, drawing herself to her full height and urging her shaky legs to stay still. I will not let him scare me! Mentally, though, her rational mind was screaming "BAD IDEA!" but her mouth obstinately plunged ahead. "You're scared of what I can do."

Riddle stopped his incessant pacing and stared at her, but Hermione gathered her nerves and took a step forward. That's all it was, one little step... but her leg felt so heavy, the pressure in the room so intense, it seemed like she was walking off the edge of the cliff rather than toward Tom Riddle. "You're scared, that if I touch you... I'll see something that you don't want anyone to see."

Something unreadable flickered in Riddle's eyes, but the rage boiling in the grey pools quickly overpowered it. Despite her one-step approach, he held his ground and said in a chiding voice that sounded forced, "Nefertari, really, just because you claim you're some sort of Seer is not reason enough for me to fear you-" A scowl darkened his features even more, and his tone became angrily menacing as he finished in a quietly, "Or anyone else."

She quickly considered her rapidly diminishing options for emerging unscathed from this tête-à-tête. None of them were looking particularly promising, so she foolishly took another cautious step forward. "If you're not afraid, then, Riddle... Why don't you let me find out?" Hermione, stupid! What are you doing? RUN!

Riddle leaned back against the stone edge of the hearth, staying safely out of range of the dying flames, and deftly placed his right elbow in his left palm, his chin resting on his fisted right hand. It took everything Hermione she had not to squirm under his contemplative, blatant stare. After a moment, he asked in a calulating manner, "Why are you so intent on 'seeing' bits of my life, Nefertari?"

Hermione lowered an icy glare at him. "First you accuse me of stupidity, superficiality, and now discrimination," she retorted sharply. "Why are you so intent on making a mockery out of mine?" In reply, Riddle's stormy eyes stared at her with such a burning intensity, Hermione actually felt faint. Suddenly, he said stiffly, "You really don't know anything, Nefertari, do you realise that? You don't. You came here from wherever you came from and immediately assumed I'm some sort of a toe rag simply because I don't enjoy keeping up the incessantly cheerful chatter that you and your friends seem to be so fond of."

Hermione let out an indignant squeak and opened her mouth to disagree, but he cut her off sharply. "And the reason it bothers me, Nefertari, is because you aren't like the rest of them. You are smart, even I can see that. You have the intelligence, the ability to really be better than that, but you seem to have some sort of preconceived presumptions of everyone here, and that, Nefertari, is how you hold yourself back. You don't look, and you don't listen to what's right in front of you!"

Is Tom Riddle really standing here complimenting me and yelling at me at the same time? Astonished, her mouth fell open in a little 'O' as Riddle continued scornfully, "You in your happy little bubble and all of your little friends have such tunnel vision, it's almost amusing! I'm in Slytherin, I can see how du Lac, Evans, and West are. In case you haven't noticed, they act like their knowledge encompasses everything, from how to successfully maneuvre - in complete darkness, no less! - through the Great Pyramid in Egypt, to having discovered the vast mysteries of the universe." He paused for breath and trained his gaze back on her. "You aren't any different, Nefertari."

Hermione's blood began to boil as he tilted his head to the right slightly. "Tell me, are any of you making an effort to learn about us? Have you once tried to step out of your world and really tried to find out why the rest of the world runs as it does?"

Oh, you did not, she thought wrathfully, her initial surprise at Riddle's sharing of his obviously well-thought-out analysis morphed to furious anger. To all arguments, there was a boundary line, and Tom Marvolo Riddle had just most definitely crossed it.

The Amulet of Eras seemed to share her fiery energy, and the heat it was giving off felt like it was searing her neck. "Hey," she cut in angrily, her rational side again being squelched by her raging emotions. He had dominated this argument long enough. "I have to admit, Riddle," she went on acidly, shoving her uneasy fear to the back of her mind, "that while some of your initial points may have held some relative truth, allow me to make a few corrections. I'll start with my supposed 'happy little bubble.' You, Riddle, you have just told me to not make assumptions about others. Well, that's a two-way street you're walking on."

Repeating, He hasn't physically injured me yet, he hasn't physically injured me yet, Hermione actually advanced on Tom Riddle. As she came so close to the fireplace she could feel the warmth radiating through her robes to her legs, her infuriated self-confidence caused even Riddle's eyes to flash in mild surprise.

"And if you want to play the 'Have you ever really experienced the hard life' game, then, by all means, let's play. Why don't I go first?" she snapped. Not waiting for his reply, she demanded, "Have you ever really loved anyone, Riddle?" Her voice chilled considerably, and her eyes grew momentarily distant before snapping back to focus on him. "And I mean, really loved them?"

Riddle's features perceptibly blackened, and the hot anger he was no longer attempting to mask instantly returned to his expression and his evenly furious voice. "Nefertari, I don't really see how that's any of your damn business." "Just answer the blasted question, Riddle; it's probably the easiest one you've been asked since first year," Hermione retorted scathingly, roughly leaning her left shoulder against the opposite edge of the stone hearth. Her angry stare unwavering, she stubbornly crossed her arms, unintentionally mirroring Riddle's stance. "All it takes is a simple 'yes' or 'no.' "

Riddle's blazing eyes felt like they were burning holes into hers, but she no longer cared that she was in the middle of a full-fledged row with a young but still highly capable Lord Voldemort. She wasn't about to let up. Not now. She had gone too far to go back. Seconds later, and to her utter shock, it was Riddle's gaze that finally tore itself away from their stare-off first. "No," he threw out tonelessly.

" 'No?' " Hermione repeated, an eyebrow arching in near-disbelief. Although, quite honestly, what she had expected him to say? 'Yes?' The fellow was, after all, going to become one of the most evil dark lords in the last half millennium; she couldn't exactly fool herself into thinking he that much sentimentalism in him. Not 'was going to become,' a part of her firmly corrected, briefly reminding herself of the mission, but, 'Would have become.'

"Well, let me give you a little crash course in the way love works, Riddle", she said harshly, sarcastically twisting the words as they emerged from her mouth. "When you lose somebody you truly and deeply love, life automatically becomes ten times more difficult – automatically! There's no choice involved. Ten times more everything, because you feel like you have lost the best part of yourself, and you can never, ever get it back."

Hermione thrust her face into Tom Riddle's, her eyes burning. "Do not ever assume that my life is one happy little bubble, Riddle."

His expression frustratingly unreadable, Riddle brought his gaze back to hers and stared down at Hermione's furious yet determined features. "All right, Nefertari, as long as we're on the topic of 'have you ever,' why don't you try this one on for size?" he said softly in the lowest, calmest, most dangerously furious voice Hermione had ever heard him use. Have I pushed too far?

Quickly shoving herself off the hearth, she took a hasty step backward, intuition telling her when best to fear for her safety. Fearfully gripping the newly-made key in her fist so tightly it might well have been cutting into her skin, she gaped at Riddle as he frigidly plunged onward.

"Have you ever really been hated, Nefertari? Have you?" he demanded, suddenly more emotion in his voice than she had ever heard it hold. "Have you ever been disowned by your own bloody father before he even met you? Have you ever been cursed by the woman who called herself your mother before you could even crawl? Have you ever... asked a question, a simple question, in the middle of a crowded hallway, and had no one, not one person, answer back? Do speak up now, Nefertari," he went on contemptuously, "because I'd be absolutely de-lighted to hear about that."

He wasn't angry, Hermione could tell, he was livid... but she could only stand mutely those four or so feet away from him. Anger and fear slowly drained from her body, simply leaving her nearly numb with shock at the words Riddle had just spoken.

Had he just voluntarily offered her that much information about his 'I don't really see how that's any of your damn business' past? And had it really been that personal?

With a start, Riddle, too, seemed to realise what he had done, and he wordlessly jerked away from the fireplace, viciously tearing his stormy gaze from Hermione's face. Savagely, he brushed his way past her, probably in a hasty retreat to his private Head Boy dorms. Accidentally brushing against her shoulder.

Immediately following contact, Hermione crumpled to the ground in a dead faint to the sound of ethereal voices screaming in her head, the extra key falling, unnoticed, from her limp hand. This time, she didn't do it intentionally.