Chapter Three: Target

Hermione had never actually been in the Slytherin common room. She had meant to spy on Draco Malfoy as a second year with Harry and Ron, but her Polyjuice Potion had contained cat hair.

Of course, none of her new housemates expected her to have any knowledge of the common room. Unlike the Snatchers, she thought with a shudder, briefly recalling the time that they were captured.

The common room was very… wizardly. She had to acknowledge that. It was not warm or welcoming, but it had a definable air of magic about it, albeit Dark magic. There was a certain appeal, she had to acknowledge. However, she did not have any particular interest in socializing in the common room. Not tonight. She needed to sleep in a real bed that wasn't a hospital bed, and she knew she was not alert enough to hold her own in the power jockeying game that passed for socialization in Slytherin. And she definitely had no interest in socializing in a place where she suspected Riddle would be holding court. She had already made herself a target of his "interest," and she was in no shape to be scrutinized any more tonight. She passed through the common room without comment, drawing surprised looks from several students, and headed to the girls' dormitory.

Hermione had never had a close relationship with any of the girls in her year in Gryffindor. Her closest female friend at school had been Ginny, and even then they had not had very much in common. Ginny was extroverted, popular, athletic, a good student but not hyper-studious like Hermione. She had never connected with the Gryffindor girls she lived with. In fact, during sixth year, the girls' dormitory was distinctly an unpleasant place, owing to the below-the-surface feud between her and Lavender Brown. Over Ron, she thought. It was ridiculous to think about, really. She had had a crush on Ron for years, but at some point over the past year, her eyes had been opened to his deficiencies in a way that she could not ignore. Perhaps it was years of being taken for granted and passive-aggressively mocked behind her back finally catching up. Perhaps it was when he lost his temper with Harry and abandoned their mission. Or perhaps it was when she discovered that vile, offensive, patronizing book of his about how to "charm witches"—and she realized that he hadn't meant any of his compliments, indeed had not even cared about the intellectual or magical skills for which he complimented her. He was not interested in those things at all, which was the root of everything, really. He was not interested in what she was. He wasn't interested in intellectual pursuits or in political or legal matters. She had kissed him in the heat of the battle, but that was just adrenaline. She didn't regret it; he was gone now, so she couldn't feel bad about it. But she was well and truly over that infatuation.

Well, at least there shouldn't be any feuds between her and these Slytherin girls over shared crushes. She was not about to answer for any other topics. Her mind told her that there would probably be very few things she could discuss with these fashion-conscious (well, except for Walburga's ghastly hair, she thought smugly—those greasy locks were worse in their way than her own hair), pureblooded, betrothed, probable proto-Death Eater girls. Her heart told her not to be such a pessimist, that nobody was all bad.

And her body told her to bloody get some sleep before she formed any more opinions on the people she was to live with for the next year. Wisely, that was the voice she listened to. She summoned her pyjamas out of her beaded bag, cast an anti-theft jinx on it, and tucked it away under her pillow, falling asleep before any of the girls even turned in.

The next morning, Hermione awakened early. She wanted to get a shower and attempt to personalize her little corner of the dormitory as well as she could with what was in her beaded bag. She had money, at least, and rather a lot in 1940s terms. It was a good thing, because she knew a trip to Hogsmeade or an owl order was soon going to be necessary. She had not packed any school robes last year, and of course none of her clothes were suitable for the 1940s. She did have a single school robe that Dippet had given her, and after her shower, she put that robe over the least casual articles of Muggle clothing she owned: a white blouse and a pair of black slacks. Hopefully the robe would prevent her from drawing too much attention as a witch who wasn't wearing a skirt. She supposed she could have Transfigured it, but this was the only remotely appropriate thing she could wear, and she did not really want to take the risk. She was very good at Transfiguration but had never taken much interest in altering her clothing. Later, perhaps she would experiment with some of her denim.

Books were also going to be a problem for a little while. It was ironic; she had books in abundance, but not the seventh year texts, and certainly not the 1940s seventh year texts. There were one or two extra books for each of her classes kept in stock, which she would use until her book order arrived. The thought gave her a pang of discomfort; she remembered how Harry had been so taken by Snape's old Potions text, but there was no help for it.

As soon as she got out of the bathroom, the girls were awake. Lucretia Black gazed impassively at her, not unfriendly, but appraising. Druella Rosier leered at her with evident disdain. Walburga Black's features seemed to be twisted into a permanent scowl.

"Good morning," Hermione said, attempting to ignore the looks that two of her roommates were giving her.

Lucretia nodded. "Morning," she said. There was no response from the others.

"You know," Hermione remarked to Walburga, unable to stop herself, "you shouldn't frown like that all the time. Someone might think it is your default expression and paint a portrait of you with that face, and that would be… unfortunate for you. Represented like that."

Walburga sneered. "If that happened, I would just cast Incendio at it, Green."

Hermione shrugged. "It was an analogy, actually. Just free advice."

"I don't require your advice."

"Then don't take it." Attempting to put on this Slytherin contempt and indifference as well as her roommates did, she crossed the room to the single unoccupied desk. She summoned her beaded bag and began withdrawing books from it. Suddenly something occurred to her. These girls—two of them, at least, and possibly the third—regarded her as an intruder and looked on her with obvious suspicion and contempt for her supposed connection to Albus Dumbledore. She was going to do something to surprise them.

A collective intake of breath escaped the girls as Hermione summoned the titles of Magick Moste Evile, Moste Potente Potions, Curses and Counter-Curses, and The Dark Arts: A Legal Companion. She continued dispassionately, calling forth every book on every dubious subject that she had in her bag. At last, giving them a smile and raised eyebrow, to let them know that she had been aware all along of their notice and reaction, she summoned Secrets of the Darkest Art. It flew through the air and slid magically to the end of the bookshelf on the desk. Hermione cast a strong anti-theft jinx over the entire shelf, picked up her beaded bag, put it into her school pack, and stalked confidently out of the dorm room.

Hermione passed through the Slytherin common room feeling pleased with herself. She had rendered her dormmates speechless and possibly intimidated them into grudging respect with one fell swoop. It was perfectly obvious that they had not expected her to have a trove of books about the Dark Arts. She suppressed a grin at the recognition that, once again, books had helped her out. The world was starting to fall into a familiar, comforting pattern again.

No sooner had that thought passed through her mind than she found herself face to face with an immaculately groomed Tom Riddle. He was apparently waiting for her in the common room. Fate really was making jokes at her expense, she thought.

"Good morning, Miss Green," he said suavely, a smile spreading over his face. Just like last night, it did not reach his eyes.

"Riddle," she said curtly in acknowledgment.

The smile vanished. "The fifth year prefects get the task of showing the first years the ropes, so"—he fingered his Head Boy badge very unsubtly—"I thought I might take the opportunity to show you around."

"Thank you, but Professor Dumbledore told me a lot about the castle," Hermione said at once. "I'm sure you have better things to do." And I'm sure that you have no interest in politeness for its own sake. You want to get me alone to continue interrogating me.

He gave her a calculating gaze. "I'm sure we have the same class schedule, so it only makes sense for you to walk with me, Green."

"How do you know that?"

"Dippet has shown me everyone's schedule since I am Slytherin prefect and Head Boy, of course. I confess I took special interest in yours, since you are new. But it would only be natural, wouldn't it? Since you are so confident that you can compete with me."

"I guess we'll find out, won't we, Riddle?" she said in an undertone.

He did not reply, but held out an arm for her to take. She did not want to, but at the moment, she had no reason that she could give for being repelled by him, so she took a breath and linked hers.

As she walked with him to the Great Hall for breakfast, Hermione had it occur to her that it was absolutely no wonder that he had most of the school enthralled. It was difficult for Hermione to acknowledge that Riddle was indeed handsome, intelligent, and charismatic, but so it was. And it was all an atrocious, abominable waste. Next to her was a person who could be literally anything that he wanted. He could be Minister for Magic in fifteen years. She certainly would have wanted to pursue a high-level Ministry job if she had been able to fix her future. And he was going to choose instead to destroy his good looks, destroy his intellect and reasoning ability, destroy his very humanity, in order to lead an outlaw terrorist group of inbred troglodytes with an obsolete ideology that could never sustain a viable society. It was such a waste, it sickened her.

They reached the Great Hall and sat down at the Slytherin table. Breakfast appeared before them, and they began to eat. Riddle was studying her, not saying anything, which puzzled her, but what was infuriating was that she could not ask him why he wasn't subjecting her to interrogation.

They finished their breakfast, and at last he turned to her with that calculating look in his eyes.

I guess the pretense of politeness is gone for good, she thought. For some reason, it relieved her.

"Now, Miss Green, let's go to Potions, shall we?"

Ugh. So he wasn't going to be polite about it, but he still wasn't going to openly voice his intentions. She supposed she shouldn't have expected it. This wasn't Gryffindor, after all. And I have to remember that.

Hermione sometimes wondered about the differences between Professor Snape and Professor Slughorn as Potions masters. It was paradoxical, but Snape—despite being much more personally innovative in Potions than Slughorn—unquestionably preferred that his students stick to the book, while Slughorn liked to foster creative thinking in his students. She had thrived in Snape's class, at least as well as any Gryffindor could, while struggling more in Slughorn's.

It had been a hard lesson for her to accept, especially since she witnessed Harry cheating his way through the class all sixth year—at least, that was how she saw it at the time. She was no longer sure it was clear-cut cheating anymore. He had taken credit for Snape's creativity, but he had done all the potion-making himself. And Hermione, irritated at the situation, spitefully sabotaged her own performance, pigheadedly sticking to Slughorn's text, telling herself that whole year that it was somehow more "honorable" to get Es for her "official" work than to "break the rules" and attempt to innovate as the Half-Blood Prince had.

The seventh year, the year on the run, had completely dispelled that notion from her mind.

The creative thinking was always there. She had had the brilliant thought of using fake Galleons with a Protean Charm for Dumbledore's Army, and then there had been that pox curse she had invented for the DA membership list. Now, after that year of making do with what resources were available to her, after getting stuck in 1944 with a young Voldemort, she knew that she had to call up that part of her and not let it go. It was the only way she could get through this.

That was how she found herself partnered with Riddle in NEWT Potions, at his insistence, and periodically exchanging increasingly hostile glares with him as they competed with each other to see who could answer Slughorn's questions first. The rest of the class sported various expressions: enjoyment from the Slytherins, who were benefiting from it greatly in House points, and sourness from everyone else.

"Very good, Miss Green, very good!" Slughorn was exclaiming happily as Hermione correctly identified Veritaserum. "Now, can anyone tell me—of course, Tom, of course."

Hermione had already noticed that Slughorn tended to call Riddle by his first name, even in class.

"It's Felix Felicis, sir," he said, shooting a smug grin at Hermione. She had put her hand up as well.

"Five more points to Slytherin! Excellent, excellent." He winked at the two, evidently oblivious to the miasma of competitive hostility between them. "I'm sure the two of you could identify every potion I have in my private stock, but we must begin class. Today we are going to brew the Oculus Potion…."

When class was over—Riddle and Hermione earning full points, of course—he grabbed her arm roughly, completely dispensing with the gentlemanly gesture of offering her his, to "escort" her to the next class. He was clearly quite put out that, in one subject at least, her boast the previous night had not been a mere bluff.

The same pattern occurred in all of their classes that day, and the following day, except for one.

Hermione had been nervous about Defense Against the Dark Arts from the start. That was the one subject in which she had not earned an "Outstanding" OWL, although it was solely because she had not performed particularly well in the practical dueling part of the examination. She liked to think that, after that year, she would manage an O. She had, after all, held off Bellatrix Lestrange in a duel, although Ginny and Luna had helped her. At least until Ginny was—

Hermione banished that thought. It wasn't going to happen this time. She would fix it.

In this time, the course was taught by a witch named Galatea Merrythought who looked about the same age as Professor McGonagall in 1998. Professor Merrythought began the class with an impromptu question-and-answer session about theoretical knowledge. That was quite all right, and for a while, Hermione had the pleasure of watching Riddle seethe as her hand shot up into the air again and again to answer the professor's questions.

"You really are an insufferable swot," he hissed after she correctly answered a question from Merrythought about Inferi. Hermione beamed back, watching him breathe in and out furiously.

Then Merrythought smiled. "Well, now that Miss Green has answered all my questions—no, I'm sorry, Mr. Riddle, you did answer the question about Patronuses, I apologize—we're going to have a review of practical dueling. Choose a partner, and remember to observe the rules of dueling! If I see anyone dueling dirty, I will take House points."

"You and me," Riddle said at once.

Hermione had expected it, though her pulse started to race at once. The look he was giving her was calculating, smug, and—disturbingly—vengeful. She suddenly had a bad feeling about this.

"On your feet!" Merrythought called out. The students got out of their desks. Merrythought waved her wand, levitating all the desks at once toward the high classroom ceiling, and cast a heavy net to hold them suspended if she had to intervene in anyone's duel.

"Wands out! One—two—three—now!"

He was far too fast. Immediately he slammed her with a nonverbal Reductor Curse. Hermione gasped as a blast of magic seemed to punch her in her gut, knocking the wind out of her. She flew backward several feet and nearly careened into the nearest dueling pair.

Smirking, Riddle cast another curse. Chains shot from his wand, wrapping around her. He really didn't have to have them curl this tightly, Hermione thought in embarrassment and anger. She flicked her wrist, which was still free, and sent a Stupefy back at him, but he deflected it with a look of utter contempt on his handsome features.

"Really, Green?" he said in an undertone. "Fourth-year magic, at best?"

He cast a nonverbal spell, and to Hermione's horror, her wand sailed out of her hand into his. The duel was over almost as quickly as it had begun.

Professor Merrythought hurried over, obviously very disappointed that the duel between her two most promising students had turned out so one-sided and ended so soon. "Well done, Mr. Riddle," she said, making an effort to sound congratulatory. "Well done. Perhaps you should give Miss Green her wand back and make another go of it."

Riddle looked disturbingly eager, but Hermione was not going to let herself be humiliated this way again. "Actually, Professor, I'd like to try with another dueling partner first."

She had allowed her anxiety to get to her. She shouldn't have been that easy to defeat. But at the same time, he was fast, and he thought quickly. A Stupefy? Really, Hermione chastised herself as the professor vanished her chains, I should have thought of something better than that. He's actually right.

It left a sour taste in her mouth to acknowledge that Riddle was right about anything, but it was unavoidable. She had to be faster than that, and she could not let him get to her in any circumstance.

The week progressed. Hermione found herself quickly falling back into the familiar pattern of excelling in class—and being socially ostracized by most of the people she lived with. The seventh year Slytherin girls were no longer openly mocking her, perhaps due to the prominent display of her menacing (and cherry-picked) Dark Arts collection—which no one else could touch—but neither did they become friendly. Lucretia Black was decent enough, and was never uncivil, but she also never seemed to open up. Her interactions were all very businesslike. Walburga avoided Hermione, barely acknowledging her existence. And Druella Rosier—she was acting very odd indeed, giving Hermione shifty looks and occasional, quickly suppressed smirks. It was as if she anticipated something. Hermione had seen enough of Slytherins already to know that when one of them anticipated something unknown to her, and would not give any hints about what it was, it probably was not a good thing.

The next Monday, a week after she awoke in the Hospital Wing, something finally happened that revealed what Druella had been on about. After another Potions lesson in which Slughorn praised her and Riddle to the sky, Riddle grabbed Hermione's arm, pulled her into the empty classroom next to Potions, and pointed his wand at her chest.

Here it is, she thought. I've already made myself a target, and he's had enough. So much for any great purpose to this trip. Then she realized that of course he wasn't going to commit murder in the castle with students going to and from class just behind the door.

Ugh, I really, really should not let myself get so frightened of him. She summoned her courage and said, as boldly as she could manage, "What's your problem, Riddle?"

He frowned. It was obviously an attempt at a morally outraged frown, but he was not pulling it off. He wanted something.

"I have received a very disturbing report about you, Miss Green," he said. "Someone has informed me that you are keeping a collection of extremely dangerous books on the Dark Arts in your dormitory, on the shelf over your writing desk."

That bitch. Druella had tattled to Riddle about the books.

Hermione sneered back, letting her anger overcome her fear. "And what of it? I like to read. The library has copies of all of them, anyway."

Riddle moved closer. "No, Green, it doesn't."

"And just how would you know what books I have?"

"Because I was given a list of the titles," he hissed. "It seems that you put a nice little jinx to keep anyone else from touching them, but it didn't prevent anyone from looking." He withdrew a piece of folded parchment from his robe pocket and read over it. "Most of them are in the library, yes, but not"—he slid the note under Hermione's nose, smirking—"this one."

He pointed at Secrets of the Darkest Art.

Hermione's stomach dropped. Of course he knew about that one. He had almost certainly already read it, though where this time's copy was now, Hermione could not guess. Obviously not the library, though probably not in a Professor's office either. Perhaps—and with a flash of insight, Hermione realized her guess was almost certainly correct—perhaps Dumbledore had removed this book and stored it in the Room of Hidden Things. There had been books in there even in her time….

"All right, fine, I'll take your word for that, but what is your point, exactly? Professor Dumbledore looked at every book I brought with me to school. He had no objection to anything." Hermione lied furiously, hoping he would back off.

"Liar," he said menacingly. "You are lying. Dumbledore doesn't know. He would never approve it. Why do you have that book, Green?"

"I really don't see that it's any of your business."

The tip of his wand touched her neck. "My business is whatever I want it to be, and you'd best learn that soon. Now, answer me, Green. What is your interest in that book?"

Hermione had suddenly had enough. What an utter hypocrite. Or—no, he wasn't a hypocrite at all. He had no moral objection to a book about Horcruxes. He just didn't want anyone else to appear interested in the subject. Paranoia about his own misdeeds, or planned misdeeds? Had he made any yet? She needed to find out, somehow. Or—ugh—fear of competition? Of someone else doing the same thing?

Hermione was on the verge of saying something very, very cutting—and very reckless—to him when the door opened. Riddle sheathed his wand at once and plastered a benign smile on his face.

"Oh, Professor Slughorn, I'm sorry, I'll get to class at once."

Slughorn beamed at the sight of his two favorite students in a deserted classroom in close quarters. Hermione felt a wave of disgust wash over her as she realized what he was thinking they had been doing in there.

"No worries, no problem at all, Tom. I actually hoped to ask Miss Green something. So if you would wait, like the gentleman you are, and perhaps escort her to her next class afterward?" He winked.

"Of course, sir. It would be a pleasure." He stood aside.

Slughorn ambled over to Hermione. "Miss Green, I thought I might ask you…. You see, I have a little club here, one made of the most promising students, you know. Of course Tom is a member," he said with a knowing smile. "It's a social club, but we also have discussions at our little meetings, and I try to invite people—Ministry people, famous wizards, you know. It's really an excellent opportunity to make useful connections, and I was hoping you would join."

"Of course," Hermione said at once. She actually had liked the Slug Club in her own time, and in the off chance that she did have to remain in this time—and Riddle hadn't killed her first—she wanted to be in a good position to support herself. "I'm honored, Professor. When is the next meeting?"

"Friday evening in my office, seven o'clock. There will be food and wine, and I think I can get the Ministry Law Enforcement Department Head, Pollux Black. Father of your roommate, Miss Walburga Black. It would be a great opportunity—especially for one connected to Dumbledore, eh?" He winked knowingly at her.

In the corner, Riddle shifted. He had noticed that wink.

"So I'll see you, no doubt with Tom, am I right?"

Hermione smiled as well as she could. "You will certainly see me, sir."

"Excellent. Now I suppose we all should get to our next class. Tom?"

Riddle strode forward and took Hermione's arm in his most perfectly gentlemanlike manner. As soon as Slughorn was out of sight, though, he turned to Hermione with a calculating, absolutely predatory smile.

"We really should get to class," he purred. "And you really should reconsider answering me when I ask you a question, Miss Green. You have until the Slug Club meeting."