The first thing Tom notices about her is her smile. Not because it is crooked or ugly. Her teeth are lined orderly in her mouth, like soldiers waiting for command. There is nothing there to draw the eye, no unexpected asymmetry or discoloration to demand disgust. Neither is it beautiful or exceptionally attractive. It is not coy or seductive. She doesn't bite her lip like some girls do when they speak to him. It is a boring flash of the teeth; not meant to be noticed.
But he notices how it does not reach her eyes. He knows because he is a master of plastered on smiles. He understands that a smile is much like a punctuation mark, placed conveniently at the end of statements to indicate an ending, or turn of phrase, or to emphasize a point.
She has the same smile. She shows her teeth to him when they first meet.
"Hello, I'm Tom Riddle, Head Boy." He introduces himself, extending his hand politely to shake hers.
She takes his hand with ease, but it is barely there; the gentlest politest touch. "Hello, I'm Hermione Birch. Nice to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine."
She takes her seat at the Slytherin table. Her posture is perfect, her table manners elegant. She's had a private sorting in the Headmaster's office. It's not common to have a transfer student at Hogwarts. The war has forced her family out of France. Malfoy starts speaking French, and she answers effortlessly.
Malfoy smirks, ogling her breasts. She pretends not to notice, but her eyes narrow infinitesimally over her mashed potatoes and roast. Tom notices.
He unwittingly respects her, because he respects self-restraint.
He asks her about her home in France. He is not interested in the hills she describes, or the quaint alleys, or her favorite bookstore by the pond with the ducks. He is interested in the way she puts on a show. She wants to seem regular, Tom thinks. Her movements seem studied, careful. She smiles at him again, making the appropriate amount of eye contact. Not too much, but careful not to let her eyes skirt away too quickly.
They converse through dinner. It is only appropriate. He is Head Boy and she is a transfer student in the Slytherin House, his house. She speaks with her hands. One of them gleams in the dim light of the Great Hall towards the end of dinner, slick with sweat. It catches Tom's eye before he can control himself. She notices.
She doesn't wipe her hand on her skirt. She grips her knife to carve her roast into smaller and smaller pieces. She speaks of feeding the ducks in her village and the names she's given them. Tom is careful to remember each one. She does not mention any friends, or parents, or her prior school. Tom is too polite to ask.
When she finally puts her knife down, the silver shines like it's been glossed.
She catches him looking and smiles.
It doesn't reach her eyes.