Tom is giddy for the rest of the day. He even smiles at Dumbledore during transfiguration, earning him a concerned look over half-moon glasses. Tom ignores him and smiles more. He can feel the annoyed glares Hermione shoots at him through class. It seems only to fuel his good mood.
Their assignment is to turn a dried stick from the Herbology waste bins into a flower of their choice before the end of class. A ridiculously easy task for Tom. He is partnered with Mulciber again, an unfortunate seating arrangement that looks like it will be lasting for the rest of the year. Mulciber struggles to get a green leaf to sprout from the dead bark, which remains stubbornly brown.
Feeling mischievous, Tom transfigures his twig into a whole bouquet of lush red roses, and presents it to Mulciber with an exaggerated bow, snatching his hand and planting a kiss on his knuckle. Mulciber splutters like mad and tries to yank his hand out of Tom's surprisingly strong grasp. Malfoy cackles wildly from three rows behind them.
"What's the matter, Maxie," Tom teases, "you don't like me?"
Mulciber flushes an unbecoming fuchsia as Malfoy falls out of his chair. Hermione purses her lips in a pinched expression. Tom thinks she is holding back her own laughter, purely on principle. High on his recent victory over her, he is struck with a sudden idea. He grabs a stem out of his bouquet, and rips the flower off by the head. He begins to pluck the petals until they lay in a pile on his desk—she wants me, she wants me not—then collects them in his palms before blowing gently into his hands as if stoking a fire.
Mulciber is watching him with a confused expression. Indeed, half the class is watching Tom, but he finds he does not care. He's in the mood to show off.
Without a wand or a spell, rose petals begin to stir and ascend. Each one flies gracefully like red silk, leaving a fragrant trail in its wake. Heads turn with curiosity as they form a soft rain which falls lazily over Hermione's desk. They hover patiently there, rearranging themselves like puzzle pieces until they form an intact blossom once more; alluring, romantic, suggestive.
A peace offering.
Hermione contemplates his gift, the slightest blush across the bridge of her nose. Envious stares and jealous muttering permeate the room.
Tom knows what everyone is thinking. This is the first time he has ever shown interest in a girl.
After what seems like an age to Tom, she finally takes the flower into her hands. She lifts it to her face to inhale its scent, but also puckers her lips. For one insane moment, Tom thinks she will kiss the rose the way he kissed Mulciber's hand. Instead, she mimics Tom in a different manner, casting him a quick look before she releases her breath.
Tom watches with narrowed eyes as her magic seems to caress the rose into submission. Petals begin to fall away from one another again, as if getting undressed to dance a winding waltz in the air. The deep blood-red color drains until its very matter dissolves into grey whisps of smoke and heavy mist.
The room darkens. A low rumbling sound is emitted from the now ominous looking cloud suspended above the class. Every face is turned up to stare at the impressive display of indoor weather, complete with oppressive humidity. Every face, except Tom's. He is looking at her.
She looks at him too. She smiles.
Suddenly, Tom is blinded by a flash of lightning that strikes his desk, cleaving it in two. Mulciber shouts, attempting to pull Tom back, but the sound is drowned out by a loud crack! that bounces through the room. Several screams echo alongside the deafening sound of thunder trapped between four stone walls.
Then the torrential downpour begins.
Chaos reigns. Students hastily pack their bags, some using their books to shield their heads from the utter faucet of a rain cloud dumping buckets over their heads. Boys and girls are shrieking and laughing, some of them taking refuge under their desks, and some of them dancing under the deluge.
As swiftly as it begins, it ends.
Dumbledore is clearing his throat, his wand still drawn and pointed toward the ceiling.
"What an impressive display of transfiguration by the Slytherin house!" he beams. He waves his wand again, and Tom feels his clothes peel away from his skin, drying until they are a pleasant warmth against the chill created by the rain a moment before.
"I think points are in order!" Dumbledore continues in a forcefully cheery tone as he repairs Tom's desk, "Five points to Slytherin for Mr. Riddle's impressive display of transfigurative reformation, and ten points to Miss Birch for her rather eccentric response."
The class erupts into whispers.
Tom sits down, his back slouched against his chair to hide an… embarrassing problem. He leans over to grab his bag and put it on his lap before it is noticed. He is irritated, but he has to admit her initial provincial act was quite convincing. In reality, Hermione is far from simple. Tom thinks of her wild curls tossing in the winds of her own making, her eyes determined and sharp as she made thunder crash and lightning strike, how she seemed almost starved as her magic traveled between them; swollen, building, seeking release.
That is the true Hermione, and she has power. True power. But is she more powerful than he is?
He wants to find out.
Dumbledore is tapping his wand on his desk, asking the class to settle down. He assigns the homework before dismissing them, almost ten minutes early. Tom rises slowly, dragging his feet so he is one of the last students to leave. He nods for Mulciber and Malfoy to go on without him. Unfortunately, before he can approach his objective, Dumbledore says, "Miss Birch, may I have a word?"
She ducks her head, and moves toward the front of the class, carefully avoiding where Tom is still packing his things. Dumbledore gives him a pointed look. Tom knows Dumbledore will not speak while he is there, so he gives up on dawdling and exits promptly, closing the door behind him. All of the other students have already left, impatient to head to their common rooms early to gossip about such an eventful day. Tom leans lightly against the door to listen.
"…you would keep a low profile."
"I am."
"I would hardly call what you did in class today a low profile."
"Don't tell me what to do, Albus."
"I'm not—that is to say—"
"I may look young, but do not confuse my appearance with what I actually am. Do you want me to remind you?"
"No! No, no. You misunderstand me. I am merely expressing worry—"
"Well, don't."
There is a long pause. Tom realizes he has been holding his breath.
"I am only here to help." Dumbledore murmurs. Tom is pressing the side of his head so hard into the wood that his ear is singing in pain.
"Then stay quiet. And don't get in my way."
Tom yanks himself away when he hears her heavy footsteps rapidly approaching. He barely makes it down the hall and around the corner before he hears the door slam open.
Instead of walking in his direction, she heads toward the moving staircase that goes up to the seventh floor. He can breathe again.
Tom now knows better than to think she is losing her way because she is a helpless transfer student. She is anything but a fish out of water.
She called him Albus.
He hesitates for only a moment. Quickly disillusioning himself, he creeps past the classroom door again to follow her. She is just stepping off the stairs, walking confidently down the empty hallway when Tom jumps on.
He runs up as fast as he can, cursing silently when the great stone stairs change direction. He has to wait for it to change floors twice before resting again on the seventh floor. His quick strides take him to where he is convinced she will be, but the landing is completely abandoned. Tom surreptitiously touches portraits and moves curtains with an invisible hand to find some secret passageway or entrance, but there is nothing but blank stone walls. Further on ahead is the Astronomy Tower, and Tom wonders if she has gone up there again. He fails to see any other option.
The tower is a dead end. She is not there, only a couple of fifth year Ravenclaws, snogging. Tom's heart lurches at the sight, and he retreats quickly, unable to understand it. Furthermore, he has no desire to examine the wretched feeling.
He thinks of Hermione again, and returns to the seventh floor. It is still empty.
He decides to give up; Mulciber and Malfoy will be wondering where he is anyway. He will have to keep an even closer eye on her in the future. No hesitation next time, he promises himself, running his hand along the walls in case he missed some trick latch, hollow stone, or hidden key.
Eventually, Tom grows tired of this, and truly gives up. He heads back to the common room, head whirling with ideas. Of only one conclusion can he be sure.
Hermione Birch is not an ordinary girl.
If that even is her name.
A/N: thank you to everyone who favorited and alerted this story!
Up next: Hermione flirts with Tom, kind of.