September is coming to a close. Tom enjoys the cool Scottish air that whips his face as he steadily climbs the winding trail, careful to avoid sharp rocks and jagged roots. When Yvette offered to be on duty for the first Hogsmeade weekend, Tom had happily accepted with rapidly forming fantasies of bumping into Hermione there, perhaps at the Three Broomsticks. It would be natural to buy her a butterbeer or two. They could sit in a private booth.
With these thoughts happily crowding his head, Tom had headed down to Hogsmeade early that morning with the usual crowd, although he normally loathed the excursions. He never had any money to spend, so it was typically a pointless exercise. Today would be different, he was sure of it. He had purposefully dug into his savings for this.
It took him all of twenty minutes to realize she had not come. When Professor Merrythought called him over to her side at Tomes and Scrolls, he originally assumed she wanted to ask his opinion on her planned choice of text for next year. However, the conversation had followed a very different line of thought.
"So, how is she holding up?"
Tom stares at her blankly, "I'm not sure I know who you mean, Professor."
"Oh, right, dear. Sorry. I mean the new transfer student, Miss Hermione Birch. She is in your house."
"Yes," Tom agrees slowly.
"Professor Slughorn assured me you would be taking good care of her," she continues to insist.
"I'm sure I do the best that I can." He answers, unsure.
"See that you do, dear boy! She's been through enough in her young life. Both parents dead at the hands of Grindelwald, and then carted off to family in Britain—who refused her! Thankfully she is already seventeen and able to recoup her losses, so to speak, here at Hogwarts before having to start over on her own." She tsks softly, placing several books back on the shelves, "It really is such a tragedy. And then to be refused by the headmaster to attend Hogsmeade outings! All because she doesn't have anyone to sign the permission slip! Ludicrous, if you ask me."
She seems to remember Tom is technically a student, and also an orphan himself, and clears her throat.
"Anyway, dear. I just thought you ought to know. You are in her house, and Head Boy, and so very caring and thoughtful. I hope you extend some of that kindness to her."
"Of course, Professor," Tom bows.
Tom walks briskly back up the lane towards the castle now. In his hurry, he almost trips twice.
While he is disappointed he will not get to live out his fantasy lunch with her at the Three Broomsticks, Tom is growing more and more excited for another prospect. The castle is practically empty. She will be alone, save for perhaps a first year or two. Despite her being a new addition to a highly hierarchical house, she has already won over many of her juniors. It has become rare to find her unaccompanied.
When he approaches the castle doors, he is slightly out of breath. He checks the Great Hall first, but it is practically deserted. The school typically empties out by nine o'clock, and it is already ten. Tom checks his wrist watch and hurries to his next destination.
The Common room is also empty. Tom feels disheartened. This would have been a perfect place to continue their conversation from before. He leaves the glowing green room quickly, determined to sniff her out. He checks the Astronomy tower next, lingering in the seventh-floor hallway, walking back and forth a few times as if he can make her materialize.
She doesn't.
He checks the infirmary, the quidditch pitch, the greenhouses, the bathrooms. His heart speeds up at the thought of catching her in the bath. Empty, empty, empty. He begins to wonder if he should send her an owl when he is struck with his own stupidity.
The library.
Tom runs back to his dorm, gathering a few books and quills into his bag and takes the stairs by two back up to the west wing. He doesn't know how, but he just does; she is definitely here. Somehow, he is convinced she loves the library. A strange sense of déjà vu grips him as he pauses in front of the library doors to slow his breathing, and smooth his hair. Hishands are shaking.
He wipes a tremulous hand on the back of his robes.
He pushes the doors open. The library is empty. Even Madam Clémence is absent from her large oak desk that sits in the center of the cavernous room. Tom's heart sinks before he decides to be thorough and search the alcoves and hidden bends.
He finds her at a small table nestled behind a corner of crowded shelves on the obscure magical topic of metaphysics. Her face is so deep into the tome that Tom is sure she must be near-sighted.
She looks up when she senses him approaching. Before she can do much more than lift her brows in surprise, Tom drops his bag on her table and pulls the chair next to her to sit down.
He knows he is the last person she expects to see here.
"Do you mind?" he asks seriously, "all the other tables are taken."
She lifts her head to look about at variety of empty desks and chairs surrounding them, completely incredulous.
"Is that so?"
"Yes, unfortunately. I really do appreciate you making space for me, though." He starts to rearrange her neatly piled stacks to make room for his own things.
She quirks her lips into an amused smile, despite herself, but she narrows her eyes at him when he scoots his chair closer to her. Their thighs are almost touching when he settles in.
"You're very presumptuous." she accuses, glancing pointedly down at his leg.
He feigns innocence. "I haven't a clue what you mean."
She decides to ignore him, and turns back to her reading. Tom breathes a silent sigh of relief.
She's letting him stay.
Not willing to push his luck, he opens his DADA textbook and pulls out a parchment. He might as well finish his essay on the unforgivables, even though it's due next week. In truth, Tom does not need to reference his text to write a detailed essay on the subject. He has already mastered all three.
Still, he must take care to keep up appearances.
They sit silently, but it doesn't make Tom uncomfortable. When Tom can afford to slide glances at her, he doesn't think she looks discomfited either. Occasionally, she brushes the feather of her quill against her lips, or taps the page she's reading. Tom has never longed to be a feather before, but he finds Hermione can bend him into the most ridiculous shapes and forms.
After an hour, he finishes his essay. He considers making it longer, for without it, he has no reason to stay. She shifts in her seat to readjust herself, and her knee bumps into his.
It feels nice.
He wonders if she did it on purpose, and he leans back in his chair to read over her shoulder. She's reading a chapter titled Temporal Anomalies: Unbirths and Irreparable Harm. Tom is just beginning to read a sentence when she slams the book shut, turning to chastise him.
"Don't read over my shoulder."
"I wasn't."
"Why is it always your instinct to lie?"
Tom scoffs, "Surely you can see the irony in that statement?"
"I haven't a clue what you mean." She echoes him. He can't help the smile that escapes him. He wants to say, touché, but just then his stomach grumbles. Loudly.
She looks taken aback, and glances down at his stomach, as if expecting it expose itself further. Tom blushes. He skipped breakfast that morning because he was nervous about seeing her in Hogsmeade.
She leans over to pull her bag off the ground, and pulls out a large bundle with bulging shapes inside. She unwraps the checkered napkin to reveal a croissant, some apple slices and some almonds and cheese. She lays it out on their table between them.
"You're not going to give me another detention for bringing food into the library, are you?"
Tom pops an almond into his mouth. He feels warm all over.
"I don't think the library falls under my jurisdiction. Just don't let Madam Clémence see you."
"Clémence? Is she French?" she asks absently as she uses her wand to warm the croissant, tearing it in two and offering a steaming half to Tom. Tom does not miss that she is mindful to not let her forefinger brush his as she hands it to him.
"Are you?" Tom fires back.
Her eyes light up, glinting mischievously. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
"I would," he tells her earnestly.
She smiles. "I know."
Tom leans over to take an apple slice. Despite sitting in her bag since morning, they have not browned. He wonders at her careful cleverness. He wants to ask her about it. He wants to know why she knows such domestic spells in the first place.
She turns back to her book, vigilantly angling away from him so he can no longer see what she is reading. He mentally catalogs the title so he can come back for it later. He abruptly stands, which causes her to look up at him warily. Tom walks away, enjoying the fact that she watches him leave. He meanders through the shelves until he reaches the section he is looking for. It's a dusty nook, not often visited by students. Nevertheless, he quickly finds what he needs and returns without delay to the table.
He feels relief to see her still there, and realizes he was harboring a silent anxiety that he would return to find she had abandoned him.
She hadn't.
Still, she does not look up when he takes his seat once more, and continues reading. Tom knows she must be annoyed with him. How many times has he been in her position? Trying to do important research, to read, to write, to enrich his mind, but constantly being pestered by the disruptions of some lovesick girl? Tom smirks to himself; in this case, he is the lovesick girl.
Tom knows, though. That this is an act. He's convinced she is here specifically to draw him in. Like some kind of twisted silent siren. Why else would she do so much to get under his skin, and then withdraw so completely?
He picks up his prop, and pretends to read. In his mind, however, he catalogs all he knows of her. Whether true or false, he has yet to determine. She is seventeen. Her parents are dead. She's an orphan, like him. She's French, supposedly. She is fluent in French; that is a fact. And, she seems to scare Dumbledore. She's doing something on the seventh-floor hallway near the astronomy tower—she knows how to disappear there so that Tom cannot find her. Finally, her name is Hermione Birch.
Tom has visited the ancient archives of the Hogwarts library many times. He has sifted through the fifty-year-old out of print magazines, newspapers, and directories. It was all originally in an effort to find his own name. Riddle. That was before he knew about his mother's distasteful choices in life.
He remembers reading about the family Birch. They are not part of the sacred twenty-eight, but they are considered purebloods. An offshoot from the Burke family about three or four hundred years ago. Split into two factions when Crispin Birch had a disagreement with his brother about some of his darker practices, and left for France. The French side does not acknowledge the English side of the family, and vice versa.
Tom has to admit, it's a good cover story. It explains why her British family "refused her," probably without ever seeing her. Pureblood families can be very vindictive. She was probably banking on that.
He loudly turns the page, clearing his throat. He's grown tired of being subtle.
She finally looks at him, and takes in his reading material. The Winter's Tale. She turns a little pink, but other than that, she does nothing to give away that she recognizes the title.
Tom is growing impatient. He feels ready to tear her to pieces. Doesn't she know how much energy it costs him to stay reigned in?
She wants to worm away from what's coming, he can sense it. Well, he's done playing hide and seek. Something deliciously wicked inside him gnashes its teeth.
"Hermione…" He starts, absently rubbing his chin. She looks up. "That's Greek, isn't it? You don't look Greek."
He's acting. He thinks he puts on a good show, almost as good as her. They're all just players on a stage, aren't they? He's sure she would appreciate the reference, but she isn't smiling.
He continues. "Actually, you look very English."
"Do I?"
"Yes. The nose especially. Turned up at the end like a true English swot." Tom runs his finger down the slope of her nose. She's too surprised to flinch away, or maybe she likes the way his finger leaves a trail of sparks in her skin. The delicious wickedness squirms its way down to his lower abdomen, clenching.
"Small. Dainty."
She doesn't respond.
"In truth, it's a unique name. I only know of one other Hermione, and it would make sense that your parents admired Shakespeare. Most muggles do."
She narrows her eyes at him. Tom knows what she is thinking. She told him her mother was a muggle, but she never said her father was. Tom is almost certain she's a muggleborn; that her sorting was faked. Probably with the help of Dumbledore, who she obviously has under her thumb. He's almost certain she isn't really a Birch. It's all a lie.
But her name, her real name—Hermione—it's too specific to be counterfeit. It's nothing like the name Birch. 'Hermione' sticks out like a glinting galleon in the sand, drawing your eye from yards away, whereas 'Birch' is one of many dying pureblood names no one fails to recognize as respectable, if mundane.
Her face betrays her rising temper. He pretends not to feel intimidated. She doesn't know his heart is hammering in his chest. He's a good actor. Tom relishes in the attention, and he leans in closer, lowering his voice although there is no need to. There is no one besides them in the room.
"The thing about this Hermione, however—" he holds up his prop, "—is that she is irritatingly weak. Colorless.
"Is that what those muggles wanted for you, Hermione? Frailty, tiresome self-righteousness, self-flagellation?" He curls his lip in disgust. "They must have been surprised when they realized they had a witch instead."
She looks up at him now, and he can see he's testing her patience. She brings her hand down on the play in his hands, and pulls the text out gently from his grasp. She flips it over in her lap, licking her thumb to help turn the pages.
"Why are you reading muggle stories?" she asks him frankly. Tom is caught off guard by the question.
"Why are you named after one?"
She sighs, running her fingers through her hair tiredly, and begins to talk as if she is explaining something rather complex to an inquisitive child. "I just assumed you must have been very young when you read it, as you've not interpreted it correctly. Hermione isn't weak. She is a Queen, and in her own right too, not just because she is married to Leontes. Her father was the Emperor of Russia."
She gives him a look. Tom is reminded of the librarian when she is quite put out with the idiot first years. He knows that look is communicating several things at once. First, she can see through his game. Second, she suspects him as well, which is hardly surprising. No one else in Hogwarts, save perhaps the other muggleborns, would know who Shakespeare is. Finally, it promises retribution. She doesn't like how he's trying to corner her.
"I hate to be pedantic, but the play is really a statement on the strength of patience, of intelligence, of virtue—yes, Tom, virtue—in the face of evil and falsehood. Hermione never stops defending herself from her insane husband's fabricated accusations. She isn't feeble—she never gives in to him. And, eventually, she comes back to life to be reunited with her daughter, and maybe even Leontes—that part is a tad vague; on purpose, I think. Nevertheless, she wins.
"Really, it's a silly story. A thinly veiled allusion to Anne Boleyn and Queen Elizabeth."
She looks at him again after her little speech, her eyes probing. "I'm sure I don't have to explain to someone like you who those two are."
The cogs are whirring in Tom's mind at her words, someone like you. It could mean someone well-informed, or perhaps someone with a bastard muggle father. But she doesn't know; how could she know? She is just guessing without knowing the specifics. Speaking in doubles, hoping to hit the mark, but shooting darts in the dark.
Tom doesn't take the bait. "Please, enlighten me."
She smiles; it stretches over her face like a rubber band. "That would be a waste of your time, no?"
"It never is, if I'm with you."
He stuns her into silence once more. He takes the opportunity to scooch closer, his knees colliding with her turned thigh. He allows himself to reach out to her beautiful neck, so smooth and so soft, his hand gliding over her skin to cradle her face lovingly in his large hand. Her fierce features look small and fragile this way. She leans in, unable to resist the crackling static between them. It shocks him and hurts him in a good way. He leans in, too.
"Is it your destiny then, Queen Hermione, to be beheaded by your husband?" he whispers. Tom knows he's mixing up all the stories. The play, the history, the two of them. He doesn't care. He knows she understands the caress inside his words, the tender threat.
Her eyelids flutter closed for just a second, before she lazily cracks them open again. She looks at him through hooded eyes, and Tom is mesmerized by the deep black once more, the shady darkness pulling him in—
"Do I look like the type to roll over and die?"
Her breath comes out in a puff over his wrist. It sets his skin aflame. He feels hungry for her; he is starving to know.
His grasp on her face tenses until he is sure she cannot escape. He doesn't burden himself with the worry of hurting her.
He is almost certain her cheeks will bruise.
He looks deeply into her eyes widening in pain, and says, "legilimens."
Her mind is a hurricane in the open sea. Foamy waters crash over him. It is bone-achingly cold—the type of cold that completely paralyzes you. The water sucks him in, and in further, until his limp body is thrown around like an errant bludger on a quidditch pitch. He is not prepared for such an assault. The breath is knocked out of him by wave after massive wave.
He inhales deeply on instinct and water floods his lungs, and he is drowning, drowning, drowning…
He finds himself roughly thrown back into his chair. Tom shakes his head, as if trying to clear his ears of ice-cold water.
"Don't do that." She shoves him. Tom grabs the table to steady himself.
She moves to push him again, but he grabs her wrists before she can.
"Calm down." He sneers, lowering her arms to her lap, but maintaining his iron-clad grip.
"Don't violate me without my permission." She struggles under his grasp. While her magic is powerful, her body is not matched with his.
"So it's alright as long as I get your consent first? What a relief," he snaps.
"Nice boys ask before invading a girl's mind." She sneers back at him, giving up on freeing herself and now eyeing her wand lying in the open spine of her book.
"I am not a nice boy, Hermione." Tom warns. He gives her a wolfish grin, and squeezes her wrists. He likes the way her bones grind against each other in his hands.
She winces. Tom lets go. He knows she yearns to rub the already forming marks on her arms and cheeks, but resists. Tom squashes the twinge of something—he's not sure what—that stings him at the sight. It's only fair, Tom thinks defensively. She did try to drown him.
He leans forward in his chair and tucks a stray curl behind her ear. She turns her nose shyly into his touch, as if she can't help herself, as if the same electric energy between them enthralls her too, and blushes very prettily.
"I know you're up to something, Birch. I will find out what." Tom promises.
She turns slowly to meet his eyes again. Several emotions flash across her face too fast for Tom to understand them. She settles on a smile—a small, secretive smile.
"I can't wait to see you try."