"Excellent, Potter!"
Harry flushed under the professor's praise. He had a natural proclivity for Defense which had started to peek through his lazy persona as he stepped up to the challenge of the Defense Association. His stag Patronus pranced through the room, horned crown cutting through the air at every beat.
"That was spectacular, Harry," Hermione echoed, wrapping an arm around her best friend in glee. "That was, what, your third try?"
The blushing young man ran a hand through his ever-messy hair. "I think so? I've had some fantastic teachers to guide me. Really, Hermione, your wand work has gotten brilliant. Maybe I should ask Professor Riddle for some private lessons."
"I don't know if I could handle you one-on-one, Potter. I worry I'd find myself waking up in Brazil after, courtesy of you and your infamous pranks." Riddle's cobalt eyes flitted between the two students and it was Hermione's turn to blush.
As Potter turned back to his Patronus, Riddle gently brushed Hermione's hair behind her back. "And you, Hermione? What shape has your Patronus taken?"
Her cheeks flushed hot, chin tipped down in shame. "I have not managed a corporeal Patronus as of yet."
His warm hand dipped into her vision and cupped her jaw, lifting until her warm eyes locked with his. The world was narrowed in that moment; the other club members were distracted by flashes of light and dancing, fanciful creatures. One cool thumb stroked along her cheek, a hint of a smile on his lips. "You know, sweetheart, not every witch or wizard is capable of casting the Patronus charm. Strong wizards." She looked a question at him and he acceded with a gentle nod.
"But- why?"
"Hm." The low hum danced along her spine as she thrilled under the force of his attention. "Patronuses require a certain amount of joy and purity. I have never experienced a moment of joy and light pure enough to overcome the otherwise darkness of my life. You see, I was an orphan, born among muggles."
The soft, "Oh," that fell from her lips held all the understanding of one who has walked through parallel hardships.
He made to speak again, but chaos broke out complete with the yells of angry teenage boys, so he extricated himself to deal with the skirmish. The Weasley twins' magpies were darting and flittering around Blaise Zabini's elegantly hovering black swan. The pair themselves were egging the boy on, trying to get him to retaliate, but the professor made quick work of them.
Hermione set about correcting stances and encouraging peers, puzzling over the mystery that was Tom Riddle all the while. He had implied the two of them were tied by their unfortunate pasts. Hermione had been told since she came to the Malfoys how fortunate she was, privileged among her kind. The Malfoy family spoiled her, took seriously the duty of raising her properly so she reflected back their generosity and nobility. And she was well-raised, had rarely (and here her stomach jolted in remembrance) received punishment for her own transgressions. People often complimented Narcissa on her bearing. Hermione was sure she could receive the proper recommendations to have a career of some sort, rare though they were in those of her blood status.
But the words he had used… Hermione was not sure what qualified as pure in terms of magic; unicorns would still approach her and she was still innocent in most ways. Joy and lightness, however, were more difficult.
She rode with Draco, horses both winged and grounded (much preferring the latter, thank you very much), had obscure books readily at her fingertips, attended galas and charity auctions.
And every happy moment was laced with the knowledge that she was there at the sufferance of the Malfoy family and wizarding society itself.
Had Professor Riddle been left in the orphanage after his incidents of accidental magic, or had he gone to an institution. He was unbelievably handsome and somehow more intelligent than beautiful; she could not imagine any family looking to sponsor a child would pass him by. It was only by happenstance that the Malfoys chose her over another child. Had a young Tom Riddle been among the children of the institution, they would have plucked him from mundanity and raised him to his appropriate position.
He was undoubtedly brilliant in every way, perhaps as brilliant as Professor Dumbledore, yet he had little other accomplishments outside his illustrious teaching.
Hermione was still pondering her professor as the other students trickled out. She transfigured dummies back into desks, lining them appropriately with little flicks and barest murmurs.
"What spells have you mastered nonverbally?"
Hot breath stirred the little hair at her nape and the blood in her veins leapt; she peered back at her professor, surprised not only at his proximity, but also at the way his body curved toward hers so his lips were inches from her throat.
"A few," she admitted, cheeks blossoming, ears rosy. "Lumos and finite and reparo. Lower level spells."
He considered her with those cool, marble perfect features. "What are the principles of spellcasting?"
Hermione squinted before Narcissa's training smoothed her brow. "Wand movement, incantation, concentration, and intention."
As he gently guided her to sit, himself leaning against the desk before her, he said, "How does wandless magic work, then?"
"Well," she mused, "I suppose more would have to go into incantation, concentration, and intention?"
Riddle nodded. "And nonverbal?"
"The same, but wand movement replacing incantation. Though I suppose thinking the word links to both it and intention. Perhaps concentration as well."
He considered her with the eerily blank face she had only seen when they were discussing magical theory outside of class; his features were neutral as a Roman bust, though his eyes were wells, hungrily drawing in rather than quenching. As Hermione pronounced the final word, Riddle held an empty palm toward the room. His eyes never leaving hers, a book whipped into the expectant hand.
"What do you think is at the root of magic, Hermione? Where does the first burst of accidental magic manifest? Is it just a burst to relieve pressure? Think of your own, and those your peers have imparted. A bullied child may find those who harm him falling over themselves; a girl whose mother chops her hair short might find it suddenly grown back. Are these random?" She was breathless and doe-eyed as she shook her head with him. "No. They are the yearnings of children incapable of accomplishing what they desire on their own. And so the desire feeds into intent, and the magic springs forth to grant their wishes."
A flash of a memory, the coffee table waist-high to a little Hermione as she stared longingly at the bookshelf. That was the book she wanted, the book her father promised her he'd let her read tomorrow. When he could help her as the vocabulary might be too advanced for a four-year-old. She'd fallen asleep with it that night.
A soft brush against her cheek drew Hermione from her past and she blinked up at her professor. He had set aside the book, entirely focused on her.
"At its core, magic is strength of will, determination. A truly powerful wizard can create a spell from intent alone, should he have the strength to shape the magic to his will."
Hazy with the clean pine and citrus and firelight scent of him, the strange weight of his nearness, the force of his consideration, Hermione was near breathless. A question fluttered behind her eyes and he canted his head, raised a brow. "Do you think," Hermione faltered. "Do you think perhaps one day I might…"
"I think." He leaned toward her, voice low, intimating, "Hermione, that you will someday be a with to make all who belittled, dismissed, harmed you tremble."
She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He saw into her and she swore she could almost feel him stroking the walls of her mind, brushing ermine-soft with a core of steel. "Professor…" Was that her voice? It was a whimper, shy and brimming with a word she could not find.
"Tom." She balked, cheek jerking in his embrace before it became iron. "Tom when we are alone." The tension eased as her body remembered to breathe. "After all, we are working together toward a higher purpose now. Aren't we, darling?"
The bobbing agreement could have been imaginary, it was so slight, but his lips curved into a severe smile. Tom's thumb brushed the sensitive skin below her lips. "We will show them that it is not blood, but power, that makes a wizard. That a muggleborn or halfblood can achieve the greatest heights of what it offers. That magic is might."
It was not until Hermione had been discharged of her duties as his assistant and dreamily padded to Gryffindor tower, not until she had brushed out and braided her waist-length smokey curls, until she had changed into a nightgown and laid encased in the scarlet sanctuary of her bed, that Hermione wondered what her place in this new world might exactly be.
The intensity of his gaze darted through her like lightning, still alarmingly wonderful in memory. His perfect cupid's bow lips had softened, his dark well-blue eyes had flicked to her mouth, and his thumb had stroked her cheek before he had finally drawn back from her. She had not imagined that. Her mind was not so fantastical that she could manufacture romantic ideations.
Did he, Hermione hesitated to ask herself, want her?