Hermione tried very hard not to think about Riddle's words the next day. But she quickly found it was just impossible. His words lingered in her mind and no matter how much she tried to shove them away, they kept coming back.

He'd always been persuasive, she thought. What he'd said, and how he'd said it, they lured her in like a fish at the end of a line; he'd reeled her in until she'd found herself on the edge of some precipice, burning with a mix of confusing emotions, forced to re-evaluate everything she'd ever thought about him.

At the beginning of the school term, he'd been just another Slytherin in her year. That was, until their duel in the Room of Requirement where in a fit of rage he'd tried to Obliviate her. Having glimpsed behind his mask, she'd observed him in his day-to-day act and thought him cold and vain. It was too easy for him to manipulate others, all he had to do was smile and open his mouth; he fed on their open admiration. But Hermione knew, just behind the façade, there was a dark, seething ocean of ambition. A modern Iago in the making. He hid it well but not, surprisingly, when he was with her. He knew that she saw through all the artifice and he didn't seem to care. That grin of his, the one where he flashed all his teeth and made no attempt to hide the wicked look in his eyes … he never grinned like that in front of anyone else.

He was entirely inconsistent, Hermione fumed suddenly – just so enragingly full of contradictions that she had half a mind to throttle him. A half-blood who reigned over purebloods; cunning and selfish and cold but at times unexpectedly warm and boyish; saving her from certain death in the infirmary but letting his Knights think he'd done something horrible in exacting revenge; and now, all but admitting his true views on Muggle-borns whilst claiming that she was the 'exception to the rule'. He didn't even realise how that sounded.

An exception to the rule. How gracious. How magnanimous.

And then he had the goddamn nerve to tell her not to write love letters to Godric's Hollow.

(She shoved aside the memory of how her heart had threatened to leap out of her ribcage.)

How much of what he had said was even sincere? He'd admitted to his ambition. That he wanted more. That he was like her. She hadn't even thought to compare them but now, she realised with a sinking feeling, if Riddle's ambition was a seething ocean, hers was an all-consuming fire. But what did Riddle really want?

"Your pumpkin juice is boiling."

So it was. It had turned a foul colour as well. Hermione vanished it and sighed wearily.

"Why are boys so … ?" she trailed off.

Claire stifled a laugh.

Her reply was interrupted by the sudden swoop of owls entering the Great Hall. Gilderoy landed neatly beside her plate and extended his leg. He never dropped the post in her lap like the other owls did. However, Hermione knew the primary reason wasn't because he was well-mannered. The primary reason was in fact the stolen bacon he was currently nibbling.

"Oh, it's from James. That was quick!"

"You're writing to each other over the holidays?" Claire asked, her eyes bright. "That's … romantic."

Before Hermione could snort, the sound of something heavy landing on one of the tables echoed loudly through the Hall.

Nott's enormous owl had dropped off a package and it hooted softly before flying away. It was thick and rectangular in shape, wrapped in brown paper. Hermione watched Nott hand over the package to Riddle, who took it and nodded once. No words were exchanged between them but she thought she caught a look of eager anticipation in his face as he put it away.

"Hermione Granger?"

She dragged her eyes away and saw a small nervous-looking boy waiting. He looked like a first-year.

"Yes?"

"Professor Dumbledore is asking for you."

Hermione was surprised. "Right now?"

The boy fidgeted uncomfortably. "Whenever you've finished with breakfast."

"Alright," she said reluctantly. She watched as the boy scurried away.

"Say, Hermione, whatever spell it was, it wasn't illegal was it?" Claire asked, with some trepidation.

"No. I didn't actually cast a spell anyway."

Claire's mouth hung open briefly before she seemed to remember herself. She tossed her long hair back over her shoulder, staring pointedly at one of the Gryffindors at their table who had been leaning in, trying to listen. He turned away hastily. Then she whispered out of the corner of her mouth, "How?"

Hermione shrugged then explained how she'd always been able to conjure blue flames. "But it was the first time I've controlled it like that." As if the fire had been an extension of herself.

She lapsed back into silence, staring at James' letter. Her name was scrawled on the front of the envelope in his messy handwriting. Claire nudged her and she looked up. "If I didn't know you any better, including your inability to cast simple hair charms, I'd say you were brilliant."

Hermione feigned shock. "Is that a compliment, Dubois?"

Claire hid her smile behind her napkin. "Never."

As the head Charms teacher, Professor Dumbledore's office was at the very top of one of the north towers. Claire bid her goodbye at the bottom of the stairs. She was going to head to the greenhouses while Hermione met with Dumbledore, though she refused to explain further.

"Fine, keep your secrets."

"I will. See you later, Grindle."

"Claire! That is not funny!" But it was no use, the girl had already traipsed away, giggling madly.

Shaking her head, Hermione ascended the tower and knocked on the heavy wooden door.

The door swung open of its own accord. "Ah, Miss Granger. Please come in." Dumbledore was smiling at her, with not a trace of suspicion or wariness on his lined face.

Hermione sat down. He peered at her kindly through his spectacles.

"Lemon drop?" he asked, proffering a small enamelled bowl.

"No, no thank you, sir."

He set the bowl down on his desk and clasped his hands together in front of him but did not speak immediately.

Hermione, never one to endure silence for very long, blurted, "Is this about what happened in the courtyard yesterday, sir? Because if so–"

"What happened exactly, Miss Granger? I would like to hear it from you, if you please."

"I've always been able to conjure fire without a wand, sir. That day, I was just experimenting. The flames weren't dangerous! They don't even burn."

Dumbledore regarded her quietly for a moment. "Please, show me."

Hermione gawped for a moment before she nodded. She raised her palm and let the blue flames grow and flicker briefly before closing her hand.

"Is that all you did, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore's expression hadn't changed but he was looking at her closely.

"N-no."

He gestured for her to demonstrate.

Breathing deeply, the flames appeared once more in her hand. This time, she let them play. The strange silver instruments on Dumbledore's desk glowed blue as the flames surged. She let it form into a ball and, wishing to prove they weren't dangerous, she coaxed the ball to roll up and down her arm. It left a trail of smaller blue flames and her robes, while they smouldered, did not catch fire.

"Impressive," Dumbledore said at last, with a small smile.

Hermione grinned back, delighting in the way her magic made her feel. She extinguished the flames and the silver instruments quickly lost their blue tinge.

Then she said, cautiously, "I understand that some of the students were … alarmed, sir."

He inclined his head.

She continued, wishing he'd just talk instead of making her do all the work, "Why were they alarmed?" She wanted to hear him say it, since she scarcely believed it herself.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and closed his eyes briefly before opening them again. Hermione waited.

"When people witness things they do not understand, it sometimes causes them to be afraid."

"Is it not … common, sir?"

He sighed. "No, it is not."

She waited again, for him to explain.

To her surprise, Dumbledore took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes wearily.

"Wielding such control over one's magic is the sign of a powerful witch or wizard. Most can only cast magic solely through their wand. Non-verbal magic can be difficult to learn and few people ever learn to cast wandlessly, as you have done. It is … unfortunate, however, that the few throughout history who have achieved such control over their own magic have often gone down less savoury paths."

"Like … Grindelwald?"

He sighed again, gently. "Yes, Miss Granger. Like Gellert Grindelwald, the Dark wizard now threatening to bring his hateful war to our shores. The very same."

"But … I mean, you can cast wandlessly too, I'm sure, Professor. But you seem alright." Then she added hastily, "Sir."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I have lived a long life, Miss Granger. You would not know the man I was in my youth. But I still remember when I was the same age as you now. I was, I am deeply ashamed to admit, very foolish."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"There is a certain thrill when learning new things for the first time. And youth is ripe with such thrills. When one begins to learn things that others cannot even hope to learn, the thrill becomes addictive and soon one begins to chase it, wishing to learn more and more in a bid to set oneself apart from the rest."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. She could see herself doing that, undoubtedly. But was that bad? When she asked as much, Dumbledore smiled. "That depends on one's character."

She nodded, though she wasn't quite sure that she'd understood.

"You say that wands are merely conduits to our magic, sir. But what about accidental magic? Children do it all the time."

"Ah, but that is very different. Accidental magic is not intentional magic. Children are very rarely able to control their outbursts."

There it was again, that word: intent.

"I'd advise that you keep your abilities to yourself for the moment, Miss Granger. People are especially wary in this climate, as I'm sure you'd understand."

"Yes, sir. …Was that all, sir?"

He opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a sudden flash of red. His phoenix, Fawkes, had chosen at that moment to fly from his perch by the window and land abruptly in front of her on the desk.

At the same time, the fireplace roared to life and two men stepped out, brushing soot from their robes.

"Professor Volanthen. Minister Scrooge. I confess I wasn't expecting you at this time."

Professor Volanthen was not wearing his usual dragon-wing cloak. Instead, he wore long black robes embroidered with what appeared to be protection runes and thick leather gauntlets covered his forearms. He looked dressed for battle. Volanthen noticed Hermione sitting at the desk and frowned. "You're not in trouble again, are you?"

Hermione flushed furiously. "No, sir."

The other man, whom she had instantly recognised even before Dumbledore had announced his title, smiled briefly at her but it didn't reach his eyes and he seemed rather harried.

What was the Minister for Magic doing at Hogwarts?

"I'm sorry if you're busy, Albus. But we don't have much time, I'm afraid," the Minister said. He looked at her pointedly.

Dumbledore stood. "Miss Granger, if you could wait a moment? We won't be long." Then he ushered the two men to the back of his office behind a heavy curtain. They began to speak in low voices and Hermione caught a few words. "… He's been spotted north … Albus, you're the only one he's afraid of … running out of ideas … troops are exhausted … close … matter of time. You must be ready–"

She continued straining her ears in the hopes of listening to Dumbledore's response when Fawkes pecked her hand. Hard.

"Ow! Fawkes!"

The bird fixed her with its beady eye.

"I know. I'm sorry. You're right. It's not any of my business."

Fawkes let out a soft caw in agreement and then rubbed his head against the hand he had just pecked. Hermione gave him a small smile. Phoenixes were incredibly rare and intelligent creatures. But no book had mentioned how beautiful they were. His feathers were a fiery red but they gleamed gold when they caught the light.

She lifted a hand to pet him but stopped. "May I?" she asked, tilting her head.

Fawkes cawed again.

When she touched the soft feathers on his back, she was unprepared for what happened next. He began to vibrate, a sensation that she felt under her hand. A rush of something hot and burning spread from her fingers, up her arm, seeping into her chest. She gasped but couldn't move.

Fawkes began to sing. The melody was haunting. It sounded like nothing she'd ever heard – she felt loneliness and a sense of deep melancholy; images rose in her mind of fire turning to ashes and back again, a never-ending cycle of life and death. But there was something golden and warm too, interwoven in the notes of the song: a soaring feeling, of wind and rain. She had closed her eyes and now felt something stir inside her, something that moved in time with the music. Her whole body thrummed with energy and she felt her mind untether itself … she felt rather than saw the fire burning under the mantlepiece, felt its every flicker and spark. Felt it react against her touch. She could sense other fires around the castle and the tendrils of connection between them, long lines that ran in and out, some stretching far beyond the confines of the castle walls.

The sound of the curtain being drawn pulled her back roughly. The song faded.

She stood still, frozen in place as if she'd just been caught red-handed.

The Minister was still talking as they walked back to the fireplace. "I want to hear from you by this evening, Albus. I mean it."

Volanthen spoke also, "My contacts will send you an updated report as well." Then they all shook hands and the Minister stepped into the fire, vanishing in a surge of green flames.

Dumbledore turned to look at her, a curious look in his twinkling blue eyes.

"I see Fawkes has taken a liking to you."

"He–he was singing. Couldn't you hear it?"

Dumbledore looked taken aback. "Really? No we didn't hear anything at all, did we Julian? How very interesting." Professor Volanthen was standing by the mantelpiece, still looking grim-faced from their discussions behind the curtain. He shook his head.

Hermione hastily wiped away the wetness she felt on her cheeks. She hadn't realised she'd been crying. "Well, if there isn't anything else …"

"There is one last thing. Professor Slughorn tells me that you and Tom will be travelling up north for the annual Potions Conference?"

"Yes, sir."

"I shall be travelling with you, if you may. I've been meaning to catch up with Mr Dagworth-Granger and it's time I finally responded to his invitations."

If Dumbledore's next words were to ask whether they were related, Hermione thought she'd spontaneously combust. Thankfully, he didn't.

"I shall inform Horace, of course. We'll meet in my office on the 4th. And do please remember what I said. It's best if we keep what we discussed to ourselves."

With a nod, Hermione turned away but not before Fawkes gave a loud caw.

She relented and gave him a quick pat on the head before leaving, ignoring the intrigued looks from both professors.

"What about this one then?" Claire was lying sprawled on her bed, her head hanging off the edge. She pointed to a blonde wizard in Quidditch gear who smiled cheekily and flexed his biceps on the glossy pages of Witches' Weekly.

Hermione looked up from where she was sitting on the floor. "I'd give him an 'Acceptable'. Barely."

Claire giggled. "What about this one? Surely he gets at least an E?"

A wizard with closely-cropped hair and rounded shoulders grinned at them, twirling his Beater's Bat.

Hermione grimaced. "P at best. He looks like a troll though so maybe a T."

The wizard looked a bit put out at this and he swerved away on his broomstick into the background of the picture.

The bed trembled as Claire burst into laughter, clutching her sides. When she'd regained her voice she said, "Hermione, surely there's someone who's caught your eye before?"

"That Krum fellow isn't too bad."

"Viktor Krum?"

"Yeah, that one."

Claire rolled over and looked at her imploringly. "I meant at Hogwarts. Come on, Hermione," she said when Hermione groaned, "I'm bored and it's New Year's Eve and there's nothing to do. At least until tonight. I'm going half mad these holidays, staying at school. You get to go to a fancy conference while I am going to be stuck here, all alone–"

"Fine, fine. Merlin save me. Well, I haven't really – I mean," she faltered as Claire's doe-eyes began to morph into a look of pure mischief.

"There is someone. I knew it!" she crowed delightedly, tossing the magazine away over her shoulder.

"No! No there isn't. What I was trying to say," she said loudly as Claire continued to laugh, "is that I don't have time for all that. I've already decided no dating, especially in our OWL year. I mean it."

Claire slumped. "What about James?"

"Hm?"

"James Fleamont Potter. You know the one. Tall, tousled hair, green eyes, youngest Seeker in a century, who's only fancied you since third year–"

"Oh," Hermione said. "I didn't know that."

"Goodness, really? I mean, everyone knows that. I thought you did. That's why I was mad at you, you know. You were stomping all over his pretty little heart."

"What do you mean 'everyone knows'?" Hermione asked, aghast.

Claire rolled her eyes. "I take back what I said before. You're no more brilliant than Seamus Wolsh and he's a hair away from being a Squib."

Hermione tilted her head back to rest against the edge of Claire's bed with a sigh. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I've got to focus on my OWLs. We need to focus on our OWLs."

Claire turned back over and buried her face in the duvet, groaning.

After a beat, Hermione said thoughtfully, "Claire, don't you think there's more than one way? To get away from your family, I mean."

The response was muffled. "What?"

"Well you've said before that you wanted to marry so you could get away from them. But what if you also got a job?"

Claire jerked her head back up. It was her turn to look aghast now. "A job?"

"Yes," Hermione said patiently. "A career. Then you could make your own way. Buy a house, travel, do whatever you want. And eventually marry whoever you want."

"If I got a job, my family would think even lower of me. If that was even possible."

Hermione turned to look at her in surprise. "Why?" Witches could have professional careers, it wasn't like in the Muggle world where one's gender could relegate one to menial secretarial work at best, if not a housewife.

Claire fiddled with a strand of hair as she spoke. She looked oddly morose and the silly mood she'd been in had completely vanished. "Because – it's difficult to explain without sounding like a, you know, but – the Dubois don't 'work'. They think it's … prolétaire. Plebeian. Even if I somehow managed to get enough OWLs, my grandparents, the whole family, they'd still sneer at me. And Elaina especially."

Hermione struggled to respond in a way that sounded understanding. In truth, it sounded very stupid. "So … old pureblood families don't believe in getting jobs?"

Claire huffed a laugh. "No. I suspect they'd be horrified at the thought."

"But … why do you need to care what they think? I mean, what do you really want?"

Claire turned and looked at her upside down, head hanging off the edge once more.

"I don't know."

"Do you really have to marry into another old pureblood family to be happy? What if they're the same?"

Claire was quiet at this.

"You could be happy being independent. Marrying someone you love and living a life together without all that prejudice."

"But … what kind of job would I get?" she asked, doubtfully.

"Anything. What do you want to do?"

"I've always loved … Herbology. Plants and flowers. I like looking after them." She sighed. "But I'm rubbish with schoolwork. I'd never get enough OWLs."

"I'll help you," said Hermione suddenly.

Claire's blue eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yeah. We'll study together."

Claire sat up. "But I'm … honestly really rubbish at studying."

Hermione grinned. "And I'm rubbish at hair charms."

Claire's lips twitched and then her smile grew and grew. "I don't think you could survive our study sessions. You'd hex me within the first ten minutes."

"Try me, then."

"Okay. On one condition."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. Claire's smile was contagious as she leaned forward. "You teach me how to pass my OWLs and I get to teach you beauty charms."

Hermione's smile dropped.

"And you won't complain," Claire continued, grinning even more widely. Her blue eyes were alight with determination. "You'll let me do your hair and tailor your robes and talk about boys and–"

"Merlin, okay. I get it. I accept. Now stop before I change my mind."

Claire reached out a hand for her to shake. Taking it, Hermione narrowed her eyes. "But you're going to do more than pass, Claire. You're going to get several Es and at least one O. Nothing less."

Claire faltered for a moment. Then she said, "Well, I'll certainly try. But don't murder me if I don't."

"Deal."

Later that night after dinner, there was a small party in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione helped set up the decorations. She draped long streams of tinsel along all the furniture and spelled the tapestries so that they proclaimed 'Happy New Year' in large golden letters. A seventh-year had provided the booze but it was only to be brought out when the younger ones had gone to bed.

There were only about thirty or so of them that remained during the holidays but the common room felt unusually full and cheerful. Claire had forced her into a little black dress, claiming that their deal had already started. She had also gleefully spent a good half-hour charming Hermione's hair. ("Oh I've wanted to do this for ages! Hold still, I don't want a peep out of you.") By the end of the ordeal, she had to admit it did look rather nice.

"Make sure to go out and watch the fireworks!" A sixth-year bellowed as he passed around the butterbeer.

"Where'd you get this?" asked Hermione as she took a mug.

The boy, whose name was Eddie, grinned mischievously. "That would be a secret, Granger. I shan't tell."

When at last the younger ones had gone to bed (or rather, forcibly pushed up the stairs), the bottles of elf wine and firewhiskey were brought out.

Claire and Hermione were well on their way to being quite merry when Hermione realised that the food had disappeared.

"It isn't a party without food," Hermione pouted.

"Well, be a dear would you?" drawled Eddie. He was lying on the floor, playing chess with his brother, Charlie. Having long ago lost his fine motor functions, he had resorted to bellowing orders at his pieces. One of them was taken rather violently; Charlie's queen cleaved his rook in two and kicked its fallen form to the side. Eddie swore and then yelled, "Bishop to E8." His bishop waved its wooden arms angrily. "What's that? Oh I see. Go to D8 then, go on. Or I'll let the queen take your head off," he grumbled.

Grinning, Hermione promised to be back soon and stumbled out of the common room.

"It's past curfew!" The Fat Lady said shrilly.

Hermione nodded. "You're right." And with a wink, she Disillusioned herself, to the portrait's great consternation.

The painted pear giggled rather loudly and Hermione giggled along with it as it turned into a large green handle. Grasping it, she heaved open the portrait door and entered the kitchens.

She released the Disillusionment as she announced: "I'd like to request some food, dearest house-elves. I'm sorry for the trouble."

"Merlin, you don't have to shout."

Hermione whirled around so fast, she almost tripped.

"What are you doing here?" she asked rather rudely. Apparently, Riddle had finally found the kitchens.

Riddle raised a dark eyebrow. "Are you … drunk?"

"No. I'm Granger." Then she laughed as if it was the most hilarious thing (the day after, she'd remember this with no small amount of embarrassment).

His lip curled disdainfully. He was sitting on a bench, an apple in one hand and a book in another.

Thankfully, a house-elf appeared before he could say anything else.

"What would you be wanting, miss?"

Hermione curtseyed ungracefully. "Just a plate of some snacks. Whatever you have on hand."

The house-elf (Twinky? Minnie?) put her hands on her hips, disapprovingly. "Miss, yous be drinking!"

"I–"

The house-elf tutted and a small flask appeared in her hand, which she thrust forcefully at Hermione. "Drink this first, miss. Then I be getting you your favourite foods. We making vol-au-vents now already."

Hermione took the flask, blushing. She uncorked it and downed it one go.

The warm happy feelings vanished instantly, replaced by a sudden wariness. The kitchen seemed less bright and she could feel the coldness of the stone floor beneath her … Looking down, she realised that she was barefoot.

She coughed to hide her mortification. "Sorry. I'll just take some vol-au-vents and head off."

"No more drinking, miss!" the elf warned.

"Yes, Hokey."

She glanced over at Riddle as the house-elf bustled off into one of the back rooms.

"What are you reading?"

He didn't look up from his book. "Sober now, are we?"

Hermione chose to pretend that she'd never been anything but. "Wizarding Genealogy," she read out loud, craning her neck. "I don't think that's from the library. Where'd you get it?"

"Nott." He enunciated the sound of the 't' through his teeth.

"What for?" she asked.

He didn't reply.

Hermione rocked back onto her heels (how had she managed to forget her shoes?) and only managed to endure another minute of silence before she spoke again.

"You realise it's New Year's Eve?"

Riddle sighed and snapped his book shut. "Yes. I am aware." He didn't sound too pleased. He cast an eye over her dress and smirked wryly. "Gryffindors are always finding a excuse to party, it seems."

Hermione stopped herself from pointing out, once again, that it was New Year's Eve.

"Why aren't you celebrating in the dungeons with your housemates? Don't Slytherins know how to party?"

"Because, I don't enjoy celebrations. And I particularly dislike the company of drunk fools." He was looking at her pointedly. She ignored this.

Hokey returned. She was followed by not just several floating plates piled high with vol-au-vents but also a large chocolate cake.

"Happy birthday, young master Riddle!" Hokey squeaked.

Hermione turned to Riddle in amazement. "It's your birthday?"

Riddle gritted his teeth. Despite his thunderous expression, a spot of colour had appeared high on his cheeks. "Hokey," he hissed, "I told you I didn't need cake."

"Don't be rude, Riddle! Hokey, where are the candles?"

Hokey snapped her fingers and several candles flew into the room and skewered themselves into the chocolate icing. Another snap and they were all lit.

"If you sing Happy Birthday to me now, I swear I will make you regret it."

Hermione grinned and opened her mouth but no sound came out. She glared as Riddle put his wand back in his pocket with a smirk. "Good luck unSilencing yourself. That's not a regular silencing charm."

It took several tries before Hermione managed to speak again. "You odious little–"

"Young master should cut the cake! Will miss want some too?"

"Yes," she said, at the same time Riddle said, "No."

Hokey tutted disapprovingly. She held out a bony finger and shook it at them. "Yous will both have cake. Or no more vol-au-vents." The elf looked a little threatening, Hermione had to admit, especially when she brought out a large silver kitchen knife.

Riddle looked furious as he cut the cake (he'd refused to blow out the candles and so Hermione had done it for him). Hokey then handed them each a slice on a plate.

"Why are you in such a bad mood on your birthday?" Hermione quipped as she dug in. "Oh, Hokey, it's delicious!"

The elf smiled proudly, puffing out her chest through her tea cosy.

Riddle said nothing, although he had already taken another bite.

He sighed deeply before reluctantly answering. "I don't like to celebrate it."

Hermione suddenly realised that he'd probably never celebrated a single birthday with his family. She swallowed before saying quietly, "Well, I'm sorry."

Riddle frowned. "Why?" He was looking up at her, examining her sudden change in expression.

"Um – I don't know. I guess … I believe birthdays are supposed to be celebrated. People – friends, family – coming together, being happy …" she trailed off, embarrassed.

"Happy that I'm a year older?" he asked, sceptically.

Hermione shook her head. "I guess it's different for you–"

"I do have family," he interrupted.

"You do? Then why –?"

"Why was I left in an orphanage?" There was a slight bitter edge in his voice but his expression was impassive. "My mother died alone giving birth to me. I don't know my father except for his name."

Hermione's eyes fell on the book beside him. "Have you found out who your parents are?"

"I've discovered who my mother was, yes."

"And your father?"

"I've no interest in my Muggle father," he said, in a tone suddenly so vicious that Hermione leaned away in alarm.

"How do you know he was a Muggle?"

He glared as he gestured at the book. "Riddle isn't a wizarding name."

"So … you have family on your mother's side?"

Riddle clenched his jaw. "Shouldn't you be getting back to your party?"

"Oh, right … yes." She looked at her watch. "It's almost midnight. There'll be fireworks."

He stared back at her, raising an eyebrow. So? he seemed to be saying.

Feeling a little brave (perhaps the firewhiskey was still in her system, or maybe it was just the idea of him sitting alone in the kitchens on the last day of 1944 and on his birthday no less), she held out her hand as she stood.

"Come," she said simply.

To her great surprise (she'd fully expected him to coldly decline), he took her hand and allowed her to lead him out of the kitchens. His hand was warm but he held his arm very stiffly as he walked beside her. She hurriedly dropped his hand when they rounded the corner and almost bumped into Nearly Headless Nick, who smiled genially at them, crying out "Happy New Year!"

The fireworks had already begun as they entered the main courtyard. It was dark but the moon had come out in full force. Ahead of them in the distance, a small crowd had gathered under the night sky, watching it light up in a dazzling display of magical fireworks.

Eddie had certainly done a great job. Sparkling fizzers careened in the air before exploding colourfully into dragons and winged horses that wheeled above their heads. Hermione watched enraptured as a rocket shot up high in the sky before disintegrating into a thousand shimmering gold sparks that swirled and formed the number ten, as the countdown began.

Ten! Nine! Eight! The crowd chanted.

Riddle stood silently beside her. His impossibly handsome face was lit up by the fireworks and she thought she saw an echo of her own sense of wonder.

Her breath caught when she suddenly found his dark eyes looking back at her.

"Not bad," he said.

She smiled even though her mouth had suddenly run dry for some reason. "Not bad," she agreed.

Five! Four!

Above them, a cartwheeling firework exploded merrily.

Three! Two! One!

"Happy New Year," she said, although it was almost drowned out by the raucous cheering.

He gazed down at her. He was quiet for a moment before he murmured back, "Happy New Year."

Later, she'd blame the firewhiskey. It had to be still in her system. There was no other explanation for why she'd suddenly gone up onto her tippy toes and pressed a kiss against his cheek.

He stilled completely. Hermione regretted it the instant her lips had touched his skin and was fervently wishing the ground would just swallow her up when he bent his head and whispered in her ear:

"You can't blame the mistletoe on that one."