Brief Note:

I have now revised and re-written parts of this chapter, and the following chapters, as of 21/10/22. After a hiatus, I have decided to continue with this story and in order to do that I had to remove Chapters 4 and 5 (those who have been following for a while may realise their absence). I will update this story concurrently on AO3.

Grindelwald seen roaming Scottish Isles, ran the headlines on the front page of the The Daily Prophet.

The candles which floated high above the tables of the Great Hall flickered ominously. Apart from the quiet clicks of forks and spoons on their plates, an unsettling silence had descended upon the Gryffindor table. Even the professors looked grave.

Headmaster Dippet and Professor Dumbledore were absent, however, for the first time since the start of term.

Hermione looked up from her bowl of berries when she heard an audible chuckle from the Slytherin table. Abraxas Malfoy, one of the many insufferable Slytherins in her year, had a snide smile on his face as if he had just heard the punchline to some joke. Her eyes were drawn to the dark-haired boy sitting next to him, someone whose name almost everyone seemed to know: Tom Riddle. The boy in question sat with his back admirably straight, legs crossed at the knee. Pausing briefly to hold a cup of tea to his lips, he continued reading from a thick leather-bound book, ignoring Malfoy.

James interrupted her thoughts in his usual way: "Hermione, I was thinking …"

"Yes?"

He looked a bit sheepish as he ran one of his large hands through his sandy hair (with the result that it was more dishevelled than before, though she knew he knew this).

"This weekend, I was wondering if–"

"Your Transfiguration essay?"

"Well – no, actually."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, catching the eye of Remus, who just smiled and shook his head.

James continued on. "I was wondering if, you would like to go, you know," he swallowed, "out."

She frowned. "Out where? It's freezing."

It was the middle of winter and the grounds were currently covered in knee-deep snow. It was bitterly cold. Last week there'd been a storm that ended up damaging several greenhouses, causing Herbology to be cancelled. The greenhouses were currently being warded with extra spells to protect the plants from the cold.

Amidst her confusion, she heard renewed laughter from Remus, and also Sirius, who had just walked over to their table. His barking laughter was unmistakable. In fact, the whole Gryffindor Quidditch team was laughing.

James looked even more uncomfortable; his ears had turned pink. He tried to hide his discomfort, however, by reaching out to tuck one of her curls behind her ear.

As the possibility dawned on her, it felt like an unwelcome brush of cold air. "Oh. Oh. Um, sorry James, I – I actually had plans to go to the library–"

Stunned silence came over the table. James leapt up from his seat.

He avoided her gaze, his cheeks flushed red. He nodded once at the ground. "Okay, s-see you later."

Before she could reply, James sped away to the doors of the Great Hall.

Sirius sighed heavily and followed after his best friend, although not before grabbing a piece of buttered toast.

She felt the eyes of her housemates on her.

"Really? The library? On a Saturday?" said an unpleasant voice. It was Claire Dubois. She had a mean look on her face, her blue eyes cutting into her own.

"You could have let him down a little easier," said Remus, who looked quite put out.

Hermione felt annoyed. "But I do have plans. This is our OWL year, you know."

The students around her groaned, turning back to their breakfast, as if she'd said something taboo.

She left the Hall not moments after.

She had a free period this morning, since Herbology was still cancelled. She decided she'd go to the library, as the common room was bound to be full and noisy.

Her thoughts were pre-occupied. Thinking about James, and his obvious mortification, she began to feel felt slightly guilty. She realised that with all the late evenings she had spent in the Gryffindor common room with James, helping him write his essays and debating whether there were actual merpeople in the Great Lake (there were), he might have thought she was leading him on. They were friends, ever since he had sat down next to her in the library that first time last year and James had up until recently been dating a pretty Ravenclaw by the name of Harriette Eldritch, so Hermione still felt surprised (in a miss-the-last-step-on-the-stairs sort of way) that he had been thinking otherwise.

Her feeling of surprise soured and she felt herself becoming a little resentful when she noticed a very familiar face in the crowd turn abruptly away from her on the second-floor corridor. Was he going to avoid her for the rest of the term now? Was that all she'd been? An interest, a passing fancy? She supposed that his passionate stance on elf-rights was just a cover then, an excuse for him to talk to her. Thinking about it further, it was suspicious that he seemed to agree with her on every issue, from the inhumanity of using Dementors to torture Azkaban prisoners to the way students were allowed to experiment on, and kill, if only by accident, sentient, intelligent creatures such as Doxies.

It had all been a farce. Her resentment gave way to embarrassment and betrayal. The feeling burrowed itself deep into her chest. To think she'd allowed herself to believe that James Potter, the boy who fell asleep in History of Magic every single time, was the first person to appreciate what she thought.

Feeling bitter and quite alone, not for the first time this year, she sighed as she entered the library. She strode through the bookshelves, stopping briefly to smile and wave at Amelia Goode, a nice girl who shared her dorm. She passed the section on Harmful Spells and Ways to Deflect Them. There, at the very back behind some bookshelves, was a hidden alcove with a small wooden desk and chair, and a view looking out onto the Great Lake. It was her favourite spot, though she hadn't had the opportunity to use it lately, as she'd been sitting with James to study.

However, today, the spot was taken. This was unusual, as she'd never seen anyone sit at that spot before - she'd half-fancied that it was her own little secret. A bottle of ink and a glossy dark green quill were set out on the desk, as well as a pile of three or four voluminous books.

Huffing, she decided that this was a definitely a very trying day. She turned around and was about to try the opposite end of the library when she found herself face to face with a boy whose face she recognised immediately.

"Riddle," she said, nodding her head stiffly in acknowledgement. She began to walk around him in the narrow space between the bookshelves.

She was surprised, however, when she was stopped by a sudden hand on her arm. Bewildered, she looked up at him.

"Yes?" she said impatiently, when she realised they had been staring at each other for a few seconds.

She didn't really know why she disliked Riddle, couldn't quite put her finger on it. He was a popular boy, at least among the Slytherins, and he was liked well enough by the other Houses. She was never in any of his classes as it had long been a rule that Gryffindors and Slytherins never shared classes. "Too risky," Professor Dumbledore had once wisely advised the Headmaster. But she did know that he was rather a teacher's pet. With all the teachers.

Then again, they hadn't really had the opportunity to meet. Why would they? Gryffindors and Slytherins avoided each other when they weren't furiously duelling behind the backs of passing teachers, or, Merlin knows, battling it out on the Quidditch pitch. Most Slytherins, in fact, did not deign to waste time on open hostility. They treated with silent contempt any who were not within their tight pureblood circles. Perhaps she distrusted Riddle because those very Slytherins seemed almost deferential towards him, even the prefects.

Riddle shook his head. "I'm just a little curious, Granger, that's all."

"Enlighten me."

"No one knows about this little spot in the library. I come here every day."

She raised her eyebrows. "Really? Every day? And here I thought I was the only one to know about it. I used to come here every day myself." Before she'd started sitting with James and his friends. How many essays had she marked for him? The sudden feeling of bitterness re-emerging was almost painful.

She looked up again to find that Riddle was quietly examining her expression.

"Riddle, it's fine. I'll find another desk."

She made to keep walking when he spoke again, in that curiously calm voice he had.

"What usually happens during the hours of ten to twelve on Wednesdays?"

She spun around. A moment passed before she realised he was testing her. She frowned. "I don't know. I have Charms then. On Sundays, at eleven o'clock, however, Madam Pince usually comes along and dusts the shelves, although she always forgets to do this spot."

They both looked at the thick layer of grey dust covering the bookshelves.

Hermione sighed again trying to hide her impatience, though rather unsuccessfully. "I haven't been coming here lately. It's fine, I'll sit somewhere else this time."

She walked away quickly before he could ask her another question (or test her again), her books and parchment floating in the air behind her.

Next period, she walked into Potions only to find that her usual seat had been taken. She was slightly late, as she'd forgotten the time whilst reading in the library. James was sitting next to one of his Quidditch teammates, and the rest of the desks were full except for one at the very front. As she approached the desk, she noticed that many of her housemates were avoiding her eye.

She tried not to let it get to her. She'd hadn't sat alone since first year. And that had been a miserable time. Briefly, she wondered where Isabella was, since she was usually her desk partner in Herbology as well as Charms.

During the lesson, it became apparent that news of James' rejection had spread fast. She had been writing on her parchment, pausing to dip her quill in her ink pot, when someone on their way to the front bumped her desk rather suddenly and purposefully. The ink pot toppled and spilled its contents all over her work. Angrily, she looked up into a pair of narrow blue eyes.

"Claire, that's an hour's worth of work you just destroyed."

She waited for an apology, but none was forthcoming. Claire seemed to be fuming. "Who do you think you are?" the girl said rather nastily.

At least three other Gryffindors were looking at her, including Josephine Tumby. Their stares were quite cold, indifferent. Hermione felt like she had been doused with ice water.

"Someone who should be angrier than you are," she replied. "What's the matter with you?"

Her pink lips quivering, Claire pointed to James, who tried to bury his head unsuccessfully in his parchment, scribbling furiously. What he was writing, Hermione couldn't possibly imagine, since he never paid attention in any class except for Defence Against the Dark Arts. "Oh I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to fix it in the library this Saturday," said Claire snidely.

Hermione slammed her book shut. The sound echoed loudly throughout the classroom.

Everyone looked over at them now, even the ones who had been pretending not to listen. Even Professor Northwood looked up from his desk. She rarely made a sound in class, except to answer questions, and it seemed by the look on their faces that they were all astounded. By what? She thought furiously. Was it surprising that she'd stand up for herself? She wasn't eleven years old anymore, she was fifteen. Back then, she'd been overwhelmed by excitement, eager to learn and even more eager to belong.

Flicking her wand over her things, they flew up and arranged themselves neatly in her bag, the cap on her ink bottle screwing itself shut along the way. Hermione rose from her chair and announced quietly, "I will be switching streams, Professor. I hope you understand." She looked pointedly at Claire and then at James, who flushed and looked as if he wanted to speak. "I don't have the time nor the inclination to be distracted by such pettiness in class. Especially when our exams are only six weeks away."

Without a backward glance, and ignoring James who rose and tried to grab her arm as she passed, she strode quickly to the back of the classroom and, seizing the heavy door handle, she stepped out, slamming the door loudly enough that the sound reverberated along the corridor.

If it had been any other student, Professor Northwood would have dragged her back by the ears. But it seemed that he had been as shocked as everyone else.

She decided briefly to go back to the common room, only to halt mid-stride when she realised that the class would end soon and she would have to face all of them again. Turning, she decided to go to the seventh-floor.

Pacing next to the blank stone wall, she muttered bitterly to herself. I need a place to vent and be angry and … I miss my parents goddamnit.

A small red door appeared and she disappeared gratefully into the sanctuary of the Room of Requirement.

When she slipped back into the common room, just before curfew, she was not expecting to see the whole Quidditch team lounging about before the fireplace. As she walked across the room to the girls' dormitory, James leapt up. Sirius and Remus exchanged looks.

"Hermione!"

She considered ignoring him but resisted the temptation to avoid the inevitable.

"I - I'm sorry about what happened in Potions today. Don't mind Claire –" he faltered as she narrowed her eyes. Sirius rolled his own eyes to the back of his head. "Honestly, you'd think he'd be better at talking to girls," he whispered not so quietly to the burly boy next to him, Nuben, the Keeper of the team. Remus shushed him.

"I - I mean, look –"

"Do you really think that house-elves should be freed?" she interrupted.

"What? Um - Hermione –"

"Do you really believe that witches and wizards ought to make peace with the giants and stop treating them like third-class citizens?"

"No, I–"

"Then everything you told me was a lie." Hermione's eyes flashed. "You lied to me about everything, so that what? So you can get a bit of skirt, is that it?"

"What? No! Hermione!" James looked stricken, his eyes wide. He was still wearing his Quidditch robes, dirt-streaked as they were. Their team practice had ended three hours ago, she recalled, which had to mean that he had waited for her that long, not showering or changing as she knew he probably longed to do.

The boys whistled lowly in commiseration.

"I thought I had finally met someone who thought the same way I did. But, clearly, the joke was on me."

To her horror, her eyes began to glisten a little, as the hurt welled up inside.

"You don't understand – I only said those things because I–"

"What, you like me? Just like how you, Sirius," she said, jabbing at the dark-haired boy who stopped grinning immediately, "liked Isobel last week before dumping her cruelly so you could fuck Beatrice. Oh, I know," she said, voice continuing to rise, as they flinched at the word, "how you boys talk on the pitch."

In the heavy silence, she turned and walked up to her dormitory.

Hermione usually had Charms at nine o'clock but she slept in. Despite the fact that Dumbledore was one of her favourite professors, she decided that she will not be attending the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff classes any longer. Merlin help her, she would argue her way into making Dippet concede. She just knew that her housemates would continue to look at her in that strange way, or worse, conspire against her to make her patch things up with James. She didn't feel guilty at all now, not anymore. Sirius had a slight Lothario-like reputation but James had more dignity, or so she'd thought. Still, it was the principle of it. One did not lie, or manipulate, their way into 'going out' with someone. Yes, that was it: she did not like to be manipulated.

At almost a quarter to ten, she proceeded to the Headmaster's office. There was a waiting room outside his office, one that she'd only been in once before.

Dippet had a reputation for being eccentric - not quite as eccentric as Dumbledore, although definitely eccentric in his own way. He had travelled widely in his youth to exciting countries like Saudi Arabia and Egypt (countries Hermione longed to visit one day). Hermione had read a few of his published articles out of interest.

As soon as she entered, a large goose-feather quill and parchment whizzed across the room, stopping just short of her nose.

"Do you have an appointment?" A disembodied female voice asked, in a clipped business-like tone. Hermione couldn't work out whether the voice came from the quill or the parchment. Nevertheless, she replied, "No, but I am here to–"

"Have a seat, please, Miss Granger." The quill wrote something on the parchment, presumably her name, and flew back to its position beside an archway, the one that led to Dippet's office.

Annoyed, she sat herself down on one of the colourfully embroidered Arabian cushions, complete with tassels. She didn't know whether it was more comfortable to cross her legs or stretch them out on the floor, or draw her knees up to her chin. In the end she had just settled on crossing her legs, when her name was called.

Walking across the thick oriental carpet and through the archway, she passed through a short corridor displaying various artefacts in glass cabinets (including a mummified hand, she noted with a shiver) and finally arrived at a pair of double doors. She knocked once and it opened.

The office was large and very impressive. Dippet's desk was surrounded by an enormous, enviable collection of books. Portraits of previous Headmasters, stretching back all the way to the year 1308, hung on the walls like a moving mosaic.

The headmaster, a rather short man with a fastidiously kempt beard, was sitting at his desk. He laid down his book and smiled kindly at her. He didn't seem surprised at all to see her.

"Miss Granger. What may I do for you?"

"Yes, as you may have heard from Professor Northwood, I would like to request to change streams, sir."

"Change streams?"

"Yes, sir. To the Slytherin-Ravenclaw shared classes."

He looked thoughtfully down at her, clasping his hands together. "We do not normally allow this, unless in exceptional circumstances. May I inquire as to the reason?"

"My fellow members of House are giving me a hard time, sir. I only wish to concentrate on my studies for the upcoming exams."

When she mentioned exams, he smiled and said, "Of course! I should have guessed. Our Miss Granger is a fine pupil. The very best."

She smiled too, crossing her fingers in the pockets of her school robes.

Dippet adjusted his little gold-rimmed spectacles and picked up his book again. After short silence, he looked up again.

He raised his eyebrows. "Well?"

"Sir?"

"Off you go, Miss Granger. Your schedule has already been updated. Best of luck for your studies." He smiled again and turned back to his reading.

It was definitely not allowed at all for students to change streams, the school rules were clear. Smiling and shaking her head at his blatant favouritism, Hermione let out a sigh of relief as she walked out of Dippet's office, ignoring the portrait of Sir Wickleby who, as always, shouted out, "One should bow or curtsey on the way out. Manners, I say!"

Taking out her timetable, she saw that it had indeed updated itself. Instead of Transfiguration she had Potions at two o'clock with Professor Slughorn in the dungeons.

It took a while to find the classroom, as she had never been down near the dungeons. But she followed a few Slytherins, who looked like they were also in fifth year, down a few passages. They looked back suspiciously at her, but did not stop or approach her.

The dungeons were indeed gloomy. The room they were in had a low ceiling and there were metal bars on the windows, which looked out into the grey-green depths of the Great Lake. They were, of course, underground and the waters of the lake cast a sinister green glow that rippled across the ceiling and walls of the classroom. She sat in a random seat towards the very back and set up her parchment and quill.

The classroom filled up quietly, with none of the hustle and noise that Hermione had been used to. Ravenclaws were chatty usually, but they walked in with a studious air holding their books against their chests. They sat and filled the seats on the other side of the room and it wasn't until it was too late that Hermione realised she had sat on the wrong side. She would be sitting next to a Slytherin.

Sighing deeply, she made room for a tall dark-haired Slytherin who, after a moment, sat down quietly next to her. She looked up, only to realise it was Riddle.

He caught her staring and he gave her a courteous smile. "I didn't realise you could switch streams."

"You can't usually, but I spoke to the Headmaster and he allowed it."

Riddle looked at her for a long moment, without saying anything. Of course, he knew too that an exception had clearly been made.

"Did you switch because of someone in your class?" he asked, unravelling his parchment and uncapping his bottle of ink.

"Yes," Hermione answered shortly, making it clear that she did not wish to talk about it any further.

She needn't have because Professor Slughorn had entered at that moment, a few minutes late.

"Well, well, well. I see we have a new Slytherin!" he beamed, winking at Hermione. "Who is, I hear, excellent at potion-making."

Hermione didn't bother to correct him because Riddle spoke up next to her, "Professor, Miss Granger here is actually in Gryffindor."

"So I heard, so I heard," Slughorn said smiling affectionately at Riddle who returned the smile almost as warmly. His face looked rather nice when it lit up like that, Hermione observed. "Yet today, she is a Slytherin!" Slughorn moved to the front of the classroom and waved his wand. A large black cauldron appeared at every desk. "Now, it is our mission this afternoon to brew a potion that can allow one to breathe underwater. Ten points to whoever correctly guesses the name of this potion!"

Hermione raised her hand, and so did Riddle. But for the first time in any class she'd been in, quite a few other hands were raised as well. Professor Slughorn swept his gaze across the classroom.

"Now, let's give our newest member a chance."

"Subaquaenus aspiratare," Hermione answered.

"Well," said Tom next to her, "It could also be aquamentis fieris."

"Ho, ho!" exclaimed Slughorn, clapping his hands together. "Yes, now-"

Hermione interrupted him. "It could be aquamentis but that takes months to brew whilst subaquaenus takes only a couple of hours, depending on the skill of the potion-maker. Of course, we could all save ourselves the trouble and just use gillyweed."

Riddle raised his eyebrows. "Well, if one had certain pre-prepared ingredients at hand, such as Horntail saliva, aquamentis fieris could also be made in a few hours. It is far more efficient as an underwater breathing potion anyway, it gives you gills and fins. Whereas the subaquaenous –"

"-Doesn't give you gills and fins, yes. But such transformations are frequently dangerous. There have been cases where-"

"-people have died, yes, but those cases are far and few between. Just look up the McGill case in 1922-"

Their debate was interrupted by a loud cough. Hermione looked up to see a rather bemused Slughorn. The rest of the class had turned in their seats to look at her. The Ravenclaws looked politely curious, while the Slytherins mostly wore annoyed expressions.

"Now, so it happens, our potion today is neither. We are brewing a potion that mimics the effect of a bubble-head charm, except it lasts longer and is more durable. Nevertheless, ten points each for an outstanding discussion!"

If he was annoyed, Riddle didn't show it. For the rest of the class, Hermione and Riddle worked together silently but efficiently. He gathered the ingredients from the cupboard and she sprinkled ground crumpet horn into their simmering cauldron and stirred twice while waiting for the beetle juice and boggart flesh which he carefully sliced with a small silver knife.

Hermione quickly realised that Riddle was Slughorn's favourite student. And that Riddle, in turn, appeared to be really quite charming. He excelled at potions, no doubt. Their potion turned exactly the required colour of dead autumn leaves before sheering out into a glimmering pink, releasing long thin tendrils of steam.

But other than the thrill of receiving full marks, as did her diligent partner of course, it was an otherwise uneventful lesson.

It was just after dinner. Hermione ran up the moving staircases to the seventh-floor. I need the room that has all my favourite books. Pacing before the stone wall, she entered the large wooden door that appeared.

It was a large high-ceilinged room, the walls lined with dark bookshelves. There was a small cheery little fireplace that crackled when she approached and she threw herself down into the soft armchair that appeared before her.

Placing her feet up on the wooden stool, which also appeared, she lay back with her eyes closed.

This state of near bliss was ultimately broken when she heard a quiet cough behind her.

Whirling so fast she felt her neck crick, she found herself doubting her own eyes.

"What are you doing here?" she exclaimed at Riddle who was lying on a dark green chaise longue, a book on his chest, his wand held loosely in the long fingers of his right hand.

He looked at her thoughtfully, though she could see a glimmer of her own annoyance reflected in his eyes. "I might ask you the same."

Groaning, Hermione sat back down. She whispered to herself, "Just my rotten luck. Is it too much to ask for some peace?"

"How do you know about the Room of Requirement?" he asked, pretending not to have heard.

"I don't know," she snapped, turning around, "How do you know about it?"

It all happened quite quickly. Riddle's calm mask fell away as he stood up abruptly and, pointing his wand at her, he whispered furiously, "Oblivi-"

Her eyes widened. "Expelliarmus!" she shouted, jumping out of her chair.

He swiftly blocked her attempt to disarm him but she had still stopped him from casting a memory charm that would have been highly illegal in the circumstances. The sheer audacity shocked her.

Riddle's eyes were dark and furious.

She took a step back but he strode forward and closed the distance between them. His wand remained pointed at her. "Tell me how you found out and I'll let you go."

Whilst she had been momentarily struck by the sudden drop of his mask, she did not allow herself to flinch. Steeling herself, she attacked first. She lifted her wand and he suddenly flew away from her and crashed into a bookshelf, thick books raining down upon him.

With a snarl, he flicked his wand and the books stopped falling and instead hovered, facing her with deadly intent. Hermione managed to throw up a quick shield around her as the books spat out paper daggers, which she knew were as sharp as real ones.

She allowed herself a grim smile while holding up her shield, as he sent flaming books her way. "I knew there was something off about you," she said.

He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head slightly. "You know nothing about me, Mudblood."

The slur was like a spark landing on dry tinder. "Don't - call me – that – you – prat," she hissed back, with every word hurling a new curse. They sped towards him so quickly and viciously that he had no time to erect a shield. Instead, he ducked the first three and sent a cascade of books falling down in front of him, the rest of her curses hitting them and causing them to variously go up in flames or explode in a furious flurry of paper.

Riddle's face twisted angrily. He broke her shield with a well-timed spell and sent a venomous volley of curses her way.

Hermione sprinted for the door.

He got there before she did, which forced her to back away, her wand still aimed at him.

"Not bad for a girl," he smirked. "But I can hurt you as easily as the others."

She bristled at his arrogance. "Try and I will make you wish you hadn't," she said viciously.

He stared at her, as though she were a creature he'd never seen before. He stepped even closer. "You don't know what I'm capable of."

She stepped closer too. "Try it, then."

Her wand was a few centimetres away from his exposed throat. So was his, she realised.

They glared at each other, face to face. Both silently refused to back down, like a pair of snakes, coiled and tense, unmoving, ready to strike.

Up this close, Hermione could see his face in detail. From the arch of his dark eyebrows, to the slight flush of his usually pale cheeks. She found herself studying his face, the way his eyelashes cast long shadows, the surprisingly full lips, the mystifying symmetry of his features … and the large dark eyes that were studying her just as closely.

Abruptly, he turned away and stalked out the door.

- Original Note -

This story is just an attempt to scratch an itch, which is to say, I am trying to satisfy my obsession with the possibility of two such unlikely characters feeling any sort of attraction at all. Many well-written stories have made Hermione and Tom fight on familiar battlegrounds: both characters are fiercely intelligent and competitive; there is the irresistible attraction of her secret (whether of the future or something else); his charisma; the influence of a good nature on Tom's violent ambitions and last but not least, the teeny tiny awkward complication (usually glossed over) that Tom hates muggle-borns and muggles whilst Hermione, the passionate founder of S.P.E.W, is, well, a muggle-born witch herself.

In my humble opinion, people don't change that easily.

I have taken great liberty with the characters and their time frames, just for fun.