Hermione hadn't dreamt of the boy since that night. Whether that was a blessing, she wasn't sure, especially since she realized the face that she'd seen was the one that had stared out at her in the student ledger.
She'd had a sex dream about her professor's teenage self. She'd had that dream the same night as learning his true age. The boys had asked her what was wrong, and Tom had given her lingering looks when she'd gone out of her way to avoid him.
It wasn't like her.
During the weekend she had written in the journal that she was unwell and stayed locked up in her dorm; Ginny had kindly brought her food. The redhead had only asked what the problem was once, and she'd accepted the obvious lie Hermione fed her to respect her secrecy.
Perhaps she thought the contraceptive potion made her ill.
Hermione had been given it the night she escaped to the Potter home and instructed to take it or not as she preferred. She had and breathed better knowing that any chance of pregnancy vanished as it went down her throat.
However, that particular potion (which she was taking once monthly) had a few unpleasant side effects: headaches, nausea, so on and so forth.
Either way, she appreciated that Ginny did such a kindness for her.
Monday saw her attempting to bury her head in books as much as possible. She hoped to skate through the week that way, but Tuesday's last class was double Defense.
In the end, as she crammed her books and parchment away, Tom spoke up. "Hermione, would you stay a moment?"
"Of course," she breathed, her stomach dropping at the request. She stood with her back away from him as the others filed out, though she'd shot Harry a reassuring smile before he left.
Footsteps padded from the desk to right behind her; she could feel him there. "You've been avoiding me. Why?"
"I've been busy," she began, but he stopped her there.
"Don't lie to me." One large hand covered her shoulder. "Tell me why."
Which was the easier thing to admit? Which was more important to talk about?
"You graduated in 1945."
Tom stepped closer and laid his other hand on her waist. "That bothers you."
She stiffened. "You're twice as old as I thought you were," she said, incredulity thick in her voice. "You're nearly seventy."
"Yes. But you know wizards are longer lived than muggles, that age differences are more accepted, and mean less."
He was a solid force behind her; she shrank into her folded arms. "You look younger than you should."
"I would think that's a point in my favor," he said wryly. "Would you prefer I look older?"
She turned enough to see him from her periphery. "Is this how you really look? Or is it magic?"
"This is how I look, Hermione. It is neither glamor nor charm."
"Then how—"
The hand at her waist embraced her fully to pull her back against him. "It's a side effect of magic I have been in contact with. Perhaps I'll teach it to you someday."
"I don't know if I'm comfortable with…" she took a breath. "I need to think about this."
"'This?'" he repeated, the low word slithering across her nape. "What, exactly, do you need to think about?"
She didn't know how to word it without sounding like a cliche teenager. "About— about everything we've discussed."
His grip tightened. "Is this such a surprise that you would deny me over it?" Tom scoffed. "You have had access to this information your entire education at Hogwarts, and now you punish me for your lack of diligence. I did not imagine such a childish reaction."
Tom removed himself from her; Hermione was left cold by his absence.
"Take your time to think , then. When you've returned, perhaps I'll be over my irritation with you."
"What about—"
"You are excused from your club duties for the time being."
When she turned, he was already seated at his desk, head down as his quill scrawled across parchment. He didn't look at her as she walked past and through the door.
Hermione skipped dinner. She wasn't hungry. Instead, she set out for the library to bury herself in schoolwork. She unrolled her syllabi on the table and searched through for a project she could get lost in. There was the end-of-semester Arithmancy treatise. Numbers always took her away from thoughts better left in the shadows.
Listing topics to research came first, then seeking out books on those topics. Once she'd brought some to the table (and noted the others for future perusal), she started to dive.
Book after book was scoured, and ink filled the inches of parchment in her neat, tiny scrawl. One parchment filled, then another. She read through and eliminated whole paragraphs, the words substance, not mass, flashing behind her eyelids in familiar script.
"Hey— Hermione." Shaking at her elbow pulled her from lines and numbers. Harry frowned down at her. "You alright?"
"What? Oh, yes. I was just studying."
"Yeah, I can see that." He occupied the chair beside her. "What's going on?"
Hermione scrubbed at her face with an ink-splattered hand; she didn't notice the new constellations among her freckles, but Harry did. "I wanted to get a head start—"
"Bollocks. You've been off for days."
"It's just a little overwhelming right now, Harry—"
He shook his head. "I know you've been through a lot, especially these last few months, but this is something else. What happened?"
Why did he know her so well? He was nearly as good at reading her as Draco, and he'd had years more to observe her.
She heaved a sigh. "I confronted Professor Riddle about his age."
Whatever her friend had expected, that was not it. "Is that all?" He laughed.
"It's not funny," Hermione admonished him. "It was really difficult for me."
He slung an arm across the back of her chair. "You had to end it eventually, Hermione. What was going on, it was… it was inappropriate."
She bit her lip and stared off in the distance. "I told him I needed time to think."
"Just to make things easier, right? Like, 'it's not you, it's me?' Hermione, you can't be considering continuing whatever it is you're doing." He turned his chair to face her completely and tugged hers as well. "I've kept quiet, but you know it's a bad idea."
"He has plans, Harry. He wants me to help him. He wants me to be his partner." She wrung her hands and stared at him with bright amber eyes. "Am I just supposed to walk away from that?"
"He's clearly engaged in the Dark Arts. Professor Dumbledore is convinced he's a rising dark lord, responsible for the increase in violence across the country."
She laughed. "That's ridiculous. Do you think he could do all that while teaching?"
"I'm serious. There's something not right about him, Hermione." He took one of her hands in his own, gaze solemn. "It's not just his age; the people around him, the way the other staff treats him, there's so much that doesn't line up."
He was also the Heir of Slytherin, but she didn't add that, nor the fact that muggleborns had died by whatever was in his Chamber.
"He cares about me, truly," she replied as she gazed down at their joined hands.
"So do I," was his response. "Please, Hermione, just think about it. You will be great without whatever he's promising you."
"I will," she promised. "I am. I told him that I needed to think, and he let me go."
Harry squeezed her hand. "We'll focus on what really matters together."
"Studying?"
He laughed. "Repealing the law and fighting for your proper place in the world."
"What would that be?" Her eyes narrowed at her friend.
"I'm thinking: future Minister for Magic. Minister Granger." He grinned. "Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
"Oh, go on, then."
He leaned closer. "What? I'm dead serious— well, not Sirius, and not dead, but—"
Hermione groaned.