Sweat ran down Hermione's face. She remembered only too well that in her own time at Hogwarts they had brewed this potion in her sixth year and she had actually failed to give it the correct colour. The Wiggenweld Potion was one of the most difficult potions, as it required only a few ingredients, but absolutely precise stirring and heating. At no point could one make a mistake. And unfortunately, the instructions in her textbook were wrong. Both in this one and in the one they had used in their own time. Only Harry, who had followed the half-blood prince's instructions, had been able to brew the potion correctly. She now knew that the last step in the recipe was wrong and intended to correct it. But to do that, she had to get there in the first place.
"Stir until it turns red," she muttered to herself. Stirring a potion was not easy, at least when you needed an exact number of stirrings. Tom next to her was still adding Flobberworm slime to his potion, so she was slightly ahead of him. But she could spoil it until the end.
She did not have time to watch the progress of her other classmates, but the absolute silence, only occasionally interrupted by quiet curses, testified to the fact that everyone was highly concentrated. The heat in the classroom soon took on unbearable proportions as the potion also regularly demanded higher temperatures.
Her potion suddenly turned red and immediately Hermione stopped stirring. She took her bowl of Flobberworm slime and let it slide into the cauldron as slowly as she could. Just when she feared she had not prepared enough Flobberworm slime, the potion turned and took on an orange colour. Quickly she set the bowl aside, reached for her spoon, and began stirring again.
The potion turned yellow, she added a little more slime, it turned orange. Careful not to drop a drop of sweat into the cauldron - a rookie mistake that could happen at any time - she reached for the honey water and dribbled it into the cauldron with a pipette until the potion turned turquoise. With the help of her wand, she increased the heat of the fire, slowly, sweating, highly concentrated, with only the cauldron in view, until the potion turned bright pink.
Her breathing quickened. Now it would become clear whether the half-blood prince had really been right. She took the vial of salamander blood, unplugged it and dropped exactly one drop into the cauldron. Then she closed it again and stirred again.
"What are you doing?" hissed Tom beside her, "You mustn't stir it at the end!"
"Concentrate on your potion!" she whispered back, determined not to be distracted. Tom snorted, but remained silent.
And then the potion transformed. It took on a green colour, became more fluid than before and smelled stimulating. Triumphantly, she put down her spoon. She had disregarded the recipe and created a perfect potion just by doing so. Tom beside her was still dribbling salamander blood into the cauldron, but his potion refused to take on the desired green, instead remaining more of a turquoise colour.
A loud clap broke the students' concentration. "The lesson is almost over and you should all be ready now. Anyone who hasn't completed their potion has obviously done something wrong. Let me see!"
Slowly Slughorn paced the rows. Judging by his expression, he was more than dissatisfied with the result of his class, but a hopeful glow came over his face as he strode to Tom's cauldron.
"Well, Tom, my boy, how did you get on?" he inquired good-humouredly.
"I followed the recipe exactly, but as you can see, my potion is still turquoise," Tom said calmly. Hermione could imagine only too well what was going on inside him: he did everything perfectly and yet failed. An embarrassment. His only salvation was probably that everyone else failed too. Or at least he thought so for the moment.
"Never mind, never mind," Slughorn said encouragingly, patting him on the back, "Even the best have bad days."
With that he walked on and stopped in front of Hermione's cauldron. His eyes grew wide. "Your potion is green, Miss Dumbledore."
"Indeed it is. If you check the consistency and smell, you will find that it is exactly as described in the book, sir. I think it has succeeded," she declared, unable to keep the triumph out of her voice.
Tom's head jerked towards her. "Your potion succeeded?"
Mischievously she smiled at him. "So it would seem."
Slughorn, meanwhile, hurried off to fetch a small vial and a ladle. Carefully, he removed a little of the liquid, smelled it, and then let it flow into the vial. "Indeed, this potion is as perfect as it gets. I congratulate you, Miss Dumbledore. Ten points for Slytherin. You are the first student in ten years to manage to brew this potion. Impressive."
With a frown, Tom packed up his things. As always after Potions lessons, Hermione cleaned up the places for them both and washed out the cauldrons. Somehow, in the last few weeks since they had been a couple, this had become a routine as if it was the most normal thing in the world. She was aware that this was also just a sexist demonstration of power, but Hermione did not fight it. Tom should only think that she was conforming to the role model of the time, at least to some extent. It was too tiring fighting on all fronts.
Still drenched in sweat, she finally shouldered her bag and hurried out of the room. Slughorn had also already disappeared, so she was the last to leave the classroom.
"You cheated!"
Tom's ice-cold words made her freeze on the spot. Of course, his ego was bruised. Sighing, Hermione turned to face him. He was waiting for her, leaning casually against the wall beside the door as if nothing was going on. But she was sure there was something bubbling under the surface.
"No, I merely did what was necessary to brew the potion correctly," she returned.
"The recipe prescribed a different final step."
"The recipe is wrong," she replied matter-of-factly, "I had a potions teacher in my time ... in America who was really good. Professor Slughorn is good too, but this man was really exceptional. In our textbook the recipe was the same as here, but he found out it couldn't work that way."
"Why would a textbook have a wrong recipe in it?" demanded Tom, obviously unconvinced.
"I don't know," she replied impatiently, "But it's obviously wrong. You followed it exactly and your potion failed. That's proof enough, isn't it?"
At last Tom started to move. Without offering her his arm, he strode down the corridor, apparently convinced that she would already follow him. Sighing, Hermione ran a hand through her sweaty hair. She had only meant to tease him a little with her triumph in Potions, but instead of him actually being provoked, he was now sulking. Tom Riddle was sulking. She did not know what to make of it. With quick steps she ran after him.
"Shall we have tea together?" she suggested when she caught up with him again.
"Drink tea?" he returned reluctantly.
"Merlin, Tom!" she moaned annoyed, "I'm sorry I was better than you in Potions for a change. Stop sulking about it. And yes, drink tea, in my room if you like. I finally want you to tell me about your plans."
Abruptly he stopped. "Tell you about my plans? What plans?"
Hermione would have loved to slap him. It was exasperating with this man. What was the point of all the progress she had made in the last few weeks if he still closed himself off to her in this area? What more did she have to do to gain his trust? Coldly she explained, "Yes, your plans. I'm not stupid after all, Tom. You ask me so many questions, about morality, politics, people ... you talk about unleashing society - and I'm supposed to believe you do that without having plans? You're the Heir of Slytherin. There's a terrorist running around outside whose ideals and goals fit strikingly with what you've told me about morality and power. Don't you think that makes me wonder?"
"Terrorist?" echoed Tom, "Are you talking about Grindelwald?"
"Who else?"
"Interesting choice of words. Rather negative, don't you think?"
She only raised an eyebrow in reply. Now it was Tom's turn to run his fingers through his hair. Holding her breath, Hermione watched him, hoping that she finally had him ready. Sure enough, after interminable minutes, he nodded. "Fine. Let's have tea at your place."
oOoOoOo
It had not escaped Abraxas' notice that Rufus was around him suspiciously often throughout the day. He had not thought anything of it at first, but the fact that he now chose the seat on the sofa right next to him in the evening, although there were still plenty of chairs free, finally aroused his suspicions. A Lestrange did nothing without intention.
"Rufus," he said accordingly, without really looking up from his book, "what can I do for you?"
"Who said you should do anything for me?" came the absolutely innocent-sounding reply. So he had been right, Rufus was deliberately seeking his presence.
"You'll have to forgive me, I must have misinterpreted your behaviour," Abraxas replied as unimpressed as possible. Somewhere in the back of his mind, an idea was forming of what Rufus might want from him. They had grown up as friends, but their time at Hogwarts, their time in Tom's circle had increasingly alienated them from each other. In his own mind, at least, Rufus had long since stopped acting like a friend, but more like a colleague who begrudged him being the boss's favourite. Was that the reason for his sudden renewed approach?
"Is it so unusual for a Lestrange to be interested in a Malfoy?", Rufus finally broke the silence between them.
"Not usually, but you've never shown much interest lately. And I never pegged you for the type to care much about your family."
"Oh, you misjudged me there," Rufus laughed, "My family is important to me. Like any other member, it's important to me to make my family proud. I just don't think much of walking around with my last name like it's a title I've earned."
Now Abraxas did put his book aside. "I wouldn't have thought you capable of such modesty. A noble trait that would truly suit a Hufflepuff."
As he had intended, Rufus blanched. While it was still not clear to him what exactly his classmate wanted from him, his current demeanour, his words were so put upon and artificial that he did not even want to pretend to be interested in him.
"Fine," Rufus snorted, "I apologise for obviously catching you on a bad day. You are welcome to tell me straight out that you weren't interested in conversation."
Incredulous, Abraxas raised an eyebrow. "You misunderstand me. I am not at all averse to conversation with you. I just don't appreciate being taken for a fool."
As if finally taking him seriously, Rufus suddenly turned his whole body towards him. More quietly, so that the other students in the common room could not hear his words, he whispered, "Abraxas. We've always been good friends. Why are you suddenly pretending we're not?"
Smugly, Abraxas grinned. "We've always been friends just because that's what was expected of us. I hate to repeat myself: I will not be taken for a fool. You know as well as I do that our friendship is based on family ties, not genuine affection."
Rufus's shoulders tensed. "So that's where you stand. And I thought the hat truthful when it said you'd find real friends in Slytherin."
His grin disappeared. Was Rufus serious? Had he been underestimating him all along, not taking him seriously, doing him an injustice? Was Rufus actually interested in a friendship of his own accord, simply because he wanted to be his friend?
Just as quietly as Rufus before, Abraxas replied, "If you really feel that way, maybe we should start over at the beginning. I'm sorry if I really hurt you."
Full of reluctant thoughts, Abraxas leaned back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. So it escaped him that for a split second a triumphant grin flitted across Lestrange's lips. Softly, almost inaudibly, Rufus murmured, "That would be nice."