Author's Note:
This chapter happened when I reread all that I've written so far and found a narrative gap that I needed to plug. Urgh, not really happy with how it turned out, but I don't think it's going to get any better even if I keep hacking at it. Let's hope the next chapter isn't as stubborn.
'-
06 Cessation of Hostilities
The acquaintanceship of one Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle over two weeks stay in the infirmary. Dreams and memories.
'-
Daphne had always told Hermione that the point of learning etiquette is not about memorising empty words or gestures; it is to acquire grace under pressure. No matter how unexpected or unusual the situation, one can glide through it instead of making a scene.
The Slytherin witch must have managed to beat something into her head, more than Hermione can remember, because the next time Tom Riddle visited, she didn't say 'I was serious when I said you'll die maddened by dark magic if you don't let up'. That had been the foremost thing in her mind. What she said was simply,
"Good afternoon, Tom."
"Good afternoon, Hermione."
Tom Riddle greeted her before he sat at the green wing-backed chair that she'd transfigured the available visitor's chair to. Their gazes locked for three seconds—he did not seem overly concerned about her predictions of his death right now, so she decided not to be too concerned about his threats against her life. The house elfs had kindly prepared the tea trolley again, and she performed as the hostess once more with an unflappable calm that any pureblood etiquette mistress would approve.
(She has no exact memory associated with it, but her gut instinct told her that Daphne probably cajoled her to become good at it, with who knows what combination of blackmail and bribes. It amused her a little that she didn't have that many memories of Daphne yet there was a gut feeling of rightness about her devious methods—Draco was an amateur compared to her.)
The Slytherin laid his book bag and took several scrolls out without much thought.
"What are those?"
"Since Slughorn asked me to assist you with the classes you're currently missing, these are copies of my notes." He answered. For all that he was a budding dark lord, it would seem that he was also a consummate professional in his responsibilities.
"What class do you think I should go through first?" She asked.
"I suggest Advanced Potions, while it's still fresh in my mind."
They happened to share many classes, which was not surprising considering her recorded OWL scores and what she knew of his academic reputation. She nodded in agreement.
Tom skimmed his notes quickly and started explaining the basics of ingredients selection for advanced potionmaking that Slughorn had just covered this week. Hermione made the occasional sound of understanding to show that she'd been listening or asked him to skip parts that she'd already mastered, courtesy of the potionmaking side of the research she did in the Department of Mysteries. Mostly, she treated it as a refresher than to learn things from scratch. It was why she picked it up again quickly.
If Tom was surprised at the speed of her comprehension, he didn't show it.
Soon, they fell into an intense discussion of how, if the phases of the moon affected the potency and particular effects of various potion ingredients, then why not try to account for other celestial objects? After all, astronomy (in the wizarding sense) is a method of augury by reading the skies about what will happen on earth, that the connection exists in the first place must hint at something.
Tom, however, was not convinced of the relevance of something as distant as Jupiter or Saturn on the life cycle of plants and animals. At the very least, the moon affects the tides as well as exerting its own force for being so near, but the same cannot be said of other objects.
"If we were talking about the most influential celestial object, why, we've taken account of it by the turning of the seasons—some plants are only available in autumn, others during spring or summer. The seasons are the changes in the earth's position from the sun is, after all." he said.
Hermione agreed with the point that the sun and the moon are certainly the most significant celestial objects to affect earth. However, she did not think that passing meteor showers can be ignored.
"The physical effects may be ignored easily as the bombardment of earth with small-sized space rocks and dust barely disturbs anything. The magical effect is a different matter, isn't it? Because it is not often that earth accepts foreign objects into itself—literally extra-terrestrial in this case. So, potions that needs to rely on that empathic principle, on the acceptance of a foreign body into a host, might possibly work better with components whose growth or potency peaked during meteor showers."
He could not deny her point and he didn't try. She wasn't sure if the time he took thinking before clearly accepting her point was merely to mull over it or also time that he needed to accept that she was a serious student of various subjects. On the other hand, she did grudgingly admit that she couldn't imagine Pluto being capable of affecting anything on earth, as it was so small and distant. She also had no idea of the strength of Neptune and Uranus' possible influence and she wasn't optimistic on that front either.
An hour passed quicker than either of them expected. Hermione wasn't the only one who stared at Tom in surprise after he checked out the time with a quick Tempus, she could see the slightly puzzled expression on his face too. They'd been too engrossed in arguing the finer points of the idea.
"I suppose you have other things to do," Hermione said.
"Yes, a prefect meeting." He might be polite, but he certainly wasn't enthusiastic about his own answer.
"Ah."
He did not rush in tidying up, picking each scroll and rolling them up manually before tying each of them up with a ribbon. When he bid her goodbye and left, it did not take her long to regret it. At least when he was around, she had someone to talk to. Now, she was already getting bored. Again.
The only person who found their whole conversation off-putting and incomprehensible was oddly enough, Nurse Edelstein. She had been puttering in the background and doing some boring administrative stuff while the two students had talked, and the nurse made her opinion known when Tom had left the infirmary.
"You said that he threatened you with violence yesterday," Maggie cut straight to the point.
"And I threatened him with visions of his death." Hermione answered easily, summoning the tea trolley over. The Nurse had already reached her side to take the tea tray from her and returned it to the trolley. "Thank you, Nurse Edelstein. I came up with some very good visions, you know?"
The nurse was still concerned.
"Why are you doing this? Is he forcing you to accept his company?"
"Of course not. Being able to chat is certainly a lot less boring than just reading books all day. At least I get to pick his brain—he does know his subjects, I'll give him that." she said, leaning back on her pile of pillows. Maggie was still staring uncertainly at her and Hermione felt the urge to clarify.
"No, really. He's interesting."
"Interesting," she echoed.
"Yes."
"Because he threatened you?" Now the nurse sounded even more weirded out. Hermione almost chuckled before she decided that it would give the impression that she became unhinged due to all her trauma.
"You didn't miss the fact that I threatened him back, right? We're at a more-or-less equal position right now."
"You can't even go to the toilet without tiring."
Her reply was glib. "Good thing that he's understanding enough to approach me at my bedside then even when he's threatening me. I don't even need to move to listen to him. See? What a nice young man."
"Hermione."
"Maggie, please, don't worry about me." she said it carelessly with a wave of her hand.
'-
"Hello?"
Hermione was still in the grey robes of the Unspeakable. Something drew her to this side alley of Diagon when she was on the way home. She waited even when it seemed that there was nothing of interest to her other than abandoned crates and pieces of garbage.
A frightened meow came from one of the destroyed crates. Crouching down, Hermione tried to find some kitty kibble from her bag. With care, she made a trail towards her.
"Are you lost, little guy?" She kept her voice soft, non-threatening.
She could do a decent imitation of friendly meows too, and she did that from time to time. Never too much to be noisy to intimidate or annoy the cat, but just enough for the cat to know that she wasn't leaving but also wasn't aggressive. Her patience paid off after some time. The shaggy black cat stepped out slowly, eating the closest kibble while keeping a wary eye at her before moving on to the next one. He had no collar and was somewhere between a kitten and an adult cat—five months old would be her guess. Half way down the trail, he seemed to finally believe that she wasn't a danger and ate at a faster pace.
She tried stroking him when he was close enough. Oh, she didn't dare to use a hand, not yet. It began with one finger, just the lightest touch at his forehead. When he didn't seem to notice, she stroked him slightly longer. Then, she lingered and added another finger. It was with this sort of glacial pace that she'd finally managed to stroke it.
The cat had a thicker tail than usual—it wasn't simply fur due to its long hair. When it didn't seem to be the least bit concerned when she pulled out her wand, leaving a light trail of sparks as she cast, she guessed it was more of a kneazle than a cat. He purred when she scratched his chin and even lifted his head so she could reach farther. She smiled and carefully picked him up; his long and thick fur made her feel as if she'd just picked up a particularly fluffy rug.
Hermione sneezed when his long tail swished upwards and too close to her nose. Well, perhaps a dusty rug in need of a washing would be more accurate.
"Alright, let's get you home."
When she apparated to her house with the cat, Malina—roommate and co-worker—stared at her in disbelief.
"That's why you're late by one hour?"
"Oh, has it been that long?" She was genuinely surprised. Malina raised one dark eyebrow.
"Don't tell me you're keeping this one too."
"Well, why not? You don't see me complaining about your half-jarveys, or the birds, or the—"
"Okay, you have a point." The Scottish witch sighed before Hermione listed all her pets.
There was a good reason why they ended up sharing a house with each other than anyone else—they both had a tendency to pick up strays. Malina was even more broad-ranging when it comes to the species of her rescues, compared to Hermione's kneazle-cats.
'-
Hermione woke up with her right hand stroking her sheets instead of a new pet, the infirmary still dark and the sky outside still studded with stars.
That's the time I first met Othello.
She sighed as she remembered the rest of her cats (well, cats, kneazles, and everything in between). It didn't sound like a bad idea to find the opportunity to visit the Diagon Alley shelter and adopt a cat-kneazle hybrid that would bond with her now.
Wait, is it already there now?
Even if there wasn't, she was sure she could wander around the alleys for a while and find a stray kitty or two to adopt. She turned around, pulled the blanket higher and slept again.
She hoped her next dream was just as peaceful as the last one.
'-
If there was something Hermione appreciated about the past, it was the fact that the male Hogwarts uniform was still a three-piece suit. Tom might be a would-be megalomaniac, but his waistcoat fitted him like a glove, flattering his lean form. It was a good thing that Nurse Edelstein lent her dresses, or else she was hopelessly outmatched in the charm offensive. She stared him two seconds longer than was polite before her gaze returned to the teapot. Even if he'd noticed that, he'd thankfully said nothing.
She served the tea, too glad that her muscle memory carried her all the way. His touch was so light that the porcelain cup and saucer didn't even make a sound when he picked it up—a part of her envied his effortless grace.
Hermione asked the question that had been in her mind for a while
"You do realise that I've foretold your method of death two days ago, right?"
"Does it have one hundred percent probability of passing?" he asked.
"I don't think so."
"Then it's still possible to avoid it." He answered, before going back to read through a scroll of his Advanced Transfigurations notes. She couldn't help but gape at the ease he got over his shock.
"That's it?"
He seemed vaguely amused and she couldn't help but feel irritated at his equanimity. His next question did have some sense.
"You'd rather I start with the death threats again?"
"Well, no, a thousand times no. I just thought you'd find it more interesting than the…" she read the upside-down title of his scroll. "…foundations of transfiguration."
Tom rolled the scroll up, his dark gaze fixed on her. There was not the slightest pretence of kindness there. It was how she knew she wasn't seeing the dutiful prefect or the perfect student anymore. This was his true self, all driving ambition and ruthlessness.
"If I kill you, then I won't even find out what are the things I need to avoid to prevent that death."
"Of course." She nodded.
"Then obviously, I can't kill you yet, then." He concluded this easily, clearly showing no particular preference to whether she lived or died. Hermione bristled, affronted, until she wondered just why she was affronted. A few moments of thought allowed her to find that it was due to the ease of his declaration, as if she'd die that easily once he decided to kill her. It was rather weird to realise that she didn't actually give a tuppence about the death threat (she can vaguely recall that she'd gotten more than her share of it during the war as well as after that—the Gryffindor Three had been too involved).
"You talk about killing people so easily," she said.
"It's a bit late for you to pretend you don't, isn't it?" His smile was a shade too sinister even if it was still compelling. It was one well-suited for the Heir of Slytherin.
"I don't kill people at will."
"You can." He pointed out easily. "Particularly, if you think they're dark lords. Isn't that right, Miss Vigilante?"
Hermione couldn't even deny that outright.
"Dark lords aren't exactly most people, is it?" The witch shot back.
"I suppose not. But the fact that there are types of people that you can kill with no compunctions outside of simple reasons such as anger or revenge…well. That's already one trait that you share with me that most of the Hogwarts populace don't."
She did not need to be a legilimens to recognise the truth when he spoke it. Hermione did not survive years past Voldemort's fall and through the rise and fall of new threats by denying reality.
Her fingertip traced the rim of her teacup.
"So, have you ever read that article about how visualising platonic ideals is the first step in transfiguring objects into their more 'perfect' form? The one that is almost without any flaws?"
The smile on Tom's face did not falter in the slightest, but he allowed her to change the subject and followed the new direction of their discussion.
"Has anyone actually ever managed to get that to work to improve artworks, or at the very least, decorative pieces?" Tom asked.
"Hmm, never heard of it, but you've raised an interesting possibility…"
'-
Hermione realised later on what had surprised her about how he answered her probing question. It was his resilience. Tom certainly considered her vision of his future to be a threat, but he seemed to be less obsessed by it than she vaguely remembered Voldemort to be about Harry's prophecy. Hermione frowned for a while, trying to figure out the oddest thing she felt throughout their chats.
Ah, he sounded sane. Yes, that was it. She had some doubts about Voldemort's sanity when she was fighting him in the middle of the War.
I wonder where that line was? Where his sanity was frayed past the point where he could return?
When did it happen? She mused.
When did the dashing prefect who cut a fine figure in his suit jacket was replaced with the shouting madman?
'-
She was gripping a wizard's hand hard, her eyesight blurring through the tears. He was still forcing himself to smile even after he took that hex that was meant for her.
"I can't do much, but at least I can do this for you." His breath was raspy, not there.
"Shut up. Save your breath." She pressed her ear against his chest, checking.
"Live, Hermione. Live."
"I said, shut up!" Her voice was breaking. How dare he ask her that when he's fucking drifting out, and maybe, probably, (definitely) not going to—
Hermione woke up and cursed out loud. She couldn't even see who it was or even knew what happened. It was still night again. Her sleep was getting restless but she dared not to ask for potion of dreamless sleep. She knew the risks it carried too well as someone who'd studied the healing arts, and she had a feeling she already had to drank more of it than she wished for medical purposes throughout her distinctly not peaceful life. She simply sighed and laid down, staring at the spots on the ceiling as she tried to sleep again.
'-
The white cat sank its teeth into her hand before running away to the corner. She winced as she watched blood seep out, but she barely reacted.
"Ouch," Malina commented from the door.
"It's not his fault," Hermione said, "he's still afraid."
"Oh, I can see that. I'm just saying that you'd need to clean your hand and then seal the wound quickly if you want to look presentable for your date."
"My date?"
The dark-haired witch stared at her oddly. "Uh, yes? Date? I thought you said something on Tuesday about how Ginny Weasley said she had a friend she wanted you to meet?"
Hermione yelped as she stood up, the memory coming belatedly. She hadn't taken a bath, her hair was a mess, and she didn't know what to wear. "I have a date!"
"Yeah, that was what I said."
"But…" the brunette crouched back down so her profile wouldn't present a threat to the newly taken-in stray. "He's still not comfortable here, yet."
"I'll handle it."
"Malina—"
Malina was still in her dressing gown, which was normal for a Saturday afternoon. She shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal. "You took care of Helen and Paris when I couldn't, it's the least I could do."
They were her hybrid of African Grey Parrots and a magical bird species called the Grey Mimics. Most people considered them to be a handful as pets because they were highly intelligent and could open cages and some locks with no problem. Hermione ended up diverting them with games like thimblerig, where she hid a pea under one of three cups, or training their memory by challenging them to find matching cards among a table surface filled with face-down picture cards.
"Thank you."
'-
When she ate breakfast, she realised that she remembered Helen and Paris even if she couldn't come up with a fixed number for her age. Most of her memories gave her the imprecise feeling of early twenties, even if there were a few others that seemed to contradict that. Yet she remembered what the Sorting Hat said and simply gave up for now. It would either come back to her, or it wouldn't. There was nothing she could do about it.
She could recall the feeling of soft feathers Helen and Paris butting their heads against her hands repeatedly whenever they were bored and wanted her to play a game with them.
"Play card game!" Helen would squawk.
"No! Play cup game!"
"Card game!"
"Cup game!"
Hermione usually left Malina to mediate the birds squabbling like toddlers. That was, if some of her cats wasn't running around her legs, asking to play hunt or chase. She could recall the scratches she'd had to heal whenever she was trying to domesticate yet another scared feral cat.
For all of her friends' complaints that she was turning into a crazy cat lady, they resigned themselves to being used as perches and pillows by her cats whenever there was a meeting held at her house. She had to hold back from laughing the first time she walked into her living room and saw Harry contentedly stroking Othello in his lap—the black kneazle was so big he was practically functioning as a purring blanket. Draco, on the other chair, was running his hands to groom Snowflake's long and pristine white fur. His thinking face looked too similar to the frown of a judgemental pureblood; add the white cat's expression of similar disdain and he looked positively like a Bond villain. The reddish-coloured Miss Havisham lounged over the headrest of the couch Daphne was sitting in, looking so much like a fur trim on the collar of her fashionable coat. Their position was of mutual ignorance and it worked well for them.
That was another thing that suddenly struck her. She was well and truly alone now. There'd be no discussions on the best spell combinations with Harry, no tinkering with a project she took home with Luna or Malina. There would be no people watching with Daphne or Ginny, and no arguments on Wizengamot Acts with Draco or disputes on strategy with Ron. She wouldn't be able to randomly drop in on Neville and garden with him.
Never again. Even if they were to be born once more, they would be slightly different people here who did not share many histories with her.
She missed them all so much.
Hermione didn't even notice the tears dropping on her breakfast tray.
'-
It was just after she asked him what the class was working on in Advanced Charms and he said that it was mostly the beginning of the history of charms and several basic ways to create one. If she had been the one to outright ask him about what he thought of her portents of death, this time, he was the one to break their illusion of normalcy. He timed it well, only speaking when they've gotten into the rhythm of their charms' conversation and discussion.
"You're not going to tell me anything even if I threaten you with death, would you?" he asked, testing the waters.
Hermione knew immediately what he meant. She laughed. It was one of her real laughters, not the polite titters ladies make during tea. He had that unreadable blank face again, which she was beginning to recognise as the natural expression he'd make whenever she confounded him.
"Really, why would I care about death threats?" she asked back.
"Because you'd be dead?"
"Come, come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
Flash, like a Love-thought, thro' me, Death
And take a Life that wearies me."
The brunette witch did not remember many poems. Yet this errant piece, this fragment of Coleridge's found lonely and alone, without context or title, had stuck with her when she first read it. It only took her a few more readings for it to stay in her memory. He had not expected that, she saw. As a result, he was observing her quietly with an intensity that he did not often show, one that was becoming familiar to her.
"It's not that I wish for death, really. It's just that I don't see the need to fuss or fear it."
Hermione saw that hers was not a position he could understand easily, and she could see why. He was filled with purpose; he was galvanised into activity. There were probably a hundred and one things he wished to do before breakfast. Glimpses of this particular character of his were visible in the various appointments that pulled him away from her bedside, even if she could see his reluctance more than once in the speed that he left. At least she knew she wasn't the only one who had unwittingly enjoyed their discussion.
"Why?" Tom asked.
"Why what?"
"You could be anything you wish. Those words would be truer for you than for most Hogwarts students. You are not," he paused in thought, as if the next word had personally offended him, "ordinary."
"I've seen what someone grasping for the whole world gained—destruction. Doesn't seem exactly worth all that effort just to live in a world ending in fire." she said, dryly.
"If you've seen where the pitfalls are, that only meant you could do it better."
It was her turn to be amused. "Are you trying to get me to compete with you?"
He chuckled at her question as he realised what his exhortations to her sounded like.
"Oh, by all means, stand aside. I couldn't be happier if you do."
She shook her head slowly, so as to not trigger a new wave of migraine. Hermione never stared at her own hands for long, for their paleness still unsettled her.
"Ah, unfortunately, that is not possible."
"Whyever not?"
"For bad men to achieve their ends, they require not more than good men seeing them and doing nothing."
He was staring at her longer than was polite, more intent than was proper, with a distant, detached focus of a pathologist making a Y-incision on a chest. She bore it well, the same way she had borne a barrage of curses and jinxes supporting Harry in whatever field he needed her to be. Without too much thought she picked up a fruit tart from the table.
"I think you do have a purpose in life, even if you'd deny it," he finally said, lightly. Her eyebrows rose in curiosity.
"Really? Do tell."
"To be as vexatious as possible to anyone with the slightest bit of ambition."
Hermione smiled a little. "Ah, but a life too smooth is so dreadfully boring. People get careless if everything comes too easily to them—a challenge or two keeps you alert. You can consider me doing you a favour this way."
She could see the slight twitch at the corner of his eyes and a cold and unamused expression that would've intimidated most people. What he gained was a small laugh from her.
'-
There was a row of hospital beds filled with too-young Aurors.
"Maybe we shouldn't have sent them out yet," Hermione said, her voice was wavering. Harry shook his head.
"They're already more prepared than the intake before them, or the one before that. We can't coop them up forever."
"But—"
He sighed. His voice sounded older than their years.
"We don't have enough people in the field otherwise, Hermione."
"Right." She did her best not to say it through gritted teeth. She walked out because she couldn't bear seeing them for too long and feeling that she was somewhat responsible for them being there—
Hermione woke up, the faint dots in the distance slowly focusing as her eyes adjusted properly. The spots had some sort of vague clustering to it. Ceiling. I'm staring at the ceiling.
The brunette witch sat up slowly with a sigh, rubbing her forehead. I'm still at the Hogwarts infirmary.
After ten minutes awake, the rest of the dream's details melted away (she'd only known that Harry was in it because no one else she knew back then chose to stick with their glasses). Every time she closed her eyes, she could see young Aurors on hospital beds, some looking deathly pale, others with even worse spell damage.
She hated that she didn't even know the why or how.
'-
Hermione was in a funk, but she suspected that her dreams would always leave her in a bad mood if she let it, so she tried to push it out of her mind the whole day. Tom arrived with his usual punctuality and his Astronomy sketches drew her attention. She had never before considered that staring at the features of the red planet could be calming.
She flipped through the planetary sketches he'd made for Advanced Astronomy class. It was hard to not be impressed by the accuracy of the details, as well as a certain fluidity in the artist's hand. In the midst of one of their more sedate conversations, he brought forth an unrelated question.
"Would you tell me how to avoid that future if I torture you?" he asked, curious.
There wasn't a hint of guilt or reluctance in his dark blue eyes, his tone was exactly the same as when he'd asked her whether she wanted more cake. She had the odd realisation that he was as beautiful as a fae prince and as inhuman as one.
Hermione forced herself to stay calm. She met his gaze easily.
"Didn't we have this conversation before? About how I'm not going to take it lying down if you try to harm me?" she warned him.
Tom waved it away with a confident expression. "Ah, but you were open to a few threats or so, didn't you say that yourself?"
Hermione had to roll her eyes. Yes, she did say that, but most people wouldn't have taken that literally, or take it as an opening to exploit.
"Why on earth would torturing me gain you anything? Of course not. That's such a…" no, he did not care for being nice. Think like a Slytherin, Hermione. Come on, you've practised this often enough with Daphne and Draco. She found a different word.
"It's such an impolite way of asking when you're the one who needs a favour, isn't it?"
"Yet I have a feeling that you're not open to being bribed," he said with a sigh, as if she was being such a great difficulty by not being morally flexible, and that it was really her fault that he was resorting to torture.
"Have you tried asking politely?" she asked sardonically.
Hermione was getting used to ignoring his vexed looks and his cold glances by now. This was how she poured his tea and added a spot of milk with ease. She could almost hear Daphne's voice again. Very good, Hermione. See? I was right. Nothing's too hard for you if you set your mind to it.
"Would you please tell me how to avoid the misfortune that you've seen?"
For all his exasperation, his tone was perfectly polite.
"I don't know," she pretended to think hard about it, ignoring his sceptical expression. "Would you tell me why Professor Dexter was determined to get the class to sketch Mars?"
"I…excuse me?"
Hermione ignored his bafflement and continued. "Why Mars, out of any other planet? Why not, say, the easier one such as the surface of the moon? Or maybe even the sun and its sunspots—"
He'd stilled for a moment before he cut her off.
"If this is your idea of a joke, I would say—"
"Tom," her voice was level. She spoke slowly, like an explorer accidentally cornering predator in the jungle. "Is answering my questions about any subject, is us studying together for everything even after I'm out of the infirmary, really too expensive a price to pay for you to find out more about how to avoid treading the same path that could lead to that future?"
His eyes were as dark as a moonless night and hid as much danger as one, for the nights of the new moon were a perfect cover for smugglers to make their way ashore and for highwaymen to ply their trade. She could see the twitch of his jaw as he restrained himself from expressing his disbelief. Hermione only placed her cup gently on the tray and folded her hands on her lap to ensure that they were visible to him, and then she waited.
"You're serious." he finally said when she didn't budge.
"Very serious," she answered him, never wavering, never expressing doubt. It was not hard because she had no doubt about this and it was truly the best path she could see at the spur of the moment.
"This is…"
She could see him glancing at her again, trying to gauge her reasoning and failing as he lost any grasp he'd had on her logic. If he had less self-control, he would be wearing a hole on the infirmary floor by pacing. But all she had was his occasional frustrated glare and she said nothing else, biting back further words to let the silence add a subtle pressure for him to reply.
He was shaking his head. "I'll think about it."
Dammit. Apparently, Tom knew enough to withdraw when the field became unfavourable than to charge ahead carelessly.
Unlike his usual habit of carefully tidying up his notes, he pulled them all into his bag with a wordless flick of his wand. Some sort of mass Accio, she thought. He walked out without even closing his bag at all.
Usually, he'd spend one or one-and-a-half hour in her company before he left. Yet they'd only passed the half hour mark just now. She let out a sigh.
"That went well."
Actually, she'd gladly help him out of her volition to stay away from Voldemort's path, no questions asked. But as one of her non-magical friends she'd encountered at Oxford said (Howard was a marketing major), people don't always appreciate what they get for free compared to something that they paid for. Ergo, she could not provide assistance to him without asking for something in return, especially when he didn't know her very well yet at the moment.
Whatever his faults are, Tom Riddle was still an observant student and a conscientious scholar—she did feel that he helped her catch up with her classes faster than if she were to do it on her own. His notes were even more systematic than one of her longer-lasting study partners in Hogwarts, Terry Boot, and Terry was pretty OCD even for a Ravenclaw. So, why not make him promise to study with her? It was also a good reason as any to keep in touch with him and monitor him at a closer, more personal range. She thought she'd found a good solution.
Three birds, one stone.
Hermione sighed again and rubbed her forehead.
Yet as she thought over it now, she supposed it would seem a highly unbalanced transaction to him; interpretation of future visions exchanged for homework assist. It unnerved him because he probably couldn't come up with any idea about what else she gained from it, and why she thought mere studying together was enough. It probably seemed too good to be true. But then, that was the best she came up with on the spot in response to his question.
Never mind, she assured herself. He can think for as long as he wants, but he'll still be back. She still had to stay in the infirmary for a while and Slughorn had asked him to help her with classes.
'-
Tom did come again the next day. Not a hair was out of place, as if there had been nothing different between them and he even brought fresh flowers for the vase at the side table—a refreshing burst of purple and blue consisting of irises and bittersweet. She didn't let his even expression fool her.
Hermione did not fall back to the simple interaction they had when they were studying. She needed him off guard until he answered.
"Have you come to a decision?" she asked directly in lieu of a greeting.
To be so short and to insist talking about Business was definitely not in line with pureblood etiquette, but it wasn't as if either of them cared right now.
"There will not be a time limit to your aid." he stated.
She shrugged as if she couldn't care less, even though his wishes fitted her interest very well. The movement drew attention to her shoulders and the scoop-collared dress she was wearing—her bruises had faded enough that she can show a little more skin without looking like exhibit number one for battered women.
"You keep your end of the agreement, and I'll keep mine. You have my word."
He stared her down, but she remained undeterred. Her voice was almost cheerful when she spoke, realising that he couldn't come up with any objections to her idea himself.
"Thank you for the flowers. Would you like some tea?"
The part of her that spoke with Daphne's voice had suggested that she wore something green today. Nurse Edelstein had gifted her one dress—this one. She changed the colour to Slytherin green solely for today.
"Yes, please." he replied casually, as if he'd only ever intended to drop in for a social visit.
Tom Riddle sat in the chair she'd always transformed into a leather wing-backed one whenever he came to visit the infirmary.
'-
For some reason, the copies of his notes that he passed to her doubled in length, in two separate scrolls. She realised that one was the more mundane class notes with some addition. The second was some sort of summary of his independent study that was certainly beyond most class material. If he thought that it would deter her, then he didn't know her at all.
If it was a test, well, Hermione was always game trying to pass one.
Oddly enough, after they've reached that odd agreement, he didn't bring up anything more esoteric than, say, old charms from the era of Roman Britain that had fallen out of use and the plausible reasons as to why they were no longer popular. She saw no reason to start talking about his plans (or lack thereof) to become a mad dark lord. The next time they argued about one of the uses of dragon blood, everything was mundane and normal again.
She almost believed that they were merely two highly-driven students who happened to be studying partners.
'-
They were currently on the first floor of a run-down mansion, chasing down a small cult. Some of the cult members seemed to have been lying in wait, though it was haphazard rather than threatening. It still ended with the three of them hunkering down in a room for a while. Harry's team was going to come blazing in some time, and even if not immediately, he'd be distracting them with his team's frontal assault.
There was a rather large gash from Ron's left shoulder down to his torso, going down at an angle. The witch didn't like the way his breath was short as he leaned back against the wall. Draco was about to cast a healing spell by reflex before Hermione placed her hand over his wrist, shaking her head.
"You're going to cast Episkey?" Hermione asked.
"What else? It needs to be closed."
"Find one that slows blood flow instead."
If they were at her apartment, he would've argued and asked for an explanation. Since she was clearly the healer here, he didn't. Which was a good thing. After Harry lost his eye and she studied field healing, she was a lot more aware of the intricacies of curses and hexes. Closing this one immediately meant leaving the curse in.
"Right. I've got to clean your wound first, Ron, and this is going to hurt a lot. No painkillers for you because I need you conscious." And she didn't carry her full complement of potions this time.
He groaned. "Your bedside manner needs working on."
Even as he complained, he had pulled his clothes open. Her only concern was to see the length of the cut and how deep it had gone. She hoped it didn't reach any bone, because what little she'd started to read on dark curses lodging in bone did not fill her with optimism.
Draco passed him a flask of whisky which he accepted gratefully.
…
Draco was limping beside her. She couldn't see how bad the wound was, on account of his robes and all.
"Draco?"
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. Sit down and open your trousers."
He laughed, "well, this is not exactly how it happened in my dreams."
Her blush was late to follow and she rolled her eyes. "You either open it yourself and let me check out your thigh, or you'll have another dress trousers shredded. Not that I care, but you do keep whining about it whenever you lose another one."
"Why wouldn't I protest their loss? Formal dinners shouldn't end up with assassination attempts, dammit! I demand a different entertainment!"
At least the wound couldn't have been that bad if he could still joke and complain.
…
Hermione jerked awake, the unnamed archipelagos of age-old water stains greeted her on the ceiling yet again, inviting her to trace imaginary trade routes between them. A faint sterile smell met her and she knew she was in the Hogwarts infirmary still. Another old memory, she thought sourly. It wasn't the memories that she disliked, it was because they wouldn't even stay beyond a fleeting image or two and the uncomfortable emotions that she felt inside it.
Almost all of them would leave a shade of worry or fear to hang over her.
The details of the dream faded quickly from her mind, no matter how desperately she grasped them…
A sigh escaped her. It seemed that she wouldn't manage to remember this one either, except for the part where she had to clean Ron's wound before she'd even think of using Episkey, or the dressing she did for Draco's wound since she didn't want to close any rot in an unknown hex inside his flesh. The hospital beds to her right and those in the row across hers made her antsy now, their emptiness closer to a gaping hole of presence that was supposed to be there.
(Holes left by dead people.)
Her throat felt too tight, the images would not leave. She had to get out of there.
A downward glance told her that she was still in her pyjamas. There was still the faint echo of weakness in her limbs, but wasn't she supposed to be well enough to return to her classes in a few days? Monday, to be precise. Well, that meant she was strong enough to take a little walk today, right? The trolley was nearby. All she had to do was get it over here and ring the small bell left there so the house elf would bring her food (breakfast). Right. That's it.
It was not long after she finished breakfast when she heard the infirmary door open. A familiar figure strode through.
"What brings you here so early?"
From the flicker of surprise in Tom's expression, he hadn't quite expected it either. She was far from the well-turned-out and calm invalid he'd seen in the last week and more. Well, this is quite a pickle.
"In case you didn't notice, this is Saturday." he answered.
Oh, of course. She still didn't think he had any particular reason to suddenly visit in the morning as opposed to his usual afternoon schedule.
"If it's inconvenient—"
"Could you hand me—"
They both paused after speaking at the same time. Hermione tilted her head in the direction of a tray filled with potions on a rather distant tray. He picked it up before she even needed to say anything and laid it on the side table. That was perceptive of him.
"Ah, thank you."
"Your medications?"
She nodded and started emptying the bottles one by one. Some had a refreshing taste, while for others, the faster she could pour it down her gullet, the better. She'd even developed a particular order by now—she drank them from the most disgusting tasting to the more pleasant.
"Is Madam Edelstein in her office right now?" She asked. Tom glanced over to the infirmary office, listening.
"I don't think so, but I can check if you'd like."
"Please. Please do."
From the way his eyes found her again, contemplating, she knew she hadn't successfully covered the desperation in her voice. Tom didn't ask any questions as she expected him to and only proceeded to do just as he'd suggested. She pulled the bed covers down and threw her legs over the side, still sitting. At least she was wearing proper pyjamas instead of those hospital robes that gapes at the back. It was also a good thing that Dippet was kind enough to provide an advance of her school funds so Maggie could drop in at Diagon Alley and procure some basic essentials quickly.
Standing up carefully, she walked to the bedside table. It was more like a side cabinet, with a little cupboard space beneath its two drawers. She took some clothes out and laid them on the bed, unbuttoning several buttons of the top without bothering to do it for all the buttons. She'd picked a blouse and a long, flaring skirt that wartime Britain would've seen as a luxury item. Hermione couldn't help her snort.
Even with all their 'fabric shortages' the wizarding world still had far more than the non-magical one.
"She's not at the office." Tom had returned.
Hermione nodded, unsurprised. Nurse Edelstein used mornings to do work that would require her to go out of the infirmary or run errands, unless there was a first year flying class scheduled. It was the quietest hours of the infirmary, barring the night. She came up with the plan in a moment. Her hands had been flying down the buttons of her pyjama top in no time, pulling it off quickly as she had a camisole underneath.
She pulled the blouse over her head quickly and did the buttons. It was only when she met Tom's gaze that she noticed there was colour high over his cheekbones regardless of how calm he seemed. Something about the depth of his gaze in the moments before he made himself look away warmed her skin. She couldn't help but look down inside her blouse to make sure she was wearing a simple cotton camisole instead of somehow magically procuring some lingerie for herself.
Why…oh.
"I had expected that you'd at least ask me to turn around." His tone was wry.
Heat rose to her cheeks and she was rather annoyed that she couldn't help feel self-conscious now when she noticed it. Hermione felt like slapping her forehead.
Dammit. This is the 1940s, Hermione! Not the 21st century!
The young witch almost wished she could pretend that she didn't care, but embarrassment was a contagious state that her sensibilities tried to get over very, very quickly, in the best tradition of British avoidance and understatement. At least she wasn't actually a young Hermione—she'd have been mortified speechless that a wizard had been stupefied because he thought she was about to outright strip in front of him.
"I don't have time to be missish when I need to check an open wound and treat it," she said quickly, by way of explanation as she pulled the skirt over her pyjama bottoms. "The other way around also applies. Articles of clothing sometimes need to be opened and taken off because I have a wound that has to be treated immediately. I have wizards as friends and not just witches. So…"
Hermione trailed away. He realised what she was about to do quickly and did her the rather belated courtesy of giving his back to her. She pulled her pyjama trousers down quickly. The pyjamas were folded haphazardly on the corner of the bed, left to be picked up by whoever the house elf on duty was. A quick tap of her wand at her hair was enough to smooth it down a little and she tied it at the nape of her neck with a ribbon.
She cut a piece of scroll with a flick of her wand and wrote a short message on it.
Out for a walk. There. At least Nurse Edelstein wouldn't start sending search teams after her.
"So!" she said with a forced cheerfulness as she fervently wished her blush to disappear as she stood next to him. "Why don't you give me a brief tour of the castle on this fine morning."
He offered her his arm. She stared at two seconds before she figured out what he'd expected her to do and took it. Alright, this is odd.
"And I presume that Madam Edelstein is not privy to this plan of yours?"
"I'll be discharged soon, preferably tomorrow, and a little walk the day before that isn't going to kill me."
"I noticed that you haven't answered my question."
"I noticed that we're still heading towards the door."
"Yes, but when a man is pulled to be an accessory to a crime, it is natural to wonder what exactly he's getting into."
"It's not a crime to take a walk around the castle, and maybe a little stroll on the grounds. Last time I checked, this isn't the Tower of London."
"I'd rather not have Madam Edelstein blaming me if you fall down."
She snorted as Tom opened the infirmary door for her. It was too easy to forget that gentlemanly behaviour was still expected in this time.
"I won't fall down. Don't pretend that I can't see you're not the slightest bit concerned. You can always say that I was too stubborn for you to stop, short of knocking me down unconscious, and that you finally accompanied me because you're worried."
He pretended to mull over her suggestions. "Knocking you unconscious does have a certain appeal."
"No, it doesn't, not now. I don't think you want to be seen carrying an unconscious witch in the Hogwarts corridors, do you?" She smiled, sweet and unconvincingly nonthreatening.
"I'll just say she'd recently fainted."
"And I'll be very cross with you that I'll keep our conversations on school subjects for a while."
They were at an impasse. For all his protestations, she knew that he had no problem at all with accompanying her on this little jaunt. He was merely concerned if it was going to land him in hot water with Nurse Edelstein. What she needed to do was to find a way to push his doubts back.
They'd gone down several levels and he was showing her the way to the Potions class and labs. She was not embarrassed to admit that she did lean on him significantly several times. If he was here as her guide and crutch, she might as well use him for support—her ego was not so fragile that she couldn't even admit that she was still recovering.
"You know what a bad plan is?" she asked.
Hermione could say with confidence that he was stronger than he looked, since even when he was supporting more than half of her body weight, his steps didn't falter.
His eyes flicked to her quickly, but otherwise, there was no change in his expression.
"What?"
"When it requires you to make a plan to be resurrected."
"Wouldn't that be a brilliant plan if you can manage it? To be able to live again?"
Hermione shook her head. "No, because it involved dying in the first place. So, no. Not a good idea. A better one would be to strengthen yourself to be less prone to a sudden case of death."
Tom made a non-committal sound, but she knew he was laying down the pieces of the puzzle she'd just given him carefully in his mind.
"Oh dear, maybe I misjudged my strength after all. If you were to knock me out now and drag me back to the infirmary, I absolutely don't mind." she said with mock despair. Though the tone of his voice was even, the side glance he gave her was sceptical.
"Yet you wouldn't know how to get to the library, would you?"
She brightened at the prospect. Even if she already knew how to get there, she needed to find a way to explain how she gained the knowledge. This was really convenient for her purpose.
"You're right, I almost forgot! Let's go to the library."
It was only as they slowly made their way there that she realised he had begun to gain an understanding of her character the same way she'd picked and unravelled his habits and particularities in her mind. She couldn't decide whether it was a good thing or a bad thing.
'-
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End Notes:
On Hogwarts' class, schedule and related addendum (just skip if you don't really care about or notice these details):
On Advanced Classes: The reason why I even considered that Hogwarts has advanced classes is because it's the premier institution of magical education in the UK, and is practically the only school of its level. As such, I don't think they'd make the decision to expel anyone easily, unless for truly extreme behaviour, so they can't make their curriculum too hard.
So, what's the solution for many rich, inbred pureblood spawn that just wants the 'Hogwarts graduate' stamp of approval on their forehead? Make classes that go on a casual pace, of course, and call that the 'normal' classes (God forbid the parents find out that their kids were going to be shuffled to a class that gives training wheels by default, or seemed to be easy). The ones who have enough brains and common sense to work through a normal curriculum can take 'Advanced' classes by fifth year. Those who worked hard and wanted to stretch themselves further (like poor scholarship kids), can start taking 'Advanced II' classes by sixth year.
I guess what I was trying to say is taking several classes with 'Advanced' tacked on its name when you're fifth year or above isn't a sign that you're a certified genius. There's a good component of smoke and mirrors involved here, ladies and gents. Smokes and mirrors. It's not as if we get many details of the classes for the upper years in the books itself as Harry was busier trying to stay alive.
'-
List of Stuff One Might Try to Look Up:
Grey Parrot or African Grey Parrot: Psittachus erithacus, a medium-sized, black-billed and predominantly grey parrot. The numbers are dwindling in the wild, so don't buy one if you don't know where he/she came from, since there are already breeders around the world. A highly intelligent species and one among the most often used as an example of nonhuman intelligence, they've been shown to perform at the cognitive level of 4 - 6 year-olds.
Add a magical species into their line and you can imagine just how they could become even smarter. Their intelligence meant they're also prone to behavioural problems if their owners can't stimulate that intelligence.
'-