Author's Note:

This is the promised other bonus chapter folks. Don't thank me yet until you finished reading it—you might yet come to regret that. Also, Happy Vesak Day for all the Buddhists celebrating! It's definitely a public holiday where I'm from.

'-

27 O Tempora O Mores

Hello prejudice, my old friend. Hermione sees a first-year Gryffindor with an odd gait. Tom dispenses unexpectedly good advice. In which Hermione realises that she does care. Hermione stays on her Path with her principles.

'-

They were going down on their last leg of the stairway when she noticed the student.

Something about his gait was off and drew her eye. He was small, probably a first or second year. He seemed to be walking up normally, but she could recognise the careful way he held himself and how not fluid his movements are. It was as if he was trying to avoid pulling a muscle—or triggering the pain from a current injury to his side, she thought.

Hermione had moved before she realised it, pulling her arm away from Tom's.

To his credit, he'd let her go and just opted to follow. She fell into step behind the young wizard, noticing his Gryffindor tie in a second.

"Going back from playing quidditch?" She asked.

He stared at her strangely. "First-years aren't allowed to bring their own brooms."

"Doesn't mean you can't borrow the school ones. It's certainly not being used now." Hermione said.

His face became more open as he considered the possibility with wonder. It was fascinating to see how simple finding joy seems to be for kids.

"We can borrow it?" He asked.

"Anyone can borrow it as long as they sign their names. You can play a pick-up game of quidditch that way," she said. "The older kids usually already brought their own brooms with them, so it's usually available for the younger years."

"That sounds nice."

"Oh, it is," she assured him. Tom was trailing a few steps behind her. She knew this since she'd seen him move. She let the silence fall for a few moments.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked.

"I'm fine."

"Don't just say it because everyone expects to hear it. It's alright to say you're not fine when you're hurt, you know?" She said.

The brunette could see his shoulders stiffening for a moment. He didn't answer her, but he didn't deny it either.

"I'm Hermione Curie," she said.

"…Adrian Smith." He stole a glance or two at her but didn't say anything. Sheesh, this kid is tough.

"Do you know that for some healing spells, it's a lot more effective when you cast them when the patient is wearing less layers of clothing than when they're bundled up?" She asked.

She watched him freeze before turning to her with the expression of a startled deer. She dearly hoped he wasn't planning on bolting.

"Do you?" She asked, still casual. "I'd like to cast several on you, but it wouldn't work as well compared to if we were to sit down somewhere and you can take your robe off."

"And please don't try to run. That would just be annoying for everyone involved, and I'm sure you don't want to annoy me." Tom had come up on her other side.

She didn't turn around, but she suspected that his smile was one of those that looked nice but actually really isn't. Poor Adrian just deflated at that. She wanted to tell Tom to stop scaring the poor kid, but he did make it easier. She could always put the poor kid at ease later.

"Right! It's nice to have your cooperation. Now, let's find a nice empty class to turn to at this landing, alright?"

'-

Adrian Smith was genuinely afraid when they herded him to an empty classroom. Hermione kept the door open because she worried that the poor kid was going to have a heart attack otherwise. She kept up a mild chatter, asking him the standard questions about what year he was in, and how he'd found Hogwarts so far. She'd informed him that she was a fifth-year, and the Slytherin prefect next to her was also a fifth-year.

When she asked him what his favourite drink was, and when she assured him that she can show him a shortcut to the kitchens to get some, she could see him starting to relax. It was enough for her to get him to sit down on a chair and coax him to open his shirt.

The bruises she saw there made her grit her teeth, but she kept her expression pleasant. She was only going to scare the poor kid otherwise. He was already swinging his legs a little as she cast healing spell after healing spell. It was mostly just Episkey, but there was a more complicated one she had to use when he winced as she carefully pressed his back. Internal bruising was beyond the reach of the usual Episkey.

The Gryffindor first-year insisted that he'd only fallen down the stairs. Hermione wasn't sure she can convince him to tell her otherwise. Heck, she healed him because she wasn't sure if she could persuade him to go to the infirmary. She'd assured him that she was done and he could button his shirt up. Yet she had no idea what she could do for the rest of his troubles.

It was Tom who spoke up when Hermione was worrying her lip with her teeth.

"You know that you have to strike back, don't you?" Tom asked.

Adrian looked up at him with the same startled expression Hermione had seen before. Tom was leaning against a wall, casually twirling his wand. "If you don't do that, they'll see you as easy picking for the rest of the year. Do you actually want to be a punching bag for a whole year?"

He stared at Tom uncertainly. "I thought prefects are supposed to tell us not to hit other people?"

Tom smiled. It was the sort of grin that a mouse sees before the snake clamps its jaws around its neck and breaks it.

"Who said anything about attacking? There are many ways life can get inconvenient. Someone's shoelaces might always be untied or always tied to each other. Any glass of milk they touch might instantly curdle, or all bottles of butterbeer turn to vinegar. Ink bottles refuse to close properly near them, though it is such a pity about all those scrolls in the bag, isn't it? Look at all the homework that has to be redone. It's such a shame."

Adrian's eyes were wide. "That's…"

"Accidents happen all the time." His voice was deceptively soft. "There happened to be a book in the library titled 'Beginner's Curses, Hexes and Jinxes'. Prove that you're not an idiot and learn the spells in it."

"Yes, Sir!"

He seemed amused to have earned the breathless respect of a Gryffindor firstie.

Well, Hermione really didn't want to condone revenge, but she wasn't sure if the Gryffindor prefects didn't already have too much on their hands to handle watching yet another first-year. And Tom was being helpful—much more than anything she could've done short of hovering over the poor kid all day. If she had to balance between Adrian's bruises and some other kids getting curdled milk, she would certainly go for the curdled milk.

"How do you know all that, Tom?" She asked curiously.

"I was a first-year once, Hermione," he answered. "The lions are fools enough to mark him so. The snakes, on the other hand, have never left a bruise. A first-year has to be very creative."

His expression was perfectly placid, as always. Unaffected. He was no less serene than a cloud passing over the world, it gave an ethereal air to his already striking looks, leaving observers with the impression of seeing some otherworldly prince.

Yet she couldn't do the same. She couldn't hold on to the same distance and disinterest even when she was aware that it was something already past. Hermione hadn't expected the surge of anger she'd felt, along with the futile wish that she'd been a first-year with him. Though what a tiny Hermione could do when she hadn't studied that much magic yet was questionable. It didn't change her wish. It didn't stop her from moving now.

"Hermione?"

He sounded surprised. She did just suddenly hug him without any warning. His bewilderment didn't stop him from closing his arms around her in turn. When did his presence became something solid and reliable for her? When did she found him a dependable partner, regardless of some of the differences in their opinions?

"I'm sorry," she said, knowing it was inadequate but having nothing else to offer.

"For what? It's not your fault." Tom said, still not quite understanding.

Hermione chuckled in surprise. She had thought mercy to be beyond him. She hadn't realised that it also meant that sympathy was beyond him, even if it was directed towards himself.

She pulled herself away. There was still Adrian to face for now.

"No, but I'm sorry you had to go through that. I wished so much that I was already at Hogwarts then, just so I can make them pay. I don't know what first-year me would have been able to do, but I'm sure I can come up with something when I have enough incentive," she said, her hand still on his upper arm.

It was his turn to be surprised, startled into stillness at his spot. There was a deeper emotion churning in his eyes, but she didn't have time to observe it right now. Hermione had returned to Adrian Smith again, kneeling in front of his chair to be of the same height. He had just finished putting on the rest of the layers of his Hogwarts uniform and was fiddling with his tie.

"If you still have troubles after this, find me in the Ravenclaw Tower. Look for Hermione Curie, don't forget that." She said.

"B-but I'm a Gryffindor." He was confused.

She stared at the ceiling and counted to three, exhaling a long and annoyed sigh. "And I'm a Ravenclaw and Tom's a Slytherin. We're in Hogwarts and there are four Houses here. I don't see a problem, Adrian. Do you?"

Perhaps it was her use of his first name that did it, but she could see him swallow with difficulty before he rubbed his eyes with the sleeves of his forearm.

Hermione spoke again. "Listen carefully. Don't let some foolish Ravenclaw ignore you either when you knock, just because you're a first-year. Tell them that you have a message to leave at Lucretia Black's dorm, and if someone wants to be responsible for the message not getting through, you're fine with it. Ask for their name. I can promise you that anyone would rather forward the message than getting called out for obstructing Lucretia. Do you remember all that?"

"Leave a message for Hermione Curie at Lucretia Black's dorm?"

"Good."

"Or, you can tell him to leave a message for one Hattie Perks, first-year Ravenclaw," Tom interrupted. He'd come up with a better alternative on the spot. "Ask her to pass it to Hermione and I'm sure Hattie would do exactly that."

Wow, I didn't think of that before, Hermione was slightly stunned at how fast he made connections.

Adrian Smith nodded firmly, with much more confidence than before.

"I'll remember."

He had stood up now, picking up his bag with an ease that Hermione didn't see before. It eased a weight in her chest. Instead of directly leaving, Adrian cautiously walked towards Tom. He stopped a metre away and gazed up solemnly.

"You don't look weak at all," he stated carefully.

Tom had a smirk on his face. It struck Hermione that Tom wasn't hiding who he was right now, that dangerous edge that he usually folded away was in full display. This also included that frisson of magic that had a noticeably dark component to it. It did not seem to discomfort the first-year at all

"Oh, I don't?"

The Gryffindor nodded. "You don't. Why would they pick you?"

"Well, most first-years would not have managed to look dangerous yet. To tell the truth, most first-years aren't dangerous." He replied.

"So, you became dangerous." Adrian mused.

"Oh yes, I certainly did."

The first-year stared at his shoes, lost in his thoughts for a while before he looked up again.

"Do you think…do you think you can teach me how?"

Tom laughed. The sound was free and captivating, but it was not exactly safe. It was a call of the wild.

"Are you sure you'd want to learn from me?"

Tom stared him down, but the Gryffindor first-year didn't waver, resolutely staring back.

"I will promise you power, but it will not be easy. I'm not part of your pride, little lion. I don't forgive people just because they say they're sorry. I don't let people walk away from their promise, just because they're having second thoughts. Once you're with me, you're with me." The last words were said in a low voice, implying a promise tied with something more than just words, perhaps with blood and magic.

"I do, however, value loyalty and obedience." He finished, as calm as he'd been.

Hermione found herself trying to stop Adrian by reflex before she held herself back. What was she going to do, anyway? It was clear that no one had seen what happened to him in Gryffindor Tower. She'd already considered that the prefects might have too much on their hands, didn't she? And Tom was with her. He wasn't going to chance madness and death via dark arts—he liked it a lot less than she did.

Even if he was sounding really like a dark lord right now.

"I do. Want to learn from you, I mean. I do." Adrian confirmed.

She had a feeling that Pettigrew wasn't going to be Tom's first Gryffindor follower anymore. That is, if he was ever that in the first place.

"Find a Slytherin first-year called…hmm, what was his name, again? Rosier. There's a first-year by the name of Jonah Rosier. Tell him that Tom Riddle sent you to join. He'll tell you what to do."

"I…" The Gryffindor's throat seemed to close up. Tom was watching him with the magnanimity that a king afforded to his subjects easily, simply to show that he can.

"Thank you."

"Why, you're welcome, Adrian." He patted the first year on his shoulder.

Standing so much straighter now and with a far more confident nod, Adrian Smith awkwardly took his leave from Tom, pausing by Hermione to thank her and bid his goodbye as well.

"So," Hermione said, "that happened."

Tom pushed back against the wall and stalked towards her. The classroom door closed with a wave of his hand. They were face-to-face now, and she found her hands over his lapels without a thought.

"I was wondering," he began, "whether you truly wish to have been a first-year at Hogwarts. You do realise that it's already history, don't you?"

She could feel that he'd been holding the question back for a while as he stared at her with a weighted expectation.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Yes, Tom. Yes, I very much know that it's past, that I can't change it. I know that it doesn't even need to be changed because obviously, you're very much fine right now." She read out all her own objections at the top of her head easily because she'd already tried listing them to herself. It still didn't work that much better either at easing her concern.

She raised her hand to the side of his face and their gazes met. His expression was completely open to her right now, with none of his personas and pretence. The most dominant she could see was bafflement. Tom still couldn't understand why.

"It doesn't stop me from wishing it all the same, from wanting to be a tiny Hermione, sending jinxes and hexes at them. I'll send ones so embarrassing that they'd rather not tell who the culprit is when they reach the infirmary. I'm sure little me can find an explosive diarrhoea curse and rash-in-suspicious-places hexes somewhere while she rationalises that she's doing this to help her friend, so it's alright."

"Tiny Hermione?" He was enchanted at the image. She sniffed.

"Obviously I was short as a first year and I'm sure you weren't tall either. Look, I know my annoyance doesn't make sense. It's just something that you feel when you care about someone, alright? You hate to see them hurt. You want to destroy the source of their pain and make them feel better, even if it was something that happened in—"

He kissed her and this time it was all fervour and fire, as if the very flames of life would die within him if he did not feed it with her own spark. And oh, he certainly fed her spark, caressed her with a devoted desperation of a man ensuring the dryad of his dreams was not merely his delusions.

It should have been telling for her, then, that she understood his sharp gasps as he laid his forehead on her shoulder while she held him close. It was the breathing of someone recently resurfaced from a deep dive and just enjoying air again. It was the relieved exhale of Robinson Crusoe when he found out that he was not alone on the island, and therefore not fated to slowly drive himself mad without another human being to talk to.

It's impossible to truly understand what loneliness is like unless you've had company before.

Hermione was beginning to suspect that Tom had thought that it was completely normal to make your way through life alone, untouched by anyone or anything around you and connecting with nothing either. To find out that it didn't have to be that way was an understandable shock.

It should have been telling that she wanted to keep holding him close, to let her hands wander and caress with a gentleness that many people in her time would say was undeserved. Well, she could have chosen to just leave far away and let the British wizarding world sort out its own problems, after all. She'd done her part. Yet she didn't. Hermione made her choice to stay and fight again.

He who fights monsters should look into it that he himself does not become a monster, Nietzsche had warned. Hermione knew her limits well enough by now that she'd so far successfully held herself back from becoming a witch that ended up devouring the land with destruction and death. Yet she was only too aware that you cannot work closely with someone and remain indifferent to them or their fate.

People become attached.

"Does this mean that you've decided to stay, Hermione?" He asked.

Hermione couldn't help stiffening at first, before she forced herself to relax.

"What do you mean?"

He chuckled. She could feel the vibrations easily as they were still in each other's embrace.

"You're not a very good liar. I could see it when you were still in the infirmary and recovering your strength. It did not matter that you were transferred to Hogwarts with all your appropriate papers following. It did not matter that you had nothing but the clothes on your back and your wand. If you had found a clue about those who had attacked you, if you thought it was a better idea to leave and hunt, you would have done that without a second thought."

Tom stepped back, and her gaze met his dark blue one. He was calm and assured; it made it harder for her to deny his words. Hermione had sneaked out of the infirmary at night a few days before she was discharged to see what she could pick up from the location that she'd woken up in at the Forbidden Forest.

She had found nothing.

There were no recent steps but hers walking out. There were no residual traces of strong magic around the place, and certainly nothing like anyone apparating on Hogwarts grounds. There goes an easy way to start her investigation.

"You've told me yourself—you do not fear death." He said, simply.

"You said that you will always fight a dark lord whenever you find him. You know Grindelwald is one, you take a dim view of his supporters and sympathisers, and you can fight. You are more than capable holding your own against a few extremists and even more than that if you did not face them head on. You are aware of the fight against him in the continent. To take the final conclusion that you can easily leave Hogwarts to fight on your own when you think that it's necessary, is merely an exercise in logic."

"But I've said that I'll assist you, and that's as good as a promise," she murmured.

"And I'm sure you've realised just as easily that technically, you would still be assisting me if you choose to fight Grindelwald directly, right now, in Europe." He answered, easily seeing the true implications she'd left within her own words.

How did he see that?

It is true that she did not exactly lie about who she is, nor did she hide what she thought was important to her. But most would not have thought that as much as she loved learning, as much as she loved being in Hogwarts again, she had never considered being here indispensable. She understood Evariste's restlessness and the French Gryffindors' rowdiness. She could sympathise with Sigmund's prompt agreement and the Germans' thirst for action.

"I'll ask again, Hermione. Have you decided to stay?" Tom Riddle asked.

Would she leave now? Take off to the continent and directly help some of the teams searching for Grindelwald's base? Fight his hexenmeisters where she encountered them? Would she accept the possibility that she might have to use fatal spells? Sooner or later, she will kill someone in her battles.

He who fights monsters should look into it that he himself does not become a monster.

No, she knew how to stay away from that slippery slope. She, Harry and Ron had always helped each other that way, to remind themselves of their humanity. It was why she could appreciate Luna's chatter now (it was soothing), or gardening with Neville. It was even why she didn't mind occasionally having tea with Ginny and Daphne, and then listen to the Slytherin act outraged at all the blasphemies against fashion and good sense that every other passer-by was committing (it was always hilarious). Ginny would insist that Hermione update her wardrobe and let her help at it. It was how she could even listen to Draco complain about the most recent idiotic Act he had to read on the Wizengamot. Draco, one has to admit, has complaining down to an art form—he was even witty about it.

…but they're not here, are they? She was alone. If she went off on her own to Europe, would she be able to hold on to her humanity that easily? To remember that all the fight is to save people and that the killing is incidental? That it was not her life's purpose or achievement to be able to kill as many people as quickly as possible?

(Wait, why did I even think that? I dread to know the memories that I've forgotten…)

We're not alone, a younger, more optimistic part of her reminded Hermione. We're really not.

She already has friends who would not leave her alone here, friends who would gladly support her. Then, there's also the enigmatic wizard standing in front of her.

Hermione had a feeling that if she were to step up to his side, he would never let her go. 'Possessive' was a word too light to describe him. (Oh, we can always leave, her wiser, cannier self that she calls 'Unspeakable Hermione' said, we can destroy him, kill him, and then leave. That option always exists).

Yet she already found it difficult to do that, hadn't she? Especially when he was well avoiding the worst depths of the dark arts. He wasn't killing people and now she was just going to kill him because she wanted to leave easily, without fuss? To kill simply because it was convenient, wasn't that the first step towards being a Dark Lady? He still argued, of course, and she argued right back, but he also listened.

Attachments form.

Tom, to his credit, gave her time. Yet she was sure she'd seen something new in his eyes; a glimmer of hope.

"What if I chose to stay?" She asked, giving her curiosity a free rein.

"Well, I'm not sure I can offer you anything you deserve, considering that I don't have a penny to my name." Tom casually said. Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow. Technically, he was an orphan, yes, but it wasn't as if he hadn't been pulling the strings of several pureblooded Slytherins already.

"But there is this wizarding world that's been ripe for the taking for a while." He added, no less flippant. She couldn't help the smile that was starting to break through her reserve.

"Is there, now?"

"Yes. We can take it, the two of us together."

She would have replied as flippantly if she hadn't seen him staring at her without wavering. It was the patience of a believer on a pilgrimage, endless and well-tried, as they waited for something immeasurable. He believed in his own abilities and genius, she knew, with a strength of faith that towered over any mere zealot. He took it as a matter of fact that the world was his and that he'll take it one day. Yet she had a feeling that there was a part of that faith that he accorded to her too, though she had no idea where to begin to measure it.

"You have to know, I won't ignore people looking down on muggleborns." She said.

He huffed. "Obviously. I'm not blind, Hermione. What are those first-years you were collecting earlier otherwise?"

"My background would give you problems."

He waved it away. "Your background is whatever we'll make it to be."

She scoffed. "How do you change muggleborns?"

"I'm sure your parents are muggleborns who're descended from several generations of squibs," Tom said as easily. One really should admire the speed of his reasoning and his mental flexibility. Though his ability to lie without even blinking might be a bit concerning to most.

"The wizarding houses don't always track them beyond the second or third generation."

Hermione blinked. "You're taking this far easier than I'd thought."

"I did read about Mendelian genetics. Being at Hogwarts is no excuse to be uncultivated," was his dry reply. "Besides, power is power, no matter the source."

"Your inner group leans toward pureblood supremacy," she pointed out.

"Always change the bait according to the fishes you actually wish to catch," he replied. The brunette stared at him in disbelief.

"You…you were faking it?" She asked, dismayed. He didn't lose his smirk.

"Faking is such an ugly word, it's so…déclassé. I knew what they wanted and offered them their dreams, Hermione. I can be whatever they wanted me to be, and I am always what I needed to be to win."

"You built a persona to sell to them." She stared at him as realisation sets in.

"It's not really that hard to create yet another self and step into it if you've always been trying them out all your life." He smiled and it really was very charming. The irony of it was that it was probably one of the few times that he meant it—he was proud of his skills as any artist would be.

In that moment, she saw a young Tom Riddle; the orphan who did not quite fit in with his detachment from the others. He does not understand them, he could not be them and the other children disliked and feared him for his difference. He knew he could not stay that way if he did not want to face their suspicions all his life.

Yet he was intelligent and highly observant. Thus, what he did was to perfect his imitation.

Hermione spluttered "You-you… That pureblood agenda of yours would have cost many muggleborns their lives!"

"And if I were to take up the cause of the muggleborns, Hermione, do you think they would not call for an overhaul of the Ministry selection system? Like the one Minister Spencer-Moon is working on, perhaps? Why, let us even question the competence of the staff that is already employed now! I have no doubt that there are many purebloods that are incompetent in the Ministry, but if you were to fire half of the people working there immediately, how many families have you just consigned to losing their income? You should also remember that these people have not the slightest idea of how to live in modest economy."

Tom slid some of her errant curls back behind her left ear.

"It is certainly not a quick death, but is a slower one through poverty better?"

"They wouldn't do that…"

"Oh, give the average man power, and you'll soon turn them into tyrants. How did Robespierre's republicans fare when they held power, by the way? They had such wonderful values too; they wish to avoid embroiling the state in excessive wars, to push for universal male suffrage. Values many people still believe in even now." Tom's grin was sharper than a knife.

"Did those idealists became wise and enlightened rulers?" He asked.

It was a rhetorical question for both of them.

Robespierre started the Reign of Terror, yet he had been such an idealistic young man that his nickname was l'Incorruptible, 'the Incorruptible'. None was more surprised about his violent drive once they've risen to power than the moderate allies he sent to the guillotine himself.

"The fastest way to unite a group of people, is to give them a common enemy." Tom said.

"Whichever path you will take, you will always find an enemy for the people," she stated. Hermione had seen the dark side of his sentence all too easily, to understand his methods for herself.

He shook his head.

"I don't find anything. Everyone already know who their enemies are. After all, they always insist on telling me about them, complaining about all these people who don't understand and are making their life difficult. If only someone would come and help stop these people from being so troublesome…"

"Fear," Hermione breathed out slowly. "You were always going to use fear, uncertainty and doubt, aren't you?"

Tom acknowledged her with a brief nod. "It's the easiest of various strings to pull. It certainly doesn't mean I cannot use others—one must always be flexible."

It was all…it was all a game to him, wasn't it? All these strings crisscrossing the world and people—he wanted to be able to control most of them, and so he entered this game. It did not matter which of the puppets he'd had to cut away. The games might change, the puppets that followed him and moved to follow his orders might change, the puppets whose strings were cut and were thus eliminated might also change. He will simply keep up.

"Adapt. Evolve. That's your byword," she whispered. "You easily change your form to best overcome any obstacle in your way."

He looked surprised but pleased.

"Why, yes. Certainly."

To him, all that mattered was that he ended at the top.

"I thought someone who loves nature as you do can appreciate that." He said.

All was expendable except for him. His magnetic smile was almost painful to see right now.

He acted with a single-minded determination and skill that she can't help but objectively admire. He was still young and his actions could stand to be more efficient—but even then, his moves were already elegant.

(Just like his appearance.)

She can almost imagine a hundred years from his rise, there would be a magical oil painting in the style of the old masters as a centrepiece in a museum. The Portrait of the Tyrant as a Young Man. There will be a battlefield in the background, with carrion birds circling for flesh above. But most would not even notice, too distracted by the charming and gallant figure sitting against a stone, a scroll and quill at hand. They would fail to notice the significance of his armour, the blood stains on his attire, and only see the poem he was writing and the interesting perspective he could give them on past eras.

A new generation would venerate him, would exalt his legacy.

"You're a work of art, aren't you?" She asked dryly.

"Hermione?"

"You are. Even if it was the art of manipulation and destruction." Her voice was flat.

Tom was staring at her quizzically now, at her odd tone, at the warring emotions playing out across her face. He noticed when sombreness draped its heavy cowl over her shoulders and stepped forward to follow the inclination to relieve the weight from her. Yet when she raised her head, she saw him pause with uncharacteristic caution as he found that he could not read her easily.

She wasn't surprised; she was unsure whether she herself knew what she felt.

"Hermione."

"I do care about you, you know? Perhaps even more than I care for most people at Hogwarts now. Perhaps more than is wise." She said, frankly, uncaring that it was more truth than she would ever be ready to tell.

She savoured the surprised expression that lit his face. It made him look younger, like an actual teenager for once.

Her smile was bittersweet, an uncommon union of both yearning and regret. She kept no pretence and had no fear of him. He could not help but lift his fingers to try to trace such fleeting wonder of which he was the sole cause, taking another step closer. Her lips parted slightly at his touch.

Hermione would not lie to herself, for any reason. Do not think dishonestly, Musashi had stated—it was interesting that he did not say do not be dishonest or be truthful. To be dishonest with someone is to choose to gain something by cheating them, and at the same time opening yourself for their possible retaliation. If you are harmed in return, that is simply the price to pay for walking the path of the swindler. But to think dishonestly was to cheat yourself, with not even a temporary benefit of short-term profit She was also all too aware that a clear sight was necessary to maintain accuracy for someone forecasting the future.

"You cared?" He asked softly—incredulous but intrigued, he took in every inch of her face with an avaricious focus. It would be unnerving if she didn't already know that particular abnormal twist of his mind.

"I tried not to, but I should've known it was impossible."

"Really? Why is that?"

She shrugged, much more nonchalant than she actually felt.

"I always end up caring. Always. Apparently, even when it's someone with a soul as amoral as yours."

"Should you tell me this?" He asked, curious but not caring either way. His touches were as light as a feather over her skin as he memorised every shiver and reaction. There was still that covetous glint in his eyes as he filed away in mind all the little things that affected her most.

"Why shouldn't I?"

Yet Hermione's principles and ideals were also a part of her. What once might have been the brittle naïveté of a schoolgirl with extensive book knowledge had been tempered already by the dilemmas of the real world into steel. Her ideals, even more than her wand, was the weapon that she wielded against the chaos and injustices of the world. Her principles were what allowed her to clearly see that she had not let any power she wielded seduce her towards tyranny.

Hermione could not abandon her own Path without losing herself to become someone else entirely.

She stepped into his arms and kissed him without her qualms in the way, without the usual restraint of her common sense or even her old self-doubt. She kissed with the blissful surrender of a siren spellbound by her storm of sentiments. It did not matter that she'd sunk his ship, if later she'd smash the sailor she'd saved against the sharp stones. It did not matter if he were to sober up soonest and stab her for his own survival. In this second, she showed him the splendour of her soul's desires, sincere and spilling forth ceaselessly.

How does a mortal man defend himself against an assault spun from his dreams?
He doesn't—he succumbs.

And even Tom Riddle was still mortal.

When she drew back, he had somehow sat down on the teacher's chair and she was on his lap. Her heart beat as if she'd just run half a mile and his breathing was audible to her. She laid her forehead gently against his with her eyes half-closed. She was all too aware of his hands clasping her with care; the way any man would consciously hold a goddess in his arms.

"If I let myself, I can easily fall in love with you, Tom Marvolo Riddle. But I think you must know this first. I'll fight to save people. To send or condemn many of them to senseless deaths would be beyond me."

She voiced her thoughts with shaking breath.

"I can't do it—not for myself, not for anyone."

With one last kiss, she stood up and left him in the empty classroom without looking back.

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End Notes:

I'm actually pretty proud of this chapter and its ending.

*Author ducks tomatoes and other rotten vegetables thrown*

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List of Stuff One Might Try to Look Up:

Musashi – Miyamoto Musashi: (Japanese History, Eastern Philosophy) c. 1584 – June 13 1645. Born as Shinmen Takezō, he is a Japanese swordsman, rōnin and philosopher who rose to prominence at the end of Japan's Warring States period (戦国時代 – Sengoku Jidai, 1467 – 1603 CE). Hermione quotes the English version of one line from one of his two books (both famous), The Book of Five Rings. Also famous for having an undefeated record in his 61 duels. The impression of him that I get from reading his work is that he's a pretty chill and straightforward guy, if sparing with words.

O tempora o mores: (Latin) an observation made by Cicero. Translates literally as 'Oh, the times! Oh, the customs!' but more accurately as 'Oh, what times! Oh, what customs!' or alternatively 'Alas the times, and the manners'. The themes of his orations when he says this is deploring the degradation of the current age compared to the previous one. The current vernacular equivalent of this would be "Kids these days. Back in my day…"

Wikipedia tells me the exact points he did this is in the fourth book of his second oration against Verres, and First Oration against Catiline.

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