Author's Note:
I just want to put my head on a pillow and sleep for a straight week. My sleeping schedule has been messed up for a while. Hopefully, there are no more glaring typos/grammatical slips. After the next chapter, I'll take a bit of a breather to write the closing chapters.
Last leg of the Second Arc, folks. Polish your hypotheses and place your bets, people.
EDIT: Quick poll: Would it be better for you if I update the next chapter tomorrow or next week? Updating tomorrow would mean people would forget less about the details in this chapter, but that meant that there'd be more time-gap between chapter 60 and 61. Updating next week meant keeping the update schedule steadier...but the downside is that, some readers would've forgotten some of the details.
Choices, choices...
To Imanon: I certainly haven't forgotten your reviews. The accuracy of your hypotheses can be checked based on what transpired and is revealed in these last chapters of the Second Arc.
'-
59 An Eventful Hogsmeade Weekend (and some Personal History)
The preparations for a feast. Glimpses of a Hogsmeade garden party. An old beginning – some personal history pertaining to a certain Slytherin witch.
'-
It was sometime later after her brunch with Auguste and the 'casual chat' that was lunch with some of the people of the Society that they really set to work.
Tom had assured Hermione that the abandoned house they'd found two weeks ago was now theirs to use as they see fit. If it was any other time, she might be interested in figuring out what exactly he meant, but standing in front of the ramshackle building with its broken drains and falling eaves, it looked like an addict too far gone to put in some effort at appearing at least normal and healthy. All she could see through narrowed eyes was a home improvement project.
Earlier, he'd casually mentioned that he was planning a Society meeting (feast?) tomorrow, and he'll trust her to prepare the place-this rundown, rat-infested place with holes in its floors to go with the leaking roof. Hermione had rolled her eyes at that but didn't say no. She did complain that she wished he'd actually told her about it earlier this week—they wouldn't need to pull all the stops today if they'd been preparing for several days!
As it was, following the legal papers could be done later, she only had a day to pull a small miracle.
Whoever thought that Hogsmeade weekends were mostly for fun and relaxation hadn't met Tom Riddle.
The large backyard was just as she remembered seeing the last time around as she carefully picked her way through it. It was filled with brambles and overrun by scrub of heathers, junipers, frostweed and hawthorn fighting and strangling each other for every inch of open soil; where each plant began and the other end was not always clear. Tom had frankly said to the Knights that they were to follow Hermione's orders if she needed anything. Between Abraxas, Gallus, Pendleton and Starkey, he tapped Starkey to be her right-hand man for the job before he was off back to Hogwarts, Abraxas and Gallus following right behind him through some unseen signal.
Muttering imprecations under his breath, Starkey had gone off to who-knows-where right now. She was unconcerned in finding the Knight because there were already many things she needed to do (and could do) on her own, anyway. Since Tom said that most of the Knights already knew what to do, she decided to ask first.
"What would you do, Pendleton?"
"The usual."
"Which is?"
"Security. I'll be erecting an anti-apparition ward except for people who'd been keyed to it, as well as warding against several other things." He answered. "You can probably do it as well, if not better, but I don't think we have anyone who is as good as you in transfigurations."
Pendleton had gestured to the dilapidated house. He had a point, she thought with a sigh. It wasn't just plain repair they needed to do, which could be taken care of with a group of people casting Reparo left and right. No, there were some changes and redecoration that needed to be done too.
His position also explained the large glass bottle at his hip whose leather straps crossed his torso—it was the vivid carmine of arterial blood and swirled with a glimmer of fairy dust. The pale Slytherin was carrying what she'd thought as an artist's bag, but which she now corrected in her mind to be a set of warder's paintbrushes. The more traditional would have carried carving implements too, but she supposed outright carving runes would take too much time for what would just be a temporary ward. It was far more practical instead to just paint the sigils or casually hack them with some cutting curse.
"Do you need my blood to add power to the ward?" Hermione had asked. Pendleton abruptly stilled, taut as the string of a drawn bow. She clarified further.
"Considering the colour of the ink, my guess is that you're going to use some sort of blood ward as the base. Which isn't a bad method to strengthen a temporary ward."
His head dropped down; his attention apparently caught by his own shoes. She'd thought she could hear him taking a long steadying breath before he spoke up.
"Hermione?"
"Yes?"
"I don't really know what you discuss with Tom, or how your previous wizarding circle in Lillehammer was like." His voice was soft.
"Kopervik," she'd corrected. "Lillehammer's was just where I got tested."
She would not be Hermione if she didn't keep track of her own backstory. He'd shrugged, and she was sure he did one careful exhale with it.
"As you say. What I meant to say, please consider the aversion of us mere mortals the next time you're about to mention…" he gazed around thoughtfully then before his pale grey eyes met hers once more. "…powering magic with…such a sanguine source. You never know who might happen to listen."
"It's just some old protective magic!"
Her complaint came out more out of reflex than anything, but even thinking for a few seconds made her realise his point and she nodded grudgingly. Hermione was slightly impressed at his very indirect warning about mentioning blood magic in public. It did nothing for her impatience, though.
"Well? It doesn't change my question, does it?" She asked. "More power wouldn't hurt."
Pendleton soon relented and admitted that yes, if she didn't mind, he would appreciate a donation from her. This was said after yet another look at their surrounding before he handed her a vial and a knife. He took a smaller vial and pulled out his own knife from his pocket for himself. Both of them had sat down on the grass, generally aiming to be inconspicuous as they chatted, but there was something to Pendleton's alert gaze and her own habitual scan of her environment that would not be missed by someone who knew what to look for.
Hermione had the absurd idea that someone from the 90s seeing them and suspecting that a drug deal was taking place. Which was not exactly far, since him asking for her blood was an exchange that would probably horrify a lot of people in her current present. Her amused huff earned a faint smile from him.
They talked for a while about the type of ward he'd decided on and discussed (sometimes argued) about the details while she discreetly let her blood flow to the small vial. He pulled out a scroll out of a tube he carried and cast Finite Incantantem on it. It was a surprise to see the parchment expand after that, until she realised that this was probably its actual full size.
The Ravenclaw had started scanning the ward design the moment it was unfurled. She followed ever finer details once the smaller letters turn readable.
"Medieval Runes," she murmured after a while, finally identifying it after trying to read it as futhorc earlier and failing even as she rotated through the languages for it that she knew. "What is it about you Slytherins and Medieval Runes? Did you know that this is also Tom's preference other than Older Futhark? And we can ignore the Older Futhark segments altogether simply because it's so fundamental that it's hard to construct a ward without it."
"I think that should be obvious, Hermione."
"Really?"
"I can write the entire ward in Latin without having to resort to too many phrasebooks and dictionaries and maybe mangling at least one or two phrases. Not all of us are polyglots by nature." His answer was dry and self-deprecating. Hermione blushed and shook her head.
"I'm not exactly a polyglot either. Still, look, the closer connection that futhorc has with Older Futhark also allows the ward to draw greater power into it from nature."
"Why did you think I made the design this big? It's sturdier this way."
At least he did incorporate her woven-layer approach, even if the weaving wasn't as thorough and extensive as she preferred (no, she was not comparing anyone's design with Luna's, not unless they were a Master Warder themselves. It would be unfair). The vial was almost full. She healed her arm, cleaned it and then closed the vial before handing it to him.
Pendleton gave her his quiet thanks before giving her a smaller vial with his own blood in exchange.
She nodded her appreciation, even as her estimation of him rose by a notch. This wouldn't be the first time he dealt with blood magic or powered a ward with blood, as he was already familiar with the rules of exchange. If you ask for someone's blood, it was only polite to give yours in return as a guarantee. It shows just how much you're worth trusting, since if they found out that someone attacked them using the blood they've given you, that person can counterattack using the vial of your blood that they have.
The pale blond went on his way to set up the ward they'd discussed.
Starkey returned sometime later as she had begun to uproot some of the thorny blackberry bushes along with other plants—she recognised him even before seeing him by the stomp of his boots.
To her surprise, he came dragging three wizards with him. She'd come to recognise the two boulder-like Slytherins, to use Tom's expression, and a shifty-looking wizard that she was surprisingly not familiar with considering that she'd been practically joining the Knights alongside Tom. It suggested that the wizard had been generally absent before—not exactly the mark of a diligent underling, is it? (He would be…Yaxley, she supposed).
"Right. What do we need to do now?" Vespasian asked outright.
Hermione stepped in front of them and took charge with ease.
"Clearing the field—I'll add markers to make it obvious. Also, no cleaning charm of any type works because technically, many of these bushes are normal garden plants. They're not invasive species or weeds. Cutting charms work well enough for the beginning, but you need a different one to pull out the roots. Ask me if anyone have no idea which spells would be good for that—I can show you."
"Any questions?"
Abraxas' minions generally blinked and nodded. The fourth wizard seemed to have a lot of questions he was swallowing back. Starkey had stepped forward from the line and turned around to face them.
"That's clear enough, right? Everyone?" Many headshakes followed quickly. "Good. Get moving now, then. Chop, chop!"
There was a hint of menace in his voice. For all her ease with him, she'd only truly paid attention to him now and the cold fervour in his eyes as he tackled his task reminded her a little of Tom. She still was not the slightest bit afraid of him, or worried about what he'd do, and it did confuse her for a bit.
Only a bit, though, since there were still too many things to do.
A grumbling Starkey might not enjoy cutting and clearing the grounds, but he never second-guessed her order and he kept a rather close supervision of the other three wizards, freeing her to just leave them to it and move on to other things, like casting Reparo on the outside walls just in case (as the spell was good enough to fix the Coliseum, it was certainly good enough for an English village house).
Abraxas came barrelling out of the house sometime later, (a working floo-connection was the first thing the Malfoy heir installed in the house), colour high on his cheeks.
"VES!" Abraxas yelled.
"WHAT?" Starkey shouted back without concern. If Melchior was here, he'd be embarrassed at both of their behaviours, especially when in front of Hermione—Hermione was only amused at how utterly unconcerned both of them were at her presence. They'd probably even forgot she was there.
"Did you see Brutus and Pierce—for Merlin's sake, Ves! I needed extra hands!"
"Oh, stuff it, Brax. You're handling the feast, right?"
"You're outright stealing men—"
"There's enough hands for you, courtesy of the house elfs! Hell, call some of yer home elfs if you need to."
"Doesn't give you the right to—"
"Would've been easy for you. Hogwarts elfs can't exactly work outside Hogwarts without a teach's permission, could they?" He exhaled hard but not backing down. "No other way around this, I'm afraid. Hermy'll need more men more than you do."
They went on for a bit, but Vespasian had successfully overridden more than one of Abraxas' objections. He was as sharp with his tongue as he was on his feet.
"Bugger it. Bugger you." Abraxas cursed,
"No thanks." Ves retorted just as fast.
The blonde snorted. They'd been staring each other down for a long silent moment. "You know I'm not doing this for you, right? I can do it for Hermione, I suppose."
The other Slytherin's expression was unusually serious. He didn't even take the opportunity to gloat over managing to steal Abraxas' minions. His answering nod was slow and sombre.
"Yeah, I know."
Abraxas let out an aggrieved sigh as he rubbed his face with his hands, but he moved on anyway. He dumped scrolls Hermione had been looking for on a nearby table, and went around to leave a word or two to Mulciber and Parkinson. By his expansive gestures towards her and the twin boulders very-unsubtle turning in her direction and staring wordlessly, he was telling them to follow her instead of Ves.
"Cross me one more time and I'll make sure you regret it," Abraxas warned Vespasian with a dark look. There was something a little too overemphasised about his body language, though, rather operatic… Vespasian rolled his eyes.
"Merlin, I know! Shove off, already!"
"Consider this your last warning!"
"Yeah, yeah. Heard that before. I'd rather be gutted than listen to more whining." He grumbled.
The blonde wizard took off to Hogwarts once more in a huff, his robes flaring impressively behind him before he shut the door with a bang. She facepalmed. Good, God. Now, she was almost certain she knew where Draco got his drama king tendencies from—Lucius had always struck her as far chillier than his father.
Hermione had four purebloods hanging on her words that she could order around for home improvement and handiwork purposes. It was, odd, especially after the first few times Yaxley wanted to complain something was stopped by Ves giving him a warning glare. The long-faced Slytherin was less sluggish and more awed once he saw her showing them how to do the transfigurations necessary to set up several permanent pavilions in the garden within a day. It was easier than it looked since Abraxas had given her several blueprints for one when she asked, courtesy of his family library. All she had needed to do was choose the appropriate one and start following the instructions.
Rufus Carrow had popped up later and hung awkwardly at the edges, his reddish-brown hair the first thing that caught her attention. He may seem wary of her, but whatever it was that she needed that they didn't already have in the empty house, he passed the word easily to Abraxas who was…apparently in the Hogwarts kitchen and piling requests on the house elfs. Other times, he brought things that Abraxas or Tom sent her way. Reference books she asked for to clarify things she didn't immediately get from Abraxas' blueprints fall under things he ended up playing fetch for.
Robbe Rowle only showed up once, and she supposed it was mostly by accident—he'd outright paled and scrambled back into the house and she hadn't ever seen him again. It was absolutely no problem at all for her since she didn't give a damn about him either. She couldn't promise she wouldn't be tempted to hex him if he started being sleazy again, as she too had gone to Hogwarts to ask for help from some of her classmates and some of them happened to be witches (frankly, she didn't trust that he'd behave around women).
Gallus came in late in the afternoon with the entire list of who had been invited, with Tom only popping for a moment to check before going off again. Gallus' task seemed to pertain to socialising like mad over last week, hinting about the shindig and cryptically dropping suggestions that people might want to rearrange their plans from Sunday because The Society might have something in the works and then actually refraining from explaining whenever someone was too curious.
It was…weird.
Hermione had never considered that not giving enough information about a social event actually made people want to attend more, but Gallus only laughed at that.
"Don't you get it, Hermione?" He asked, his expression genial. "That is enough information."
"What, a party whose very existence can't even be confirmed?" She asked, sceptical.
"That a group whose star is rising are holding some sort of event tomorrow."
"That's not enough!"
He shrugged, still smiling, "and yet that's all they need."
Abraxas was back in the evening and demonstrated that he had taken command over both the Nott and Malfoy house-elfs. The house-elfs, in turn, had sculpted the garden into something worthy of Balmoral or other palaces.
That was on Saturday.
On Sunday, the four pavilions stood like finely-crafted isles of the four seasons.
One was a refreshing light green and yellow with bushes whose leaves were pale and new paired with gently-trailing ivies. The second was orange and red, a profusion of flowers filled the pots on the bannisters and their fragrance hung as a festive screen in the air. The third was golden and brown; two potted maples forming a gate for it entrance, the atmosphere inside was relaxing and tranquil. The fourth was white and silver, its walls trimmed with the lace of frost, two swans carved from ice sat on display like silent guardians, cool and unaffected by the air.
(How all the out-of-season plants were there was another story, mostly involving Hermione trying to recall the names of her Advanced Herbology classmates and asking for Sprout's advice. That was how she'd ended up working with the quiet but kind Helene Girard over Saturday afternoon—a river of freckles crossed her nose, as charming as the Milky Way. The sixth-year was one of the few low-profile French Hufflepuff).
Now, food was laid in a magnificent spread down two trestle tables and laughter could be heard in the air. She didn't know where Gallus had found the musicians either.
"I didn't know there's a place like this in Hogsmeade. You did amazing work, Hermione." Andrew had expressed his admiration. He had a way of lighting up the room with his smile with the warmth and openness of his expression. Her mood lifted easily and Hermione beamed at him.
"Why, thank you! It's a nifty place, isn't it? I like to think that it's quite a find. More butterbeer?"
"No thanks for now. Mine's still half-full."
"We do hope you're having a good time, Andrew." Tom came up from behind her and to her right. She could feel his thumb barely grazed her waist. Her spine tingled slightly and she slowly cleared her throat—frankly, an outright touch would've been easier to ignore. "Last I saw, Amelia Bones were discussing some DMLE opportunities with Emma at the summer pavilion. You might be interested in their topic."
Hermione did not understand why Andrew's smile had dimmed slightly; his expression rueful as his attention flickered between his two hosts.
"Yes, I did. Amelia and Emma, you say? Well, lead the way, Tom."
As the two wizards walked off, chatting about nothing in particular, other people greeted them. What she did note with some amused interest was Tom's skilled footwork for somehow being just slightly out of reach from a casual shoulder grab from a pureblood Hufflepuff (his name escapes her right now), and how the Hufflepuff only managed a vague pat with the distance. Even Timaeus' passing arm only caught him at his wrist instead of his entire lower arm as Tom took his hand and shook it easily with a friendly grin on his face.
Hermione might have considered it as an accident, the way she was certain the wizards greeting Tom thought, if they even thought of it at all. But she'd seen him interact with others often enough to catch on to the pattern. Her conclusion was different now, augmented as well with her awareness that he'd been stiff whenever she leaned against him in the early days of their acquaintance. She'd almost forgot that too as he'd done a one hundred-and-eighty degree turn on touching her.
Tom had managed his distance from others very, very carefully. It was not more than pace away to seem standoffish or cold, but he was always just a hand's breadth away from a casual contact.
A hand's breadth away but not any closer. It was a gap he guarded as zealously as a feral cat.
The contradiction was thought-provoking. To disdain contact with other people as much as he did and yet still strive forward to mingle, to ensure that his lack of preference wasn't detectable simply because he wanted to be on top of the wizarding world? That takes a stubborn kind of persistence, something she was very familiar with.
It was hard not to be impressed by Tom Riddle.
'-
The air may nip the skin that most people would not even think of hosting an outdoor event on the 1st of November. Yet the opinion of most of the wizards and witches enjoying themselves just then was that quibbling about such mild weather was for muggles. For them, they can simply manually cast warming charms repeatedly. It helped that there was also a low-grade heat trap component to the security wards that Pendleton and Hermione had erected, so even that was not something that needed to be done often.
Two wizards strolled among the party-goers, attractive in diametric ways. One had a sunny sheen to his hair and a smile as warm as a summer's day, while the other was pale as winter's moon with hair of darkest night. They were too used to the admiration of others that several people glancing for too long in their direction was something that barely distracted them.
"Tom…"
"Yes, Andrew?"
"I noticed that you're…rather particular to Hermione."
"I am." There was no doubt in his voice; he took no detours of topics.
The Slytherin knew from the way the other wizard suddenly turned to gaze at him that it was not what he expected. Not the admission itself, per se, but to admit so positively as to allow himself no path of retreat from his position, no way to take any other alternative.
It did not matter to him because it was true. He did not want or need a retreat from his position.
"Are you sure?"
"Would I risk her reputation by a blatant approach if I wasn't?" He asked back.
"You…" it did surprise him that the Head Boy seemed to be grasping for words. "…she wouldn't exactly be able to help your career."
He knew what Andrew meant. To have pureblood in-laws that can help smooth his career was something every ambitious muggleborn wizard or witch had considered at least once.
"Who's to say that she can't? Besides, I do have some suspicions on my progenitors. I might not be as hapless as I seem now."
"Not many pureblood families are happy with just any passing claimant to the blood. Success isn't certain." His concern was clear in his hazel eyes, his voice. Tom only glanced at him occasionally because the degree of sympathy Andrew exhibited vexed him. It wasn't the emotion, certainly, just the pitch-perfect tone of it that the Head Boy always, always seem to manage without effort.
"Thank you for your concern, but it's not a major issue."
Tom felt like rubbing his temples just now because he couldn't completely shut out the abruptness in his tone. Damn. Andrew did not seem to mind at all. When Tom came to a pause, as they'd almost reached one of the pavilions, the other prefect paused next to him.
"Very well. I suppose you have it in hand." The Head Boy said. "Yet I'm serious in asking your intentions to her."
"My intentions would be known to the witch herself before anyone else, but yes, I am serious."
"You are not merely amusing yourself with her?"
"Andrew."
It was his turn to snap his head rapidly, the tone of his voice pointed if not sharp yet.
"I'm sorry, but this has to be asked." Andrew did not back down from the force of Tom's stare.
"If anyone were to ask, I'd expect it to be Daedalus." …who is a Ravenclaw.
"He might have, if he had seen what I've seen."
"What is it?"
The Hufflepuff had gaze forward again and started walking, though his path meandered to the side first, not directly towards the people Tom had offered to guide him to. Tom walked beside him, catching up to his steps in no time. His question was casual, his tone even.
"You wouldn't happen to be courting another woman at the same time, do you?"
"No." Tom answered without a doubt.
"Squiring her to places, dining out with a single female company—"
"No."
"—escorting her to the Ministry Dinner?"
Tom met Andrew's gaze without wavering. "I did go there last week with Hermione, though not from the beginning. We were mostly socialising with the Slytherins since not many people from my House knew her well yet. You can ask Lucretia or Walburga Black about it, since we ended up at the same table at the second half of the night."
"Oh. Thanks for that. Perhaps I will."
"Good to know that you hold my honour in such regard." Tom's reply was dry. Andrew turned sheepish and he scratched the back of his head.
"Well, I'm sorry if it's uncomfortable, but I had to find out if I was seeing things or not."
"And why exactly is that?"
Andrew actually turned to him, his expression serious. "You do know that if you break it off, the brunt of social censure would fall on Hermione than you, don't you? The wizarding world would not be kind to her. She's new here, but I did expect you to know better hence why I have to know how certain you are."
"You say that as if I wanted to break it off."
"We don't know about the future."
"Oh, certainly. But I know that there would be no one else like Hermione." Tom answered, barely holding back his testiness.
"Tom—"
Perhaps it was because his patience was running thin, or perhaps and that a part of him was affronted that Andrew thought he needed to be warned of something so obvious. Warn him? Really? He who had been forced to master the intricacies of pureblood social structures from the moment he set foot in Hogwarts with no background to speak of? He knew exactly what Andrew was talking about and even more that someone who will one day easily ascend to the Wizengamot chair held by the Abbott family could not even begin to fathom.
Either way, his answer held more truth than he'd expected.
"I'm not going to change my mind. I'm never going to let her go, Andrew."
The Head Boy watched him for a while before he nodded gravely in acknowledgement. He seemed to have missed the slight change in Tom's tone entirely, the darker undertones he'd let loose in the end.
"Very well, then. Your intention is understood. My apologies."
"Apology accepted."
'-
The feast was a success. There was no doubt on the excellence of the food and the company was even more so.
Several people had been impressed at Hermione's skills in hosting the event and took the opportunity to express that to her often. Hermione, being Hermione, found no pleasure in claiming an achievement that was not her own; she could fairly own up the improvements and repair to the place. Hosting a large pureblood event, on the other hand, was still beyond her at the moment.
She frankly directed people to the real organiser—Abraxas Malfoy.
The blond puffed and preened at the number of witches coming to him to ask for advice and help on hosting anything bigger than a tea party, and Abraxas gladly became their fountain of wisdom, passing on morsels of wisdom his own mother had passed to him.
"No, no, no. You do not try to alter the colours of the linens one-by-one. Waste of effort and tiring too. You decide on a colour, cast an illusion charm to see how it looks like and then you bring one linen set to the dyers. Really, you don't want the fuchsia pearl finish you've perfected to disappear with the first stray spell cast or accidental magic spurt from some fighting brats, do you?" He'd asked back.
The witches circling him oohed and aahed as the realisation dawned. If some of them were fluttering their eyelashes a little too much, she doubted that Abraxas even minded.
That was something Hermione had absolutely no expertise in and was only too glad to let Abraxas take over. She did not even care the slightest about the disparaging glances sent her way by some pureblood witches such as Clytemnestra Gamp, apparently the current holder of the position 'Hermione's Chief Flaw Finder'. The event itself was interesting, but it was a story for another day.
For now, we concern ourselves with the highly irregular events that happened a week after that.
The beginning, however, was some time ago.
'-
"Do you understand the problem with your essay?" Slughorn was kind as always as he slid the unrolled parchment over to her. He had timed it well; everyone else was more occupied in getting the best ingredients before everyone else filches them, or starting the first phase of brewing that no one paid her any attention. She felt like shrinking into herself at the potential mess-up but steeled herself.
"I think I do. It's the ingredients. I followed the original recipe too much when I was trying for a very different result. So, when the flower of antimony—"
She did her best when she continued her explanation, she really did. Yet the witch knew she'd missed something when Slughorn's shoulders had started drop slightly and his expression had somehow turned more sympathetic.
"You've tried very hard, dear, I know."
"B-but it's…" her voice had started to waver and she knew there was no use in keeping up a confident front. "But it's still not enough, is it?"
The Potions Master shook his head.
"It doesn't matter. We can all use some improvement. In fact, I'm sure Tom can help you out." He scouted ahead quickly. "Tom! A word with you?"
She heard his measured steps, how he didn't hurry even when it was his Head of House who had summoned him. His short "yes, sir?" was closer than she'd expected; he'd somehow stopped right beside her without her realising it.
"Can you help Jemima here with cases of substitutions for Flower of Antimony?"
"It would be my pleasure." His tone was even, his smile was kind and polite instead of cloying or ingratiating, but he didn't even stare at her longer than the initial glance.
And that was how Jemima Avery began to know Tom Riddle on a more intimate basis, sometime in the middle of their third year.
'-
"You don't really mind helping Jemima again, do you?"
"No, not at all, Sir." Riddle's expression didn't change.
And indeed, he didn't. He scheduled time for her without a second thought, and soon it felt all-too-natural.
Going over Potions with Tom Riddle had become a strange part of her weekend (no, it was not a study group. She was not that much of a swot to enjoy studying). He pointed out the weaknesses in her current essays, if that was what they happen to be talking about, or he would turn the conversation to the last classes. He always figured out sooner or later where the gaps in her understanding lay, and it didn't matter even if she tried to hide them. He probed, picked and prodded until he pulled the gaps apart until he was sure that she could see all that he could.
Jemima had expected him to crow his superiority as she'd expected a pureblood with his brains would. He didn't. He merely pointed at her flaws and let her get to work on her reading as he returned to his own. If there were any expressions that slipped past his effort of channelling politeness, at most it was the boredom in that piercing glance under long dark lashes. It galled her because she was one of the Averys, the Sacred 28! Yes, she knew he was clever, but it wasn't everything—
"Avery?"
"What?"
"Are you going to read that now or not? If not, I'll just return to the Common Room. If we're both bored here, it's much more enjoyable for us to just go on our own way, isn't it?" His friendly expression took the edge off his frank question, but he did not beat around the bush.
"No." She gasped the words out, its certainty beyond reason or knowing but a decision she'd apparently made long ago in her unconscious that she hadn't been aware of. Until now.
"No." Jemima repeated again in the same way her mother made her decrees in the house. Confident and (mostly) calm.
Tom paused in his movements, his forehead creasing slightly.
"No?"
"No. Give me ten minutes and we can talk about it." She tapped the open book page.
He sat down again, staring at her oddly for a moment before his attention was caught by one of his books once more. As she picked up the section of the potions book she was holding, fighting her boredom and distraction just to get through the first page, she wondered why she even did this.
The rustling of a page from across the table distracted her. It was spring, and the sun's rays slanted low into the library windows. A splash of light poured over his head, gilding him, and she thought no one had ever looked more like a creature of light like he did just then. The floating motes of dust over his hair was almost a halo. Seraphic. Unlike Abraxas, for all his striking features, he'd never tried smiling smarmily at other people or use it to wheedle his way out of trouble with their Head of House. Most of the time, Tom Riddle didn't seem to care about such things at all. He was so…distant, so unconnected to things that you can't help but be curious what it was that he does care about.
The blonde witch actually finished reading through the five pages he'd referred her to. She'd even read an entire chapter in their studies that day without complaining (out loud, that is). She couldn't exactly recall how it happened. It would not be the last time either.
There was a particular table in the group study area that they ended up using from time-to-time, unless there was someone who was foolish enough to try to take it away from her.
'-
They had entered the fourth year with surprisingly little change in their arrangements. She still came to a particular table in the library on Sunday. She still made sure no one else knew where she went.
"Those are petit fours."
Tom lowered his book and stared at the object on the table that had caught her attention with a jaded eye.
"Yes, I suppose you're right."
"But we're not supposed to bring any food to the library!" She hastily looked around, as if the librarian would suddenly spring up unexpected from a corner bookshelf with her wide and uncanny smile as if she'd been hunting them all along. Jemima shivered. Madame Cobb gave her the willies.
"You're going to cost us house points!"
His expression had barely changed as he raised his wand, did some movements she didn't think she'd seen before, and tapped at the plate. The macarons of colourful pinks and greens along with the plate shimmered before disappearing.
"It's not an issue, Avery. As long as you don't actually drop the crumbs into the books, or if you do, immediately dust them (don't try a cleaning charm), you'll be fine."
He cancelled the spell without thought and levitated one into his mouth and she forced her mouth to close before she looked too pathetic. She had to admit to not a little envy; it didn't seem like such a big trouble to him.
"Now, what were you having trouble with in class this time?"
His semi-permanent affliction of boredom still annoyed her, as was the speed he segued into school subjects barely trying to talk about anything else, but she couldn't deny that her grades were better. It was only later when she (somehow) found the plate of macarons right in front of her that she realised all the flavours there were her favourites.
The blonde looked up suspiciously.
"Did you take them for me?"
"The macarons?"
"Yes." She nodded.
"Perish the thought. I simply wanted some snack."
He floated yet another macaron in his direction.
It was the first, but not the last happening in their unofficial meetings in the library (she still refused to call them study sessions). There were jellied fruits at one point and airy mousse in another. The time she'd returned to class after a bout of annoying cold led to a library meeting that involved a bouquet of flowers on the table. Lilies and Narcissus.
"They just happen to be there," he said this without looking up from his book.
She couldn't help the smile on her face even if she tried to repress it and had to look away because it was just flowers. Anyone could've gone to one of the greenhouses and picked them. And forgot them on the library table.
"I suppose someone forgot about them and left them here."
"Yes. That must be what happened." His tone was too bland to be true and she'd almost chuckled before feeling horrified at the undignified sound that had just escaped from her.
Later, when they parted ways, she lingered at the table as Tom walked away. She carried the bouquet back with her.
'-
"Tom," she called him.
The imperative edge never completely left her voice even if it was threaded with impatience and maybe a little uncertainty.
"Yes, Avery?"
He was always so careful with the distance between them.
She understood, since he had to watch himself with more care as an orphan. Didn't mean it didn't annoy her that they couldn't just be…friends. Yes, that's it. She thought, perfectly comfortable to pretend as if that's her actual concern right now.
"What are you going to do after Hogwarts?"
His smile was unreadable as he raised his head from whatever thick book he was currently reading (it wasn't even French. It didn't use the alphabet but a more ancient-looking script and she had no idea what it was about).
"A little of this and a little of that."
"You could enter the Ministry and go all the way to the top. You're clever—you can do it."
"Of course, I can." He answered with more than the confidence of the dreamers of their age or the certainty of blood. No, he had something else and she knew it. It might even be Destiny. The unimpressed expression on his face, however, annoyed her.
"And…"
"And?"
"You'd need a pureblood family to support you and…and you can do that if you marry into one." She barely held back from stomping her feet. Barely. That was as far as she can say it. She'd rather bite her tongue than be more explicit, but he would've understood. He was a Slytherin.
Tom met her gaze and she forced herself to meet it head on and not look away, even if she forgot to breathe for a moment before she made herself take a long breath. She had to grit her teeth and ignore her mother's voice at the back of her head, reprimanding her for what she'd just said. You can't scare the boys away! You can't be too forward, Jemima! You can't—
"I see." He stated.
It did not help that his gaze was entirely unfathomable.
A moment or two later, he clapped his hands with a sense of finality before dropping his belongings into his bag.
"Well, I think you have a good grasp on last week's class and the rest could be easily picked up on your own reading. Our time here is done. See you next week, Avery."
He left behind a confused Jemima.
'-
"Avery,"
"Yes, Tom?"
"It may escape your notice, but you're not actually studying if you take the seat next to mine." His tone was polite, but there was an undercurrent of something else that she couldn't identify.
"We don't really have to study all the time, do we?" She leaned against his shoulder. He didn't change his side glance.
"If you don't need to catch up on your potions studies, I'm afraid I have other things to do." He shifted to the right.
She let out a long sigh. (She definitely didn't huff. It wasn't beautiful). "Oh, alright, alright. Very well, let's see what I have to catch up."
Jemima moved back to the seat right across his and dutifully picked up her book. If she had been half sulking the entire time, Tom had too much patience to be affected by something as small as that. Even if she didn't want to, she still noticed the way he managed to calm her down without a fuss. Her mind couldn't stop picking at it, like an old itch that acted up every time the weather changed.
'-
Tom Riddle might not personally enjoy quidditch, but like many Slytherins, he would always publicly support his House team.
She always made sure that the seat next to him was hers. Even if he did insist on a more formal distance between them (and she could understand…somewhat. They were in a public place, and standards have to be kept). It was an annoyance, but she could live with it. At least Tom never gave the time of day to any other girl, and she preened inside.
This state of things wouldn't last forever either. It could only get better once they grow up.
'-
"Morning, Avery."
"You can call me Jemima, you know?"
"Avery is your name."
Jemima slowly stared at the ceiling of the Potions lab. Slughorn had asked for Tom's assistance and he agreed without much fuss. She volunteered herself on the spot.
"It's also my brother's name. I'm disturbed by the idea that you call me and him with the same name."
Tom stopped his sorting to turn to her, mild interest in his face as he mused for a moment.
"It's not."
"It's not?"
"It's not the same name. You're Avery," she shivered. A-ve-ry. She could hear the way his tongue rolled on the first syllable, the accidental caress he turned it to.
"He's simply Avery." Short syllables. Ave-ry. All business, two clips and it was done. She cleared her throat in the end and slowly nodded because she was out of things to say that wasn't 'say my name again.'
'-
Jemima remembered when she first heard of Curie. Rumours of an orphan from some war-torn side of Europe—probably another of the school's charity case, then, she'd dismissed. Couldn't be pureblood, because if she was, then there would've been news among her mother's social set of who was adopting her, right? The blonde nodded to herself with satisfaction. Probably a muggleborn.
Tom, she heard in passing between his and Slughorn's conversation, had to play nursemaid to the new student. The third time she caught wind of it again filled the blonde with annoyance.
"You don't have to say yes to everything he asks, even if he's our Head of House." She told him.
"I'm aware of that, Avery."
"We can go back and ask Slughorn to assign someone else to it. You're already the prefect! And now you have to spend even more of your own time on yet another task that just about anyone else in Slytherin could do?"
"Perhaps he needed a prefect."
"There's still Oswin and Emma. They'd be happy to take over from you," she said derisively.
Oddly enough, he actually seemed amused. He'd slipped away from her grasp on his arm as he sat back down on the armchair he'd taken in their common room. She took another seat near to it.
"Avery, you do remember what Slughorn told us all about making our way through the Ministry, don't you?"
She made a reluctant nod. "Yes."
"Then you'd know that once there, it would never be about what you prefer or wanted. You can't just deny a task simply because you don't like it. Slughorn is teaching me this even from now."
"But it's not fair to you!"
Jemima thought he even managed to smile then, though she had no idea how.
"Life isn't fair, Avery."
'-
She could not make heads or tails of the rumours.
They say that Tom gave Hermione Curie a crown of flowers, promising betrothal and marriage. Impossible, she thought. He would never risk his reputation with a nobody like that! He has a long way to go! It simply sounded like something out of an old fairy-tale, and it was why she'd dismissed it quickly as an embellishment. There were mutterings he took her on a picnic. That they spent the afternoon walking arm-in-arm with each other in Hogwarts, like the day before—
The condescending and pitying glance from Patricia, at least pulled her out of her worries and right into anger. What did she know about caring? It hardly mattered to dear Ms. Parkinson who she was going to marry as long as she can keep the lifestyle she's accustomed to, didn't it? What did she know about…about caring about someone? She wouldn't let the vapid blonde see even an inch of weakness.
The witch didn't see anyone unfamiliar at the Ravenclaw table and felt the invisible bands tightening around her chest to loosen. Perhaps it was just the Hogwarts rumour mill making much ado about nothing, as usual.
As her gaze swept her own House table, her breathing felt more difficult once more.
Jemima couldn't see Tom anywhere—not with his friends, not with the other years.
'-
But the Slytherin did see her the next day along with the unknown transfer student, Curie.
The transfer student was a homely witch with a crown of flowers on her head and yet she moved as if the castle was hers. She was strange, but there was a solidness to her steps that told of the strength of her will. Curie barely spared a glance to the people whispering or talking about her as she passed, as if they were dust that would fly apart to be shapeless again, anyway, so why even try? It annoyed Jemima because it was too close to how the world fit to her. Yes, other people are worthless to her, but she had the right to it! Her family was born here and they were bred to be over the masses, to receive their due reverence. Magic had run through their blood longer. Things were as they should be.
Curie moved with the same certainty when she arrived—late—in the Great Hall, arrogantly unconcerned. Jemima was certain it was completely intentional. Tom talked to Curie as if it was his own preference, as if he'd always wanted to instead of it being another task piled on him by Slughorn. He lingered without a care by the Ravenclaws' table.
Curie had talked to Tom as if it was nothing out of the ordinary at all that he gave that attention to her, as if it was hers by right. It made her angry like nothing else. The blonde wanted very, very much to…
…drop a boulder from great heights on her. It was only a flight of fancy but it made her feel better.
'-
The most difficult thing to accept for her was how aloof Tom was slowly receding into once Curie entered Hogwarts proper.
(She took nine classes! Could you believe it, Jemima? Nine advanced classes!
Oh, shut it, Melchior. I don't want to hear about it.)
It was as if she hadn't known him. She'd come across him carrying three thick tomes with ease once in the library. She greeted him and he replied with his old friendliness like no time had passed. When she asked him what they were for, his answer came too easily to him.
"There are some arithmantic arrays I wanted to cross-check with Hermione."
The name was harsher than a slap across her face. Tom Riddle had walked away with a purpose, unhurried, not quite noticing the gasp she'd uttered, or how she'd leaned back on the nearest shelf and didn't move from there for a while.
'-
Tom might have let Curie along with him in Hogsmeade because she still interested him and amused him so far, but it didn't mean that it was easier for Jemima to accept. He did pause in front of her when he saw her in the Slytherin common room, tired out from the worried floo-call her parents had made. Everyone's parents had been endlessly calling. She would bet that all fireplaces in the Slytherin Dungeon were blazing green right now. She looked up at him without hiding her fatigue (she could afford to do so because she knew she still looked beautiful and she'd changed into a new dress already—fuchsia and cream with fine embroidery at the edges).
"You simply had to go back," he said, without preamble. "I had to do it."
"I had to go back where?"
"From Hogsmeade. The attackers had the muggle weapons that Grindelwald used in the Ministry Attack and beyond. It was too dangerous."
"I could have…"
His steady, sceptical look dampened her insistence.
"Your parents would have been very disappointed in me if I let you get out there and get hurt at all."
"But Curie—"
"Has no family. She has no one who would miss her." He answered firmly, and suddenly she understood what he was trying to say. There was no question to her why he went out into the still-dangerous street with Curie.
The transfer student was expendable where she wasn't. When she couldn't manage to say anything else, Tom had stood up and continued on his way.
"Stay safe, Avery."
'-
"You could call me Jemima, Tom." She said, on one of their prefect rounds.
"And your parents would have disowned you on the spot," he said it so cavalierly that she knew he was joking.
"But…" she trailed away. The sentiment that wanted to dig themselves out of her head was about how he called Curie Hermione, but the last thing she wanted was to admit that she even cared about something so trivial and she smothered that urge again.
"They wouldn't do that," she said instead.
"The Averys are not only an old family, but part of the 28."
"It doesn't matter." The words spilled out before she could bottle them, push them back down far from daylight. It shouldn't, she still wanted to say, but didn't because she knew it still did. She hated the way he carefully put yet more distance between them, how she had inevitably reminded him of it again.
"Even if you can disregard who you are, Avery, I never forget who I am."
'-
"Are you alright?"
Jemima pulled herself up with horror when she realised that Tom had found her falling asleep on a library table. What did her hair look now? Were there creases of her sleeve on her face? She gingerly patted her hair and cleared her throat, hands laid delicately on the table.
"Yes, I'm sure I'm fine."
Tom Riddle didn't immediately sit in front of her. He was still standing near her, and the next thing she knew, his wand turned in loops and whirls and he said the words for a spell she didn't know. Green text floated in front of her, and she didn't understand what all of them meant.
"Your temperature is still normal. You're not sick."
She wanted to say everything at once but the end result of that were the words being jammed together in her throat. Nothing came out. He'd tilted her chin up slightly to observe her pupils, only using a fingertip and his hand fell away immediately when it was done. She regretted the loss and was unhappy that she did, her skin still recalling the echo of his touch.
"Yes, I don't think you've caught any sickness." He concluded, before pausing. He seemed to have seen something in her eyes all the same.
"You hadn't expected me to be here."
The blonde took a deep breath but said nothing because she knew she couldn't give a convincing denial then. Tom still hadn't looked away and this time she wished he did because he was taking all her breath with her when he did that, pinned her under his endless gaze.
"I would have been here. I made a promise and I don't break my promises."
This time, he sat on the seat next to hers, and hope took flight in her chest. She managed to lean against him for a while (he was always so still compared to most other boys), then Tom edged slightly away. She shifted to follow him and leaned into him yet again. Hmm, was Tom's back always this stiff?
"Avery, I wasn't joking when I said you can't seem to study if I sit on the same side. If you're really keen to prove that now, I'll gladly move."
"Don't," she sighed. "I'll move back."
'-
"Emma confirmed that Curie had joined your Society," Jemima said as she sat on the arm of his armchair, her gleaming blonde hair cascading down her back like a golden waterfall whose ends brushed his shoulder. Tom lowered the book he was reading and sat up, turning to her.
"And your question is…?"
She took a deep breath.
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Why did you let her join?"
"Avery, let me ask you this. What are your plans after Hogwarts? Do you intend to enter the Ministry and work? Or have you expected to hold the social side of the family affairs, host dinner parties for your husband's career?" His voice was still calm, hypnotic.
"I think it's not a mystery to you,"
He nodded in agreement.
"Of course. Now, do you wish to sit down with Emma for an hour and talk about Ministry policies? How they worked and where they failed? Listen to her detail the minutiae of the life and times of bureaucrats? Is that it?" From the way his mouth curved up slightly at the edges, she knew she'd failed to hold back her expression of dismay.
"Do you want to go through several tomes of Charms and Enchantment over the weekend to study the creation process of magical maps? Do you enjoy reading up new warding schemes in your spare time, so much that you can barely socialise with your dormmates?"
The witch exhaled slowly, carefully. "Alright, alright. I understand. I enjoy none of those things. But you've never asked me if…"
He raised an eyebrow at her, not hiding his disbelief.
"Are you saying that you want me to force you to read through an entire shelf of books every weekend? Really? And here I thought you'd be happy that I was considerate of your preferences."
Jemima bit her berry-red lip in frustration. Tom was actually being very reasonable. She just…
She just hated the thought that he was spending more time with Curie. Her gaze dropped to her finely manicured hands. One had started wandering towards his shoulder without her realising it—he was solid, dependable. He'd stiffened at first before letting his guard down again. Some moments later he casually lifted it up and laid it back on her lap.
"Let me ask a slightly different question, then. If I met a bright and ambitious person, should I leave them alone, and the one day face the risk of having them compete with me, or should I try to pull them over to my side? To work for me?"
She was a Slytherin. Really, she wasn't stupid. If she could see Tom's rising star, then it was clear that Curie could do so too and would gladly follow him. It didn't mean that she would be happy about it.
'-
Tom slipped back into their previous, routine schedule as if nothing had changed.
It was as if there hadn't been the interloper who had a hundred books in her head instead of an actual life, fighting skill in exchange for the life of her family. The stranger who'd looked down at her so easily and turned around as if she had found her wanting, as if Jemima was just another nobody.
It pricked at her in the times when it was quiet, in the stillness of the night or the hush of the morning and she couldn't shut out her own voice. Hermione Curie had passed her several times now in the usual hustle of Hogwarts and yet her gaze skipped easily over Jemima.
She'd been waiting for a revenge and she was ignored outright. It was galling. It made anger bubble so hot inside her stomach that she could not think straight and Violetta concerned that once she even reached out and clasped Jemima's hand in hers.
But there was still Tom, who did not seem to be as busy as he used to be. He stayed longer even when she wasn't discussing Potions with him, asked her about her Charms class and whether she had any trouble there. Normal was mending itself from the mess torn apart by the foreign arrival whose eyes seemed restless even now, ever roaming. Jemima didn't think she'd settle for Tom, anyway, not with the other pureblood boys on her tail.
'-
"Who on earth is Fudge? How dare he even insinuate—how dare he?" Jemima hissed.
"Life isn't fair." Tom said again, strangely unconcerned.
"If my father hears about this—"
Tom shake his head. "There is no need, Avery. Abraxas and Melchior are aware of it, and so do everyone else."
"But—"
His gaze cut her words off as loud as any utterance can. There was an intense focus she didn't think she'd seen before, particularly in the slow, deliberate way his attention moved, from her chin, to her neck, almost as solid as an actual touch. It didn't help when she saw that he'd raised a hand, even if he had enough control to notice what he'd done and pull it down once more.
She swallowed, her throat feeling oddly dry.
"You need a distraction," he said instead. "What do you think about having dinner at Hogsmeade tonight instead of the Great Hall?"
"It's not Hogsmeade weekend," she said, breathlessly, before she felt the urge to step on her own toes for saying something so idiotic. She simply couldn't think when he was staring at her like that (if she had thought that he was compelling before, it could not hold a candle to his magnetism now). She shook her head.
"I mean, how… we can't possibly ask Slughorn to let us out, right?"
He shrugged. "We can't. But we can use the fireplace in his office."
Her voice was a gasp. "Sneak in?"
"A third year that Gallus' sister knows is in detention. He can open the door for us and we'll return through one of the shortcuts between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. So, what do you think, Avery?"
There was practically nothing on earth that could make her say no.
She didn't know what this was, right then, but she didn't care much to question it either. He didn't disagree when she said she wanted to change clothes first and when she met him in the common room, it was clear that he had the same thought; Tom had changed as well. Soon they were at Hogsmeade and she grabbed his hand in excitement the moment they were out of the Three Broomsticks.
It had been…unexpected. Unexpected but pleasant, since she didn't think that Tom actually saw her most of the time. Now, there were times when his eyes strayed to her again and again. He declined her suggestion to dance, but he didn't outright said no.
"Maybe next time," he said easily.
He'd pulled his hand out of her grasp, but she'd caught it again and again, before he finally gave up by the third time. She rested her head on his shoulder with a victorious feeling.
The walk back to Hogwarts took some time, but she did not regret it for all the times she could 'accidentally stumble' against him. She didn't do it too often, but considering the length of the journey, it still gave her many opportunities (and some was her actually tripping over tree roots and the like). As they reached the end, his hold had started to change. Where it was barely there before was stronger now. Once, she didn't even have to clasp back since he was doing all the gripping.
Her final stumble came when they had reached Hogwarts. Tom had stepped out into the corridors and she'd missed to clear the single step from the secret passage. It wasn't even intentional and she almost fell face first on the floor. He caught her deftly. Her face was in his chest and his scent was divine—something fresh and cool, from the deepest heart of the forest where the light never reached.
What she hadn't expected was the hand caressing up from her shoulder to her neck. His hold tightened and it hurt for one second before he suddenly pushed her away. His back was to her.
"Tom?"
"Go back to the dorms Avery."
"We could go together—"
"No. Leave, now."
Jemima had never heard the particular coldness in his tone, or how commanding he could be. She shivered—with what, she had no idea. Her wariness only fed her desire, a confusing feedback loop she couldn't find her way out of. He had taken three steps back now, out of the light and farther from her. He'd never seemed so distant and yet so alluring before. A phantom in the night.
"You have a lovely neck, J—Avery. Very exquisite." His tone was sibilant. Dark.
She was too surprised to say anything. He took the opportunity to disappear in her confusion.
'-
.
.
.
End Notes:
In which I am glad that I'm not in the same city as my sister, as I can almost feel her side-eye across chat when I finished writing this and sent it to her. "Do you realise that Tom is being a cad?" My reply was a reflexive, why, I have no idea what you mean, dear, no idea at all. She insisted that she'd seen plenty of jerkasses using the charming but hard-to-get approach while 'scattering a lot of romantic bait' that get young women among her acquaintance hoping for more, but never certain enough in terms or words to actually implicate the jerkasses if the young women try to complain or ask for further clarification. They usually end up looking as jealous and/or possessive harpies. I'm sure she'll put them in painful joint locks if she was ever physically present in any one of those confrontations.
And then I have to solemnly swear that even though I know how the method works, I never did anything like that. Never, you hear me? I have more class than that.