Summer passed as most they had experienced in their short lives together— at Wool's, reading, and not doing much of anything else. Except that it was somehow worse than the proceeding summers, as though knowing they had to wait to return to Hogwarts was a pain worse than enduring the orphanage ordinarily.

They returned with Tom wearing his trousers and button-up from Hogwarts, because those from Wool's didn't fit anymore. Hermione ascribed it to the good nutrition of the school; Tom had finally started growing, catching up on the lead Hermione had from a young childhood of semi-affluence.

Mrs. Cole had sighed when she saw him, had taken his old clothes, and given him a set that was slightly too big, muttering that she hoped these would last.

Possibly the worst part of summer was waiting for their letters and the funds that would render them new reading material. Having only their old texts and Hermione's books from before was akin to torture now that they were used to Hogwarts' library.

By the time their letters came and they were allowed to go to Diagon, the two were nearly starkers having waited so long.

"I think we should sell back our old texts so we have spending money," Tom told Hermione that morning.

She frowned. She was adverse to parting with a book for any reason.

"It means you won't have to contact Mrs. McCarthy this year," he reminded her.

That was true. Hermione wrote the woman exactly twice a year— for the holidays and on the anniversary of her parents' death. During the holidays, it was a missive to let her know how the year had gone, to wish her the happiest, and to thank her for her continued presence in Hermione's life.

In the summer, it was a reminder that, though she was an orphan now, Hermione was alright. She included this year that she attended a school for those who were special like herself and her friend Tom (an utter genius, she had often told the woman in the past).

"I even made a new friend. He's older than I am and his name is Ignatius. It's so old-fashioned, but he goes by Iggy. For Christmas, he convinced his mother to knit me a jumper. Isn't that so sweet?"

Mrs. McCarthy always returned her letters, usually with a small gift, like a book from her own collection or an item from her closet. Hermione wasn't allowed out of uniform, but she collected all of these and had decided she wanted to get something to wear at Hogwarts in her free time. She thought she might get a blouse and a setof trousers. They were fashionable enough now, very modern and feminine, as she'd seen when she and Tom were walking through London at the start of the summer.

Thus, when she and Tom were on their way back from Diagon Alley, she asked to stop at a shop. "I just want to look," she said, fingering the single note she had from what she'd been sent the previous Christmas. Tom nodded and offered to stay outside with their purchases, and Hermione entered. The bell at the door jingled cheerily to announce her.

A woman perhaps in her twenties looked up, smile on her face until she caught sight of Hermione in her second-hand uniform, her hair washed with a bar of soap and her figure stick-thin. She was on the cusp of thirteen and knew she didn't look it yet. The woman's smile slipped off her face and she sighed.

"Can I help you, miss?" she murmured perfunctorily.

Hermione fidgeted. "I was hoping to buy an outfit. Nothing too fancy, just trousers and a blouse," she said. The woman raised an eye. She looked so fashionable with her perfectly coifed curls and her red lipstick. "I have notes. From my parents' estate. I—I'm an orphan, you see…"

Tom always told her she had a tendency to over-explain herself.

The woman's expression softened. "I see. Come, we have some sales items." She gestured Hermione to follow to the back of the store. "I'll need to get your measurements, if that's alright."

She nodded and allowed the woman to lead her past a curtain, where Hermione stripped to her underthings and the woman measured.

"You're quite slim. I would recommend tailoring," the saleswoman told her.

"I'll gain weight through the fall," Hermione assured her. "I go to a boarding school and they feed us well."

"You can afford that?" the woman asked before putting a hand over her mouth as though embarrassed.

"I have a scholarship," Hermione explained. It was as close as she could get to telling her about the way Hogwarts worked.

"Oh, how lovely. In that case, I'll give you some pins to help until you gain." The woman brought in several sets of trousers in various colors and as close to Hermione's size as she could find, and then some blouses, all of which felt so soft and seemed so chic to the girl. "Do you know your budget?"

Hermione blushed and hesitated to reach for the first set of trousers. "About six—sixteen pounds."

It was a dear sum that was the accumulation of everything sent to her over the years and the little she'd had in her purse when her family died. There was exactly one tenner and the rest was all in coin.

The woman nodded. "Well, go on and try something, then."

She smiled wanly and picked an outfit. The woman commented about the cut and color and then helped her choose what to try next. By the third outfit, she started to relax.

The young woman was named Ivory and she considered herself a feminist and fashionista. She loved new and upcoming styles, and she was worried about tensions with Germany on the rise.

"I like this red on you, and these charcoal trousers. They're my favorites, personally," she said once Hermione was dressed in her uniform again.

The girl loved the clothes. The scarlet of the blouse was so very Gryffindor and the trousers were flattering even when she had to use the pins to keep them up. "Her one worry was that both looked expensive. "How—ahem— how much would they be?"

"Eleven total," Ivory said without missing a beat.

Hermione's brows rose. That seemed like so little for such high-quality materials, even on sale. "Are you certain?"

The woman smiled cheekily. "I may be adding my shop discount. Don't worry about that, though. It harms no one."

"If you insist," she replied.

"I do. Come, I'll ring you up." As she bagged the items, she touched one of her own curls and said, "I recommend going across the street to Nelson's. Your curls are far too lovely for whatever you're doing to them, and five pounds should be more than enough to get whatever products you need."

Hermione touched her own frizzy curls. The soap they used to wash everything was not friendly to her and she knew it. "I will. Thank you."

As she handed her the bag, the woman said, "Tell them Ivory sent you."

When she stepped outside, Hermione smiled shyly at Tom. "I was told to go across the street."

Tom lifted a brow and eyed the bag. "Alright."

"Would you mind terribly waiting a little longer?" she asked.

He shook his head and her smile brightened.

A sales clerk inside Nelson fair-beamed when she gave Ivory's name and led her around the store listing recommendations. The prices were in front of everything, so she could add in her head and decided that way what to get— a hair cream, a conditioner, and a shampoo. All three were in budget, and she was nearly dizzy when she left. She felt like a child being spoiled at the bookstore again.

"I'm ready," she said, meeting her friend and picking up her items.

"Allow me," Tom murmured, and held out a hand for the extra. "I'm stronger. I'll carry the rest."

"You needn't–"

"I insist. I'm trying to be a gentleman," he said.

Hermione had noticed that about Tom lately. Usually, he hadn't a care what others thought about him, but since starting at Hogwarts, since their talk with Dumbledore specifically, he'd started paying more attention to social niceties.

She wondered why, but in the end, it was Tom's choice and that was what mattered. She handed over the bags of clothes and toiletries.

Avery joined them again on the train and, to her surprise, Alphard Black did as well. She at first thought he was shy, but when she mentioned Quidditch in passing, he brightened and proceeded to open up.

She'd learned enough to follow a game by the time they stopped at Hogwarts.

As opposed to the boats from first year, they took horseless carriages to the castle as older students. She thought they were a little bumpy, but didn't mind overly much; it was almost like being a princess in a storybook, something Tom would no doubt call a foolish imagining.

It was nice to see everything from the other side, and far less tiring, she realized as she settled down that night. It was almost like coming home.

That feeling of being home lingered all throughout that first weekend, which was before the school year, since the first of September fell on a Friday.

That Saturday, while she was getting breakfast, she had the strangest interaction with one of her dormmates.

"You look well, Granger," said Alanna Kinsley. "Congratulations, by the way?"

Hermione frowned and asked, "What do you mean? On what?"

"On being top of the class." At Hermione's surprise, she said, "You didn't know? It was in the Dailey Prophet. The top three students are announced in every year. It was Riddle, you, and Leander Lovegood in that order."

Hermione absorbed that for a moment. She knew Leander; he was pleasant enough, less dreamy than his twin, Lavinia, and hard-working, but painfully shy. He rarely answered questions in class because of it. "Well, thank you. Do you suppose you could find a copy of the Prophet for me? I should like to have one to show Tom."

Kinsley studied her for a moment and then nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

Thus, the next morning after the daily mail rush, Hermione hurried to the Slytherin table to toss the paper at Tom.

"Oi, Granger, what gives?" cried Avery. "You can't just come to another House's table."

"I can and I have," she retorted, then proceeded to ignore him. "Turn B13 and look halfway down."

Tom's impassive gaze fell from her to the newspaper and he did as bade, reading through the text. "Ah. I see. I didn't realize it was publicized."

"You knew?" she said. "You knew we were top of the class?"

He blinked at her slowly, studying her like she was an idiot. "Of course, I knew. Slughorn told me to congratulate you when we returned for the summer."

Hermione scoffed. "Good job on that front."

Malfoy nudged Avery. "Did you see today's news?"

There was the most curious ripple going through the students, with at least half of them muttering and whispering amongst themselves.

"You know I don't get the Prophet," said Avery. Malfoy then handed over the paper and the boy read, his brows rising. "How will this affect us?"

"What is it?" Tom asked, and Avery handed over Malfoy's paper without the other blond's permission.

Hermione read over Tom's shoulder: MUGGLES GO TO WAR: MUGGLE BRITAIN DECLARES WAR ON MUGGLE GERMANY.

Hermione and Tom met gazes and then went back to the news to read further. She had known tensions had increased; technically, they had been since the previous war, but this felt so sudden that she was dizzy with it. What did this mean for them?

She read about the pact with the Soviets and the invasion of Poland, and she began to get sick.

"Sit," Tom insisted, shooing Avery away from his seat. Why the boy allowed it, she didn't have the faintest, but she appreciated it. "Hopefully the war will be swift. We reacted quickly, so that bodes well."

Hermione nodded, but she had a bad feeling. What if this was like the Great War, long, drawn out, with at least half the world involved? Millions could die.

They would be returning to a wartime London in summer; it was a year away, but she doubted the war would be so short as that. What would it be like? If it carried on long enough, Tom could be conscripted.

"Hermione." His voice cut through her thoughts again. "We will be fine. We have magic after all."

She nodded. She needed to believe him. Tom was always right.

Roughly a week later, her fear doubled when she was handed a Prophet from Arianna. It had become a daily habit for the other girl to allow Hermione to read the paper once she was done, and Hermione often took it with her to hand off to Tom.

What she hadn't expected that morning was for Gellert Grindelwald to declare war on the world. She was aghast with the implications, especially when it came out that the minister was doing absolutely nothing to counteract it.

"Calm down, students," the Headmaster said from his podium as a ruckus slowly built. "I assure you, Hogwarts is as safe as it is possible to be. Never in our history have we been threatened here in our fortress of learning."

Hermione had read about some of the enchantments and various protections placed on the castle in her favorite book, but she was still nervous. What would this mean for the Wizarding world at large, and for her?

Sept. 7, 1940, Germany bombed London and other cities across Britain. Hermione was terrified to return.

"Do you think we can ask to stay?" she whispered to Tom as they studied in the library one night. Exams were swiftly approaching and it was the countdown to their return.

Tom stared into her large, frightened eyes and considered. Last summer had not been so bad. There was rationing, but orphans were used to getting little, so it had only reduced their meat to never rather than rarely, and sugar obsolete. It was good that both of their birthdays fell during the school year so they didn't have to suffer.

"We can ask, but I feel as though they'll say no," Tom told her.

The following day she approached her professor after Transfiguration. Since it was her idea, she thought she should be the one to make the attempt.

"Professor, I had a question. Not about school work," she said, hands nervously clinging to only another.

Professor Dumbledore adjusted his halfmoon spectacles and gazed at her curiously. "And what might that be, Miss Granger?"

"It's only that there's war going on in Muggle England right now and there have been bombings in London, where Tom and I reside. I'm, well, I'm reluctant to admit it, but I'm afraid to return."

He nodded empathetically. "I understand. It is frightening to face one's own mortality."

"I was wondering, sir…" Her hands fidgeted. "I was wondering if I might— if Tom and I could— stay over summer."

His face fell into one closer akin to pity and Hermione's heart sank. Tom had prophesied correctly. "I'm afraid not, Miss Granger. No one is here during the summer to watch over students, so it isn't safe."

"Tom and I are quite responsible," she said hurriedly. "We'll study all summer. We won't be any trouble at all."

"I'm sorry, Miss Granger— Hermione— but it's not possible."

She wanted to cry. It must have shown in the way her doe-brown eyes brightened and she gave the tiniest sniffle.

"If you feel unsafe, you may write to me. Here, let me give you a post address that will get mail to me."

It was scant comfort considering the post might not be reliable if a bomb blew up the orphanage, but Hermione tried to show some gratitude.

London was a horrifying place. Everywhere Hermione turned, there were ruined buildings and injured folks. Eyes were downcast, bodies scrawny from heavy rationing. No one was immune.

The soldiers were the healthiest, the sturdiest, but Hermione loathed seeing them marching up and down the streets as though it were a normal occurrence. On her first evening back at the orphanage, she'd already heard some of the older boys talk about joining the moment they turned of age; they wouldn't wait for conscription, not when hot meals were on the line.

"You wouldn't join, would you, Tom?" she asked as they retired to her room to read.

He was getting quite tall now and the older girls had given him looks of interest that made Hermione's stomach queasy. Surely, he was handsome; he had always been a good-looking boy, but he was Tom.

"Of course not. It's a muggle war, Hermione. I plan to remain firmly in the Wizarding world once we are of age. Surely, you do as well?"

"I had thought about going to university," she admitted, to which Tom scoffed.

"Hermione, you are a witch." She glanced toward the door to make sure no one was nearby and his gaze flattened. You should seek out an apprenticeship in curse breaking or Potions mastery, not a university degree. What on earth will that do for your future?"

She shrugged awkwardly. "I don't know, but it was always a thought growing up. My parents were doctors. Perhaps I could go to medical school and then apprentice as a healer—"

"And cure everything via magic rather than the useless degree?" He rolled his eyes. "Don't waste your time or potential, Hermione." He glanced outside and sighed. "It is getting late. I should go to my room."

"Goodnight, Tom," she murmured softly.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he returned.

"Dearest Hermione,

I hope you have been safe at your school…"

Hermione cried as she read the letter; it was written from the countryside, where many of the women and children had retreated during the year of bombings. Mrs. McCarthy was so elderly now, and so afraid, that one, the other, or both shown in her shaking hand. Hermione didn't know which she'd prefer.

It had been weeks now, and she and Tom had seen the devastation wrought by the constant bombardments. It was truly horrifying, to run an errand for Mrs. Cole and find half the buildings along the route were nothing more than rubble.

"Hullo, Hermione." Amy was doing up her hair when Hermione returned to the orphanage. She bit at her lips, pinched her cheeks, and frowned.

"What are you doing?" she asked the older girl.

Amy glanced askance at her. "I'm going to see about picking one of the soldiers. Sometimes, they're generous and take a girl out for a meal or a drink."

"You're sixteen!"

"Mmm." She twirled a loose hair around her finger. "I'm tired of living off rations. Aren't you? Oh, wait. You go to that fancy school during the year, so you, you only have to deal with it during the summer."

Hermione's cheeks flared red. She couldn't help that she was born with magic and Amy Benson wasn't. She had half a mind to tell the other girl off for essentially prostituting herself for a meal, but then she stopped and thought for a moment.

Amy was right. From September first to mid-June, she did not deal with rations. The food at Hogwarts was sumptuous, with multiple types of meat available at every meal, and endless butter for their rolls, and confections more than one person could eat in a lifetime. Who was she to judge Amy, who had to live off increasingly meager portions.

"Good luck to you," she said instead of whatever biting thing would have come to her, and walked past the toilet to find Mrs. Cole and hand back the ration book and the groceries she had gotten.

"Thank you, Hermione," said the woman. She seemed more tired than before, Hermione couldn't help but notice. She stared for a moment and Mrs. Cole put down the infant she was holding. "Yes? Is something on your mind?"

"It's only… I was looking at the ration books." She glanced around and kept her voice low. "I noticed there's meat allowances, and sugar, and other such things. I don't want to accuse you—"

The woman's eyes opened wide and she hurried to the nursery door, shutting it tight. "You can't tell anyone what you suspect."

"I won't. I only want to know why," she assured her guardian.

Mrs. Cole closed her eyes, faced scrunched up, and released a slow sigh before she finally looked at Hermione. "It's hard with rationing even having enough normal food; and children grow right out of their clothing rations. The babies drink more than the allotted milk." The woman looked like she wanted to cry. "Some of them, I still have. They're just hidden away. I have used a few for Christmas to make them especially nice. But you have to understand that Mr. Wool is no longer providing much for us and—"

"I do understand," Hermione said, laying a hand on the woman's arm. It must have been so hard for her to deal with the orphanage all these years, and then the war came along and made it worse.

"Boys keep joining the war effort and girls keep going after soldiers. I'm trying to focus on the little ones, because we don't know how much longer this will go on. And the bombs— There hasn't been a bombing since May, but that siren haunts my sleep."

Hermione's eyes pricked with tears. "You're using our ration cards, yes? Mine and Tom's?"

The woman nodded guiltily.

"Good," said Hermione. "We eat fine during the school year, so we don't need them."

"Is there a way to get some of the other children in? I know there's a special requirement, but there are one or two of the littles who are so bright. A girl of about three is already reading." She sounded so hopeful, Hermione hated denying her.

"I'm afraid that's not the type of 'special' meant," she murmured softly.

Mrs. Cole nodded. "I always thought as much. No one ever said, but strange things always happened around Tom. You remember the snake incident, yes? And one day I swear I saw the pair of you in the garden, you with pages of your book whirling past, but the leaves of the tree behind you were perfectly still." She shook herself from the memory.

"I am appreciative that you've been so circumspect all these years," Hermione said.

The woman shook her head ruefully. "I use your book for gin, mostly. It's the only thing that gets me through the night sometimes."

Hermione couldn't find it in herself to blame the woman. "That's alright, then."

June 24th at approximately 2:35 am, air raid sirens blared through the night, awakening Londoners from their rest.

Hermione jolted up in her bed and scurried toward the nursery. All older children had been told they were to grab a younger child if the sirens went off. She noted that most, including Tom, did not.

When she met him in the cellar, which was a ghastly place filled with broken furniture and cobwebs, she smacked his arm with the hand not supporting the weight of a toddler. "You could at least help."

"I am not slowing down for anything," he told her. He was tense, the muscle in his jaw ticking as they sat amongst the other orphans. "Nor should you. Tell me you at least have your wand?" he said in a low voice.

Hermione scoffed. "Where am I supposed to put it in my nightgown? And what, pray tell, can I do when we aren't allowed to use them?" Her eyes darted around to see if anyone had noted his use of one of their 'forbidden' words. They were supposed to be discrete around muggles.

"If a bomb falls on us, I'm using mine," he assured her. "And so should you, if you don't die tonight."

Her heart skipped a beat where it danced in her throat. "The bombs have never hit Wool's before. We aren't in a strategic location."

"They don't always care about that," he reminded her.

Hermione did not want to hear it. Instead, she braced herself for the shaking of the ground and the distant roar that would be bombs in the distance, all while praying, Merlin, Godric, God, anyone, please let us survive this night.

They remained in the cellar for three hours when the sirens abruptly stopped. There had been no impacts that they had heard from the orphanage.

Mrs. Cole bade them all stay while she went upstairs to check the area. When she returned approximately half an hour later, she looked as harassed as usual. "It was a false alarm. There were no bombs last night."

"Oh." Hermione let out a laugh of relief. "That's good, then."

"Yes. I suppose it is."

Tom's eyes were tense. He glared at Hermione when she laughed, and followed her to the nursery where she changed, then set down the toddler. "Bye-bye, Mynee."

"Bye-bye, Winifred." She waved at the little girl and passed through the door only for Tom to grip her arm and corner her against the wall. "Tom, what—"

"You need to be more wary. Being caught in the raid without your wand—"

"It was a false alarm!"

"We didn't know that," he hissed. "You could have died. I might be fast at casting, Hermione, but am I fast enough to protect us both? You went for that toddler and you didn't even have your wand on you. What could you have done for it if a bomb had struck, hm?"

"Her, Tom. Winifred is a girl," she replied tartly.

He rolled his eyes. "My point still stands. If you're going to run around the orphanage— around London without your wand, then you need to be with me at all times."

"Why? So you can protect me?" she scoffed.

"Yes, since you're too bull-headed to protect yourself," he replied.

"Tom Riddle, I am just as old and just as qualified—"

"Not quite," he interrupted. "Let's not forget who is always first."

"Oh, you sodding narcissist." She wanted to smack him.

"Can't you see that I'm worried for your safety? You may have other friends, but I do not," he said.

She swallowed at that. "But the other boys in Slytherin…"

"They see me as useful because I'm more intelligent, and thus they can improve their grades via studying with me. That is the only reason they are more than polite to me," he said. "No one else sees value in me for who I am. Only you."

"Professor Slughorn—"

"Is probably going to invite me to his club next year, yes. He sees someone brilliant to add to his collection, just like he does with you. But you, Hermione, you see someone worth something despite the fact that I have never given you a single thing in your life, not a gift for your birthday, nothing," he murmured, leaning in close. "Why is that?"

"I appreciate your friendship," she said honestly.

"And if I said that friendship was originally predicated on the fact that you performed services for me? Namely, lending me your books?" he asked.

"Tom, I— what are you getting at?" she wondered.

"You know that, yes? Most of our friendship is based on you providing me with things," he pushed. "Be it books or conversation about said books, you give me something and I give you nothing."

"Where are you going with this?" she asked.

"Does it bother you?"

She frowned at that. "No?"

"To know our friendship is based on so little?" He stared into her eyes.

"Not at all. One of the greatest pleasures I've known since I was seven has been discussing books with you, Tom. If that's the basis of our friendship, so be it. You're my best friend," she said. "I care about you."

He released her arm and stepped back. "Very well. So long as you're aware."

Hermione stared after him as he turned down the hall and left. She had absolutely no idea where that had come from.