1938

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Tom seemed to have forgiven Hermione enough that he'd started talking to her again, after putting her through a month of silence, lasting for most of August and the beginning of September.

Or, said the voice in the back of her mind that knew Tom Riddle wasn't as nice as everyone thought he was, he believed that she'd served out her sentence and was now absolved of her sins.

Now that Hermione and Tom lived at Hogwarts, she had the opportunity to see him in person every single day. And thus she got to know a side of him that she hadn't seen in the polished, double-drafted letters he'd sent her for the last two years. Tom on paper was everything she imagined a pen-friend should be: legible, intelligible, punctual, and intellectual.

She'd unconsciously raised her standards for friendship to that level, and in the ensuing years since gaining his acquaintance, it was only natural that she hadn't found in other people an alternative to the dual rôles of companion and confidant provided by Tom. Other people were just too... too short-sighted. They simply didn't care about the things Hermione was interested in, the social causes she advocated. Of course, she knew that Tom didn't either, but he was articulate enough to give her a reasonable explanation for why he didn't.

She noticed that he didn't bother with fatuous greetings with her, never a "How do you do?" or a "Good morning, shame about the rain," as he gave other students in their year while they waited outside the classroom door for the professor to let them in and begin the lesson. No, he forged straight ahead to, "Show me your essay feedback," and "I need Schleiden's Apotheker for my Potions homework and you haven't returned it."

It turned out that whilst in person Tom made a very terrible friend, he was also a very dedicated scholar.

It was one of those things about Tom that made Hermione remain unsure whether she liked him or not—he was unquestionably brilliant and talented, but it was a slippery slope to continue overlooking his flaws in favour of his virtues. But there were, after all, plenty of fair-minded statesmen, genius generals, and progressive Parliamentarians who made the world a better place, while at the same time were, in their personal lives, philanderers or opium hounds or something equally terrible.

And years later, history textbooks and the average man or woman on the street would say that they had been great.

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One Saturday not long after Hermione's twelfth birthday, she and Tom were studying in a corner of the library, enjoying a table to themselves. Many of the other students were outside, where the House Quidditch teams were playing an informal pickup game as a warm-up for the beginning of the Quidditch season. It was a training practice to get returned players back into shape, and new players on the reserve squads accustomed to the tactics of a full seven player team.

As it was the weekend, Hermione wore her school robe over a soft wool cardigan sent by her mother in a birthday parcel, along with a plain skirt and blouse. Her other birthday presents had been a pouch of galleons converted from pounds sterling, and a jar of Marmite, because Hermione had written to say that Hogwarts didn't serve it—although during special occasions they did have unusual dishes like dressed pike, jugged hare, and larks' tongues. Wizards were so traditional it was surprising that they even owned a steam locomotive. She had wondered if this was due to wizards having such long lifespans: Headmaster Dippet was over two hundred years old, so he was already an old man when foods like that had been common fare on a Briton's table, a century ago.

Hermione was working on a Potions essay, while Tom was fiddling with an ostentatious purple quill pen tipped with an engraved metal nib, a book called Time Saving Study Skills open by his elbow. She noticed that Tom wore his full school uniform, perfectly knotted necktie and all, and with a flash of guilt, Hermione realised that Tom probably did not own much of a wardrobe outside his orphanage and Muggle school uniforms.

A younger Hermione would have commented on it, much to her mortification. Not only would she have commented on it, but asked him why, then answered the question herself before he could open his mouth to answer, in as tactless a manner as possible. (She was grateful that the first real conversations she'd had with Tom had been through letters, where she could restrain herself. Somewhat.) The Hermione of the present noticed but kept it to herself, taking the time to puzzle out the explanations and full implications.

The wand from Ollivanders cost my parents four galleons, eight sickles. I don't know the exact conversion rate between galleons and pounds, but I do know that the sixteen shillings I gave Tom a while back wouldn't have been enough for his wand, let alone all his school books and uniforms, she thought. So where did he get that quill?

The problem was, however, that regardless of their varying states of self-control, both younger and present day Hermiones had an all-consuming, irrepressible urge to know.

"What kind of quill is that?" Hermione asked, trying to sound more inquisitive than judgemental. "Your class quill was a plain brown one. I've never seen you use that one before."

Tom scratched away at a scrap of parchment. "Oh, Scrivenshaft's Deluxe Dictation Quill, I think," he said. "You wouldn't have seen me use it, because it's new."

"Where did you get from? First years aren't allowed out of the castle to shop in the village," Hermione pointed out.

He gave her a thin smile. "Do you really want an answer? I'm not sure you want to know, because it'll just upset you."

"Tom," Hermione sighed, setting down her own quill. "You have to be careful! Even if you borrow things and plan to put them back, you still can't tell what's had an Anti-Theft Jinx put on it."

"I didn't 'borrow' it," Tom said with a swish of the purple quill. "I traded for it from Avery. I did his Charms and History homework for a week, and he gave me the quill to dictate it in his handwriting. It's shocking, really—not only is he talentless, but on top of that he's also lazy and stupid. It's a wonder how families like his have got so much money if it's this easy to talk them into giving it away."

Hermione gaped at him. "You did his homework? You cheated for him!"

"If you're going to throw around the word 'cheating'," Tom spoke in a confident voice, "it's Avery who cheated. I just enabled him. And if we're going to keep pointing fingers, it's Avery who's the victim here. He's the one cheating himself out of an education, when he gets to his N.E.W.T.s and realises he can't answer a single question. Imagine his face when he gets his results letter and it comes with a full set of Trolls and Dreadfuls." Tom's eyelids drooped in what appeared to be a pleasant daydream; his mouth twisted into a hungry leer. "Imagine his father's face, oho!"

Hermione was never aware more than now how, for all their similarities—their enthusiasm toward anything academic, the strength of their convictions, their persistence toward achieving their goals—Tom was different in other, irrevocable ways.

She believed in academic integrity. She thought it was morally repugnant to cheat, or to allow others to cheat off their work. If someone wanted better marks in class, they ought to put in the time to study, study more if they weren't doing enough of it, or ask for help from a classmate or teacher. To Tom, however, her explanation for why he shouldn't help others cheat wouldn't prevent him from continuing to do so, if doing so continued to be profitable for him. Persuading him using words like "integrity" or "morals" would just cause him to laugh and flaunt his newly acquired goods even more, to prove to her and anyone else who believed the saying "Cheaters never prosper" that cheaters could, indeed, prosper.

(It suddenly made her realise where he must have gotten that set of History of Magic study guides for the First Year final exams. He'd given them to her on her birthday; she'd been happy with them, because they were useful, and an excellent gift from someone who knew her well—or heard her complaining about Professor Binns' unengaging lesson structure—and quite a thoughtful one at that.)

It would never work if she told Tom, quite plainly, "Don't do this".

Tom bore an utter disregard for those who tried to demonstrate their authority over him. Most adults fell into this category, and there were several arguments these adults commonly used which failed to sway him in the least; anyone who relied on them lost his respect entirely.

From their past correspondence, Hermione had figured out that Tom considered an argument over if the opposing side tried to dissuade him from action by using any of the following rebuttals:

1. It's wrong.

2. I don't like it.

3. Because I said so.

And honestly, Hermione found answers like that to be unsatisfying too; ever since she was a child, she'd known that things were more complex than, "That's just the way things are". It was what drove her to seek answers in books rather than from the mouths of her nursery school teachers. Despite that, most of the adults in her life she'd encountered she considered reasonable and of sound judgement, and therefore worthy of her respect.

But if they were so reasonable, Tom had once argued, they would be giving reasons instead of excuses.

She couldn't demand Tom not cheat for Avery because it was wrong. (Or, as Tom would say, because she thought it was wrong.) Tom wouldn't listen unless her reasoning was sound and substantial. (And, as Tom would remind her, he didn't listen to other people because they were stupid, but he would make allowances for her, as long as she wasn't stupid either.)

Hermione was torn by two conflicting forces: her conscience versus Tom Riddle.

And as much as she didn't like to do it, she could compromise.

Hermione frowned, marking a page in her textbook before she closed it and set it aside. "Imagine your face when Avery goes to his father and says that it's your fault he got that set of Trolls and Dreadfuls."

Tom tilted his head. A lock of his wavy black hair fell over his eyes, escaped from the neatly combed side part he'd worn from the first time she'd seen him, almost three years ago. The roguish look didn't suit the cold smile he wore on his face. "How is Avery's laziness my fault? He takes the exams, he earns the mark."

"Your logic won't matter to them," said Hermione. "Avery will blame you, and his father would rather believe that Riddle the Upstart Orphan tricked his son than accept the fact that his son isn't... erm, academically gifted. He'd have a history of homework marks graded with Acceptables to show for it, that you'd have provided for him." Hermione lowered her voice, continuing with, "People like him have influence here—they're just like the Eton 'old boys' from back home, where his father went to school with everyone else's fathers. He could go to the Board of Governors and complain, and you know they'd allow him to re-take his exams when people like us would have to get on our knees and petition for weeks even if we were dying of Dragon Pox."

By the time she'd finished, she was quite pink the face from the passion with which she had spoken. Injustice and unfairness were social ills that had always upset her, especially if she was one directly affected. She had seen Old Boys' clubs first hand—her father had his Alumnus Society—and she had witnessed their condescension toward her mother when serving them drinks after dinner parties.

Her mother! Hermione's Mum was just as clever and politically informed as they were. In fact, Mum had marched with the suffragettes for her own right to vote when Hermione was only a baby.

And as diligent as always, Hermione had researched the wizarding qualification exams so she'd be prepared in time for her O.W.L.s and her N.E.W.T.s During that research, she'd uncovered the existence of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, a group of twelve wizards and witches whose power, when directed by a unanimous vision, equalled the Headmaster's. They were the group responsible for ensuring that all Hogwarts students' fees were paid in full by the Ministry of Magic, regardless of their blood status.

(Hermione's parents would have paid £200 a year for her Donwell Preparatory school fees, and if Hogwarts was priced similarly, that would amount to at least forty to fifty galleons per student, per annum. If Wizarding wages were on par with the Muggle world median, working families with two or more children, "acceptable" blood status or not, would have bankrupted themselves to afford schooling, let alone buy the uniforms and textbooks.)

Tom's smile slipped a bit, but didn't disappear entirely. His eyes glinted, feral and dark. "I don't intend to die of anything, Dragon Pox or otherwise. On top of that, I also don't intend on doing Avery's homework up to our N.E.W.T.s. If he wants my help again, he'll have to offer more than last time. I imagine that by the time he's traded away something he can't afford to lose, it'd make for the perfect opportunity to introduce him to the concept of 'mutually assured destruction'. Incriminating me will only get him into deeper trouble; I expect by then, I'll have a quill pen that writes in his handwriting and a copy of his family's letter seal."

"I don't like the idea of 'assured destruction'," said Hermione apprehensively. "Your own or anyone else. You shouldn't be putting yourself at risk at all. Tom, this is your future! You have to be careful, you have more to lose than him! Even if Avery fails his N.E.W.T.s the second go around, he'll be fine when his father finds him a place breeding mail owls on the family estate. But if people even get the slightest whiff that you did something wrong, you'll be in trouble, and no one will jump up to help you."

"Then the solution to that is to ensure that no one ever thinks I'm anything but a Good Boy," said Tom. "Good job that I've had years and years of practice doing just that." He inclined his head and blinked innocently at her, his black eyelashes casting shadows over his cheekbones under the warm light of the library lamps. It contrasted with his pale complexion; Hermione noticed that his skin was smooth and unmarked by the pox or measles scars that afflicted many other people from his side of London. "You don't think I'm a bad person, do you?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed. This was one of the things she'd had to get used to. Tom's armoury of facial expressions, which she never saw in his letters, gave interactions with him a disconcerting amount of depth and secondary meaning.

"I think you're someone who is easily tempted into making bad decisions," said Hermione. "You're not a bad person, Tom. You're just greedy."

"Am I?" asked Tom. "What is 'greedy' but another name for 'ambitious'?"

"Greed is greed and ambition is ambition," Hermione stated in a firm voice. "I don't see why calling it something else would change what it is. A rose by any other name is still a rose."

"Giving it another name confuses the scent-blind," said Tom. "A rose smells like a rose, and greed smells like greed, but the unobservant—that's most people—wouldn't notice if I gave them mutton and called it lamb, as long as I served them with a smile. Except you, I suppose." Tom's cheek twitched in the barest flicker of a grimace, before it smoothed over. "And perhaps Dumbledore as well. I'm still not happy that he knows about me."

"You haven't done anything wrong," Hermione assured him. "You can't be in trouble for anything. And he hasn't acted any differently in class. He gives you as many as House points as he does me."

They were the two top points earners for their Year; whichever one of them earned the most varied by the week. Hermione was always the first to have her hand in the air when the professors asked questions during lessons, able to recite passages not only from the textbooks, but their optional supplementary readings too. Tom, slower with his hand and often allowing other students to have a turn, gave the most insightful answers which linked textbook theory to practical applications for everyday use. He was also praised by their teachers for his thoughtful questions, such as asking how their simple Levitation Charm differed in terms of casting strength and magical intent to the more advanced Modified Hovering Charm used in broomstick enchantments.

Tom shook his head, scowling. "Haven't you seen the way he looks at me? I've started sitting at the back because of the way he stares, right in the eyes, like he's waiting to catch me doing something wrong. I'm not even doing anything, taking notes or turning handkerchiefs into envelopes, and I can feel him watching. It makes my scalp itch."

"I don't think Professor Dumbledore is one to do anything inappropriate with a student," Hermione said. "Everyone in Ravenclaw says he's one of the best, if not the best, teacher in the school, even though his favourites are usually always Gryffindors. But it's not unusual, as I hear Professor Slughorn likes Slytherins the best. Everyone knows he's brilliant—he apprenticed for his Mastery in Alchemy straight out of school, and I heard his Alchemy Master was Flamel! He has at least three Masteries, you know; he's qualified to teach Defence on top of Transfiguration, and if he's got Alchemy under his belt, he must be at an advanced level at least in Potions, I can't imagine he wouldn't be—"

Hermione had to stop herself from gushing over Professor Dumbledore's academic accomplishments. If Tom was interested in the details, it was because it was useful to know, but he would never admire them the same way she did. If Tom saw Dumbledore's Medal of Magical Merit in the Hogwarts Trophy Room, it wouldn't be to appreciate the man's record-breaking N.E.W.T.s scores, but to salivate over the day where he had one for himself, engraved with his own name.

"He's not said anything to you, has he?"

"No, nothing," said Tom. "I'm still waiting for him to decide to teach me more about my abilities, but it will be years from now, if he even decides to do it at all. And until then, I'll have to practice with it on my own."

"You're going to experiment by yourself? Tom, that's dangerous! You don't know what you're doing—"

"I do know what I'm doing; I've been doing it for years." Tom lifted his chin, looking down at her from half-lidded eyes, his posture relaxed. But his eyes were hard and searching, as if gauging her reaction. "I'm used to learning things by myself. If it weren't for practical lessons like Potions or Herbology or in-class wandwork—and maintaining appearances, of course—I'd skive most of them and spend all day in the library."

Hermione pursed her lips. "You know why they don't allow us to use our wands during the summer, even when I'd rather be able to do revision outside of school. It's not so much because of the Statute of Secrecy, though that's part of it. It's because we're children, Tom. If we make a mistake in class, the professors have a Mediwitch on call in the Hospital Wing, if they can't put us to rights themselves after someone sets their desk on fire or turns a box of matches into a box of exploding splinters. Experimental magic without supervision is seriously dangerous!"

Her hands clasped themselves together on the table, knuckles bloodless and white, nails digging crescents into the skin of her palms. "Even in the Muggle world, scientific experimenting is dangerous and meant to be supervised. My father, when he was in school, said he studied anatomy from dead bodies, and before that, he used pigs and sheep from the abattoir. No one does anything to themselves, or by themselves, if they can help it. It's not 1650 anymore, when there was only a choice between your own body or robbing a graveyard for one."

Tom fell silent, his gaze lingering on Hermione's pale face, at the scattering of summer freckles over her nose and cheeks standing out in sharp relief. "I'm not alone, am I?" he mused. "If what you're suggesting is that we—"

"I'm not suggesting anything," Hermione interrupted, because she didn't want to hear Tom's side of the argument. The things he said often upset and unsettled her, even if they weren't intended to, and it made him evasive at times when he knew that he would meet her disapproval. "You think too often in terms of extremes: sink or swim, fight or fly, action or inaction. You give yourself ultimatums when you don't have to."

"And you'd offer me other choices," said Tom thoughtfully.

"I'm simply suggesting that it's better to be well-informed than to jump in headfirst," she replied. "Because sometimes it's not about arguing that anarchy is better than autocracy, but considering other legitimate options too: democracy, monarchy, theocracy, or plutocracy. I may not like all of them, but, well, I can't just pretend they don't exist, and neither can you. And it's better to know than to realise too late that you've, erm, purged all your senators and have no one left to collect your taxes or run a country."

An argument platform that hinged on the notion that "purging the senators" was bad because murder was bad wouldn't engender as much discussion as "senators can be useful". She disliked that she had to speak like this, to act like this, to do this to herself, to her integrity and her conscience. It felt like she was losing her grip on herself bit by bit, the longer she remained in Tom's company.

I'm not losing myself, she thought. I was always Hermione, and I still am, and the central tenet of being Hermione is how she defines herself as one who is kind and treasures her friends. There is no distinction between a Real or a False Hermione; I'm not the one who thinks in ultimatums and absolutes. What I'm doing is out of kindness—the only kindness that Tom accepts willingly instead of treating with scorn.

She had to do this if she wanted Tom to listen to her. It was better for her to be Tom's conscience because she was uncertain whether or not he had one of his own. It was better for Tom to listen to her than to wander off in his pursuit of ambition and fall off a cliff of his own making.

(It was better to be his shepherd than his sheep.)

"I've often wondered," spoke Tom in a soft, almost pleasant voice, meeting Hermione's eyes over their shared table, "why other people ever bothered with such trite and insipid nonsense as friendship. Ever since I was small, I've never cared for the company of other people, nor have I ever felt lonely. I've never cared to join the schoolyard scrum or keep anyone's wickets; validation through teamwork has never presented me with an ounce of appeal."

"What are you—"

"I knew you recognised how different we were to other people, the first time we met. You and I were formed from the same clay. Not an exact replica—as if anyone could hope to replicate me—but closer than anyone I've met since," continued Tom on his unexpected tangent, not letting Hermione get a word in edgewise. "I've never wanted to use the word 'friends' for what we are to each other—I've never liked the way other people used it for all their shallow acquaintances; it sounds so disingenuous, as if it were lacking... dimension, a level of substance that we share and they don't.

"But I do think that we were meant to be, if not friends, then foils," Tom declared, with a triumphant flash of white canine tooth in the barest flicker of a smile. "You were meant to be my foil. It's a much better word, isn't it?"

"It's a little bit farfetched," Hermione confessed.

She had never put stock in the notion that she was Destined for Greatness, or Meant to Be for anyone or anything. That was nonsense, and it implied that people didn't truly possess free will, and therefore weren't accountable for their decisions. If there was greatness in her future, then it would only be won through hard work and the right choices; to believe otherwise was immensely egotistical. Although, now that she thought about it, egotistical would not be an inaccurate description for Tom Riddle.

(But she could see how Tom had come to the conclusion that he was Meant For Better Things. If she was a student whose brilliance the Hogwarts teachers saw once in a decade, Tom was the once per century prodigy. Professor Dumbledore's own brilliance had been acknowledged when he'd published original research in Transfiguration Today as a Seventh Year student.

Tom, she decided, without a single doubt, could do that too.)

"And overly... theatrical," she added, giving Tom an unimpressed look. "I suppose it might fit for people like Laertes and Prince Hamlet—or it might not, considering that they both died in the end instead of talking about their problems like sensible adults. But labels of this sort don't apply to real life. Real people are more complex than that."

"I wouldn't know," Tom said. "You're the only other real person I know."

Hermione had to force herself not to gape at him. Sometimes she wondered if it was better when Tom was evasive around her instead of sincere. He was much less shocking that way. "I'd prefer if you listened to me not because I'm 'real', but because the things I say have merit."

"Why does it matter, as long as I listen?" asked Tom. "You've made some valid arguments. Isn't that what you wanted me to say?"

"I wanted you to agree not to experiment on your own."

"Then help me, join me, stay and observe. I won't be on my own if you're with me."

Hermione's heart hammered in her chest. He wants my help. He didn't ask—he'd never ask for help, not even if he needed it. But... What was this but a compromise?

"I can help you research. And I can buy books through owl order if we have to, if they don't care that they're selling to underage students," Hermione said. "But I won't agree to help with anything that goes against my personal principles. No sneaking into the Restricted Section. No keeping watch while you sneak in. No using students as test subjects unless you have their permission. And definitely no dead bodies."

"As if dead bodies are that easy to find," Tom snorted. "The streets of London are paved in them compared to Hogwarts. But fine. I agree to your terms."

"There's one last thing."

"What is it?"

"If something goes wrong, I'm going to Professor Dumbledore for help. And you won't hold a grudge for an entire month because I chose Dumbledore over serious permanent damage."

"Alright," said Tom, somewhat reluctantly. "But only if something goes wrong that I can't fix on my own. Only if it wouldn't risk either of us being expelled; I'm not going back to London unless I have to. And you won't report me to any other teachers or prefects because you don't like what I'm doing. If you don't like it, then you can leave."

If I report Tom, Avery will no longer be the target of 'mutually assured destruction'. I'd go down with his ship if I ever tried to sink it, "friendship" or not. His Hogwarts attendance is the opportunity he's never been given before, and will never get again. To take it away from him... would be to destroy every virtue I've seen in him the last few years.

The voice in the back of her mind whispered to her, "You know what it means to him if you choose this."

I know, thought Hermione fiercely. It means I am his friend.

"Agreed," she said after a moment of contemplation. "But if you're doing something I don't like, I'll tell you, and you'll justify why it's necessary instead of showing me straight to the door."

"Agreed," said Tom, taking down each of their concessions on a spare sheet of parchment. "By the way, Hermione..."

"Yes?"

"You still haven't returned Schleiden's Apotheker."

Hermione sighed. "I've finished it, but it's in my room. I'll bring it down to dinner tonight."

Tom shot her a very pleased smile. "Isn't it so much better when we get along?"

"We'd get along more if you weren't so stubborn," Hermione said, sniffing. "And Schleiden's Apotheker isn't even that good. It's the most archaic Potions manual I've ever seen; half the terms are old-fashioned Alchemists' jargon. Lead sugars, lime oil, and wine salts—I've never seen any of those ingredients in the textbook or our class instructions."

"Just because it's not in the textbook doesn't mean you can't make a usable potion with it," Tom remarked.

"If it was right, then they would have put it in the textbook!"

The rest of the afternoon was split between finishing up homework assignments and arguing with Tom about the school textbooks being incomplete. It turned out that one could, if they wanted to, successfully brew most of the common household potions in a solid gold cauldron. However, it necessitated recalculating the ingredient ratios, simmer times, and the amount of stirring, as gold cauldrons were by volume smaller than the standard school pewter.

They didn't put this in the textbook, because very few people owned gold cauldrons, and those that did tended to be professional potioneers who could complete their own calculations and didn't need to follow recipes from a schoolbook. (On top of that, professional potioneers didn't waste their gold cauldrons on simple headache remedies or wart cures that school students practised with. No, they brewed in gold for rare draughts like Liquid Luck or Grochowska's Condensed Helianthus Essence.)

Tom was triumphant; Hermione was less so. She was a bit put off by having an incomplete textbook. She was also the slightest bit annoyed because apparently this was assumed knowledge to wizards and witches born in the magical world. She'd assumed that the Hogwarts authorities put pewter cauldrons (standard size two) on the school shopping list because they were the best and the safest, not because they were the most economical.

"If they're the safest, why does some imbecile explode their cauldron at least once per lesson?" asked Tom. "You'd have seen it with your own eyes; you have Potions with the Hufflepuffs, and I have them with Gryffindors, but it's the same thing. A single porcupine quill on high heat and they're gone. The two thickest Houses at Hogwarts—now you know why they don't take Potions together."

"You know what," said Hermione with an irritated huff, disapproving of Tom's high-handed arrogance. "Since you're so clever, I think I'll keep Schleiden's Apotheker for another week."