1939
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Twice as many students stayed in the castle for the Christmas holidays compared to Tom's first year.
Most of them were Muggleborns or half-bloods, and all of them came from families who lived in Muggle neighbourhoods.
A wizard who could afford to rent a small flat in the centre of Diagon Alley might spend that same amount of money in British pounds to afford a comfortable townhouse in Muggle Manchester or Brighton. This was an option many families with multiple children took; half-blood and mixed households could blend in quite capably with their Muggle neighbours, while Muggle parents of magical children could commute to and from their Muggle jobs. Access to wizarding areas from a Muggle house was made possible if the family had their fireplaces connected to the Floo Network.
As it had been the previous year, Tom was the only student left out of the Slytherin Second Year cohort. His dorm mates were all proud, self-professed purebloods who lived in isolated estates and manor houses, which meant, once again, he had the whole dormitory to himself. The majority of his House had returned to their homes as well; the handful of Slytherins who'd stayed were Fifth and Seventh Years who planned to study for their exams and remain within walking distance of the Hogwarts library.
There was only one long table in the Great Hall for meals, and Tom was forced to listen to the blathering of students of other Houses, some of whom he had heard complaining about having to stay at Hogwarts instead of being at their Muggle houses with their parents. Did they not know that food was being rationed in the non-magical parts of Britain? A fully-trained wizard would never starve to death unless he was an idiot, but whilst it was one thing for a wizard to stretch a bag of flour or a loaf of bread, most could not magically duplicate rationed luxuries like tea leaves, coffee, and chocolate, let alone the elaborate ice cream sculptures and seven-layer game pies served up during the Hogwarts feasts. It was as if Tom's fellow students didn't realise that living at Hogwarts was a privilege, or that returning to their Muggle homes meant giving up their magic in the name of the law.
The one redeeming aspect of having to sit through so many inane conversations—outside of the food, that is; during his first week in the castle, Tom had had trouble deciding whether the meals were better than the library—was the fact that Hermione had to endure it right next to him.
But... she didn't seem to be enduring it now. In fact, she appeared to be enjoying conversing with one of her dining partners, a Ravenclaw girl in her Third or Fourth Year. And a Muggleborn, based on the topic of their conversation.
"...My favourite was always Mansfield Park—have you read it?" asked the girl. She had prominent ears that protruded from the side of her head like teapot handles, and Tom guessed that she had chosen her hairstyle of jaw-length rolled curls to conceal them. If only it had worked.
"Oh, yes," Hermione replied, nodding eagerly. "It emphasised the satire over the romance, so most people overlooked it in favour of Austen's more straightforward romantic works. In my opinion, the romance only works because of the social commentary. You have to overcome great obstacles for love, I think, and in those days, social inequality was just that."
"Exactly!" said the other girl. "Everyone else I know who's read the genre seems to think nothing more on it beyond siding for either Mr. Darcy or Mr. Rochester."
"Mr. Rochester? Mr. Darcy I can understand," Hermione scoffed. "But Rochester, really?"
"Well, he's dark. And brooding."
"He's a terrible person!"
"But he broods so well..."
Both girls broke into giggles.
Tom poked irritably at his roasted Brussels sprouts. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Hermione giggle like that, or if she had ever giggled at all in his presence. Most likely not.
The time they spent together was occupied with serious, practical things. Magic, learning, learning about magic: they honed useful skills so that they might be better prepared for the future, because it was unacceptable to be anything other than excellent. It would be a waste of their gifts and their education if they didn't take as much of an advantage of their time at Hogwarts as they could.
Giggling over silly girl novels was a waste of time. It was like the boys in the Slytherin dormitory, lounging on each other's beds and cackling over the illustrated funny pages in the back of their Quidditch magazines. They thumped each other on the back after flying laps with the reserve squad, they jostled shoulders behind the double desks of the Charms classroom, betting on who would set their feather on fire first.
It was undignified, unseemly, and childish.
He liked Hermione because she was better than that. She was different from other people, in the same way that Tom was different. More mature, less childish, and yet not at all like the older girls at the orphanage who stitched up the hemlines of the dowdy grey uniform skirt and told Mrs. Cole that it had shrunk in the wash. The girls who couldn't step outside without their pocketbook—even if they weren't going past the gates—or worried if the colour of their nail enamel made them look fast.
It was instances like this that he was reminded that she was different from him. Not significant enough for him to write her off as a lost cause, but it was enough to make him feel uneasy. And in the hollow space beneath his sternum, he felt the cold bite of anger simmering into life.
It was very similar to what he'd felt when Dumbledore had visited his room at Wool's a year and a half ago, the thick cream vellum envelope of a Hogwarts invitation held in his hand.
"I have heard interesting things about you, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore had said, his phrasing ambiguous and his expression neutral, but to Tom it was ominous, and unease dripped down his spine like fever sweat.
He didn't want these strange, incomprehensible thoughts. He knew hunger, bitterness, spite, and rage—they were as familiar to him as the lines and wrinkles on the flesh of his palms, or his reflection in the mirror. But this subtle, subdued unease slipped inside him like the vapours of consumption, with no cause or reason that he could identify by name. It made him restless, his skin prickly, as if someone was observing him from around the corner and ducking out of sight if Tom looked up or behind.
He wondered if he and Hermione were growing apart just as they were growing older. He wondered if the distance was due in part to their physical separation, as they had to make a concerted effort to see each other outside of classes. Unlike this other Ravenclaw girl, he and Hermione couldn't sit together at the House tables and share casual conversation with one another; their weekly meetings were always dedicated to meaningful affairs, because they hadn't any time to waste with frivolities.
It wasn't against the rules for a student of one House to sit at another House's table for meals, but in most circumstances it was sibling with sibling, cousin with cousin, or in a few rare occurences, future step-mother with a not quite son or daughter. He'd noticed a few older students sitting with their beaus of other Houses, or for the students (mostly Slytherins) who were the proud scions of old, monied families, their fiancés or fiancées. It was allowed because the Great Hall was a public space, and people would notice if their hands lingered too long under the table.
People would certainly notice if Tom Riddle sat with Hermione Granger.
It almost made him question his experience with the Sorting Hat.
(He had wanted to punish the stupid Hat for being unco-operative as much he'd wanted to humiliate Jasper Hastings for being annoying.)
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Tom knew that most British public boarding schools divided students into classes or forms. Hogwarts, apparently, had four Founders and four corresponding Houses. The envelope given by Dumbledore was sealed by a blob of wax on the flap, imprinted with the Hogwarts crest. Divided into quadrants, it carried the images of a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake.
Tom liked the snake the most.
He'd read a little about the Founders while browsing the bookshop in Diagon Alley, but he hadn't the money for any books outside the textbook list, and then he had to return to Wool's before Martha locked the gates and scolded him for being late. He had been tempted to write a letter to Hermione to ask her what extra books she'd bought to prepare herself for Hogwarts, but then he remembered that she was The Betrayer. She was Judas with frumpy hair and an overbite.
So Tom went to his Sorting angrier than he wanted to be, and more ignorant than he wished.
The First Years were called to sit on the stool in alphabetical order, which meant Hermione Granger would be Sorted with the first half of the large group of milling students, and Tom in the second. The Hat was dropped over her head, and she spent several minutes beneath it, her hair spilling out from under the brim, white fingers clutching her knees.
"RAVENCLAW!"
When it was Tom's turn, he strode forward without looking left or right, putting one foot in front of the other like he was walking a plank, the watchful eyes and turning heads of the older students like the circling of hungry sharks. He didn't look for Professor Dumbledore, the only adult wizard he knew from the staff members sitting at the High Table. It didn't matter what House he was put in; everyone at Hogwarts was offered the same class subjects, so he'd learn the same things no matter what crest he wore on his robe, or what bed he slept in.
The Hat dropped over his eyes.
"You've a clever mind, Mr. Riddle," said the Hat in a voice that rasped and rustled like paper bags being shaken out at the grocery market. "You have such a thirst for knowledge, such a hunger to learn. Ravenclaw would welcome you. But..."
"...Yes?" prompted Tom. The lack of reaction from his watchers left Tom to assume that the Hat had spoken directly into his mind, and not aloud.
"The pinnacle of Ravenclaw virtue is not learning, or knowledge. It is wisdom. But... I see, I see. Your appetites and potential lean elsewhere, Mr. Riddle. I can see where Slytherin would suit you well indeed. The seed of Salazar's virtue lies in you—not simple cunning or mere ambition, but the promise of greatness."
Before he'd put the Hat on, he'd seen Hermione's face. She was watching him, her shoulders tensed, and from the expression on her face, the liquid glitter in her eyes, he could tell that she was desperate to turn away and ignore him completely, but there was something—something he didn't understand—that made her keep looking. She was the only one out of the school of hungry sharks that he knew for certain was neither hungry nor a shark.
But—
She was a witch.
She was no friend of his.
She was magical.
She was a traitor.
She was Special.
"Ah, Mr. Riddle. I can offer you one small drop of insight. In the long-past years of my creation, the so-called days of yore and legend, there was a young man who chose Slytherin and whom Salazar took as an apprentice. He loved a Ravenclaw who told him that she would not give him her heart, not even with her last dying breath. He had ambition; he wanted greatness and renown, and he wanted to win his love's heart—but in doing so, the young man cast aside wisdom, and committed a great crime that proved to be his undoing. In death, he learned what became of those who went without wisdom, and when he learned enough, it was only then that he found reconciliation of a sort.
"Ambition and cleverness were never meant to be singular suits, and the same can be said for chivalry and tenacity. For greatness without wisdom is unsound, and wisdom without greatness is unheard."
"The true moral of the story," said Tom, "seems to be that separating by House traits is a terrible idea, so Sorting is ultimately meaningless." He saw no point in pretending to be polite if the Hat could read his mind.
"It has exactly as much meaning as you give it," the Hat said with a dry chuckle. "Now, on to your Sorting..."
"Wait, Hat! How did the apprentice learn 'in death'?" asked Tom. "He'd be dead. How is that even possible?"
"That, I do believe, is a story for another time."
"I want to know!" Tom demanded. He decided to put some pressure on the Hat. It wasn't an animal, or a drunk matron, but if it could speak, then maybe it had a mind. And all minds could be compelled.
TELL ME NOW—
"Then, Mr. Riddle," spoke the Hat in Tom's head, "you may find the answers you seek in SLYTHERIN!"
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Tom didn't regret being a Slytherin.
The green linings on his robes flattered his colouring and complexion; the green light of the watery windows gave him an air of graveness and mystery, rather than making him look sallow and ill as it did for Lestrange and Nott. He appreciated the refined tastes of whoever had appointed the Slytherin Common Room and dormitories. The fireplaces were kept in use year-round, so instead of being cold and damp like the rest of the dungeons, the Slytherin living areas were always warm and dry. And his four-poster had bedposts carved with snakes.
At first, it had been a bit odd, the way he was treated differently than others. The Slytherin table didn't clap for him as it did for Travers who was Sorted right after. No one really spoke to him or looked him in the eye—they did look at his robes—or passed him the serving tongs when the food appeared. Tom didn't mind. There were plenty of other dishes to choose from. He hadn't eaten anything the whole day but a bowl of plain porridge at breakfast; the Express' tuck trolley only served lollies and sweet pastries and no proper lunches, not that he'd had the money to make a purchase.
Tom was used to being treated differently, so this wasn't an issue for him. And over time, he'd established himself within the First Year hierarchy, and when they treated him differently now, it was not because they saw him like wild dogs saw an antelope with a malformed leg.
Until now, he hadn't speculated on what it would be like to have been Sorted into another House.
The day after Christmas, Tom decided to question Hermione about her own House experience.
Hermione sat at the very end of the single long table in the centre of the Great Hall, and Tom sat next to her. Even with the reduced population of the castle, students organised themselves by House and year. There was some mixing between Houses and years, but not that much, and since Tom was wearing his Slytherin uniform robes—he didn't have any others—no one tried to take the seat closest to him. In fact, wearing his Slytherin crest was useful for getting a good seat at the table, far away from people who would reach over his plate—disgusting—or bump elbows with him on either side.
He had noticed that most Muggleborns, when not attending class, didn't wear their school robes over their shirts and slacks. It was expected, but not an official rule, that students dress properly for dinner; Tom had heard his Slytherin Housemates comment on the slovenly appearance of those of inferior blood status during meals, so he personally made sure to wear his robes whenever he left the Slytherin living quarters.
Tom kept his thoughts to himself on what was slovenly and what was not. He had seen one particular upper year Muggleborn in Gryffindor come to Christmas dinner in formal evening whites, which included a sharp black tailcoat and a high, starched, chin-scraping collar. This same Gryffindor was one he'd also seen at breakfast on the weekends wearing a full suit of hunting tweed and ghillie boots, and on a separate day, jodhpurs and spats under a caped riding coat.
(Tom supposed that thumbing your nose up at the entrenched aristocracy was much easier if you were an aristocrat yourself.)
"What is it like, being a Ravenclaw?" Tom asked, as the remains of their dinner were cleared from the table.
"Is this your attempt at trying to wheedle out House secrets?" Hermione replied, dabbing at her lips with a serviette, before dropping it onto her empty plate. It disappeared an instant later. "I've heard the Hufflepuff Common Room has a door or hatch that connects it directly to the kitchens. There's a communal biscuit tin, and every Friday and Sunday they have a cocoa party."
"How is it a 'secret' if even you know about it?"
"'Even you?' Excuse me!" said Hermione, huffing in indignation. "It's not really a secret; they tell you outright if you ask about it. And anyway, I don't believe in 'House secrets'. There aren't any secrets, it's just obscure information no one knows about because they haven't bothered to read Hogwarts: A History."
Tom had picked that book up at the library, but dropped it as soon as he'd seen the name of its author on the cover. It was written by the same old bag—ahem, celebrated historian—who had written their History of Magic textbooks; she had apparently taught the subject last century, before their beloved Professor Cuthbert Binns had taken over.
"The location of the Slytherin Common Room is considered a 'House secret'," Tom remarked. "The prefects told us on our first day that no one outside of Slytherin had seen it in over five centuries, and if they caught us letting anyone in, they'd have a House vote on the penalty as it's been so long since anyone has had to use it that they've forgotten what it is."
"You make Slytherin sound so awful." Hermione shook her head. "None of our prefects gave us any rules like that. It was more, 'Don't leave a mess, remember your library due dates, and if you leave a book out overnight in the Common Room, don't be upset if it disappears'. I don't recall any of them saying we weren't allowed to let anyone in, but I don't see how they could have enforced it, with our password system being so simple." She made a face. "They say it's foolproof, but now I understand why they told us our things could disappear."
"You don't have a password every fortnight?" Tom asked. He had assumed that all Houses had a doorway, archway, wall, or passage that opened to themed passwords, depending on the prefects' sense of humour. For three months last year, they'd used the names of magical snake breeds.
"No, we have a small test. A word puzzle," said Hermione. "There's an enchanted door knocker that—you know, why don't I just show you? I had planned to go to my room to get something down, but you might as well come with me, since no one has said anything about letting in friends. Certainly not the door guard, as long as it's friends who can pass the entrance test. I don't wear my uniform on the weekend, and I don't think it can even tell."
Hermione pushed herself up from the table and Tom followed. They passed through the doors of the Great Hall and entered the eastern wing of the castle, on the same route that Tom and the Slytherins used to get to their Astronomy classes.
"Does it help if the Sorting Hat said I would fit into Ravenclaw?"
"Did it say that? I'm not surprised," said Hermione. "You rank higher than every other Ravenclaw in our year, except where you tie with me. They've been saying in our Common Room since last year that you should've been a Ravenclaw."
She led him to a circular staircase, which corkscrewed up several storeys to the fifth floor of the castle.
"I told the Hat that I didn't care about Houses," said Tom, breathing a little harder at the top of the staircase than he had at the bottom. "So it put me in Slytherin. But I'm happy with not being in Ravenclaw if I had to do that several times a day."
"Did you know that the Hat offered me Gryffindor?"
"What?" Tom snorted. "You? A Gryffindor?"
He tolerated most of Ravenclaw House, which mirrored the opinion of his fellow Slytherins. They didn't make for diverting company, but they were, for the most part, quiet and polite and well-mannered. Professor Slughorn dedicated a shelf in his office to framed photographs of his favourite students. Over half of them were Slytherins, but there were plenty of Ravenclaws who had gone on to become famous inventors and respected academics. They sent Sluggy signed copies of various research journals whenever they were published, which the Professor proudly showed off at the High Table after the breakfast mail delivery. It contrasted with the Gryffindor sports stars, and the single Hufflepuff, whom Tom recalled was hugging a unicorn in his photo.
"It said I had Gryffindor conviction and Ravenclaw logic," Hermione explained, "and then it let me choose. I said I'd rather be in the House where the members can sit down and discuss their beliefs sensibly. Conviction isn't a bad thing, but you can't do much with it unless other people agree with you. Oh! Here we are."
They'd stopped in front of a wooden door, affixed with a large bronze doorknocker cast in the shape of an eagle's head. Hermione lifted the ring under its beak and knocked once.
The metal shivered, feathers shifting and fluttering. The eagle's fierce eyes opened, and so did its beak, the metal giving a pleasant jingle reminiscent of a shaken cutlery drawer.
"When is a door not a door?" asked the eagle.
Hermione sent Tom an encouraging look. Tom stared at the door for a moment, then shot Hermione a look of utter disbelief.
Really?
This was the famous, foolproof Ravenclaw security system?
"When it's ajar," said Tom. He waited, tapping his foot.
"Correct."
The door swung open.
"That was disappointing," said Tom, stepping through the threshold and into the Ravenclaw Common Room. "But this is much better."
Built into its own tower, the Common Room had round, curving walls lined with bookshelves and windows overlooking the Eastern Courtyard, viaduct, grounds and the Lake on one side, and the Astronomy Tower on the other. There were small nooks set into the wall every couple of metres, containing even more bookshelves, and comfortably upholstered reading benches. The largest nook was opposite a fireplace, and it contained a white marble statue of a regal-looking woman wearing a crown. She held a wand in one hand, and a scroll in the other. The domed ceiling was painted like a planetarium, and was accurate to the year and seasons, as far as Tom could tell.
Why do we have to go to Astronomy class at eleven in the evening if wizards can accurately replicate the stars on a ceiling? grumbled Tom.
Slytherins and Hufflepuffs lived in the lowest levels of the castle, and the Astronomy Tower was one of the highest. It took around twenty minutes of walking through unheated corridors at night to get to their lesson. And then they had to take the same circuitous path to get back to their beds.
"I read that Rowena Ravenclaw believed anyone who could pass her test was worthy of entry, no matter their House," said Hermione. "Most wizards haven't a single ounce of logic, so the door works, mostly. And I've seen it ask harder questions to the older students, so it's not always that easy."
Tom's gaze returned to the bookshelves. "Can anyone borrow the books, then?"
"If you put them back when you're done with them," said Hermione, glancing around the Common Room nervously, as if she was afraid that a prefect would pop up from behind a sofa at any moment. "But most of them are old textbooks that people leave behind every year, and there's no librarian to organise them. I'm sure no one will notice..."
"Good," said Tom, quite satisfied. He headed to the nearest shelf and began making his selection.
.
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Tom spent the next few evenings enjoying Ravenclaw hospitality.
He suspected that a couple of Ravenclaws passing through their Common Room had wanted to ask what a Slytherin was doing in their Tower, but seeing him sitting in a nook and reading with a pile of books next to him, they left him alone. He presumed there was an unspoken rule that anyone who was busy with a book was not to be interrupted. It was a good rule, Tom thought, and they eventually got used to his presence and started greeting him like he was just another fellow Eagle.
It didn't hurt that he waited a few minutes so that any other Ravenclaw entering the Common Room at the same time he was there got a fair chance at answering the door knocker's question. And if they got it wrong, Tom would ever-so-politely drop a hint or answer for them, in his kindest, most pleasant voice. He even helped with holiday assignments; he had noticed Ravenclaws were more thorough with their essay research, and didn't have the same awkwardness about asking for help as Slytherins.
In Slytherin, if you asked for help with homework, unless you were very close by blood or through family connections, you offered something in return in the same breath. Tom rarely asked other Slytherins for anything, having very little of his own to trade and needing nothing from other people—outside of supplies for pranking, of course. But he'd accrued favours over the past months, as his year mates would rather owe Tom one medium favour for helping them out in five different class subjects, than owe five small favours to several people.
(Because of these favours, this year Tom had gotten the biggest Christmas haul of his entire life. Half of it was useless things like boxed sweets and chocolate frogs and a wizarding chess set—what was the point of playing a two-person game if your opponent was Tom Riddle?—but he'd gotten that Numerology textbook he had been eyeing in the summer, and the Grangers had sent him a new winter cloak to replace the second-hand one he'd bought in First Year that was now so short its hem hovered a few inches below his knees.)
Late one evening, when Tom was reading in a window alcove that had the best view of the Lake, Hermione approached him with a wrapped box in her hands.
"May I sit?" she asked.
Tom budged over. The cushioned bench gave a small poof! as Hermione dropped down next to him.
"You'll be thirteen tomorrow," said Hermione, holding out the box. "I thought I'd give you your gift a few hours early, since you're here."
Tom looked up from his book, Introductory Numerology, and at the box. It was a rectangular box, wrapped in green paper, the edges tucked in and secured with Spellotape.
He peeled open the paper, revealing a metal box with small clasps on either side of the lid, similar in size and dimension to the tins Muggle shops used for holding shortbread or Christmas cakes. Inside the box was a thick slab of chocolate fudge, iced with the words, "Happy 13th, Tom!" in mint green letters.
"I know you prefer practical gifts," said Hermione, straightening out her skirt, "so the box has a stasis enchantment on it. You can put food in there and it won't go off—if you're working on something and miss lunch, you can store food at breakfast and eat it later. Or, you could put potions ingredients in there to keep fresh, but if you do that, I wouldn't recommend using it for food anymore.
"I read that the Ministry is alerted when an underage wizard uses their wand, but they can't tell when someone uses charmed items, even if it's in a Muggle area. You can't give charmed items to Muggles—that violates the Statute—but it's safe to use them yourself."
"A loophole," said Tom, raising an eyebrow. "To get around the Underage Restriction, all we have to do is fill our pockets with charmed objects before we get on the train."
"We haven't learned to charm objects yet," said Hermione. "We only start learning the basics next year, when we start our elective subjects."
"And by the time we'd have learned to make an enchantment strong enough to last a whole summer, we'd be seventeen already and the Restriction wouldn't even apply to us," said Tom with a sigh, setting the lid back onto the fudge. "Well, thank you for the box. Can you believe that we've known each other for five years? I was eight when I first met you. It hardly seems like that long..."
Hermione slumped against the wall of the alcove. "And we only have five years left of Hogwarts. It goes by so quickly; we'll be eighteen before we even know it."
"That's a good thing. I can't wait until I can use my wand whenever I want, Apparate wherever I want, and earn my own keep however I like."
"Tom," said Hermione after a few seconds of silence, "do you remember when I wrote about the obligations of British citizenship?"
"You wrote an essay about taxes, Hermione," said Tom. "You're lucky it was me you were writing to—anyone else would have fallen asleep halfway through."
"You're lucky it was me writing to you." Hermione lifted her chin in defiance. "No one else researches like I do. Anyway, the point is that it's more than just taxes worth worrying about. If the war goes on for much longer, they'll start conscripting soldiers." She swallowed. "The government funds your orphanage, so they'll have access to records of all the boys living there, and how old they are, and when they turn eighteen."
"Muggles conscripting a wizard? The idea is ridiculous," said Tom, scoffing. "I'd like to see them try."
"It's happened before," said Hermione. "The Earl of Richmond brought wizards with him to the Battle of Bosworth in 1485."
"Those wizards certainly aren't me," Tom replied. "Most of them were probably Muggleborns, whose families were found and threatened into co-operation. Or they were greedy—"
"—But you're greedy!" Hermione interjected.
"—Hacks," Tom spoke over her, ignoring her glower, "who wanted to win a comfortable spot as the official Court Wizard. I, however, don't have a family to blackmail, and I'd never be anyone's magical trained monkey, least of all a Muggle's."
He'd looked it up, and it turned out that Abraxas Malfoy's great-great-something grandfather had been Court Wizard to a Muggle king. It was illegal now, because of the Statute of Secrecy, but if it wasn't, he thought it very likely that Abraxas Malfoy would bow under a Muggle if it would give his family another manor house and estate.
(They'd deny it all the way, but that wouldn't stop them from showing off their collection of white-feathered peacocks.)
"I know there's little chance of it happening," Hermione said, "but that's only if you take precautions. It'd be best if you didn't go back to the orphanage after Sixth Year, and you should have a position lined up before you leave Hogwarts so you can move to the wizarding world for good as soon as you can. If the war goes on for that long, and you go back to the Muggle world, they'll wonder why an able-bodied young man is gadding about London. You could Confund everybody who asks, but using magic on too many Muggles will eventually catch the Ministry's eye."
"You don't have to worry about me," said Tom, rolling his eyes. "I can take care of myself."
"You know I worry about these things!" Hermione cried. "I worry about every test we take in class, even though we both know I'll get another Outstanding on it. I... I just—"
She cleared her throat, then looked away abruptly, her eyes peering out through the window of Ravenclaw Tower. It was late in the evening, and on the second-to-last day of December, there was nothing to see outside but mounds of snow and a frozen lake, and in the very far distance, the Groundskeeper's hut with a cheery yellow light in the window. In the reflection of the black glass, Hermione's eyes looked suspiciously wet, until she scrubbed her hand over her face and turned back to him.
"My father was conscripted in the last war," said Hermione, her voice the slightest bit hoarse. "He said it was the worst two years of his life. He was already eighteen when the war started, and he deferred for being in university, but later they took him for an orderly in the medical corps. He couldn't defer forever, you see, and unlike the Old Boys in his form, he didn't have a cousin-twice-removed in the recruiting office. He doesn't talk about it much, but I know he hated it.
"The thing is, Tom, that if the war goes badly and the Germans overrun Britain, they won't give anyone the luxury of waiting 'til they turn eighteen before they take them. I don't think they'd stop at just the boys, either. Someone has to work in the munition factories."
Hermione's arms wrapped around herself. Her shoulders were hunched, and in that moment she looked... small and miserable. He hadn't paid much attention to her appearance before. He knew, from an objective view, that Hermione had the biggest hair of any girl he'd ever seen; she rarely plaited it and never permed it or pinned it into fashionable rolls. It fluffed around her face like a mane on a normal day, and now that she was—upset? Afraid? Tom didn't know what to call it; he hadn't ever seen her in this state before—she looked like a cat dipped in water.
He didn't like it that she looked this way. It looked wrong. Unnatural. It reminded him of the few times in his life when he'd fallen ill, and his skin had gone a few shades paler, taking on a grey cast, and his eyes were shadowed bruise purple in exhaustion. His features were still there, recognisable, but he'd been repulsed by how weak he looked.
Yes, he concluded. Weakness.
Hermione shouldn't allow herself to look weak.
But soon Hermione gathered herself together, then spoke in a soft voice, "If they try to conscript us during summer, before we turn seventeen, I'm running away. They'd never let us go back to Hogwarts if they're in desperate enough straits to take children. If they haven't taken our wands already, they'd have us locked in the barracks. We wouldn't be the only ones thinking of running."
"I'd run away too," said Tom. For as long as he could remember, he had been tall for his age, and was one of the tallest boys in their year. With his height and facial structure and manner of speech, he knew that by the time he was sixteen, those who didn't know him wouldn't doubt it if he tried to pass himself off as eighteen. He had never thought it might be to his disadvantage.
"We'll run away together, won't we?"
"I wouldn't run with anyone else."
This was true. If he was offered a choice about it, he'd prefer to go alone. He never felt lonely, nor had he ever felt that the company of other people was necessary in any part of his life. If he hadn't a choice, and was forced to take someone with him, it had better not be dead weight like every other child at the orphanage, every boy who shared his dormitory, everyone who... Everyone, basically.
Except Hermione, he supposed.
He had decided she was useful years ago.
It was a purely utilitarian decision.
"Even if we had to share a tent?" Hermione said. "They won't let anyone under seventeen rent a flat in Diagon Alley."
"Even then," said Tom. "As long as it's a magical tent."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
She held out her hand, and he shook it. She held onto it for just a second longer than necessary, but then she seemed to recollect herself and let him go.
The bells within the Hogwarts clocktower rang out into the silence. Twelve chimes. He counted them out, one by one.
Midnight.
"Happy birthday, Tom," Hermione murmured. "Make a wish."