1944
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Hermione stayed with Tom until a Healer came by with a stretcher to take him in for treatment.
Looking around the reception area, she saw that no one had taken down the wreaths and charmed icicles after Christmas, which had passed several days ago. The decorations dangled from the walls and from the gilded frames of enchanted portraits; the inhabitants, dressed in green Healer robes and matching green night caps, snored away in peaceful repose. This time of the night—or morning, technically, since it was past midnight—the waiting room was empty, and the magazines on the coffee table were neatly stacked. The only other person was the receptionist behind the front desk, too busy working his way through a runic crossword to pay her or Nott any attention.
She approached the desk, waiting to be acknowledged, but as several minutes came and went, the reception wizard never looked up from his crossword.
"Nine down, 'Whistlestop interrupted by a lost itinerary', isn't Ehwaz. It's Raidho," said Hermione snippily, who had been waiting at the desk for almost ten minutes. "Ehwaz means 'motion', but its alternate form is connoted with spiritual journeys—not interrupted journeys. Raidho, on the other hand, symbolises physical movement. If you haven't noticed, all the abstract entries are in the horizontal spaces—just look at the next clue for ten across: 'Inner eye and inner ear in alignment'."'
The receptionist set his quill down and gave Hermione an irate look. "I'm sorry, did you need anything?"
"Yes, in fact, I do," said Hermione. "Is there any information on my friend? He was brought in a quarter of an hour ago."
With a deep sigh, the receptionist got out of his seat and slunk over to the pigeon holes at the back of his office. He dug around, then returned with a scroll of parchment.
"He's been classed as Type A: Artefact Accident. These forms must be filled out before more information can be released. If any space is answered improperly, you'll have to do the whole form again."
Hermione took the scroll and brought it to the waiting area, balancing the sheets of parchment on her knees. Nott's feet, clad in shearling-lined house slippers, were propped up on one of the empty chairs, his cloak wrapped around his body like a blanket.
"'Medical contact owl address'," read Hermione, "'If underage, name or address of parent or guardian'. Well, I suppose it's convenient that Tom's birthday is today. His family would think a billing form from St. Mungo's would be some sort of absurd joke."
"'Convenient'," said Nott, incredulously. "You don't think that Riddle got himself bloodied up an hour after he came of-age... in an accident?"
"No," Hermione said, wrinkling her nose, "Not an accident. I know he did something stupid the minute he knew he could—brewing potions in his bedroom or experimenting with something he read in a book. But the most important thing right now is making sure he gets better. Learning his lesson can come later."
Nott curled his lip. "You're very forgiving."
"It's called 'friendship'," Hermione replied. "It's your own fault if you don't know what that means."
Anyway, she thought, friendship was something that went both ways.
Tom didn't like Nott, and no one else in their study group knew that she'd kept in close contact with him. There were bound to be questions about that—just as many questions as Hermione had about Tom's extracurricular adventures. He'd said that his pelvis was broken, but in transporting him to the wizarding hospital, she'd seen the circular bloodstain on his hip, oozing with fresh blood after the flannel of his pyjama trousers had become so saturated that it could no longer absorb a single drop more. His blood had stained her nightgown and bedsheets, and his wand was crusted with it, shedding dried flakes into her coat pocket.
She knew enough first-aid medicine to recognise that blunt-force falls, which could break the pelvis of an elderly man or woman falling down the stairs or into the bathtub, would not produce nearly this much blood. Breaking the skin was, in fact, a rarity compared to the more realistic consequence of severe bruising, swelling, and reduced bone density around the affected site. If she hadn't known any better, she might have assumed from the size and shape of Tom's wound—the circular radius of the entry point, trickling with thick spurts of blood—to be the result of a gunshot.
But it couldn't be, could it? If Tom had somehow acquired a firearm, and had experimented with it, she would have heard it from his room, right across the hall from her own. And where would he even get a gun, if he wanted one in the first place? Somehow, Hermione couldn't imagine Tom using any other tool but his wand.
Nott snorted and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. "Wake me up if something happens. Or if Riddle bites it."
Once she'd finished answering the last question, Hermione brought the forms back to the reception desk, and was rewarded with a slip of parchment that listed Tom's ('Patient 48529') arrival time, room number, designation code, and his treatment status, which was 'In Progress'.
"What does 'In Progress' mean?" asked Hermione, turning over the slip and seeing that the back was blank. "Can I see him?"
"It means 'Wait and see'," the receptionist grunted. "Now if you'll pardon me, I'm busy!"
She returned to the waiting area, where Nott had fallen asleep under his cloak, and paced around anxiously. A few prospective patients, including one pregnant witch in voluminous maternity robes, entered the waiting room and were quickly dealt with by the receptionist. For one hour, then two, she chewed her fingernails and waited, head jerking up to peer at the door whenever she heard it open.
At four in the morning, Tom was brought out into the waiting room in a wheelchair, his complexion an unhealthy white and his hair lank and matted with dried sweat. But the rest of him looked so much like his ordinary self that Hermione's heart ached in relief. The blood had been washed off his face, and his torn and stained pyjamas replaced with thin cotton hospital robes, fastened at the throat and wrists with wooden toggles. A Healer in green robes pushed the chair, and it must have been enchanted, for she did it with only one hand—the other hand was occupied with a small wooden chest emblazoned with the St. Mungo's seal, the contents of which clinked as she walked.
"Tom!" Hermione cried, leaping out of her seat and running over to him.
"Hermione," replied Tom, and his eyes alighted on her face, unfocused gaze sharpening in recognition.
"Mrs. Riddle?" the Healer addressed Hermione.
"Sorry?" Hermione choked. "Um, you're talking to me?"
The Healer gave her an impatient nod.
"B-but Tom and I aren't married!" she stammered.
"Do the forms not say that you and he share a residential owling address?" said the Healer.
"Yes," said Hermione, "but it's just temporary, we aren't—"
The Healer harrumphed in disapproval, then shoved the wooden chest into her arms. "'S'not my business what you young fellas get up to, but since you've listed yourself as his medical contact, you'll ensure that he takes his potions. Twice a day for three days, then once a day for seven days after that, and he should stay off his feet and avoid strenuous activity for that time—no Quidditch!
"The pain potions have a bone restorative—we had to use some of his own material to patch the fractures—and the instruction scroll is inside, with the directions on how and when to take them. If the bruising and muscle pain haven't faded after that, bring the scroll back and we'll give you more."
Speech finished, the Healer left the waiting room.
Hermione hefted the potion chest and looked at Tom. "Are you alright? How are you? Does it hurt?"
"I'm fine," said Tom. "The potions they gave me were brewed with... hmm... root of valerian, I think. A cheaper substitute for red myrrh oil, to reduce the swelling, but the side effects are... uncomfortable."
"Is it the soporific effect?" Hermione asked. "Ground valerian is used for pain relief; it relaxes the nerves, and is a central ingredient in Calming Draughts. But the relaxing effect may cause drowsiness in some individuals. Oh... Well, at least it doesn't hurt anymore, I suppose."
Tom had a great understanding of how magical plant and animal parts interacted with each other; she, on the other hand, had always followed the textbook instructions to the letter. Tom was less precise and more intuitive, experimenting with their class potions, to her alarm (what if he ruined their brew and earned them a zero mark for the lesson?!) and Slughorn's delighted praise. But her memory was better than his; when it came to encyclopaedic lists, she, unlike Tom, could still quote their First and Second Year material.
"No." Tom grimaced. "But I want to go home now—how did you get me here in the first place?"
"It's a long story," said Hermione, looking pointedly down at Tom's hip. "That we should definitely save for later." She glanced over her shoulder at Nott. "You can summon Amity now!"
Yawning and stretching his arms above his head with the sound of popping joints, Nott got out of his chair and ambled over. "You're done here? Not going to buy anything from the gift shop?"
"No," said Hermione, "we should get back before anyone notices we're missing. And I'd like to have a few hours of sleep before Tom's grandmother makes us take birthday photos for her picture album."
"Right," said Nott. "Amity!"
The little creature appeared at Nott's side, wearing a pair of oversized oven mitts.
"What's this?" said Tom, peering at it; sitting in the wheelchair, they were around the same height. "Nott? What are you doing here?"
"I invited him," Hermione spoke hurriedly, "because I didn't know anyone else who could Apparate us here on short notice."
Tom's brow furrowed. "But why would he say yes?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Nott put in, sounding affronted.
"Because you don't like us, or our unacceptable blood status," said Tom bluntly. "And no one likes you."
"In case you've forgotten, Riddle," Nott said, "Our House was founded by a wizard whose personal beliefs the other founders didn't like. But that didn't stop them from having a professional relationship."
"Until they chased him off because he pushed his teachings too far," Hermione remarked.
"They respected him enough to keep the House he founded up to the present day," said Nott smugly.
"The other founders kept Slytherin around because he was useful—an excellent craftsman and enchanter. When he finished building his section of the castle, they had no more use for him," said Tom, turning to Hermione. "History lesson aside, what did you promise him, Hermione? Nott would never have agreed to help for free."
"What, I couldn't have volunteered out of the goodness of my heart?" Nott asked, folding his arms.
"No," said Tom and Hermione simultaneously.
"Yeah, alright," conceded Nott. "As I interceded at a mortal juncture, by technicality and magical law, you owe me a life debt."
"Very well," said Tom in a calm voice. "Hermione, hand me my wand—"
"No!" cried Hermione, shoving her hand into her pocket to keep Tom from Summoning his wand back.
Tom shot her an aggrieved look. "The fastest way to clear the life debt is to put Nott under the so-called 'mortal juncture'. And the sooner we get it over with, the sooner we can go back home."
"Trying to force it on purpose wouldn't even work," said Nott, giving an uneasy tug to the collar of his robes. "This kind of magic is based on intent, which can't be forced or faked, no matter how much power you put behind it. Likewise, not even the greatest wizard can choose his own Animagus form. But nevermind that—I'll forgo the debt on one condition." His hand dipped beneath his cloak for his own wand. "Which will render all debts null and void."
"What is it, then?" said Tom impatiently.
"Help me find and unseal the Chamber of Secrets," Nott said, "and I'll consider the debt settled. No need to try an elaborate plan to cancel it."
"But the Chamber of Secrets is a myth," Hermione said. "Hogwarts: A History said the Chamber was a legend, a story perpetuated by the students of the three other founders, who wanted to reinforce Salazar Slytherin's reputation as a blood supremacist."
"Yes," said Tom. "This is just a pointless quest, isn't it? Like finding the tooth of a white-feathered phoenix. You're just playing for time. Hermione—my wand, please."
"It's not a pointless quest, like hunting the Hallows or the Fountain of Fair Fortune," Nott huffed. "And I count that one pointless as the treasure was the 'friends they made along the way'. This one's a more tangible quest like... the Philosopher's Stone, which sounds too good to be true, but it does exist. From historical accounts and my own research, I have reason to believe that the Chamber is real. I'll go under Veritaserum to confirm it. I'll even share my research to help find it."
"If you've done all this, why do you need my help, then?" Tom's features took on a sceptical cast.
"Because," said Nott, squaring his narrow shoulders, "Slytherin's Chamber is rumoured to contain a legendary creature, according to the myths. And you're the best duellist in the school. I don't like you, but even I won't deny that you have... unique talents that the rest of us could never hope to match."
"'Legendary creature'," said Tom in a thoughtful voice. "Hermione—you've read the book, is that true?"
"Um," Hermione mumbled, "I-I think so."
She was trying to figure out what angle Nott was attempting to play; it was clear he had fabricated a plan whose finer details—or any detail whatsoever—he hadn't informed her about. And just now, he'd cleverly stepped around the truth without telling any overt lies, stroking Tom's sense of vanity, too. She hadn't realised that Nott had been running an ulterior strategy utterly opaque to everyone but himself. That is, until today.
"In the book, a secondary or tertiary source, the creature was described as a 'horror' left by Slytherin, so that those that came after him could cleanse the school of the impure or unworthy," Hermione recited from memory. "Slytherin was reported to be able to control the creature, and passed the secret of how it was controlled to his true heir—the book speculates it to be one of his apprentices, and that the creature itself is something rare and associated with dark magic, and has an extended lifespan compared to the average wizard-raised magical creature."
"A rare creature?" Tom mused, stroking his chin.
"No one knows for certain," said Hermione, who was suddenly worried by the fevered glint that had just appeared in Tom's eye. "But hundreds of people over the years have gone looking for the Chamber, as it's said to be where Slytherin studied rare magic he wanted to keep from the other founders. No one's found anything, or come up with solid theories of what the creature could be—a dragon would have died by now, unless Slytherin put an egg under stasis... but I can't see anyone being afraid of a hatchling dragonet, since a Flame Freezing Charm would work against it at that size, and its hide wouldn't yet have the magical resistance of an adult."
"Thank you, Hermione," said Tom, lifting his eyes to meet Nott's. "Since it looks like I can't nullify a debt with a reverse debt, and I can predict firm opposition to the cleanest solution I can think of to... deal with you, I've an acceptable counter-offer. We have a year and a half left at Hogwarts. That's the upper limit of how long we can spend looking for the Chamber. If it's not found by the last day of our last year, then you'll swear an oath of loyalty to me."
Nott scowled. "And is there a time limit to that oath?"
"For life," Tom said, giving him a thin and humourless smile. "It's the most convincing argument you could make in proving that the Chamber isn't a fairytale quest. A gesture of good faith, you see."
Nott hunched in on himself, his forehead wrinkling, not looking quite so confident as he had been earlier. "Fine, fine. I'll agree to those terms. But if I have to swear a loyalty oath, then it's on my own person and personal fortune, with no inclusion of my family members, present or future, or assets and properties accorded to the family estate."
"Agreed," said Tom. "Hermione, you're our witness."
Without Hermione being able to slip a word in edgewise, the boys agreed to the deal, setting further stipulations (that they'd hold each other at a mutual truce for now, that any chambers found must be clearly proven to be Slytherin's, that the last day of the search was the morning in June of 1945, the hour the Hogwarts Express left Hogsmeade Station for London). She found it difficult to understand how two people who made it so obvious that they neither liked nor trusted one another could come to such an agreement, so quickly, and with this much cordiality. Even after the deal was made, each boy still eyed the other with wariness; Nott had never taken his hand off his wand.
But then it was over, at a speed that Hermione put down to their sheer pragmatism, an ability allowing Slytherins to put their differences aside until it was time to divide the spoils produced by their combined efforts, at which point the previous alliance was forgotten as if it had never existed. It was a very alien notion to her, until Hermione considered the fact that Ravenclaws were not naturally cooperative, either; the Slytherins at Hogwarts presented themselves in public as a unified House, while Ravenclaw didn't even have that. As a Prefect, Hermione had helped introduce the new First Years to their class subjects, and lectured them on forming good study habits, but no one had ever tasked her with ensuring that they made friends.
Amity Apparated her and Tom back to Hermione's bedroom, bowing once, before Disapparating with a pop! back to the St. Mungo's waiting room where they'd left Nott.
Upon their arrival, Tom subsided into his wheelchair, his face white, his brows pinched together in pain. Hermione rushed over to him, dropping the potion chest on her bed, the covers still stained with Tom's blood. She took his hands in hers, sliding back the sleeves of his hospital robe, and ran her thumbs down the inside of his wrists to feel his pulse. It was faint, but steady; the Healers would have given him a Blood Replenishing potion, but that didn't cure the shock the body went through when it lost a large volume of blood at once.
"Oh, Tom," said Hermione, sinking to the floor. She felt his fingers caress her hair, which must look a mess—she hadn't put a thought to her appearance before rushing Tom to the hospital, throwing on her Muggle coat over her nightgown and a pair of soft driving plimsolls. "I think you should have a potion—and a few hours of sleep, too, if you can get it. And then we'll have to find some way to keep you off your feet; we wouldn't be able to explain where you got the wheelchair."
"You never explained why you invited Nott, of all people, to join the party. As far as I remember, his house doesn't have a telephone line." Tom spoke in a mild tone, but she caught the note of reproval.
Hermione couldn't stop herself; she let out a little croak of laughter. "You disapprove? We just got you out of the hospital for whatever you did to yourself!"
"Of course I do," said Tom fiercely—not elaborating on how he'd earned his stay in the hospital—then he winced, and tried to cover for it by speaking in a clipped voice, "He isn't trustworthy. Even in First Year, he never lifted a hand for anyone unless he saw the utility of it. You saw him just now, how eager he was to put a price to a life."
"Are you worried he'll try to get one over you?" asked Hermione.
"No," said Tom. "I can take care of myself—"
Hermione made a scoffing noise.
"—Yes, yes, have your giggle." Tom rolled his eyes. "But I think you ought to be careful around him. He doesn't like people of 'our sort', and you know it. He only tolerates us because he thinks we're useful for whatever sneaky little plan he's concocted."
Hermione sighed, straightened up, and dug in her pocket for Tom's wand, flaking with dried blood, which she tossed onto his lap. She drew her own wand and pointed it at her bedcovers, Conjuring a stream of water to help lift the bloodstains off before she applied a cleaning charm. She wasn't sure she could get out every spot, but she hoped that the maids who came to change her sheets would assume that anything left was her own blood, and not make a fuss about it, other than to commiserate on the shared difficulties of womanhood.
Without a word, Tom joined her in casting cleaning spells, though the point of his wand dipped and wavered, and she could see his cheeks hollowed where he was biting his own flesh in single-minded focus.
"Isn't that the same way you used to think of me?" said Hermione, her question pointed. "Or perhaps you still do."
"I don't think of you as one 'sort' or another. Nor as a tool, useful but dispensable," said Tom. "And certainly not as 'one of our unfortunate lessers'," he added, his voice lilting and vowels shifting to match Mrs. Riddle's distinct manner of speech.
An unladylike snort escaped her, and just like that, the tension between them dissipated, until the bed had been made as clean as they could. Leaving it as it was, Hermione picked up the potion chest and began to roll Tom's wheelchair back into his own room, glancing both ways down the hallway before she snuck in and closed the door behind her.
There was a tightly-furled scroll packed inside the chest, which contained several rows of glass phials stoppered with wax plugs set into neat, square niches. Scraping off the seal stamp revealed it to be a standard set of apothecarist's instructions: Take with one glass of water, ensure adequate food and rest for best results, may contain extract of gingko, consult Healer if allergic to any ingredient, or if unusual side effects make their appearance, up to and including gassiness, glowing excretions, or prescient dreams.
Their Potions classes had centred on brewing, but Professor Slughorn had gone over the usage of various potions—though she supposed it was less to prepare them for future medical emergencies and more to warn students from indulging in the unhealthy over-consumption of Wideye Potions as a study aid, or drinking Memory Potions before an exam, which was counted as cheating and would result in a null mark when detected. Or to dissuade those who'd considered the idea of mixing two or more potions for double the effect, which was more likely to poison the drinker than elevate them to academic genius.
She filled a glass with Conjured water, unstoppered the first potion, and handed it to Tom, watching him with a stern eye as he gagged at the flavour. Most potions had a nasty taste, she'd learned, but it was only to be expected when the ingredient lists included dried woodlice and dung beetle wing cases. After he'd emptied the phial, his eyelids began to droop, and the crease between his brows faded with the alleviation of pain.
Hermione helped him get into his bed, observing that there were no signs of blood on his sheets, no suspicious grimoires or dirty cauldrons lying about, which would have given her a clue as to what he'd done to injure himself. Everything seemed to be in its proper place, tidy as was his usual habit; the only sign of the room's being in use was the papers on the writing desk, where Tom had been completing his holiday homework.
She'd just pulled the bedcovers back and leaned over to fluff the pillow, when Tom caught her by the wrist, stroking along her pulse point as she'd done to him minutes earlier.
"Don't go," said Tom, his voice soft, his expression somehow... unguarded.
"Tom," she said, trying to draw her wrist back. He didn't let go. "I'll be just across the hall—"
"Stay with me. Please."
She searched his features, and found nothing but frank and open sincerity. No duplicity, not a hint of guile.
"I-I can stay until you fall asleep," she stammered.
"Stay until morning," said Tom, shifting over to the side and patting the empty space on the bed next to him.
"It's already morning!"
"It's also my birthday," said Tom. "You can't refuse the power of the birthday wish."
"Hmph," grumbled Hermione, but tired and unable to think of a convincing counter-argument, she unbuttoned her coat, threw it over the bedpost, and kicked off her shoes, before climbing into the bed and letting Tom bring the top of the blanket to cover her.
His fingers—he hadn't let go of her yet—traced down her wrist, down the line of tendon, up and down, a strange and calming sensation that made her yawn. It occurred to her that she had gotten as little sleep this whole evening as he had. Up to now, she'd been stressed out of her mind, pacing circles in the St. Mungo's waiting room, hours of going back and forth between the receptionist and Nott, both of whom had nothing supportive to say and had ended up ignoring her to focus on the more productive pursuits of crosswords and napping.
She felt herself drifting off, when Tom wriggled closer to her, so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek.
"I meant what I said, you know."
"Hmm?" Hermione's response was groggy and far from eloquent.
"I've never seen much use in marriage... but if there was a way to have this every night—not just one night a year, and without anyone able to say a word against it—then I could see how it would be worth the bother."
"Mmph," said Hermione, burrowing into the blanket. "Maybe that's why everyone gets married."
"Not my parents," Tom muttered, under his breath.
"Wha—"
"Shhh."
Tom curled up next to her in a rustle of sheets, and the heat of his body warmed her frozen toes; it lulled her into a peaceful doze that soon deepened to true sleep.
.
.
Morning arrived sooner than Hermione would have liked.
She was deep in a sleep of utter exhaustion, dreamless and dead to the world, when she was, without any forewarning, forcibly revived by Mrs. Riddle knocking on the bedroom door. The knocking went on, and a voice spoke unintelligible words in the distance, while Hermione groaned into the pillow and ignored it. A few seconds later, the door was thrown open and the electric light switched on, a harsh reveille in contrast to the weak winter sunlight that had barely pierced the heavy drapes at the window.
"Tommy! Have you dressed? Mrs. Willrow cooked a special birthday breakfast for you this morning. We've been waiting for you to come down; you mustn't let it get cold—"
Hermione made to push the blanket off, but was impeded by a heavy arm draped over her waist, pinning her down and limiting her movements. In fact, as the muddled dregs of slumber fled from her mind, she realised that it was Tom's arm. And that was Tom's chest pressed against her back, his nose nuzzling against the nape of her neck, and his breath that she felt puffing out, hot and ticklish, against her skin. At some point during the night—or very early morning—she'd wound up tucked up into his side, her legs tangled into his and in urgent need of extraction.
"Tom," hissed Hermione.
"Hermione," murmured Tom, pulling her closer.
"Tom!" she repeated, speaking louder in an attempt to wake him.
"Tommy!" said Mrs. Riddle, her voice growing louder, as she bustled over to the bed. "Tommy, darling, it's time to get up."
The blanket twitched aside. Hermione heard a choking sound.
"Hermione!" Mrs. Riddle gasped, the last syllable swerving up a whole octave in surprise. "Goodness, you two!" She gave a delicate cough before she went on, "Why, I never! Hmph! I do certainly expect you to sort yourselves out properly when the time comes. And you, Tommy—you'll make a decent man out of yourself, and I know you can hear me, so don't pretend. For now, however, I want to see the both of you at the table in a quarter hour."
She dropped the blanket back over them, then went to the door, closing it behind her without turning off the light.
"Tom." Hermione pushed at Tom's arm. "We have to get up."
He only squeezed her tighter. "Just one more minute."
Hermione sighed.
It wasn't a terribly uncomfortable experience to be in such close quarters with Tom, even if the rational side of her mind (the one that chaperoned the younger Ravenclaws as part of her duties as a Prefect, and had deducted her fair share of House points from students caught in the Astronomy Tower after curfew) recognised that her current actions had crossed the line into inappropriate fraternisation. This was exactly the sort of conduct that got students sent back from Hogsmeade early, or polishing trophy cases in detention with the school caretaker. This was worse, because she'd just now been caught in a very compromising position, and even those students who'd become the subject of gossip in the girls' loo had been caught with their positions being strictly vertical.
The irrational side of her mind (the one that hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep) didn't find it an unpleasant experience. It had a lot in common with an extended hug, and it was, just perhaps, even enjoyable. There was something about the intimate closeness with another person that was comforting on an instinctive level—the comfort of another's touch, being held, relaxed in the warmth produced by another human body. And then there was something else which was comforting and familiar to her: scouring her recent memories, she realised that it was the scent she'd smelled in the Potions classroom during Professor Slughorn's lesson on Amortentia.
Herbal soap, a faint scent that was almost overpowered by parchment and ink and leather-bound books.
That day, she'd gone to her dorm's bathroom after class and smelled all her dorm mates' soaps and shampoos to confirm a match, but she'd come up with nothing. She'd put it out of her mind after that—all in all, it was a silly thing to worry overmuch about. The perfume of Amortentia was a figment of imagination, an interesting magical illusion drawn from the depths of a person's mind, the same way a boggart drew out one's greatest fear. Worth studying and understanding for anyone who wanted to be a potioneer (or wanted to do well on the N.E.W.T.s, as it would be examined later on), but a novelty of the magical world beyond that context.
But then the unexpected happened, and in that instant, rational cognisance met irrational supposition: the herbal soap scent was from Tom's soap.
During the summer, Tom's grandmother had given him a number of gifts, one of which was a shaving kit with soft white face cloths, a folding razor—which she'd never seen Tom touch—and bars of imported soap. The few times she'd visited him in his room at the Leaky Cauldron, she'd arrived early and observed him going about his morning routine. Tom used magic to shave and trim his sideburns. After shaving, he washed his face with the soap.
She was at once triumphant at having discovered an answer to this months-old mystery, and disturbed at the implications. She'd smelled Tom's scent in her Amortentia. It had no bearing on their friendship—Tom didn't even know—but she was aware of what it signified: that he was an object of... well, if not desire, exactly, but great fondness. A different sort of fondness than what one felt for parents, siblings, or beloved pets, for Amortentia's 'air of romance' wasn't called romantic for no reason.
And then there were the other facts: she had good reason to believe that these feelings were reciprocated by Tom to some extent, because what else would she call her present situation—her present predicament—but an indication of fondness? He kept most of their classmates at a cool distance, speaking of them with open disdain (with his one exception being her) and she couldn't imagine him sleeping by anyone else's side, whether he was dosed on potions or not.
Tom was fond of her.
The more she thought on it, the more she began to feel that the word 'fond' was not the most apt descriptor. Twyla and Siobhan, two of her dorm mates, were fond of each other, linking their arms together on the walk to class in the morning, eating off one another's plates during meals, even sharing toothbrushes (after the use of a thorough cleaning charm) when Twyla's cat made off with her own. But that fondness had never extended to nuzzling each other on a shared bed.
This was a different sort of fondness, one she couldn't reconcile with her understanding of friendly fondness.
Instead of having her confusions cleared up, Hermione was only beset by more questions.
"Propriety" and "decency" were two concepts the Riddles clung on to like life rafts; they were rare points of refuge in the changing tides of modern Britain. What Mrs. Riddle wanted—for Tom to make a decent man of himself—was an old-fashioned term for something that Tom had not too long ago reversed his opinion on, declaring that he was in personal support of it, although it appeared to be more from convenience than any sense of moral obligation.
She hadn't thought he'd meant it...
But now, she wasn't sure at all.
Nevertheless, the day awaited, and Hermione couldn't spend all morning contemplating these mysteries in bed, tempting as it might be. Eventually, she pushed Tom's arm away and got up, casting a few Warming Charms to relieve the winter chill that had settled in during the night, after the fireplace's banked coals had crumbled into white ash. Tom still seemed as if he was willing to forgo his birthday breakfast if it meant malingering under the blanket for several more hours, but Hermione summoned a set of clean clothes, refilled his water glass and made him take a vial of potion; after that he seemed more alert, even if he shuddered at the flavour.
"It's making me drowsy," said Tom, tucking his wand into his trouser pocket. "It dulls the pain, along with everything else."
"You only have eleven potions in the box," Hermione replied. She'd read the labels and counted the vials, recognising several ingredients that were found in commercially-prepared Skele-Gro—which explained the terrible taste. "If you were being treated in the Muggle way, you'd have been laid up for months. In a plaster cast, too—and Dad says those things always give patients trouble in the bathroom, since they have to wash around it and then it ends up smelling off after a fortnight. You should count yourself lucky."
"Lucky," Tom muttered, but that was the only complaint he made before it was time to go down for breakfast.
Mrs. Willrow had prepared a breakfast feast that wouldn't have been out-of-place for the holiday offerings in the Hogwarts Great Hall. French toast made from thick slices of white bread was the centrepiece of the meal, dipped into a rich egg custard, fried, and accompanied by an assortment of toppings: golden syrup, sweet beaten cream, homemade marmalades, bits of cured pork and fried game sausage. Tom took some of each, while Hermione limited herself to a small scoop of jam and cream only, narrowing her eyes at the vast spread of breakfast offerings—the meal had multiple courses, but was served banquet-style so that the fresh fruits shared table-room with the cheese omelettes and bacon butties.
Silently, she estimated the expense that had gone into such a meal: sugar was still available, but each family was allotted enough to sweeten a few pots of tea over the course of a week; the official ration loaf was made of brown wholemeal flour, and Muggles without access to a wizarding grocer would have only found white bread flour on sale through the black market. With how much the Riddles indulged Tom, she shouldn't be surprised by this. They'd cut no corners for their Christmas dinner, and very likely believed that no amount of saved money was worth eating French toast made from brown bread.
She was still counting the varieties of fruit preserves on the table while the Riddles tucked into their breakfast, Mr. Riddle scraping the last of the brown sauce from the jar with a clink of silver on glass, when a maid rushed into the dining room, her cap askew, screaming incoherently.
"Mr. Riddle! Mrs. Riddle!" she cried, one hand pressed to her heaving chest. "Oh, it's Mister Tom—he's gone mad!"
"What do you mean, mad?" Mrs. Riddle asked. Her fork, burdened with a bite-sized portion of egg white omelette, was set back on her plate. "Frances?"
"I—I was bringin' up his breakfast plate," said the maid in a hoarse voice, smoothing down the pleats of her apron in her anxiety, "and after I set the tray on the table and got to the curtains, I saw the room was all over with blood!"
Mrs. Riddle's face went as pale as her napkin. "Blood?"
"Oh, tha'd never believe it, Mrs. Riddle—blood on the carpets, blood on the floor—and the room reekin' of a slaughterhouse!" The maid swooned, laying the back of her hand over her eyes. "And the worst of 'em all: Mister Tom's hound dead on the floor, sliced open like a river trout! I've never seen the likes of it—it were the shock of a lifetime, let me tell you!"
Mrs. Riddle stood up, dropping her napkin on her plate. "I shall need to see this." She turned to Mr. Riddle. "Thomas, send for Doctor Talbot; I don't care if he's off on holiday, get him here at once! Frances, you'll go and fetch Bryce and bring him to the house."
Mr. Riddle gave a forlorn glance at his half-eaten bacon and set it aside, while Mrs. Riddle took charge of the servants, leaving Tom and Hermione at the dining table unsupervised.
Tom continued forking bits of crisp French toast into the fluffy mound of beaten cream on the side of his plate, his expression serene and unruffled.
Hermione stared at him.
Tom kept eating. "Would you like me to pass the butter?"
"Tom..."
"I do recommend it; it pairs well with the peach preserves."
"Tom!"
"Yes, Hermione?"
"Do you know anything about this?"
"Is there any reason why I should?"
Hermione cast him a look of great scepticism. "Maybe... because you were covered in blood when you showed up at my door last night. When you woke me up, I might add!"
Tom scoffed, reaching over the table to scoop another spoonful of peach preserve onto his toast. "Hmm. What a coincidence."
"What are the chances of that?"
"I don't know, Hermione," said Tom amiably. "With magic, we can break the physical laws of nature whenever we want—so what makes you the arbiter of what is possible and what isn't?"
"That's a non-answer," Hermione said, her tone waspish, "and you know it."
"I'm not sure what kind of answer you want me to give," said Tom. "Are you expecting me to tell you that I slaughtered my father's dog last night?"
"No!" Hermione shook her head hurriedly. "Of course not! I j-just wanted to hear the truth!"
"The truth... is that my father is a very disturbed man," said Tom, his eyes dropped down to his plate, looking shaken all of a sudden. "He's not been well, not in the head, and not for a very long time."
"Oh!" said Hermione, feeling abashed. She put down her fork and knife and slipped her hand under the table to grasp Tom's. "I'm so sorry—I don't mean to pry or anything. I-if you don't want to talk about it, I understand. But if you do, you know you can talk to me about it. I don't think the Riddles like anyone bringing up the subject of your father."
"Thank you, Hermione." He squeezed her hand and gave her a soft smile, leaning to the side so that their knees and shoulders brushed. "They like to say that my father came back home because he ran out of money, but I've always wondered if it was my mother who left him. It was always understood that they separated on poor terms, you know. And that was how I ended up at Wool's. I lived there from the day I was born."
Right then and there, Hermione wanted to tell Tom the truth: that his mother, the late Mrs. Merope Gaunt Riddle, was a witch. And the unhappy separation between Mr. Tom Riddle and Mrs. Merope Riddle, if she was to offer her speculations on the matter, would probably have come from Mr. Riddle, a Muggle, learning about the existence of magic, as he was legally entitled to know the moment the York registrar's office certified their marriage license.
Her own parents had been shocked about finding out, and they weren't religious people—nor had they raised her to be someone who paid earnest reverence to God or the church; church for their family had always been a social habit, not a moral imperative. Mum and Dad's introduction to magic had come from Professor Dumbledore, and despite the man's eccentricities, he was well-spoken and astute, a seasoned speaker. He knew how to broach the topic, explain the salient details, and answer every question about wizarding culture or governance thrown at him. Merope Gaunt, on the other hand, was a village girl whose family had not allowed her to attend Hogwarts, due to their uncompromising blood-purist beliefs that even Nott had seen fit to deride.
Merope had lived in a mouldering shack with a strange and disturbing brother, talked to snakes, and hadn't known or seen much of the world outside of Hangleton, before she'd married Tom Riddle and left Yorkshire for good. Hermione couldn't see any way that Mr. Riddle would have taken the news well, or any way that Merope could have delivered it well, either. This kind of thing would be a stumbling block in anyone's marriage, which depended on honesty and good communication from both parties, or so she'd observed from how Mum and Dad worked out their problems, even on their busiest days when they came home exhausted from taking shifts at Dad's clinic.
"It's possible that their disagreement, if they had one, was mutual," ventured Hermione. "It used to be that only women were the ones at fault in divorce cases, but after the laws were changed so that either party could lodge their case, it was seen that these things were rarely the fault of any one person."
"Perhaps," said Tom, sounding dubious. "Though I still think that, no matter how they felt back then, that my father still had—still has—strong feelings about my mother, all these years since she died giving birth. He was very young when he ran off and eloped with my mother, you see, and never re-married or looked at another woman again, even though half the village would've jumped at the chance of stepping out with him. If I was a romantic soul, I'd chance it to say that it was young love, the kind of passions that come along once in a lifetime, and he never recovered from the loss of it. Even regrets his poor choices to this day."
"That's very sweet." Hermione patted his hand. "And sad, how he's let his loss define his life, to his detriment... and yours, too. I do hope he gets better."
"Some people can't be helped," said Tom sadly.
"That doesn't mean we shouldn't try," said Hermione in a firm voice. "Sympathy goes a long way—don't you remember how we met?"
"I wouldn't want to forget," Tom replied, giving her one last squeeze before he withdrew his hand and returned to his meal, the mood lighter than it had been before.
Soon after that, they finished their breakfast, leaving their plates and napkins on the table when no staff popped out from behind their shoulders to collect them. They spent the next few hours working on their homework in Tom's bedroom (which was larger and better appointed than hers) and now that Tom could perform magic, he didn't hesitate to show off the efficiency of his Charms technique. He could perform many of their textbook spells non-verbally, with interesting variations that he claimed had won him extra-credit points in last year's O.W.L.s: partial enlargement, for instance, where he increased the size of a lightbulb's glass bulb while the filament within retained its original dimensions.
At one o'clock, they came back down for lunch, and saw that Mr. and Mrs. Riddle were absent from the table. The dining table had places set for two people, and a single maid to serve them—the second housemaid this time.
Hermione, eager to be apprised of any news, asked the maid, "Is everything alright? Are we to suppose that Tom's father has fallen ill?"
The maid, who had been carving the breast of a roasted bird, hesitated. "Mrs. Riddle says that Mister Tom's just had one of his, er, 'episodes'. I've never seen 'im have one since I started here, but Cook says he used to have 'em all the time when he come back from London years ago. No worries, Miss, he'll be right as rain after the Doctor comes in and has a look at him."
"'Episodes'?" Tom repeated. "We aren't in any danger, are we?"
"No, no," said the maid, who looked rather uncomfortable and was now carving as fast as she could. "Nothing dangerous—I expect he'll be pickin' at his supper and sendin' his food back because the parsley had the wrong colour or looked the wrong shape. Cook said he used to do it for every meal, and he'd come downstairs to watch her make up his tray, afraid that she were slippin' poison in his almond puddin' or summat of the like. Harmless stuff, but it puts more work on the staff." She let out an awkward chuckle. "Though we're happy with our place here, o' course; service en't easy, but 'tis honest work."
That seemed to be the end of the discussion, for the maid refused to say any more on the topic, her lips pinched together as she portioned out the meat with a pair of silver tongs. This was followed by the ladling out of the starter, a consommé with mushroom and leek, and a side dish of marrow stuffed with spiced pilaf. The finishing touch was a slice of almond and rum cream birthday cake for dessert, which seemed to be the extent of Tom's birthday celebrations due to the state of emergency that had fallen over the house. Tom did not appear to show any disappointment about it.
It was only the next day that she found out what happened to Tom's father: he'd been sent away.
She hadn't dared to ask Mrs. Riddle about it, so it was by chance that she overheard the maids speaking about it in the stairwell, while she'd been practising on her Disillusionment Charm in preparation for next year's N.E.W.T.s.
"He's been sent away until the boy goes back to school—put up in a hotel in York for now. Claimed he'd been bewitched by his own son when the Doctor saw him; the old lady was mortified!"
One of the maids giggled. "I would've loved to see 'er face."
"S'not worth it when she gets into one of her moods. Did you know, she up and asked me if I reckoned she were a bad mother? I swear, if someone had told me I'd be signin' up to serve in a madhouse, I'd have gone to the elders' home in Middlesbrough. I'd still be wipin' invalid arses, mind you, but I wouldn't have to put up with Their Highnesses' airs and graces."
"Do you believe that he'd got bewitched? No one would've done what he done, not in their right mind; Her Highness said the carpets had to go, and sent Frank to town to get paint for the walls."
"He's not done anythin' like that before—not while I've been 'ere. I knew he were no gentleman—the whole village knew he threw over his main squeeze to run off with the tramp's girl—but no one took him for a madman then."
There was a pause. "Shame, really."
The other maid hummed in assent. "'Tis always the pretty ones."
"...The boy's pretty, en't he?"
A snort of amusement. "Give it up, Frannie, you haven't a chance!"
"How d'you know?" After a brief hesitation, the maid said, querulously, "I reckon I do so!"
"When I went up to change the linens this mornin', I found hairs on his pillowcase—long, curly hairs! If you wanted to teach the boy what it takes to be a man, someone else has got there first."
Hermione's cheeks heated up, and losing her concentration, her Disillusionment Charm flickered. Before she could be noticed, she slipped away and back to her room.
Disregarding what had been said about her and Tom—which she wanted to avoid thinking about as much as possible—what had they meant about Tom's father being a madman? She'd gotten the impression over the last two weeks that something was not quite right about Mr. Tom Riddle, with his isolation, his strange habits, and the tantrum he'd thrown the first morning of their arrival. He'd gone from two extremes of temper, begging his mother for favours, then storming away when he was denied.
She had never seen anything like it, that wildly erratic shift of mood and attitude; the closest comparison she could draw was her fellow students' emotional outbursts the previous year, which ranged from sobbing over textbooks to pitching said textbooks out of the Common Room window. For most of them, it was stress induced from the exams. But there was a minority—in the ones who exhibited the worst behaviour—of students who'd mixed spells and potions without following the directions on the label. One was not meant to mix Calming Draughts with Cheering Charms, due to their magical intents conflicting with each other. Those who ignored the instructions (and common sense) found themselves unable to participate in a normal conversation without devolving into hysterics.
Tom's father was a Muggle, so he wouldn't have had access to anything magical. Thus, Hermione was left to presume that he was indeed unwell: there was evidence, the more she considered it, that proved that something was off about him. She still thought it suspect that Tom shown up to her room bloody, and his father's carpet had been bloodied that same day—with the separation of a few hours or less. She'd observed without doubt that the blood that stained Tom's pyjamas and her bedcovers had been his own blood, whereas the blood on the discarded carpets had been from a pet dog belonging to Tom Riddle the elder, a female whippet hound who had been a loyal hunting companion for years.
She assembled the other facts she knew about him:
The man was relatively young—not a youth, but hale and able-bodied in a way that Mr. Bryce was not. He had no formal vocation while other men went off to war or contributed through volunteering and National Service. If he had been exempted from service, then it would have been through an internal issue. Hermione's father had performed his share of physical examinations for prospective soldiers, and most who'd been struck off had had heart dysrythmias, epilepsy, or impaired sight and hearing. Of those, a tiny portion were exempted for being mentally unfit—more people who tried to pass themselves off than those with genuine conditions, Dad had said. He'd been offered ration tickets, off-ration luxuries like spirits and tinned caviar, even cash, to sign exemption slips for conscripted soldiers. Dad had refused, not wanting to risk the loss of his medical license, which came with such privileges as extra rations that regular civilians weren't afforded. Hermione wondered if the Riddles had found a doctor of their own to tempt, and had succeeded.
Well, it wasn't her place to judge them for it, as Tom's father had proven himself to be legitimately unwell. She felt guilty for speculating on it, and the slightest bit ashamed for suspecting Tom for having a hand in the affair. Tom, though he did a lot of talking, hadn't made much comment about his father; he complained more about Mary Riddle than anyone else at the Riddle House. In fact, Tom had even been sympathetic about his father's health since his departure to York, offering his best regards and condolences on what was now looking more and more like a spontaneous fit of some sort.
It wasn't unheard of, for those who suffered from ailments of the mind. After all, shell shock was a well-known condition, one that had no external symptoms, and whose internal effects were capable of re-occurrence: tinnitus, headaches, and fugues, as reported by veterans of the Great War, after they stood outside a church when the bells struck the hour, or had a motorcar blare its horn when they crossed the road.
An unpredictable stroke of misfortune, and it was no one's fault, not really.
A day or two later, the rumour arose of the Riddles' having had their son committed for his own good. Hermione refrained from participating in the speculation, which she had to tell Tom several times—while reminding him of his own lack of sensitivity—when he kept asking what she thought of the whole affair. She wasn't qualified to give a formal diagnosis, so perhaps it was for the best that Tom Riddle Senior got professional attention. Because some of those rumours had proved true: Mrs. Riddle had Mr. Bryce in and out of the house every day after New Year's Eve, wearing paint-splattered dungarees and a weary expression. Renovations, if they were ordered, were something most households did in spring, not winter. And they didn't limit it to one room out of the whole house, but all of them.
She hadn't much time to dither about the Riddles' affairs, anyway, as a few days into January, London and the Home Counties were once again beset by German air raids.
The headlines were printed in bold text on the front page of Mr. Riddle's morning Yorkshire Post, which made Hermione gasp and tear the paper out of his hands, flipping it open to the casualty listings on Page 3. Mr. Riddle bravely withstood Hermione's increasing alarm, sighing as her shaking fingers slopped hot tea over his newspaper. He eventually ushered her to his private study to use the telephone, before retrieving his sodden newspaper to read the business articles on page 14. It took some time for the operator to put Hermione through, but finally she was connected to Mum and Dad after ringing the house first—and panicking for ten minutes after no one responded—before she thought to try the clinic.
"Mum! Are you alright?" Hermione spoke urgently, her fingers clutching tight to the telephone receiver.
"We're fine, safe and sound. Your father's with patients now—he can't come out, but he sends his love."
"The wards worked," breathed Hermione, sighing in relief. "Oh, I'm so happy I had the house registered in time."
"I suppose they did," agreed Mum. "We went to bed and didn't hear a peep until the morning, when it was over. The smoke filter certainly has been useful. Our neighbour—Mrs. Carraclough, you must remember her—the poor lady had to throw out the curtains from her front windows. She couldn't get the smoke smell off them, and can't even find replacements with the ration on fabric. But nevermind that! How are you, Hermione? How was your Christmas?"
"It was... interesting," Hermione said, not wanting to give her mother a reason to worry, not with so many other things that Mum and Dad had to stress about. "We went to a church service in the village on Christmas morning, and had a nice dinner afterwards. The village is small, but charming; I imagine it'd be much prettier in summer. And the Riddles have been very welcoming to me and Tom. They've made sure we've had enough to eat—though I suspect that they haven't even heard there's rationing going on."
"If you like it there, then you might consider if you want to visit again during the summer holidays," Mum said. "In Mary's letters, there are some rather broad insinuations that she's looking forward to your staying with them in the summer and after graduation. National Service exempts positions in both medicine and government, you know."
"I still want to look into magical careers, if there's anything I can apply for on merit," Hermione admitted. As a child, before she'd met Professor Dumbledore, a career in medicine had seemed like the natural path to take. She still couldn't disdain the thought of working in her parents' clinic as a contribution to the war effort, but a week of dealing with the convalescent Tom had shown her that her bedside manner veered closer to brusqueness than strict professionalism. Who'd known it would be so difficult to make people take their medicine and follow the Healer's advice? Why couldn't they sit down, take directions, and do what was good for them?
If they'd gotten themselves into such a scrape in the first place, she thought, then probably not. She was reminded of the way Tom whined every time he saw her bring out the potion chest; each evening, he fought against her orders when she told him that bedtime was meant for sleeping, and not for—for, well, whatever else he wanted to do.
"I'd have the qualifications after Hogwarts, and I wouldn't want to waste my N.E.W.T. marks—and then there's being able to have a magical lifestyle. I'd never be able to afford it with the wages of a junior magistrate's secretary, not with the Gringotts exchange rate."
"I suppose it's sentimental thinking of me, but Dad and I would be happy to have you with us as long as you like," said Mum. "If you decide you want a wizarding career, you could always commute back and forth, now that we have the Floo connection set up in the cellar. I won't have you wasting your galleons on renting a flat in Diagon Alley, when it's much wiser to save up until you can buy outright. You know, your father and I have thought about investing in property; when the war's over, London's predicted to have a lot of growth..."
Hermione and her Mum discussed career and investment advice for a few more minutes, before the conversation moved on to more general subjects. Dad stopped by for a minute or two, before he was called back to treat a patient. Mum reminded her to brush her teeth before bed, not to stay up too late reading, and to dress warmly before going outside, magical Warming Charms or no.
"Do write to us when you start school again, darling! Mr. Pacek gave us a book for your Christmas gift, but we'll wait for you to get back to Hogwarts before we'll have Gilles deliver it. Can't have the Riddles wondering how the pictures move, of course. The Tindalls send their regards, too—Roger especially; there's a packet of letters from him we'll pass on with your Christmas presents..."
It was heartening to feel the love of her family, belated Christmas well-wishes and air kisses and affectionate endearments, even from two hundred miles away. Distance or not, Hermione could tell how much her parents loved and missed her, and supported her no matter what course she chose to take in life. In this way, she was given clear evidence of how far of the mark the Riddles fell; she realised, with some discomfort, that the way Mrs. Riddle spoke to her was closer to a mimeograph of true affection—there was familiarity and some measure of fondness, but it seemed to Hermione that Mrs. Riddle wanted the two of them to share a close attachment, for the connections it brought rather than the sake of the connection itself. It was transactional rather than unconditional, and although Hermione was too generous to call it disingenuous, something about it still rang false.
Every night for the rest of the Christmas holidays, Hermione went to sleep thinking about how Mum and Dad were doing. She knew they were safe—that she'd done her best to ensure they were—but the rest of London wasn't. Their nights would be calm, but in their daylight hours Mum and Dad would be tending injuries, aware that they'd avoided sharing this fate through their great fortune in producing a magical child.
(She certainly wouldn't be thanking Nott for his timely intercession with Ministry bureaucracy.)
When Hermione listened to the evening broadcast from the wireless in Tom's room (her room didn't have one, nor did it have the en suite bathroom that he had) he seemed to perceive her state of melancholy, and offered what reassurance he could.
They listened to the broadcast together from Tom's bed, Tom having the presence of mind to refrain from his usual commentary about Muggle foolishness. In the late hours when the presenters signed off from the programme and played God Save the King, he wrapped her in a blanket and tucked her in. More than a few mornings, she'd woken up to find herself by his side in the bed, her arms and legs wrapped so securely within the bedcovers that she could barely move them; Tom had also, quite thoughtfully, cast a Warming Charm on her toes.
Each time, she wriggled her way free and slipped out of his room and back to her own.
It would be too embarrassing if she overheard the maids gossiping about how they'd gone to change the linens and seen the bedcovers untouched in the second guest room.
Again.
.
.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: "Operation Steinbock", also known as the "Baby Blitz", lasted from January 2 to May 15.