1944
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The letter came addressed to a 'Madam Riddle'.
Hermione felt a pang of discomfiture slipping the envelope into her pocket, as if she'd just been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to do—rummaging through a neighbour's dustbins or claiming reserved seats in a crowded restaurant under someone else's name. There was no crime, no trace of true delinquency, but it was a breach of civilised society's social contract. It was like leaving a public toilet unflushed, or taking that last slice of cake without first offering it to the other people at the table. An action that would persistently torment the conscience of the perpetrator more than any victim, if there was a victim at all...
The feeling of discomfort intensified when Hermione slit the wax seal with her thumb and read the letter's contents.
.
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Dear Madam Riddle,
Advancement at the Ministry of Magic is not determined by a witch or wizard's visible dedication to official duty, but how inclined others are to judging them affable and agreeable. Putting in an adequate effort in office workday duties is enough for junior positions; for elevation to senior positions, an enterprising witch is expected to attend various social functions outside the office, first as a participant, and eventually as a hostess. Naturally, hostessing is an easier task for witches of means, whose family can lend her a parlour and waitstaff, while she devotes her time to securing the good regard of her superiors and colleagues.
This is the true usefulness of labour-saving spells: one woman, in a short time, can bake a tower of vol-au-vents, press a galantine, set a terrine, and have them prepared and preserved days before the soirée. If she follows a set of written instructions, any witch can feel confident in entertaining on her own merits—hers, and of course, Mr. Bertram's...
.
.
"This is ridiculous," Hermione muttered, dropping the letter to the library table and letting out a huff of frustration.
"What sensibilities of yours have been offended today?" asked Nott, yawning. He dropped into the seat opposite hers, and a heavy textbook smacked onto the table a second later, followed by a billowing cloud of grey dust.
"Government positions," Hermione said irritably, fanning away the dust and wrinkling her nose, "are decided on a basis of dinner party invitations. It's... appalling!"
Once she'd spoken her thoughts aloud, she realised that nothing about this notion was new or original. Office social functions in Wizarding Britain might come with the expectation that a working witch should pull double duty on preparing food and entertaining guests, but at least witches were offered office employment and considered for promotions. For generations, the politics of Muggle Britain had concentrated power within a select group of 'Old Boys', and if their parties had had female guests, Hermione was of a mind to guess that they'd be an entirely different category of 'working women'.
"Is there a problem?" asked Nott, chin propped on the heel of his hand. He flicked open the front cover of his book and listlessly began scanning the table of the contents. "I see nothing at all worth remarking about here."
"These people, people who work at the Ministry of Magic, make decisions that will affect your life," said Hermione. "And they're being judged on qualifications that are irrelevant to their official duties. Anyone should be concerned!"
"No one who's completely incompetent stays for long, don't worry," said Nott, with an ambivalent shrug of his shoulders. "I believe your concern, as usual, is based on a combination of ignorance and mistaken assumption."
"Well, I beg your pardon!" Hermione said stiffly. "Ignorance, really?"
"As usual," said Nott, turning over to the next page in his book, "I try not to hold what you can't help against you, Granger. What you don't understand is that a Ministry career is a career for life, and most wizards expect to spend decades in the same office. Twenty to thirty years at the job isn't unusual for people who live as long as we do—I know for a fact that there's a witch in the Department of Magical Education who's been marking N.E.W.T.s for nearly sixty years, with not a single whisper of retirement. Even those who do resign their post for reasons of health or capability often find a means to stay on with their Department—Travers' father retired from active duty with the Aurors, but still serves as an advisor in their Training Standards Commission."
"And how exactly does that relate to dinner parties?"
"If you're going to have someone sitting at the next desk over for years and years, it's not enough that they're able to fulfill whatever tasks are required of them. No, you ought to make quite sure that you can tolerate all aspects of their presence," said Nott, reaching under the table for his bag, from which he drew out a blank scroll of parchment and a rumpled-looking quill. He began furiously transcribing from the textbook, continuing to speak in a rather distracted voice.
"The way that the politics at the Ministry works, candidates for Minister for Magic are drawn from a pool of Department heads and deputies. In theory, any magical citizen of Wizarding Britain—Squibs are disqualified, naturally—is allowed to toss their name into the hat, but an effective Minister requires the unanimous co-operation of his Departments. An outsider, you see, would never have the sort of understanding that comes from years of close acquaintance," said Nott. "It's the personal touch. You can't know someone—you can't begin to trust them—if you've only ever seen them at their desks. Just look at our classmates, our fellow students."
"What about them?" Hermione said, her expression doubtful. "I think I know our classmates better than you do. I'm Head Girl, so I have to talk to everyone, in every House, too. And you're... well, you—and you don't talk to anyone unless you can work in some way to insult them, which means no one wants to talk to you."
"How well do you think our classmates can cast a Shield Charm?" Nott asked. He rummaged through his bag once again, this time pulling out what appeared to be a small wooden ladder, the rungs rattling with row after row of small clay beads, painted with runes.
"Passably enough," said Hermione. "It was part of the Defence practical component of the O.W.L.s."
Nott had unfolded his abacus—there was nothing else it could have been—on the desk, and was sliding the beads from one side to the other, muttering to himself. "No, carry the two here; it has to be symmetrical or the instability will degrade the base enchantment... Three's good, seven's better—but it's an odd number..." Without looking up, he said, "Are their Shields consistent each time they cast? No flicker or fade—not too forceful with the power behind their spells, not too conservative either?"
"I... I'm not certain," said Hermione in a hesitant voice.
"In a paired duel against a competent opponent, which of your classmates would you choose as your partner?"
"Tom, of course."
"You can't pick him," said Nott quickly. "He's your opponent."
"And I can't choose you, can I?"
"I'm the spectator."
Hermione sighed. "Perhaps someone from our homework club... Rosier, maybe? He knows strategy is more than 'whoever gets the first spell out, wins'. I suppose I don't know, actually."
"You don't know because there's not one of them you feel you can trust," said Nott, triumph colouring his voice. "Admit it, Granger. You don't know these people beyond their basic textbook qualifications. After all these years, you're still an outsider." He glanced up from his textbook. "And the only people you've actually considered are ones you know from our, ah, extra-curriculars."
"You've made your point, alright," Hermione conceded, gritting her teeth. "But I don't see why the extra-curriculars at the Ministry of Magic have to be dinner parties."
"It's an adult thing, I expect," said Nott.
"We're adults," Hermione pointed out.
"We're of-age, in the technical sense," said Nott. "But we hardly go on about how the neighbour over the hedge has done this or that with her singing fountain, nor do we have debates on what wallpaper pattern goes best in the drawing room. When you're an adult—a real, settled adult—you'll find that for some reason, those particular lines of conversation have somehow become meaningful."
"I think it's possible for an adult to be 'settled', without wasting their time on trivial details like that," said Hermione. "I, for one, certainly hope to be one."
"The issue," Nott said, emphasising each word with a sharp jab of quill to parchment, "isn't that you couldn't do that if you tried—and between you and Riddle, whatever you truly wanted, I'm sure you'd find some way to achieve it. The problem is that every other adult is pre-occupied with these trifles, and if you don't partake, you will always remain an outsider."
"You think I should be someone that I'm not," said Hermione, frowning. "Put on a false pretense, just to make other people like me?"
"I don't see why you're bothered by the idea," replied Nott blithely. "Riddle does it all the time."
"Tom doesn't do that!"
"'Oh, Professor, please, sir, I found something in a book the other day that I just don't understand'," said Nott in a sing-song voice, cocking his head and fluttering his eyelashes in a rapid beat. He looked as if he was suffering from a bout of apoplexy. "'Oh, Miss Granger, my darling dearest, have I told you how absolutely fetching you look today?'"
Hermione scowled. "Tom doesn't do that!"
"Only because he has a shred left of his dignity," said Nott. "But if he knew it would endear you to him—like it does to the teachers—I'd imagine he'd throw that last shred to the wind."
"He doesn't need a pretense for me to like him," said Hermione, "so I don't see why pretenses are at all necessary."
She thought the same thing about Tom telling her Mum that they were walking out. It wasn't impossible for them to have come up with another defence, a truthful—if convoluted—explanation for any instances of strange behaviour that summer, without the mention of anything to do with the Chamber of Secrets. 'Walking out', Tom's excuse, was believable without supplying further details of How and Why. But for all its advantages and conveniences, Hermione couldn't see it as necessary.
Within the realm of social communication, there were things Hermione deemed more important than others. Frankness and factuality, directness without ambiguity: together, these were the foundation of effective communication. In becoming Head Girl, Hermione had evaluated what traits should be espoused in good leaders, and on this list, 'clever pretenses' was nowhere to be found. For all that she and Tom were equal in rank to the eyes of their fellow students, it was in this that their approaches to leadership diverged. Tom would have said that effective communication hinged on personability and persuasion; it was more than just relaying information in as efficient a manner as possible, but creating a lasting impression so that the other party would not only have the appropriate information, but leave the conversation with an appropriate opinion.
And it was this that made Tom popular among teachers and students alike, more popular than Hermione who thought facts and numbers to be more persuasive than Tom's emphasis on feelings and aspirations. The fact that, after all these years of hard work and high marks, Hermione had attained the Head Girl position, equal to Tom's Head Boy rank—that had to mean something, didn't it?
It meant that Tom's way of doing things—treating people like part of a social game that could be won or lost, instead of like people—was no more superior a method of attaining success than Hermione's own methods.
"So," said Nott, his quill pausing mid-sentence, "you do like him, then?"
"I... I'm not going to say," said Hermione primly.
"And you say you don't have any use for pretenses," sniffed Nott. "At least Riddle, with his minuscule shred of dignity, recognises a sham act when he's putting one on."
"I don't believe that a library is the place to discuss personal subjects like this," Hermione said, defaulting to more familiar territory—the comfortingly impersonal mantle of authority, where personal sentiments could be shielded from scrutiny by the rigid barrier of convention and propriety. "We're supposed be doing homework, not gossiping over whom someone might or might not be sweet on!" Hermione pursed her lips, eyeing Nott's abacus, his pile of scribbled notes, and the textbook that took up most of his side of the table. "Tabular Array of Material Resonance. That's not part of this week's assignment—what project are you working on? Let me see your work!"
Hermione leaned over the table, prompting Nott to block her view by holding his hands very protectively over his desk space.
"I've taken first in Arithmancy for the last four years," said Hermione. "And I got a perfect Outstanding on our O.W.L.s. If you're working on a private project, I can look over your numbers!"
"How on Earth," Nott grumbled, sliding his parchment away before Hermione could grab it, "does Riddle stand this?"
"Oh, I used to offer him my help," said Hermione, "but Tom never shows his work properly. That's why he's always the first one to bring his exam paper up to the professor's desk, but he never scores higher than I do. Tom says it's faster for him to tally and sum in his head, but being fast isn't the point of the exercise, is it? It's not just about being right, it's about producing a proof that shows everyone how you got there, so they can check it themselves."
"That's typical for projects intended for eventual publication," said Nott. "Projects undertaken for one's personal pleasure don't have to subject themselves to such public scrutiny."
"Personal pleasure?" Hermione repeated. "This is for your entertainment? But—why? What happened to the Chamber of—of You-Know-What? I thought that was your private project."
"I've had a change of heart," said Nott mysteriously. "But the library is, as you pointed out earlier, an unsuitable place to discuss, hah, personal subjects."
He's one to talk about pretenses, thought Hermione, watching Nott roll up his parchment. When he had it into a tight scroll, he ducked under the table to pick up his bag from the floor at his feet.
Hermione lunged forward, snatching the scroll out of his hand.
"H-hey!" cried Nott. "What are you—Granger, that's mine! Give it back!"
"I'll give it back when I'm done," said Hermione, quickly vacating her seat and removing herself out from the range of Nott's flailing hands.
.
Prepared goatskin imbued with permanent binding enchantment, stability requirements to last until retrograde Sagittarius reaches—
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There was a scrawled list of symbols representing planets and star signs, the traditional wizarding system to denote time and date. This system had fallen out of use for most day-to-day applications (The Daily Prophet used the same numerical day-month-year arrangement as any other newspaper published in Muggle Britain) but it was nevertheless taught in Hogwarts' Astronomy class because certain N.E.W.T.-level subjects could not be studied without it. Alchemy was one such subject. Advanced Divination and Arithmancy were the others.
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Linked conditional spells in following order:
(imp) concealment, obfuscation, compulsion.
(alt) animation sequence, ejection of internal cache.
(ter) delayed activation destruction.
Anti-jinx, anti-tampering effect necessary to prevent—
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"Accio parchment!"
The scroll shot out of Hermione's hands, just as she was in the middle of digesting the list of technical effects that made up Nott's enchantment project. Enchantment was a magical discipline separate to Charms, although they often produced indistinguishable magical effects. The former required thorough preparation to achieve a successful result, whilst the latter was as simple as casting a spell and adjusting it with a thought. But the effort was compensated: an enchanted teapot could heat water to the right temperature each time, producing a perfect pot of tea at three o'clock on the dot, kept warm until it was ready to drink. It was simple and automated, it didn't require one to remember to set the kettle on early for the tea to be ready at three, and a child without a wand could make use of it. A Muggle could too, if they took care to hide it from other Muggles and wizarding authorities.
But this wasn't a Warming Charm for a teapot. It was a charm bound to parchment; Hermione had studied them years ago, when she'd struggled to enchant her study planners.
And the spell effects, concealment and obfuscation—of course she would recognise them, in this particular rune sequence variant containing algiz and reversed thurisaz. She had seen it written into the snow more than a few times.
"You've adapted the concealment effect of my modified Poacher's Pall ward," spoke Hermione slowly, "for some sort of Howler? Why?"
"Academic curiosity," said Nott, stuffing the parchment into his bag and buckling the flap.
"Seems like a lot of effort for something that's supposed to be a personal pleasure," said Hermione in a sceptical voice. "You could have saved some time by buying pre-made Howlers from the stationery supply in Hogsmeade. They have new birthday ones that let you send a greeting with music."
Hermione had sent one to her parents as a novelty on her birthday. Wizards had no gramophones and thus no vinyl gramophone records, and she'd wondered how they saved sounds and music for later listening. She knew that portraits could be imbued with a wizard or witch's likeness, with a shallow reflection of sentience, and could engage in conversation when asked the right questions. That capacity for interaction, limited as it was, made wizarding portraits superior to vinyl recordings, which saved no more than five minutes of material per side. But unlike the vinyl records pressed in factories by the hundred, portraits were expensive and created on an individual basis by master craftsmen, unattainable for the average family who couldn't afford the services of someone like the 'sweet-spoken' Laurent Piémont, the artist behind the boudoir portrait that Hermione had interrogated in Second Year.
"My tastes are myriad, my pleasures unfathomable. Is that such a difficult thing to believe?"
"No," said Hermione, "the difficult thing is believing that you can discuss the matter of tastes without trying to prove that mine are terrible and yours are better."
"I've nothing to prove; we both know that," said Nott, his expression blank. "Now, if you'll pardon me..."
"You didn't buy a Howler because everyone recognises the red envelopes," said Hermione, remembering the first time she'd seen one in the Great Hall at breakfast. Jasper Hastings' mother in First Year, after a professor's letter had detailed the disciplinary actions taken in the wake of the Sorting Hat incident. Howlers were loud and obtrusive and distinctive, but that was their purpose—they were not only meant to send a message to someone (if that was the goal, then a regular letter could do the job, without the Howler's approximate limit of a hundred spoken words), but to ensure that everyone knew that the message had been delivered.
"And for some reason," she continued, "you're trying to adapt a concealment charm to it. Having a spell conceal a message's sender or purpose would have its purpose defeated if it came in a distinctive envelope that spoke in the sender's voice. Now, what reason would someone have to send an anonymous Howler?"
"I've no idea," said Nott.
"I have one."
Nott shrugged. "Good for you."
"I think you're trying to prank someone!" said Hermione, giving him an accusative glare.
"And do you really expect me to confirm it if I am?" Nott asked.
"Just tell me that it isn't Tom," said Hermione. Tom's moods were often unpredictable, but not even on a day buoyed up by a sack of reader fan mail could she ever imagine Tom taking a common schoolboy prank in good humour. Against certain expectations, Tom did have a sense of humour, but it was somewhat... idiosyncratic.
"It's not Riddle."
"Is it a teacher?"
"No."
"Is it a student?"
"As long as it's not you, why does it matter?"
"So," said Hermione, her eyes narrowing, "it is a student."
"It could be."
"Pranks are against the rules!"
"Only if you get caught." Nott regarded her coolly. "But at the moment, there isn't any pranking to catch. The only evidence you've got is a theoretical exercise, and for all you know, it may well just remain... theoretical."
"Well, theoretically," said Hermione, "how were you going to animate this personal project of yours? I could see that you're using a Howler's enchantment structure as your point of departure—a spell sequence bound to parchment that relays a message when the seal is broken, and destroys itself when it's finished. But I didn't see any variation of Ansuz, which I'd expect for something whose purpose is to lodge an aural recording."
"I stripped that part out," said Nott. "I didn't need it."
"For that 'ejection sequence', whatever that was meant to be," said Hermione, frowning in thought. "It looked very clumsy and haphazard—as if it were taken from something else and pasted in without considering how it balances with a new set of parameters: surface, medium, and dimension. I noticed it immediately, and I assumed that it had to be a prank, because I've seen something similar in the past. It reminded me of that children's game, you know, the one with the little tokens you have to throw on the floor."
"It's called Gobstones, Granger."
"It's jacks for wizards. It's the same thing!"
"You're a wizard," Nott said. "You ought to know the difference."
"I do!" said Hermione. "I've never played the game, but I do know that Gobstones shoot ink at the loser, which is why I've never wanted to join in. And in the same way that you took my concealment runes for this project, you've done the same for the Gobstone enchantment—reserve, conceal, expel. Your Howler isn't meant to send a message to someone. It's for dumping ink—no, it doesn't have to be ink, does it?—on someone, just for the sake of a joke."
Hermione glared at him and added, "What's it to be, then? Blood? Dirty bath water? Or some sort of potion? That could be very dangerous, I'll have you know!"
"It's not a potion," said Nott. "It's just... juice. Pumpkin juice."
"Oh," said Hermione, deflating a bit. Juice was annoying, but it wasn't dangerous. She didn't approve of pranking (Tom might have had an erratic sense of humour; on this subject, however, Hermione had none) but the morning owl delivery did worse, especially when a heavy parcel dropped onto the edge of a platter and sent breakfast sausages coated in hot oil flying over the dining table. "Um. So, have you tried it?"
"You mean to say, if I've tested it out?"
"Yes," said Hermione, "because how else would you know if you were right or not unless it worked? It's a personal project, and without others reviewing your work, of course there isn't any other way to make sure of it."
Nott regarded her with a speculative look. "I... may have a sample that I've tested a few times."
"How did it go?" asked Hermione curiously. "With so many disparate elements patched together, I can't imagine that your result turned out at all stable. Did it leak pumpkin juice on you before you'd set the seal?"
"It set itself on fire as soon as I inscribed the final sequence, actually," said Nott. "A loss of two days' effort, and I can't start it again until I'm certain which section of the pattern is unstable."
"The whole thing is unstable," said Hermione. "It's like trying to hybridise a rabbit and a mushroom and expecting to get a furry creature that sprouts from the ground and breeds through spores. Even if you managed to create it, you couldn't expect it to last more than a few days before it... it expired. And nevermind how cruel it is to do that to an innocent animal." She shook her head. "I think you're wasting your time when you have more important things to prioritise. You mustn't forget that our N.E.W.T.s are only months away! At least most of our Chamber preparations were done during the summer."
"Unstable or not, that's no reason to give up," said Nott. "If a wizard could create the first breeding pair of hippogriffs, then I'm sure I can enchant a simple Howler without having it explode in my face."
"Wizards," spoke Hermione with some uncertainty, "created hippogriffs?"
She hadn't chosen to take the Care of Magical Creatures elective in Third Year, unlike Tom, preferring Muggle Studies instead. She'd read of magical creatures—and studied some of them for the Potions O.W.L.s—but the extent of her education was limited to what had been published in textbook bestiaries. Hippogriffs were magical creatures whose feathers were used for quills and wand cores, and whose livers were an ingredient in the Invigoration Draught, a common remedy for the breathlessness and fatigue caused by high-altitude broomstick travel. She'd memorised the information; she had accepted it as fact, had trusted that the authors wouldn't have been able to publish their books if they were inaccurate, and she hadn't thought to question why or how such creatures even existed, because they were magical creatures.
"Did you think that an eagle and a horse would have sought one another as a mate without magical intervention?" Nott scoffed. "The most powerful force in the world is a wizard in possession of imagination and intent."
"That sounds like something Tom would say," Hermione remarked.
"Riddle has... odd ideas, sometimes," admitted Nott. "But it doesn't mean that he's wrong."
"I don't think Tom would recognise it if he were ever wrong about something," said Hermione. "If he tries to sell you on one of his grand ideas, don't encourage him."
Nott made an awkward coughing sound. "At least he has ideas. All you've got is a list of reasons why my project is a failure and why I should go back to safe and conventional exercises like the ones in the textbook. The Self-Stirring Potion Ladle, or the Keep-Warm Toast Rack." Nott made a face. "How exciting. How imaginative. How... Hermione Granger."
"I don't know what that's supposed to mean," said Hermione, folding her arms. "Being Hermione Granger isn't anything to be ashamed of."
"Is there anything to be proud of, either?" said Nott in an impassive voice. "You can complete the classroom exercises—you can show them off to the N.E.W.T. examiners—but when you get your perfect Outstanding, you might realise that you've earned no accomplishments of your own, nothing more than the basic textbook qualifications. That's what it means to be a Hermione Granger. It means finishing assignments weeks before the submission date, answering every question word-perfect to the book, and charming a ladle to turn the requisite ten stirs per minute, no more, no less—because there is nothing more important to the small-minded than the achievement of small-minded objectives."
Listening to Nott go on so dispassionately that he could have been reading off last week's Quidditch scores, Hermione scowled, trying to think up a good refutation on the spot.
"—What could anyone expect from someone who thinks that an institution of hundreds of wizards working in twenty-one different departments, commanded by an elected head of state, could be managed by those lacking in social aptitudes, as long as they possessed the right textbook qualifications..."
But what could she say?
It wasn't just Nott's presumption that needled at her, nor the graceless condemnation that ruffled at Hermione's long-held faith in the powers of kindness and common decency, but his wrongness. He was wrong; Hermione wasn't small-minded, she was sensible. Of course it was absurd to want a title like 'Dictator for Life', as Tom did. Of course it was impetuous to want the title of 'Minister for Magic', an idea that Tom had presented to her years ago, Wizarding Britain's equal and counterpart to Muggle Britain's Prime Minister Churchill. She was eighteen years old. She was logical in thought and disposition. She understood what things were practical; she sought practical goals—and, yes, what did it matter that they weren't extravagant?
Small goals, small steps, were more practical than reckless leaps. Small goals were attainable. Sound. And from a certain perspective, a risk so safe that they weren't much of a risk at all. But attaining them was still a worthy undertaking. Worthy of being called a success. An achievement.
Wasn't it?
"Granger?" asked Nott, cocking his head. "Oh, so you've nothing to say, then. I'm not surprised, frankly the truth isn't something one can just—"
Hermione found her vision swimming and her palms grow warm, prickling with a film of sweat.
An instant later, something within her snapped and broke—something in her eardrums popped—and her hand was burning, as if she had held it over her cauldron burner for a second too long, while Nott had his own hand pressed to his cheek, his shoulders hunched, and a wisp of hair, separated from his previously neat and oil-slicked coiffure, shadowed his eyes.
Nott straightened up slowly, wincing in pain. "I have to wonder how Riddle takes this sort of treatment from you," he said, then his nose wrinkled in distaste. "No, don't answer that, Granger. I think I'd rather not know."
"You deserved it," said Hermione stubbornly. Her trembling hand, now hidden in the folds of her skirt, felt oddly tender and hot.
"Well, this proves that you're not the most perfect student, after all," said Nott, rubbing his cheek. "You didn't have to prove it quite so, ah, thoroughly."
"You were wrong," insisted Hermione. "I couldn't let it stand. And your spell sequences are wrong, too. When you introduce a new element, like a substance in liquid form like pumpkin juice, it warps an enchantment boundary that was originally configured for a planar solid—like a sheet of parchment."
"If I showed it to you," Nott ventured, glancing cautiously over his shoulder, "do you think you could fix the enchantment?"
"I think I could do a better job than you."
"And would I end up in detention for my troubles?"
"Are you worried about your permanent record?"
"No," said Nott, "but it'd be a nuisance to have to buy Riddle off with a favour or two to get out of it."
"Tom is going to have to explain—" Hermione began, but catching the look on Nott's face, she let out a weary breath and said, "later, then. Show me your enchantment. If you can suture three spells together into a working product, prank or not, then I suppose the Self-Stirring Ladle exercise for the end-of-term project wouldn't pose a challenge for you."
"Well..." said Nott slowly, "if you're earnest about it, then you must know that I take great care in not being seen by a professor."
"A library wouldn't be the best place to open a Howler," Hermione conceded. "Modified or not."
"Good," said Nott. "Then you won't mind packing your things and joining me for a little walk?"
"A walk? Where are you going?"
"To the only place in the castle where official authority holds no sway. Where else?"
"What!" said Hermione. "How can any place exist like that?"
"Oh, don't worry," said Nott, giving her a pensive look. "There are rules. There is authority. But you have the great fortune in being exempt."
.
.
The path Nott took down to the lowest levels of the dungeons was long and winding, passing the kitchens on the upper levels, which filled the closest hallways with the smell of baking bread and roasted meat, then past the Potions classrooms on the middle level, which gave off a faint and acrid stench of pickling solution and burnt metal. Hermione saw fewer and fewer familiar paintings until there were none at all, and this deep in the bowels of the castle, there were no window views to confirm her location. No sunlight ever shone here; the only light came from the wall torches, and in the gaps between them, the stone glistened with damp, dripping with water and a coat of luxuriant green moss.
Hermione followed Nott, who stopped, turned back several times, and led her thrice past the same tapestry of a witch shaking down fruits into a basket from a scraggly old apple tree. Hermione began to think that he was deliberately trying to confuse her sense of direction.
"It's the Slytherin Common Room, isn't it?" Hermione asked, drawing her robes tighter around herself. The Hogwarts dungeons were cold year-round, but in November, Hermione could see her breath rise in a white fog every time she opened her mouth.
"Don't tell me that Riddle has brought you here before," Nott grumbled, taking another tight turn so quickly that Hermione had to scurry after him to keep up.
"No," said Hermione, "but I remember Tom saying that students from other Houses weren't allowed, and that if an outside student was caught, the House would have a vote on the punishment. Is this a good idea? It doesn't sound like one..."
"I keep my work locked in my trunk. The dorm should be empty at this time of day. It's a Saturday; the others will be at the Quidditch pitch, or stocking up at the tavern in Hogsmeade—I swear, ever since we all came of-age, it's as if they decided they had to make up for seventeen years of deprivation." Nott gave a reproachful sniff. "And Riddle... will be up to whatever mysterious thing has caught his interest this week."
"What about the other students?"
"Disillusionment Charm," said Nott. "Whoever designed the Slytherin quarters had very specific tastes—high ceilings, dim lights, and shadows in every corner. No one will notice a thing."
Nott suddenly stopped at an unremarkable stretch of stone wall, in between two guttering torches.
"Why are we stopping?" began Hermione.
"Asclep—" Nott, without warning, burst out in an odd sound, as if he were choking on a throat lozenge in the midst of a sneeze. "—Achoo!"
The wall slid open.
"Cast your charm, hurry up," said Nott, stepping through. "And try not to bump into anyone."
Where the Ravenclaw Common Room was bright and airy, an upper-floor tower room with windows circling all the way around, the Slytherin Common Room was dark and forbidding. The floor and walls were of smooth mortared stone, with small islands of carpet spread beneath the feet of tables and chairs, but bare elsewhere. One central fireplace dominated the room, logs burning merrily under a ten-foot-high shield mounted over the mantle—a serpent with gemstone eyes on a silver field hammered with ripples that resembled water, the Slytherin House crest. Before the fire was a large winged armchair surrounded by several less impressive chairs; these were all currently unoccupied, but others, farther from the fire, had been taken by lower-year students with textbooks open on their laps.
Hermione passed them quickly, and to her relief, none of them glanced her way.
Nott led her to one corner of the room, down a set of stairs so worn by the centuries that a dip had formed in the centre of each stone riser, which descended into what turned out to be the boys' hall.
Ravenclaw had been like that too, Hermione observed. Boys and girls in two separate wings leading off the Common Room. Girls of each year could visit the other girls' rooms, and in Hermione's experience as a Prefect, she'd had more than a few younger girls, Muggleborns mostly, knock on her door and ask for help with certain feminine problems. As a Prefect, she knew that she could visit the boys' dormitory wing, but that was encroaching on the male Prefects' responsibilities and, according to Lucretia Black's Prefect Handbook, was Not Done because it undermined the Hogwarts student leadership system.
The Seventh Year boys' dormitory was the last door on the left side, and unlike the Ravenclaw girls' dormitory, had no number painted on the door. Nor was there a corkboard hung on the wall that listed the name of each girl in residence, with space to pin notes while the inhabitants were out. (Most notes left for Hermione were enquiries about borrowing her exam revision notes, or when she'd be finished with a book taken from the Common Room library.) Unlike any girls' dormitory that Hermione had ever visited, this particular dormitory had a distinctive smell that Hermione could not describe in terms other than 'conspicuously male'.
It was the herbal fragrance of men's shaving water—aniseed and cedar wood—mixed with the crisp, resinous pine of broomstick handle wax, and the astringent lemon scent of wood polish used by the Hogwarts custodial staff to bring out the gleam of varnished timber furniture. All of this overlaid a certain organic odour that spontaneously sprung into existence wherever young men shared a living space. Magical or not, the Seventh Year Slytherins were still teenage boys. They played sports, ate a pound of meat at every meal, and skipped bathing on weekends, instead refreshing themselves with a spell and a spritz of cologne.
Even Tom Riddle, the most-admired student in his House, with the best manners of any of his dorm mates, was just another teenage boy when it came to basic biology. Hermione had noticed that Tom, on the days he participated in exhibition duelling, came away looking and very clearly smelling of his exertions. Of course, she'd never mentioned it to him—some part of her enjoyed seeing Tom brought down to this rumpled state, without the mask of effortless perfection that he'd constructed for the rest of the school's benefit—and she admitted, if only to herself, that it wasn't that bad of a smell.
(Some minor base note of this specific scent may or may not have wafted out of Slughorn's cauldron of Amortentia...)
But this wasn't just Tom Riddle. It was half a dozen boys, most of whom didn't bother putting their clothes away after wearing them, because they were whole-heartedly assured that someone else was going to clean up after them. There were, and always would be, servants to launder and fold their clothes, replace their bedsheets, do up their bedcovers, and pick up that crusty old sock that had somehow wandered under the bed and been forgotten.
Hermione let out a cough and flicked her wand over her face, dissolving her Disillusionment Charm and summoning a small gust of air to breeze through the dormitory.
"How do you live like this?" asked Hermione, looking around the room.
The beds were canopied in sets of green velvet drapes, arranged in a row down the length of the dormitory, the living spaces accompanied with a matched bureau, armoire, nightstand, and trunk. Small signs of personalisation abounded: a green-and-silver garland tied around a bedpost, fluttering paper Snitches taped to a headboard, animated family photographs in a triptych frame sitting on a nightstand, and on one bed, a folded coverlet of thick brown sable fur. Hermione recalled that Mrs. Riddle had had a coat with a sable collar, and the other women at the Little Hangleton church had given it envious glances all through the service.
"By reminding myself that everyone else suffers as much as I do," said Nott, striding down the row of beds, until he reached the pair closest to the far window, which showed a view more fitting for a porthole in a submarine vessel than a student's bedroom. The view beyond the glass was dark and murky, obstructed by the swaying water weeds grown out of the stone bedrock beneath the castle proper. This late in the year, Hermione doubted that anyone living at this depth would see a hint of sunlight, even at noon.
While Nott unlocked his trunk, at the foot of the bed with the fur coverlet, Hermione inspected the arched window, the two supporting columns on either side of the glass panes flowing into the Norman-style stonework of the vaulted ceiling. The bed closest to it, she saw, lacked the green-and-silver decorative touches of the others. It was the plainest and neatest: the covers were drawn up and smoothed down, the bureau had no socks or neckties peeping out of the drawers, and the nightstand had on it a single book, but was otherwise spotless.
"This one's Tom's, isn't it?" asked Hermione, wandering over. A set of pyjamas had been placed on the bed, thick cotton flannel with a faint woven pattern of pin-dot stripes. Hadn't Mrs. Riddle given Tom a set of pyjamas like this for Christmas last year? She remembered seeing those pyjamas every other morning that summer, when she'd woken up with her nose mashed into Tom's chest, and a line of small circles imprinted on her cheek from his buttons.
Nott looked up from digging through his trunk. "Yes—ever since they took out the chamber pots, the beds closest to the bathroom are in highest demand." He grimaced, then continued, "And on top of that, we all thought, back in First Year, that it was best to have as little to do with Riddle as possible."
Hermione sat down on Tom's bed and gave an amused snort. "How times have—"
"Get off!" said Nott sharply, rearing back and reaching for his wand. He brandished it in front of him, murmured "Protego!" under his voice, then cautiously asked, "Do you feel anything odd? Any pain or discomfort?"
"What?" said Hermione. "Why, should I?"
"No one touches Riddle's things," said Nott. "The last time Riddle noticed his books had been borrowed without asking, he put powdered baneberry leaf on a different person's toothbrush every night until someone stepped forward to confess. That was... October of Third Year, I think."
"Baneberry?" Hermione said, aghast. "That's poisonous!"
"The berries are. The leaves just make you vomit." Nott lowered his wand, then added, in a thoughtful voice, "You know, we never figured out how he did it. By the sixth night, we'd started hiding our toothbrushes in our bureau drawers and brushing our teeth when he was out, but Riddle managed to dose them anyway."
"You sound as if you admire him," said Hermione disapprovingly.
"He has a way of producing the most convincing arguments," said Nott. "It's quite hard to resist, as I'm sure you know."
"His being convincing," Hermione said, "should have no bearing on your being convinced."
"One finds that shoulds and should nots don't last very long in Riddle's presence," Nott said, shrugging indifferently. "I'm surprised you haven't noticed, for all the time you spend with him."
Hermione chose not to dwell on Nott's pronouncement. Instead, she opened her bag and pulled out a fresh scroll of parchment and a sharp quill. "I thought we were going to look at your private project."
"Prepare to be impressed, then," said Nott.
Hermione wasn't.
(She realised later that this was meant to be ironic.)
If a piece of parchment could limp, then that was what Nott's attempt at enchantment did. It flailed, it flopped, it squirted out a weak stream of clear liquid. Nott told her it was water, and since he hadn't minded it getting on his bed, Hermione took him at his word. All in all, it behaved more like an ailing Flobberworm than a proper Howler that followed a smooth enchantment sequence: unfold itself, deliver the recorded message, refold itself, then burst into a self-consuming fireball that left no trace of ash or other residue.
Clean, efficient, and consistent.
That was the pinnacle of successful commercial enchanting. No one bought an enchanted travel trunk if the dimensions inside changed by the day, or if there was a chance that something placed inside it might be damaged or Vanished. No one bought an Invisibility Cloak or potion brewing safety apron if there was a one-in-ten possibility that the enchantment would fail when used. Yes, they were garments and, unlike solid items of wood, stone, or metal, could not be carved with permanent runework. They lost their imbued magic over time, but their lifespan was measured and consistent; one bought it knowing that they would need replacement or repair after a predictable five to ten years.
"Goodness," she said, prodding at the limp and soggy piece of parchment dribbling on the bedcover, "the instability is compounded by having a liquid element involved. What reference tables have you been using? Our textbook says that for a medium of—"
"I've been using my own books," said Nott, showing her an antique tome he'd taken out of his trunk.
Cutis Arcanus, read the cover; it was made of a supple, grained leather scattered over with small dimples where the original animal's hair had once grown.
"Why are all the old books in Latin?" said Hermione irritably. She had browsed the Restricted Section of the library with Tom a handful of times, and been disappointed to see that many of the rarest reference books were written in Latin, Greek, or runes. Even the ones in English weren't easily accessible; they were in an archaic form of English full of words that had fallen out of use centuries ago—'agu terciane' or 'hele and prow'. Hermione had had to consult a dictionary to decipher these meanings ('recurring three-day fever' and 'health and benefit'). She had noticed that Nott, when he delved into old books during their communal study sessions, had felt no need to do so.
"It's traditional. You might as well ask why they paint the page edges gold," said Nott. "And it keeps children out of their parents' libraries. Can't make trouble playing with a borrowed spellbook if you can't read it."
"Well, I can't read it!"
"My sympathies."
"So how am I supposed to help?"
Nott sighed. "The tables are in numbers, Arabic and Roman. You can read them, can't you?"
"Yes, but—"
"If you need the legends or headings, I'll read them out for you."
"Alright," said Hermione, reaching over the bed. "Give me the book, then."
"It's very valuable—look here, you can't just grab it—"
"Budge over, then—I can't see when your elbow's in the way—"
Hermione spent the next few hours inspecting Nott's notes, combing each phrase and clause for possible ambiguities. One such instance was an inconsistency in the units of measurement, between mass, volume, and the different systems of each. Parchment was graded based on its weight, per hand or arm's length as determined by the supplier. A liquid—and Hermione had, for the entirety of her potion brewing experience, converted all units used by the textbooks into litres, for accuracy's sake—was measured in units of volume.
And here was the issue with Nott's duplicating various segments of runes, without consideration of their origin: the units varied, without any clear specification whether the units referred to were based on the English standard of ounces and pounds, a convention for potion recipe books published in Britain—when they didn't just dispense with measurements altogether and ask for 'ain porcioun of dragonne's tonge bathed in its herte-blod'—or if it was an older Germanic measuring system, used by enchanters who bespelled their craftwork through Norse or Futhark runes.
"You use ells here," said Hermione, pointing to a line of jagged letters, then flipping to a sheet of parchment several pages down the stack. "And drams here. Two pages over, the same object is referred to in terms of 'droplets'—that's the hagalaz, here, connotative of storms and rain."
"That's not the subject, that's the effect," said Nott, leaning over to look.
"How am I supposed to know that?" Hermione snapped. "You haven't structured it so your subjects go here, and the effects go there, with an assigned temporal value to each. I've never seen anything so wishy-washy!"
"It's magic; intent matters more than anything else."
"Well, clearly your intent is subpar if what you get never matches up with what you wanted," said Hermione. "Here, give me the book—"
Something on the nearest nightstand gave a soft chime, prompting Nott to tear his eyes away from the parchment and stare at Hermione in alarm.
"Someone's at the door," Nott hissed. "Quick, get down."
"Where?" said Hermione.
"Under the bed, hurry!"
Nott shovelled her quills and notes into her bag, then tossed the bag into her arms.
"I didn't think anyone would be coming so soon," said Nott, lifting up one edge of the bedcover that draped over the gap between bedframe and floor. He motioned her to slide underneath. "Normally, I don't see them until dinner. Sometimes not even that, if they stay for the Broomsticks' Saturday steak, kidney, and stout special."
"We've more than an hour until dinner," said Hermione, lowering herself to the floor. "Will I have to hide until then?"
"If I see an opening, I'll Stun and Obliviate whoever comes in, while you Disillusion yourself and sneak out. Don't go out the Common Room door immediately—wait until someone else opens it and follow them out."
"Whatever happened to my exemption from the rules?"
"If you get caught, no one will teach you a lesson with a hex or two," said Nott, "but that's no reason to let yourself get caught in the first place. Now be quiet, or I'll have to Silence you."
The door opened.
Hermione lay on her back under Nott's bedframe, sliding her wand out of her robe to Vanish a few dustballs before they fell on her face and made her sneeze.
"I thought you'd be out all day," said Nott.
"Circumstances intervened," spoke the voice of Tom Ridde.
"There was someone else there?" asked Nott. "I thought the door locked from the inside."
"I didn't go to the Prefect's Bathroom."
"But," said Nott, "you did say you were 'going swimming'..."
"In the Lake," came Tom's voice again, this time followed by the swish of robes, and the shuffle of shoe soles against the stone flags of the floor. From the view she had from the slim gap between bedcover and floor, Hermione saw a pair of feet, shod in laced school shoes of polished black leather, crossing to the bed next to Nott's. The laces unwound themselves, then the shoes clattered to the floor, revealing feet in a pair of plain grey uniform socks.
"Outdoor swimming this time of year? I don't envy you that," Nott remarked. Then there was a hitch in his voice, before he said, "Or that. Whatever happened to you? Did it—?"
"No," said Tom. Cloth rustled, and a green-lined robe dropped to the floor by Tom's bed. "The rocks under the waterline were unexpectedly sharp. Had I tried to fix myself up then and there, I'd have ended up with scarring."
Wood creaked; a latch opened with a metallic click and a murmured spell, as Tom dug through the contents of his trunk. Soon after, there was a crisp pop! of a cork being drawn out of a vial, and Hermione heard Tom draw in a sharp breath, as if he was in pain.
"Do you need a potion?" asked Nott from his bed, a foot above Hermione's head. "The others keep a bottle of all-purpose pain reliever in the bathroom for hangovers. They go through it too quickly to notice if you took a sip or two."
"I've had worse," Tom replied, each word punctuated by a low hiss.
"I'd never have taken you for a vain one," said Nott conversationally, after a pause of half a minute.
"Let me assure you," Tom gritted out, "that this isn't for my benefit."
"Who—" Nott began, then abruptly fell silent. "Oh. I see. Or, rather I don't—'vain' isn't one of the many words that I might associate with..."
"It's the principle of the thing," Tom answered, which wasn't much of an answer at all. He went on with, "And you? What are you doing here? I thought you said you'd be in the library. Working on the... The Project."
For some reason, Tom took special care in enunciating those two words, and Hermione imagined that they had been spoken in Capital Letters, something of a habit of Tom's, which he used to distinguish certain words in his vocabulary from their mundane dictionary equivalents. His understanding of Foil was of a separate species to the everyday foil used by Muggles to wrap their chocolate rations and soup cubes. Tom's Future was to be Great, while everyone else, in his eyes—in his verbal appraisal—was set for a rather unremarkable future, inconsequential for most, passable at best.
"I was," said Nott. "But I had to fetch a book from my trunk."
"Are you almost done?" Tom asked impatiently. "I want it finished by the holidays."
"The ejection mechanism is unstable," said Nott. "But once I have it working, I wouldn't know how well it actually works unless I've got something to test it on."
"I'll find something, don't worry."
"You could help," Nott pointed out. "With the enchantments, I mean. You do well in Ancient Runes, and you read Latin, too. Better than those who had tutors at home before coming to Hogwarts."
"My translation abilities are, at present, concerned with more important things. Unless..." Tom trailed off, and Hermione heard the mattress squeak as Nott fidgeted awkwardly on the bed. "You are incapable of fulfilling the task you agreed to take on? I would be disappointed, but we know what I'd have to do if your involvement became unnecessary to The Project. All in your best interests, of course."
"Don't I have any say in what serves my interests best?"
"You can say whatever you like," said Tom, with a little snort of breath to suggest that he found Nott's words very amusing. "With no oath between us, there's no more requirement for me to act only with benign intent. That last time, if you remember, I did go to some effort to get it over with quickly."
"Really?" Nott scoffed. "I couldn't tell."
"You ought to trust what I say, instead of doubting me," said Tom. "Everyone else does."
"Everyone else has no idea what you are," said Nott.
"Oh," Tom said. "What am I?"
"You're an overly—"
"Sorry," Tom interrupted, "that wasn't a question."
"Riddle—"
"I," said Tom, speaking over Nott's attempts to present his own half of the conversation, "am simply a private citizen, concerned by the inadequate response to a situation which endangers all citizens."
"A self-appointed busybody, in so many words," said Nott in an incredulous tone.
"As long as my purpose is noble, the exact wording is immaterial," Tom replied. "And it has to be acknowledged that your participation makes you just as noble as I am."
"I struggle to comprehend how you can utter the word noble without a horde of maggots erupting out of your wand."
"What a bizarre idiom," said Tom. "Question my motivations as you like, but if you possess any doubts on my capabilities, then I suppose I've no choice but to convince you."
"I trust you," Nott said hastily.
"Nevertheless," said Tom, "the fact remains: we can't work together if you doubt me."
"My doubts have been eased, thank you very—"
"There's an hour until dinner," said Tom. "Let's go."
"My things—"
"Toss them in your trunk and sort them out later."
"But—"
"Depulso," Tom incanted, and a papery flutter filled the room, followed by the solid thunk! of a trunk lid opening and closing. "You've pledged yourself to a noble cause, Nott. It's only proper to show you what you've volunteered for."
Hermione held her breath as she heard two sets of footsteps tread around the two beds, pressing one hand over her mouth and nostrils so no whisper of expelled air stirred the thin layer of cloth that separated her from the two boys murmuring to each other an arm's length away. In the darkness, her thoughts leapt from one conclusion to the next, examining each item of information that she'd been given by Nott, in contrast to the information that had been strategically withheld.
Nott had told her it was a prank. It might be a prank, and Nott had been truthful about that—he had to be, ever since Hermione had mentioned Tom's ability to perceive lies—but a prank wasn't all it was.
Tom Riddle was involved, with a project of his own. One that contributed to a shared goal.
That goal was unknown to Hermione, and an uneasy sense of apprehension began creeping down her spine as she considered what she knew—and what she knew about Tom.
Tom, who counted Hermione his one and only Foil, hadn't told her about this project. There was a chance that Hermione had misconstrued the situation, and it was harmless and innocent and she was assuming things that had no basis in reality. But Tom wasn't the sort of person who'd go to all this trouble for a surprise birthday party; when he took action to advance the well-being of others, it was more or less because he found something in it to his own benefit. And for as long as she'd known him, Tom had avoided collaborative projects—unless there was no better option offered to him, and outside contributions were necessary for his goals.
Knowing him, they wouldn't be safe, risk-free goals.
When the boys left and the latch clicked behind them, Hermione rolled out from under Nott's bed. She inspected the dormitory, one hand idly brushing the dust fom her room, looking for anything that had been moved or re-arranged in the short time she'd remained hidden.
The books and papers from Nott's bed were gone, and the bedcovers were disturbed from someone sitting on them. Tom's bed was untouched, but his uniform robe lay in an untidy heap on the floor, its hem damp with mud. Out of curiosity, Hermione tugged at the drawer handles of Tom's nightstand. The first drawer was locked, and so were the second and third. His trunk, much newer-looking than the one Mum and Dad had bought for Hermione in First Year, was also locked, and when she touched the tip of her finger to the brass latches, it sparked against her skin like a wool jumper.
Not painful, but still unpleasant. She doubted that a standard Unlocking Charm would undo them.
Nott's nightstand, unlike Tom's, was unlocked. To Hermione's dissatisfaction, there was nothing in it of relevance to 'The Project'. A small pot of Boil Cure paste, a common apothecary preparation used to clear pimples and spots overnight. Loose quills, a class timetable, a velvet coinpurse, a few clean handkerchiefs, and a book entitled An Examination of the Consecutive Fifth that looked promising, but turned out to be a dense textbook on musical theory.
By dinnertime, Hermione had found nothing of interest in the Seventh Year boys' dormitory, not even in the other nightstands and armoires. Plenty of dirty laundry, an abundance of loose socks, and something that appeared to be a bundle of used bandages attached to a strange, smelly leather cup. Once Hermione realised what it was, she set it gently back where she found it.
That was horrifying, but it hardly counted as evidence.
Sighing, she returned everything to their proper places, disappointed in the lack of any useful information, and disappointed with the facts that she had managed to discover: that teenage boys had frightfully low living standards. If they left toenail clippings, little yellowish crescents, scattered on the floor in front of the fireplace hearth because they were too lazy to clean up when they'd missed flicking them into the fire, their bathroom habits had to be even worse. Hermione was forced to admit that she was likely spoiled by sharing a dormitory with all girls, and having Tom as her closest friend. When they'd shared a bathroom, she'd seen how meticulous Tom was about personal hygiene.
(When asked, he'd given an off-hand explanation on the many magical applications of human parts—blood, bone, skin, and hair. Did she know that it was possible to use wizard hair in wandcrafting? Had she heard of the East Indian custom of directing curses to enemies through the use of magical effigies?)
At that point, Hermione hadn't any choice but to go down to dinner, so she joined the stream of students leaving their rooms. Hermione noticed older Slytherin students reprimanding younger ones for inkstains on their skirts or neckties worn askew, as she slipped through the passageway on the heels of a Fifth Year Prefect. Disillusionment Charm in place, she went unnoticed by the passing students, staying close to the walls until they led her out of the unfamiliar corridors of the Slytherin dungeons. She ducked behind a suit of armour to undo the charm, then mingled with the growing crowd drawn to the Great Hall by the prospect of all the food they could eat, and for everything they couldn't, all the food they could fit in their pockets.
Tom and Nott were already at the Slytherin table when Hermione had taken one of the few empty space at her own House table. Observing them from her side of the Great Hall, she could tell that Tom was pleased about something—even triumphant—while Nott was pale-faced and subdued, picking at his roulade of beef, giving terse answers when spoken to, but otherwise allowing Tom to monopolise the conversation on their end of the table.
Hermione cornered Nott when dinner was over, dragging him behind a statue of a witch holding a Fanged Geranium in a bucket.
"You didn't tell me that Tom had something to do with your 'prank'!" said Hermione.
"Oh," said Nott, giving her a sidelong look and coughing into his robe sleeve, "did I forget to mention that? Did I even say it was meant to be a prank? I think you were the one that came to that assumption."
"You've half a year left," Hermione said. "Do you two want to be expelled?"
"Is that what you're worried about?"
"Why aren't you worried about it?"
Nott gave her a disbelieving stare. "Because I can hire a tutor and have the Examinations Authority send a proctor to my house to let me take the N.E.W.T.s in my nightshirt."
"Well... I suppose," said Hermione. "But what about Tom? What if he gets into trouble? It won't just ruin his future—it'll ruin mine, too."
"We won't be caught," Nott said. "And before you berate me about student safety, I mean to run the tests at home, during the holidays. There's no chance another student might be harmed. And you wouldn't tell a teacher about something I've done in my own time, in my own home, would you?" His expression took on a knowing air. "I think your reaction is more from feeling hoodwinked than anything to do with safety considerations."
"I... No, you're wrong," Hermione sputtered. "That's absolutely ridiculous!"
"I'll be honest with you, Granger," said Nott, "if you're honest with me. And the first stage in our mutual honesty is your honest confession: you looked in my underwear drawer."
"What!" Hermione choked. "H-how did you know?"
"I didn't," said Nott. "But I do now."
It wasn't until Hermione had gone up to the Ravenclaw Common Room that she realised what Nott had done. The strange—and yes, mortifying—tangent taken by their conversation had distracted her from the questions she had wanted to ask. Nott had sacrificed his dignity by discussing his underdrawers in mixed company, but if Tom was correct in his belief that social interaction was a game to be won or lost, then it was clear to Hermione that she had lost and Nott had won.
And this, Hermione also realised, wasn't the first time that Nott had made a sacrifice of his dignity for a greater advantage.
.
.
.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Nott's reference to maggots comes from the fact that, in the Wizarding World, it's a cultural belief that evil wizards falsely pretending to be pure-hearted are eaten by maggot swarms.
"While there is a widespread and justified belief that a wizard who is not pure of heart cannot produce a successful Patronus (the most famous example of the spell backfiring is that of the Dark wizard Raczidian, who was devoured by maggots), a rare few witches and wizards of questionable morals have succeeded in producing the Charm. It may be that a true and confident belief in the rightness of one's actions can supply the necessary happiness."
From Pottermore. Whew, canon worldbuilding.