Herbology was warm in the Greenhouse, glass walls trapping the mild October afternoon sun. Pleasant, not sticky heat. The last gifts of autumn before winter truly set in. The professor was Lindsey Loris. A short, bald man with a curly brown mustache and nearly spherical spectacles. He didn't introduce Hermione to the class, and she thought it merciful until she realized that he was extremely nearsighted and probably didn't notice a new girl.
Riddle was there. A shadow in her classes. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that she was his shadow. He was here first; it was only fair. He was partnered with the same white-haired boy from Potions. She would have to get his name. He was probably important. Or, at least, currently in favor.
It was a double class with Ravenclaws, but Hermione ended up partnered with one of her Slytherin roommates, Claudia Macmillan. In oversized robes and short red curls, her snake familiar wrapped lazily around her neck and shoulders. She was silent as Hermione got out her clippers and bucket.
They were clipping Pixy Thistle today. Careful to only cut third branches to keep it unbloodied and symmetrical and, when they were done, were to peel the excess branches for pickling.
"So, what's your deal, then?" Macmillan said next to her. Her Scot's brogue even lighter now than it was in the morning.
"Aren't you supposed to be ignoring me?" Hermione said, pruning branches.
"I am."
Hermione shot her a look.
"I am ignoring you," Macmillan said with an inflection as if to give it a greater meaning.
Oh.
This was a game.
Ignore Hermione, then engage with her after she stewed in rejection. Manipulate her by withholding socialization, reward her when she offers up information. Classic carrot and stick. Better than Malfoy, but no more subtle. Suddenly, she appreciated the trouble Riddle went through to worm under her guard.
"Okay," Hermione returned to her cuttings.
Macmillan let out a huff and whispered to her again, "What is your deal, then? Dead parents, excommunicated from your coven. You get into some real trouble, yeah? What'd you do?"
The rumor mill was ceaseless, wasn't it? What had happened to her fighting Grindelwald? She had liked the Hufflepuff's rumor of her. It was more malleable and suited her needs.
"I'm not in any trouble."
"So, you're here for recon or something?"
"What?" she said lightly, unconcerned. Macmillan couldn't possibly know what she was here for. Hermione didn't stop snipping.
"You're a spy or something? Or are you looking for a spy?"
Well, that was a fucking leap.
"...What?" Hermione said slowly, confused, showing utter bafflement at being accused of spying. Macmillan didn't have proof. No one did. It was just a silly rumor born from wartime paranoia and a new girl showing up out of the blue.
"No offense, but you look like you have spent the last year catching every curse in the book," she said quietly.
Oh.
Yeah.
That made sense. Hermione was covered head to toe in scars and her roommates had no doubt gotten an eyeful when she changed. It explained the disparities in rumors. She wasn't even offended, "I'm a spy because I'm ugly?"
"No, you're a spy because you have been catching curses at all." Macmillan said and blew a lock of hair out of her face as she pruned, "Only Aurors have been fighting. If you are beat up enough to look that bad, then you must have been in the thick of it. And they wouldn't have let a capable fighter go in the middle of the war." She waved her clippers around to prove her point. "Either you fucked up majorly and gotten yourself kicked out, or you're on a job and working to root out a spy at Hogwarts."
Hermione admitted that it was relatively sound reasoning, but still terribly off base.
"Or, I'm a plant working for Grindlewald to recruit impressionable witches and wizards to his cause," she joked lightly, infusing as much scorn into her voice as possible, to make spying sound just as ridiculous as anything else.
Macmillan's eyes widened. "Yeah... could be that," she said and tightened the grip on her clippers.
Damnit. Maybe, joking about that had been a bit too much. There were kids here who lost people to the war. She shouldn't be flippant. A misstep.
"I'm not, Macmillan. He wouldn't have sent a muggleborn into Slytherin to recruit," she said. Macmialllain seemed to be a logical girl despite her irrational exaltation of blood-status.
"He couldn't know you would be in Slytherin."
"You're right. But he would have sent someone to pass as pureblood, regardless. He has plenty among his followers."
"Aye, maybe." Macmillan relaxed her shoulders a bit and returned to pruning, less of a death grip on her clippers. A flower caught in her mouth, and she pthed it out.
"What your deal?" Hermione asked. If Macmillan was being chatty, then she might as well play along. Not that she was actually starved for socialization or anything. Their rejection didn't bother her one bit.
Her bucket was full and she moved to the desk next to them and started peeling the stalks. It smelled like licorice.
"I'm powerful and pretty, and my family owns most of Hogsmeade. I don't need a deal."
"That doesn't mean you don't have one," she said as Macmillan came up beside her to peel her own sticks. "I'm guessing it's a disconnection with your peers brought on by familial neglect. You have a greater connection with your snake because you feel it won't judge you and are, in kind, more attach—"
The punch was square in her face, her nose broke clean.
The crack was loud, sharper than when she had broken her arm years ago, and rang in her head a full second before the pain hit. Red, hot, thunderous pain in her nose, mouth, cheek. She grabbed at her face.
A shout from the teacher, more shouts from other students. Far away and underwater. She tongued at her teeth. All stationery, no teeth regrowing today! Her mouth tasted like wet hot salt. No iro—no...blood.
It was blood.
Hermione had a lot of blood in her mouth.
It had been winter. The dead ass of it. Alone, cold on a tugboat in the freezing Channel seas. Trying to get to the mainland to perform the rite to take her across time. It had been quiet. Even on the rocking ocean, the waves had been muffled in the cabin. It was perilous, Luna had told her. Impossibly dangerous to leave the safety of their hide-away with those things out there. It would be best to wait until spring, until the thaw, until they could all go together. Except they hadn't all made it to spring, and Hermione had been on a frozen boat in the quiet muffled sea.
Alone.
And then, with a rending, tearing, ripping, crack on the bridge above her, she wasn't.
It had come through quick, slick like lightning. First at her throat, always the throat, so easy to nip off the head that way. Caught her ear, then her eye. Blood so cruelly hot in her mouth. Thick hot metal, sucking on candy made of rusted pennies, and escaping to ice over her skin the moment air touched it. Then the leg, she'd tried to jump away—a mistake—and it had bit her. Teeth boiling, envious. How she had burned in that moment for its heat. An absurd pop as her femur had come out of the socket.
And then she had gotten her wand up. Ferris. Turned it to iron, and had shunted it off the boat to the bottom of the fucking Channel.
An eventful three seconds.
Was she going to throw up all over the Greenhouse? How embarrassing.
Macmillan looked at her with such revulsion that Hermione tensed for another hit. Her snake hissed. White fangs snapping out. She breathed hard, twice, a hitching in her lungs. "Talk to me again, mudblood, you'll wake up without a throat," she spat in a strangled voice and stormed out of the Greenhouse.
"That was not a bad hook, kept your wrist straight and everything," Hermione babbled at her back, lightheaded.
She looked down at her fingers. A mistake. Blood gushed freely from her nose and mouth. Must have hit her lip on her teeth. What was the thing with head wounds? They bled more even if it wasn't that serious.
"Epsikey," she mumbled.
The bleeding stopped but the wound remained red and open. The bone would still have to be set. She would need a potion to do it properly. They had the ingredients in storage, she'd seen them. A few hours to brew, and then she'd be fine.
"Macmillan!! Fifty points from Slytherin!" Professor Loris shouted over the class and waved a hand at someone, "Tom! Bring Hermione to the infirmary please!"
So, he did register her presence, at least caught her name, just didn't feel the need to introduce her to the class.
That was nice.
He was probably a good guy.
"Claudia! You have detention!" Loris called and jogged out the Greenhouse door after the girl.
Right! Hogwarts had infirmaries. She wouldn't have to brew her own potion.
"Of course, Professor. This way, Ms. Granger." Tom walked over, black eyes cataloging her bloody face, and held the glass door open for her.
There was something in his eyes again, stuck there like a fly on stick-paper. She tried to look up at him to get a better look, but he was tall and the sun was bright.
"You're very tall."
"I am."
"Why?"
There was a snake in her head. It twisted, wrapped around itself until there wasn't a mouth or tail, just a perfect loop of scales to be wound, bound to what she needed.
She threw it off a cliff. Its broken body, red blood on black scales, at the bottom.
"My father was tall."
Had his voice always been so deep? She liked it when he talked like that.
They walked toward the infirmary slowly. She let him lead. The infirmary hadn't been on the map given to her. It would be weird if she knew where it was, right?
"Riddle?"
He looked down at her, the fly in his eyes buzzing about like a tap dancer staccato.
"Yes?"
"Would you do me a favor?"
"Depends on what it is."
Something was off about his voice, his tongue, his teeth, but she couldn't figure out what it was.
"Would you convince Slughorn to install emergency exits into the Slytherin dorms?"
The tap dancer skipped a beat like a black wolf too excited for his meal.
"Why?"
"It's important."
They came to the Infirmary doors. Was it closer than she remembered? Or maybe she was really, really fast today. An open, clean suite with soft warm light. Rows of medical beds lined the walls with curtains between them. The only other patient, a kid who had turned verdant, grass green. Like an avocado.
She laughed; the boy flushed greener.
"Sorry," she lied.
She lay down on another bed. It smelled like blood. The same as when she was petrified in here for months. Trapped in her head, slowly going mad.
"Riddle?"
He looked down at her halfway to a side door, hands behind his back, the wolf in his eyes eager as a cobra. He was a handsome snake, wasn't he?
"Will you do that? It's important."
"Of course, Ms. Granger."
"You are very sweet when you lie. Tongue like honey."
"Madam Ophior?" called Tom, ducking his head into a door on the side.
The office! She remembered the office.
"Ms. Granger has had an accident." his voice muffled as he closed the door behind him like he was talking into a downy pillow.
There was some shuffling and voices, and then some time, and then the Head Healer came out the door followed by Tom. She was a hard-looking woman with light hair and a dark scowl.
"What happened?"
"Clean break in the nasal bone. Transverse fracture. Minor lip laceration from the impact with my teeth. Minor photosensitivity."
Hermione sat up and poked at her cheek.
"Probably some bruising on my cheekbone, not a fracture. Minor nausea. Moderate lightheadedness."
Ophior flicked her wand at Hermione a bunch. Diagnostic spells. She smelled like headache-inducing peppermint. And blood. Everything smelled like blood.
"You won't need Dittany. But you will need a restoration potion and a potion to fix the bone."
Ophior turned to Tom.
"What happened?"
"Ms. Macmillan punched her in Herbology."
Ophior's eyes narrowed like a land bridge that disappeared at high tide.
"And why did Ms. Macmillan do that?"
"I do not know. I wasn't close enough to hear what they were saying."
"I said that she had a habit of disassociating from her peers brought on by a neglectful family and found a greater sense of comfort with her familiar because of it. Or, well I would have said that, but she punched me before I could get it all out."
Tom barked out a laugh, head back and loud as a church bell.
He was beautific.
Pitch-raven hair, straight white teeth, porcelain skin crinkled at his starscape eyes. Lips pink and wet and within arm's reach. She could paint him like this. Nevermind she hadn't touched a paint set since she had last fingerpainted at six. His resplendence would give her the talent she needed to capture it. Magnificent.
Almost to the point of indecency.
"You're going to be the Death of me," she sighed enraptured, and maybe a bit slurred.
His answering smile was like—
The healer gave a great big sigh and waved her wand at Hermione's face.
Half of her brain fell out, her ears popped, and suddenly Hermione was very aware that she was in the infirmary after completely mangling a simple goddamn school day.
"Right. Cheers for that," she said, rubbing at her eyes.
"Take these." Madam Ophior said, handing Hermione two flasks, one blue, the other white, "Wait an hour, and then you can leave. Don't antagonize anyone else. There is a sink over there if you need to clean up." She pointed to a side sink—industrial, probably used for washing medical supplies—"Tom, mind the girl, would you?" She gave him a strained look.
"Of course, Madam Ophior," he said with a nod.
"Right! Mr. Kipps, let's see how we're doing, shall we?" Ophior said and turned back toward the boy with green skin.
Riddle sat down in a side chair next to her bed, and, for the moment, they were nearly eye level. If he still had an inch or two on her, she ignored it. Posture relaxed, hands folded in his lap, eyes open and clearly showing emotion.
He was laughing at her.
His eyes clear in the bright room, positively joyful, and looking at her fully without hiding underneath his normal flat black.
"No sympathy for your fellow sixth-year?" she said as she gagged around the healing potions. The blue tasted like kiwi skin, the white like stale oatmeal. Better than blood.
"Nope," he said lightly, eyes giddy at her misfortune; it was the most casual he'd ever been with her. Grinning boyishly like she had asked him on a date not ended the day bloody in the infirmary.
It was... distracting.
"Sadist," Hermione grumbled and trudged over to the sink, washing her face and mouth, and casting a quick charm to clean her clothes of mess. The mirror was a bit scuffed around the edges but clear enough that Hermione could make sure she wasn't a gorefest. Her hair didn't frizz out with the spell thanks to her new, fancy, magical conditioner.
"Ask," she ordered him. Her lip was healed. It came out clear if harsh.
He glanced at her through the mirror and relaxed further in his chair, one hand propping up his cheek. "Ms. Macmillan is from a powerful family. You should take care what she thinks of you."
"Yeah?" Hermione turned and flopped down on the bed. It smelled like soap. The scent before was just from her injury. She wiggled her unpetrified toes.
Well, I'm powerful, too. Maybe, Mac should take care what I think of her, she thought to herself.
It was quick and cruel and Hermione immediately felt guilty. Claudia Macmillan was just a student, practically a child, with no experience with the wretchedness of the world. Hermione wouldn't be the one to show her.
If not for Macmillan's sake, then for her own.
Hermione hadn't meant to upset her in the first place. It was the game, right? Poke and prod, feel out the pecking order of the house. Maybe she'd hit too sore of a spot. God, had she made Macmillan cry? Poor girl.
"Yes. She could ruin you with a few words and a handshake," he said with a smile, "Leave you penniless and starving in the gutter. Prevent you from ever getting a wizarding job better than a shop sweep or turning tricks. Or worse, force you to return to the muggle world." His eyes burned a moment, lidded and dark and all sharp white teeth.
Hermione recognized it, so clear now that he was relaxed. Curiosity. The desire to see his threats come to pass. (Because they were his threats. If he wanted to, he could make that girl do anything he wished.)
The desire to know how exactly she would respond to ruination.
Would she break or temper?
"Maybe I want to be a shop sweep," she sighed and drolly looked over him. His jacket was spotless, buttons gleamed on his waistcoat, his tie was tight and neat. There was a single drop of her red blood on his black shoe. "Sounds relaxing."
"You'd be bored."
"Oh, definitely, " she said, a little surprised that he read her so easily, "but if I'm alive long enough to worry about job prospects, I'd consider it a win, wouldn't you?"
"No," he chuckled, eyes dark and twinkling like stars, "If I ever end up working in a shop, then something has gone terribly awry."
Hermione smiled.
____
They left the infirmary before sunset with an extra pain-management potion and a mild chastisement to be nicer. Hermione would work on that. She was clearly rustier interacting with people than she thought. Just needed to shake out the dust, a few bumps in the road—or, on the nose—were to be expected. Riddle was right about manners, she needed to keep her tongue behind her teeth.
Note: Don't talk about family issues.
Hermione turned to patricidal Riddle. He was less overtly giddy now that she was in recovery, but his posture was relaxed, "Thanks for the help today, but I need to go get my stuff from the Greenhouse."
He flicked his wand out of his pocket and her books and notes appeared in his hands.
"Oh. Thank you," she said. He handed her things over. She didn't look up at him, "I didn't notice you picking them up."
"You were distracted," he reminded her.
"Yeah."
"I am very tall."
Hermione blushed obscenely. Felt the heat on her cheeks, down her neck.
"Yeah," she said. The word was cracked in half like her dignity. She abruptly turned away, starting quickly toward the library. Homework to do and such and stuff. Not at all running away from her humiliation.
"Why do you want to install emergency exits in the dorms?" Riddle came up beside her easily, hands behind his back. Damn his long legs.
"In case it floods."
"I don't know what anyone might have told you," his tone was careful, measured out slow like honey in tea, "but it was probably just to frighten you. There are strong wards around the windows, you don't actually need to worry about them breaking."
"Have you ever drowned, Mr. Riddle?" She slowed her step. It wasn't as if she could outrun him.
"Yes," he said casually. His face was exquisitely blank, looking down at her with over-lidded eyes and the mask of a doll. "Have you?"
Probably a fall in the Thames. There were very few places to drown in London.
"Yes. It's very unpleasant. Not something eleven-year-olds should experience."
"I was younger." He shrugged.
"As was I." She frowned and looked him over. Back straight, face blank, ringless hands behind his back. Normal Riddle. He was calm as he admitted to nearly dying as a child.
Hermione supposed she was too.
"And as someone in the position to change things for those who are currently unable to protect themselves, we should do our best to keep them safe," she finished.
"Are you in the position to change things, though?" he asked with a tilt of his head, "Aren't you coming to beg me for help?"
"I am not begging you for anything, Mr. Riddle," she snapped and then continued coolly, remembering her manners, "Just asking as a favor. You're sure to get something in return."
There was information he wanted from her. She could dangle the promise of that in front of him.
"And what makes you think that I can convince Slughorn to do it?"
"He likes you. Called you the brightest wizard of your age."
"Yes," he studied her a moment, "You flinched at it."
"It is obnoxious, don't you think?"
She wasn't jealous. Not one bit.
"Not really. It's accurate."
"So humble, Mr. Riddle."
He raised his eyebrows at her.
"I mean, of course, Mr. Riddle. Slughorn is very astute."
She didn't roll her eyes. Practice. Manners. This was the forties. Be Polite.
"Perhaps it would be beneficial to install some secondary exits. But there is another matter we should discuss." Damn Slytherins and their non-committal attitude. One day she would fork his tongue herself.
They turned into the stairwell. Staircases fluttered around them like owls. Other students milled about or walked the well-tread path to the library.
Riddle brought her up to a side hallway, unfamiliar in the way most of the castle was here, but she was sure it would eventually get them to the library. They were on the eastern side of the castle. The sun was setting on the other side of the school, casting the entire hall in shadows occasionally broken up by sconces.
"I have talked with Ms. Leaby, the Ravenclaw prefect. She has agreed to be your tutor for Divinations," he said.
"I thought it had been you offering?" she said slowly through a frown.
"I apologize Ms. Granger if I gave you that impression," he said lightly, unconcerned with her displeasure, "I have other duties and am far too busy to give you the attention you need. You will have a bit of catch-up, yes? Ms. Leaby has been a Divinations tutor for three years. She will be able to get you where you need to be."
Damn it.
As nice a girl as Leaby was—They were in Ancient Runes together; Leaby was smart—Hermione wasn't going to stay in Divinations if she wouldn't get anything out of it. Not worth it to pile on excessive aggravation in the middle of an operation.
Especially with Arithmancy as teeth-grinding as it was.
"Nevermind. I'll drop the class," she huffed.
"What?"
"There's no point in taking a class if I have no interest in it."
"And having me as your tutor would rectify that?"
Oh.
This was useful.
She wandered to a stop in the dim hall.
"You're interesting," she said simply and craned her neck, looking up at him, catching his black eyes as they wandered her face.
She wasn't lying.
Tom Riddle was a fascinating little mystery, wasn't he? Too tempting not to try and solve. Even when she knew the answers already! She knew his failures, his triumphs. And given enough time she was sure she could plot out the string that led from this very polite murderous boy to the malignant caricature of a human that he would become.
But there was a certain stitch missing here, something frayed around the edges. Not the thread that would bring the tapestry together into a whole—that one was already made and woven, setting the scene of his life and Death—but of a different picture entirely.
The overwrought politeness. His interest in Grindelwald's war. His ploy with parseltongue. Whatever he had done to make Dumbledore less concerned with him.
Not wearing his ring.
There was another picture of Tom Riddle to solve.
She licked her lips. Too tempting.
Most importantly though, He was a prideful little mystery. What had she thought? That infiltrating his followers would be unfruitful. They were already rich and powerful and adding her to the mix would be more liability than asset.
But she was nothing to them, a spare bit of mud on a shoe. What liability could she possibly possess?
And Riddle was greedy, starving, ready to devour the world, and would eagerly take the bait to try and sate himself.
"But if you are too busy, I understand," she sighed, disappointed, and then smiled wistfully up at him, "Though I will admit, I was excited for the possibility of you changing my mind. You were right in Potions. Hogwarts' Arithmancy has left me a bit disappointed."
"Really?" he pursed his lips and cocked his head, eyes lidded and sly. The delight that had been in his eyes an hour ago lost to murky featureless black that flicked between her mouth and eyes. No doubt, looking for lies.
"Yes," she silvered her words, "And if you actually can get a vision out of the class, then you must know what you're doing. You're the brightest wizard of your age, right? Why would I settle for second best?" She shrugged.
Riddle took her in. Dark eyes slowly roving to her eyes, mouth, throat. She was still skinny and scarred, but at the moment her hair was shiny with his conditioner and her clothes were neat and bloodless thanks to his help. She was dependent on him, harmless, but clever enough for the microcosm of effort it would take to bring her into the fold.
C'mon Riddle, take the bait.
"And here I thought you clever."
"What—"
But she didn't have the breath to answer.
Riddle grabbed her arm, gripped hard, shoved. Her leg caught on something—his foot behind her ankle. When had that happened?—she tripped into the wall—
She fell, off-balance into an empty classroom behind her.
And then she was caught with a hot-iron grip and a wrench in her shoulder and her arm was yanked to the side and slammed into the classroom wall.
She got her wand up—No. She couldn't kill him. She needed him. If he were to die now, every sacrifice, every drop of blood spilled, every horror she unleashed on the world would be for—
The tip of his wand dug inescapably into her throat. Her pulse thumped thickly at the point. She couldn't swallow.
The door closed, cutting off the torchlight in the hallway, leaving them in the dark. The moon shone through the windows. Not full yet, but would be within the week. The fire raged outside. A lascivious red crawling up the night sky.
Riddle slowly relaxed his grip on her arm, took a half step away, and nestled one hand in his pocket, the other gripped his wand steadily. A pale, infuriatingly ringless hand. His weight was on his back foot, posture straight and practiced. His eyes were empty, as flat as wet ink on parchment.
"What do you want with me?" he asked calmly.
He positively fucking mused the question. They were in a classroom and he was just asking a simple question about his day. The wand distending her neck up awkwardly, nothing more than a silly coincidence.
"What are you—Riddle!" she shouted, keeping her wand pointed at his chest. He didn't know she wouldn't kill him.
Riddle gouged his wand deeper into her throat.
"What do you want with me?" The same calm tone. It wasn't light or cruel. Black or bored. He was steady, arm straight unflinching, as if he had done this a thousand times and knew the routine by heart.
"A tutor, you idiot!" she coughed. As far as torture went, it wasn't the worst she'd faced, but it wasn't exactly pleasant to have her carotid choked.
"Really?"
"Yes, really!"
"Are you sure that is what you want to choose right now? That you have no secondary interest in me beyond a tutor." He was rigid, unmoving, still as a statue in winter.
Calm, as if he had all the time in the world. They could spend the night here in this classroom under the waxing moon and red fire and he would be perfectly content watching her slowly losing the blood flow to her brain.
She had made a mistake.
The thought rankled but did not change the facts at present. She had overestimated his pride and underestimated hers. He was cautious, and her play was overeager. Riddle had the posture of a duelist, straight and half-turned to the side, one arm forward. Ready to slit her throat.
They were alone. She had only been here a day. Wouldn't be missed. Give her to the basilisk as an evening snack and he could wipe his hands clean of the whole mess.
This wouldn't be resolved with words.
She lightened the grip on her wand. Flexibility was more important in close quarters dueling. Her shoulders relaxed and she bowed the line of her arm slightly, ready to counter whatever curse he threw.
He could slice open her neck in a second, but that wouldn't kill her immediately.
"You won't believe me no matter what I say, will you?" she said lightly.
"Let me in your head and I might," he said lowly.
She didn't answer.
"Nothing to say?"
"What do you want with me?" she said instead. He might be going somewhere with this if he was showing his cards right now. It would buy her time at least.
"I want to know why you're here. What you want with me."
"I want nothing with you."
Tom Riddle was a means to an end. He may not even have the stone right now. It could still be in the Gaunt house. Maybe he hadn't even murdered his family yet.
How many mistakes had she made already?
"Are you sure?" he sighed nonplussed, "In the last three days, you have ceaselessly courted my interest. Flattering just enough to warm, but not enough to scorch. Meticulously letting little curiosities slip, leaving the impression of competence dangling, never enough to satisfy."
The words came out quiet, measured as he watched her face.
"Did you think I didn't know what you were doing? That I was so unobservant? That I couldn't recognize when someone was gaming me?" Riddle kept still as iron, body taught, only allowing his lips to move as he spoke. "I thought it a simple enough plan. Get in with your new peers, keep them interested in the new girl's skills rather than focusing on her blood. It was clever enough for your circumstance."
He stabbed the wand hard enough that it bowed, almost snapping an immortal phoenix feather with the force of it. Her trachea nearly collapsed.
"But then you reject your betters," he said lazily as she suffocated. Eyes fixated on her own, "Malfoy. Flint. Macmillan. You don't flatter, you don't let your words slip. You show them careless disrespect."
"And you return your focus to me," he said slowly, damningly. He relaxed his wand; she choked out a breath. "It would be one thing if you were a rude mudblood bitch to everyone you met, but you asked me what garnered power in the House."
"And then, you ignored it to flirt with me," his tone turned frigid, white teeth flashing in the dark, "Why? Did you think I was an easy target? The poor, orphan boy in Slytherin. You clearly want something from me. What—" he jabbed his wand in sharply; she coughed, "—is it."
"You're relentless." Her voice was rough, cracked, and cold.
"Thank you."
He didn't smile, did not shift, the only movement in this entire conversation being the subtle shift of his arm when he put stoney pressure under her jaw. "The question is," he sighed, back to calm implacability, "what is it you think I can give you? Why are you here? What do you want with me? You seem to think yourself clever, please extend the same to me."
Far away, she recognized that it was a beautiful trap. The talk of another tutor, goading her to show her cards. The test was not whether or not she would push it. But was she subtle enough to play softly in the grass or would she stomp through.
Lion that she was, she found the first weak spot and pounced on it, teeth first. She needed to remember that he was better than her at this, goddamnit. She was not good at the lying and sneaking and cheating part. He was better than her.
He was just better.
She ground her teeth. Her wand turned slick with sweat.
And now her cards were limited.
There were other routes she could take to fake interest. An infiltrator looking to route out Grindelwald sympathisers in Slytherin with the one non-pure-blood of the house. A desire for kinship between muggleborns. A simple crush even.
But none of those would spark trust or reliance or favor. And, fuck him, she was going to get his stupid ring.
She was going to save the world.
And then she had a stupid idea.
She dropped her wand.
It clattered on the floor and rolled over to bump his shoes. His eyes flicked down.
"You're not going to kill me," she said simply.
"Is that so?" He tilted his head.
"Just after classes, after being seen leaving with me? After the nurse asked you to keep an eye on me? No. If you want me to think you clever, then act it." Her voice was rough from the sustained trauma and her shoulder was probably sprained, but nothing a quick spell wouldn't fix. She was tempted to fix it now just to show off that she could do it wandlessly, but that was pride talking and she was ignoring pride right now.
He looked her over slowly, from her head to her shoes. "There are far worse things I could do to you," he murmured darkly.
"Maybe, but that's the only one that matters." She shrugged. He blinked.
"You are very calm for someone being threatened."
"I have been on both sides of this conversation, a truly unconscionable amount of times. Either I tell you what you want, or you'll torture me until you're bored or until you have something better to do. Probably the latter, you don't seem the type to tire from cruelty."
"Best tell me what I want, then," he said casually.
"I'm here because the people I was with died." He wanted to know why she was here? Honesty was the best card in her deck. "Horribly, cruelly, and mostly my fault. No, I won't fucking talk about it. This place is relatively safe, better than can be said about most of the Continent right now."
"And I don't know what your British girls are like, but I have not been flirting with you. I have been friendly, you know, like two people getting to know each other. If I have been rude to others, you'll have to excuse me. I am quite fragile at the moment. Having been running for my life for years and all." She gave him an awkward wag of her finger, his wand still at her throat. "You shouldn't threaten people over cultural differences. It's rude and a bit embarrassing like you've never traveled farther than your Isles."
"That is your move? Blame me for your blatant manipulation?"
"You wanted the truth. I haven't told you one lie. Do you want to give me some Veritaserum? My answers would be the same."
"Of course they would, Ms. Granger." He narrowed his eyes.
"Will you tutor me?"
It was a light question. More of a musing posed. Taking off the pressure as much as possible. That was the mistake earlier, pushing him too hard too fast. She needed to slither.
He looked at her—He looked at her like she was...
Riddle looked at her like he would be less surprised if Hermione had just pulled out a gun and shot him.
Okay, less of a slither, more of a suckerpunch.
She pursed her lips not to laugh at the homicidal man with a wand at her throat. "I truly don't mean to impose," her voice was sore but sincere, "I'm sorry about sending you thoughts in the middle of Potions, by the way. You were working and I shouldn't have intruded like that. And if you are too busy, I understand. But I am a fast learner—it won't take as much time as you think to catch up—and I do want you to teach me. You were right. I hate Divinations, but I hate failing more."
"You would so easily work with some that had harmed you? As if nothing had transpired," he said, curious, dropping the unaffected tone, and with it, his eyes grew heated, unable to slide behind empty black. If possible, he stiffened even more; she couldn't see him breathing.
"Nothing has transpired, besides a bruised neck and a sore shoulder," she said lightly, a bead of sweat trickled down her spine. This was dangerous. Either he would unwind fully or tighten enough to lose his head and kill her.
"How many times have people tried to kill you?"
It sounded rhetorical, but she answered anyway. "I do not know."
His eyes burned hotter. Scorching. Molten black on hers, basalt lava flows just cool enough to turn obsidian and burn her bloody skin off, searching for something that she couldn't even begin to guess. She felt the inexorable touch of him trying to get into her mind, delicate but uncompromising, porcelain scales and... and, underneath, a rhythmic, pulsing heat. Low, thick, quick. His heartbeat? She didn't let him enter.
But he must have found what he wanted, because his posture shifted, relaxed. His eyes cooled to normal flatness, lidded and calculating. The wand at her neck turned to a light caress.
"Yes, you do," he said simply, "You remember every one."
"Maybe, but I would rather pretend I didn't, wouldn't you?" Hermione worked to keep her tone light, to keep the bitterness out. She didn't quite manage.
"No," he said darkly. Riddle gave her a hard stare and took a slow breath. "My Tuesday afternoons are clear. Would you be amenable to that, Ms. Granger?" he said politely, still with a wand soft on her throat.
She rolled her eyes. "Your teeth will rot with all that sugar."
"Is that a no? I thought you were so eager to learn from my skills?" He poked with his wand once. Light enough to be teasing. Just some casual murder threats between friends.
"Tuesday's fine," she said, "library or the Slytherin common rooms?"
"The library. Four o'clock. Compartment fifteen on the upper floor."
"The corner alcove? With the windows? Don't you think it will be occupied at peak library hours?"
"It'll be fine. No need to worry, Ms. Granger."
"Of course, Mr. Riddle," she bit lightly at him.
He glanced down at her neck where his wand was pressed.
Hermione stiffened. The wand was light enough now, but it probably wasn't a good idea to snap at him after convincing—
Riddle tipped the wand slowly down her throat, his gaze following the movement with a tilt of his head, not carving into her carotid but lightly brushing over it. The rapid pulse of her heart jumping through the wand to his hand.
He found her collar bone and gently followed it to the hollow at the center. She swallowed. A single press, light as a flower petal landing in a pond, and a soft rush of his magic soaked her skin, evaporating beyond her senses before she had a chance to know.
He stuffed his wand in his pocket, disarming himself.
"What spell was that?"
"Can't tell?" he said innocently.
Hermione scowled and worked her throat, trying to rub some of the soreness away. "Careful next time you threaten someone, Mr. Riddle. You might come across as rude." She summoned her wand from his feet; he watched the movement.
"Manners are important for people like us," he said, smoothing down his still immaculate uniform.
She cocked her head, stopping in the middle of the healing spell for her throat. It fizzled out with a green spark on her neck.
'Like us?' Did he actually believe that? That had to be a game right? Create a false sense of camaraderie between them. He was the Slytherin heir. One of the last known heirs to the founders, to Hogwarts itself. He couldn't be self-conscious of his blood now, could he?
And then, Hermione remembered that he had only confirmed his heritage less than six months ago and probably still had scars from a lifetime of abuse and rejection.
"There are those with a name and those without," he continued, walking toward the door. Their conversation settled once he decided so, "If you want to be seen, be heard, be feared, you must present yourself in a way they understand."
"Gee, thanks. I only understand violence and threats then?"
"Obviously," he said, "You're a soldier."
Hermione flinched.
For a horrid moment, she felt as if her skin were made of glass, and every breath, every heartbeat, every thought she ever had was plain to see. Hermione was naked on a slab of cold stone and Tom Riddle was holding a wicked knife above her heart. God, how could she be read so easily? Every time they talked, he found the right spot to dig into with a dirty fingernail and infect with rotting filth. At this rate, he should just kill her quickly and save her the trouble of this... dissection.
"Maybe I don't want to be seen or heard or feared," she murmured in the dark, fingers clenched behind her back, refusing to wrap her arms around herself for comfort, "Maybe, I just want to save who I can and survive."
"No one wants to just survive." he scoffed, opening the door. The hall cast him in the warm softness of torchlight.
"What else can I do?" Her voice sounded far away. As if some other girl had taken her place and begged with such naked, pathetic curiosity to be given answers.
Hermione hated her.
For a second, he looked at her with pity before it smoothed away to blankness.
"You can feast," Riddle said with utter carelessness, like the answer was obvious to those that mattered and incomprehensible to those that didn't.
Hermione thought he would close the door behind him, leave her there in the dark room looking out over the moon, the fire. But he hesitated at the threshold, watched her a moment, and then held out a hand in invitation and waited for her to return to the softly lit hall.