Förgätmigej

Hermione’s guilty past-time: people-watching. 

Perched upon the hard wooden benches of the Great Hall, nibbling at rye bread with no appetite and no gratitude for whole grain, she watches and lip-reads. 

As unbiased as Hermione wishes herself to be, she unconsciously categorizes certain genres of stories for certain groupings of people. For the few students Hermione regards with a condescending snort or an icy glare, they were the foolish actresses and actors for Hermione’s fanciful plays. Cormac McLaggen, arm slung across a first-year Gryffindor with a plush, prepubescent body and budding breasts. He and his girl-woman of a companion sit across the long table, not close enough for Hermione to hear their conversation but close enough for her to make out the shape of their lips and the sequence of their facial expressions. Cormac leans into his “friend,” whispering into the young girl’s ear with a suspiciously sweet smile.

Her eyes drift to the Slytherin table.

Daphne Greengrass, pale and blonde, flips her hair with a manicured hand, pinky-finger delicately outstretched. She giggles with a fellow Slytherin, equally quaint and beautiful. Her doll-like eyes dart towards the other end of the Slytherin table; Hermione’s dutiful eyes follow.

Tom Riddle. 

Black curly hair artfully disheveled, as if even the messy locks were craftily placed. A gentlemanly smile and gleaming eyes.

Hermione almost snorts at Daphne’s girlish desires. But her gaze remains on Riddle, tracing the ornate designs of his Head Boy badge, glistening in all of its glory. 

When Riddle smiles, so do his followers—his cult of Slytherins. When he draws his eyebrows into confusion, so does the rest of the table. His influence is undeniably potent. A pebble dropped into water, causing ripples of reaction.

But his smile is practiced, never reaching his eyes. Every laugh is the same, punctuated methodically with a short inhale. His expressions are caricatures.

Hermione doesn’t dwell on it too much. Except for when she does.

She looks back at Daphne Greengrass and Slytherin Girl Two. They chatter excitedly, lips pink with gloss. Their heads huddle together, straightened strands of straw blonde hair cascading over their shoulders. Then, she abruptly stands, patting her friend’s shoulder goodbye. Daphne walks along the table, adjusting her skirt and straightening her robes. After traveling a couple feet, she approaches Riddle and his company.

Hermione squints.

Daphne, the delectable image of a demure young woman, charms the boy seated next to Riddle, smiling shyly. Hermione, for a second, wonders if this was her object of desire. The boy scoots down the bench, providing ample space for Daphne. She flashes him a smile and takes a seat next to Riddle. 

Hermione shifts in her seat, leaning forward with quiet eagerness. 

For a fraction of a second, Riddle freezes. But like water, he quickly reaches equilibrium. A smile, a greeting, then a polite nod. All of which Daphne simply melts under. Riddle turns to Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy, continuing their conversation, seemingly oblivious to the desperate charm of Daphne.

Frustrated by Riddle’s back bared towards her, Daphne huffs. She glances around, spotting a goblet of… juice? Hermione strains to make out the bubbling surface of the liquid. 

She tugs on Riddle’s arm with a simper. His jaw ticks. He turns around and flashes an impossibly perfect smile at Daphne. 

The quick and minute adjustment to his facial expressions does not go unnoticed

Daphne continues, pushing the silvery, jeweled goblet towards Riddle, who holds a polite hand up to signal ‘no.’ Daphne does not relent, she only grows more insistent, her pureblood pride seemingly intact. Each time, with growing urgency, she shoves the goblet into Riddle’s hands, where he calmly holds the goblet still until the liquid stops rocking side to side, threatening to spill. After ensuring that the liquid would not topple over the brim, Riddle slides the handle into Daphne’s pale hands, flashing her a smile full of sorry.

Following the goblet, Hermione’s pupils flit from one side to the other, feeling a bit nervous about the imminent spillage of the liquid herself.

Daphne’s thin lips settle into a dissatisfied frown. Her full chest heaves with heavy breaths.

Goblet swaying, Daphne surges forward, practically throwing the cup into Riddle’s hands. He catches. The liquid spills. 

Slytherin table goes still and quiet, watchful eyes observing the commotion. Hermione raises her brows.

Riddle’s white collar is doused with a sparkling liquid, porous bubbles fizzing on his jaw, which he clenches. His eyes harden and she can see his lips twitch, ready to utter. Slender hands still hold the goblet, opaque liquid dripping down his slender fingers.

With one sweeping motion, his eyes purvey his surroundings, the spectating Slytherins.

He relaxes instantaneously, swapping out the gritting of his teeth with a cheek-aching smile.

Hermione clasps a hand over her mouth as a giggle erupts.

Poor old Tom. The Head Boy was bound to the invisible chains of social etiquette. A small part of her feels sorry for him. 

Her own Prefect badge feels heavy, gently tugging her black robes.

Riddle mutters something, Hermione lip-reads as ‘it’s quite alright’   to Daphne, who is profusely apologizing and wiping the liquid from his hands with a handkerchief stitched with the curvaceous letters D.G.

Still smiling, a crease forms beneath his eye, straining to repress his grimace.

Hermione laughs.

Riddle turns.

Their eyes lock from across the Great Hall, a gap opening between the sea of heads. 

She freezes. Her throat closes, killing the laugh. His eyes are puddles of oil and Hermione, a bird encased in its pollute, unable to flee, grease settling between white feathers.

His pronounced brow bone furrows as if surprised.

Hermione snaps her head down to stare at her plate of food. Her heartbeat starts to pick up.

Riddle returns his attention to Daphne and choreographs a series of performed reactions, politely refusing her robin egg blue handkerchief with assuring head shakes. Damage-control.

Keeping her head low, Hermione stares at her china dish full of leafy greens and croutons. Even her breathing is manual, with a steady tempo interlaced with occasional swallowing.

She looks up.

Daphne and Riddle’s seats are empty.

***

Defense Against the Dark Arts ends with relieved sighs.

“Snape was more insufferable than ever today.” Lavender starts, stacking her books atop each other with slumped shoulders. The effects of a long lecture embedded with cold calling seemed to reach the fellow Gryffindor. “Why do you think that is?”

Parvati leans her head on her desk, shutting her eyes tightly. “Can we pass our N.E.W.T’s this year?”

“Of course.” Hermione huffs, her nose still inches away from her parchment. She finishes underlining her page of notes, setting her quill to the side and observing her handiwork with a grimace. “One difficult lecture isn’t a sign we’re going to fail.”

“What happened to you? Fourth year Hermione would have doubled over in pain after one bad quiz.” Lavender prods.

Hermione shrugs, rolling up her scrolls and packing her materials. There was an odd sensation that she was being watched. 

“Also, it isn’t one difficult lecture. This entire year is just—” Parvati sputters, waving her hands as she tries to think of a word abysmal enough to describe class with Professor Snape.

“Don’t you think Snape’s a little…” Lavender starts with a conspiring smile. “Oh, I don’t know, odd?”

“ Professor, Snape.” Hermione corrects with a roll of her eyes. 

“Sure.” Lavender retorts, displeased with Hermione’s attentiveness to titles.

“You know Hermione, you wouldn't bat an eye when we called Dumbledore Albus . I guess being appointed Prefect changes you.” Parvati says speculatively.

“Of course it does!” Lavender suddenly takes Hermione’s side. “You know, Prefect duties are just so overwhelming and time consuming, I’m sure Hermione already has a lot on her plate.” She tucks her head onto Hermione’s shoulder with a satisfied hum.

“Piss off.” Hermione laughs, recalling the times Hermione did not report Lavender’s promiscuous late night excursions during her routine patrols. As far as Hermione was concerned, everything was going along its designated path. Easily and steadily. Once she was appointed Prefect, it was smooth sailing. Hermione felt unstoppable. 

Perhaps that was why she was feeling so confident. One difficult lecture is nothing.

Lolling her head back at the last chuckles, Hermione’s vision swings to the other end of the high-ceilinged, dark Potions classroom. The classroom was thoroughly divided, often with Gryffindor’s and Slytherins sitting in clustered, homogenous groups. House relations did not seem quite favorable this year, or any year at that. Across the room, a group of Slytherins leaned against their wooden desks. 

Riddle, the only one seated among his seemingly attached-to-the-hip group of followers, is consequently noticeable. They speak in hushed voices, like the hiss of snakes. Hermione's eyes search his crisp white collar, wondering if the mysterious liquid Daphne Greengrass spilled mere hours ago had been removed. 

Unconsciously, she looks away. It’s only until she thinks she can feel Riddle’s eyes on her that she realizes her body moved on its own accord, constantly in a game of not being caught.

“Back to the discussion at hand.” Lavender perks up. 

He’s staring.

And it takes everything in Hermione not to turn and confirm it.

“Professor Snape has always been quite strange. He never really seems in touch with the modern times.” Lavender says.

“Perhaps he holds more conservative views.” Parvati suggests. Hermione nods reflexively, still tracking the Slytherin in her blurry peripheral vision.

“It’s as if he’s been alive for much too long. Decades. Centuries. Eons.” Lavender widens her eyes, her own prattling speech rousing excitement in herself.

“Wizardkind enjoys a much extended lifetime.” Hermione remarks offhandedly, unable to shake the feeling he was still looking.

Lavender shoots Hermione a glare, before leaning in closer.

“Do you know what other kind lives for that long—if not longer?” Lavender says in a hushed voice.

“What?” Parvati asks.

Hermione remains silent, tilting her head ever so slightly to see Riddle in the corner of her eye. His head of black curls does not move. 

Lavender peeks her head upwards, glancing around to check for eavesdroppers before looking at Hermione and Parvati with a giddy look in her eyes.

“Vampires.”

Riddle turns his head. Hermione freezes momentarily, her eyes fleeting back to the two girls at her side.

Vampires. It rings in her ears, still intensely aware of the pair of eyes lingering on her. Was he listening? Had he heard?

Parvati laughs outright, eyes bulging at Lavender’s outlandish claim.

Fingers twitching, Hermione hides them in her robes, and her voice shakes as she forces out a belligerent laugh, doing her best to seem enraptured in conversation. If Lavender and Parvati had noticed her little ploy to play off peeking at Riddle, they don’t say anything.

“Lavender, maybe you should stop listening to all this gossip around the Hogwarts staff and start studying for your N.E.W.T’s. Maybe that’s why Snape’s class has been this terrible for you.” Hermione rebukes, her words rushed and clumsy.

Parvati’s laugh evens out into giggles.

“You’re making extremely damning remarks about our own Professor.” Hermione says, her voice high and tense.

Was he looking?

“O- kay Prefect.” Lavender snaps dismissively, clearly interpreting Hermione’s nervousness as fear of being caught gossiping. 

“I don’t think being out of touch is a reasonable claim.” Hermione comments.

“It’s not just that!” Lavender insists. “He’s deathly pale!”

Hermione shifts nervously.

Parvati only laughs harder.

“He’s—He’s bony! Gaunt, even.” Lavender continues.

Hermione decides she had better squash Lavender’s ridiculous claims, and steer away from this topic before Riddle’s staring could unsettle her any further. If he even was staring. Instinctually, she almost looks to check. Her neck stiffens, intent on not making eye contact.

“If every pale, bony, gaunt person were a vampire, again, then every single Slytherin here would be one.” Parvati remarks, scanning the Potions classroom, which was slowly emptying. “Would Tom Riddle be a vampire then?”

Hermione’s forced smile falls. Inwardly, she curses Parvati for uttering his name so loud. He would be bound to hear it.

“No?” Lavender’s face scrunches, astounded. “Tom Riddle would not be a vampire. He’s just too…”

Parvati gestures for Lavender to continue. Hermione scratches her neck nervously. This vampire talk was making her jumpy.

“Come on Lavender, you think he can’t be one because you fancy his looks.” Parvati rolls her eyes.

Lavender holds a hand to her chest in offense. “I was going to say normal . He’s just too normal .”

“I’m sure vampires look as normal as humans.” The slew of words flies out of Hermione’s mouth unconsciously.

Confused, Lavender cocks her head to the side. “Why are you being so defensive?” 

About to quell the accusation, Hermione parts her lips.

“C’mon Lavender, this is typical Hermione.” Parvati snorts. 

Hermione clenches her jaw and narrows her eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“Quit your S.P.E.W. shit. Vampires are creatures .” Parvati says. “Have you seen all the mugshots of the vampires in Azkaban? The pictures from the Ministry’s report in the Prophet?”

“The Ministry manipulated the public opinion by selecting a minority group of vampires from Azkaban to represent the entirety of their species. The Ministry is not known for portraying magical beings—that are not wizards and witches—in a positive light.” Her voice thrums with anger but comes out in a polite, paced sentence. Restraint. 

“First it was the elves, now it’s the vampires. Can we expect a Society for the Promotion of Vampiric Welfare?” Parvati taunts.

Gritting her teeth, Hermione smiles, lips trembling with annoyance. 

“S.P.V.W. doesn’t quite have a ring to it. But thank you for the suggestion.” Hermione bites out.

“Not to be an arse Hermione, but you always find the need to go against the grain, play devil's advocate. It’s getting repetitive.”

Parvati’s string of words doesn’t even seem to register to Hermione, who swallows back her rising anger.

“You’ve even made Myrtle Warren your next project, she’s always by your side. Isn’t she annoying?”

The response formulating in Hermione’s brain is suddenly cut off. She opens and closes her mouth dumbly.

“You even think she’s annoying too, why do you keep her around?” Parvati continues bitterly.

Hermione collects her books in her arms, pressing against the wand in her robe. Her hand itches to reach for it.

“Just say you don’t like Myrtle.” Hermione snaps, before swiveling around and stalking to the exit.

Her upper teeth slid against her molars, slipping and impaling her tongue. The sharp pain builds.

Parvati was getting insufferable, almost up to par with Myrtle. The animalistic urge to beat her chest and scream at Parvati was becoming unbearable, swallowing Hermione. But she, unlike Harry and Ron, who bent to whatever thought crossed their minds, was unwilling to attach her name to any ill behavior. 

It was too much attention.