Förgätmigej

During her routine patrols, the eerily desolate, lonely, after-hours hallways of Hogwarts are quite lovely. She enjoys the echoing footsteps, ticking like a metronome into silence. Ambient, soft lighting lulls her to a meditative state.

But today, Hermione feels as though it is haunted. An unwelcome presence. She glances over her shoulder every so often.

Neville, her fellow Gryffindor Prefect, seems unaffected. He wears the same jittery, worrisome expression. His hands are clammy, a thin sheen of sweat reflecting in the faint light. Hermione furrows her eyebrows, feeling no less reassured than burdened. Condescension hits her like a distasteful smell, as a stream of thoughts assessing Neville’s weak character tumble through her mind. She starts to second guess the judgment of Dumbledore, who deemed Neville, on the same note as Hermione, to be a Prefect. 

She thinks her footsteps have quickened, as the pittering sound doubles, before her ears surmise that someone was approaching

The heavy, vibrational footsteps of the incoming student called attention.

Hermione could sense his presence before Neville.

Riddle.

The blurry figure held his chin high, face fixed in place. Broad shoulders shifted with the movement of his arms.

“Longbottom.” Riddle approaches the two, who came to a stop. “Granger.” He says smoothly, dragging out her name significantly longer than Neville’s. 

She’s not surprised Riddle might know her name, he’s known to have cleverly acquainted all of Hogwarts’ student body. A simple ‘hello’ or greeting is enough to spread the tendrils of his persona. Scratching her brain, she recollects they had only met once before, when Riddle was making perfunctory attendance checks to the freshly appointed Prefects.

But she’s surprised Riddle is coincidentally running into her. The Head Boy moves purposefully.

Neville, clearly affected by authority figures, nervously mumbles a greeting to Riddle.

Hermione ignores the bumbling idiot.

“Head Boy Riddle.” She says back impassively.

“A pleasant surprise to see you both here.” Riddle says politely, playing the part of an all-seeing Head Boy.

“Very pleasant.” Neville says awkwardly. Riddle smiles easily at Neville, but Hermione doesn’t miss the flash of distaste in his eyes, which is gone the moment he turns to look at Hermione. Oddly, Hermione feels defensive, annoyance flaring at Riddle’s masked dislike of her companion. 

“Patrolling?” He asks simply.

Hermione nods, constricting herself to speaking as little as possible.

“I’ll be happy to accompany the both of you back to your dorm. I have to make a stop on the way. It’s quite convenient.” He offers.

“I think we’ll be quite fine.” She says before Neville can open his mouth.

Confusion is etched into Riddle’s seemingly welcoming eyes. A welcome Hermione is not inclined to accept. 

“I don’t see why not.” Riddle is searching her, very closely.

What are you looking for?

She racks her brain for an excuse.

“Neville and I would like to stop by the library, and we would hate to accost you by chaperoning us there.” 

Riddle fixes his narrowed eyes on Neville. Shy, quiet Neville does not voice his concerns. But his quivering face is enough to give away Hermione’s fabrication.

Surprisingly, Riddle does not address it. He doesn’t believe her shifty life. Clearly. His stiffened posture says so. There is a curious flicker to his eyes.

Don’t be curious,she wants to snap back.

Hermione looks away. But she’s also curious. She fears nothing is accidental.

“That’s a shame.” Riddle says, tone sympathetic. “Shall we see each other next time?”

“We shall.” Her responses are robotic, just as his are perfectly rehearsed. Their conversation has an odd, stilted edge. 

They exchange polite, tempered smiles.

Riddle takes his leave. Neville watches with wide, permanently fearful eyes.

Nothing out of the ordinary. An incredibly mundane interaction. 

***

Oddly, Riddle appears in Hermione’s sight more often. But only in small, measured doses. An accidental run-in during passing period, or being tables away in the library. Sometimes, Hermione would enter the Great Hall as Riddle exited. Other times, she thought she heard him and his gaggle of Slytherin’s in Hogsmeade.

It shouldn’t matter.

Prey often had acute senses to detect their predator, becoming increasingly aware and sensitive of the looming presence of a threat.

Hermione was not quite sure she liked that metaphor.

***

With disgruntled expressions, Harry and Ron plop down into their seats.

Without looking up, Hermione waves her hand absentmindedly. 

“Where have you been?” Ron all but hisses, dragging his chair closer to their library table. A few heads turn, glancing at the trio of Gryffindors. 

“Here. There.” Hermione responds vaguely.

“Well you missed our quidditch game.” Harry says, words laced with dismay.

“And you two haven’t attended the last two S.P.E.W. meetings.” 

“Well,” Ron grunts. “That’s only because—because…” He looks towards Harry expectantly.

“Because you don’t care?” Hermione deadpans, raising an eyebrow.

Harry shakes his head vehemently. Ron stares at her blankly. That’s all the confirmation that she needs.

“Don’t worry. That’s exactly how I feel about your quidditch games.” Hermione hums peacefully, returning to the essay in front of her.

“Isn’t friendship about compromise?” Harry starts.

“Sure.” Hermione responds reflexively.

“You’ve changed.” Harry murmurs.

Anger sparks in Hermione, heating her ears and drying her mouth. She feels a surge of unfamiliar bitterness towards the two that she was supposed to call her friends. 

She’s changed?Hermione scoffs internally, gripping the quill tighter until she hears the bony cartridge crunch beneath her fingers.

“Don’t even try with her, Harry. I heard she fought with Parvati too.” Ron mumbles, throwing his book bag onto the already crowded table. Hermione’s papers slide forward and her ink pot nearly spills. “Lavender told me.” He adds, with a smug look.

Breathing deeply, Hermione quickly grabs the spilling papers. She calmly stacks them into their original spots.

“I’m glad you and Lavender are getting along.” Hermione says dryly.

“You were the one who introduced us.” Ron counters. “You introduce us to all of your friends. Are they even your friends?”

“It’s called being sociable.” Hermione snaps.

“What did you and Parvati fight about?” Harry interjects.

“She was getting pissy about Myrtle.” Hermione sighs.

Harry and Ron go quiet.

“What?” Hermione demands.

“Nothing.” Harry says. 

“What?” She looks to Ron. He wets his lips.

“We can’t stand her.” Ron explains. Harry nods.

Hermione knew that, and secretly agreed herself. 

“Myrtle has done more than you two ever have, for me.” Hermione grits her teeth. 

Ron’s face scrunches in disgust.

“What?” He sputters. “What could Myrtle ever do for you? She can’t read the room, she’s belligerently nosy, and she doesn’t know when to shut up.”

Harry taps the temple of his forehead. “Not to mention, she’s got nothing up here. Can you believe she’s a Ravenclaw?”

“I can’t.” Ron mumbles, before leaning his arm on the table to inch closer to Hermione. Her parchment crinkles beneath his elbow. Hermione’s lips tighten in discomfort as she watches helplessly as her papers crease. “Hermione, why are you even friends with her? She’s not smart, she’s not popular, she’s not rich, she’s not even a pureblood, she’s a mud—”

Hermione stands. The legs of her chair slide back, earning warning glares from other library attendees. 

Ron’s face drops. He clasps a freckled hand over his mouth, eyes widening in shock.

“Fuck, Hermione. I’m sorry.”

The words have lost their meaning. As though all their conversations have been ending with Ron apologizing. She couldn’t count the times the word ‘sorry’ had tumbled out of his blabbering, piggish mouth.

She couldn’t even tell if he meant it. Because he could never stop saying it.

He was sorry for ditching her at Hogsmeade. He was sorry for taking credit of her Potions essay. He was sorry for spilling ink on her journals. He was sorry for asking her to do his homework for a week straight. He was sorry for setting fireworks off in her dorm. He was sorry for ruining her dress for the Slug Club.

And Hermione.

Hermione was always forgiving.

“Hermione. I’m sorry it just slipped out and—” Ron’s panicked eyes search her dead face. Her emotionless response prompts him to look at Harry. 

Harry looks away, knowing he can’t defend Ron.

Biting her tongue, Hermione restrains from yelling at Harry. She was angrier at Harry than Ron.

She could expect this sort of slur-dropping “accident” from Ron, but not complicity from Harry.

Please say something. 

Stand up for me.

Her silent prayers are not answered. Harry just stares at his lap, choosing to stay uninvolved.

Without a second thought, Hermione walks off, ignoring Ron’s whispered pleas. Candles whizz past her, heat brushing her shoulders. Her feet moved on their own accord, the only thought crossing her mind was to escape. Flee.

Black robes billowing behind her, Hermione finds herself wedged in between two tall bookshelves. Teeth clamped so tightly, her gums ache. Forcing a grounding inhale, she pats her robes down, smoothing the crumples. Her hand slides down her collar to her chest, running against the pinned Prefect badge and her wand, fitted snugly in her robes inner pocket. By the time she’s done with her routine uniform adjusting, her breathing calms.

Ron’s red hair flashes in her mind.

Hermione grimaces.

Her deft hands return to her uniform unconsciously. Fingertips run over the smooth metal grooves of her Prefect badge, tracing the outlines.

Hermione glances about.

She was an idiot. All her homework and books were still on the table. And Hermione had been the one to run off without it. 

Internally kicking herself, Hermione trudges down the aisle. She turns a corner, colliding into another student and stumbling back. Her feet trip dumbly. She’s not sure if they had collided, or if Hermione had been pushed, purposefully set off balance. 

Rough hands quickly enclose her wiry shoulders, firmly, holding her upright. It happens in rapid succession, systematic.

Either these unrelenting hands belonged to a student with inhumane reflexes, or they had predicted this.

She cranes her neck.

A pleasant smile is plastered on Riddle’s face.

“Are you alright?” He murmurs. Hermione stiffens.

Rough fingertips dig into her skin. His gaze is piercing, hypnotic.

Indignation mixes with pride, as Hermione places a hand on Riddle’s wrist. She locks eyes with him, dragging his hand away from her arms. He smiles apologetically and releases her instantaneously.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.” Hermione says with an unsure grimace. She wasn’t sorry, but she felt compelled to say so. 

“No worries.” He reassures her cordially. “What were you looking for, in the…” His eyes leave Hermione to scan the shelves and she finds herself exhaling with relief. “Magical Creatures A-Mo section?” Sharp, unrelenting eyes return to her. She straightens.

“Wandered in here.” She says ambiguously. 

Riddle doesn’t press further. 

“Magical Creatures? Speaking of, I hear you have some sort of… organization? Related to it.” His questions and pauses are paced with a scripted melody. 

Intrigue is apparent. She might have expected Riddle’s Head Boy status to cage him into inquiring to feign polite interest, but his knowing eyes seem to imply differently.

“S.P.E.W.” Hermione announces slowly, apprehensively. “It’s the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.”

“Wonderful.” He replies politely.

There was nothing quite wonderful about the oppression and subordination of elves that was severe enough for an organization to be made, which was overcomplicating things, but Hermione was itching to disagree with every word Riddle said.

“Thank you.” She forces out.

“Is it merit-based? Must I audition?” His words are meant to be humorous, but Hermione narrows her eyes.

“Not quite. It’s open to anyone.”

Riddle hums. “Even me?”

Hermione does not idly sit by, making small talk. She has a feeling Riddle does not either. Joining independent student bodies does not seem to be the Head Boy’s pastime. It was not a shock that Riddle had indeed heard about S.P.E.W., but it was shocking that he was unaware of its member policy given that Hermione made it abundantly clear by running around Hogwarts advertising desperately, therefore signifying the dying population of S.P.E.W. supporters, and nonetheless, there was no other appropriate response other than—

“Even you.” Hermione swallows.

“Well, then.” He seems to reach a somber thought, slowing his words and furrowing his eyebrows theatrically. 

All the questions were prompting Hermione to say one single answer, which seemed to lead to another probing question. As if Riddle was directing her, covering her eyes and gently assuaging her. Pinning her. 

“Why haven’t I been propositioned?” He asks as if disheartened.

Fleetingly, the question puzzles her. Why had she not accosted him with her tin box and badges? It was apparent that this certain Head Boy influenced the school. The question is washed away by another, more apparent concern. Had this matter been ever so pressing, why had Riddle not asked to join earlier? Hermione wasted no time after the conception of S.P.E.W. in her fourth year to spread the word. 

Why was Riddle asking, now?

As she thought this, her expression gave her away, brows knotting and pupils shaking.

And he seemed to know all this too.

Riddle’s eyes glimmer with satisfaction, but his lips are still downturned with a feigned offense that lingered after his question. As if he embraced the colloquial trap Hermione was set in.

And yet, Hermione cannot escape it. Her mouth is primed with stiff, formal words.

“I hadn’t considered you.” She says carefully.

He sees through her lie.

“You hadn’t?”

She shakes her head.

“I hope I can change your mind, then.” His tone is so wonderfully pleasant. The hair on her forearms rises.

He basks in the thick moment of Hermione’s hesitation, and before she crafts a bland, socially conventional decline, he dips his head and leaves. She freezes as he passes her.

A nose-achingly sterile smell floats up to her. 

***

Riddle does not keep to his promise.

Hermione doesn’t see much of him for the next few days. She’s not sure if his words had made her hopeful or concerned.

She tries not to think about it.

In the Great Hall, her head is screwed on straight. She doesn’t dare look towards the Slytherin table, watch as Riddle puts on a performance of patience. Absentmindedly, she might pick up bits of conversation between Riddle and Malfoy, when Harry and Ron—who courageously asked for her forgiveness, which she unenthusiastically accepted—went quiet for a still second. 

Eyes are on her.

She doesn’t look over her shoulder. 

***

The moment she enters the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione regrets it.

Shrill, excited voices chatter away.

“—Daphne was telling me about how Tom didn’t even try anything with her! Can you believe that? He wasn’t even mad she spilled sparkling water all over his robes. The two of them were alone and drenched and Tom was such a gentleman!”

Hermione briskly walks past them.

Parvati and Lavender stare up at her from their cozy sofa seats, with wide, saucer eyes. Shock and guilt are built into their sunken shoulders and nervous fidgeting.

Just when she thinks she’s made her artful escape, Parvati coughs.

Slowing to a stop, Hermione bites her lip, back turned towards her dorm mates.

“Hermione?” Parvati asks.

She turns around, because it is painfully customary to face the partner of conversation. “Parvati.” Hermione says.

Frozen, Parvati opens and closes her mouth like a dying fish. Lavender nudges her encouragingly. Hermione’s finger taps against the side of her leg impatiently. 

“Hermione—I just wanted to say, what happened a few days ago…” Parvati trails off, wetting her lips and taking short inhales.

“It wasn’t right.” Lavender interjects helpfully. Parvati nods.

“It really wasn’t. It was uncalled for.” Parvati concedes with a sorry smile.

“You should tell that to Myrtle—”

The words die in her throat as realization washes over her. Of course, Hermione would forgive Parvati, of course, Hermione would brush it off. That was her. Conflict-averse. Unwilling to attract attention.

Myrtle was confrontational, wielding a grudge as a weapon. 

Myrtle.

“Where is Myrtle?” Hermione asks shakily.

Parvati and Lavender exchange excited glances.

“That’s the thing, ‘Mione. We saw Myrtle with Tom. Head Boy Tom.” Lavender says in disbelief.

A chill runs down her spine.

“Can you believe that? Why would Tom be around Myrtle, of all people?” Parvati adds.

Hermione doesn’t have time to defend Myrtle and feel morally correct.

“Where did you see them?” Hermione chokes out.

“They were by the Fat Lady’s portrait—”

Hermione is out the door before the girls can say another word.

Skidding around a corner at speeds respectable students would not climb to, Hermione’s shoes slide to a halt.

Myrtle exits a brooms closet, Riddle closing the door behind them. Hair ruffled and clothes disheveled, Myrtle looks compromised. Even from a distance, Hermione can see Myrtle’s red, puffy lips.

It was clear what had happened.

Hermione was already out of breath from pacing around Hogwarts, but Myrtle’s positively flustered expression knocked all the air out of her chest.

“Myrtle.” Hermione announces, stalking down the length of the corridor and arriving in front of the pair. Anger hits Hermione just as the inner hatred for Myrtle bubbles to the surface.

Riddle’s appearance is the same as ever. Collar crisp and robes neatly draping his shoulders. There is no surprise in Riddle’s eyes, or his at-ease stance, as if he was expecting her.

“Oh, Hermione!” Myrtle squeals, smiling widely.

Hermione refuses to look at Riddle. His eyes are on her, but she cannot look. It was wrong. Something was wrong.

“This is Tom.” Myrtle giggles, her round glasses bouncing on her nose bridge. As if Hermione wouldn’t know who the Head Boy of her own school was. Myrtle very clearly felt empowered by announcing his name, to prove something.

“Are you and Myrtle acquainted?” Riddle asks politely. There is a deliberate edge to his tone.

He knows.

Hermione stiffens.

“Myrtle. Let’s go.” She snatches Myrtle’s arm and yanks her forward violently, away from Riddle. Even touching Myrtle felt like her arm was burning.

Myrtle protests weakly, batting against Hermione and glancing at Riddle nervously. 

“Hermione you skank let me go!” Myrtle’s voice scratches. 

Panic and annoyance fueled Hermione even more, tightening her grip to hurt Myrtle. Cheeks flush red as she becomes deeply aware that a pariah like Myrtle had humiliated her in front of Riddle. But she shouldn’t care.

“It was nice meeting you.” Riddle’s voice splits the awkward tug-war, and Myrtle suddenly goes limp, eyes widening with adoration. “Hermione.” All his attention is on her.

She doesn’t turn to look at him, doesn’t bid him goodbye.

Riddle takes his signal to leave, brushing past Hermione. The ghost of his shoulder feels cold on hers.

The same stinging mint smell impales her nose.

His heavy footsteps fade away, ticking like a clock.

Hermione releases Myrtle, whipping around to face her.

“What was that about?” Myrtle accuses.

“In that closet. What were the two of you doing?”

“Don’t be jealous, ‘Mione.” Myrtle sing-songs.

Her blood boils and she itches to slap the bitch.

“Tom and I are just…” 

Hermione grits her teeth. Myrtle was fucking delusional if she thought Riddle had any interest in her. Narrowed eyes scan Myrtle’s scandalized uniform. Robes slip off her shoulders and her tie is loose. Hermione’s eyes drift up to Myrtle’s neck, where her collar has been pushed aside.

Her stomach twists.

Because right on the base of Myrtle’s neck—

Red peeks out beneath her shirt collar.