Chapter 2
Tom knows that Granger is habitually early. Early for everything.
(He knows, because in the very first term of their very first year, fucking Granger was the first to arrive in every class she could, breathlessly sitting herself directly in front of the Professor.
The seat that Tom had wanted.
He consoled himself by smiling pleasantly at the bushy, buck-toothed head, and whispering into Malfoy’s ear in the Slytherin common room.
Malfoy was useful as a tool of blunt, sneering force, and Tom had felt cold satisfaction upon seeing Granger’s blotchy, ugly face disappear, crying into the toilets that first Hallowe’en.
Somehow she had ended up befriending Potter and Weasley, and somehow they had convinced her to sit in the middle row.
A win for Tom, and surely a win for friendless, awkward Granger.
She should have thanked him, really.)
Tom makes a point to immediately leave Potions, and beelines for the library. He does that-casual-fast-walk-which-definitely-does-not-look-like-running-but-just-walking-with-purpose to beat Granger there by a square mile.
Granger, soft of heart and probably head, has stuck her nose into one of the Patil girl’s dismal essays (“the fit one,” Malfoy leers, and Tom shakes his head and points out tonelessly that they’re identical twins, Draco).
As such, she is late in leaving class early to meet Tom early.
Granger instead irritatedly chirps on about decimalisation whilst the Patil girl buries her face into her hands.
Of course, she doesn’t have the decency to notice that Tom has managed to leave early.
Tom is glad he hasn’t even had to manufacture a reason to be annoyed at Granger.
Instead, he busies himself with precisely aligning his sharpened quills to his pristine, uncrinkled parchment, his ink bottle set perpendicularly just so, and liberates his favourite chair from the Herbology section. He even wedges a scrap of parchment under the table leg to quash the wobble.
(He does not correct Granger’s desk.)
“Oh,” stammers a voice from behind Tom, “Hi, Tom. Didn’t realise you’d be here - you joining S.P.E.W.?”
Neville Longbottom is a Grade F for Fucking Idiot, and Tom grins like a shark as he swivels his torso to survey the hapless boy.
Longbottom’s a lanky boy. His shirt is untucked, his hair unbrushed. He shifts from foot to foot, nervously (this is the Pureblood ideal? Tom despairs).
“Neville, how nice to see you. I’m - ah - afraid I’m not here to join SPEW -”
“- It’s - it’s actually S.P.E.W., Tom, Hermione gave a presentation in the Great Hall last week about the pronunciation, you even applauded -”
“- so sorry, my mind just spewed everywhere, you know what it’s like, taking so many N.E.W.Ts -”
Tom says this with complete straight-faced sympathy. He even winces abashedly, as though he had made a dreadful, unintentional faux pas.
Longbottom certainly does not know what it’s like to take more than three N.E.W.Ts.
“- but I’m actually meeting Granger for a different project. She’s not early, which is most unlike her. I hope she’s not too overwhelmed-” Tom lowers his voice sensitively (but makes sure his voice carries to the far bookshelf he is ninety per cent sure Granger is standing behind); Longbottom cranes his neck to listen “- we certainly wouldn’t want a repeat of last year. The toffee is still being cleaned from the fourth floor corridor.”
Tom draws his eyebrows together in concern. Longbottom is now the one wincing sympathetically. Granger’s spectacular fall-out from O.W.L.-related stress was a thing of horror and legend amongst the younger students.
Tom would quite like to see a repeat of Toffee-gate. It was rather beautiful in its destruction. The castle smelled like Honeydukes for weeks. He wonders if he can incept this idea into Granger’s head -
“Neville!” a voice pierces through Tom’s cocoon of peace.
Speak of the Mudblood.
Said Mudblood chooses now to barrel in, out of puff. Her hair is complete carnage as usual, post-Potions. Tom has a clinical concern for her cardiovascular fitness, for she always seems breathless (unlike Tom, he thinks smugly, who has made it a point of pride to comfortably beat the rest of the Slytherin boys in five laps around the lake each summer).
Granger skids to a stop. She frowns, unconvincingly.
“Oh, Riddle - I didn’t think you’d be so early. We’re not due for another -” she darts her eyes to her wristwatch “- another fifteen minutes.”
“Well,” Tom says graciously, looking to get one over her, “I suppose I can wait for - “
“I’m so sorry Neville,” and Granger does not so much even look in his direction “- I thought we’d be able to discuss your idea on leaflet circulation quickly. Can it wait until after dinner? I’ll have far more time for you then,” and she has the gall to smile kindly at fucking clueless Neville Longbottom whilst Tom is sat there like a lemon, polite smile frozen on his face -
- Oh.
Longbottom has gone pink in the cheeks. Tom’s ire subsides a little as he curiously dissects this particular interaction.
He gleefully realises - Longbottom fancies Granger.
Tom relaxes, muscle by muscle, into his favourite chair. He settles down to watch, like an adder in the underbrush.
“Su- sure, Hermione,” Longbottom stammers out, smiling stupidly at Granger. “We can head up together? After dinner?”
“Of course! I’ll grab Luna on the way,” Granger says firmly.
Longbottom hesitates. “I was wondering - could we meet with Luna after? There’s just, something I wanted to -”
“So sorry Neville - Riddle and I really must get started. I’ve already kept him waiting by not being early -” here, Tom smiles beautifically in acknowledgment “- but I’m sure Luna will have plenty to contribute. From a circulation-perspective. You know, what with The Quibbler and all.”
Granger steamrollers him mercilessly, with no room for argument. Tom feels his pulse in his throat momentarily.
Odd.
Longbottom drifts away, seemingly dismissed.
Tom doesn’t say a word as Granger sits. The smile has dropped from her face like a stone.
He’s biting the inside of his cheek to stop laughing.
“Don’t you start,” Granger says irritatedly. She’s rummaging around, nearly shoulder-deep in her small bag.
“Start what?” Tom enquires, a picture of wide-eyed confusion.
“I know you’re pulling that face,” she scowls into the bag, emerges, and thrusts a sheet of parchment at Tom.
It’s a manifesto.
Tom gingerly takes it, and rocks back onto two legs to read with exaggerated insouciance. He is rewarded by Granger’s scowl deepening.
“‘Prejudice Against Non-Trousered Students’,” Tom reads aloud.
He has more than an inkling of where this is going.
Granger must be part-bat - the hearing on her to detect the tiny bit of sarcasm in Tom’s voice is next level - for she snatches it away. Her desk see-saws annoyingly on uneven legs. She takes out her wand and taps the leg sharply; it elongates a fraction and the wobble ceases.
(Tom hides a pout)
“You don’t need to mock me, Riddle,” Granger says sharply, “you just need to listen. Listen,” she hisses, and Tom rocks forward to rest his chin in his palm. He knows he’s in for a lecture.
“The school board is disgustingly antiquated in its views on the school uniform. The last uniform update was in 1845, for god’s sake. Girls are absolutely forbidden from wearing trousers - even in Duelling! It’s embarrassing; we’ve all had to master sticking charms on our skirts -”
- and Tom’s not sure why he’s imagining a deserted island in the ocean but for some reason, it helps with something -
“- which puts us at such a disadvantage. Beauxbatons modernised forty years ago - even Durmstrang did the turn of last century!”
“So what you’re saying, Granger,” Tom drawls slowly, for he can put two and two together, “is that you want me -”
She huffs in impatience and shakes the paper she had previously snatched in his face.
Tom feels a muscle twitch in his forehead.
“Look here. I’ve only been going around for a few days, but every girl in the Duelling club has signed. Loads of the boys, too. In fact, nearly all of the fourth year girls and above have signed. Well, Pansy didn’t, but only out of spite - I can work with that, I think,” she finishes thoughtfully, tapping a slim finger on her chin.
Tom has to agree: Pansy’s spite would indeed be powerful if harnessed.
“Anyway, the point is that none of us are happy about it. I’ve gone to the governors three times, but they’ve shot down every formal application for consideration - cited some ancient rule about the ‘sanctity of the Hogwarts’ experience’; as if flashing your knickers to Professor Lupin after being Stunned will be a halcyon memory one day -”
- she snorts to herself contemptuously, and Tom is unexpectedly transported back to the deserted island; maybe there are coconuts -
“- so I figure, the next thing is protest, then newspaper coverage, then stirring up parental outrage -”
“And when do you overthrow the Ministry, Granger?” Tom asks dryly.
“After I structurally reform the Wizengamot to be more sociopolitically engaged,” she replies, entirely serious.
Tom pauses. He’s … surprised?
Huh.
“I hate to break it to you, Granger,” and Tom does his best to screw his face up in sympathy, “but dismantling the Wizengamot won’t help. Wizarding Law is even more deeply enshrined in inequality than Muggle Law.”
That’s why I want to rise above Wizarding Law, Tom thinks coldly.
“That’s why I want to take a battering ram to Wizarding Law,” says Granger feveredly.
Tom blinks.
“But, the first step in politics is student politics,” and even Granger has the good sense to grimace at what she has just said.
Tom blinks again.
“You want a Ministry career?” It is possibly the first personal question he has ever asked her. Granger also looks surprised.
“Well … unfortunately … yes,” she says slowly, as if suspicious of answering an honest question. “It’s terrible to be a Muggle-born, it’s terrible to be a Magical creature, it’s terrible to be a witch, it’s terrible to be poor, it’s terrible to be a Squib - the only thing that Wizarding Law is good for is the Pureblood wizard who wants to bring Muggle-baiting back and enslave non-humans,” and here, Granger rolls her eyes violently.
It’s a good speech, and a good motion, Tom can admit reluctantly. It would almost be inspiring if she had one ounce of charisma. Still - some finessing, remove the spew, and -
“So all I need from you, Riddle, is some support from a male student in good standing. I’ll do all of the work -“
“What about Ernie Macmillan? Or Anthony Goldstein?” Tom asks.
Granger wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Neither are interested in politics. And besides -” Granger turns to stare at him unnervingly “- you’d be good at keeping your House in check, wouldn’t you?”
“What makes you think I’m interested in politics?” Tom shoots back.
He can’t help biting. He’s intrigued.
She rolls her eyes, again. Would be a right shame if someone were to curse them out of her head, Tom thinks meanly.
“Come off it - why else would you associate with Crabbe and Goyle? Their scintillating conversation? Good looks and charm? Or their connections?”
Tom opens his mouth to tokenly deny it -
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to admit it. I know you’re ambitious, Riddle. But might I add, statistically speaking, more than fifty per cent of the school would support this motion. Purebloods to halfbloods to Muggle-borns. And their families. And potentially other motions in the future.”
Granger’s looking rather smug. He shuts his mouth, pensive.
“So like I said - I’ll do all the work. I just need you there for face. What do you say?
“That’s it?” he says, after a beat.
Granger is uncannily good at holding eye contact. Perhaps she was a basilisk in a past life. Or a medusa.
Granger nods. “That’s it. That’s all I want from you.”
Tom briefly weighs up the pros and cons. He hadn’t planned on entering politics so early, When asked, Tom’s answer is that he’s still considering what to do after Hogwarts, maybe travel, go souvenir hunting …
Tom snaps back to Granger’s impatient face. If he disagrees with her, he looks prudish, archaic, but has guaranteed a Pureblood block vote in the future.
But …
That block vote was ever-shrinking in size - maybe fifty years ago, he could have swung it - more and more Wizarding families were liberalising - even the Blacks, for god’s sake …
If he agrees with the Mudblood (and should he stop branding her as such, now, if it is more utilitarian to consider her an ally?), he would have more political clout in the future to modernise the Ministry, insidiously build a platform for his … particular brand of change.
(a tiny, deep-seated doubt had been gnawing away at Tom for some time. The Pureblooded angle was growing tiresome, given the fetid pool of talent he had had no choice but to cultivate: Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Mulciber, Nott, the lot of them, all sycophantic idiots with no capacity for critical thinking but with piles of blood money and old influence, hanging off of his coattails, Ministry jobs all but guaranteed - Tom hates them, Tom hates them all -)
The Mudblood - Granger, he reminded himself … might be useful in the future.
Tom is still mulling over how to spin his decision (for how is it not obvious now? He wants to burn them all) when Granger interrupts.
As fucking per.
“Look,” she says abruptly, looking to the ceiling, as though the next sentence will physically pain her.
Tom tilts his head attractively in her direction, just for the hell of it. “Yes, Granger?”
“Stop that - I know you don’t like me,” she snaps, and the gears in his head screech to a brief halt.
“Whatever makes you believe that?” Tom manages to get out nonchalantly, turning to a tome as thick as Goyle.
“Well, for one - you barely look me in the eye -”
Tom interrupts, turning to look pointedly down at her.
“I can only apologise for my height, it rather hurts my neck to stoop, and besides, you know, the obstruction of the hair -”
Granger’s voice rises.
“- you refused to work together three years ago in Care of Magical Creatures for unicorns even though I was the last girl to be paired -”
Tom keeps his voice as even as possible.
“- I paired with Draco, for which you are most welcome, he was rather hoping you’d be gored -”
She speaks over him again.
“- you nearly twisted your ankle running from me after Slughorn suggested a dance last Christmas -”
Tom enunciates crisply, and if he has to project to be heard, well, that is Granger’s fault -
“- it would have been remiss of me to leave Daphne to be mauled by dear Cormac -”
“- there it fucking is, Riddle -” and Granger’s chair screeches back almost as loudly as she does as she stands over him, a finger in his face, as self-satisfied as if she’s Sherlock fucking Holmes “- you call nearly everyone by their first name - even total pricks like McLaggen - except for me. Why is that, Tom? Ever wondered why?”
Tom congratulates his brain for barely replaying Granger swearing, a novel, delicious sound; he can’t help but wonder what else she will do if pushed -
“Hermione,” he tests out the sound of her name on his tongue, savouring each syllable.
Granger - was clearly not expecting that. She freezes. Her finger wavers. Her ‘gotcha!’ moment undermined.
“Her - my - oh - nee,” Tom enunciates in a low voice, catching her eye from under his eyelashes.
“Oh what, suddenly you can say it?” she scathes, but it is half-hearted at best.
“Herm - own - ninny,” Tom offers, in a thick (terrible) accent.
She catches him, once again, by surprise, as she swats him lightly upside the head.
No one swats him upside the head.
“Stop that,” Granger says severely. “Viktor was very sweet. How good is your Bulgarian, anyway?”
“Oh, I think I know one word: ‘Hermy - own’ - is that how you pronounce -” Tom ducks out of range of a second swipe, but doesn’t retaliate.
He is oddly taken with her temper.
(Malfoy would have lost an arm if he’d tried that with Tom)
Granger sighs forlornly, but her lips betray her with a twitch. She looks annoyed that she finds him funny, that she wasn’t expecting him to be. “You know what - Granger’s fine. And don’t think I didn’t realise you didn’t answer a single question, Riddle. Slippery - good for politics, I reckon.”
Tom narrows his eyes. “Don’t think I didn’t realise that you used me to avoid Neville. Your slipperiness could use some work.”
Granger’s cheeks pinken, yet she doesn’t deny it.
Gryffindors.
“All right, Granger,” Tom continues conversationally, as though she hasn’t just screamed in his face and he hadn’t just casually renounced his five-year-long hypocritical Pureblood ideology on a whim.
“If you want me -” Tom lingers there for a moment, happy to see a frown of consternation develop on Granger’s face, oh, this will be fun “- to take part in this - ahem - student activism - then I’m afraid I won’t be going along blindly.”
Granger looks resigned. Tom continues.
“I’ll review this manifesto over the week - let’s meet, say, Saturday at nine in the morning?”
Tom knows that Granger doggedly sits in the Quidditch stands, watching Gryffindor practice with numb fingers; he gives it three seconds -
Granger chews her lip thoughtfully.
“Well - I suppose Ron will understand,” she says slowly. Tom nods briskly, as though he at all cares for the consideration of Weasley feelings (and there are so many of both Weasleys and Weasley’s feelings, Merlin) and glances at Granger’s watch.
He’s hungry. He has a new world view to construct to his liking, after all.
‘Well - this has been terribly illuminating, Granger. I’m off for dinner.”
Tom non-verbally packs his bag, and stands. As he strides off, mind whirring, he can’t help but throw over his shoulder, “And we’re rebranding. That’s a terrible acronym. Unless you want everyone talking about your pants, again. Poor Draco would have an aneurysm.”
“The one time I get Stunned -” Granger starts viciously.
Tom whistles as he leaves the library.