Softly and Slowly

 “Oh, mum, mum! Flourish and Blotts is right over there!” yelled Hermione in a chipper voice, much too eager to enter the bookstore. Her mother, rictus-faced, was left to follow the leap-frogging mass of curls hopping through Diagon Alley. She daintily retrieved a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the sheen of sweat off her upper lip, wondering what toilet her husband had flushed down and wanting nothing more than to join him.

“Hermione, dear, remember to stay close!”

With eyes like two shining discs, Hermione had already entered the store and would have gnawed her right arm off before she left empty-handed.

“Hullo, young miss.” A man spoke from behind a shop counter. He had a book open in front of him and a quill jittering beside him, writing in messy scrawl, moving on its own. She stared in wonder at the levitating feather, a face she had been making for most of the day, so much so that she was surprised her jaw had not locked.

The shopkeeper chuckled.

“A first year, huh? You’ll be learning better spells than this one at Hogwarts, young miss.” He winked at her, and she blushed, embarrassed at how little she knew about magic.

“Thank you, sir,” Hermione replied in a tiny voice before continuing her warpath, ready to buy out the store.

There was everything here—Hermione could spend an eternity in the arithmancy section alone, as the subject reminded her of mathematics at her academy. She grinned widely, buck teeth and all. The wizarding world seemed entirely foreign from that of the muggle world, but, as Hermione examined the formulas and rules in Numerology and Grammatica, she realized that there were starting similarities between them. The two used different means to reach the same end. Like her math professor had taught her, “All roads lead to Rome,” or something like that. It somehow meant that any method used on a problem would have the same result!

Reluctantly, Hermione set the book back on its shelf, returning to her Hogwarts list. She would have to wait until next year to try her hand at arithmancy, seeing as it was not on the first-year curriculum. Moving from section to section, beelining through the shelves with deft hands, she combed through half of the shop before her mother, eyeing her daughter from the stool she collapsed upon, told her they needed to get to the other stores before sundown. Pouting, Hermione dragged her heels as she moved to the front of the counter to pay for her books.

With a flick of his wand, the shopkeeper had rung up the expense, and her mother dropped a large amount of wizarding currency on the counter, too flustered to even pretend she knew what a knut was. From their left, the door rang, and in stepped her father. Hermione, excited to show him all the books she had found, dashed toward him, stopping only when she caught sight of a familiar tar-colored coif behind him.

“Monica!” Her father panted, breathless. “I’ve finally found you. I was stuck behind a large family of redheads and lost sight of where I was going. Before I knew it, I was lost—until this young lad guided me out of my mess.”

Hermione grimaced like she had caught a whiff of the boy’s loo. The insufferable toe-rag that was Tom Riddle stepped out from behind her father, hands clasped behind his back with a shy little smile plastered on his face. She did not believe his one-act play for a second. Tom was immune to blushing, grinning, and helping people. 

“That’s lovely, Father,” She said distastefully once she realized Tom wouldn’t be making eye contact with her.

“Wow! It’s almost sunset isn’t it!” Hermione gritted through her teeth, looking outside to find the sun shining proudly, nowhere near the afternoon. “Mum wants to get home, so we’d better leave,” Hermione stated, hoping the rat felt the sting of her accusatory tone.

“Who are you and what have you done to my Hermione?” Her father asked in a joking manner. “We can’t leave yet! My little helper hasn’t collected his things, and we won’t be leaving until we can repay his favor toward our family.”

Hermione’s left eye twitched. Repayment? For guiding her father the ten meters it took to find Flourish and Blotts? She was certain a limp toadstool could do that in a shorter time than the conniving Tom did, what with the numerous mind games she was certain he played along the way. That horrid fiend! She knew he was up to something, but couldn’t fathom what. She had already fallen victim to him, and wouldn’t entertain the idea of her family following her shortcomings.

But as she resolutely followed Tom and her parents out the door, chin tucked, she was afraid it was already too late.

After they had made multiple stops through stores Hermione had already visited, she began to grow tired of Tom’s helpless schoolboy ruse. She sneered when her parents asked him where he lived. She hated watching him wring his hands like a flesh-biting fly as he whispered that he was an orphan, living scantily in Little Hangleton. It made her sick! He was manipulating her parents, even if he wasn’t lying about where he came from, his lack of parents, or that had learned about Hogwarts only a few days ago. Tom couldn’t fathom what it meant to feel inferior to others. If one could measure the scale of his ego, it would certainly break the scale. The scared boy looking at her parents in admiration wasn’t Tom.

Hermione caught up to Tom, not wanting to touch him, but having to gather his attention some way or another. She bumped into his shoulder, pretending to be enraptured by a bottle of eel eyes staring at her from a windowsill.

“What are you doing?” She asked reproachfully, stopping him from following her parents any further.

He tried to get around her, but every way he turned, she followed, blocking him with her Mary Jane’s.

“I’m trying to catch up with my wallets. Now, if you could move your big feet, that’d be helpful.”

Hermione gaped, shocked by his crude behavior, although she shouldn’t have been, seeing as this was his usual attitude. She stomped her foot in anger.

“Going to throw a tantrum again, are you?” Tom spoke with a bored tone, the one he knew she hated. “Unfortunately, I have places to be. Although I did see a vendor selling baby formula a few paces back. I’d suggest you find respite there.”

“You,” Hermione started, pausing in utter offense, “You can’t! Those are my parents!” She said, feeling possessive of them.

“What?” He sneered, and she almost flinched. “Afraid I’ll crawl into your home? They might want me more than a brat like you.”

“You’re the worst boy I ever saw!” She yelled, not expecting it to have any impact, but needing to tell him nonetheless. “I wrote to you, I apologized, and I told you I couldn’t visit because I was grounded! Why are you still mad at me!”

Tom shoved past her, not in the mood to entertain her feelings. Hermione followed, trying to keep up with his strides. He seemed to turn in every way possible, walking in each direction while she fumed in silence behind him. After a few minutes, she finally decided to pipe up about the fact that they were lost.

“My parents would never go there.” Hermione stared at the strange-smelling witch standing behind a sign that read Knockturn Alley. “It’s positively medieval.” 

“If you haven’t noticed, this entire world is stuck in the middle ages.” Tom retorted, beginning his trek into the gloomy side street.

He did not care if she followed him. Hermione could not fathom why any child would want to enter such a dangerous-looking place, but this was Tom she was thinking about. The alley probably spoke to him, what with its putrid smell and bystanders that looked like they would eat her. She shuddered, looking between safe Diagon Alley and dodgy Knockturn Alley, her stomach churning at the idea of being alone in either. Tom’s presence was better than none.

Going against every warning sign, she stalked after him, staying far from the alley’s walls in case something leaped out and grabbed her.

“I was hoping this would scare you away.” He sighed as if she had just made the worst decision in her life, which she probably had. She would not let him know that, though.

Hermione sniffed. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

He ignored her, opting to pick up speed as Hermione tried to keep up. When it became exceedingly clear that her parents had not stepped a toe into Knockturn Alley, her fear began to twist into anger, which she happily directed at Tom, boring holes into his backside, hoping he would catch on fire. They passed dozens of shops and vendors, many of which she assumed were illegitimate businesses. There were things she had never seen in Diagon Alley—shriveled hands, cursed flat caps, love potions, parts of animals she had never heard of—and Tom passed them without a glance.

That was until they passed an elderly man. Tom stopped so suddenly that Hermione ran into him, bumping her nose between his shoulder blades.

“Ow! What was that for?” Hermione yelled, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand.

He began to stare at the man, who looked about as dangerous as a care home resident. The man's beard was fraying and gray, and he wore a long gray overcoat with well-worn boots, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“Can I help you two…?” His voice trailed off as his withered face stared at Tom in curiosity.

Hermione didn’t want to linger in the alley, preferring for them to keep moving, and tugged at Tom’s sleeve, expecting him to pull away. But he merely continued to stare at the old man aggressively. The man began to fidget, becoming nervous from Tom’s intense gaze. Hermione couldn’t blame him.

“Tom! Keep moving!” She whisper-shouted, urging him away from the bodies that seemed to slink toward them from the shadows.

However, just then, Tom began to say something.

“What was that?” Hermione asked, not understanding him.

Then, he did it again, and it sounded to her as though she were hearing English from a foreigner’s ears. It was familiar, yet strange—warped, and drawn out. He lengthened the sound of the S and the Sh in his words, like a cartoon snake speaking from the telly.

The old man paused his anxious jitterings and began to slowly draw something out of his pocket. It was a chain, with a locket attached to it. Upon its outer navel, an S was engraved with gemstones, and the engravings along its border seemed to crawl toward the middle. Tom spoke again, and with a rapid tremble, the clasp to the locket turned, and it sprung open, as though he commanded it to.

The astonishment marring the man’s face began to buckle and bend, morphing into a look of possession, for Tom’s strange language or the locket, Hermione did not know.

“How did you do that, boy?!” Barked the man, beginning to hobble rapidly toward them. “How did you open the locket?!”

Spittle flew from his mouth and Hermione stumbled backward, into a middle-aged witch with meager scraps for hair and five missing teeth. Hermione whimpered, her flesh ridging over with goosebumps, wishing for her father.

“It doesn’t matter. That should be mine! It spoke to me.” Tom was still staring greedily at the locket clasped in the man’s tight grip. Hermione marveled at the stupidity of boys before the woman’s leathery hand clasped over her shoulder and she froze beneath her lecherous touch. The woman was sniffing her hair!

“My, my, my… I used to look like you once… when I was young…” Her voice croaked mirthfully while she continued to breathe raspily behind her. The hand moved upward, about to squeeze her hair. Hermione tried to slap the woman away, but the grip on her shoulder only tightened, and what could she do about that? She didn’t know how to react to a woman trying to catch a whiff of her hair, other than heave her chest up and down in panic. 

Hermione had never truly hurt a person before—using her magic against Tom barely counted! It was in self-defense against someone her age, and even then, what had she accomplished? All she did was split the seam of her bookbag and let gravity supersede.

“T-Tom…” She whined, and she knew he heard her because he glanced back ever so slightly. Yet, the useless lump did nothing but remain in a mockery of a fight with the old man. Hermione sniveled again when she felt the woman grab a fistful of her hair. She didn’t like the noises she was making, didn’t like how helpless she felt while the woman continued to paw at her, as if she were an animal in a petting zoo. She hated how she believed Tom’s company was better than no company and resented that her trust caused nothing but plight. She made a silent vow that if she ever made it out of this situation alive, then she would never speak to Tom again. If she didn’t, then she vowed that he wouldn't either.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Suddenly, the hand in her hair slipped away, and Hermione could breathe properly for the first time. She slowly turned to find Zarina, wand drawn. Hermione looked down to see the ghastly woman frozen in step, with an expression of pleasure strewn across her face, hand out, as though still reaching toward Hermione. She felt the urge to hurl, forgetting all about Tom.

Zarina shot her a sharp glare, and she knew, without a doubt, she was in trouble. Her professor stalked toward Tom, who was now trying to snatch the necklace from the man, using brute force along with his usual tricky—somehow compliant—magic. The old man tripped, the locket launching from his grip just as Zarina took hold of Tom’s collar.

“What are you—Stop!” Tom glared at Zarina, his face knotting in displeasure once he realized he would not be able to free himself, the locket strewn five feet away from him. “That man took something of mine! He’s a thief.” He sneered down at the old man who was now scrambling toward the locket, clasping it in his sun-spotted hands. In a quick bound, the man was gone, swallowed into another cavity of Knockturn Alley. Hermione watched Tom's nails press into his palm, his anger mottling his face.

“Come, Hermione,” Zarina spoke in a firm voice. “This is no place for a young girl. Your parents are worried for you.”

Hermione followed Zarina out of the alley, Tom a few paces behind them. She was tempted to look back, but she felt the ghost of fingers run across her scalp and resentment bloomed fresh, and she crossed her arms stubbornly. She vowed she would never speak to him again. Looking was no better. She had to care to look at him.

Tom had chosen a stupid, rotten locket over her.

Such dismissal bruised her. She did not believe them to be close, not in the slightest, yet they were something. Surely, those dozens of visits to the orphanage had meant something. His lessons meant something. Her letter meant something. His rejection was sharp and swift, ringing through her body like a bell beaten upon over and over and over again. When the sun finally spread across her face, her pupils dilating, she ran from the alley into her parents’ arms, who still insisted on accompanying Tom in navigating Diagon Alley, especially after their getting lost only a few minutes ago.

Hermione believed that there must be a physical thing inside her which stirred in repulsion as she watched Tom wave his wand, a bright beam sparking upward and into the ceiling of Ollivanders. She felt it with such certainty that she was sure it was bile, rising thick and jet-like to settle in her throat, nestling there like phlegm. The stones on the street interested her more than anything else, much more than the ill feeling toward the boy ahead of her. It curdled and moaned, and when he was gone, she wanted nothing more than for it to become dust in her belly so she rid herself of its wretchedness.

For she knew her sentiments were wrong, and Tom was the hateful one, not her. But he had ruined everything for her. She felt tainted. Weak. Contemptful. She could not dispel her hatred toward him. She was afraid that if she did, it would lap at her, and she would begin to detest herself. Because for a while, she had foolishly held hope that Tom could be her special friend. So what did that say about her?