Peremo

That weekend marked the first weekend of quidditch season.

Hermione hated quidditch season.

In the fifties, the safety regulations were, somehow, even more lacking than they'd been in her own time, and that Saturday, she'd had two students with broken legs, one with a broken nose, three with concussions, and one with a punctured lung. That wasn't counting the others with cuts and bruises.

And to top it all off, Gryffindor had lost. To Slytherin.

Which meant, that Hermione's weekend was so busy, that by the time Monday morning came, and her bedside clock chimed six am, she was in a horrific mood. She felt as though she hadn't had a rest at all.

However, she reminded herself, at least there was always coffee.

Her personal quarters, like the infirmary, were on the first floor, just around the corridor from the Charm's classroom. It meant that she didn't have much of a view from her window, and she had a lot of noise during the day. But, she was conveniently close to the Great Hall, which made for a blissfully short journey down to breakfast.

On her trip between her room and the grand staircase that morning, Hermione must've yawned at least three times. She'd just opened her mouth for her fourth, when she abruptly halted on the bottom stair.

He was there.

Ugh.

The rude Tom she'd met at the Hog's Head the other night was hovering by the Great Hall entryway, in conversation with Dippet and Slughorn.

Really, it shouldn't have come at a surprise. Cuthbert had died. Of course they would need an immediate start.

He looked... well. She wasn't blind. He looked good. A great deal better than her, who hadn't even brushed her hair. But despite how good he looked in his dark, fitted robes, on top of what looked to be a perfectly ironed undershirt, he also looked a little bit pretentious. Like he had an air of superiority around him.

Hermione snorted, and then, she weighed up her options. She didn't want him to see her. She didn't want him to start off his time at Hogwarts thinking he had a friend in her, because he most certainly did not. It wasn't very nice of her, but what he'd said about her article wasn't very nice either, so she didn't really care.

But Hermione also really wanted her coffee, and rude Tom was currently between her and the full kettles she knew were waiting for her in the Great Hall.

And so, Hermione did the only thing that she could. She put her head down, scurried forward as quickly as she possible, and pretended not to see them.

Aside from Slughorn and Dippet, the rest of the professors of Hogwarts didn't pay her much in the way of attention. She was an unqualified assistant, why would they? Not to mention, she was young and not very tall. When she had her robes on, she could often pass as a student from a distance.

And it suited her just fine. The less attention she received, the less likely it would be that she'd sway the timeline.

This time, thankfully, Dippet and Slughorn didn't notice her—well. By the way Slughorn's body shifted as she passed, he might've, but if he did, he didn't say anything.

Perfect.

Crisis successfully averted, Hermione made it though into the Great Hall, and up to the staff table without needing to speak a word to anyone.

Even better.

When she reached her usual seat, she murmured her perfunctory hellos to Madam Spindle on her right and Professor Kettleburn on her left, and then, poured herself a generous serve of the coffee.

Ahh.

By the time Slughorn, Dippet and Tom made their way through the Great Hall, Hermione had finished off half of her mug and was in a decidedly better mood. So much so, that she watched them as they moved down the centre of the Hall.

Tom's eyes met hers.

Hermione, emboldened by the combination of tiredness and caffeine, scowled.

He smiled back.

Instinctively, her scowl deepened, but then she started to feel a little bit embarrassed. She hadn't had a good staring match since she was a student with Malfoy. It was quite immature, really.

Deciding to be the bigger person, Hermione lifted her chin and helped herself to some toast.

Shortly after they were seated, Dippet began his usual morning spill.

He started off with his usual greeting, his update on the house cup, daily updates on the work to remove the curse that'd been plaguing the fourth floor for a few months now.

Only halfway paying attention, Hermione finished off her slice of toast and sipped at her pumpkin juice.

"And now finally, if we could all give a warm welcome to our new Professor of History of Magic, Mr. Tom Riddle."

Her juice, which had not yet been swallowed, shot right up the back of her throat, and up and out of her nostrils.

There was a laugh from the students toward the front of the hall—laughing at her spraying her juice all over the staff table, surely—but Hermione was only vaguely aware of it. Because some of her juice had gone down the wrong way, and suddenly, she was fighting to stop herself from drowning.

She hacked and spluttered, until Kettleburn graciously offered her a napkin. She snatched it up and coughed into it, trying to muffle the sound.

"Are you all right, dear?" Madam Spindle asked from beside her, patting her gently on the back.

Hermione waved her off, coughing some more into the napkin.

"Do you need some—"

"No, no," Hermione managed to croak in between her coughs, pushing her chair back out from the table. "I'm just—need to—air."

Aware that Dippet had paused and she was starting to make quite a bit of a scene, Hermione rose and quickly ducked out of the hall out of the side entrance.

Once she was out of the hall, she forcefully coughed without restraint to get the last of the juice out of her lungs. She slowly made her way down the corridor and found a secluded nook between a pillar and a suit of armour by the end that she ducked herself into. She bent over and rested her hands on her knees, taking in deep breaths through her mouth.

Her head was spinning.

It wasn't from the coughing.

Tom Riddle. He was Tom Riddle.

And she'd bloody well stood there in a bar and bickered with him about the rights of magical creatures like a complete idiot!

And he was—

She'd—

She brought her palms over her eyes and pressed down.

Oh sweet Merlin.

It was her fault. Tom Riddle—Voldemort was at Hogwarts, and it was all her fault!

Of all the changes that she could've possibly made to the timeline, Tom Riddle teaching at Hogwarts was worse-case scenario. Dumbledore had always been worried about him recruiting from the students, and now—with Dippet still the useless Headmaster that he was—he had the perfect opportunity to do it!

And it was because of her!

But all she'd done was had an offhanded chat with Dippet at dinner after the news had broken that Professor Binns had passed! How could that've been enough to sway him? He'd been adamant about Riddle being too young, hadn't he?

So why would he have chosen to hire him now?

Hermione pondered on it, biting down anxiously into her lip, and then she nearly smacked herself in the head as she realised, that—

Of course Dippet had hired him. Now that she was thinking about it, it all made sense!

Because Dippet was useless! Replacing just Merrythought must've been hard enough for him, but finding a second new professor so soon... that must've been why in her timeline, Binns had been allowed to stay on as a ghost. Laziness, and desperation, and poor management.

In this time, with her added suggestion of a new professor, and with Dumbledore's support, clearly it was enough to sway Dippet. And of course, what was he to do? He had an eager volunteer! Tom had already applied, years earlier. It must've been only too easy to write an owl to Riddle.

It was exactly Dippet's style, and knowing what she did about Riddle, it wasn't a surprise that he said yes, even if it was History of Magic rather than Defence.

Voldemort had always been an opportunist.

Hermione stood motionlessly, and tipped her head back until she was resting on the stone wall.

She could hear her pulse thumping between her ears.

She needed to be calm.

Panicking would not help.

She needed—

What she needed, was a plan.

She pushed off from the wall, and very slowly began to pace.

What did she know, what did she know, think, think, think, think, think.

In nineteen-fifty two, Tom would be twenty-six.

At twenty-six, he wouldn't have yet murdered Hepzibah, and that meant, he would have two horcruxes to his name.

His ring, and his diary.

His ring, he would, presumably, have with him, either on his person, or in his belongings. If it came to it, that would at least give her a target.

But the diary...

Hermione squeezed her eyes closed. The diary could be anywhere. In his belongings here at Hogwarts would be the first place to start, but it could be anywhere.

And then, other than those two, if she didn't move fast enough, he'd make two more, and—

Hermione gasped aloud, bringing her hands to cover her mouth as her thoughts reached yet another terrifying conclusion.

If Tom wasn't at Borgin and Burke's, perhaps he hadn't yet found the locket and cup. Perhaps now that he wouldn't be working with Hepzibah, he wouldn't find them, not for many, many years to come.

And that would mean... the trail might very well be lost.

Without him collecting the items at the right time, without him turning them into horcruxes at the right time, then the surety she had in where he would hide them was lost.

Which meant that the advantage she would be able to give the Order when the war began... was also lost. Plan B was done for.

Sheer dread settled in, deep down to her bones.

With just a few offhanded words to Dippet, and a brief closed door conversation with Dumbledore... she hadn't just buggered the timeline.

She'd fucking slaughtered it.

Later on, when Hermione had recovered from her existential crisis just enough to form words, she informed Madam Spindle that she wasn't feeling well and wouldn't be able to help in the infirmary for the rest of the day.

To that, Spindle had cooed unsympathetically, and then insisted that if she wasn't up to physical duties, then she could surely help out on office duties.

That cow.

And so, hours later when the sun was just about to set, there Hermione sat, shut in the infirmary office starting down at the letters that she was supposed to be finishing off for sending to the parents of the injured students.

She hadn't finished a single one. She hadn't been able to focus all day.

Because every time she closed her eyes, she pictured Tom Riddle's smug face when he'd mocked her in the pub. She kept seeing his features, imagining how they would twist and morph into those that belonged to Lord Voldemort. Kept thinking of his fingers, the ones that wrapped around his glass of butterbeer, the same ones that would hold the yew wand that would end countless lives.

When she'd first arrived in the fifties, she imagined it in countless scenarios, her meeting Tom Riddle. In each of them, she'd imagined herself immediately recognising him, for how could she not? He'd terrorised her, and her friends, and everyone she'd ever cared about. He'd murdered too many of them to count. She always thought she'd just know it in her gut, because how could she not know him?

She just hadn't expected him to be so... ordinary. So human.

Harry had spoken of the Tom Riddle he'd seen in Dumbledore's collected memories on countless occasions, but not once had he mentioned how... normal he seemed.

But that was the danger, she supposed. That was why so many believed the facade, that's why so many were swayed to his side, that's why—

"Madam Granger?"

At the sudden, quiet voice, Hermione's soul just about left her body. As she jumped, her quill went soaring, landing with a clatter on the other side of the desk.

Despite the seized up state of the muscles in her neck, Hermione managed to turn around.

There he was. Not even six feet away from her, Tom Riddle, the one she'd intentionally been hoping to avoid, stood waiting patiently in the doorway. As that very morning, he looked impeccable. She hadn't heard him come in.

Hermione's skin crawled.

His lips were twisted upwards in amusement, but he didn't mention her fright. Instead, he explained, "Professor Slughorn informed me that I might find you here. He said you often work late."

She blinked, tried not to focus on the thudding of her pulse.

"Um," she managed to say. She cleared her throat, licked her lips. "Yes. Yes, I like to keep busy."

He glanced at the letters before her pointedly. "I see that."

Hermione bit her lip. While she was seated, he was not. She had to crane her neck to look up at him. Like this, feeling like she was beneath him, was uncomfortable.

"Um. I'll just—" she gestured to the other side of the desk, before she got up and stepped around it to collect her quill.

She was relieved once their heights were a bit more matched, and once there was a desk in between them. Not that a desk provided much in the way of safety, but all the same.

"I don't mean to distract you," Tom said, his voice meek and perfectly polite. "It's only, I've been meaning to catch you all day, and you didn't make it to dinner, and you left breakfast quite early. I've been wanting to apologise for the other night, at the Hog's Head."

Hermione crossed her arms without thinking about it, her eyes naturally narrowing. "Oh."

"I also wanted to tell you that although we might be of differing opinions, your article truly was exceptionally well written. You made an excellent argument."

Hermione watched him for a moment, and then glanced away.

He was perfect. His peace offering seemed completely genuine, and there wasn't a single thing that made him seem anything but.

But Hermione knew better. The only reason he'd sought her out, was because he'd made a bad first impression and he knew it. Now, he was just trying to fix it, trying to butter her up, trying to maintain his perfect image. That's all this was.

She wanted to tell him to shove his apology right back up his arse. She wanted to yell and scream at him that she knew who he was, knew what he was doing, and knew that he would fail.

But even though she would have loved to do those things, to do them would be reckless. They were the sort of things that Harry would do, had he been the one in her situation.

What she needed, was to be calm and collected. Above all, she needed him to leave her alone. She couldn't allow herself to forget that. She needed him to not spare her a second glance, she needed to blend in. To do that... well. Best to let him have his way, she decided. Best he think her an uninteresting, boring girl who ate up his facade like all the others.

"Thank you," she eventually murmured, forcing her lips into the shape of a smile. "I appreciate that. And... I shouldn't have snapped at you the way I did."

Tom's lips tugged upward. Satisfied. "That's quite all right. I dare say I deserved it."

"Well," she said, not disagreeing, but not agreeing either.

Tom nodded, and before the quiet had the chance to become awkward, he said, "all right. Well I should leave you to it. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Madam Granger."

He smiled politely and stepped back, went to leave.

And then at once, Hermione saw it. An opportunity. It was one she didn't want to take, but there was only a split second. She had to make a decision.

Oh, she didn't want to do it. She didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to look at him, didn't want anything to do with him, but—

"Wait," she called after him, choosing the wrong thing. For a moment, she thought she'd been too late and perhaps he hadn't heard her. But then, Tom stopped and turned back, and met her eyes. She felt sick doing it, but then, she did her best to look at him from under her lashes, the way Ginny would when she looked at Harry. She licked her lips. She hated this. "Please. Call me Hermione."

Tom's posture straightened, and then, his features formed an uneven smile. It was a charming one, a flirtatious one.

It was entirely disarming and it was repulsive.

"Enjoy your evening," he repeated with a slight tip of his head, this time adding, "Hermione."