Peremo

"Not that one!"

"Ah—sorry!"

"I told you three times, you daft girl," Kettleburn growled. "Don't pick the ones less than a foot tall!"

"Sorry!" Hermione gushed, quickly moving her sights onto the next plant. "Sorry. It looked taller from over there."

"Taller from over there," Kettleburn grumbled under his breath, scoffing as he carried on with his own picking.

Hermione sighed. That morning, she'd volunteered her time to assist Kettleburn out on the grounds collecting asphodel roots for Slughorn's potion classes.

Volunteering with Kettleburn was something she'd been doing quite often over the past year. It was a good way to pass the time. Usually, they'd work quietly together, only exchanging pleasantries and bits and pieces of gossip about Madam Spindle. Really, she quite liked spending time with Kettleburn. Of all of the professors in the fifties, he was easily her favourite. He was rough on the outside, but he had a calm air about him. He reminded her of Hagrid.

This particular occasion wasn't as pleasant as usual. She'd been snapped at four times. Not that she blamed Kettleburn. She wasn't doing a good job, and she knew it.

But she just couldn't focus! Her mind was elsewhere, and that elsewhere was, presumably, sitting up in the History classroom.

It'd been two days since Tom had approached her in the infirmary, and for the entirety of that time, she hadn't been able to stop umm-ing and ahh-ing over her options, planning her path forward.

The way she saw it, was that with Tom at Hogwarts and with any hope of maintaining the timeline that she knew in shatters, she had three pressing priorities.

The first, was obviously to prevent Tom from recruiting new followers to his cause from the student body. Limiting his number of followers was vital, as was preventing innocent and impressionable students from getting caught up in dark magic.

The second priority was to ensure he didn't decide to set the basilisk on the school once more and harm any other muggleborns. This was important for obvious reasons.

And then, the third, was to keep track of his horcruxes. Again, self-explanatory.

They were three not so easy tasks, and as far as Hermione was concerned, they all required the same impossible thing: she had to get close to Riddle.

No matter which angle she came at it from, it was the only solution she could come up with. If she could weasel her way into Tom Riddle's pocket, she could keep track of him. If she could reach his inner circle, she would be in the loop about his coming and goings. It was simple.

The only thing was, she had absolutely no idea how to actually do it. Being polite, being flirty, seeming interested in him—they were great tactics for getting him to leave her alone. But to do the opposite... aside from telling him outright that she was from the future, and that she knew about his murders and horcruxes, she didn't have the foggiest of the best path forward.

And it was driving her mad.

"No, no, stop!"

Hermione's head snapped up, her hand pausing around the stem an asphodel plant.

"That one's all shriveled, are you blind?!" Kettleburn snapped. "What's wrong with you today?"

Hermione released the plant she'd been about to unroot. "Oh. Um. Sorry. I'm just a bit—"

"Give me your gloves," Kettleburn instructed, reaching his hand out expectantly. "Pass me those roots, and then you go head off to the kitchens. Go get a cup of tea and sort out whatever's wrong with you."

"That's really not—"

"You're not helping. You're only making my job harder than it needs to be. Go sort yourself out, and then you can come back another time."

"I—" she went to argue, but quickly realised there was little point. He was right. She wasn't helping, and harvesting the asphodel wasn't distracting enough. "Okay, fine," she eventually accepted, passing him her gloves.

He grunted. "And don't you come back until you've got your head screwed on."

"Thanks," she said jokingly, but Kettleburn wasn't watching. He was already back to unrooting the asphodel.

Even though he wasn't looking, Hermione gave him a wave anyway, and added, "don't put your back out while I'm gone."

He still didn't look up, but he did grunt.

A smile on her lips, Hermione started her trek back up to the castle and left him to it.

She sighed as she slowly made her way up the steep slope, her thoughts quickly circling back to what to do about Riddle.

It wouldn't be so hard, if she weren't on her own. If she had Harry, or Ron, or even Ginny to support her, to confide in, maybe she'd feel more up to the task. But here, in the fifties... she had no one.

Not even Dumbledore.

While she had a little bit of faith that Dumbledore would help to keep Tom in check while he was at Hogwarts... she just didn't trust him. While she might've trusted the older Dumbledore from her own time... she didn't know this younger version from a bar of soap.

But what she did know, was that he was manipulative, and highly interested in the Hallows. Adding the knowledge of time travel onto that... well. Her time's Dumbledore had said it himself.

Too dangerous, the Dumbledore of the nineties had warned her when they were still in the planning process of her journey to the past. You absolutely mustn't confide in me, no matter how tempting a familiar face may seem. I cannot guarantee how my younger self will react to such news.

His instruction of not to alert past Dumbledore of her time travel been strict, and Hermione didn't want to disobey.

The irony of it didn't go unnoticed. She didn't trust Dumbledore, because she trusted Dumbledore.

And so, that left Hermione on her own to sort out the shambles she'd created.

Merlin.

It was a shame it was only Wednesday. She could really go for her weekly drink already.

When she reached the main entry of the castle, she almost skipped down the stairs towards the basements, intending on heading straight for the kitchens as Kettleburn had suggested. The thought of a cup of tea was quite enticing.

Aside from the portrait inhabitants, the stairs were deserted. Classes were currently in session, so the journey was quick and smooth.

That was, until she reached the Hufflepuff basement corridor. She'd barely stepped foot into it when she heard soft voices drifting her way. Feeling reminiscent of sneaking around the castle with Harry and Ron, Hermione tiptoed along the wall, and peered around the corner.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

Tom was there.

But he wasn't alone. He was with two students. They were small, mousy. They must've been first years.

Hermione's heart immediately lurched. That bastard had been back in the school for a measly three days and he was already targeting the children!

She instinctively stepped forward to intervene—

"—and we didn't mean to, but the painting just came down," the shorter boy was saying, pointing toward a large painting which was propped up on the ground, leaning against the stone wall.

"And we tried to find somebody!" the taller of the boys insisted. "But everyone was in class and there weren't any professors around, so we just..."

"Thought you'd run off?" Tom provided.

The taller of the boys looked down at his shoes. The shorter coughed.

She heard Tom sigh, and then, in the same polite tone he'd given her in the infirmary, he said, "it's all right. Accidents happen, and nobody was hurt. Here, let me show you how the paintings are fixed to the walls. Get your wand out."

Hermione ducked back a bit, behind the safety of the corner, watching the scene before her, transfixed.

The two boys drew their wands, while Tom drew his.

"Now," said Tom, facing the fallen painting, "you hold your wand like this—no, no, your grip is too tight. Just relax, be gentle. Good. All right, then, you need to direct it toward your target, give a slight flick, and— wingardium leviosa."

Hermione's brows drew together at the same time that her mouth popped open. He was... he was helping them.

Tom gently lowered the painting back to the ground. "All right, now you have a try."

The smaller of the boys scrunched his face in concentration.

"Wingardium leviosa."

The painting remained where it was, and Tom laughed as he stepped closer to the boys to correct their wand movements.

It was a smooth, and it sounded like caramel. Hermione scowled.

And then she turned and left, giving up on her tea. She didn't need to see any more.

With a heavy sense of dread in her stomach, it was then that Hermione realised—he was perfect.

He was perfect, and that was why he would be far more dangerous inside of Hogwarts than he would be out of it.

The students would just love him. He would be kind and polite and helpful, and he might even be their best teacher. They'd flock toward him.

And the other professors—it was clear that Slughorn and Dippet loved him. Spindle had been raving about him since Monday, as had Beery and Jigger and Poppyworth.

They would love him, and when it came time for them to either side with him or oppose him, it was clear what they would choose.

There was a good chance that Tom Riddle, helpful, and handsome, and brilliant, and charming, would be far more dangerous than a monstrous Voldemort had been.

She had to do something.

She had to.

She just... needed more time to figure out what.

But little did she know, the answer would come flying right into her hands.

The letter arrived for her at dinner.

She'd only just picked up her fork and started to pick at her lasagne when one of the Hogwarts owls landed neatly on the back of her chair.

Hermione gently stroked the owl's chest and took the letter from its beak. "What's this?"

She never got any letters. Usually, the only mail she ever received was her subscription to the Daily Prophet, and that always came at precisely seven-thirty in the morning.

But this one must've been right. The letter was neatly addressed to her.

Miss Hermione Granger,
Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft

The owl hooted and took off from her chair, and with the blade of her knife, Hermione sliced her letter open.

Dear Hermione,
I bet you didn't think I would, but I found your article! It wasn't easy (you didn't mention it was hidden away on page thirty-three by the daily comics), but the Librarian was up to the task! I have thoughts on what you wrote—I thought we could discuss them over coffee?
Let me know.
Yours,
M. Avery

When she reached the end of the parchment, Hermione pressed her lips together and covered her mouth with her hand to hide her bubbling excitement.

This was it.

This short slip of parchment was quite literally her ticket.

Because Avery had been at the Hog's Head with Tom. That meant, he must've been one of Tom's Knights. Which then meant, that if she could get in with Avery... she could use him to work her way in with Tom.

It was perfect.

Clutching the letter safely to her chest and leaving her dinner uneaten, Hermione politely excused herself and hurried off back to her quarters. She practically ran.

Once there, she wasted absolutely no time in fishing out her best parchment and her favourite quill, and hurriedly scrawled,

Avery,
I was starting to think your claims of writing to me were false.
I would love to get a coffee with you. I will be in Hogsmeade at midday next Wednesday if that suits you. Meet me by the Hog's Head, and we can go from there.
Yours,
Hermione.

Hermione stared at the finished product.

Hmm.

Then, she grabbed her wand and erased the last two lines, before she altered her signature to,

Best,
Hermione.

That was better.

Hermione got up—and then stopped. Perhaps she shouldn't send it so soon. He might think her desperate. Did women of the fifties worry about coming across as desperate? She didn't know.

She knew the Avery family to be one of the sacred twenty-eight, but that was about all she knew about them. She didn't know if he'd be the sort to be actually interested in her. Talk of her background hadn't come up, but she was going by the surname 'Granger'. Surely it was obvious enough that she'd be half-blood at best.

Perhaps he was the sort who was looking for a quick shag. If that was the case, then maybe Avery wouldn't be her best way in, after all. Maybe it would be better to play the slow game, to tease him a little bit.

...

But then she pondered on it a little more, and decided it was too urgent. This was her best chance, and she couldn't wait. Tom would work fast. Who knew how many students he could sway in just a year? If he woke the basilisk once more, who knew how many muggleborns they could target?

And so, Hermione collected the letter and then hurried off to the owlery to send it straight off, consequences be damned.