Peremo

Dearest Hermione,
I would greatly appreciate it if you didn't call me that.
On another note; that's fantastic, I knew Tom wouldn't let you down! Between him and the Library, I'm sure you'll be set, but do let me know if there's anything in particular you can't find. I would be happy to loan you some more reading from our family's collection.
Yours,
Avery

Dear Marvin,
I don't see why I shouldn't use your given name. You use mine, no? Do you truly expect me to be on a first-name basis with Armando, and not you?
Thank you for your kind offer. You've done enough for me already, but I still might take you up on it yet...
As a token of thanks, attached in this pouch is a small handful of powdered porcupines. I hope you like them. They're my favourites.
Best,
Hermione

Hermione watched out of the owlery balcony as her chosen owl soared gracefully over the forest, her small package to Avery on its way.

That morning was brisk; one of the first few winter mornings for the year. Up at the owlery, the cold was three-fold. Usually, she'd use a charm to keep herself warm. But this morning, Hermione opted to feel the chill.

It was refreshing. It helped her think.

After her conversation with Tom, after he'd given her Rowena's diary, Hermione had scoured the Hogwarts library meticulously, combing through the obituary sections of every issue of the Daily Prophet that'd been published over the past two years.

She'd searched for hours and hours.

Just as she'd suspected, so found no mention of a Hepzibah Smith.

Which meant that Hepzibah was alive and well, hadn't yet shown Tom either the locket or the cup, and Tom wasn't on their trail. Which then begged the question, why hadn't Riddle seemed the slighted bit interested in the founders' objects? And why had he given her Rowena's diary?

There had to be a reason. He wouldn't have given it to her out of the goodness of his heart. There had to be a reason. She just... wasn't seeing it yet.

Hermione sighed over the balcony fence, her breath forming a neat cloud of condensation. Then, she wished the nesting owls in the owlery a good day and began her descent back down into the castle.

Rowena's diary really was incredible. In it, it held a detailed description of a dream she'd had of a warty hog on a cliff, the dream that had inspired the location and name of Hogwarts. There were first-hand notes of the planning of Hogwarts itself: the changing staircases, the idea and the enchantment of the sorting hat, the argument the founders had had with Slytherin of blood purity and entrance into Hogwarts. She’d devoted a multitude of pages to the diadem alone.

It was a marvel. It should've been in a museum.

But though she judged him for it, she understood Tom wanting to keep it for himself. It was selfish and short-sighted, but she understood the desire to keep it.

What did that say about her?

"Good morning, Hermione."

Hermione jumped a little bit. "Oh. Good morning, Tom," she returned. Where had he come from? "You seem... chipper."

Tom smiled down at her, easily falling into step with her. "I've just said farewell to my sixth-year class for the week, and now, I've a free period."

"Just before lunch, too? That is fortunate."

"Indeed. I'm off to the library. Would you care to join me?" he asked. "That is, if you don't already have plans."

Hermione stared. The library.

He was inviting her to the library.

Of course he was.

She really didn't want to go with him. She'd been on her way to the kitchens to swipe herself an early lunch and a whole pot of tea just to herself. Her palate was good and ready.

But when an opportunity came and invited her to dance the tango, who was she to turn it down?

"Certainly," she agreed. "I could always go for a bit of reading."

"Wonderful," Tom said, the whites of his teeth visible in his smile. "How's your article going?"

"It's..." Hermione cleared her throat. She hadn't actually started writing anything at all. "...coming along," she said sheepishly.

"Would you like me to look it over?" Tom offered, ever the gentleman. "Two sets of eyes are surely better than one."

"Uhm. Maybe. Once it's in a better state."

"I won't judge you for your rough thoughts."

"Oh, but you see, I'd have to get them onto parchment first, in order for you to not judge me," she laughed.

He nodded in understanding. "Ah. I see."

As their trip to the library fell into a lull, Hermione realised, with a pang of guilt, that she was beginning to feel a bit accustomed to his presence. He had a quiet, subtle air about him, and for the first time since meeting him, she didn't feel uncomfortable. It actually felt... normal.

The thought alone made her feel dirty.

"So where are you from, Hermione?"

Hermione glanced up at him in surprise. "Hmm?"

"It's occurred to me that I don't actually know the slightest thing about you," Tom said, looking down at her intently. It felt like he could see through her. "You didn't attend Hogwarts, did you?"

"No," she said, heart rate picking up. "No, I didn't. I was home-schooled, actually. My parents didn't wish for us to part during the wars, and we had a safe set up in Owestry."

Over the years, the lie had become easy.

It was less so when Tom was her audience.

But Tom nodded like all the others. It didn’t seem like he doubted her. "It must be a very different environment for you here, then."

"Yes. I wonder which house I'd be in quite frequently. Which teacher I'd think the best, which subject I'd enjoy the most."

"Well, to answer two of your questions: History," said Tom, one side of his mouth picking up. "And the other... hmm..." He looked at her in consideration, head tilting slightly. "Hufflepuff?"

Hermione made a sound of indignation.

"Ah, forgive me, I forget that you're a writer. Ravenclaw?"

Hermione scoffed. "Gryffindor, I like to think."

"Gryffindor," he repeated, his nose crinkling. "Oh dear. I'm sorry Miss Granger, but I don't know if we can be friends anymore."

"Hey."

"You know, now that I'm thinking about it, I think It would be best if I went to the library on my own."

Before she was consciously aware of what she was doing, she gave him a nudge with her elbow.

Immediately, the very moment there was physical contact, she regretted it. But—shoot—it was too late. She'd done it. She'd shoved Lord Voldemort in the ribs with her elbow.

And he—

He laughed.

He laughed.

What world was she living in?

As they made it to the first floor and they reached the wide doors of the library, they almost ran into the man coming out of them.

"Oh—hello there, Professor," Tom greeted politely.

Dumbledore stopped in his tracks, glancing between them. "Good morning, Tom, Hermione."

"Do you think you have enough books there, sir?" Hermione asked, looking over the pile of books that was levitating behind Dumbledore.

"There are never enough books, my dear girl," said Dumbledore. Then he gave them a small nod, said, "enjoy your break," and continued his way out of the library. The stack of books followed along obediently.

Hermione glanced up at Tom in bemusement. He must’ve been in a hurry.

Tom shrugged, and on they went.

Though she'd been at Hogwarts in this time for two years now, Hermione still wasn't used to seeing Dumbledore so young. She hadn't had much to do with the Dumbledore of this time, and she hadn't seen him interact with Tom at all. But she was sure that regardless of Dippet's decision to allow Tom to teach, Dumbledore was still holding onto his suspicions of Tom. He must've been keeping a watchful eye over him.

That thought was comforting.

Hermione continued to follow Tom as he led them to a wide table by the windows.

“This all right?” Tom asked politely.

“It’s perfect.”

While Tom took out a book he'd brought with him and some writing he’d already started, Hermione pulled out a blank piece of parchment and her favourite quill. She really needed to get started on her article.

But Hermione was still distracted by the sight of Dumbledore. Had he protested to Tom teaching, she wondered? Or had Dippet made the executive decision?

He must've done, she decided. Had Dumbledore known that Dippet was considering Tom, there was no way he would've allowed it quietly.

She wondered how Tom was doing, living in proximity with Dumbledore once more. Was he uncomfortable with him around? He hadn't seemed overly bothered just then when they'd run into him. But then again, of course he didn't. Tom's mask, from what she'd seen, was perfect. Flawless. He'd built up the perfect persona, and—

Hermione straightened in her seat.

Suddenly... she could see it. All the pieces were finally, finally clicking into place. It was all finally making sense.

Why Tom had apologised to her, why he'd asked her to Hogsmeade, why he'd loaned her Rowena's diary, why he'd asked her to the library now.

She could see it all.

He wasn't interested in being friends with her—she knew that. That went without saying. He didn't care for her at all, but what he did care about... was his image.

All of the professors at Hogwarts were—to put it bluntly—old. The youngest after Tom must've been Professor Poppyworth, and she must've been in her upper forties at best. Which meant that while Tom got along with them, if he were to seem like their friend, it would seem a little bit strange.

But what wouldn't be strange? A friendship with the young, infirmary assistant, the only other person residing in the castle who was his own age!

In fact, now that Hermione was thinking about it, under Dumbledore's watchful eye, it would've seemed strange had they not established some sort of camaraderie.

He was using her.

...not that she hadn't been expecting as much from him. But still, Hermione couldn't help but feel a little bit... well. Offended.

It was nonsensical. She didn't want to be friends with him, either. But she couldn't help it. It was an innate emotion. He was going out of his way to pretend to be her friend. Of course it offended her.

She wondered how far Tom would take it. He'd loaned her Rowena's diary, after all. Such a book wouldn't have had a price, and it contained valuable information on the diadem.

...

Oh.

Oh, oh, oh.

It contained valuable information on the diadem, she realised.

Information... that was entirely misleading.

In reality, she knew from Harry that Rowena's daughter had stolen the diadem, lost it. But in the diary, Rowena wrote of it as if she still had it tucked safely away.

And Tom—

Tom knew that already. At this point, he would have already weaselled it out of the Grey Lady. So of course he didn't mind sharing the information with her! If anything, it served him better to share it! She would publish the misdirection for all to see in Daily Prophet, and then any trace of the diadem that led back to him would be well and truly lost.

That... that sneakylittle bastard, she thought to herself. He really was something.

"Must you do that?"

Hermione's head snapped up. From across the table, Tom was watching her. He looked... a bit annoyed.

She tensed up. "Do... do what?"

"That." He gestured to her quill.

Hermione blinked. "What's wrong with my quill?"

"You're flicking it. You're spraying little flecks of ink all over the place." Tom gestured at his own parchment in front of him. There was a single splotch of black ink in the upper corner.

"Oh. Sorry," she said, a little uncertainly. Ink. It was just ink. "Can't you just vanish it?"

Tom's lips tightened. "That's not the point."

Hermione stared. "Then what is your point?"

"That I don't want spots of ink on my parchment," he said slowly.

She didn't understand. "Then why don't you just—"

"Because I'll know it's—" Tom broke himself off. He closed his eyes and ran a hand along the side of his cheek. "Could you please just... not do that?"

"Um. Okay," she squeaked. "No problem. I won't do it anymore."

"Thank you."

As Tom leaned back over into his parchment and it became apparent that she was in the clear, Hermione made sure to hold her quill still, all the while fighting off a smile. She suspected that that small piece of irritation was the very first she'd seen of his true personality. The first glimmer of him that wasn't a farce.

And he was neurotic, she thought smugly. An irrational perfectionist.

She almost laughed remembering Avery's description of him. Prickly.

Prickly was accurate, all right.

It made sense that he would be. Having had grades that even she hadn't been able to surpass, it should've been obvious.

...she wondered if at some deep, buried level, he suffered from anxiety.

Now that Hermione was looking at his parchment—Tom had ended up vanishing the splotch of ink—she couldn't help but have a nose at what he was writing.

"Is that... are you planning your classes?"

"Yes. For my seventh years. With Binns having taught them their whole way through, for the most part, they're woefully prepared for their NEWTs."

She nodded. "Yes, he did rely a bit too heavily on the rote-learning method."

Tom stared.

"Or so I heard," she added. "I always found throughout my own studies that experiential learning was the most effective. Perhaps you could take the class for a trip out south? Let them see the sites that are still tarnished to this day by Emeric the Evil for themselves?"

Tom brushed the end of his quill in thought. "Perhaps you should be teaching the class."

"Thank you, but no thank you. I was always had a better hand at arithmancy."

"Arithmancy?" He bit his lip thoughtfully. "I would have guessed charms for you."

"Really?"

"The most useful spells for healing are charms, no?"

"That's true," said Hermione. "But not all of us are as lucky as you and have the opportunity to work with our passions."

“You’re not passionate about healing?”

“I suppose… that I’m a bit like you,” she said boldly. Tom tilted his head. “I’m not passionate about the students and the monotony of the day-to-day cuts and scrapes and paperwork. But I do enjoy the magic behind the spells, the potion work, the myriad of ways there are to unravel the same curses and hexes. It’s… the magic, that is... it’s beautiful, really.”

Tom watched her for a long moment. He ran his thumb over his lip in thought.

“Beautiful… even when you’re dealing with blood and pus and broken limbs?”

“Oh, yes,” she gushed. “Yes, that’s my favourite sort of magic.”

Tom features softened in a short laugh. “Perhaps you're right.”

This time, it was Hermione who tilted her head.

"Perhaps you are a little bit like me."

Later that evening, at dinner, Hermione helped herself to a second goblet of wine. She filled the goblet to the brim.

"Hard day?" Kettleburn mumbled beside her, reaching out to pour himself a second glass, too.

"They all are, Silvanus,” she drawled.

He grumbled in agreement, and they each sipped at their wine.

Over the white noise of the Great Hall bustling at dinner time, there was a low hooting sound, and moments later, a brown owl swooped in from the windows behind them and perched itself on the back of her seat. It lowered its head and offered up a thick letter.

Hermione took it and gave the owl a good stroke before it flew off again.

She then focussed on her letter, and as she pulled it from its envelope, the wax seal burst open, morphing itself into a flower.

It was a single, red rose.

"Ahh, an admirer, I see," Kettleburn teased.

Hermione frowned at him, but the colour of her cheeks gave her away. She leaned back in her chair, trying to have a good look at the letter at an angle that Kettleburn couldn't see it.

Dearest Hermione,
The difference between you and I, is that you've been received a beautiful given name. I've received the name for my grandfather, and had you had the chance to have met him, you would undoubtedly realise why I'm not overly fond of the name.
Thank you for the porcupines. I must confess, that upon receiving your gift, I finished them off before I had the chance to read your letter. They're one of my favourites, too.
I hope you like your gift.
Yours,
Avery

Hermione played with the leaves of the rose absentmindedly as she pondered the letter.

Knowing now that Tom was using her as a beard, of sorts, she realised that she didn't need Avery to get herself in good graces with Tom. She never had. It would be reasonably straightforward to tweak Tom's interest now, if she continued to play her cards right. But...

She smiled fondly at the letter, sniffed the head of the flower.

She quite liked Avery. While Tom's friendship was a farce, Avery's was refreshing. He was sweet. He felt like Ron.

And although it was clear that he was interested in her… the timeline was buggered anyway. What was the harm in continuing to write to him? Wasn’t she allowed to be a little bit selfish? She’d given up her life for the good of the wizarding world… hadn’t she deserved it?

Hermione folded up her letter and sheepishly glanced around. No one was paying her much attention. It seemed like a few of the students had noticed her rose, but she didn't mind them.

She glanced dared a glance down the Professor's table.

Tom was looking at her.

Meeting his brown eyes, Hermione had the sudden, odd feeling as though she'd been caught doing something wrong. She hadn't, she told herself. Nothing wrong at all. So, she defiantly held his eye contact. She wouldn't be the one to look away first. He'd been the one staring.

But once more, Tom didn't do as expected. Instead of staring in some sort of broody, judgemental staring match, he gestured to the rose with his eyes and raised his eyebrows up and down suggestively.

Hermione just about snorted her wine.

Tom looked away first, laughing into his hand.

And though she didn’t succeed, Hermione did her best to smother her grin.

She didn't dare to look back.