Peremo

The night offered Hermione much in the way of clarity.

Though she was hidden safely in her room behind warded doors, she still didn't get much sleep, and so instead, she used the time to ponder the puzzle of the predicament she was in.

Now that Tom had tried to murder her, Avery being engaged to someone else suddenly didn't seem like as much of a problem as it initially had. She would write to him, she decided. She needed to know if he'd spoken to Tom after she'd left Slughorn's party, and if Tom knew that she knew about the basilisk. That was important.

And in the meanwhile, even though the urge to run was just as strong as it'd first been, as she tossed and turned in bed, she decided that perhaps Harry had been right the whole time—perhaps the best way of fighting Tom wasn't slow and steady, but was to fight fire with fire.

What she needed, was for Tom to see that she was an asset, and that removing her from the picture had been the wrong decision. To properly do that, she couldn't retreat, couldn't cower. He would never value someone like that. Instead, she had to be proactive, needed face him head on, and needed to remind him of why he'd wanted her in the first place. She had to convince him she was different, that she was worth brushing aside his beliefs that muggleborns were beneath him.

It wasn't... impossible. She could do that.

She just needed to make sure he didn't kill her before she got there.

Hermione was seeing him everywhere.

While she'd decided against wallowing in her room, Hermione knew that until things had been smoothed over with Tom, she mustn't allow herself to be caught alone. And so, the following day, when she surfaced from the confines of her room—with her trusty hand mirror by her side, of course—she stuck to the other professors like glue.

Her morning was spent with Kettleburn and Hagrid, pruning the shrivelfig trees around the grounds. The work was a good distraction, until she spied a group of lingering Slytherins by the courtyard. Tom was with them. Though the students were playing around in the snow the way that students normally do, Hermione thought she saw Tom looking down in her direction.

She made sure to work on the other side of the trees after that.

Later, around lunch time, she volunteered to help Professor Shrew with refurbishing the charms classrooms—dusting, cleaning down the furniture, removing the graffiti from the tables, and sorting through old essays that'd been abandoned over the years.

Just like the pruning, it made for a fantastic distraction, but when Shrew invited her into the Great Hall for a coffee, Tom was already in there. It was as if he'd been waiting.

Having quickly excused herself from coffee, Hermione then spent the remainder of her afternoon in the potions chamber, helping Slughorn sort through his outdated and rotting ingredients.

She didn't actually see Tom there, but she thought she did. With each shadow, every movement, every sound, her war-trained instincts pounced, assuming the worst. But it wasn't him—just her paranoia—and together with Slughorn, she finished the task at hand in peace.

By the time it came to dinner, Hermione remained for the most part unscathed, and made it up to the Great Hall a little bit early. The space was mostly empty, and so was—to her relief—the spot on the professors table that Tom usually occupied.

Hermione headed down the hall, up toward her own usual spot—but then stopped.

Hmm.

Changing her mind mid-course, Hermione veered around toward the Hufflepuff table.

For the Christmas break, the tables had been shortened, making the space cosier. But despite that, there was still only one head sitting at the Hufflepuff table, and it was one that she recognised.

She went over and took up the seat opposite him.

"...wh-what are you doing?" Edward asked hesitantly as she sat down, glancing around them self-consciously.

"Good evening to you too," Hermione quipped.

Edward narrowed his eyes. "I don't need company if that's what you're doing."

"Excuse me," she said, a touch offended. "What makes you think I'm sitting here for you? Maybe the lighting is better down here than up there," she added, nodding up to the professor's table.

"Please, Miss," Edward sassed. "I'm the only Hufflepuff you know. Why else would you be here?

Hermione straightened. "For your information, I know plenty of other Hufflepuffs!"

Edward shook his head and rolled his eyes, and helped himself to some casserole.

Ouch.

Truthfully, Hermione had chosen to take her dinner at the Hufflepuff table because it was directly in front of where Dumbledore sat at the professors table, and there wasn't anywhere that she felt safer. But she certainly wasn't about to go telling Edward as much.

Hermione pulled out her Daily Prophet, started grazing over the headlines.

"Are you... enjoying your break?" she asked politely, helping herself to a serve of shepherd's pie.

Edward slowly looked up from his food, a bit of a scowl on his face. Then, he turned as if to gesture toward the Slytherin's table.

There were a group of loud boys sitting toward the end of the table and—ah. Hermione spotted a familiar head of dark hair. Cygnus.

She frowned. "What's he doing here for the break?"

Edward shrugged. "Says his parents are on holiday this year."

Hermione's lip turned up. But now that she was looking toward the Slytherin table, she noticed that there were actually... quite a few students over there. Usually, Slytherin was the smallest house over the break.

"Edward... if Cygnus is still giving you trouble," she went on to say, "I can teach you a few spells to knock him down a peg or two. If you like."

Edward finished his mouthful. "...Really?"

"Yes," she said. "Technically, I'm not a professor, so it's not my job to stop you from casting spells at one another. I'm simply here to mend your injuries after you already have them."

Edward snorted a laugh, gave a small nod. "Wh-why're you... why are you being so nice to me?"

"There is only one thing in this life that I dislike more than improperly sorted books," she said matter-of-factly, "and that's a bully."

"Thanks a lot, Mi—" Edward broke off mid speech.

Hermione didn't have to ask why he'd stopped, because then, there was a gentle, cold touch upon her shoulder, and she glanced up.

"Oh." Hermione's pulse picked up. She couldn't contain her scowl. "What do you want?" she asked rather rudely.

But Tom pretended not to hear her, stepping around her and dragging his hand along her back as he seated himself on the bench, right next to her.

"Good evening, Hermione," he just about purred, sitting so close that their legs brushed, "Edward."

"Er—good evening, Professor," Edward mumbled, glancing between her and Tom. He added uncertainly, "um, a-am I in trouble?"

"No, no, not at all," Tom said brightly. "I merely wanted to check up on Madam Granger. She wasn't feeling very well yesterday." He turned to her. "Isn't that right?"

Hermione went to say no, that most certainly wasn't right, but before she could get a word out, she suddenly stiffened.

Because Tom's hand slid onto her upper thigh, gave it a firm squeeze.

If it weren't for where they were, Hermione would've yelled and shoved at him. But not wanting to make a scene in front of the professors, particularly Dumbledore, Hermione settled for stepping on his foot with her heel.

Tom only squeezed harder.

Hermione managed to clear her throat. "Well. As you can see, I'm fine now. So, there's really no need for you to—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Tom murmured gently. "You shouldn't be alone."

Her heartbeat pounded in her neck.

"It's a good thing that I'm not alone, then. I'm actually having quite a lovely dinner with Ed—" Hermione stopped as she glanced back at Edward. He was standing now, mid-way through packing his bag. "What are you doing?"

"I've, um. I've just forgotten something in the dormitory. I'm just going to..." Edward gestured toward the exit. "Good night, Miss. Professor."

Edward scurried off.

Hermione watched his retreating form pleadingly, and when he was out of sight, she turned to narrow her eyes at Tom.

"Look what you did," she accused, before hissing, "what are you doing?"

"Getting dinner." Tom's features were perfectly innocent.

"Why are you having it here?" she pressed.

Tom smiled at her and then finally released her thigh. With his now freed hand, he picked up a napkin, and with his other, he reached out and held her chin between his fingers. His grip was painfully tight, and before she could pull away, he dabbed at her cheek with the napkin.

"I wanted to check on this," he paused as he finished his dabbing, and brushed at the line of her lower lip with his thumb, "mouth of yours."

"Don't—" Hermione yanked her head back and slapped his hands away, "touch me."

Tom smiled and glanced at the napkin. Hermione spied a spot of gravy. Ugh.

"Well, you needn't have bothered," she snapped, wiping her face again for good measure. "I'm not going to tell anyone about what happened. Least of all, a student."

Tom watched her. The curve of his eyebrow became sharp. "No?"

"You've kept my secret of what happened with Hagrid. It's only fair if I keep yours. And you know what they say," she said, glancing back at her Daily Prophet as if his presence didn't bother her in the slightest. "Even the best of us blunder every now and then, and we are all deserving of a second chance, aren't we? Even you."

Tom didn't immediately speak, but when he did, his was voice dripping with suspicion. "Pardon?"

"What you did, was horribly shortsighted," she stated boldly. "But you're not the first who has tried to be rid of me because of my heritage, and I'm sure you won't be the last. And so, because you seem like a useful sort of person, I've decided to give you a chance—just one chance—to see the error in your ways."

Tom was leaning on the table, and he was grinning at her. He looked deeply amused. "You would give me... another chance?"

"I understand, you know," she murmured, not sharing any of his amusement at the situation. "There are many witches and wizards of muggle descent who don't appreciate the culture they've been born into. Many even, perhaps, pose a threat to our way of life, and there are even more muggles who undoubtedly do.

"But you would be wise to see that I am not the rule. I am the exception, and I will give you this one chance to see that."

He shifted beside her, and the next thing she knew, his arm was draping over her shoulders.

The closeness had her blood chilling.

"Oh, that's... quite the pitch," said Tom, voice lower now that he was so close. "Most compelling. But, you see, I'm afraid it's not quite that simple anymore."

Hermione wanted to shove him off, have a go at him with her knife. But now she could see students from across the hall watching them, several of the professors, too. He wouldn't hurt her in front of all of them.

"What do you mean?" she murmured, muscles primed.

Tom's eyes met hers, and they were unwavering. "Why didn't you drink it, Hermione?"

Hermione blinked. "I—because you— it was poisoned."

"How did you know?" he asked, and when she didn't immediately answer, he added, "hmm?"

"I... I didn't. It was luck. One of my—" she sighed. "One of my old quills dropped a barb. It landed in the tea, and it reacted."

Tom shrugged and picked up his goblet, sipped at his pumpkin juice. With their proximity, she could hear it as he swallowed, and his features twisted into wince. "Yes, but, that doesn't quite explain it though, now does it?"

"Of course it does," she said, but her words weren't certain. When they'd started speaking, she'd felt such control, but now, she was thrown. What was he getting at?

Tom made a clicking sound with his teeth. "You all but shrieked your thoughts at me yesterday, on the staircase," he said, his words barely a murmur. "That you knew what I'd done. And you do know. Don't you?"

Hermione had the distinct feeling that she was becoming woven into a trap. She couldn't see it though.

"Well—yes, that's quite literally what we've just been discussing. What's your point?"

Tom stared at her then, tilting his head. His eye contact was piercing.

White walls.

A blank canvas.

An empty field.

"There's something... off about you," he mused. "Isn't there?"

Hermione broke their eye contact to roll her eyes. She gave an impatient huff, and picked up her Daily Prophet. "Okay. Clearly you're incapable of providing a straight answer, so if you don't mind—"

Tom slammed his free hand down on the table, stopping her from taking her newspaper, and his other tightened around her shoulder, holding her in place.

"You know things you shouldn't. You nose where you shouldn't be nosing." Tom smiled at her, and it seemed a little bit sad. "I don't think I've quite figured out what you're up to, just yet, but has anyone ever told you, Hermione, that curiosity killed the cat?"

There was a sight tremor in her hands. She brought them down onto her lap and clasped them together. She wouldn't let it show.

"Yes. My father, actually," she said primly. "Too many times to count. Hearing it come from you isn't anymore threatening than it was from him."

Tom smiled wide. "No?" he asked, close to a laugh. "Not even a little?"

Hermione swallowed. "No," she said, as surely as she could. "I don't— while I can't say that I am entirely understanding of what you were hoping to gain from this conversation... I don't want to be a threat to you, Tom. We were getting along so well before this. I thought we even—"

As Tom laughed, she broke off. She wasn't going to talk over him.

"You think that I'm threatened by you?" he asked, his laugh incredulous.

"You tried to kill me. How else should I interpret that?"

Tom's arm moved, migrating lower down her back, fingers hovering over her spine. He leaned in closer. It was almost intimate. "Is the spider threatened by the fly?"

It was such a smooth, gentle whisper, and yet, Hermione's skin felt hot.

"You know, Riddle," she spat, unable to keep it in, "those who believe in pureblood supremacy are all the same. They're all so hellbent on the notion that muggleborns are beneath them, that we could never be their equal, that in the end... they all have one thing in common. They never see us coming," she scathed. "Grindelwald fell. He too, was reckless and shortsighted, and it led to his downfall. I'm giving you this chance—this one chance—to see his mistakes and learn from them. But if you don't let go of this, if you don't back off... you'll see that I am the spider in this scenario, and you'll fall too."

And with that, Hermione stood from the bench, brushing off his touch, and went to walk away.

"I can see it now," Tom called after her when she'd made it only a few steps.

Hermione was so flustered, so irate that she couldn't stop herself. She halted and glanced back. "Just what do you see?" she snapped.

Tom was leaning on the table with one elbow, a hand under his jaw. He looked entertained, entirely relaxed, and in that moment, she'd never hated anyone more.

"You told me you thought you'd make a fine Gryffindor. I didn't see it before, but now..." He nodded slowly, "I think I do. You have courage in spades, don't you?" He said. "Even when it's entirely unfounded. Gryffindor through and through."

Hermione scowled down at him. She'd had enough. Screw convincing him to recruit her. She'd just have to find his chambers, break into them, and find the diary that way. He wasn't leaving her with a choice. "Go fuck yourself," she spat.

And as she stormed off, over the hustle and bustle of dinner, she heard the sound of his laughter following her all the way out.