He Is Determined
Chapter Twelve: He Is Determined
Hogwarts, 1990
Despite her early misgivings, Hogwarts followed an ebb and flow that Hermione quickly found herself adapting to. True, there were hazards—she'd had to tell off one particular broom cupboard for constantly trying to convince her it was the Charms classroom, not to mention that running into Peeves the poltergeist could ruin her whole day—but the staircases generally followed a set rhythm and the coats of armour proved very helpful, if she asked them sweetly enough. She still found herself lost on occasion, but it was not quite so terrifying an ordeal as she'd originally assumed. As long as she made it to her lessons on time, Hermione actually found she enjoyed getting a bit lost. The castle was monstrously huge and full of interesting little detours that most new students didn't take notice of; there were trophy rooms, portrait galleries, even a quiet little reading room on the opposite side of the castle from the Library.
The Library was, by far, her favourite place in the whole school. It occupied a colossal hall with grand, vaulted ceilings to accommodate the impossibly tall shelves. There were more books there than she figured she could read in two lifetimes, but she was very keen to test the idea. She'd found herself in the Library quite a lot, even in the first few days of classes; it was a convenient reprieve from her fellow First Years.
Hermione had tried to put her best foot forward, but it seemed that the other Gryffindor girls were impossible to please. They nattered on about boys and musicians and celebrities she'd never even heard of—if they'd cared about their studies at all she might have stood a chance of impressing them, but their heads were full of fluff. And the boys were no better, really; it was all sports and complicated games with them. Neville was the only one who seemed to welcome her, often taking the seat beside her during lessons, though a part of her felt that perhaps he did it more to take advantage of her knowledge and help than anything else. She couldn't fault him for it—it was a decent friend-making strategy when she mulled the idea over, because they certainly had gotten to know each other a bit—especially since he wasn't the only one doing it. Harry, whether through chance or design, often sat beside her as well. She had a sneaking suspicion he appreciated the fact that she didn't spend time blatantly staring at his scar the way other students did. And, though he didn't need her help with classwork as often as Neville, he always appeared grateful for it, which was more than she could say for any of the other First Year students.
She'd heard more than her fair share of snide comments and disparaging nicknames to understand that her intelligence was increasingly intimidating to them. Even a Ravenclaw had accused her of being a know-it-all! Ron, in particular, seemed the most intolerant and, unfortunately, where Harry went Ron followed. The two were inseparable. Not that she wanted to separate them—her dearest wish was merely to join them!—but she would if she had to, if the redhead continued being so stubborn about her. She was determined to be their friend because she knew, deep down, that if Weasley would just give her a chance he'd really like her, that the three of them together could be something special. Ron, however, seemed just as determined to pretend she was a nuisance, even though her quick answers were earning points for Gryffindor faster than his older brothers were losing them.
While her peers didn't exactly make her feel welcome in the classroom, the lessons themselves were exciting and most of her professors seemed to enjoy her enthusiasm quite a lot. In fact, it wasn't until her first Potions lesson that she encountered a teacher who disliked her.
The Friday in question was a dreary day, but Hermione had been looking forward to it since first reading her schedule. Double Potions was the only class that First Year Gryffindors shared with Slytherin. True to his word, she'd seen neither hide nor hair of Tom in several days, but he would have to attend Potions. While not particularly sorry for his absence, as she was still quite furious with him, a part of her wanted to see how Tom was getting along on his first week.
But the contrary boy wasn't there.
She'd gone down to the dungeons early, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but as the minutes had ticked by she'd become increasingly anxious. By the time Snape swept grandly into the classroom, her heart had sunk and she knew that Tom wasn't going to show up; a risky move, considering that Snape was his Head of House. Hermione thought this was particularly out of character for Tom—while his temper sometimes made him act rashly, he'd never been one to miss an opportunity to learn. Her confusion only increased when Snape skipped straight over Davies when calling roll. She thought perhaps that Tom must have already spoken with the Professor about his absence, but then she noticed something funny: the classroom was exactly full, there wasn't a single extra workspace for one more student.
Was Tom not a First Year? Was that what he'd lied about—that he was already a student at Hogwarts? But no, she knew for a fact that he wouldn't have been able to resist showing off his Letter or his wand. And if he'd known Grade One spells he probably would have taught them to her just to see if she could do any of it.
The thought was gradually lulled out of her head by Snape. He spoke quietly, but with great authority. His tone was almost insidious for the hold it had upon his students. The man himself, however, left a lot to be desired. True to the whispered rumours she'd heard, Professor Snape turned a blind eye to his own House and had it out for everyone else. Less than ten minutes into the lesson, she had to add bully to his growing list of character defects. Because that's what he was doing, really—this full grown man, old enough to be their father, was relentlessly belittling Harry for no discernible reason.
Harry, for his part, suffered through the rapid fire questions with in complete confusion, carefully trying to hide how flustered the Slytherins' mean-spirited snickering was making him.
Snape tutted theatrically, though it was clear that this show was for no one's benefit other than his own. With a falsely pitying look directed at Harry, he asked, "Tell me, Potter, what is the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?" It was his third successive question and there didn't seem to be any end to the humiliation in sight. It was cruel to expect so much of the average First Year—doubly cruel since Snape clearly didn't expect him to know any of it.
Harry took the targeted venom in stride, calm in the face of such adversity, but she could see the embarrassed flush creeping up the back of his neck. Hermione felt herself growing red in sympathy. While not affectionate per se, Harry had been warming up to her and was certainly nicer to her than just about any of the other students; he didn't deserve this sort of treatment.
Hermione had always held authority figures in a certain amount of reverence. Teachers in particular had her immediate respect—it had to be difficult to be both skilled and capable of imparting that knowledge to others—and she'd often gone out of her way to express just how deeply that respect ran. But as she stared at Professor Snape's tight, twisting smirk, she found her well had at last run dry.
Before Harry's bewildered, awkward silence could stretch any longer, she burst out in answer, "There isn't one." Neville went very still beside her, likely not wanting to attract any attention.
And rightly so, because Snape whirled on her immediately, his dark robes flaring out like bat wings. "Unless Mr. Potter is having an out of body experience," he hissed viciously, black eyes glittering with menace, "I believe you've just lost Gryffindor two points for speaking out of turn, Miss Granger!"
Hermione cringed inwardly. She knew the rest of Gryffindor would be upset, and she didn't want her other professors to think she was some kind of blatantly rude upstart. However, it wasn't all that bad, when she reflected on it. In the end, what were a few points? She had already earned far more than that during the first week of lessons! Surely no one would begrudge her two measly points, particularly not from Snape who was quite infamous for going out of his way to harass Gryffindors.
Besides, her show of defiance had the desired effect: Snape finally abandoned his pursuit of Harry, who flashed her a thankful smile when their Professor's back was turned. In truth, a number of Gryffindor students looked momentarily impressed by her nerve.
The lesson dragged on for an interminably long time, and by the end of it she felt stretched thin. Neville had kept her on her toes the whole class: jittery, restless hands trying to add the wrong ingredients whenever she wasn't looking. It took a lot of effort to keep him from accidentally melting his own cauldron. Snape certainly didn't help matters, hovering behind his students and finding any reason to make a nasty remark. In fact, by the time the First Years shuffled out of the dungeon everyone, save Draco Malfoy, felt as if they'd been cut down to size.
Hermione had a mind to recuperate in the peaceful solitude of the Library when she heard someone call her name.
It was Harry and his redheaded shadow. "Would you like to have tea with us?" He asked, sounding uncertain—as if he might not really want to be talking to her.
She was so taken aback by his invitation that all she managed in reply was an inarticulate, "What?"
"We're going to Hagrid's for tea and I thought…" Harry fidgeted, stumbling over his words. "Because of what you did for me back there…"
"You wanted to say thank you," she realised.
He looked relieved that she understood. "Yes."
He was inviting her to hangout—out of gratitude, yes, but it was still something. The circumstances could have been better, but this was an opportunity she would not let slip by.
Ron, for his part, looked as if he'd bit into a lemon, but for once he held his tongue.
Hogwarts, 1938
Tom had not particularly gone out of his way to learn the course material prior to the start of term, but he had been curious to experiment, and the things he'd tried he remembered well. In addition to that, he'd always been something of a quick study so he found himself well equipt to handle his first week of lessons. He often had the answer to a tricky question and was almost always the first student to complete his work—in fact, in both Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms, the professors had asked him to help some of the more struggling students. While he was usually loathe to waste his time on those who were clearly undeserving of it, he found himself appreciating this task. The name Riddle might not mean anything to them yet, but the tutor that helped them pass their classes had the opportunity to make an impression. What he lacked in blood connections he could make up for in favours. It was difficult to smile at the dunderheads he was asked to help, but the reward was worth it—not only were they piteously grateful, but his estimation rose sharply in the eyes of the professors.
His fellow Slytherins continued to hold themselves aloof, however; nothing short of notarised documentation would please them. The atmosphere in the common room was the very definition of discomfort. Cold eyes regarded him spitefully whenever he walked by and not a soul spoke to him; Lestrange offered him a sardonic smile every now again, but that was hardly encouraging. In fact, he was ignored so completely in the dungeons that he might as well have been a ghost.
The other Houses—mostly Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff—had noticed him, though. Word had quickly gotten around about the few students he'd helped and it appeared that the rest of the school was stunned. They thought him intriguingly nice for a Slytherin, and he had to admit that it was an interesting idea. How many students could he coax into his debt just by smiling and leading them to the answers they so desperately needed? Would they change their tune when he called in those debts, or would a little bit of charm keep them fooled? Politeness did not come easily to him, friendliness—with one notable exception—was all but an alien concept, but he would practice if necessary, because it was clear that the student body responded to it. London had been a constant power-struggle and the only way to tip the scales in his favour had been through the abundant application of cruelty; Hogwarts would require a far gentler touch. He needed to foster a sense of charisma, something pleasant and compelling, so that his peers would be blind to his true thoughts. That couldn't be too hard, could it? Already, a pair of Ravenclaws had expressed an interest in being friends—he was lukewarm to the idea as he couldn't really see their respective purposes, but he was rather short on acquaintances; relinquishing some of his solitude would simply be part of the bargain.
And if there was one thing Tom currently had an abundance of, it was solitude. It had been mere days since his last trip to the future, but the memory of it left him feeling hollowed out. He missed Hermione, though he didn't dare say it aloud. The admission left a bitter taste in his mouth, because he had the uncomfortable suspicion that she'd been right: he was being cruel to her for no express purpose other than to watch her struggle. It was hard to put himself into her shoes, but he had to concede that if she'd had the nerve to lie like that to him, he would have shouted and raged that she'd betrayed him. He would have made her beg for forgiveness and still held it over her for years—all Hermione had asked of him was that he not make jokes at her expense. And if she was going to made to play his game anyway, if she had the grace not to hurl the word betrayal at him, then hadn't she earned that right? There were people in his own time far more deserving of his ridicule. She had stayed by his side through thick and thin for three years, even though he'd occasionally gone out of his way to be difficult, and he'd not once rewarded her for that loyalty. In fact, he'd shown far more kindness to his idiot classmates than to his one true friend—granted, it was an empty kindness, but it usually was with him. She deserved more, better.
Tom ran his fingers over the coloured beads of the bracelet he still wore—it hadn't helped his time-traveling any, but he found he liked having the simple token to remember her by—and thought over the situation carefully. He had always held himself as superior to those around him, and by comparison Hermione was superior to them as well. So then didn't she deserve to be treated as he himself would expect to be treated? Wasn't it her right to be given that respect?
Yet his pride prevented him from apologizing. It was stupid to think that so long as he didn't admit it he wasn't actually wrong, but that was certainly how it felt. Once the words left his lips his sins would be known, weaknesses apparent. If he conceded this issue, what would stop her from always thinking she was in the right? But if he didn't concede, if he held his tongue entirely, was she capable of forgiving him on her own? He'd never seen her so angry and he was fairly certain he didn't want to find out how vengeful she could be when provoked. If he said nothing it would fester between them, taint the whole relationship. Instead of looking pleased to see him—the only person in the world, present or future, who ever was—her eyes would grow distracted and distant; eventually she would pull away, find solace in others, and he would be left alone. It was an uncomfortable thought; he was not as accustomed to isolation as he'd once been. And while there did seem to be the opportunity to make new friends, none of them were quite so clever or engaging as Hermione. He would feel her absence keenly; truthfully, he already did.
But could he make himself utter those two little words and mean it? Tom was no stranger to saying, "I'm sorry," but in the privacy of his own thoughts there had always been caveats: "I'm sorry you feel that way," or "I'm sorry the circumstances aren't what you expected," but never "I'm sorry for what I did—I'm sorry I hurt you." And he clearly had; not like the little ways he'd upset her in the past, this time he'd well and truly hurt her feelings. She'd certainly reciprocated the gesture, however. Did that make them even? Should he wait until she was ready to apologize as well? Was this a stalemate, or was his offense the greater of the two?
His thoughts were interrupted by a kindly voice. "You keep an awful lot of your own company, Mr. Riddle."
Tom looked up from his isolated table in the Library, seeing his Head of House approach him. The Potions Master had taken an instant shine to him, though it was unclear if this was because of his performance in class or if it was merely out of pity. He certainly hoped it was the former rather than the latter. "Professor Slughorn," he began, rising from his seat slightly to greet the older man.
But the Professor waved him off and continued, "Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, you know; more time for study, certainly—we're only a week in and I can already tell that you'll prove to be a bright student." He smiled encouragingly, though his next words were anything but. "It does make for a lonely existence, however."
"I'm a bit…" Tom clenched his fists under the table, thinking of all the disgusted glares and strained silences that followed him around the common room. "...at odds with everyone."
Slughorn sat down across from him and folded his potion-stained hands consideringly. "Dumbledore mentioned a friend of yours," he replied blithely. "No chance of reconnecting with her?"
Tom wasn't sure what to feel worse about: the fact that the professors were discussing his lack of a social life or that Dumbledore had remembered their conversation and was on the lookout for the mystery girl. The thought of Dumbledore anywhere near Hermione was disquieting; he could only hope that those knowing eyes took no notice of her in the future. How to explain her absence here though? Thinking quickly, he lied, "She ended up at a different school."
"That's a shame. Still, correspondences can do wonders in keeping a friendship alive," Slughorn encouraged lightly, obviously not as concerned as his compatriot. But for a moment he paused, carefully considering the young boy, and when he spoke again his tone was much more serious, "You are not the first to have trouble finding their niche in Slytherin—it can be an unforgiving House on occasion—but everyone finds their place eventually. These things merely take time."
That was not so soothing a fact as the Professor seemed to think. Tom knew his relationships had to be built and cultivated carefully, that the level of control he desired could not be amassed overnight, but it was difficult to find patience. And it wasn't particularly encouraging that Slytherin House prized the one quality he could not learn or fake. Slughorn had to know what sort of social climate existed in their House, yet he seemed to think there was an opportunity there somewhere. Testing the waters, Tom replied, "I was given to understand that my lack of heritage is a deep mark against me."
"Nonsense," the Professor insisted. "I've met my fair share of Purebloods who didn't possess even a tenth of the curiosity and ambition of their muggleborn counterparts. And that's what Slytherin is at its core—ambition and the strength of will to see it done. You've just as much right to be here as anyone else."
While somewhat reassuring, the sentiment wasn't exactly helpful; it didn't provide him with any sort of in with his peers. If given the opportunity, Tom was certain that he had more than enough intellect and ambition to impress, but he honestly didn't see that opportunity arising until he could connect himself with an agreeable surname. Unable to suppress that thought, he pointed out, "You're the only one who seems to think so, Sir. All they care about is lineage. How am I meant to get any of them to take me seriously when I don't even know who my family is?"
There was a disgustingly pitying look in Slughorn's eyes, but he did not give voice to it. "In time," he replied levely, "they will appreciate you on your own merits."
Unless there were factors at play that he'd failed to take into account, he didn't picture himself being able to build up enough goodwill for that—he could already tell that Slytherins were far more likely to be offended by his high marks, and it wasn't as if he currently had anything else to offer. They'd be far more tolerant if he could connect himself to some kind of legacy; even the shakiest hint of heritage would open a few doors. Tom remembered something then, an empty promise that had the potential to turn useful. He pitched his voice low for Slughorn, just this side of pleading, and murmured, "Professor Dumbledore said it might be possible to search through the school records, to see if I can piece anything together."
Slughorn looked surprised, as if the idea of researching had never even occurred to him. "The Hogwarts Archives are always available," he recovered quickly, "though I caution you not to get your hopes up—they've proven less than helpful to a number of students."
It was not promising to be discouraged so quickly. How useless were the Archives if that was Slughorn's automatic response? What the Professor was likely studiously trying not to mention was that it would be easier to get an Inheritance Test done, like the Lestrange boy had mentioned. Tom couldn't even begin to guess at the cost, but he doubted the few silver Sickles he had leftover from his stipend would be anything close to enough; he'd probably have to save up for longer than it would take him to graduate. If the Archives failed him, he would simply have to find his information elsewhere. "Are there any other records?"
"Restricted archives here and at the Ministry, of course; mountains of information going back centuries or more. However, they are a little more difficult to gain access to," Slughorn replied, and his expression spoke his true thoughts clearly enough: the desires of a lonely orphan were unlikely to gain appropriate permission. "You need to know precisely what you are looking for and there's quite an alarming amount of paperwork to fill out. Why, the official Hogwarts Historian went to double check on some renovation dates and the poor chap was never heard from again!" He chortled, though Tom thought it sounded like a rather grim fate. Seeing the boy's somber expression, Slughorn sighed and told him seriously, "I appreciate that your circumstances are difficult, Mr. Riddle, but my advice is to let go of the past; focus on your studies and you will find your home in Hogwarts soon enough."
But not Slytherin, and that was the one place he truly should have fit in to begin with. Tom didn't care what state the Hogwarts Archives were in, it was the only resource he had available!
Hogwarts, 1990
Hagrid had initially frightened Hermione when he'd greeted the First Years coming off the Hogwarts Express. He was a giant of a man, at least twice as tall as her father, with a wild, bushy beard that made him look very fierce. It wasn't until he smiled at her that Friday afternoon that she noticed the kind look on his face and the deep laugh lines around his eyes. Despite his imposing size, Hagrid was a very friendly and gentle person, and though he'd not specifically invited her he was pleased all the same to make her acquaintance. It was refreshing to meet someone who was not immediately put off by her bookishness.
The groundskeeper lived in a cozy wooden hut at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. His home was warm and inviting, full to bursting with bundles of dried herbs and curing meats. Everywhere Hermione looked there were books about exotic animals and strange tools she didn't recognize.
Hagrid handed each of them a massive cup of tea and a lumpy-looking rock cake. The cakes were hard enough to pound nails with, but Hermione didn't wish to appear rude to their host so she made a great show of enjoying them along with Harry and Ron.
Their conversation was a little stilted due to the fact that Ron was not directly talking to her. Harry did his best to bridge the gaps with directed questions, but it had to be obvious to Hagrid that they weren't getting along. It wasn't until Harry began recounting what had happened in Potions that morning that the redhead even looked in her direction.
"Can't believe you interrupted Snape like that," Ron murmured quietly, his tone halfway between amazement and dread.
Hermione shrugged. "Someone had to, otherwise I don't think he ever would have stopped asking Harry questions."
"I know I haven't done anything wrong," Harry looked baffled anew just thinking about it, "but he really seems to hate me."
Hagrid started to become edgy at the turn in conversation—like he agreed but didn't wish to speak ill of a professor. Instead, he awkwardly changed the subject, asking Ron about an older brother who worked with dragons.
Hermione's attention wandered; dragons sounded far too dangerous to get so excited over. She let her eyes rove around Hagrid's cabin once more, lighting momentarily upon a picture of him and a man she assumed must be his father. Hagrid was soft and round in the picture, young enough to be near her own age, yet even then he had already far outgrown his parent. It was a very sweet picture, but unremarkable, and her attention had nearly left it completely when something suddenly clicked into place. Her eyes quickly snapped back to the framed photograph. The young Hagrid was in a Hogwarts uniform, but unlike the one she was wearing Hagrid's also included a blazer under his outer robes—just like Tom had worn.
About a dozen questions sprang to her lips, but she never got the opportunity to ask a single one. Harry had changed the subject to a newspaper clipping he'd spied, which Hagrid evaded talking about entirely, and before long the three First Years found themselves walking back to the castle.
An idea formed at the edge of Hermione's thoughts, but she didn't want to give it any credence before she'd had the chance to thoroughly research the possibility. She didn't like snap judgements, didn't want to risk being wrong. There had to be about a dozen other, more logical explanations as to what was going on with her wayward friend. The idea was completely ludicrous, but somehow it felt inescapable.
What if the reason she couldn't find Tom was because he wasn't somewhere else, but rather somewhen else?