He Is Unexpected
Chapter Eighteen: He Is Unexpected
Hogwarts, 1990
Hermione hadn't been all that keen on the idea of Quidditch once the game had been explained to her. She honestly couldn't see the appeal of watching fourteen people flirt with one of her greatest fears—how the House teams even managed to play at all without constantly shrieking in terror was simply beyond her. Deep down, she also felt that it was just a silly waste of time. How much study was being forgone in favour of watching this violent, albeit daring display? On a beautiful, brisk day like this she would usually be camped out in a sunny courtyard, nose-deep in homework, but she'd come out to the Pitch today because she'd wanted to support Harry. It was his first game and he'd seemed so wretchedly nervous at breakfast—she had hoped that hearing some friends cheer him on would help him find his courage.
Before long, Hermione's instinctual fear of the aerial sport was proven wise. Harry's broom began to shudder and jerk like a bucking horse, trying to throw him off. He seemed so much smaller than the other players in that moment, tiny even, and the effort to stay on his suddenly possessed broom was clearly taking its toll. The next few minutes were a wild blur—Neville crying, Ron shouting, a desperate race to the stands where the staff sat, letting her magic fly to create the flames it was so inherently driven to conjure.
By the time her thoughts finally caught back up to the present, she was sitting in Hagrid's hut with Ron and a pale-looking Harry, each of them nursing a soothing cup of tea. Gryffindor had won despite someone's clear attempt on Harry's life, and yet somehow the conversation had turned to that stupid, three-headed dog again. She honestly did not understand their fascination with the creature or what it guarded, but she rather suspected Harry needed something to focus on that would rationalise how close he'd come to dying today. It wasn't his most logical option though; he was, after all, The-Boy-Who-Lived, surely there were a number of secret supporters of the former Dark Lord that still wanted him dead. Even the idea that Snape was the culprit was beginning to feel rather flimsy—why would a Potions Master with access to dozens, if not hundreds, of untraceable poisons choose to instead use a jinx to do his dirty work? It just didn't make any sense.
The weak, mid-afternoon sun gleamed off the gentle waves of the Black Lake as they left Hagrid's. Harry and Ron were triumphant, having gotten the gamekeeper to accidentally slip them a name—Nicolas Flamel. Hermione felt a bit bad for the flustered half-giant; he was a sweet man, but not terrifically clever. It never occurred to him to guard himself against his young friends; it was unclear if Harry realised that, but he'd certainly taken advantage of it.
"Nicolas Flamel must have discovered something, and it was important enough that Professor Dumbledore offered to protect it," Harry explained as they walked back toward the castle. He seemed perversely excited about the whole mystery. Were she in his shoes, she would have been much more worried that a fully trained wizard wanted her dead. "Snape already knows where it is and how it's being guarded, so it's only a matter of time before he makes another attempt to steal it—and he knows I'm on to him, that's why he tried to kill me today."
Hermione strayed toward the edges of the Lake, wanting to stay outside for this particular conversation, where it would be harder for anyone to overhear them. "I'm not so sure," she interrupted awkwardly.
"What?" Harry and Ron both drew close beside her, their mouths hanging open in confusion.
"About Snape, that is." Her thoughts raced, recalling those blurred minutes with abrupt clarity. When she'd lifted her binoculars to search for a culprit, they had settled almost straight away on Snape. Instantly, she had taken off to distract him, and yet something had nagged at her, a brief flash of purple fabric from the corner of her eye—Professor Quirrell's turban. Her instincts had told her she was being silly for noticing him, but Tom's words from several days ago had come back to her, 'He had to display some level of competency in order to get the post, or he'd still be teaching Muggle Studies.' In theory, Professor Quirrell ought to know quite a lot about jinxes, enough to be able to cast one or two. And wasn't it funny that he'd been just a few steps away from Snape, acting in almost the exact same, strange fashion? "I'm not so sure it was him trying to jinx Harry's broom."
Harry frowned and tilted his head, confused why she had earlier defended the idea to Hagrid but questioned it now in private. "Hermione, you said it yourself—he was keeping eye contact and muttering under his breath continuously."
"He wasn't the only one," she bit her lip, aware how unbelievable this was going to sound. "Professor Quirrell was as well."
"Quirrell?" Ron scoffed. "Are you sure he wasn't just having some sort of nervous fit? I mean, the broom went back to normal after you set Snape's robes on fire."
She nodded, suddenly keenly aware of how Tom must have felt when attempting to warn her about this seemingly innocuous man. "I know," she replied, "but Professor Quirrell got knocked over at the same time Snape broke eye contact—it really could have been either one of them."
"You set a Professor on fire?" An amused chuckle rang out. "I'm actually sorry I missed that!"
Hermione, recognizing the smooth voice immediately, let out a deep sigh and acknowledged that her friend had awful timing. She turned after a moment to find Tom standing in full sight only a few paces away, anachronistic uniform and all. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, although it didn't come out quite as hotly as she'd intended; it was difficult for her to be anything other than happy to see him right then.
He laughed—a high and wild sound that she had always felt did not suit him—and picked his way across the rocky beach to her side. "All that rot about not being cruel to others," he snickered, immensely delighted with this conversation, "but the minute I turn around you're immolating authority figures!"
"Don't be vulgar," she snapped. A part of her was aware that he was just teasing, but it was hard not to take his words seriously when there was a definite glint of pride lurking in his dark eyes. Now was hardly the time to address his inclination toward petty violence and revenge though, particularly not in front of company; she wanted him to appeal to the two Gryffindor boys, even if that meant downplaying his Slytherin nature. "It was just the edge of his robes, Tom," she explained with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, "more of a distraction than anything else. No one was hurt."
"Tom?" Harry questioned immediately, emerald eyes bright with curiosity. "You said you didn't know him." He looked between the two of them, gaze assessing. Just moments ago, Harry had been awash in childish eagerness and yet now, in the face of the unknown, he was once more that startlingly perceptive boy she'd glimpsed on Halloween.
"She lied," Tom smiled, plainly having far too much fun as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Pressing her firmly but casually into his side, he continued, "Your little Lioness is best friends with a Slytherin."
Hermione sighed and prayed for strength; this wasn't at all how she'd pictured this conversation going. Based on his behaviour when she'd broached the subject of Harry and Ron, she'd known that Tom wasn't keen on the idea of them. And while she had suspected that he might do something rash, she honestly hadn't anticipated whatever this was—softly antagonising, quietly mocking. He was open and jovial, charming almost, for an eleven year old; if it hadn't been for the underlying sharpness of his words, or the clearly territorial way he'd positioned himself slightly between Hermione and the two other boys, he might have even seemed friendly. "I knew it was too good to be true," she muttered. "Once you said that you wanted to meet them, I knew something like this would happen."
Tom grinned at her, honestly grinned, and she wasn't sure she'd ever seen him quite so happy. It was a blindingly brilliant twist of his lips, and in that moment she could see what he would one day become—see the boyish roundness of his face give way to the solid angles of manhood. If time was kind, he would be breathtakingly handsome. And yet, lingering at the edges of that prophetic smile was a warning, a clear delight in the discomfort of others; he was somehow amiable without ever actually being kind. "What?" he pouted sweetly. "I'm practically on my best behaviour over here."
She hadn't seen him act like this since the summer. Anything genuine in him was hidden under a carefully constructed performance, equal parts inviting and repelling. Earning his honesty had been a hard-fought battle, and its stark absence now made her shiver. Perhaps thinking she was cold, he pulled her closer to share the warmth under the edges of his his cloak, a strangely kind gesture in the midst of his current performance. It was a small comfort, but the meaning was clear—he knew his behaviour was troubling her and, in his own way, he wanted to soothe that unease. Obviously not enough to drop the act though; appearances had always been strangely important to Tom.
She couldn't quite wrap her head around what he was hoping to achieve here. Antagonising Harry and Ron served no real purpose, and it certainly didn't endear him to the two other boys. It would have been better to ease the pair into knowledge of Tom's visits, to gradually acclimate them to the Slytherin's presence. Tom, however, had apparently chosen the quick relief method, to rip the bandage off in one pull; his impatience would be the death of him one day. "You might have discussed this with me first," she sighed, but she knew it was already too late. This mess of an encounter would have to serve as an introduction. "We could have planned a better way to break the news than just ambushing them."
"Hermione," Ron called quietly, finally drawing attention back to the confused pair of Gryffindors, "what's going on?"
Harry, despite all odds, had a bit of a half-smile playing about his lips as he asked Tom directly, "Who are you?"
Tom appeared to take Harry's measure—the calm, assessing demeanor, his quiet amusement in the face of a mystery—but whatever conclusions he reached, he kept them to himself. Instead, he merely shrugged and returned, "Who do you think I am?"
"Don't draw this out," Hermione groaned.
But Harry seemed only too happy to play the game. "Aside from the troll incident, I've never seen you before," he replied, sorting through mental puzzle pieces, "so you can't be a First Year or we would have had classes together."
Ron shifted nervously, not nearly as at ease in the face of uncertainty as his compatriot. "What is she doing hanging around a Slytherin?" he muttered darkly to Harry. The redhead's hair-trigger temper was starting to engage, a hot flush already burning across his cheeks. "It's not right."
Harry ignored the emotion fueling Ron's words in favour of considering the question seriously. "We don't have any lessons with him," he said slowly, "so unless they met in the Library, I'm betting that they were friends before school started." There it was again, that unexpected intuition of his. Increasingly, Hermione was starting to think that Harry saw far more of the world than he ever let on. She'd misjudged him based on his academic record because Harry was only an average student most of the time, but she was beginning to suspect that was because he simply never bothered to apply himself; there was a sharp mind hiding behind that carefree attitude.
"You said he's at least a Second Year," Ron hissed, clearly unimpressed by the logic, "so she must have already known what House he's from."
"Be fair," Harry frowned, finally turning to glance at the other boy, "she probably didn't even know about Hogwarts until her Letter came. I didn't."
Hermione had known from the start that Ron had strong opinions about the social structure at Hogwarts—he came from a long line of Gryffindors, existed under a certain amount of pressure to embody those ideals to the extreme—but she hadn't quite expected this outright hostility. It was naive, perhaps, but his next words honestly shocked her, not so much for their content as their implication. "And that's another thing," the redhead jeered, winding up into a lather, "what's a Slytherin doing hanging around a muggleborn?"
Tom, who had been watching the interplay with an avid, almost hungry expression, went dangerously still at that. His face fell blank; like a light turning off, there simply wasn't anything there left to read. And yet, regardless of his mask-like facade, his anger was belied by the sudden smoldering heat burning in his eyes. "That sounds dangerously prejudiced, Mr. Weasley," he cut in smoothly, voice almost silky despite the menace lurking within its depths. "I'd watch my tongue if I were you."
"Or you'll what?" Ron grit out and, always so quick to anger, lifted his wand as if to duel.
Tom, however, was equal parts confrontational and analytical—he paused to think where the redhead did not. It wasn't exactly clear why, but he decided not to meet that challenge. Something wicked glittered in his black depths, covered quickly by the return of his off-putting friendliness. "Oh, that's not a threat; more of a suggestion, really," he replied brightly. When he continued, his tone stayed just as sweet, his features just as childishly open, but there was no mistaking the nastiness hiding within his words, "I just thought it might be nice if you could spare us all some of the useless drivel spewing out of your mouth."
Having expected actions more than words, the young Weasley floundered for a moment. "How dare you—!"
But Tom would not let him finish, a hint of steel lacing his voice when he snapped, "I'm not the one implying that anyone in present company is a possible blood supremacist! You'd think I would have earned at least a bit of good will after I helped out with the troll."
Uncertainty and perhaps even a bit of guilt flashed across Ron's face, but that did not stop him from carrying on. "How could someone like you be friends with someone like her?"
Hermione flinched, glad for Tom's solid presence to mask the movement. Ron had hated her from their first meeting forward with such a clear and instinctual intensity that she'd once worried over his opinions on muggleborns. Harry had put that fear to rest, and these vitriolic words did not renew her anxiety precisely—they made her worry about something else entirely. Her friendship with Ron was new, untried; yes, the troll had brought them all together in ways that could not be fully described, but that didn't necessarily mean his opinion of who and what she was had changed at all. In fact, it was entirely possible that her friendship with Tom was only making her even less desirably company in Ron's eyes.
Unaware of the rapid assessment and carried away by his own temper, the redhead continued, "Your parents must be very disappointed."
"Well, they're both dead," Tom replied coldly, "so I rather doubt they're feeling much of anything." He had felt her flinch—how could he not when they were pressed so close?—and though he made no overtly aggressive motions, she noticed that his wand was suddenly gripped tightly in his left fist. " And now, I'd like it very much if you would apologize to Hermione for what you said."
Harry, perhaps sensing the danger that was preparing to erupt, threw out a hand to cut his friend off. "You went a bit over the line there, Ron," he said, pointing over to her.
She must have looked more stricken than she imagined, because he paled instantly. "What? No, I didn't mean—from his point of view, not that I—"
"And I thought I was bad at apologising," Tom scoffed darkly.
"Hermione, you know I didn't mean…" Ron floundered once more, searching for the right words. "It's just strange that he would call you his best friend! Slytherins and muggleborns don't get along, let alone Slytherins and Gryffindors!"
She didn't know what to make of his behaviour anymore. Either there were several unresolvable issues lying between them, or his distrust of Slytherins had devolved into outright paranoia. It wasn't like she was trying to introduce them to Draco Malfoy here, and surely he couldn't think all Slytherins were like that insufferable prat! Tom had his fair share of rough edges, but he was a good friend. "You can't always assume the worst of everyone, Ron," she told him quietly. "There's more to life than Hogwarts rivalries, you know. Tom's been my friend for three years, whether you like it or not, and right now you're making it sound as if I've been nothing but a waste of his time."
It was unclear if the redhead appreciated the full extent of his actions—he obviously didn't care that he'd just brought up an orphan's deceased parents in the most gauche way possible—but he did appear genuinely apologetic for having made her uncomfortable. When he finally got it out, his apology was hardly the stuff of legends, little better than the effort he'd made after the troll incident, but under the circumstances she supposed it was the best she could expect. After all, she'd already predicted how difficult it would be for all four of them to meet civilly; she couldn't honestly say she was surprised that Ron had been the one to react badly. And Tom wasn't exactly helping matters; his every move this afternoon had been designed to inspire the greatest amount of disquiet.
Interestingly, it was Harry who broke the long and uncomfortable silence. He'd been nothing short of reflective throughout the whole debacle, and was obviously more interested in getting some answers than waiting around for Ron to put his foot into it again. His green eyes regarded Hermione solemnly, taking in the way she was practically hugging the taller boy. "Why'd you lie about him?"
She could only stare; that was honestly the last question she'd expected him to ask. "What?"
"He's your best friend," Harry replied, voice surprisingly free of judgement, "but you told us you'd never met him before."
Tom stiffened at her side, clearly not liking that news. She couldn't blame him since she hadn't liked lying about it either, and that was exactly why she'd wanted to be able to tell the truth in the first place. Tom would never, ever have to explain her away to anyone in his own time because they had no reason to know she even existed, meanwhile he left tangible proof of his presence here in the future. Why should she have to be the only one to protect their friendship by denouncing it, to cover his tracks for him? It wasn't fair, especially since telling the truth would be easier for everyone. Was there risk involved? Yes, particularly since her conviction in Ron had just been badly shaken, but it was really only a matter of time before he or Harry figured it out on their own. Better that they should hear it first hand, that they should feel included so as not to spark any outrage.
She took a deep breath and gently pushed away from Tom. This entire conversation had spiralled completely out of control—it was time to force the issue. She still didn't think it was the ideal time, but it was too late for second guessing. It was now or never. Quietly, she spun on her heel and began to walk away.
All three boys were baffled at her retreat, but it was Harry who spoke first, "Hermione, where are you going?"
"I'm going to sit on that rock shelf over there," she shrugged and pointed to a craggy formation some paces away. "This isn't my secret to tell, and the only way it's going to get done is under the threat of a deadline, so I'll give you boys five minutes to sort this all out." She glanced over her shoulder at Harry and Ron, pleading, "I know you're going to find this difficult, but try to believe what he tells you." Leaving Tom to his own devices was a patently awful idea but she didn't know what else to do, so she turned to him and made one last effort to direct his focus by stressing, "Don't antagonise them and don't draw this out—just tell them the truth."
The awkward silence that followed Hermione's departure was hardly unexpected. Still, it presented Tom with a bit of time to study the two other boys. Weasley was almost as tall as him and he too was dressed in a set of secondhand robes, but those were the only similarities they shared; the redhead was far too inclined to indulge his temper at the expense of his intellect, a trait which would one day get him into serious trouble. Potter, on the other hand was a different story entirely—though short and bespectacled, he was also thin, pale skinned, and dark haired like Tom. And he was much more observant than his compatriot, something that had taken Hermione by surprise, which meant Harry must have a bit of a secretive nature or a talent for deception. As Tom assessed that piercing green gaze, he once again felt the disturbing tug of familiarity, as if he knew this boy, as if they'd been friends long ago and had simply forgotten about one another. That phantom impression was unsettling, but at least it wasn't as concerning as the rotten spectre that clung to Quirrell. However, it was a mystery, and he hated not knowing; getting closer to the short boy might provide him with some better understanding.
It was immediately apparent that Potter would be easier to sway, easier to tolerate, than the other boy, and yet despite his carefree attitude he was somehow more in control of the relationship than Weasley. Harry was less confrontational, but if his opinion turned against Tom it could prove disastrous. Knowing what to do with that information was a bit of a conundrum, particularly considering that he didn't actually want to be friends with either of them. Would it be wiser to just focus his attentions on Potter—where his words might have the greater impact—or was it better to treat them as a unit?
This uncertainty was exactly why Tom hated engaging with pairs. He'd always found it easier to work with isolated individuals, not only because physical risk was minimized but because pairs were simply harder to read. They stood together, giving and taking from each other's personality while they each provided their own unique front—great for intimidating and manipulating, but significantly harder to charm. Inevitably, one partner responded best to an entirely different tactic than the other. How was he meant to appeal to both of them like that? He couldn't provide two wholly disparate desires at once! His Ravenclaws, at least, were united by the common interest of knowledge.
He paused at that thought and mulled it over. Wasn't he overlooking the obvious? They did have a common interest—Hermione. She was the only thing that connected all three of them, the only name that he might invoke to gain a bit of cooperation. He'd been a bit put out when she'd left him on his own, but now he was glad she wouldn't be there to hear whatever tripe he had to spin in order to get through to these Gryffindors.
"So what is it then?" Weasley broke the silence—unsurprising, since his companion seemed content to let events unfold as they would. "What's this grand secret you two are being so mysterious about?"
And so Tom told them, because there was really no sense in beating around the bush at such a late stage. It was now or never. He introduced himself as Tom Davies, explained how he had met Hermione and how their acquaintance had developed, how he was a First Year at Hogwarts—just the same as them—only he was some years removed from their current time, though he was careful not to specify the exact distance. It was a lot to swallow, especially with almost no proof to go on other than his and Hermione's word that it was the truth. The difference in his uniform lended the story a bit of credence, but he could still tell that they weren't completely convinced. It was actually a shame that he was so invested in protecting his privacy, otherwise the solution would have been as easy as retrieving an appropriately dated copy of The Daily Prophet. Honestly though, he didn't really care whether they believed him, only that they didn't go repeating his story to others.
With that thought in mind, he began turning the conversation away from validity and more toward loyalty, "You owe it both to Hermione and myself not to say anything."
"How do you figure?" Weasley immediately scoffed.
Tom wouldn't have been pleased with the redhead even if the idiot been perfectly behaved, but his continued, offhanded insolence against Hermione was truly beginning to stoke Tom's temper. Reminded of the arrogant Billy Stubbs, Tom couldn't quite stop himself from acting a bit more like the orphan that the children of London feared. "We all fought the troll together," he snapped coldly, "so if you want to call that a wash, then fine. But let's get one thing straight: I'm the one that taught Hermione how to harness fire and I'm the one who noticed something off about Quirrell. If it weren't for me, at least one of you would be a sticky mess dribbling through the grass right now; as far as I'm concerned, that's tantamount to a life debt." It was an effort to pull himself back from his anger, to calm the magic that was beginning to swirl around him. This whole friendship was exercise in stupidity as far as he was concerned, but if it was what Hermione desired than that's what he would give her. While he wanted to stress how much more she was his friend than theirs, he couldn't afford to completely alienate both boys. Having already decided that Potter was the more important of the two, and significantly less dangerous to temper, Tom shifted his focus over to the dark haired boy. "I realise that sounds harsh," he said soothingly, hoping to smooth over his rough exclamation, "but I'm not asking for much in return."
Harry was definitely more curious than offended, maybe even distantly grateful for Tom's perceived help. His sharp eyes studied the taller boy, and it was disconcerting to Tom to realise he had no real idea what Potter saw. "What do you want?" the shorter boy finally asked; his tone was undemanding, accepting even.
"Just your silence," Tom replied softly. "Keep my secret, that's all. It's as much for Hermione's protection as my own."
Ron frowned at that, both confused and irritated at being so casually dismissed. "Why would she be in danger?"
"Do you know many time-travelers then, Weasley?" Tom scoffed.
The redhead snapped, "Obviously not," with an attitude that plainly said he didn't think the topic was relevant to the conversation.
If it hadn't been for the grudging interest still reflected in those hostile blue eyes, Tom might honestly have lost grip on his temper again. "I doubt anyone does, and I know the Ministry would take me without question," he replied, striving to sound amiable, "but don't you think they would be particularly interested in her as well? Three years of observed, first-hand information regarding a phenomenon that's not well understood in the hands of an easily controlled little girl. They wouldn't hesitate to take her out of school, separate her from you, from her family." He gave them both a hard stare and a little time to let his words sink in. The only way to ensure their silence was to make them think they were protecting Hermione by doing so. If he could convince them of that, then it didn't matter what their personal feelings about him were. Entreating now, he continued, "Do you think anyone would ever see her again after something like that? Because I don't."
Potter was already hooked—his loyalties clearly formed fast and ran deep. Weasley, on the other hand, appeared shaken by the idea but still tried to argue, "You can't know—"
"Magic has an uncanny way of making problems disappear though, doesn't it?" Tom cut him off, voice low and solemn. "And are you really willing to put her future at risk in favour of siding with uncertainty? If you like Hermione, if you value her and want to protect the life here that she deserves to have, then just stay quiet." So close, he was so close to convincing the redhead! What would tip the boy over? The answer almost made him grin: a little reverse psychology, a little misdirection, really it wasn't so different from how he'd worked Andrus over. All Tom had to do was convince the other boy that he didn't want this—not difficult considering it was the truth—and imply that Hermione had put a bit more faith in the redhead than he had in her. Guilt would do most of the work, to be honest, facilitated by Weasley's natural urge to spite the Slytherin however he could. "Personally," he hummed, letting a bit of the disdain he felt come through, "I would not have told you at all, but Hermione was adamant that her friends deserved to know, that they were trustworthy." Using her as a smokescreen was a little underhanded, but what else was he meant to do in the paltry five minutes she'd given him? "I can't say I share her optimism, but it would be nice if you proved her right."
Weasley finally caved, and together with Potter, they both offered their unspoken promise—not ideal, but it would have to do until Tom could figure out a more permanent solution.