He Is A Writer
Chapter Twenty-Three: He Is A Writer
London, 1990
Hermione had been eager to return home for Christmas, wanting a taste of tradition and family, but she had to admit that the experience was different now. It was strange to be surrounded by the familiar sights and smells of London, strange to realise how mundane her childhood home suddenly felt. Hogwarts had frustrated her in a lot of ways—wizards seemed to routinely do things simply because they could, never considering the logic or sense of it so long as the magic was interesting—but she'd gotten used to the castle's quirks and had even come to expect them on some level. Living amongst muggles now felt sedate to the point of being boring. She kept expecting something to happen, some whimsical explosion of colour and sound, but London had turned into a dull and grey landscape compared to the wizarding world.
That was a troubling thought, particularly since she'd only been gone for a few months—how much stronger might her opinion become after two or three more years? By the time she graduated, would she even be capable of relating to the earthly world she'd been born into? She loved her parents with all her heart, but she couldn't help feeling as if she were set on a path that was destined to lead her inexorably away from them. The more she studied witchcraft, the less they would understand her, and the less she would understand them in turn. It was divisive and cruel that her parents should never really get to partake of the world their daughter belonged to, never really understand the wonder and pure joy of wizarding culture—and all just because of an accident of birth, because they were muggles. It wasn't fair to them and, though she knew it was wrong, she couldn't help but pity them for it; through no fault of their own, their understanding of reality was crippled, incomplete.
Hermione had spent most of her summer catching up on history and culture and had loved every second of it, but the International Statute of Secrecy had sparked a hot flame of anger within her. How could wizards have taken that decision out of the hands of the muggles that it most effected? She couldn't understand the sense in it, and she didn't believe for a single second that the Statute was for the protection of wizarding kind. To hear her fellow students talk, it seemed that most magic folk barely even regarded muggles as human, and they certainly weren't afraid of them. No, it increasingly seemed to her as if wizards and witches held themselves aloof for purely selfish reasons.
She took a deep breath and let the thought go. Valid as her musings were, the simple truth was that she was only dwelling upon them because she felt lonely. Tom had been surprised when she told him she was going home for the holidays, and he'd barely visited her since. She wanted to believe that he kept his distance out of respect for her desire to spend time with her parents, but she had a feeling that he was really just avoiding London. Not that his absence was surprising—he'd always gotten a touch moody and reclusive toward the end of the year, lost in an angry melancholy that she didn't think anyone but another orphan would ever truly understand. She missed him terribly, but at the very least she was certain he would visit on New Year's Eve. It had become a tradition for them to celebrate his birthday together, though they studiously never mentioned that it was his birthday for some reason. After so many years of wanton neglect, she had a feeling that such frivolous celebrations confused him. He always seemed caught between a sort of apathetically inspired surprise that anyone should care and a worryingly insuppressible greed for more. She did her best for him—everyone deserved a bit of special attention on their birthday, after all—but it never felt like quite enough. There was a part of Tom she never seemed able to reach, something quiet and fierce that she desperately wanted to understand but couldn't.
Hermione shook herself; she was letting her imagination run wild again. She'd been chasing shadows ever since learning about Riddle's wand, desperation and paranoia colouring her world in stark negativity. A part of her kept making up reasons not to trust Tom, continually turning minnows into whales because it was easier to be suspicious, easier to let go of the guilt she felt from lying to him and researching behind his back. Her decision not to inform him of her clandestine confrontation with Quirrell or the mystery of Riddle had seemed practical when she'd made it, but the more time wore on the more she was beginning to feel that perhaps she was just being stubborn. Stubborn or not though, Tom's temper was so wickedly unpredictable that she worried what would happen if or when he learned the truth—would his anger fall upon her for her lies and broken promises or upon Quirrell for threatening her? She had no way of knowing, and thus kept silent.
Craving a bit of frivolity to lift her spirits, Hermione turned toward her bedroom window. There was a small stack of presents lined up on the low shelf below the sill—when each had arrived by owl, she'd thought it best to keep them separated from her parents until she could decide whether they would find anything alarming or interesting. She tried to tell herself that she wasn't excluding them from this part of her life, that she was merely shielding them, but the sentiment tasted a little bit like hypocrisy and the sort of logic that had spawned the Statute of Secrecy. Grimly determined to ignore that troubling thought, she began unwrapping presents.
There were more gifts from the Weasleys than she'd anticipated. Percy she had expected; he'd sent her a lovely letter of encouragement and thoughtfully included a list of books in the Library that weren't part of the curriculum but would help round out her studies. She hadn't been certain Ron would send her anything since they were often at odds with each other, but he'd given her a box of Chocolate Frogs and some of his extra cards of famous witches and wizards to help start her collection. Most surprising was that Mrs. Weasley—whom she hadn't even met—had sent her a sizable tin of homemade fudge and a handknit pair of gloves. Considering that Hermione had spent the better part of the term feeling so overwhelmingly alone, this outpouring of kindness from a complete stranger left her feeling a bit misty-eyed.
The beautiful gift Harry and Hagrid put together dried her tears and inspired a grin so large she was sure her face was in danger of splitting. Harry, whom she hadn't been aware had any interest at all in Herbology, had pressed and labeled some unique flowers that were native only to Hogwarts; his shaky, chicken-scratch handwriting was unmistakable, as were the wry observations that floated cheekily around the appropriate labels. The pressed flowers were set in a beautiful frame that Hagrid had carved for her out of rich, dark wood, and she couldn't help but be amazed at how someone as large and wild-looking as Hagrid could make something so intricate and fragile.
Her next present was from Neville, who had thoughtfully put together a bright assortment of sugarless sweets, obviously having remembered the time when she'd tried to explain to him that her parents were dentists; she had been under the impression that he hadn't fully understood what she was talking about, but clearly some of it had stuck with him nonetheless. It was a very kind gesture from such a nervous and overall forgetful boy, and it made her resolve then and there to get to know him better. She'd entertained a wealth of uncharitable thoughts concerning Neville—everything from irritation at his lack of aptitude to outright suspicion that he was simply using her to better his own marks—but at his heart it was clear that he was just an awkward child who desperately wanted to make friends. Not so different from herself, really.
The second to last gift was a bit of a mystery. It had come by way of an owl she didn't recognise—a sleek, dark creature that had seemed extraordinarily haughty, even for a bird. There was no note to accompany the package, no indication of who had sent it; she didn't know many people from the wizarding world yet, and it seemed unlikely that she had any admirers outside of faculty members. Was the gift from a Professor, perhaps? An anonymous token so as to not appear to be playing favourites? The smokey-coloured tin wrapping easily gave way to reveal a wooden box—roughly the size and shape of a smallish chess board, but thick enough that it might contain just about anything. When she shook the box lightly she could hear a dull thumping from within, feel the soft glide of something smooth sliding along the polished interior. Only trouble was that she couldn't figure out how to open the box; there were no latches, buttons, or even seams to pry her fingers into, just solid unbroken wood. Its glossy surface taunted her, the faint filigree pattern spiking her curiosity even higher. The urge to whisper alohomora rested just at the tip of her tongue, but being back in London meant she couldn't use any magic to aid herself; spilling the secrets of the pretty box would have to wait until she returned to Hogwarts, where she wouldn't get into trouble for underaged magic. A touch disappointed, she set the strange gift aside.
Hermione's final present had been delivered by one of the official school owls, and based upon the shape alone she could tell it was a book of some sort. Peeling back the wrapping, she was greeted with writing she hadn't expected to see and nearly dropped the lot in shock. There, atop a well-worn copy of Curses And Counter-Curses by Vindictus Veridian, was a handwritten note from Professor Quirrell.
Miss Granger,
I cannot help but feel that there is some lingering distrust between us—as I still have yet to hear any word from your study partner—and for this I must make amends. Thus, I give to you a book very dear to my own heart; I believe the pair of you will find its contents much more illuminating than the Hogwarts-approved curriculum.
Please pass along to your Slytherin comrade that I am still most anxious to speak with him at his earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Professor Q Quirrell
Somewhat naively, Hermione had hoped that if she ignored this particular problem it would eventually go away. She didn't want to tell Tom about her run-in with Quirrell or the Professor's demands to meet him, but it looked as if Quirrell was going to be insistent. What could she do? Exposing Tom to whatever was possessing her Professor was out of the question, particularly since that creature was under the mistaken assumption that he was a different Tom altogether. And even if the thing didn't care that he was Davies instead of Riddle, it still felt far too dangerous to allow it contact with a time-traveller. What if it latched onto Tom somehow and piggybacked a ride into the past? She didn't have the vaguest idea what that darkness was or even what it wanted, but she did somehow know that letting it escape into the past would have earth-shattering ramifications.
Hermione set the note down, mind buzzing as she stared at the book she'd been given. Curses And Counter-Curses was not a rare text by any means—Flourish & Blotts had had a whole display of them when she'd visited, and there were several copies available in the Hogwarts Library. The subject matter, though obviously not nice, wasn't dangerous per se; some of the spells were considered very minor Dark Magic, but none of it was anywhere near illegal. Most people she'd heard discussing the tome had regarded it as little more than a juvenile dueling primer. Why would Quirrell send her this? It occurred to her briefly that perhaps the book itself was cursed—that opening it might make her do something dreadful—but she discounted the idea almost immediately. Quirrell was still trying to negotiate with her and his gift was likely less about the actual subject matter of the book and more about the inherent flattery and temptation of offering her knowledge outside the boundaries of her formal education. She wasn't very impressed by his transparent manipulations. And yet, despite her strong urge to simply throw the text into the bottom of her trunk and forget about it, her fingers itched to crack open the cover and take a closer look. Quirrell had chosen his snare well; she was weak in the face of an unread book.
Hermione softly peeled the book open, promising herself that whatever laid within would not change her mind in the slightest.
Quirrell had inscribed something just inside the cover, a note that would have felt encouraging from any other professor. From him, it merely felt threatening.
For a pair of dedicated students; may you ever find the answers you seek.
She flipped idly through the book, surprised to find more notes written throughout—theories, observations, and improvements sprinkled amongst the text and crammed into the margins—but those words had obviously been scribed by someone else, and quite a long time ago if the fading of the ink was anything to go by. The looping, elegant cursive was different from Quirrell's, spidery and more precise, written by a careful and lighter hand. She had no idea who this new writer could be, but she got the sense that they were devilishly clever. The writer's insights ranged anywhere from brilliant to horrifying: on one page they had devised a way to counteract the Tongue-Tying Curse through wand movement alone, and yet some pages later they had tweaked the already nasty Pimple Jinx into something that was outright disfiguring! It was a gross waste of intellect in Hermione's opinion, yet she couldn't put the book down; even at their cruelest, and the writer certainly was cruel to have penned a version of the Total Body Bind that eventually led to suffocation, she couldn't help but admire the cunning and skill that had allowed them to so thoroughly change Veridian's work.
It nearly made her blood boil to think that Quirrell had had something like this in his arsenal the whole time and yet had still managed to teach them three different, completelywrong versions of the Leg-Locker Curse. She'd lost her respect for Quirrell quite some time ago, and any lingering regard or concern she'd had for him now died a swift death; Tom had been right, her Defense Professor was absolutely teaching them poorly on purpose. She was still fairly convinced that he was being possessed by something, but now she couldn't help but to think that perhaps it was a willing possession.
Hogwarts, 1938
It was a strange Christmas for Tom that year. Wool's had never been capable or willing to celebrate the occasion—it was just another day on the calendar that served to remind the children they had no money and no families—but Hogwarts went out of its way to make the castle and grounds as festive as possible. Hardly anyone had stayed for the holidays, perhaps only a dozen students remained, and yet everywhere he looked there were garlands of holly and pine, tinsel glittering along the rafters, portraits and suits of armor draped in the colours of the season, and the most ostentatious Christmas trees he'd ever seen had been tucked into what felt like every available nook and cranny. A part of him felt that the professors extensive efforts to decorate were a bit silly seeing as there weren't many around to appreciate it, but despite that sentiment Tom found himself enjoying the sight nonetheless. The glint and flash of their magical baubles was wondrous and soothing to him somehow, and he didn't feel his usual bitter urge to hide his own reactions now that there was hardly anyone around to see him marvel or look astounded.
Twinkling ornaments and coloured candles weren't the only curious sightings of the season, either. He had actually seen the Seneschal out of the Library for once, having what had looked to be an engaging if somewhat awkward conversation with Professor Merrythought during Christmas dinner. Stranger still, for the first time in his life, Tom had received presents on Christmas. In previous years, Hermione had been the only person that had ever tried to make an effort for him, but as he'd made it a point to never visit her on the joyous holiday in question she had always given him gifts on his birthday instead—which he felt was an occasion even less deserving of festivity, but his Gryffindor rarely took no for an answer. She'd given him some of the nicest things he owned too, like that pair of strong, sturdy gloves that actually took the length of his fingers into account. In the back of his mind, Hermione had simply become synonymous with generosity, which was probably why he he'd been so bewildered to find presents stacked beside his bed on Christmas morning.
The Seneschal had given him a ring, a heavy band of twisted silver that she claimed to have found at the bottom of the Black Lake during her youth. Eunice and—strangely—Alphard had chipped together to get him The Seven Year Siege, a book about ancient magical strongholds and fortresses throughout Europe. Fawley, too, had given him a book: Putting the Whiz in Wizard, which was much more theory-bound than the title suggested, but nonetheless appropriate when coming from someone who seemed to worship theory above actual magic. His final gift had come from Andrus; another tome, this one titled Preserving The Pure, which turned out to be a detailed history on the so called Sacred Twenty-Eight—the purest bloodlines left in Britain. The subject was somewhat distasteful to Tom, irritating in its shortsightedness and narrow mindset, but it gave him better insight into his Slytherin peers, which seemed to be Lestrange's mission in life lately.
The older boy had owled him almost every day with facts, rumours, and society gossip, paying particular attention to his own family in order to prepare Tom for the ruse they had both agreed upon prior to the holidays. Tom still wasn't sure if it was a wise idea to imply he might be an illegitimate Lestrange, but it was critical that he not lose Alphard's interest at this stage; he had only a few short months left to burrow his way in amongst the other First Years, a task that would be all but impossible without Black's assistance. And so, distasteful or not, Tom devoured every scrap of information that Andrus threw his way.
Christmas came and went in a thick haze of snow, speeding past Tom as he lost large swaths of time to his extracurricular studies. He nearly missed his birthday, steeped amongst all those books and letters, but when he finally realised that it was New Year's Eve he knew he had to visit Hermione. It felt like they had been apart for ages, but Christmas always put her in a saccharine mood, and he didn't wish to ruin it for her by his own bitter outlook—the yuletide continued to show him ever more clearly all the comforts she had that he did not, all the possessions and trappings that he could not provide for her—so he elected to leave her to her own devices. But New Year's Eve was theirs: the one holiday they had together to celebrate life and new beginnings. That easy peace was more than enough to make him overlook the fact that she was actually celebrating his birthday as well. It was difficult to find joy on the anniversary of his mother's death, all but impossible to celebrate his own morbid, yearly reminder that he was inexorably trudging toward the grave as well, but Hermione was always subtle in the way she observed his birthday so he let her have her fun. For his part, he always chose to focus on ouroboros-like rebirth of the New Year.
The Void pressed at him, testing his senses, scratching at the nerve-endings of his very being. Two cosmic titans shifted slowly away from each other, either one trying to take him along with it until he felt stretched thin—like he was a bit of string that had been pulled to the point of snapping. Sightless and desperate to occupy his senses, to ignore the growing madness around him, Tom began to whisper to himself in Parseltongue. The rolling sibilations blocked out the wailing murmurs that filled the air, cocooned him in a way he wished his magic could. He said nothing important, replayed words and conversations he could remember having, recited the Lestrange family tree and then the Blacks' as well. Time became immaterial in the Void; below the spit and hiss of the serpent tongue, Tom felt he'd been trapped in the in-between for an eternity, but he knew it couldn't have been more than a minute or two. Did Time move differently in this place, or was it simply that much of a horrifying experience? Unable to answer that question, he steeled himself and thought of Hermione, of why he elected to make this hellish journey in the first place.
Seconds or days later, her room materialised around him. It took Tom a bit of effort to push his Parseltongue away, to shift English back into focus, but he was aided by the familiar sight of bushy, brown hair. "Hermione," he greeted her quietly.
She spun around with a small squeak, somehow still always surprised when he appeared. "There you are," she exclaimed, smiling wide. "I was beginning to worry that you weren't going to—"
"Hermione," Tom interrupted, shaking off the lingering effects of the Void. He had thought his magic was confused, but something wrong still remained even as his head cleared, an unsettling presence contained within the girl's room. It was quiet and dim, but if he reached out with his senses he could feel it—a familiar and unwelcome darkness. This miasma didn't smother and overwhelm as Quirrell's did, didn't try to whisper or beckon to him, and while it was still wrapped in an edge of wounded decay it didn't taste so much like death. There was no denying that it was in some capacity the same darkness, but this version felt muted, as if it were dormant or sleeping. His heart began thumping uncomfortably loud, unforeseen concern making his chest tighten in panic. What was that wickedness doing here, in muggle London? How had it gotten so close to Hermione?
She slipped her small hand into his, drawing his attention before whispering, "What's wrong?"
He turned to assess her, black eyes sweeping for the smallest detail out of order. "Can you not feel it?"
Her grip tightened, confusion stamped plainly across her face. "What are you talking about?"
"Quirrell's darkness," Tom bit out, scanning the room for anything out of the ordinary. However, with the exception of her school trunk sitting at the foot of her bed, Hermione's room looked the same as it had for the past three years. "I can sense its presence," he insisted, shaking loose of her to pace along the floor. "It's not as oppressive, and it doesn't quite feel sentient in the same way, but it's here nonetheless. Did something happen?" He gave her another once-over, but nothing stood out; she had no apparent injuries, didn't seem to be acting under any compulsions. When he gathered his magic and coaxed it out toward her, he could sense none of the darkness there; her magic was as pure and powerful as it had always been, playful and eager to mingle with his own. "Are you alright?" he asked, reeling himself back, desperately trying to get himself under control—once more, the Void had left him raw and uncomfortably reactionary.
Hermione looked suddenly nervous, wringing her hands as she drew close to him once more. "Oh, Tom," she sighed, fidgeting in place, visibly working up the nerve to confess something. "I didn't know how to tell you, because I was certain you'd be angry with me, so I just…" She trailed off, gesturing listlessly.
His stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot. Was this the distance he had sensed growing between them lately, the strange silence he had known she was keeping? Softly, as if trying to coax a fellow Slytherin into indiscretion, he urged her, "Tell me what happened."
She was lulled by the gentle prompt, allowing the small walls she had built between them to come crashing down. "I did everything you told me not to," she admitted in a grave tone. "I went off alone looking for answers, and Quirrell found me."
"Did he hurt you?" Tom asked quietly, though he was fairly certain he already knew the answer; he didn't think she would have been able or willing to hide an actual injury from him.
As expected, Hermione shook her head. An awkward silence followed the gesture, but she made no move to fill it.
"I knew you were keeping some kind of secret," he accused, a touch exasperated and… he didn't wish to say hurt, because that was unbearably childish, but the fact that she hadn't confided in him or come to him for help felt like an insult. They were best friends, she was supposed to trust him with problems like this!
She shot him an exasperated look of her own and replied, "I didn't want you to worry or do anything rash—it was for your own good!"
He'd always admired her snap, the frequent and lively temper that kept her from being like the demure girls he'd met in his own time, but he didn't appreciate her heavy-handed attitude; in that way, he almost wished she was more like a lady from 1930's. It wouldn't do him any good to voice the thought however, as she would likely turn any admonishment into accusations regarding his own high-handed nature, which he couldn't very well deny. Instead, he attempted to appeal to her tender side, the part of her that was easily provoked into guilt, by pointing out, "I thought we agreed to share our burdens. Isn't that what being friends is about?"
But Hermione was never quite as predictable as he assumed—instead of wilting, she built herself up, eyes flashing with angry fire as she all but snarled, "Why is it perfectly acceptable for you to protect me, but when I try to protect you I'm the one being unreasonable?"
"Because your method negates mine," Tom snapped, running a weary hand through his hair, uncaring if he ruined the neat look of it. In a way, he was flattered by her determination to put his well-being ahead of her own, but more than anything else he was frustrated. After nearly twelve long years of considering the brunt of humanity to be beneath his notice, he'd bonded with someone who absolutely refused to be protected.
It seemed he was going to have to acknowledge the simple fact that he and Hermione were far too similar to successfully resolve the situation—they were both unapologetically trying to make the other feel as if they'd done something wrong while blithely ignoring any opportunity to offer forgiveness or strive toward a compromise. They were equally stubborn and opinionated and hated to be wrong, not to mention that neither of them were ever particularly gracious when their efforts were rebuffed. He knew that the only way to stop their disagreement from turning into a real argument was for one of them to bend, a prospect that seemed all but impossible at that moment, which was why he continued to lecture, "I wanted you surrounded by people, and instead you've been isolating yourself so that no one knows you're in trouble! Why would you do that? You're usually more clever than this."
She looked away, brown eyes closing him out for a moment. The fight didn't exactly drain from her, but it was apparently softened by memories of what she'd tried to keep hidden from him. "Quirrell cornered me in the Hall of Academic Excellence," she confessed. "You told me not to go poking around into the past, but I couldn't leave it be—I needed to know if he really did recognise your wand!"
His gut plummeted, an icy dread coursing through his veins. "I see," he replied blankly. Had she found him? Did she know the extent of his lies? Had she discovered what he planned to do with his future, and in what ways he might have succeeded or failed?
She reacted strangely to his level tone, peeking coyly at him from under her dark lashes. "You're not mad?" she ventured quietly, the brunt of her temper subdued now.
"I'm disappointed," he confessed honestly. Because what else could he say, really? What was done was done, and it wasn't as if he'd been mentally unprepared for this situation, he just hadn't expected it quite so soon. "I figured your curiosity would get the better of you eventually; it's just who you are." He studied her for a long moment, wondering if her opinion of him had been altered in any way—he didn't like that idea, didn't like the thought that some future version of himself could sway her opinion of him without his explicit consent. Resigned to the inevitability of change, he solemnly asked her, "Did you find anything?"
Hermione smiled at him, her sudden shyness melting away as she replied, "A couple of things, actually. Quirrell is definitely possessed, for one. When he confronted me in the Hall, it was like talking to a completely different person. Posture, mannerisms, stance… it wasn't Quirrell at all." She shivered at the memory of it, making him wish he could see what she'd seen. "And whatever, or whoever that spirit is, it seems to suspect that there's more to you than meets the eye—and it desperately wants to meet you."
That wasn't the lead in Tom had been expecting, and his surprise was so absolute that he couldn't stop himself from letting out a dumbfounded, "Why?"
"That was the other thing I found," she carried on excitedly. "Quirrell and his parasite appear to have mistaken your wand for someone else's: a boy—well, I suppose he's probably a man now—named Tom Riddle." His heart froze. She'd found him, she knew something about his life, about his future, that he did not. And yet… she spoke the name Riddle in the distant way one might talk of a stranger. Had she not made the connection? Had fate somehow kept her blind to the truth? Unaware of his internal turmoil, she continued, "When they caught us in that empty classroom they couldn't have seen more than the top few inches of your wand, yet they were certain they recognised it; once I found the photograph of Riddle's wand, I could understand how they made that mistake. I mean, they're practically identical; they're the same wood, the same length, the same core, the only real difference is that your handle is sleeker while his is shaped more like a bone of some sort. I doubt the Professor or his darkness are considering time-travel a possible theory yet; they probably think you inherited the wand or that you're related to Riddle somehow." She paused to take a deep breath, likely seeing a bit of the confusing he was experiencing. "Are you alright?"
Tom felt as if his brain was desperately lagging behind; connections, insights, and schemes usually came to him instantaneously, but he was having trouble processing so much information. Hermione had found him, but didn't realise that it was him because for some reason the boy he would become did not possess the same wand. Or did he? In all respects, other than the handles, it sounded as if the wands were identical. Had Riddle—and wasn't it strange to think of himself in the third person?—replaced the handle of his wand for some reason? Tom had to admit that there was something interestingly morbid and intimidating about a wand shaped like a bone, but it seemed like an unnecessarily theatrical move; the magic he could perform should have been more than enough to impress and frighten others. So why the difference? What had happened—what would happen—to make him feel like altering the appearance of his wand was an imperative step toward his future? Tom didn't want to know—he did not want to know—because knowing negated any sense of personal agency, bound him to a set timeline of events that he either had to dutifully preserve or spitefully negate, and he didn't want that sort of responsibility! Yet he could not stop himself from asking, "Did you find anything out about this Riddle character?" Hermione's boundless sense of curiosity had clearly rubbed off on him.
"A bit, but it's all very perfunctory," she shrugged, a thread of disappointment lacing her voice. "Excellent student, record breaking test scores, Prefect then Head Boy, but that's it." Those were vague predictions, goals he would have worked toward anyway and thus didn't feel any sense of burden from hearing of so prematurely. It didn't hurt to know that at least some of his hard work in school would be rewarded, and he was somewhat relieved that Hermione hadn't been able to find anything else. "No indication of where he came from or where he went after graduation, and certainly nothing that would explain why Quirrell's so interested in him. If you ask me, it's almost as if someone erased as much of Riddle as they could, like they were trying to strike him from history for some reason—I couldn't even find a picture of him despite the fact that he still holds the Ministry record for the highest points ever awarded on the N.E.W.T.'s! Don't you think that's strange?"
He did, in fact. His relief that she hadn't been able to find anything of substance was quickly bleeding out into confusion. Had someone—Dumbledore, perhaps, Champion of the Light that he was—tried to sweep Tom quietly under the rug? He knew that their personal philosophies were incompatible, but what Hermione was describing seemed like an overreaction against a vaguely disliked student. Unless there was more to the story, of course. Had Tom thrown aside all of his carefully laid plans in favour of some more radical action? A failed coup, perhaps, would explain this careful and yet strangely incomplete editing of Hogwarts history. Was his future self even now rotting away in a prison cell somewhere? In truth, Tom would gladly accept that ignominy long before the much more simple explanation that he'd never amounted to anything worthy of remembrance, that none of his meticulous plans had come to fruition.
He burned to find out what had happened, what had gone wrong, but knew that knowledge wouldn't lead him anywhere he wished to go. If he gave in to temptation now, it would only spiral out of his control. For the sake of his own sanity, it was best not to know. With a bit of effort he forced the desire down, taking hold of Hermione's hand once more as he replied, "Let's not worry about it. Quirrell is more than enough of a problem; we don't need to go borrowing trouble."
She seemed a bit disappointed by that answer, but accepted it nonetheless. "Right," she agreed after a moment. "So, what do we do?"
"I don't know yet," he forced himself to say, the words tasting foul upon his tongue, "but we'll think of something." Tom paused, searching out with his magic once more. The darkness was definitely still there, subtle and quiet, and it stirred briefly at his touch but otherwise didn't react. He couldn't quite pinpoint its location, and while it didn't seem to be spreading, its presence so near Hermione made him nervous all the same. Squeezing her hand, he pressed, "You really can't feel that darkness?"
She was stricken by his question, as if her inability to identify the taint was a failing. Maybe it was. Maybe she was simply too kind of a person to be able to identify the taste of something so familiar to Tom. Biting her lip, she admitted, "I sense it sometimes when Quirrell is around, but I don't feel it right now." And she was clearly trying—her magic flared around her wildly, pressing into every corner and crack of the room, but somehow she simply was not able to latch onto the stain.
He let his own magic mingle with hers, gently pressing her senses back lest she perform an extraordinary bit of accidental magic. Knowing her proclivity for the flame, anything she unleashed right now would likely be devastating. Thinking quickly, looking for answers, he asked, "Did Quirrell cast any spells on you or give you anything that his aura might have lingered upon?"
Hermione took a deep breath and then turned to face him. "He sent me a Christmas present," she replied. Her face was tight with disappointment that she'd not thought of that sooner.
"What?" Tom frowned, watching as she scurried to her trunk to start pulling items out.
Piles of books spilled to floor until she finally found what she was looking for: a worn text and a letter. Tucking the book under her arm, she handed him the letter and explained, "I don't think the Professor means any harm yet. I'm sure he's just trying to flatter me into arranging a meeting between you two."
He scanned the short lines of the missive, but there truthfully wasn't much there. Hermione was right, in all likelihood Quirrell was merely attempting to bribe his way into a meeting with Tom. It was a well calculated move on the older man's part, demonstrated an insightful understanding of Hermione and her motivations, but it still didn't shed any light on why he was so desirous to see the young time-traveler in the first place. And if the parchment itself contained a hint of Quirrell's wretched aura, it was buried so deep that even Tom could not feel it; this could not be the carrier he'd been sensing. "Book," he whispered, rereading the letter—what better way to get to a bibliophile than to offer her what she most loved? "He gave you a book?"
She slipped the text from under her arm and held it up for him to see. "Curses And Counter-Curses." The book was clearly a number of years old and well-read; the cover was faded from use, the binding around the spine had begun to fray and peel, and he had no doubt that the pages were at least slightly foxed. "It's not rare or illegal or anything," Hermione continued over his assessment. "Probably not the sort of text a Defense Professor should be giving a First Year student, but it seems harmless enough. Is this what you're sensing?"
He concentrated on the book; there was definitely something there, but he wasn't sure if it was the same presence he'd sensed upon arriving. "Maybe," he admitted, frustrated that he couldn't determine any further than that. "So if nothing else, we know Quirrell will be persistent. I don't suppose you could burn that?"
Hermione, though clearly concerned about the book as well, instantly frowned at the idea of doing any harm to it. "He might ask after it," she argued, "or quiz me about the material to see if I've accepted his proposal."
There wasn't time enough to point out everything wrong with what she'd just said—namely that it sounded as if she was more than willing to give into temptation, blindly trusting that no harm could befall her at the mercy a book—so instead he replied, "I don't like that thing being here. It feels more like a threat than a gesture of goodwill."
"Perhaps you could write Quirrell a letter," she suggested, thinking quickly. "Make contact without actually making contact."
It was an elegant solution—acknowledged the Professor without actually giving into his demands, and allowed both Tom and Hermione to remain at a distance from him—but Tom was certain Quirrell wouldn't be satisfied with that paltry outreach for very long. Still, it was better than jumping into a physical encounter without really understanding what the Defense Professor or his parasite were truly after, and so Tom hummed in agreement while trying to think of how he might provoke the older man into yielding the most amount of useful information.
Hermione left him to his ponderings for a moment, replacing the book and letter at the bottom of her trunk. After packing everything neatly back into place, she returned to his side. "Enough of this gloomy business—there will be time enough to plan something later." With a mischievous smile, she slipped something from her pocket: a small parcel wrapped in glittering, silver paper. "I have a present for you."
London, 1991
The clock struck midnight, distant cheers and songs ringing out in celebration of the New Year, but Hermione paid them no mind. Instead, she watched as Tom opened his birthday present. He always got a bit strange about gifts, if she had to be honest; part of him was eternally surprised to be receiving anything, while a quieter, darker part simply took it as his due. And above all else was always the greed, the troubling impression that nothing was ever enough for him, that he always needed more and better—it shone in the black depths of his eyes, feverish and mad whenever he was struck by that peculiar desire. She did her best not to react, to allow him some measure of privacy in those moments when his guard was down. He'd once confided in her that until he'd received his Hogwarts stipend, he'd only ever possessed what he could nick off others; clothes, books, food, toys, everything at Wool's was communal property, and the only things he truly owned were his school supplies. Between that and the lack of what she considered to be modern conveniences, she felt as if she understood how his greedy nature had been sparked, but she didn't know how to appease it or, better yet, simply make it go away. Tom had a worrying joy for his possessions, reveled in his sense of ownership, and until he got that under control, Hermione didn't know how to react to that behaviour other than to turn a blind eye.
Which wasn't to say that she didn't notice it—she always did, because greed was one of the few emotions that striped his defenses bare—she merely chose not to comment. What could she even say? The way you run your fingers over your things, map out every face and flaw, the way your eyes smolder and burn, the way your face twists into a cruelly satisfied grin leaves me feeling cold and shaken and worried about you? Those words would only cause trouble, and yet she could feel them perched just behind her lips as she watched Tom do all those things—watched him twist and turn the small gift she'd gotten him as if he could brand it through his touch alone, make it a part of himself in a way that no one would ever be able to undo.
His long fingers stroked along the polished silver and he grinned at her. "A pocket watch?" It was not an elaborate creation by any means: a rather plain pocket watch, smooth and unadorned, a few spots tarnished by age, but the hinges were still tight and the watch within still ran perfectly. In fact, the watch was so unassuming that she was willing to bet no one would guess at its secret function.
"Sort of," she replied and, suppressing a shiver, pulled its twin out of her own pocket, "but the watchface opens to reveal a mirror." She demonstrated quickly, opening the watch and flipping back the little clock. "Go ahead, look into it."
Tom repeated her actions, looking surprised when he saw her reflection upon the small mirror in his hand. "Amazing," he breathed, his greed softening a bit into something more practical, more appreciative.
Hermione waved at him through the device, explaining, "Now we can talk to each other even when we're not in the same time, provided they work across that sort of distance, of course. They're supposed to grow warm when the other one has been opened so that you know your companion wishes to talk."
He laughed—that uncomfortably high and wild sound which had never seemed suited to him—in genuine delight. For once not trying to hide his own shock or interest, he allowed the emotions to burn brightly on his face, eagerly closing and opening the watch as he asked, "Where did you find these?"
"Diagon Alley," she replied simply, enjoying the quick warming and cooling of the device in her hands as it responded to its twin. "The shopkeeper said they were broken because the picture doesn't always come through right, but I haven't had any problems with them so far. And look," she held hers up to display the attached chain—a familiar strand of beveled, silver links, "I already even have a fob for mine." Though it still easily looped around her wrist, it had been quite some time since she'd worn the watch fob he had given her all those years ago, and she could tell that he was pleased to see its return.
The fevered moment passed, and Tom finally settled back into his usually calm and inscrutable demeanor. He slipped the watch into his trouser pocket and pulled something from his inner robe, chuckling as he told her, "I feel like my gift pales in comparison now."
"It's not a competition," she admonished, truthfully a bit surprised that he'd brought her anything. Aside from the odd bauble or two over the years, he had never really been able to, or perhaps even interested in giving her presents.
"Says you," he rolled his eyes teasingly. Everything they did together was a competition and they both delighted in that fact; denying so was just silly. "Here."
Hermione slid back the linen wrapping to reveal a hand-bound book, parchment neatly cut and precisely stitched together. All told, the book was no bigger than a small diary, but it was full to bursting with text, every subject arranged and meticulously organised in what she guessed was Tom's own hand. "Did you make this yourself?" she asked, touched that he would go to so much effort for her. His handwriting was a bit unpracticed, the lettering a touch shaky—it must have taken him a very long time to write everything out—and so she found it interesting that he had chosen to write in cursive. Most First Years she'd met simply didn't bother. Harry and Ron both scratched at their essays like chickens, their print unrefined and hindered by quills that had truthful been designed for cursive. Tom's handwriting was hardly perfect, but it was far more elegant than she would have expected from any boy her own age; penmanship truly was a lost art.
He puffed up proudly at her clear admiration, explaining, "I copied over all my Defense notes for you so that you don't have to depend on Quirrell's whims alone. We need to select a time and place that the four of us can regularly meet in order for me to walk all of you through this material."
Hermione wasn't sure what she'd been expecting him to say, but it wasn't that. "The four of us?" she repeated blankly, trying to process what he was proposing. He couldn't possibly be suggesting what she thought he was; she must be mistaken.
"Trust me," he snorted rudely, "I'm not enamoured with the idea of spending my time in the company of Potter and Weasley, but if you don't know the Defense material then it's guaranteed that they don't either—and they need to."
She wasn't mistake at all! He really was offering to relay his own Defense Against The Dark Arts lessons to a pack of Gryffindors! It was a curiously generous offer from a Slytherin, or at least that's what Ron would say once he found out, and she couldn't help but be flattered by the sheer amount of concern he must feel for her to have decided upon such a massive undertaking. "Exclusive lessons from Professor Davies," she crowed merrily. It sounded so silly on the surface—they were only First Years, after all—but he was definitely getting the better Defense education, thanks to Quirrell's interference. Besides which, it would be like old times: Tom relaying some fun new trick he'd learned while Hermione found a different, but equally valid way of doing the same thing. "Thank you," she told him earnestly.
Tom stared at her for a long moment, wheels clearly turning in the depths of his black eyes. When he finally replied, "I only wish I could do more," Hermione got the curious feeling that they were no longer talking about the same thing.