Hermione Granger huffed in frustration and stuffed her Potions text into her rucksack. The bag tore in the corner, the black canvas giving way to the brute force with which Hermione had shoved in the book. Her angry breath quivered in her nostrils as she reached for her wand and mended the torn material, wordlessly swinging the rucksack over her shoulder and tossing her wild hair behind her shoulders.

She stormed from the Potions classroom, leaving Harry and Ron behind. She was tired of arguing about the damned 'Half-Blood Prince,' and she was tired of scolding the boys for using the 'Prince's' textbook for cheating. More importantly, she was tired of looking like a failure in Potions just because Harry had some (admittedly brilliant) scribbles in the margins of his book.

Professor Slughorn was convinced that Harry was a Potions genius. Just like your mother, Professor Slughorn was wont to gush, as he stared admiringly at Harry's finished products. Meanwhile, Hermione would seeth nearby with her adequate-but-not-brilliant work. Every time she tried to bring the book up, Harry and Ron rebuffed her. Now, as she flounced angrily down the Potions corridor, she ignored the way that Ron called from behind her.

"'Mione, hang on! You're being ridiculous."

She paused for a brief moment, just long enough to throw Ron a narrow-eyed glare over her shoulder, and then she kept going. She was being ridiculous? Shewas? That was rich.

Hermione didn't sit near Harry and Ron at dinner that evening, nor did she share a table with them in the Gryffindor Common Room as they all worked on homework. The three of them had stubbornly settled into their opinions, and no one seemed willing to budge. Ginny Weasley made a half-hearted attempt at reconciliation among the Trio, but it was useless, and soon enough Ginny gave up and decided all three of them were sufficiently unpleasant.

After a while, Hermione could no longer remember specifically why she was feeling cross with Ron and Harry. All she could think was that their very presence in the same room as her was stifling and obnoxious, and she decided to go find an empty classroom to do her work alone. She was a prefect, after all, and it was only nine.

She could feel Ron and Harry staring at her as she made her way out of the portrait hole, but she cocked her chin up and sniffed imperiously, ignoring them both. She made her way down a flight of stairs and along an empty corridor, checking doorknobs until she found one that led to a disused room. She illuminated a few lanterns inside the space and settled into a desk. The silence would have been stifling, perhaps, if she didn't need it tonight.

Hermione extracted a thick tome from her rucksack, as well as several bits of parchment and a quill, and she set to work upon a History of Magic essay.

'Augureys thrive in rainy conditions,' she read from the text, 'and their populations are especially vulnerable to times of drought. During the English Drought of 1921, the position of augureys in the wizarding world was changed forever. Previously, the magical birds were considered critical to divining death. However, during the Drought of 1921, it was discovered by Magical zoologist Fauna Cavallo that the augurey merely sounds in anticipation of rain. Since many people died in 1921, but no rain fell, and no augureys made a sound, she was able to draw this conclusion. Thereafter, even after the resumption of regular rain, the position of augureys diminished greatly in importance. It is critical to note, however -'

There was a small click behind Hermione, at the door, and she whirled over her shoulder and furrowed her brows.

"I'm just using this room to study!" she called out rather cautiously. Was there a teacher there - someone who had seen the light of the lanterns in the cracks around the thick door? There was no answer, but Hermione saw the movement of shadows beneath the threshold of the classroom door. She frowned deeply and said in a firm voice, "If it's Harry and Ron, you can just bugger off. I don't want to -"

She would later reflect that she'd had a split second to do something, but she didn't. She didn't set down her quill. She didn't pick up her wand. She would never be able to say why not.

And so she was utterly defenceless when the door flew open with a bang and a low voice murmured, "Petrificus totalus!"

Hermione's eyes flew open and she felt her body stiffen at once, and then suddenly she fell like a stone from her chair. She could not move; she could not speak. But she could hear and see, and suddenly she was acutely aware of the fact that Professor Severus Snape was hovering over her, his wand pointed down at her face.

There was an odd look in his dark eyes. It was something Hermione had never seen before - almost regretful in nature. He sighed quietly as he took in the sight of Hermione's bound body lying still and silent upon the classroom floor, and then Professor Snape said quietly,

"Miss Granger, I'm afraid I have to take you away from here for a while."

What? Hermione wanted to shout at him, to hex him and run away, for a terrible feeling of dread was washing over her. But she was paralysed, and so all she could do was stare up at him with a pleading expression in her chestnut eyes. Where was he taking her? What had he done? Harry and Ron were right, she thought suddenly, Snape is evil.

But then Professor Snape sighed again, rather heavily, and licked his bottom lip as he considered what to say. "Time is a terribly complicated mistress," he informed her, and Hermione felt more confused than ever. Professor Snape continued, "Free will only extends so far, Miss Granger. Unfortunately, I have no choice in this matter. These things did happen, and so they must happen. You will understand. I… am sorry."

Hermione's mind was shrieking in terror. Her heart was pounding in her chest like a massive drum, and she wanted to thrash and scream and get away. The powerlessness of the Body-Bind Curse combined with her fear to create utter panic in her head, and she was dizzy as she lay upon the ground.

She watched as Professor Snape pointed his wand at her textbook, at her parchments and her rucksack. "Evanesco," he mumbled, and the objects Vanished into non-being. He picked up Hermione's vine wand and tucked it into his flowing black robes, and then he turned back to face her. He drew his wand down through the air, over her form, in an elegant pattern, and murmured the incantation to Disillusion her. "Wingardium leviosa," Snape said quietly, and Hermione felt herself being lifted off the ground by his magic.

She was still completely paralysed as Professor Snape opened the classroom door, pointing his wand surreptitiously at her and guiding her hovering form down the corridor. Soon they were outside the castle, making their way over rocky paths and grassy expanses, and Hermione realised that Snape was taking her to the Apparition Point.

Where is he taking me? Her panicked thoughts sounded shrill in her own head. She wanted to ask Professor Snape why he'd done this - why he'd barged into the classroom and hexed her and Vanished her belongings and cryptically made it sound like he was carrying out a death sentence. On whose orders was he acting? Dumbledore's, or Voldemort's? Neither? Both? She had no idea anymore where Professor Snape's loyalties were, but as her immobile and invisible body was guided by his wand, she realised that he was no ally of hers.

"When we land, Miss Granger," she heard Professor Snape saying somewhere beyond her peripheral vision, "this Body-Bind will wear off and you will be fully ambulatory. You must not attack me, or it will mean catastrophe… for you and for everyone else. Please understand, I mean you no bodily harm. I am… only doing as I'm ordered."

Hermione internally shivered at the way Professor Snape's low, silvery voice was twinged with sorrow and sadness. She was used to him being sharp and severe, but tonight he sounded as though he deeply regretted his actions.

What on Earth is happening? Hermione's mind was a jumble of fear as she felt Professor Snape's left hand make contact with her hovering shoulder. What orders is he following? Where is he taking me?

Then, suddenly, a new thought entered Hermione's mind, and her stomach felt cold as terror spiked through her.

I'm going to die tonight. They're trying to use me to get to Harry. This is how I die. Professor Snape takes me somewhere and I die.

The Hogwarts grounds disappeared then, and Hermione felt herself pulled sharply backward by her naval into an abyss. She was being squeezed and pinched and pushed and pulled all at once, and a terrible wave of nausea crashed over her. In an instant, it was over and she fell hard onto her knees as a loud crack!hammered her eardrums.

Hermione gagged a bit and quickly scrambled to her feet, brushing grass and dirt from her hands and school robes as she looked fearfully around her. She was standing in front of a large iron gate, behind which an imposing mansion loomed. Hermione stared for a moment through the iron bars at the large, formidable home. Then, from beside her, she heard Professor Snape's voice say,

"Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Miss Granger. Come with me, if you please."

Hermione suspected she had no choice at all in the matter, and she made no effort to retrieve her wand from Professor Snape. She mutely followed him through the gate and up the path to the front door of the large home, feeling a sinking sensation of dread coming over her as they climbed the marble steps up to the front doors.

Professor Snape flicked his eyes downward to Hermione before he raised his hand to the knocker. He looked her up and down with an unreadable expression - curiosity, perhaps, or pity - and then whispered, "I am very sorry, Miss Granger."

Before Hermione could demand an explanation for being kidnapped and whisked off to Malfoy Manor, Professor Snape was knocking. A moment later, the thick black wooden doors swung open, and Hermione had to stifle a gasp of horror.

Bellatrix Lestrange. Hermione had not seen the witch in person since the battle at the Department of Mysteries, the night this terrible woman had murdered Sirius Black. Hermione's fingers unconsciously flew to touch the place between her breasts, the place where Antonin Dolohov's awful curse had slashed her insides and nearly killed her. The burning, searing pain was suddenly there again, as if the wound were fresh, and Hermione gulped.

The heavy-lidded eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange widened when the witch took in Professor Snape and Hermione. Her look of surprise quickly faded and Bellatrix cleared her throat with feigned delicacy, and then she sneered in a tight voice,

"Snape. Lovely to see you, as always. And you've brought a Mudblood. How considerate."

Hermione felt a pang of rage then. She hated Bellatrix Lestrange enough as it was; now the witch was directly insulting her to her face, and Hermione didn't even know why she was here. She likely had only moments to live, she considered, but if she could accomplish anything for the Order in those last few moments, she would do it. Incurring Bellatrix's wrath wouldn't help anything. So Hermione just flashed a glare at the wild-eyed witch and ground her teeth in silence.

"Step aside, Bella," Professor Snape said smoothly. "Is he upstairs?"

Bellatrix looked hesitant, but pulled the door open wider and fell back a bit. She regarded Professor Snape and Hermione with great suspicion as they stepped over the threshold into the cavernous foyer.

"You know very well, Snape, that the Dark Lord is a very busy man. I very much doubt he has time to grant an audience to a Mudblood. Why are you here?"

Hermione was surprised by the level of animosity between Bellatrix and Professor Snape, and she flicked her eyes back and forth between them curiously. Professor Snape's face was blank and stony as he cocked up a single eyebrow and asked,

"Oh… he didn't tell you? I'd have thought you of all people would have known. But, then, it is quite easy to overestimate one's importance…" He shrugged airily and sighed a bit. Bellatrix looked enraged, her cheeks going dark pink and her black eyes flashing. Professor Snape continued, "In any case, he is expecting me. If he's upstairs, then I shall simply make my way there. Good evening, Bella. It is always a pleasure when you grace my presence. Come, Miss Granger."

Hermione scowled at being addressed like a dog, but she knew the wisest and most calculated move right now was to stay silent. She would observe carefully and strike if she could, if necessary. She felt a flutter of terrified anxiety pumping through her veins as she climbed a flight of marble stairs. She stayed close to Professor Snape, wondering if perhaps he was an ally - if he was doing something for the Order and she just wasn't privy to the details. After all, Professor Dumbledore trusted him…

But any thought of that dissipated the moment Hermione and Professor Snape stepped into a grand, wood-paneled dining room. In the dim light of many candles, Hermione saw a figure standing in the shadows. A tall, lean form, with gray skin and dark robes, appeared to be staring out the windows. At the figure's feet, a large snake was elegantly coiled, looking comfortably at rest. The figure had his arms crossed, with long, thin fingers curled around his elbows. Hermione shivered at the sight of the figure - a man? - for the gray hue of his flesh was profoundly unnerving.

She did not need any introduction to the wizard before her. Harry had described the resurrected Lord Voldemort in great detail after the Triwizard Tournament, and though Hermione had been incapacitated by the time he'd arrived, Voldemort had been at the Department of Mysteries, as well. She'd never seen the man in person, but she'd heard enough. Flesh the color of clay, a bald head that looked like a veined stone. A serpentine face with a flat nose, a heavy and bare brow line, and pale lips that made him look like a corpse. Hermione shivered the instant the figure turned around, at the sound of Professor Snape leading her into the dining room.

"My Lord," Professor Snape said deferentially, but Voldemort did not acknowledge him. His glittering scarlet eyes had trained themselves squarely onto Hermione, and his thin white lips had parted, almost as if he were surprised to see her. But hadn't Professor Snape said they were 'expected'? Hermione felt a cringe of fear as she wondered if she would die now, if Voldemort was about to raise his wand and cast a Killing Curse straight at her.

"Her wand, Severus." His voice was a rasp, but still oddly melodic. Hermione quivered where she stood as Professor Snape hesitated for the briefest of moments before pulling Hermione's vine wand from his robes and handing it over to the Dark Lord.

Voldemort took the wand with a smooth motion of his hand, his gray skeletal fingers wrapping around the wand and staring at it for a moment before he murmured, "Leave us, Severus."

Professor Snape made eye contact with Hermione for the smallest of instants before giving a little obeisance and backing out of the room. Hermione wondered if she would ever see anyone besides Voldemort again - if the last 'real person' she'd see in her life would be the dreary, mean-spirited Professor Snape.

That thought made her want to laugh and cry at once. She turned her attention back to Voldemort and saw that he was staring again at her. Hermione abruptly felt self-conscious, and wondered distantly whether she might have sprouted three heads in the past few moments. Why was Lord Voldemort staring at her for so long? The silence of the dining room was heavy and oppressive, and Hermione felt suddenly weak at the knees and reached out for the dining room table for support.

She stayed quiet, just as she'd done with Professor Snape. What was she supposed to do? She had no wand. He was the most powerful Dark wizard the world had ever seen. He stood near enough that she could see the eerie slits of his pupils, the way his blue veins darted around beneath his papery skin. Hermione shivered and gripped the table, preparing herself to die.

She thought briefly of her mum and dad, wondering what Professor Dumbledore would tell them. Would he tell them the truth - that Hermione had been kidnapped and murdered by Voldemort? Or would they be merciful and Obliviate all memory of her from their minds to keep them from feeling that pain? Hermione willed the latter option, shutting her eyes for a moment as she thought of Harry and Ron. She wished suddenly that she had not been arguing with them today. That was not the way she wanted them to remember her. Their friendship had been worth more than the petty argument upon which they'd parted.

"It was raining that night," Voldemort's smooth rasp said, breaking Hermione from her reverie. Her eyes sprang open and she furrowed her thick brows, wondering what he was on about. His red eyes bored into her as if he were trying to extract something with just his gaze. He hesitated, and then quirked up a crooked little grin that sent a shiver of fear down Hermione's spine. He continued, "It had been sunny that morning, but after the sun went down, it began to rain. I remember."

Hermione opened her mouth in confusion, wondering whether Harry had been right - whether Voldemort was truly nothing more than a deranged madman. She narrowed her eyes up at the evil wizard before her, shrinking away uneasily when he took a gliding step closer to her.

Voldemort closed the gap quickly. Hermione shivered fiercely, unable to control the way her body shook with fear in his proximity. She squared her jaw and glared up at him in silence, trying to look brave and defiant. But Voldemort chuckled under his breath and noted,

"You are afraid of me."

Of course I am! Hermione's brain screamed.

"Of course you are," Voldemort nodded, as if he'd read her mind. Perhaps he had done as much. He looked mildly amused as he reached out one of his bony hands and cupped Hermione's jaw. She flinched at his cold, calloused touch, feeling repulsed and humiliated despite their solitude. Voldemort's red eyes were still locked onto hers, and he murmured in a strangely soothing tone, "Of course you are afraid of me. Why wouldn't you be? It's what I wanted, isn't it?"

Hermione realized then that he was mad. He had to be. He was speaking utter nonsense; he was caressing her jaw and cheek as if they were more than familiar with one another.

Just kill me, Hermione thought, thrusting forth her thoughts into the mind of the Legilimens before her. Please, just kill me. Just do it. Stop mocking me and just kill me.

Voldemort actually looked slightly confused as he tipped his head to the side and lowered his hand from Hermione's jaw. "Now, why on Earth would I want to do a thing like that?" he demanded softly, and Hermione felt ill. He had read her mind, and he was still speaking madness. What was this? Was this a game, a trick?

"Your eyes," Voldemort said, and another awkward smile crossed his pale, thin lips. "I remember the way your eyes look when you concentrate very hard on something."

How could he possibly remember anything about Hermione? She had never met Voldemort, as far as she knew. Unless someone had erased her memory…? She started flipping through possibilities in her mind of what the madman could be on about, but then he said,

"You were there, on this night fifty-three years ago. You were there, and so now I must send you. You understand? I don't have a choice. I very much dislike when I am not in control - you shall quickly learn that about me, I suppose. But in this matter, there can be no alteration of the path, no compromising reality. You werethere, and therefore now you must go."

It was the strangest, most nonsensical thing Hermione had ever heard anyone say. Finally, she spoke, for she felt as though she were inside the rambling dreams of an insane person. "I have never met you before," she insisted, spitting the words up at Voldemort with conviction.

He smiled knowingly at her, baring his stained, jagged teeth. "No, you haven't," he agreed, "but I have met you. Now… take this to Albus Dumbledore. It shall explain everything."

He extracted a rolled bit of parchment from his robes. It was tied with an emerald green ribbon and sealed with black wax. He held it to Hermione, just out of her reach, along with her wand.

"But first," he said rather hastily, "There is one thing I should like to do. I do not suppose I shall ever see you again, Hermione. So I'd like a farewell token, if you please."

Why is he calling me 'Hermione'? Her mind was racing with confusion and anger, but before she could demand answers, Voldemort's skeletal hand had returned to cup her cheek again. He was lowering his serpentine face to hers, and Hermione squealed in horror the moment his icy, pale lips touched hers. He moved quickly but elegantly to urge her lips apart, and he pushed his tongue into her mouth and explored a bit, sighing into Hermione's mouth as he did. When he pulled away, Voldemort looked immensely pleased with himself.

"Ah, yes," he nodded with a content expression on his snakelike countenance, "I remember that, too."

Hermione took a large step backward, swiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. She felt invaded, violated, disgusted. Had she just been kissed on the mouth by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, by the terrible Lord Voldemort, the man who had killed Harry's parents and countless other innocent souls? It was worse than a Dementor's Kiss, she considered as she tried not to vomit.

"Just kill me," she said again, her eyes burning with hot tears of rage as she glared up into the crimson irises of the Dark Lord. He quirked up that crooked smile he'd flashed her several times now, and he said in a smooth rumble,

"Try not to worry, Miss… Villeneuve…" Voldemort said the surname with an air of amused distaste, "I was much better-looking then."

Hermione scowled again. She wanted to slap the ugly, wicked fool, to tell him that he didn't even know who she was. Villeneuve? Who was that? And why had he kissed her? And why was he now holding her wrist and guiding it toward the parchment and the wand very carefully…?

Hermione stared down at the way her hand was being dragged toward the parchment scroll and her wand, both of which sat neatly upon Voldemort's palm. She tried to physically pull away, out of instinct, but one insistent tug from him had her staring up again in fear.

Voldemort gave her one last meaningful stare, his red eyes flashing with a very strange, unreadable expression before he whispered in a rasp, "Goodbye, Hermione."

She opened her mouth to say something, to insist she be told what the devil was happening. But before she could speak, her fingers had made contact with the wax seal on the scroll. At the moment of contact, the room disappeared into a black abyss that suctioned out all light and sound and weight.

Hermione was floating in endless, dark emptiness. She was invisible. She was silent. She had no mass, no significance. She was nothing… for one very brief and terrifying instant.

Then, all of a sudden, the world returned with all of its weight and fury. Hermione landed so hard upon the ground that she let out a pained, 'oof!' and rolled a few times. It was dim, and cold, and wet.

Wherever she was, it was raining.

Hermione stared up from where she'd landed to realise she was in almost the same spot where she'd been not one hour earlier. It was the Apparition Point in front of Hogwarts, but something was off - something was different. It hadn't been raining when Professor Snape had levitated her out of the castle. It was colder, too, much more so than it had been earlier. This was the same place, but it wasn't the same night.

As she pulled herself to her feet, she glanced down into her right hand, which was clutching the wax-sealed scroll and her wand. Suddenly, Lord Voldemort's words came rushing into her mind, a torrent of whispers making her realise what had happened.

'It was raining that night… you were there, on this night fifty-three years ago… I was much better-looking then.'

Hermione frowned down at the scroll, watching how the raindrops glided off its surface as if it were made of wax. He'd charmed the scroll to be waterproof because he knew there would be rain. Fifty-three years ago…

She'd traveled through time. Lord Voldemort had sent her fifty-three years into the past. Why? Well, according to him, she'd been there, and that was why he was compelled to send her back. Snape, too, had seemed resigned to his task, as if it were an inevitability.

Hermione stared up at the castle before her, looming in the darkness. Had she already lived this life? Had she already been to this place and time - in what was, for her, the 'past'? Had she already met Voldemort, as an older iteration of herself? Then perhaps he'd spent years waiting for her to be born and grow up to the point where he'd met her - this date, when she was eighteen.

What had happened in these years? How had her interactions with Voldemort been so important that he'd felt an apparent loss of control in 'needing' to send her back here? And Snape, too… he'd known about all of this. He'd known that Hermione was to be sent back in time. He'd apologized - several times - but had hand-delivered her to Voldemort to be sent here. Why? Voldemort's words reverberated through Hermione's head again.

'There can be no alteration of the path, no compromising reality. You were there, and therefore now you must go.'

She quickly did the maths in her head - fifty-three years into the past would mean that tonight was the second of April in the year 1944. Hermione felt a sinking sense of dread. Her parents, Ginny, Harry and Ron… none of them were alive in this time. It was, in Muggle history, a time of enormous turmoil as the Second World War wracked the Earth. It was also a time during Voldemort's youth. She knew that the Dark wizard had been known by his birth name - Tom Marvolo Riddle - during this era.

Hermione took a deep, shaking breath as she walked up the path to the castle. She stopped before she crossed through the first gate, realising that she was wearing her Gryffindor robes. She glanced down at her rain-soaked clothing and wondered whether there had been any alteration in the cut or styling of the school robes in the past fifty-odd years. Just in case, she stripped off her outer black robe and Vanished it with her wand. Then she Transfigured her jumper and skirt into a grey woolen dress, one she hoped would look adequately modest and befitting of the era. Her hair would need changing, she knew, to avoid suspicion.

For now, though, Hermione trudged across the courtyard that led to the front doors of Hogwarts. She squared her jaw and determined that she was going to let the past take her where it would. She 'had been there,' after all. She ought not be afraid. Hermione decided she wasn't afraid. Truly, she was. But she decided that she wasn't.

Rather alarmingly, the enormous front doors of Hogwarts swung open out into the rainy courtyard when she approached. She sprang backwards into a bit of a defensive position, looking to see who had opened the doors. But there was no one there - the front doors had acted seemingly of their own accord.

Hermione tentatively stepped over the threshold into the great Entrance Hall. It was dim and quiet inside, almost eerily so. The place looked just as it would fifty years into the future, except for a few minor indications that time had been altered around Hermione. She glanced to her right to see that the House Points Hourglasses were at radically different levels than when she'd been levitated out of these doors by Snape just an hour or so earlier. In her own time, Gryffindor and Slytherin had been battling for the lead, with Ravenclaw in third place and Hufflepuff in fourth. Now, the hourglasses indicated a large lead for Slytherin, with Gryffindor and Hufflepuff seemingly tied for third and Ravenclaw far behind in fourth place.

There were other things, too, that told Hermione something was off. She looked across the Entrance Hall to the pale marble staircase, lined with paintings. The portraits on the walls weren't all in the right places. A few of the newer ones were missing. There was a large portrait of a woman that Hermione had never seen before.

She shivered at the thought of having moved fifty years to the past. She'd traveled through time before, on a great many occasions, when she'd used her Time Turner. She'd even coped with some of the more difficult concepts and paradoxes of time travel in her third year. But she'd never been sent fifty-three years in either direction. She had not even known that such a huge jump in time was possible. It certainly wasn't legal.

Before Hermione could think too much more on the matter, there was a soft, gentle voice from her left.

"May I help you, young lady?"

Hermione whirled over her shoulder to see Albus Dumbledore walking cautiously toward her through the darkness. He appeared to be on patrol, but he was a different wizard than Hermione would know decades later. His hair was only just starting to grey, and it was much shorter. The wand he had in his right hand was different than the one Hermione was used to seeing him wield. His robes hung elegantly over a body that moved more smoothly than Hermione would have expected. He was younger by more than fifty years, but it was Albus Dumbledore, to be certain.

"P-Professor Dumbledore?" Hermione stammered uneasily. She held out the scroll in her hand and trembled from the cold and rain. "Sir, I'm supposed to give this to you. I've no idea what it says. It… will explain everything."

She wasn't sure why she regurgitated Voldemort's words at Dumbledore, why she stood there like a fool holding out the scroll instead of shrieking that she'd been kidnapped and hurtled backward in time. For some reason, it seemed more logical - safer - to simply offer the scroll to Dumbledore as she'd been ordered to do.

Professor Dumbledore paused a few steps away from Hermione and took the scroll from her. His pale eyes weren't twinkling with kindness as they usually did. They looked utterly suspicious. He broke the wax seal and unfurled the parchment, reading through three sheets of handwriting in the longest silence Hermione had ever experienced. She shifted nervously on her feet, studying the odd similarities and differences about Dumbledore's form. At last, after a very long while, Dumbledore pointed his wand at the scroll.

"Evanesco," he said, and the papers Vanished into non-being. Hermione furrowed her brow, wondering what the letter had said. She met Dumbledore's eyes, which still bore a question in them. He said carefully, "You have a French Muggle father, Miss Villeneuve? And a witch for a mother? You were attending Beauxbatons in France, but the severity of the Muggle war forced you to flee back to Britain? Is that right?"

"Erm… yes, Sir." Hermione nodded vigorously, trying not to show any outward expression of her confusion. It was quite a story - a half-blood witch victimised by the Muggle conflict and forced to be a wizarding refugee? It was rather absurd, and yet, for the era, made just enough sense. "I'm Hermione Villeneuve. I was at Beauxbatons," Hermione continued to say, trying to burn the story into her mind. "But the Muggle Nazi forces killed my parents in our home, and I was sent to live here in Britain with relatives. Maternal relatives - wizarding relatives."

"Mm-hmm. I see." Dumbledore nodded skeptically and narrowed his pale eyes. Hermione wasn't sure whether the details she'd added to the story meshed up with what had been in the letter. In any case, Dumbledore seemed highly doubtful of any of it. Hermione was still rather surprised when he quietly said, "I can not send you back to your own time, Miss… Granger."

Hermione swallowed heavily. What on Earth had that letter said?

"All right, Sir," she nodded hesitantly.

Just going to roll over and accept your fate, Hermione? Why don't you ask him what the damned letter says? Why don't you demand to be sent back to your own time? This is madness…

"Which House were you… will you… be Sorted into?" Dumbledore was still speaking delicately, as if he were aware he needed to tread carefully. Hermione felt sick with unease; she was unaccustomed to seeing Professor Dumbledore behave this way. She cleared her throat carefully and said,

"The Sorting Hat put me into Gryffindor, Sir. I was wearing my robes when I… well, I Vanished them outside."

Dumbledore nodded and the old twinkle finally came back to his eye. "Shame," he said. "I should have liked to see if there shall be any changes to the style." He straightened and pulled at his robes a bit, sniffing as he squared his face. "Well, Miss… Villeneuve… I am terribly sorry that you had to leave France. I'm sorry for the loss of your parents. Welcome back to Hogwarts, I suppose. You know the way to Gryffindor Tower, I'm assuming?"

Hermione nodded, feeling her eyes burn a little as it all started to weigh on her mind. "Yes, Sir," she whispered quietly, and Dumbledore replied,

"I shall have the appropriate clothing, a course schedule, books, and other necessities sent up there - you shall be staying in the third room on the left in the girls' dormitory corridor. For now, we'll put you in your own room. The password for the Gryffindor Common Room is 'foreordination.' I shall speak with Headmaster Dippet on your behalf. Please be in the Great Hall tomorrow morning for breakfast. Goodnight."

And just like that, Professor Dumbledore turned and began to walk away again. Hermione felt her mouth drop open in shock at how perfunctory his instructions were, at how casually the great wizard was treating this situation. Hermione knew that time travel was not an absurd concept in the wizarding world, but even so - shouldn't Dumbledore have been more alarmed to see her? Shouldn't he have interrogated her under Veritaserum, demanded that she reveal how she'd come and that she tell more about her own time?

But then Hermione realised that Professor Dumbledore was far too intelligent to behave that way. He would know that if she'd been sent here, it was because she'd already been here. Dumbledore would understand the inevitability associated with her massive jump in time. He would know better than to interfere.

And so the old man had calmly reinforced Hermione's cover story, told her there would be supplies for her up in Gryffindor Tower, and left it at that. Hermione stood, alone again, in the Entrance Hall for a good long while before she numbly padded up the marble staircase.

Hermione did not sleep that night. She lay in her small, lumpy bed in her little room and stared out the window into the rainy night.

Was she supposed to stop the ascent of Voldemort, she wondered? Was that what she was meant to do?

No. That couldn't be it, because if she'd stopped Voldemort from coming to power, he wouldn't have been there decades later to send her back. So had she failed in that mission the first time around, and now was being sent back to try again?

Then Hermione realised there was no 'first time around.' There was only this. This had already happened - at least in the mind of Voldemort from the 1990s. But to Hermione, it was an experience yet to pass.

Therefore, she thought, when Voldemort thought back to this time, to her being at Hogwarts in the 1940s, she had come with the knowledge of his later self. And yet, apparently, she'd done nothing to stop him. Why? And why had Snape and Dumbledore seemed so resigned?

Perhaps there was no 'mission.' Perhaps this simply was, and it was something beyond anyone's control - it was as both Snape and Voldemort had said, and something Hermione had been told by Professor McGonagall prior to receiving her Time Turner. No alteration of the past, nor deviation from reality, must occur, lest there be terrible consequences for a great many people.

Voldemort had seemed almost perplexed in the fact that he'd 'had' to send Hermione back in time, but it made sense now. His path to power could only happen if she was here.

Perhaps if I simply kill myself now, then Voldemort will never murder Harry's parents, and -

Hermione cut that thought out of her head quickly. It was, of course, a ludicrous suggestion to make to herself. Perhaps, she thought again, there was no 'point' to her being here - she had been, and therefore she was. It was an inevitable reality, an inescapable truth.

Feeling a strong stress headache coming on, Hermione rolled over and tried to sleep. It didn't work. The sun was up before she knew it.

Hermione pulled herself from the bed and stared at herself in the mirror over her small vanity. There was a wooden hairbrush there, and a few toiletries. Hermione aimed her wand at her head and sighed. She imagined 1940s-era hairstyles that she'd seen in old photographs (Muggle and wizarding alike).

"Crispum," Hermione murmured, and her hair formed itself into curls as she drew her wand around her head. Hermione used another charm to make her hair a bit less frizzy, and then she Conjured a few small clips to arrange her wide curls. She parted her hair deeply to the left side and tried to mimic the flowing shape she'd seen in photographs. It didn't work exactly as she'd planned, but it was close enough. It was certainly better than the messy, fluffy low ponytail in which she'd arrived. She would need to blend in if she was to avoid altering reality, to avoid hurting people.

Hermione made her way to the rickety old wardrobe that stood in the corner of the small bedroom and opened the doors. Inside, she found two black robes with the Gryffindor crest upon the chest. They looked familiar enough, except that the stitching was a bit more uneven than in 'her' time. The material felt a bit different, as well; it was thicker and a different weave.

There were several skirts, shirts, sleeveless pullover jumpers, and ties. Everything was cut just slightly differently than Hermione was used to. The skirts were longer and had a different weight; they would sit higher upon the waist and hang into a different shape than Hermione's school skirts had done. The starched white dress shirts had rounded Peter Pan collars instead of the sharp angular ones Hermione had worn, and the ties were in more muted shades of crimson and gold. The pullover jumpers felt a bit scratchy, but there would be a shirt between her skin and the jumper, so Hermione brushed this off. Once she'd put on her uniform pieces, she pulled on the pretty white cuffed socks that had been provided, as well as the sensible black shoes.

Looking again into the mirror, Hermione thought she still looked like herself. She was still an eighteen-year-old girl, a student in Gryffindor, carrying her vine wand. Yet she knew she was about to step out into a world that was not her own, where nobody knew who she was or why she was here. That thought made her queasy with nerves, and Hermione shut her eyes for a long moment, wishing sincerely that she had a Calming Draught to take before breakfast.

There were whispers and stares the very moment she entered the Great Hall. She'd waited long enough to go down to breakfast that everyone else was already seated, and as Hermione stepped through the large wooden doors into the Great Hall, she could hear reactions all about her.

"Who the devil is that?"

"Has someone Transfigured their appearance? I don't know that girl; do you?"

"Is there a new student?"

The confusion was evident among the students. Hermione squared her jaw and ignored the thumping of her heart, the way her breath quivered in her nostrils. She made her way resolutely to the Staff Table and was approached by Albus Dumbledore and the man she knew to be Headmaster Armando Dippet. She knew him from his Chocolate Frog card.

"Good morning, Sirs," Hermione said politely, her back to the crowd of curious onlookers. Most conversations had fallen silent as the students and staff watched the quiet interaction between Professors Dumbledore and Dippet and the new, mysterious girl in the Gryffindor robes.

"Miss Villeneuve," Professor Dippet said, giving Hermione a small nod. He flicked his eyes to Albus Dumbledore and then back to Hermione before saying rather sternly, "I was informed last night of your arrival. Welcome to Hogwarts. I'm very sorry for the loss of your family."

Hermione wasn't certain whether Professor Dippet knew the truth about her. It had been evident that Professor Dumbledore knew more than he was letting on - he had called her 'Miss Granger,' after all, and had told her he couldn't send her back to her own time. But she had no way of knowing what Professor Dumbledore had told Headmaster Dippet. Deciding it was best and safest to play along with her cover story, Hermione nodded and said,

"Thank you for receiving me as a transfer student, Headmaster Dippet. I promise I shall work hard in my courses. You shan't regret your hospitality toward me." She smiled rather weakly as Headmaster Dippet looked her up and down for a long moment, as if more information would simply ooze forth from her pores. When he got silence in return, Headmaster Dippet turned to the assembled students and staff. He pointed his wand at his throat and said,

"Sonorus." Then, with his newly-amplified voice, Headmaster Dippet said, "My dear students and colleagues… this morning I have the distinct pleasure of introducing to you Miss Hermione Villeneuve. She is joining us as something of a refugee - you all know of the terrible effects of the ongoing Muggle war, and the wizarding world has not been entirely immune to these. Miss Villeneuve is grieving the loss of her family, and I trust you shall all join me in condolences toward her, as well as in granting her a truly warm welcome to our school."

Hermione turned round to face the Great Hall, and gulped heavily when she saw hundreds of eyes trained squarely upon her.

"Thank you, Headmaster," she said softly, and she got a curt little nod in response. Hermione started to walk down to the Gryffindor table to try to eat some breakfast, but she heard from behind her,

"Miss Villeneuve?" Hermione turned round again to see Professor Dumbledore holding out a parchment to her. "Your schedule, my dear. You've got Potions with Professor Slughorn just after breakfast, and then Transfiguration, which is my subject. I shall see you then."

"Yes. Thank you, Sir." Hermione took the parchment, her hand trembling fiercely, and nodded her thanks. She tried to pretend that there weren't dozens of people watching her make her way to the Gryffindor Table, and she sat far at the end, by herself.

Soon enough, conversations started back up among the students. Hermione took an apple from a bowl of fruit and ladled herself some porridge. She marveled at the abundance of food, given that it was wartime in the Muggle world. Apparently, wizards had not been subject to rationing the same way as Muggle civilians had been.

Hermione chewed her apple and stared at the Slytherin table. There was a large group of boys all huddled together in low conversation. They all glanced at her from time to time, and Hermione resolved not to shy away from their gazes. But she felt a stab of fear go through her the minute the boy in the middle of the group looked up at her.

Those eyes. She knew them straight away, even though they'd been red later in life, and had belonged to a different body. It was the being behind the eyes, the soul there, that she recognised at once. She knew immediately that this boy was Tom Marvolo Riddle - the future Lord Voldemort.

Hermione gasped quietly and lowered her head, staring into her bowl of porridge and feeling her heart thudding inside her chest.

"Miss Villeneuve?"

Hermione startled and looked up to see that one of her fellow Gryffindors had come down to her end of the table. He was a plump but friendly-looking boy, perhaps a fifth or sixth year student, and he thrust out his hand to introduce himself.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Ladon Scamander. I am a Prefect here in Gryffindor… please, Miss Villeneuve, do let me know if there's anything we can do to make you feel at home here at Hogwarts."

He jerked his head down the table, and Hermione looked to see that there was a cluster of Gryffindors eyeing her rather nervously. One girl with pretty blond curls raised her hand a little and waved, flashing a small smile. Hermione felt a warmth rush through her chest; Gryffindors were apparently the same no matter what year it was.

She shook Ladon Scamander's hand, recognizing his name as the son of the great Newt Scamander. Hermione knew that Ladon would have a son much later in life, as a middle-aged man; that son would be called Rolf and had attended Hogwarts during Hermione's time. She smiled up at Ladon and said,

"Thank you very much for your kindness. I shall be delighted to know you all better."

A half hour later, Hermione was being ushered down flights of stairs to the Potions corridor by a gaggle of Gryffindor females. A red-headed girl called Maggie Prewett was saying quickly,

"Now, Miss Villeneuve - might I call you Hermione? Wonderful. You've studies Potions before, yes? Well, be on guard with Professor Slughorn. He's a brilliant potioneer, you see, but a bit barmy. You seem like a bright girl, though. I'm certain you'll do just fine. Oh, but… we've got Slytherin with us this class. And you know what that means, girls, don't you?"

Maggie flicked her eyebrows up, and the pretty blonde girl from the Great Hall sighed dreamily, "Tom. Tom Riddle. Oh, I never thought I'd pine after a Slytherin boy; my family's been Gryffindors for ages, but…"

She sighed again, sounding as though she'd been dosed with a love potion. The other girls did the same thing, and Hermione scowled a bit. They all admired the boy who would become Lord Voldemort? Hermione asked rather curiously,

"What's so great about this boy? This… Tom. Tom Riddle." She pretended as though she'd never heard the name before, pronouncing the name carefully and eyeing her fellow Gryffindors with raised eyebrows. The blonde girl, Betty Cattermole, giggled and said,

"Well, he's just brilliant. By far, the most intelligent boy in the school. He acts as though he's right minted - I mean to say, he carries himself as though he's quite high-class. But the rumour is that he goes back to an orphanage during the summer holidays."

"Poor Tom," sighed Maggie Prewett, and the brunette girl beside her nodded in agreement. Betty Cattermole continued,

"He's very charming, Hermione, but he doesn't seem interested in anyone. Can't say as why not, but you can go ahead and give him the try the rest of us have!" She grinned widely and giggled again, and Hermione felt quite ill at ease all of a sudden.

She had no intention of flirting with the boy who would grow up to be Lord Voldemort, but then she remembered the way he'd kissed her in Malfoy Manor the night before. He'd lowered his hideous grey face to hers and pushed his tongue between her lips, and he'd said,

'Ah, yes. I remember that, too.'

Hermione shivered at bit as the group of girls approached the Potions classroom.

"Here we are!" Maggie Prewett said happily. "You've got your Potions text, yes? And all the supplies you need should be available to borrow in the room. I happen to know that Professor Slughorn keeps extra cauldrons for students, because I melted mine last year with a bad batch of Elixir Ignis. Well, we shall see you after lessons, Hermione, and take you up to the Transfiguration classroom!"

Hermione nodded and thanked the girls, and she began setting up a workstation at an empty table. Apparently, very little had changed in the past fifty-three years. She knew precisely where everything was in the classroom, and it looked exactly the same as it would decades later. A few bottles here and there were different, and she didn't recognize the pewter cauldron she borrowed, but the place even smelled the same. She'd just been here for Potions lessons the previous day - and fifty-three years in the future. It was almost surreal to be here, and have it feel so familiar, yet know that many years separated her realities in this place.

Hermione sighed, extracting her worn Potions text from the leather rucksack that had been delivered to her room in Gryffindor Tower. The other students had similar leather bags, and Hermione could only hope she was blending in to the era sufficiently.

There was a soft sound beside her, a delicate clearing of a throat, and Hermione jolted out of her reverie to see him - Tom Riddle - standing perhaps three feet from her. His eyes were cold and piercing in their darkness, but his lips were curled into the same mischievous and crooked smile Hermione had seen the previous night from Lord Voldemort.

"Hello," Hermione said in a hoarse whisper, and the crooked smile broadened a bit.

"Good morning, Miss… Villeneuve, is it? I'm Tom Riddle. Might I work beside you today?"

The boy raised his dark, sculpted eyebrows as Hermione stood in stupid silence. He waited patiently for her answer, and she finally swallowed heavily and nodded.

"Yes, of course," she said swiftly, shaking herself and taking a deep breath. The smirk on Tom Riddle's face grew downright merry, and Hermione scowled to herself. Let him interpret her nervousness however he pleased. She wasn't fawning over his handsome looks (though he was strikingly good-looking); she was frightened by his future self.

Hermione sat quietly in her chair, a tense silence developing between herself and Tom Riddle as the boy set up his own cauldron, scales, stirring stick, and textbook. Hermione glanced around the Potions classroom and saw several pairs of eyes upon her. The Gryffindor girls looked positively green with envy, whilst the Slytherin boys were scrutinizing her with skepticism. Finally, Tom Riddle cleared his throat again and asked,

"So you left France because of the Muggle war?"

Hermione nodded, letting out a shaky breath. "My parents were killed; my father was a Muggle and was French. My mother was English, a witch. I've come here to try to finish my education whilst getting away from the chaos of the Muggle conflict."

"Hmm." Riddle nodded and narrowed his eyes. He didn't apologise for the deaths of her parents, the way others had done. He appeared to be contemplating her story. He tipped his head up a little and turned back to his own work space. He opened his Potions text and murmured, "Welcome to Hogwarts, I suppose."

Hermione frowned at his unfriendly nature, and she huffed a bit as the door behind them opened. Professor Horace Slughorn waddled into the classroom, looking far younger than he'd done in Hermione's own time. He appeared to be perhaps only fifty years of age, and Hermione felt her eyes widen at the sight of his younger self. It was unnerving; she'd seen him as a very old man in this same room just a day previously.

"Good day, my bright and studious pupils!" Slughorn greeted the room jovially. Hermione smiled a bit, and Slughorn nodded deliberately at her. "Miss Villeneuve… it is splendid to have you with us. Now, if you'll all turn to where we were a few days ago… today we shall be furthering our examination of the dangerous and easily-abused Amortentia potion. I've got a cauldron of the stuff up here, and I wish for you all to inhale the steam, so that you might understand the raw power of this potion. Go on, then… line up, all of you! Thank you…"

There was a bustle in the room, then, as students scraped their chairs back and moved briskly to line up. Hermione had already smelled Amortentia, earlier in her sixth year, with Professor Slughorn himself. She felt no sense of urgency to make her way to the front of the line. Apparently, neither did Tom Riddle, and the two of them wound up at the very back of the queue. Hermione noticed that Riddle seemed abruptly ill-at-ease, shifting upon his feet and visibly gritting his teeth.

"I've smelled it before," Hermione mumbled over her shoulder to him. She had no idea why she was speaking to him - this was Voldemort, after all - but there was something about the boy's sudden discomfort that made her want to reassure him. She smiled gently and said, "For me, it smelled of newly mown grass, and parchments, and toothpaste, and -"

She stopped, for she could not say, 'And the distinct smell of Ronald Weasley's hair.'

"Yes, well," Tom Riddle said rather sharply from behind her, as they moved up in the queue, "This potion isn't as simple as that. Not when it's used as a weapon. It might smell just fine, but the results are…"

He trailed off oddly then, and Hermione furrowed her brows at him. Tom Riddle quickly squared his jaw and snapped, "The queue is moving. Turn around."

Hermione frowned even more deeply and obeyed the sharp-tongued boy behind her. She tipped her head to watch as Maggie Prewett approached the cauldron.

"I smell roses, and French perfume, and leather and whisky," Maggie said, and then she was pulled gently away from the cauldron by Betty Cattermole. The two girls giggled as Betty stepped up and drew the steam in through her nostrils. After a long while, the girl said,

"Smoke from a fire, freshly laundered linens, strawberries…"

Maggie yanked on Betty's shoulder as the blonde girl leaned ever closer to the shimmering potion. They laughed as they stepped away. From behind Hermione, Tom Riddle scoffed,

"Ridiculous. To get so caught up in smells."

Hermione turned round and rather sneered at him, "Scent can be a strong emotional trigger for a great many people, Mr. Riddle. It is as you say - this potion could be used as a weapon."

Then she realised she should never, ever suggest to Tom Riddle, of all people, that anything had the potential to be a weapon. In his hands, she knew, everything would be a weapon.

"But you're probably right," she said quickly. "It's just a silly potion."

He didn't answer her. Finally, it was Hermione's turn to step up to the cauldron full of glimmering liquid and inhale the steam. She knew what she would smell. As she breathed in, Hermione waited for the scents of grass and parchment and toothpaste and Ron. But that wasn't what she smelled. Hermione frowned and took a step backward the moment that the steam hit her nostrils.

"What do you smell, my dear?" Professor Slughorn asked calmly, and Hermione balked. She couldn't tell him the truth. She couldn't tell him that the scent from the Amortentia was pure and strong, one she'd sensed for the first time the previous night.

When she'd been in Malfoy Manor the previous night, Lord Voldemort had stepped awfully close to her, hovering over her and touching her face and finally kissing her. His aroma had been unmistakable and not entirely unpleasant. Hermione would have expected his ugly grey form to smell of death or something rotting, but that hadn't been it. He'd smelled of rosewood and the clean finish of soap. He'd smelled a bit of cinnamon, a surprisingly warm note for a man who'd seemed so cold. There had been a metallic overtone, there, too… an iron-like tang. The smell of Voldemort had haunted Hermione overnight just as much as the memory of his tongue in her mouth, and she had shivered at the thought of it.

Until it wafted into her body from the Amortentia potion.

She didn't smell grass, or parchment, or toothpaste, or Ron. No. She smelled him. She smelled rosewood, soap, cinnamon, and iron. Him. The most terrible wizard who had ever lived was the smell that came to her from Amortentia.

Hermione backed quickly away from the cauldron, trying to get out of the range of the steam. She accidentally backed straight into Tom Riddle - him - and she whirled over her shoulder, flashing him a terrified look of confusion.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, watching as the boy smirked at her and straightened his robes. He'd reached his hands out to steady her, and as he released her, Hermione shivered with embarrassed chagrin.

"Miss Villeneuve?" Horace Slughorn said again, and Hermione turned around to face him. "What did you smell?"

She scrambled to come up with a lie. "Spearmint. Grass. Parchment."

Professor Slughorn smiled kindly and nodded, gesturing for Hermione to step aside. She gulped and did, watching carefully as Tom Riddle stepped up to the cauldron. He looked somewhat terrified of the potion, his dark eyes glinting with unmistakable fear. But he cleared his throat bravely and breathed in. Then he simply stood in silence over the cauldron and dragged his top teeth over his bottom lip.

The entire rest of the classroom was watching Tom Riddle's Amortentia experience with rapt attention. The girls, every last one, seemed to waiting to hear what it was that Tom Riddle liked. They would undoubtedly use the information to try to flirt more effectively with him. The boys all seemed mildly curious, as well. It was instantly evident to Hermione that Tom Riddle wielded all sorts of power over his fellow students, and indeed over the staff. Horace Slughorn asked,

"Well, Mr. Riddle?"

Tom stepped back from the cauldron and raised his face to Professor Slughorn. He let a stony, blank expression come over his features, and then he said dully,

"I do not smell anything."

Horace Slughorn furrowed his thick eyebrows and frowned. "Hmm…" he said softly. "Perhaps try again, my boy? It may be difficult to isolate aromas; they may seem like a jumble, but -"

"No." Tom Riddle shook his head firmly. "I smell nothing."

Professor Slughorn gave the boy an odd look, but finally nodded and said with a bit of unease, "I see… erm, class is dismissed. Please remember your essays on the use of Phoenix tears in potions are due in one week's time."

Hermione turned back to her table and began silently gathering up her belongings. She knew that Tom Riddle had lied to Professor Slughorn, and she suspected Slughorn knew that, too. Everyone smelled something with Amortentia. Even people with no love for other humans smelled something. There was no chance that Tom Riddle had smelled nothing. What, then, Hermione wondered, had the boy sensed in the swirling steam? Whatever he'd smelled, it had frightened him, or at least made him feel vulnerable enough to lie and say he'd perceived nothing at all.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the wizard beside her, the boy who would become Lord Voldemort. He was shoving his textbook back into his leather rucksack. Hermione breathed in deeply and sensed the subtle hints of his aroma. Rosewood, soap, cinnamon, and iron. It didn't trigger an emotional reaction in her, aside from fear since she'd smelled it in the cauldron. Tom Riddle turned without another word and stormed from the Potions classroom with his Slytherin cronies behind him. Hermione decided she was going to find out what it was that Tom Riddle had smelled… and why it was she'd smelled him.

Tom Marvolo Riddle preferred to be in control. Indeed, on the rare occasion that he felt out of control, or overpowered in any way, he was known to lash out with devastating consequences. He was never loud, never obvious. But if he felt threatened… well, the threat would be eradicated, thoroughly and surreptitiously.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had a complicated relationship with Amortentia. He himself had been conceived under the effects of a love potion, after all. He'd seen what love (or, at least, infatuation) could drive people to do. He'd seen what effects a love potion could have.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had had precisely no desire whatsoever to walk up to Slughorn's cauldron and smell the Amortentia inside. He feared knowing his weaknesses. He wasn't supposed to have any. But he'd done it, because he hadn't wanted to make a scene. He'd waltzed up to the front of the queue and breathed in the steam, just as every other student in the room had done. And then, he'd lied. He'd said there was no aroma, that he smelled nothing.

Of course, that was not true. Everyone smelled something when exposed to Amortentia… even the stone-hearted Tom Marvolo Riddle. He had, perhaps, expected to smell blood, or iron, or the cold chap of winter wind. He'd expected to smell power - whatever power smells like - or fame, or glory, or immortality. Whatever he'd smell would exemplify his success, Tom had convinced himself. But it hadn't. The potion had smelled strange and unnerving and beautiful.

Lilacs. Soft rain. Damp wood and lemon.

It had smelled fresh, the Amortentia… fresh and lovely and positively intoxicating. And Tom Marvolo Riddle disliked the sensation of intoxication. It stole control from him, and that was simply unacceptable.

More alarmingly, the scent had been unmistakably feminine. It had not smelled of a woman's perfume, but of the pure and unadulterated scent of woman - more specifically, of an individual woman. Tom did not know who this person was, but he could plainly tell that the odours wafting from the Amortentia were the scent signature of a solitary human being.

And that was unacceptable. Because Tom Marvolo Riddle felt no affection for any other person. Relationships in his life were formed on the basis of usefulness, and were easily extinguished when they had served their purpose. Tom used people; he did not like people. And so a great pang of nauseated anxiety had struck him straight through upon smelling the Amortentia, because he had liked the scent. Very much.

That made him want to find the woman to whom the scent belonged. Not to dote upon her, or to smell the lilacs, rain, damp wood, and lemon straight from her body. No. Tom needed to find the host of the aroma and destroy her, whoever she was. He could not be distracted by a female, certainly not one who smelled of the freshest spring morning.

So Tom had lied. He had looked at Slughorn and insisted he'd smelled nothing at all. Then, he'd made his way back to his desk and resolutely shoved his Potions text into his leather rucksack. He wanted to leave the classroom, to get away from the offending cauldron and the stupid old man who'd made him smell it.

And then, there it was. Lilacs. Soft rain. Damp wood and lemon.

Tom had frozen for a microsecond and flicked his dark eyes up to the mysterious young woman at the desk beside him. Hermione Villeneuve - the apparent recent arrival from France. Tom had difficulty believing her tale, believing what Dippet had said about her. It seemed… off. He could not quite place a finger upon the source of his skepticism, but there was something about Miss Villeneuve that made him suspicious, and curious.

He'd sat down beside her in Potions in order to get a better feel for her, in order to try to figure her out. Tom Riddle disliked it immensely when there was information he did not have. He would know the truth about this girl, but he would not be obvious in obtaining it.

When he'd stormed back to his desk and smelled it - the bundle of fresh scents - he'd realised with a stab of horror that it had been her he'd smelled in the potion. But, of course, that made no sense. Tom did not even know Miss Villeneuve. How could hers be the scent that had reached his nostrils from the world's most powerful love potion? It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was undeniable.

Tom had felt a fresh wave of rage crash over him as he'd closed his rucksack and walked briskly from the classroom with Mulciber, Avery, Lestrange, Rosier, and Nott in tow. He wanted to get away from Slughorn, from the accursed cauldron, from her... he needed to go somewhere where he was in control again.

"It's so strange, isn't it, Tom?" mused Rosier from behind him. Tom flicked his chin over his shoulder and scowled.

"What's strange, Rosier?"

"Well..." Rosier hesitated as he trotted behind Tom's long strides. The smaller boy, plump with strawberry blonde curls atop his head, cleared his throat and said, "It's odd, isn't it? That you didn't smell anything in the Amortentia? Just goes to show you..."

He trailed off then, and Tom felt a creeping flush of anger working its way up his slender neck. He turned around and stopped, bringing his cronies to an abrupt halt. Tom narrowed his eyes down at Rosier and said in a soft, dangerous voice, "Just goes to show you what, Rosier?"

Rosier gulped visibly, his eyes going wide at Tom Riddle's confrontational tone. The smaller boy took a small step backward and stammered, "It - it just goes to show you... that a silly thing like a love potion won't work on the most powerful wizards... that's all."

"Hmm." Tom turned back round, ignoring the way Rosier exchanged nervous glances with Avery and Nott. Tom resumed his brisk pace down the stairwell and out the side entrance of the castle. Slytherin had Herbology next, alongside Hufflepuff. Tom had resolved to move beyond the Amortentia incident, and he hoped that his sharp tone toward Rosier would shut up his 'friends' regarding the matter.

As he led the group of Slytherin boys out of the castle and toward the Herbology greenhouse, Tom heard a quiet conversation behind him between Avery and Lestrange.

"What do you think of the transfer student - Hermione, they said her name was? Hermione Villeneuve? A Muggle surname, but apparently her mum is a witch... unfortunate, what's happened to her. I should like to comfort her, perhaps..." Avery chuckled under his breath, and Raeburn Lestrange echoed his low laughter.

Tom Riddle pursed his lips, feeling cross for some reason he could not explain. He kept walking toward the Herbology greenhouse, gripping the strap of his leather rucksack in his slim fingers and grinding his teeth inside his mouth.

"She's not the prettiest girl in the school," Lestrange acknowledged behind Tom, "but I'd be interested. She's good enough. Seems vulnerable... I'd wager I could talk her into a nice romp to soothe her broken heart, eh?"

"Shall we make it a contest, then?" The stupid grin on Avery's face was audible in his question to Lestrange. "The first one to get Miss Villeneuve between his sheets wins ten Galleons from the other."

Lestrange laughed again and said, "All right, then, Avery. You've got yourself a wager. Ten galleons to the first one to show Miss Villeneuve a warm Slytherin welcome."

"I want in on that bet," said Nott. "She's not the best looker, but she's pretty enough to go for ten Galleons!"

Tom could contain his rage no longer. He whirled around his shoulder and flashed a murderous glare at his pack of lackies. "You will all stay away from Miss Villeneuve," he growled in a low sneer. "If any of you lays a hand upon her, you'll owe ten Galleons to me. Understand?"

The other boys stared up at Tom with confusion and mild fear in their eyes. Avery and Nott shrugged at one another, bewildered, and then Lestrange asked Tom,

"Is she yours already, mate? She's only been here a day. I didn't realise you'd claimed her for yourself." Lestrange raised his eyebrows, and Tom felt anger at being challenged.

"I have no interest in her," Tom said firmly, trying to convince himself as much as the other boys. "Not like that. I'm... curious about her, about her story. I find myself doubting what Headmaster Dippet told us about her. I don't trust the girl, and I don't want any of you near her. Do you understand me?"

The others knew better than to question Tom. By this point in their schooling, Tom had proven time and again that his threats were not empty, that he had no fear or hesitation in exacting revenge or demonstrating might. So the pack of Slytherins all nodded emphatically at him, and Tom felt certain they'd forgotten all about their foolish wager.

During Herbology, he was distracted. Tom Marvolo Riddle thoroughly disliked feeling distracted. It made control slip from his fingers, and it was uncomfortable and dangerous. But Tom found himself quite unable to focus upon the Fire Orchids they were putting into pots. Tom collected some of the ash from one that burst into flames before it could be planted, and he Vanished the ash with a smooth swish of his wand.

"Oh, Mr. Riddle," said Professor Beery, walking quickly over from a group of Hufflepuffs he'd been assisting. "If that happens again, dear boy, do save the ash. There are myriad uses for Fire Orchid ash, in Potions and in magical medicine. I should hate to see it wasted by being Vanished."

Tom felt his cheeks colour, felt his ears ring with anger. He disliked being corrected, whether by other students or by staff members. It was critical that his image be strong and constant - that his peers interpret him to be a brilliant student without personal or academic flaw. Only then could he cultivate support among followers. Only then could he build his power.

As Professor Beery turned back round to the Hufflepuffs, Tom gritted his teeth once more and huffed quietly. He jammed a spade into a pot of soil and made room for the heated Fire Orchid beside him. He buried the bulb before the flower could ignite, and he covered it with soil and cast an aguamenti charm to water it.

Tom stared at the successfully planted Fire Orchid before him and crossed his arms over his lean chest. He could not help but reflect upon his own odd behaviour today, and to contemplate what to do about it. He did not know Miss Hermione Villeneuve, and yet in her single day at Hogwarts, she'd eaten her way into his consciousness like a terrible parasite.

It was her scent that had intoxicated him as it drifted from the Amortentia cauldron. It was the sight of her in the Potions classroom that rather magnetically drew him to the desk beside her. It was the idea of his Slytherin cronies competing to bed the girl that had driven him into a blind fury.

Precisely who was this girl? Who did she think she was, to make Tom Marvolo Riddle feel as though he'd very abruptly and inexplicably gone mad? Tom felt anger toward her; he felt the need to destroy her and eliminate whatever threat she posed to his ascent. She was a distraction, and Tom had no idea why. The only solution was to eradicate her.

Five minutes prior to the end of lessons, Tom looked up, steeled his jaw, and said, "Professor Beery."

The small man turned round again from the Hufflepuffs, raising his eyebrows at Tom. "Yes, Mr. Riddle?"

"I feel rather unwell, all of a sudden. Might I pay a visit to the infirmary?"

"Oh! Of course, my dear boy. Do you require another student to accompany you? Are you quite all right?" Professor Beery sounded quite concerned, furrowing his grey eyebrows at Tom.

"I'll be fine, thank you." Tom shook his head. He gestured to the potted flower before him and said offhandedly, "I've planted a Fire Orchid here, Sir, should you require material to mark my lesson today."

"Oh... yes, thank you, Tom! Full marks, as usual. Off you go, then!"

Tom excused himself from the greenhouse and proceeded quickly back into the castle. Of course, he had no intention of going to the Hospital Wing. He was going straight into the castle's ground floor, to the Transfiguration classroom. He knew that the sixth-year Gryffindors would be there - that she would be there - just finishing up their lessons.

Tom stood outside Dumbledore's classroom, listening to the gentle hum of conversation from inside. He paced back and forth in the corridor, which was not something he normally did. Tom Marvolo Riddle preferred not to be demonstrative with any sort of emotion, inlcuding nervousness.

Why was he nervous, anyway? Ingratiating himself to Miss Villeneuve should be easy enough, and then he could properly destroy her without making a big show of it. Nearly every girl at Hogwarts fawned over Tom. It was almost obnoxious, the way girls brought him little presents and stared at him in the Great Hall during meals, the way they murmured among themselves and giggled as he passed them in the corridors. Tom usually ignored the school's females, for they had the dangerous potential of being a distraction from his plans. Tom Riddle was not subject to adolescent whims the way his fellow students were. Occasionally, he could be bothered to flash a gaggle of pretty girls his trademark crooked smile, but only to keep them interested. Perhaps one day a few of them might prove useful, and Tom did not seek to make enemies of the entire female student body by being too cold with them.

This - what he was about to do - would undoubtedly inject all the Hogwarts girls with a healthy dose of envy. Tom Riddle had never shown outward interest in any of them, and here comes Miss Villeneuve, fresh from France... and he was about to flirt rather openly with her. It would be easy, he told himself. She would blush and be flattered and feel lucky, and the other girls would gush and tell her they were quite jealous of Tom's attentions. Then Miss Villeneuve would feel safe with him; she would get complacent. Then Tom would strike, taking out the distraction that she was so that his plans could carry on properly.

Tom paused by an open cloister arch, knowing that he had only a minute or so before the Transfiguration students came pouring into the corridor. He sighed and swallowed heavily, trying not to think of what he'd smelled earlier that day in Potions. But when the image of her face came into his mind, he was helpless.

Lilacs. Soft rain. Damp wood and lemon.

Tom growled a little and waved his wand carefully before him, muttering a few Conjuring spells. She truly was irritating, he pondered. Even if he didn't know her.

...

...

"Ugh! Today's lesson was truly vile. I've still got ectoplasm all over my robes," Maggie Prewett moaned as she and Betty Cattermole approached Hermione's desk. Professor Dumbledore had made them Conjure ectoplasm today, and though Hermione had successfully Vanished all of hers at the end of lessons, others still had sticky remnants of the stuff upon them. Hermione smiled warmly at the two Gryffindor girls and pointed her wand at Maggie's green-flecked robes.

"Tergeo," Hermione said softly, and the sticky mess was siphoned from Maggie's garment and disappeared into the tip of Hermione's wand.

"Thanks," Maggie said with a wide grin, and Hermione nodded as she packed up her rucksack.

"Would you like to sit with us at lunch, Hermione?" asked Betty Cattermole, pushing her pretty blonde curls from her face. Hermione felt a warm flush of gratitude come over her. If she was to be stuck in the past, with none of her loved ones about her, the very least the universe could do was to grant her some new friends. Hermione would never forget Harry and Ron, of course, nor give up on the idea of returning to them. But for now, she had resigned herself to the notion that she was supposed to be here - that she had to be here - and so she was grateful for the Gryffindor girls who were making the experience more pleasant.

"I would love to sit with you," Hermione affirmed. "Thank you, Betty."

The three girls headed out of the Transfiguration classroom and stepped into the corridor. They began chatting about a Charms assignment that had been recently assigned, and started to make their way to the Great Hall for lunch.

"Miss Villeneuve?"

Hermione whirled around at the sound of her cover name, and she startled when she realised who had called for her. Tom Riddle was leaning rather casually against the stone wall of the corridor, clutching a bundle of purple flowers in his left fist. He pushed himself off of the wall and stalked toward Hermione and the other Gryffindor girls, moving smoothly and silently.

Hermione swallowed and felt an odd flutter in her belly as he approached them. His thin, dark lips were curled into that crooked smile he so often wore, even later in life. It was a predatory sort of smile, and yet disarming in its charm. His dark brown eyes glinted as he flicked his gaze from Betty and Maggie to Hermione. Then he held out the little bouquet of flowers. Hermione recognised them at once as lilacs. She'd grown up with lilac bushes in her parents' garden, and the sight of the flowers made her eyes sting with unsolicited emotion.

She cautiously took the flowers and looked up into Tom Riddle's piercing stare. Beside her, Betty Cattermole gasped softly at the sight of the Slytherin 'it boy' handing over flowers to the new Gryffindor transfer.

"Erm... thank you, Mr. Riddle," Hermione said softly, trying to ignore the fact that his fingers had brushed hers as she took the bouquet from him.

"Please," he said, dipping his head reverently, "Call me Tom."

"Tom," Hermione repeated, nodding. "Thank you."

She wanted to scream. She wanted to call him 'Voldemort,' to remind herself that he was a terrifying and murderous Dark wizard who would take and destroy countless lives. But she suddenly found herself having great difficulty reminding herself of that fact, because his clean and earthy scent was there again. It was as if she were still hovering over the cauldron of Amortentia.

Hermione took a step quickly back from him and held the lilacs up to her nose, hoping that their floral scent and some distance would erase the odd flush that had come over her.

'I was much better-looking back then.' That was what Lord Voldemort - what he - had said to her just before sending her here. Hermione had been repulsed as the old, hideous wizard had kissed her. But, as it turned out, he hadn't been lying. He was, at this age, terribly handsome.

No. Hermione shook her head to remind herself what he was. He was evil; he was wicked and destructive and terrible.

He was handsome, and he smelled very nice.

No. Hermione refused to be ruled by a girlish attraction to him like the other female Hogwarts students of this age. And, anyway, there had to be some ulterior motive behind this bouquet of flowers. Hermione wasn't so delusional as to think herself 'pretty,' especially not compared to girls like Betty Cattermole. Why hadn't Tom Riddle handed the lilacs to Betty? Hermione had only been here for a day, and he was shoving flowers into her hands? Why?

"I wish to apologise for my rudeness toward you earlier. In Potions," Tom said, as if to answer Hermione's unspoken question. She furrowed her brows, thinking that he hadn't been that rude... certainly not rude enough to require an apology gift.

"Oh. I'd forgotten all about it." Hermione smiled meekly up at him, and it occurred to her that he was very tall, and looked awfully good in his school robes. She angrily silenced that internal monologue and said in a flustered voice, "Just the same, thank you for the lovely flowers, Mr. Riddle. Erm... Tom. See you!"

She turned round and started to walk away from him. Betty Cattermole and Maggie Prewett dashed after her as she nearly trotted down the corridor.

"Hermione!" Betty hissed, sounding awestruck, "You need to go back to him! He gave you flowers, and you've just turned around and stormed off! Go back and let him flirt with you!"

"It's true, Hermione," Maggie Prewett acknowledged. "Tom Riddle never flirts with girls. You need to take full advantage of his attentions!"

"I... I'm not interested in him," Hermione said firmly, shaking her head. Betty gasped again, just as she'd done when Tom had handed Hermione the lilacs.

"What?" she exclaimed shrilly. "Whyever not?"

"He's handsome enough," Hermione admitted as they approached the doors to the Great Hall, "but he seems rather full of himself. Rather unpleasant."

"He just gave you flowers!" Maggie said incredulously. "That doesn't seem 'unpleasant'! Quite the contrary, Hermione. He's positively charming."

"Thank you both for your romantic advice," Hermione said through gritted teeth, taking her place at the Gryffindor table, "but I think it best that Tom Riddle not get the idea that I'm attracted to him."

She pointed her wand at the bouquet of lilacs he'd given her and Vanished them into non-being. This brazen act elicited another horrified gasp from Betty Cattermole, but Hermione ignored her and set to eating her lunch in silence.

...

...

She had rebuffed him.

That had never happened before to Tom Riddle. Not that he'd tried too terribly hard to pursue a girl before, but... perhaps this was why. Rejection did not sit well with him. It made him stew with anger; it made him desire quick and impulsive revenge. No one - no one - categorically said 'no' to Tom Marvolo Riddle.

And, yet, that was essentially what Hermione had done. He'd handed the girl flowers and apoligised (rather unnecessarily) for his rude behaviour in Potions. That was a ruse, of course. He wasn't sorry for having snapped at her during lessons. But girls liked apologies. And they liked flowers.

Hermione, though, had actually stepped away from him after she smelled the lilacs. She'd frowned and thanked him brusquely and turned away from him. She'd walked away from him, without having waited for him to wish her a good day.

Now, as Tom sat at the Slytherin table for lunch, he could see her with the other Gryffindor girls. The lilacs were nowhere in sight. She'd gotten rid of them. She'd Vanished them, or thrown them into a courtyard somewhere. She had rejected his gift, and thereby rejected Tom Riddle.

He needed a new tactic. Clearly it would not work to ingratiate himself to her and try to get her romantically interested in him. Strange as it was that a female could reject him, the public display of that rejection was not something Tom Riddle could risk. No. He would have to corner her in a dark, quiet place and simply make her... disappear.

It would be messier, to be certain. It would cast doubt upon him, since she'd rather blatantly spurned him in the corridor. So Tom would have to wait to destroy her, until he could do so without arousing suspicions. Dumbledore would still blame him, to be certain, but there was no helping that. The old man had already proven himself five times over to be Tom's enemy.

And now this mysterious arrival from the Continent... she, too, was his enemy. No one told Tom Riddle 'no.'

...

...

After dinner that evening, Hermione made her way to the library. Professor Slughorn had excused her from the essay that was due the following week, owing to the fact that she had not been present when it had been assigned. However, Hermione thought it best that she dive into all her lessons head-first, and she'd informed Professor Slughorn of her intent to complete the assignment.

She was nearly done writing her essay when her eyelids began to feel heavy. Her head started feeling fuzzy with exhaustion, for the previous night had been utterly sleepless. Hermione foolishly put her head down onto her arms, resolving to rest for a few moments so that she could finish the last few paragraphs of her essay before leaving the library.

When she jolted into consciousness, she had no idea how long she'd been asleep. It had only felt like a brief moment, but when Hermione glanced at the grandfather clock along the wall, she saw that it was ten-thirty.

She swore under her breath and gathered up her rucksack, Banishing the library books back to their shelves. It was well past curfew, and the last thing Hermione needed right now was to be assigned detentions in this new existence.

She cast a hasty Disillusionment Charm upon herself and made her way from the library as silently as possible. She made her way out into the third-floor corridor and over to the spiral stone staircase in the corner. She began climbing, trying to keep her feet silent upon the stones. She was already near the landing of the fifth floor when she stopped dead in her tracks.

He was there, descending the stairs with his wand at his side. Tom Riddle was doing Prefect patrols of the corridor, and he was coming down the same staircase that Hermione was ascending.

She considered turning around and dashing back down the stairs, but he would hear her. She tried frantically to think of a way to make an escape, and was about to cast a Silencing Charm upon her own body before running back down.

"Finite incantatem."

Hermione gasped as her body vibrated a bit and the Disillusionment Charm was lifted from her. She must have done a poor job casting it, she thought, if Tom Riddle had been able to sense her on the stairs. He stood with his wand jabbed out toward her and frowned deeply when her eyes met his. He quickly lowered his wand and cleared his throat.

"Miss Villeneuve," he acknowledged in a low rasp, "Perhaps you were not aware. Curfew is at nine o'clock. You are not to be about the corridors at this hour. But, because you Disillusioned yourself, something tells me you did know that."

He eyed her with suspicion then, and Hermione sighed lightly, feeling defeated.

"I did know what time curfew was," she nodded. "I accidentally fell asleep at my desk in the library. I was just making my way back to Gryffindor Tower. Please, I beg you, do not report me for being out. It was a mistake, truly."

Tom Riddle cleared his throat again, bringing his fist up to his lips before saying delicately, "A mistake. Yes. Of course. Shall I escort you back to Gryffindor Tower, then?"

"I know the way," Hermione said quickly, feeling ill at ease in his presence. Then, realising she'd sounded ungrateful, she added, "Thank you anyway."

She suddenly found herself wanting to go back to the library to find a Charms book with a spell to eradicate her sense of smell. It was too much, the fact that every time he was near, she felt overwhelmed by his physical attributes. The boy had chiseled, beautiful features. He was angular and shadowy and very, very masculine. His cold, dark eyes bored into Hermione's in a manner that made her knees go weak quite against her will. And then there was the smell of him. Rosewood, soap, cinnamon, and iron. Hermione had never felt like a bloodhound before, but the past day had made her acutely aware of the troublesome capabilities of her nose.

She scratched at her scalp a bit and said lightly, "I'll just be off to bed, then. I do apologize, Mr. Riddle."

"Tom," he insisted again, just as he'd done earlier in the corridor when he'd given her a bouquet of lilacs. Hermione felt her cheeks go warm with humiliation as she remembered Vanishing his gift. It had been rude of her, she thought. No matter who he was, it was patently rude to Vanish someone's gift into nonbeing.

"I am... erm..." Hermione felt compelled to say something about that, to apologise, but the words and the motivation were stuck in her throat. She coughed a little and tried again, "I am sorry for how I behaved earlier, in the corridor. For Vanishing the lilacs. It was untoward of me. I was... overwhelmed by your hospitality."

He looked almost amused as he stood a step above her, looming over her and casting his crooked smile downward. Tom crossed his arms and said, "I must admit, I've never had a gift so thoroughly rejected, Miss Villeneuve."

"Hermione," she corrected him, since he'd put her on a first-name basis with himself twice already.

"Hermione," he repeated with a single, slow nod. Then he stepped down until he was on the save level as her. He still hovered over her, simply by virtue of his height. The stair was awfully crowded with both of them upon it, and Hermione backed up until her back hit the stone wall behind her.

She suddenly felt nervous - very nervous. This was him; this was Voldemort. Only, it wasn't. For every bit of cold calculation in his eyes, they were brown and not crimson. For all the too-handsome angles in his features, at the very least he was made of normal flesh here. He was human, in a very disconcerting way. Hermione huffed a little and lowered her eyes from him.

"I'll just be off to bed, then," she whispered again, resolving to keep walking up the stairs and to leave this odd boy - this terrible Dark wizard - alone on the staircase.

There was a very long beat of silence, and then Hermione heard Tom Riddle breathe in very deeply and hold his breath, as if he were smelling her. She raised her eyes to his and saw an odd flash of energy in his gaze. His lips parted a bit and he swayed slightly where he stood, blinking quickly several times before saying,

"Yes. To bed with you, then."

"Goodbye, Tom. Thank you again for the lilacs. I am very sorry I Vanished them." Hermione turned and made to walk up the stairs, but then her arm was in his clutch, and he was squeezing, pulling her back to face him.

Hermione gasped loudly and furrowed her eyebrows. His grasp was too hard; he was hurting her and frightening her. She wrenched away from him and he let her go, but then there was icy electricity in his dark eyes as he leaned his face down a bit and demanded in a hiss,

"What are you playing at, then?"

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione squeaked. She realised she'd sounded weak and vulnerable, so she cleared her throat and tried to sound more confident as she tipped her chin up. "I'm not playing at anything, Mr. Riddle. I've come here to finish my education. I couldn't stay at Beauxbatons because -"

"That is not what I mean at all." Tom shook his head slowly, and Hermione felt a stab of fear at the intensity of his stare. When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper, rasping in the darkness of the stairwell. "I mean to ask you why it is that I smelled you in the Amortentia today."

Hermione balked, nearly tumbling down the stairs as she took a step away from him. He reached out with lightning-fast reflexes and grabbed her shoulders, yanking her back up onto the step. He did not release her.

"I'm certain I have no idea what you're talking about." Hermione shook her head vigorously and tried to pull away again, but Tom tightened his hands on her shoulders until his fingertips dug painfully into her flesh. "Please. You're hurting me. Let me go."

He finally did, letting out a shaking breath through his flared nostrils as Hermione straightened before him. He shut his eyes for the briefest moment and seemed to be inhaling again.

Taking in my scent, Hermione realised with an audible gasp. She felt abruptly confused. Even if Tom Riddle had sensed her in the Amortentia, why would he admit that to her? He did not seem like the type, now or in the future, to disclose any semblance of weakness on purpose. Why would he tell her that he'd been confronted with her aroma in the potion?

More importantly, why had she smelled him in return? What could it possibly mean that each of them had sensed the other in the Amortentia, even though they were scarcely acquainted?

"You told Slughorn you smelled grass, and parchment, and toothpaste," Tom reminded her. Hermione nodded, swallowing heavily, but Tom persisted, "You lied. What did you smell in the cauldron?"

"I... it was as I said, Tom." Hermione felt properly frightened of him now, for he had her pinned against the wall again and was hovering over her with a threatening look in his dark eyes. "Freshly mown grass. Brand-new parchments. The mint toothpaste I've used for years."

"You're lying!" Tom hissed again, and he actually moved to raise his wand to Hermione's throat. She gulped and felt her eyes burn with tears. It wouldn't do any good to fight him; he was stronger and more powerful than her even at this age. Tom touched the tip of his wand to Hermione's skin, to the place just under her ear. "Tell me the truth, Hermione."

She wrenched her eyes shut and tipped her head back against the stone, resigning herself to the fact that he was probably going to murder her here, in this empty stone stairwell. "You," she whispered at last.

"What?" Tom pressed his wand more tightly against Hermione's neck after an interminable moment. Hermione could sense an odd tremble in his voice as he struggled to maintain all the control in their interaction. She looked up at him to see that his lips were crossly pursed, that his eyes flashed again with anger. "What do you mean?"

Hermione sighed heavily and struggled not to let him see her cry. "I smelled you," she said at last, her voice sounding defeated. She dragged her teeth over her lip in frustration. "Rosewood, deep and earthy. Soap - just the nice clean scent of soap. Cinnamon... much warmer than I'd think from a boy like you. And iron... metallic, sharp, tangy. I have no idea why it is that I smelled you. I do not even know you. But it's what came to me from the cauldron, and I can sense it when you're near me."

His wand was lowered from her neck then, and Tom Riddle stood before her with his mouth open in unmasked shock. The silence between them seemed to last forever, getting heavier and more oppressive by the second. Finally, Tom coughed lightly and asked,

"Can you sense it now?"

"Yes," Hermione admitted, nodding reluctantly. It wasn't a lie. As he loomed over her, the warm, earthy, masculine scent of him washed over her like an intoxicating wave. She remembered suddenly that he'd admitted to sensing her in the cauldron, and she impulsively asked, "What do I smell like, Tom? When you recognized me in the potion... what was it?"

His tongue peeked out from his open mouth, carefully licking his bottom lip as he blinked a few times and appeared to carefully consider what to say. "The warm rain of a late spring morning," he murmured at last, his voice a low and sensual rumble. "The smell of the trees, of fallen logs, after that rain has fallen upon them. The crisp scent of lemon. And..." He leaned down slowly, stopping only when his face was a few inches from Hermione's. "Lilacs."

Hermione gasped a little, thinking back to the sight of him in the corridor, thrusting out a bouquet of lilacs at her. She shut her eyes and shook her head, her hair grinding into the stone wall behind her.

No, no, no. She couldn't be physically attracted to this boy. This was Voldemort, or, at least, it was the boy who would become Voldemort. He was evil, she told herself again. He was wicked and murderous and terrible.

But she'd sensed him in the Amortentia, and he'd sensed her. Why?

Hermione felt very angry all of a sudden. She was enraged with herself, for being so vulnerable to her physical senses. She was angry with Professor Snape for kidnapping her and taking her to Voldemort. To him, to a different incarnation of the boy who stood before her smelling like everything wonderful and masculine. Hermione cracked her eyes open to see that he was still only a scant few inches away. His beautiful dark gaze bored into hers with a frightening intensity. His lips were still parted in surprise, and his breath shook in little shallow huffs from his narrow, sculpted nose.

He did not look at all in control of himself, and Hermione had no idea why Tom Riddle (of all people) had suddenly succumbed to his own attractions. And, anyway, why on Earth was he attracted to her?

"I'm going to bed," she said resolutely, realising it was at least the third time she'd announced that fact. And yet, here she still was, standing in the stairs, her exit blocked by his wiry frame above her.

Tom squared his jaw as if bracing himself for pain, and then he stood upright and stepped down and away from Hermione. He nodded, tipping his chin up as if he'd suddenly shaken himself from his intoxication.

"See to it that you do not break curfew again, Hermione," he said, his voice stilted and formal. He did not look at her, but frowned and cast his eyes down the staircase. "I do not want to find you alone in a corridor again late at night... I would have to deduct points or refer you for detention."

"Yes. Of course. It won't happen again." Hermione felt her heart thudding in her chest with a mix of fear and confusion, and she crab-stepped sideways up the stairs while keeping her eyes trained on Tom Riddle. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight." He snapped his robes into place and cleared his throat imperiously, heading briskly down the staircase.