Part Two

Fuck. She was brilliant.

Two weeks had passed since Tom and Hermione had begun studying—really studying—together. He found that it was easy to debate magic with someone who was not an academic threat to him. (Hermione had sworn to him that she planned to pass her tests only with an Acceptable although she'd "treat" herself to one Exceeds Expectations). Not that Hermione couldn't come close to matching him, if she tried. He had never had the opportunity to speak to someone so clever. It felt insulting to him—as he was the Heir of Slytherin and she was but a low Mudblood—but for now he would live with that fact.

She was very interesting.

It wasn't as if Hermione didn't know what he thought of her heritage. She hadn't outright blamed him for the failed attack brought upon her by his Knights, but she had alluded that she knew he had been the reason behind the attack. Yet still, she spent time alone with him—still greeted him warmly when she saw him, was still willing to meet him for the next study session after once again losing her temper during their frequent debates. And he found that he also enjoyed her company, although begrudgingly, even as he wondered what to do with the witch.

It was clear to him that such a bright little Mudblood could not stay here at Hogwarts. She was too smart, too exceptional. The existence of a Mudblood like that would appear to contradict anything he, with his noble Slytherin blood, stood for and Tom Riddle could not do with a contradiction.

The witch had to die, it was clear.

Tom Riddle rested his chin on his hand as he carefully considered the girl in front of him. She was still going on about House Elf rights, for whatever bizarre reason. Would not shut up about it? She would likely fight him with the same logic and fervor if she knew of his desire to purify the wizarding world. Scoff at the fact that he wanted to rid the world of Mudbloods like her, who didn't really belong. Yes, she had to die—which was sort of a shame—but how to go about it in a way that didn't incriminate him.

Her warm brown eyes looked up to him and he noticed then she had stopped speaking. "Wow. I don't think I have ever left you speechless before."

He smirked, and a jolt of something warm and pleasant shot through him as he teased her. "I was just marveling at the fact that you were able to find a topic to disagree on even as we're studying History of Magic."

Hermione blushed. "I just think it's important to learn from past mistakes."

"And I just think these things already happened, Hermione. There is no point in ruffled feathers over facts."

She took a deep breath and returned to the book they were reading, a rather tedious work called History of Wizardkind that was not nearly as interesting as it sounded. Tom really only had planned to skim through it—he always got great marks at History whether he studied hard or not—but Hermione had balked at that idea. In her opinion, Outstanding grades couldn't be properly earned unless you knew absolutely everything there was to know about the test subject, down to the last minute detail.

The girl really didn't know when to pick her battles. Or to save hard work only for things that were worthy and necessary.

"You're impossible to talk to," she whispered finally after he'd thought she'd let the subject drop. "And worst of all, you don't care. There is a lot of injustice going on right now because witches and wizards won't bother to look back and question well-known 'facts', never bother to stop and realize that they're following old-fashioned prejudiced views because they refuse to take the time to question them."

He looked at her. So that was why she was so stubborn on the subject. She wasn't talking about House Elves anymore, not truly.

He wondered if she was aware of how much her sense of inadequacy influenced her opinions.

"The very fact that House Elves can be subjugated by wizards proves wizarding superiority," he told her. "Nevermind that you forget the fact that they're happy serving us, Hermione. Not everybody shares your idealistic vision of the world."

"Have you ever bothered to ask a single House Elf if they were happy?" Hermione countered irritably. "Not all of them are happy. And so what if they all were? Ever heard of Stockholm syndrome? Even I would absolutely love you if you kept me trapped in a room somewhere for years and years, and you're an absolute prat."

The idea of keeping Hermione trapped in a room for years and years danced in his head, and he felt a possessive sort of satisfaction. Maybe—

"No," he said instead.

"No what?" She hissed.

"No, I've never heard of Stockholm syndrome."

She froze, and he could see it when the blood left her face. She was pale as a ghost, horrified—but why?

"It's—a muggle thing," she said in a mock casual tone. She was feeling anything but casual; he saw the horror in her eyes. But why?

He would investigate this, of course, but not with her. Stockholm syndrome? He would have to look it up... "There is no shame in knowing Muggle terms, Hermione," he told her instead, soothing her. "It's the world you've come from, after all."

She relaxed visibly. "I—yeah. Thanks, Tom," and of course he could read her distrust in his statement. Clever witch.

That night, at their meeting, he instructed his Knights on looking up the meaning of Stockholm syndrome by any means necessary. "Question the Mudbloods," he ordered. "They should know. Bring results to me soon or there shall be... consequences."

The days passed and his Knights grew desperate, getting bolder with their methods. James Allison, a Hufflepuff first year, was found unconscious in a puddle of his own blood in a bathroom one night. Lily Smith, a fifth year Ravenclaw, had her late grandmother's photo album catch on fire. Maggie Wyeth, a seventh year also from Ravenclaw, had received a cursed gift and had been cursed so badly, she had to be sent to St Mungo's. All of them were Mudbloods. None of them remembered what had happened to them. Finally, his Knights' extreme measures had drawn so much attention he had been forced to make them stop. No knowledge had been gained by their efforts. This made Lord Voldemort very angry.

He hated when things did not go his way. He would be sure to remind his Knights of what happened when they failed Lord Voldemort.

It was their last study session before the end of finals week and Hermione was once again readying herself for intentional failure. The witch wrinkled her nose. The idea of doing average for an entire semester disgusted her.

Tom Riddle had been very quiet, poring over her notes on Defense Against the Dark Arts. They had decided to switch notes several days ago, and the idea had been so interesting and effective that the pattern had just stuck. Both of them had differing ideas on what kind of things were important enough to write down for future reference, and they'd found that together they built a pretty complete picture of any subject.

Finally he gave up, passing her notes back to her with frustration. "Granger, your notes for Defense are insufferable. You seem to be under the impression that everything Professor Merrythought says is the word of God."

Hermione blushed. "A lot of her anecdotes are very interesting," she defended herself. "You never know what might be useful for the N.E.W.T.s." She suddenly became crestfallen. "Not that I could do anything about the N.E.W.T.s, when the time comes."

A twist of what Riddle certainly told himself was not pity rose within him. He quashed it instantly. "I hardly believe that anecdotal evidence of the use of defensive spells in pottery could ever come up during N.E.W.T.s. You're just writing down everything that woman says. What is the point, then, of keeping notes."

Hermione's blush deepened with indignation. "What about you!" she accused, slapping his notes, then read "'Protean charms are useful to find missing keys', if that isn't anecdotal I will bite my—oh." Oh. Her eyes widened with realization. Of course, she was witnessing the development of the Dark Mark. She felt an eerie sort of fascination at the realization.

Riddle had the unnerving feeling that Hermione knew too much, but he whisked it away. It was impossible.

"You know," he changed the subject, voice silky smooth. "You never told me what Stockholm syndrome was."

Hermione stiffened, sending a wave of pleasure through him. He so liked to make her uncomfortable. "I told you it was a Muggle thing. I doubted you cared to hear about it."

"I care to hear anything about you," Riddle said, hand on his chin as he leaned towards her and flirted shamelessly. He knew how handsome he was, how girls fawned over him. Even on Hermione, he could use that as an advantage. She was, after all, ultimately female.

Or maybe he could not use his looks as an advantage. Hermione grimaced at him, annoyance evident on her face. "Do I even look like Harriet Parkinson? I can tell you about Stockholm syndrome. You can skip the theatrics."

Still, her cheeks had reddened, her pupils dilated, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. He felt a surge of victory. She might not let it influence her, but she was definitely attracted to him. Enough that she became uncomfortable when he paid this sort of attention to her, and made her entirely self-conscious.

She paused, thoughtful, and weighed her options. "Stockholm syndrome is... it's essentially a phenomenon during which a captive person becomes sympathetic of their captor. Essentially, the hostage grows to love the person or people keeping them captive. It might not be known as that exact term, now that I think about it—my parents... They told me about Stockholdm syndrome, and they're kind of different with how they go about things," she lied. Surely, Riddle would lose interest after she mentioned her Muggle parents.

He raised an eyebrow, and to her great inconvenience he seemed interested in what she had to say. Or maybe he feigned interest. It wasn't making her life easier either way. "In what way?"

There was another pause as she remembered her parents. There was no point in trying to convince him that they were good people. Riddle's path was already set, and she was not to do anything that could disturb the timeline. Yet there was nothing about her parents that she could think to share that didn't put them in a positive light. "They just are different, quirky, even for Muggle dentists they're certainly something," she said simply, waving off his question. She remembered then that he hadn't mentioned yet that he was an orphan. "What are your parents like?" she asked innocently, rather curious about what light he would project himself with.

"I never met my parents. I am an orphan," he said, and that was that. Just a statement of the facts, completely devoid of any emotion.

Then suddenly she blurted, "You know, I always wondered about the condition of orphanages in the mid-century."

He raised an eyebrow. "'Orphanages in the mid-century'? In what world is that a way people talk?"

She blushed again, feeling rather silly at her random burst of awkwardness. "Cease your judgment. I've read your essays."

A smirk formed on his lips. "I am aware I can be a bit presumptuous in writing"—he conceded ("In writing?" Hermione laughed with disbelief)—"But still—'Orphanages in the mid-century'," he repeated her phrasing, savoring the words in his mouth. Then he added, as an afterthought, "Sometimes you speak like you are a time traveler."

Multiple things happened at once. The first was Hermione's sharp, almost inaudible intake of air. Riddle noticed this, along with how her breath caught in her throat, how the quill she was holding was gripped tighter in her small hand, how she looked at him.

And then Riddle came to a realization he should have gotten months ago.

The girl was a time traveler. That was the weirdness he'd felt on her magic. Not an intentional time traveler-hence the aura of sickness-but a time traveler nonetheless.

He looked at her more astounded than he'd ever felt in his life. Past or future? From how close to his present, or from how far away? What had she seen-what did she know-?

There was an eerie moment of silence as he composed himself, giving off the perfect illusion of calm and ignorance. It was a well-practiced act. Hermine Granger could not know that he knew.

And yet she knew and she was terrified. She knew that he had realized it, saw the slight shift in his composure, how his act had stopped hiding a person and began hiding a monster. She felt that he could kill her there, if he wanted to, then calmly and seemingly innocently go to the Headmaster to announce her death, a tragic accident—

There was no point in acting anymore. He would only grow bolder if he thought she couldn't see through him.

She looked at him, gaze determined and steady and shining oh-so-brightly with a sort of bravery that impressed even him. And suddenly he understood why she was in Gryffindor. He was remarkable, truly and without a doubt.

"Yes, actually," she said confidently, eyes unwavering. "A time traveler."

She left him speechless.

"If you could please not tell anyone," she continued with a casual air. "I should be sent back to my time eventually, and I'd much rather prefer to be interviewed by the newspapers after I am born."

"So you are from the future then," he said with amazement, and suddenly it all made sense, yet he could not fully believe it, couldn't really...

But why on Earth would she lie?

He found her bravery emboldened him. "What time?" he asked.

"Much later than now," she said, and she was fiddling with her thumbs and thinking hard as she tried to determine how much she could safely say. "1998."

His heart was thumping louder than it ever had. He looked at her with amazement. This girl was Divination's dream. There was so much he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to know, yet he was almost afraid—him! afraid!—afraid he might ruin his future if he knew too much, asked her too much. But he couldn't stop himself. "Do you know me, then?" he asked. And the unspoken question was Do you know of me? Have I been successful in my goal?

She paused for a long time, eyes on the table. He found that he rather desperately wished she would look at him. "We'd never met in person, after this year." Her voice was small. "But I know of you." And there was a certain reverence in her tone and a certain fear that made him know he had been successful.

Victory roared in his chest. So he would be known. He would be feared. And yet—

Yet how—

He asked.

"How are you—Are you really—?" How are you so good at magic? Are you really a Mudblood? were the unspoken questions, too self-incriminating if he asked them out loud.

She understood him anyway, and approval swelled in his chest. "I really am a Muggleborn," she said with a bitterness in her voice, and now she was looking at him, and there was anger in her eyes. "I went to Hogwarts for six years, until for my seventh year I was no longer allowed to go back. And then I hid."

He felt a certain sort of irritation that she'd still managed to attend the seventh year that he would denied her.

The irritation grew and he couldn't help himself. "Do you hate me, Hermione?" he taunted, voice cold and cruel. He was angry. Angry that, this once, he had been bested by an inferior Mudblood.

"Hate is a strong word," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze on his was unwavering. "But I do."

And she was lying, Riddle noticed. Or perhaps she wasn't lying and she simply didn't know.

There was resentment in her eyes, but not hate. There was resentment and anger and fear and distrust. Perhaps she was incapable of hate—he wasn't sure—and then there was a brief flash of something in her, something warm, and he became unable to think.

Lust. His pride swelled up at the realization. Even when he had taken her education away, had probably taken everything away from her, she found him irresistible.

There was affection in her eyes too, hidden heavily behind a thick layer of denial and guilt. He was much more surprised by that than he was by her lust.

She figured out what he was doing. She averted her gaze before he had a chance to explore her mind further.

"I didn't know you knew Legimency," she lied, pulling a strand of her hair behind her ear as she looked at the floor beside him.

Her tone was neutral and emotionless but she shifted uncomfortably and he knew.

She lied.

What else did she know about him?

He felt a sudden urge to control the situation and grabbed her hand with his. It felt like suddenly her skin emitted a jolt of electricity and every one of his nerve endings was hyperaware of the fact that he was touching her. The feeling of her magic thrumming against his skin was intoxicating. She remained there, frozen and motionless, and somewhere in his mind he realized how entirely too intimate this felt, how his hand on hers didn't feel threatening at all—

It felt—uncomfortable. He removed his hand.

"I have been practicing Legimency since before I knew it was a thing," Riddle admitted casually. He wasn't sure why he was telling her this. "I have always been quite good at magic."

A small smile graced her lips, her eyes still on the floor. "You're very naturally talented," she said, and somehow it didn't sound quite like flattery. "And remarkably bright. It's a rather dangerous combination."

"How about you?" he asked, and he was surprised to find that he was truly curious. "You feel... strong. But I've never actually seen your magic."

She looked at him rather shyly and for some reason he wished he had never taken his hand off of hers. "I have always been very clever. I was a bit of a nerd even before I knew—before Hogwarts. But the very first truly practical test I took, I failed. That was back in my third year. Defense Against the Dark Arts. I've practiced harder since then, but still only got an Exceeds Expectations in my Defense O.W.L.." She sounded frustrated. "I am good at defending myself; it's just... The things you can't learn, the things you need to be intuitive about—I am not as good at those."

He couldn't believe she was telling him one of her weaknesses. It made him wonder and abruptly asked—"How are you still alive, if you don't mind me asking? I mean—If you've been banned from Hogwarts, surely you know—Why haven't I—"

"Why haven't you killed me yet, you're asking," it was not a question and her voice was stern. She hesitated for a moment. "Are you sure no one can listen to us?"

"No one," he reassured her. He didn't feel like reminding her of his spells and preemptive measures.

She took a deep breath. "I have been targeted before," she admitted. Her voice was calm as she disassociated. "Not by you—you'll have quite a bit of followers, Tom, so you personally setting out to kill somebody is quite rare. I was just a schoolgirl when you rose to power, so I wasn't quite a threat. And I suppose I must tell you now that I vanished to this timeline on the second of September of 1998. You can do whatever you want to me after that date and even here, but not before I vanished. It would affect the timeline. Don't look for me before the second of September of 1998," she said sternly and she wasn't even pretending at this point. Voldemort had come back from the dead before. There was no guarantee that he wouldn't do it again. "It will affect the timeline. Is that understood? The same applies to me—I am not doing you a courtesy by not attempting to kill you in your sleep. You will be who you will be."

There was a brief pause during which Hermione caught her breath and he stared at her. This was not the way Riddle had thought their conversation would go at all. She continued, tone bossy. "Anyway, it's getting late. We're rather wasting our time here, I think. The Defense final is tomorrow and I'd love to know why you thought Protean charms might be useful when it comes for Defense Against the Dark Arts when it is clearly a Charms subject."

Riddle was about to object. She spoke again. "There is no use in talking about what will happen. It will happen, and you will find everything out soon enough. But I haven't come here to relive the world you created, thank you." Hermione paused, thoughtful. "And come to think of it, you shouldn't try to murder me during this time, either. There are no records of another death at Hogwarts and it might be too suspicious if you found yourself linked to another student death after Myrtle"—she saw the look he was giving her and rolled her eyes—"not that anybody else ever suspected you. I've just—I've spoken to Dumbledore."

They spent the rest of their time at the library in awkward conversation, Hermione determined not to resume their chat about the future and ignoring all of Tom's attempts to bring it up again.

He went to the library after the last final exam and waited for her there, but she never showed up.

Irritated, he left to search for her.

She sat by the lake composing a letter to the Headmaster, and it only felt mildly unsettling that it was addressed to Armando Dippet.

It was an unusually sunny day for a Scottish winter. Many students were out on school grounds, enjoying their final few days at Hogwarts before winter break. Hermione didn't mind them. It was nice to see so many people out enjoying the sun, even though it was cold.

But Hermione had other important things she had to do. She had to prepare, in case her circumstances... changed.

She'd had a very vivid dream about her own time last night. So vivid she could still recall it, down to the last detail. She dreamt that she opened her eyes and it was daytime and her dorm was empty, yet when she looked outside she saw that the lawn had been freshly mowed and they were still fixing the Herbology greenhouse and, come to think of it, her dorm's curtains looked different than usual yet very familiar, very modern...

And then she woke up, and she had been sleepwalking and was standing by the dark window, an old-fashioned curtain held firmly in her hand.

It had not felt like a dream. It had made Hermione wonder if she was about to return to her own time, finally. She didn't dare bring her hopes up—but still she had to prepare. Like she had told Tom, the death or sudden disappearance of another Hogwarts student was nowhere in the Hogwarts records. If she was going to leave, she wanted to leave a reason behind that left it abundantly clear that she had willingly left and there was nothing extraordinary about her sudden disappearance.

So she penned a letter, addressed to Headmaster Dippet, explaining that her mother's health had taken a turn for the worse, and she wished to go on winter break after all so that she could help her father take care of her. And she doubted she might be coming back, but could she please remain on the list of students for next semester, in case her mother felt better and Hermione could return. She thought her circumstances would be tragic enough that the Headmaster would give her all the time she needed, would be inclined to leave her be, give her space—

Then Tom Riddle stormed into her bubble.

"Lovely day, isn't it," he said calmly, and he was so composed that Hermione inexplicably thought that she had crossed him. "I hadn't thought of you as the kind who would neglect her studies due to nice weather, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised, with you being a— with your background, I mean."

Hermione raised an eyebrow with disbelief. She had definitely crossed him if he was being this bold with her without their usual measures to ensure privacy. "I thought after the last final, we would be done."

"You thought wrong," said Riddle, sounding quite irritable. "Not that I care what you do. Who is that letter for, anyway?"

"My secret boyfriend," Hermione said sarcastically. "Who do you think? Jesus, Tom—I'm writing to the Headmaster."

"Spare me the details," Riddle snapped back even as he sat on the grass next to her. The movement looked so casual it felt impossible to associate it with someone who called himself Lord Voldemort. Then, to Hermione's amusement—"What are you writing to him for?"

She passed him her letter as she casually told him. "My mother has fallen ill and I might have to go home and help care for her indefinitely." He looked at her strangely then, so she shook her head and lowered her voice. "You how possible that can be. The truth is—I had a strange dream, so I'd like to take certain precautions."

"Trying hard not to incriminate anyone," he said with mild surprise and satisfaction as he read her letter.

She snorted. "Hardly. But like I said, there can be no record."

"You do know you are making things very convenient for me," he told her. It was a warning, not a threat.

Hermione paused, looking thoughtful. "I am aware."

There was a brief moment during which she was lost in thought and he felt he was waiting for her to tell him something. He wasn't mistaken. "I am afraid I might have to make things more convenient for you, actually," she said hesitantly. There was uncertainty in her voice and fear, and it certainly caught his attention.

She looked around them and saw there was no one nearby. Still, she whispered. "You see, I can't exactly leave. I was wondering if you could help me find a decent place to hide," she said, pretending she didn't know that he knew about the Room of Requirement, and desperately hoping that he would share that knowledge with her.

He didn't answer immediately but when he did, he sounded confident. "I know a place."

She breathed a sigh of relief mixed with gratitude. "And then—Gamp's law—"

His smile wasn't necessarily evil but it was undoubtedly malevolent. "You are determined to put your life in my hands. I can bring food to you, Hermione, but there might be—a price."

Hermione swallowed. She had no choice. She had to protect the timeline.

She strongly hoped that she would live to see Ron and Harry again. Warm affection surged through her as she thought of them; it made her feel brave.

"I have no choice, do I?"

He led her to the Room of Requirement. It chose to materialize itself as the inside of a modest cottage, with a kitchen and one bedroom and even a small library. Hermione liked it; Tom seemed a little less impressed.

There was a sort of nervousness that settled in her when she saw that the bed was larger than it was necessary for only one person, but Tom never commented on it.

"I can come with supplies once a day. Anymore and I might be noticed. Do you know how to cook?"

Hermione nodded.

"You should probably start settling in now so that come Friday you'll be able to move in indefinitely."

Hermione hesitated. "You know... For what it's worth, I'd really prefer a painless death," she half-joked. Only half.

Riddle looked at her. His eyes were completely devoid of emotion. It was unsettling.

"You know, Hermione, you have the worst self-preservation instincts than anyone I've ever met," he told her and he was only half-joking himself. Only half.

That Friday, when she moved in, they simultaneously decided to throw a bit of an impromptu housewarming party.

Hermione had put up some balloons and snacks she had brought in from the Hogwarts kitchen. Tom Riddle had procured some firewhisky—she didn't ask him how. At first Hermione had refused to drink and Riddle had refused to play any party games, but by the end she had drunk entirely too much and he was doing quite well at their sad version of pin the tail on the hippogriff.

Hermione was quite sure no one would ever believe her if she told someone about this.

"This curry is going to taste like shit," Hermione told him, half-giggling, speech slightly slurred and eyes bright. "I told you we shouldn't substitute water for firewhisky."

"You were the one who insisted it was a great idea," Tom defended himself in good humor, and he was decidedly less tipsy. "You called them curry shots."

She beamed at him then, and it was not just because of the firewhisky. "Since when does the Heir of Slytherin let a Gryffindor call the shots in the kitchen?"—she snorted at her own pun—"Ha ha... shots."

He saw the opportunity and seized it. "How do you even know I'm the Heir of Slytherin, anyway?" he asked jovially. It was not hard to feign good humor, with her. "Does old coot Dumbledore just share that suspicion to any student he sees, in the future?"

"Heavens, no!" Hermione said, quick to defend Dumbledore. "The Chamber of Secrets was opened during my second year. That bloody basilisk petrified me! And I rather liked Dumbledore."

"Who opened the Chamber of Secrets?" he questioned, disturbed. Had he had any children—?

She cut off that rather unpleasant train of thought. "You, of course," he scoffed. "You possessed a friend of mine with a diary somehow," Hermione said and then caught herself. She was saying entirely too much. "She ended up chucking your diary in a toilet."

Riddle was furious. He knew his diary was unbreakable, but it still displeased him to no end to imagine his horcrux in a drain somewhere. The little chit who'd been possessed had probably found it in the Room of Requirement, where it was hidden. He would have to move it—assign a follower to protect it perhaps—

He would think about that later. "What did you think about it?" he asked her rather calmly, more calm than he was feeling at the moment.

Hermione didn't have to ask what 'it' was. "The way you managed to possess my friend was horrible," she chided him. "But the diary itself was an impressive bit of magic. My friend told me it actually wrote back to her. I've looked it up in many textbooks and haven't yet found how you managed that,"—then, begrudgingly—"It was absolutely brilliant."

Pride swelled in his chest. He found that he rather liked her praise. "I invented that bit of magic, actually."

"Wow," she whistled, eyes wide. "Just wow."

He smirked and decided to shift closer to her, putting a hand on the kitchen counter. She took a step back, and found that she was pinned between Riddle and the counter. Her closeness to Riddle unnerved her.

"Erm—" she muttered. Her breath smelled like firewhisky.

So did his. "I think the curry might be done," he said quietly. There was amusement in his eyes as she squirmed.

"Right," she muttered, keeping her body as far from his as possible. It was all she could saw coherently. She had already pressed herself against the counter, but Riddle was still entirely too close.

He gave her a rather devious grin and suddenly he looked breathtakingly handsome.

Then Riddle leaned down towards her until his face was centimeters away from hers, and their lips touched, very briefly, and as sudden as it had begun he swiftly took a step back and looked at her, devilish, striking grin still in place and a brightness in his eyes filled with amusement at her expense—

"You have done very well, telling me that," he said and she was not sure what he meant. Her head felt fuzzy. Hermione briefly considered if he was really the kind of person who would use affection as a reward and even briefer still she felt a desire to be rewarded in that way again. She felt incredibly dirty once the feeling passed. And then her stomach sank.

She remembered Ron.

She told him, probably because she was not thinking clearly. "I have a boyfriend." Hermione felt ridiculous, telling Voldemort that.

He smiled politely and he twisted her words into something he could use for his advantage. "I was not aware that you would consider me a threat to your relationship."

"I—"

"You?" he mocked her in a way that seemed entirely benign. It confused her.

"You're such a prat, Riddle," she blushed angrily and to her surprise, he laughed.

"Maybe," he conceded. "Now are you going to let me try your fantastic chili shots or not?"

He spent the rest of the night joking with her and she didn't touch the firewhisky again.

She was distressed to find she really enjoyed his company.

The following day he kept his promise and visited her with breakfast, a newspaper and a small bag of provisions.

"Good morning, Hermione," he announced pleasantly as he closed the door behind him, causing her to screech from the kitchen. She had not been expecting him this early—she was in her pajamas! Suddenly, she saw a cozy red robe just within her reach. She grabbed it and quickly put it on, to Riddle's amusement. "I see you've had a rough morning."

Hermione grimaced at him. He looked perfect, as always—darn that Slytherin—and she felt keenly aware of her bed head and her ratty pajamas and the fact that she was hungover.

"You gave me entirely too much to drink last night," she huffed accusingly as if this was the first time in the history of the world that she had decided to make herself tea in her pajamas. He smiled.

"I did offer you too much to drink," he corrected her. "I didn't force you to drink that much firewhisky."

Hermione groaned as she poured them both tea. "I know. I feel horrible about it. I don't usually drink—but I was so excited—hiding here makes me feel like I am actually doing something to go home, you know? Like I am one step closer to my time. I can't wait to see everybody again."

She sat with him at the small kitchen table and began drinking her tea, gradually feeling more awake. Her eyes went wide when he took out the box he'd brought breakfast in.

"You brought me pancakes? Thank you!"

He looked at her pleasantly as he sipped his tea and casually said "I noticed they seem to be your favorite."

She smiled. "Stalker."

He looked mischievously at her and countered with "You didn't give me any sugar for my tea."

"You never have sugar with your tea," she said before realizing what she was admitting to.

"Mmm-hmm," he muttered simply, but the accusation lingered heavily in the air: You are a stalker too.

She ate rather quietly as he sipped his tea and read the Daily Prophet. Grindelwald was on the cover and Hermione looked at the picture of the wizard with a moderate degree of distaste.

"You know," she said, nose slightly wrinkled with disapproval, "it was very interesting to have met you and all, but if I somehow survive all of this"—she waved her hand at her surroundings—"and I timetravel again, I rather wish to get sent to a time of peace for a change."

Riddle raised an eyebrow. "You keep insinuating I will murder you. Have I not just fed you breakfast?"

"And it is delicious, again thank you," Hermione said sheepishly. "But it's kind of hard to forget that you're Lord Voldemort. You're getting something out of all of this—this act."

"I will admit I'm rather curious about what happens to me in the future," he conceded. "I was hoping that we could negotiate today, actually."

She paused for a slight moment before getting another orange slice, eyes firmly on the table. "You want information," she said. It was not a question.

"Only in the most general sense," he said. "Nothing that could affect the timeline, of course. I was thinking you might be willing to answer one question a day—just one question—in exchange for your continued survival."

She visibly stiffened, causing him to quickly clarify. "You know, having me bring you provisions. There is no need to be so paranoid."

Hermione considered her orange slice. "Can I veto any questions?"

"Of course."

"Okay then, I guess," she said nervously. It was evident she wasn't comfortable with their arrangement, but her instinct of self-preservation were finally—finally—kicking in. She did not want to die here. Never mind that he would pretty much guarantee her death after September 2nd, 1998. Unless— "What is your first question?" she asked, and Riddle rather thought that this had been deliriously easy.

He felt triumphant.

"I don't know yet," he lied. What was the term Hermione had used? Stockholm syndrome. He had to work a bit more to get her guard down, if he wanted the most useful answers. "How about I ask you later on, if that's alright."

Her brown eyes widened slightly with surprise. "You're staying here?"

"Only for a while, to keep you company. I don't have anything better to do."

And Hermione knew he had lied—it was his final year at Hogwarts, he very likely had better things to do.

But there was not much of anything better that she could do, and Hermione did like his company, when he was trying to be so charming...

"Well, alright," she muttered, and suddenly he smiled and leaned toward her and gave her an almost-chaste kiss on the corner of her mouth as if he'd just missed her cheek by an inch—or her lips mere millimeters—

And Hermione's heart fluttered, and she found that she could barely think—and there was a sort of want she'd never felt before and a certain pressure in her chest that felt almost unbearable—

"That's a good girl, Hermione," Riddle whispered his approval before he pulled away, an innocent smile gracing his beautiful lips. His eyes were fire.

And she was lost.

A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews, follows and favorites! It really means a lot. Makes me feel like I am not writing this to myself. ^_^ Thank you, too, for catching my typo at the very end of the first chapter!

There may be more than one chapter left. Tom is being rather—bolder, than I had planned, and much more charming than I'd envisioned. And these two are getting along rather swimmingly, all things considered. Hm.