Chapter Text
It might sound a little tragic, yet Miss Hermione Granger had grown accustomed to insults.
Those of limited intellect—persons for whom books were foreign objects, useful only as firewood or dust collectors—were forever compelled to find simple, even crude methods by which to project the shame of their own deficiencies upon others. Thus it didn't bother her in the slightest when people whispered, when they snarled at her or pointed and shouted:
“Bookworm.”
“Know-it-all.
“Blue-stocking”
So why then, in heaven’s name, did his words disturb her so?
The day had begun most agreeably. Her hair was unusually compliant, her favourite gown sat well upon her figure, and she had, for once, found herself in the mood to converse. More importantly, she had tasked herself with an important mission this evening: to gently nudge Mr Potter into action to at last ask Miss Ginevra for a dance, if need be by the help of a push.
For months, Hermione had caught him secretly staring at her, had seen the way his eyes lingered when Ginny was near: how they glazed over whenever a single red strand slipped loose to frame her cheek; how they paused just beneath her collarbone, where two delicate bones emerged like an artist’s sketch. He had suddenly grown so quiet in her presence—just as Ginny herself had once done, when he entered the room. It was, Hermione often mused, as though their souls had swapped places.
Thus it was not fortuitous that all three now stood beside Professor Slughorn, making polite conversation. It was an evening that could hardly have been better, for Lord Slughorn's soirée were highly regarded in society – renowned for the exclusivity of its guest lists and the excellent refreshments. Yes, one could hardly ask for a better setting.
Hermione still dared to dream that she might, on such an occasion, meet one of the great authors of their age in person. Slughorn had long made it known that he invited only persons of genius. It was therefore an honour for herself and Miss Weasley to appear on his list once again.
She was in the midst of engaging the Professor in some trivial discourse, hoping thereby to distract him sufficiently to allow her friends a moment’s clumsy flirtation, when Slughorn suddenly waved his glass and cried out:
“Merciful heavens, he’s made it! Mr. Riddle! Mr. Riddle, my dear fellow!”
Riddle? As in the author of ‘Duel at Alnwick Castle’?
In his enthusiasm, Slughorn spilled a measure of champagne mere inches from Hermione’s gown. She turned, hoping to finally see some eccentric man of letters, long awaited and much praised, but spotted two young gentlemen making their way through the crowd.
Something within her stirred—a tingling sensation in her stomach that was quiet probably not entirely akin to simple literary excitement, but more likely the sight of the gentleman who was already smiling back at Slughorn from afar.
Thick, raven-black hair fell in soft waves onto his striking, finely chiselled face. Full lips, a sharp jawline, and cheekbones so pronounced they cast elegant shadows across his countenance. But it was his eyes, framed by lashes so dark and long they seemed almost painted, that drew her gaze longer than was proper.
Ashamed of her staring, Hermione turned her attention to the second gentleman, only for her mood to sour immediately. That pale blonde hair was unmistakable.
Draco Malfoy.
Show me your friends, and I shall know you.
None of them had ever liked Malfoy. Whether it was the indoctrination of his condescending, cold father , or the long-ago day when he had fallen in the mud and been laughed at mercilessly by Ron—Malfoy had ever since never missed an opportunity to repay that humiliation tenfold.
“Mr Malfoy, of course, needs no introduction,” Slughorn beamed. Nods were exchanged — silently, albeit very briefly. Hermione caught the icy glances of both Harry and Ginny. Yet what truly surprised her was not that Harry glared at Malfoy, but that his gaze passed over him entirely, fixed instead on the dark-haired gentleman beside him, who returned it with equal hostility.
“And allow me to present Mr Thomas Riddle,” Slughorn declared grandly, gesturing towards him.
Each lady offered a slight curtsey.
“This is young Miss Weasley —as eloquent and quick-witted as she is pretty, and our Miss Granger, who wrote a most singular piece on the Haitian Revolution recently published in the Daily Prophet. She presently resides as a guest with the Weasley family.”
Mr Riddle inclined his head with the barest trace of a smile.
“And this,” Slughorn continued, gesturing to Harry, “is Mr Potter, ward to the great Lord Dumbledore, who sadly once again could not manage to attend. But tell me, Mr Riddle, will your benefactor—Lord Voldemort — be able to grace us with his presence this year?”
“He is, alas, a man of great business,” replied Riddle smoothly, “and presently travelling in the Balkans.”
“I must make his acquaintance one day!”
Mr Riddle bowed his head, a faint smile playing on the corner of his mouth. “I should be most delighted to arrange it.”
Slughorn then inquired: “Now tell me, how came you to know our dear Mr Malfoy?”
Malfoy cast Riddle a quick look, as if uncertain how he might answer and Hermione knew, whatever may follow would not be half the truth.
“We became acquainted by chance, one summer day on one of the canals in Amsterdam,” Riddle replied, “and I had the good fortune to be shown several of its hidden charms by young Mr Malfoy.”
Malfoy nodded approvingly, grinning smugly as ever. “An extraordinary city, Mr Slughorn.”
Slughorn wagged a pudgy, reproving finger. “You must share tales of your travels over dinner next week, young Malfoy!”
“With pleasure, Sir.”
Hermione, meanwhile, studied the silent exchange of glances between Riddle and Harry. Though her friend stared determinedly at Slughorn, his jaw was clenched. Riddle’s own expression revealed at least a thoughtful calculation. She was increasingly certain: this was not their first meeting.
"Mr Malfoy, I heard rumours," Slughorn began anew, raising his glass in thought, "rumours that your family recently acquired half a dozen white pheasants."
"Well, strictly speaking, they are peafowls, Sir," Malfoy corrected with a polite smile. "And indeed, we could not help but double their number almost at once."
Ginny, just audibly enough for Malfoy and Riddle to notice, murmured, "Of course you did."
A silence followed—brief, but tense.
Before Slughorn could process the tone of Ginny's remark—or Malfoy could respond with his usual snide insult about the Weasleys' shrinking wealth, Hermione quickly interjected. She had no intention of letting one misplaced comment endanger her standing or her chances of ever meeting her literary idols at one of these gatherings.
"Peafowl are native to the Indian subcontinent," she began in an informative tone, drawing upon the contents of the encyclopaedia currently by her bedside. "The more familiar blue variety exhibits its vibrant plumage solely in the male."
If the previous silence had been uncomfortable, this one was positively unbearable.
Hermione tightened her grasp on her glass, which had begun to slip in her now clammy palm.
"Uhm, indeed. Thank you, Miss Granger," said Slughorn at last, with a forced cheerfulness. "Tell me, gentlemen, have your travels yet taken you to the distant lands of India?"
With this, he turned fully upon Riddle and Malfoy, effectively shutting Hermione out of the circle.
Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she suspected that Ginny sensed her discomfort when she suggested they step outside for some fresh air.
"What was that?" Ginny murmured after hooking her arm through Hermione's and walking a few steps.
"You really ought to think before speaking, Ginevra," Hermione chided softly.
"Do remind me of that,” she retorted, “once you’ve explained what you just did."
Hermione glanced over her shoulder just in time to witness Riddle pose a question to Harry, who responded briefly. There was no doubt in her mind now: these two had history.
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Though she had not yet met a celebrated author, Hermione often found the gatherings at Slughorn’s estate filled with conversations worth having. At present, she was deep in pleasant discourse about farming with Mr Longbottom —an unassuming young man, shy, but heir to a most promising estate in the East —when a servant approached with a tray.
"Canapé?" he asked, offering small fish delicacies.
Hermione accepted gratefully, only to freeze upon spotting a familiar head of wiry curls making its way towards them.
Cormac McLaggen.
The polite smile fled her face at once as she remembered their last encounter at a Slughorn gathering.
“Excuse me,” she muttered and hurried away, looking left and right, before darting behind a dark green velvet curtain that framed the tall windows.
As the nephew of a rich and influential uncle, young Mr. McLaggen had a wide choice of potential fiancées and could even be considered a desirable catch by some of the less informed. However, it was no secret in town that he had taken particular advantage of the pleasures of Parisian nightlife during his travels through Europe and that his attentions were rarely motivated by honourable intentions. He had made this abundantly clear when, during a dance, his hand had strayed beyond what would be considered appropriate in decent society. Since then, he had taken great pleasure in tormenting her with inappropriate attentions.
And so it came to pass that Miss Granger found herself concealed behind a curtain, nibbling at a canapé, while the boisterous tones of Mr McLaggen faded mercifully into the distance.
She was just preparing to emerge when a sharper voice sliced through the air.
"So, Potter deigns to grace us with his presence."
There was no need to peer through the curtain to recognise Draco Malfoy’s drawl.
“Usually, the young master is far too fine to attend such affairs. Perhaps the ladies' company has enticed him tonight...”
There was a moment of silence, then the cool, pleasant voice of young Mr. Riddle rang out.
“Elaborate.”
“He courts her. Or wishes to.” The last sentence echoed as if he had raised a glass to his mouth, and the brief silence reinforced the impression that he was taking a sip.
Hermione’s breath caught. They were talking about Harry and Ginny. She could have laughed aloud, because Malfoy's words had made one thing very clear: Harry's advances had not been noticed by only one person: Ginny herself.
“You met her earlier this evening,” continued Malfoy. “Introduced by Slughorn, next to Potter.”
Excited, she leaned forward a little further.
“Which one—the bore or the unruly?”
It was a small miracle that she didn't stumble into the curtain and tear it off the rails when she heard those words. Outraged, her lips formed a silent O and her fingers, which had been resting lightly on the fabric, now gripped it tightly.
Bore? Boring?
“The latter.”
B O R I N G.
Riddle offered no reply, so Malfoy added with disdain: “My father thinks little of her family. Frankly, I was surprised she made the guest list. Slughorn must be losing his touch.”
“How serious is Potter’s attachment?” Riddle inquired coolly.
“Quite. Though he's acting like the first human being ever."
Bore.
She placed a hand over her trembling heart, unable to calm herself.
How dare he?
She was probably the least boring person in the entire village! Sure, she hadn't travelled the world like the male heirs were supposed to, but she had read everything there was to read about the world! She kept herself up to date while oothers here did nothing all day but comb their hair; the more active ones were perhaps enthusiastic about embroidery, and a few, like Mrs. Lovegood, were talented painters, but all in all, she saw herself as a person with a lot of character. Was she not the most well-informed guest at this very gathering? And yet, somehow, she was ..
Good heavens…
Dull.
Uninteresting.
Tiresome.
Tedious.
He said she was flat. Uninspiring even. Maybe yawn-inducing.
The injustice of it stung deeper than she had anticipated. After several minutes and much self-persuasion, she stepped out from behind the curtain. The two gentlemen had long since moved on, into the ballroom, from the sound of it.
She swallowed hard as she re-entered the salon and paused in front of the parlour mirror above the fireplace.
Some of her rebellious curls had long since broken free and was flying around. The colour of her favourite dress suddenly seemed so washed-out, as though robbed of colour, that it was as if the sun had disappeared and only its own grey remained, turning everything in the evening into black and white.
"This is the young Miss Weasley, as eloquent and quick-witted as she is pretty, and our Miss Granger, as tiring and bland as she is uninteresting.”
Perhaps a dance with Mr McLaggen would not be such a dreadful idea after all. He certainly didn't find her dull, the way he was looking at her.
She re-entered the ballroom with arms folded tightly, her proud posture long forgotten. Her steps were no longer certain, and her legs betrayed her nerves.
As she scanned the edge of the dancefloor for McLaggen, she noted Harry and Ginny still stood on other sided of the room, watching the dance and applauding half-heartedly.
What had Malfoy said again? Harry was acting like the first human being? She would never say it out loud, but in truth, she could not entirely disagree.
Her gaze wandered further across the hall and paused on Riddle.
He stood not arrogantly, nor haughtily, but with just enough poise to make others shrink in his presence. His gaze moved over the dancers with disinterest, as though the laughter before him were beneath him.
Hermione noticed that, for the first time that evening, his arrogance made her want to throw herself into the crowd. From now on, everything Riddle disliked would be among her favourite things.
Something had obviously caught his attention. Hermione followed his line of sight and found Ginny there.
The bore or the unruly one?
She glanced back at Riddle and saw not awe on his face, but curiosity. Interest. Then his gaze flicked leftward. Hermione already knew, she would find Harry there.
Riddle's eyes travelled between them, calculation evident.
Then, suddenly, he seemed to have made up his mind and began to move across the room towards Ginny.
A glance into the corner revealed why. Harry had just plucked up the courage to approach Ginny, presumably to finally ask her to dance. However, Riddle was clearly on his way to thwart his plans, as he would reach Ginny before Harry at that rate.
Without thinking twice, Hermione set off. She darted into the crowd and danced swiftly through the rows. Riddle only had a few metres to go before he would be standing in front of Ginny, who would undoubtedly agree to a dance, unsuspecting and taken by surprise, before Harry could reach her.
About ten steps separated the two, and Hermione was now almost running, dancing around Mr Bagman, past Miss Rosmerta, colliding with George and then, placing her foot quite accidentally in Mr Riddle’s path. He stumbled for a moment and pushed the dancing Mr Merrythought over. After a brief apologize he turned his head back to her.
“Oh my, aren't I clumsy. My deepest apologies, Sir," she cooed sweetly. But she sensed that her eyes betrayed more than her naive words tried to hide; that her voice was less innocent than venomous. Riddle, for his part, tried in vain to hide how annoyed he was with her.
His expression darkened, his head inclined curtly, before he turned again—only to find Harry already offering Ginny his hand.
A triumphant grin flashed across Hermione's face, and as she weaved her way through the crowd to leave the dancefloor, she didn't notice Riddle averting his gaze from Harry and staring after her instead; suspicion flaring in those dark, heavy-lashed eyes, while the crowd around him continued to dance.
︵‿︵‿୨♥︎୧‿︵‿︵
The summer, which truth be told, had barely earned the name this year, was making its final rounds before taking its leave entirely. The air was far too clear and cool for so late an August day; the grasses, still far too lush, too green, and unbending from all the recent rains.
Hermione rather enjoyed it. She found the patter of raindrops soothing to the soul and inspiring for the mind. Beneath the great oak they sat—she and Harry —quite dry, gazing absentmindedly upon the gentle stream that wound near the old mill. It was one of their their favoured places, for it was calm and quiet. Words were seldom needed here.
But today, Hermione could not restrain herself.
Curiosity had, at last, prevailed.
"How do you know of Mr Riddle, Harry?"
His body tensed at once, though he kept his eyes fixed on the flowing water. There was no use in dissembling. He knew it was pointless to try to deceive Hermione. Her perceptiveness had always disarmed him.
"We are.. old acquaintances," he replied shortly.
"How old?"
"Very old."
She gasped. "From the orphanage?"
Harry nodded, thoughtful still, never once looking at her. He rarely spoke of his years at Wool’s. She could only imagine the horror of such a place. They had met at eleven, once Lord Dumbledore had taken Harry under his patronage.
"Did you two fall out back then?"
"What? N–no!"
Harry was not unaccustomed to conflict, yet he was, by nature, a peaceful soul.
"No, I-" he raked a hand through his unruly hair, dishevelling it further. Frustration coloured his voice. "We were both considered for Lord Dumbledore’s care. And.. he never forgave me that the Lord chose me."
"Oh."
Something in her stomach tightened. Pity, perhaps.
"I never even understood why I was chosen," he admitted. "Riddle was a few years my senior.. better mannered. Perhaps Lord Dumbledore wanted someone younger—easier to shape.."
One look at Harry’s ashamed expression revealed the truth: guilt gnawed at him. If the orphanage had been as dreadful as whispered, then surely he saw it as his fault that Riddle had remained behind.
"Harry, you must listen to me," she said, her voice firm. "It was not your fault. You lost your parents—just as he did. You were both innocent children, victims of a fate not of your making. You shall not torment yourself simply because your life took a better turn."
He offered a weak, but grateful smile, finally turning his gaze from the stream. A single raindrop slipped through the canopy above and struck Hermione at the temple.
"Besides," she murmured, brushing it away, "I hardly see why he must behave so hostile to you. Clearly, he did not fare so poorly with Lord Voldemort as his patron."
︵‿︵‿୨♥︎୧‿︵‿︵
Tuesdays were Hermiones most cherished day of the week. Twice weekly, the market was held in the village, and on those days she was permitted to accompany Mrs Weasley and Miss Ginevra in the family carriage, to run various errands. Yet what rendered Tuesday truly singular was the arrival of new books to the town library each Monday evening.
Hermione never passed up the opportunity to wander its narrow aisles and exchange a few kindly words with the warm-hearted, stubby librarian before ensuring that she might secure a few of the newest works. And so it was that, well-laden with her latest acquisitions, she made her way toward the exit—only to catch a glimpse of the scene outside.
There stood Ginny—laughing heartily—adjusting her bonnet as she appeared to be introducing her mother to a tall, dark-haired gentleman whose face Hermione could not see. She had, however, a rather precise notion of which gentleman had “happened upon” Ginny that day.
With a look of stone, Hermione stepped from the library and appeared silently beside her friend.
Mr Riddle beheld her, the polite grin still on his handsome face, and inclined his head in greeting.
“Miss…” he began and paused, as though awaiting her name, offering her the chance to reintroduce herself. He had, evidently, forgotten it.
The bore one?
“Granger,” she reminded him, curtsying the smallest curtsy that decency would allow, her gaze elsewhere. “Good day, Mr Riddle.”
Mrs Weasley laid a maternal hand upon her shoulder and began, “Dear Miss Granger is nearly one of the family. She has been staying with us since her parents moved to Paris. Have you ever visited the city, Mr Riddle?”
“Indeed, Paris was among the places I had the privilege of touring during my travels upon the Continent.”
Ginny turned to Hermione and murmured, “Found new treasures? I daresay you’ve read every book in that place by now…”
Hermione gave a slight shrug, causing the precarious stack of books in her arms to wobble. “Then I shall simply read them again.”
“Permit me to assist you, Miss,” interrupted Mr Riddle, reaching under her arms.
Hermione was uncertain what displeased her more: that he was making eyes at Ginny or that he had the audacity to touch her books. The offence must have shown plainly upon her face, for he added smoothly, “It would be my pleasure to escort you to your carriage.” And with that, he and Mrs Weasley walked ahead.
Mrs Weasley, meanwhile, busied herself with inquiring about the countries Mr Riddle had visited.
“I have seen the night markets of Constantinople, the morning dew upon the German Alps, operettas in Rome… Truly, Madam, it would be impossible to recount it all within so short of a walk.”
Mrs Weasley was visibly enchanted. “Oh! Then you must visit us, Mr Riddle.” She paused, considering. “A dinner! Then you have an entire evening to speak of your travels. What do you think, girls?”
Both turned back to her and Ginny.
Well played, Riddle.
“We ought to invite Mr Potter, Miss Weasley,” Hermione remarked. “His own tour last summer may offer a delightful contrast. A comparison of accounts would no doubt be a great addition.”
“A splendid idea, dear,” Mrs Weasley praised.
Mr Riddle seemed of another opinion, for his gaze chilled a degree before he recovered his composure and turned once more to Mrs Weasley, who was now fully invested in the plan.
"Let us know how things stand for you next week and we'll arrange everything else!"
“It would be my pleasure.”
The walk to the carriage took just a few more minutes, during which Mrs Weasley continued with great enthusiasm to gush about the joys of village life. But to Hermione, the time passed with agonising slowness. The weather had turned; the air was colder, and a disagreeable wind cut through the thin fabric of her dress. Just before they reached the carriage, a fine drizzle began to fall, and their farewells were made with little ceremony.
Hermione caught just a glimpse of Mr Riddle taking Ginny’s hand to steady her as she mounted the steps into the carriage. It was a good thingthat it was dark inside the carriage, else it would have been all too plain how deeply the young girl blushed.
Hermione was the last to approach. She raised her hand.
But instead of taking it, Riddle pressed her books back into her arms.
“Miss Granger.”
“Mr Riddle.”
“Have you a particular fondness for drama?” he asked, tilting his head toward the titles.
She drew the stack protectively to her chest. “I read whatever finds its way to my feet.”
He leaned in ever so slightly and spoke softly, with a tone of almost conspiratorial intimacy:
“Then take care not to trip again, Miss Granger. You might come to harm next time.”