Jagged

Tracking

"Are you following me?" He pushes her against a wall and crowds her with his body. One arm is at his side, clutching his wand threateningly and the other is thrown against the flagstone above her head. His face is dangerously close to hers, observing with a keenness that could cut. It feels like he can read her mind just by working out her facial expressions.

"Your ownership of this part of the castle is news to me." It takes more than a simple scare tactic to throw Hermione off her game. Even if she is surprised to be caught in the act.

"You've turned every corner I have for the last three minutes. I— heard you." His eyes flash, but in a moment the evidence is gone.

Impossible. Hermione had tailed the older version of this man in much closer quarters a dozen times without him realizing it. There is no way Tom could have known.

"You hesitated." His eyebrows furrow and it is all the confirmation she needs. "You didn't hear me. But you knew I was there."

Once more, she's thrown by his reaction. Flushed cheeks and a flare of devastatingly dangerous anger in his eyes. Not at all like she'd been taught. There is no control here— there's barely restraint. The obvious effort he is putting in to not attacking her is greater than it should be.

He's a bit more put together than he'd been previously. His uniform is in less disarray and his emotions, before now, had been harder to read. He'd looked more like the man Harry described and less like the one she'd made herself familiar with.

"You're not as good as you think you are."

But she is. She's been trained to be so. The last time she'd been caught she was sixteen, and Lavender had almost paid for it with her life. Hermione does not make the same mistake twice.

"Yes," she says slowly, deadly. "I am."

Tom's eyes search her face once more, and he's all hard edges. Sharp jawline, straight nose, dark eyes. He has turned intimidation into an art.

"Is that so?" he breathes. "Tell me why you've been following me."

Hermione narrows her eyes. "Just like a spoiled little boy to make demands instead of asking."

"I don't ask for what I can take."

Hermione leans forward, until their chests are nearly touching and she meets his eyes purposefully, almost taunting.

"Try me."

For a moment she thinks he'll do it— and she prepares her Occlumency shields against an oncoming invasion. A strong one, if what she has been told is true. The adrenaline flows through her body in an all too familiar manner, and suddenly she isn't a seventh year girl in the 1940's— where her biggest concern should be that she's in a hallway, alone with a boy in what could be considered a compromising position— she's a soldier, preparing for an attack and ready to fire back. She fingers the wand in her pocket, and it's reassuring even if she knows she doesn't need it to protect herself.

But there's no attack. Her mind isn't breached.

He steps back and turns, throwing his cloak over his shoulder before stepping away.

She's left feeling empty, breathing heavy, and disappointed in the lack of fight.

Her eyes follow him. There are more questions than answers at this point.

It doesn't bother her. She's figured out harder puzzles than this before.
---
Hermione struggles to make friends like it's first year all over again.

She doesn't relate to any of the girls in her year. They talk of boys and marriage proposals, secret kisses behind wall tapestries and how romantic their first times will be.