Jagged

Realizations

She loses interest in how she got here a few weeks in.

It's not that her curiosity ebbs— quite the opposite. The longer she spends in the past, the more she wants to know. Needs to. Lets the thirst for knowledge take over.

But two weeks in— long, arduous weeks, wherein Hermione thinks it might be easiest to just disappear completely— she notices it. Wants to investigate enough that she pulls away from her current project. Knows from experience that focusing on two things at once never ends well.

She lets go of her quest to understand how she'd ended up here. Finds a much more interesting puzzle.

Tom Riddle.

He's not like what she learned about. Not how Harry described him from the Pensieve.

Harry had said he was put together. Neat hair, pressed uniform. Mask of indifference firmly in place, at all times.

She believes he'd even said he was charming. Yes, now that she thinks harder on it, that's exactly how he described him.

But the Tom Riddle here— he is none of those things.

The hair on top of his head is always curled in an artful mess. One day in History of Magic, she counted that he'd ran his fingers through it thirteen times.

His school uniform is never in the dress code. The front of his robes is always unbuttoned if worn at all. Oftentimes, especially during potions, he takes it off completely. Rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie. The percentage of ruined potions had skyrocketed, so Slughorn claimed.

Yes, he's still handsome. Painfully so. The curve of his jawline is enough to make any person's mouth water. She sees the appeal. Understands.

But he's not put together. His cheeks are constantly flushed, sweat beads at the nape of his neck every day that she sits behind him in Arithmancy.

His jaw clenches, fists bruised and battered as if he picks a fight with a new student every day. The evidence of his rage is written plainly on his face every time he looks in Hermione's direction.

Keeping to herself— away from his attention— is the first decision she makes.

Too much of the future is wrapped up in him and his plans. The ways in which Hermione could derail them— even accidentally— are too numerous for her to consider any type of interaction.

But... she can't help watching him, during class, at meals. Seeing the child version of a madman— she can't resist the pull to investigate. Just a little bit. Enough to satiate her curiosity.

At first, she gets her fill. She observes and takes mental notes, then the nagging at her chest eases a bit.

He's a monster. Of course, he is. But here, during his seventh year of Hogwarts, he's also just a boy with limited opportunities to perform any great atrocities.

He's not yet had his lost years, doesn't know how to summon magic from the still waters of lakes, or call up to it from the leaves of the trees. From what she knows, what she was taught, he's got a stronghold on the magic that flows through his veins, and nothing more.

That's not to say he's weak. Most witches and wizards will never tame their own magic. Not in an entire lifetime. It takes great control, and the effort is far too large for the average magic folk.

Tom's figured all this out for himself. He's dangerous, and if the rumors of his Occlumency and Legilimency at this point in time are true, he's probably stronger than most of the professors.

But Hermione isn't worried. She's stronger. Can sense the magic around her, pull it in and push it out at her will. Sometimes she lets it tangle and curl tantalizingly around her fingers. Just to remind herself what she's capable of.