Take My Heart Away

            A preoccupation with the future not only prevents us from seeing the present as it is but often prompts us to rearrange the past.

                                                                – Eric Hoffer

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Chapter 3– Of All People

 

Hermione’s mouth dropped open as she looked at her classes the next morning. First block was Advanced NEWT-level Potions with the Slytherins, and after that was Theoretical Charms, one of the hardest classes offered at Hogwarts. After lunch was regular Transfiguration, and her only evening class was Pallarax Astronomy, a course that involved a great deal of complicated Muggle math. Her second day’s classes were just as difficult, and included Honors Divination, which she had dropped in third year and knew absolutely nothing about.

Hermione had made a resolution to herself that here, she would not be the best. In fact, she would appear dull and agreeable, as not to draw unneeded attention to herself. The less people noticed her, the less she would change the course of time. The only reason I am here, she reminded herself, is to have an excuse to stay at Hogwarts. I’ll get rid of Tom soon, and I’ll be the best when I get back . . .

If I do get back.

A panic had been slowly swelling in her chest since she had arrived, but in the whirl of things, she had pushed it down. How would she get back? Or rather, forward? When she had used the time turner before, she had only gone back hours, and had arrived precisely at the place she had started. Hermione had a growing fear that she would never get to go forward, and would see Harry and Ron again as a crippled old lady, and they would not recognize the girl they had known for most of their lives . . .

No! She said to herself, heavy tears pricking her eyes. I’ll do it, I don’t care if it has never been done. I’ll find a way to go forward.

“Helen!” She looked up sharply, blinking the tears away, to see Emma O’Leary, a sharp-tongued Gryffindor, standing before her. “You look upset! What’s wrong?”

Hermione mentally slapped herself for letting her facade slip away so easily. She gave Emma a confident smile before saying, “Just first-day jitters, you know . . .”

Emma smiled knowingly. “It’ll pass, don’t worry. C’mon, it’s time for Potions. With the Slytherins, too; they’re repulsive. Us Gryffindors don’t like them, by the way, they’re a slimy lot . . .”

“Really? I never would’ve guessed,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. They preceded to walk down to the dungeons with a group of Gryffindors. When they reached the usual iron door, Hermione was briefly surprised to see it pushed open not by Professor Snape, but by a balding man in blood red robes, who she learned was Professor Alonzin.

The Slytherins sauntered in shortly after, though late, Hermione noted, and class begun. Professor Alonzin talked quickly, and everyone except Tom Riddle took notes. He sat straight up in his seat, his eyes focused on a spot above the teacher’s head. Hermione frowned, deciding that perhaps Voldemort had not paid much attention in school.

When it came time for brewing, the Slytherins were, as always, paired up with the Gryffindors. Hermione’s head jerked up as she heard Professor Alonzin sat, “Nestowe? Ah, a new student. You’ll be paired up with Riddle for now. He’ll help you catch up.”

“Lucky,” Emma breathed in her ear as she moved to her potions station. Hermione frowned.

Of all people! She thought. How could she look someone in the eye who she was supposed to kill? How could she even work with him, talk to him?

She drew in a deep breath as he strode over and sat down casually next to her. I don’t want to hear your voice. I want nothing to do with you.

Without saying a word, he began heating the water in the cauldron. A bit nervously, Hermione rifled through her notes. I’m sitting next to Lord Voldemort. She remembered then that she was supposed to be acting. “Okay, so we need . . . erm . . . Ced–”

“Cedar bark, Heart of Palm, and Grindylow scales, added one at a time on medium heat at 150 degrees, stirred clockwise nine times and counterclockwise thirty-two times at three and a half minute intervals. Just stay out of this. I’ll do it,” Tom said shortly.

Hermione stared at him, her mouth open, and then looked down at her notes again. It had taken Professor Alonzin thirty minutes to explain that potion, and Tom had done it in ten seconds, and without any notes. A bit of her competitive spirit flared at his words, however. She could not stop herself from saying, “No, really, I know how to do it. I’ll help.”

Tom looked at her dispassionately, but she found that she could not look him in the eye.

“I don’t need some amateur Gryffindor to help me out. I told you. I don’t care if you want to help or not.”

Hermione’s blood boiled.

“Amateur? I . . . I can brew this potion just as well as you! Just because you’re a Slytherin doesn’t mean that you’re better at Potions!”

Tom laughed. It was a less intense version of the high, cold laugh that she knew so well, and she was instantly reminded of who she was with.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” Tom said, a coldly amused expression on his face.

I wouldn’t count on that, Hermione thought angrily. I know ‘who you are’ better than you do.

When she did not reply, Tom said, “You say you can brew this potion just as well as me? Be my guest, then.”

He shoved the cauldron toward her and leaned back, watching her with that same cold expression.

“Fine,” Hermione retorted angrily. She looked through her notes, carefully checking the ingredients. Besides the Polyjuice Potion she had brewed in second year, she had never attempted such a complicated potion. After all, Hermione had no idea how she had gotten placed in a NEWT-level Potions class.

She worked in silence, adding ingredients and changing temperatures for a few minutes, until she became confused as to the precise amount of times she was supposed to stir the potion.

Hermione craned her neck to look at what color Emma’s potion was, and found it to be lime green. Hers was a deep teal, and she began panicking. Within five minutes, though it had returned to the right color. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.

“It’s too thin, and you didn’t add enough Grindylow scales,” Tom said immediately. His cynical air annoyed her greatly.

“But I made it correctly, right? We’ll get an O on it, isn’t that good enough for you?”

“That’s the thing,” Tom said blankly. “You said you could make it as well as me. You made it well, but not as well as I would’ve.”

He surveyed her with an expression that she could not read. Then again, she realized that she could never read his expression.

“Don’t try to match me,” Tom said quietly. “It won’t work.”

Hermione suddenly remembered that she was supposed to be of only average intelligence, and very timid. Tom watched as her face shut down.

“You’re right,” Hermione replied bluntly, nodding.

Something flashed through his eyes that could have been surprise, but it was so quickly quelled that Hermione could not be sure.

Professor Alonzin did give them an Outstanding; the only one in the class.

When the bell rang, Emma and a Gryffindor boy with shaggy hair caught up with her.

“Helen! You’re so lucky to be partners with Tom Riddle. Even though he’s a git like the rest of them, he’ll do all the work, and you’ll get great marks. By the way, this is Christoph Black. He’s the Keeper on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hermione said with a smile. “I’m glad I’m partners with Tom for this term; I’m not the brightest when it comes to Potions.”

“Neither am I!” Christoph said quickly. His voice was deep and thunderous. “I barely scraped by last year. I swear Alonzin is trying to get me thrown off of the Quidditch team . . .”

Later that evening, while studying in the library, Hermione wondered why she had not been absolutely terrified of Tom Riddle. After all, she had watched his future self murder her best friend, and he had been about to kill her. As far as she knew, he would still do that if she did not kill him first. But how was she supposed to do that?

Somehow, planning his murder made her stomach turn. I have to destroy him before he even has a chance to become Lord Voldemort. This is the man that made the world tremble in fear. It’s perfectly right to murder one man in order to save a thousand lives.

Hermione’s mind insisted that it was the logical answer to all of her problems. If she killed Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort would never exist. Then she could go forward and see Harry, Ron, her parents . . .

And so she began thinking of ways to kill him. Avada Kerdarva was obviously out of the question, as she had no idea how to perform it. She would have to go for a Muggle way. She did not have a gun, though that would be the easiest. Perhaps a knife from the kitchens . . .

This seemed barbaric and terrible, but it was the only thing that she could think of. After she killed him, however, she would immediately have to use the time-turner to escape and go forward in time. In that case, she needed to figure out how to go forward in time.

When I have figured that out, I will be ready to kill him, Hermione thought solidly. It won’t be long now.