It was mid January now, and Hermione thought that Mrs. Cole had been wrong along about Tom Riddle. He was not a monster, she decided. In fact, if anything he was surrounded by monsters, the lone human in a world of demons. He did not pretend, as others did, to care when he did not. To sympathize when he did not. To love when he did not. He simply was what he wanted to be, not what others expected him to be so as to better fit him in their strict social constructs of what made someone pleasant to be around. But false smiles and well wishes were not pleasant when they were not genuine, and that was the beauty of Tom Riddle. She knew that when he did offer her a rare smile, or sent her letters saying that he did indeed miss her and looked forward to their reunion, that it was true. He would not continue correspondence with her if he did not feel that way, as Tom Riddle simply did not correspond with people he didn't wish to just because he thought it polite. He would not have vowed his love of her if he did not love her, because Tom Riddle did not ever express love to another, and had no reason to start.