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With that, to Harry Potter’s bewilderment, Tom stormed away, heading to the outer door of the Slytherin common room. Harry followed Tom, confusion and anger on Hermione’s behalf apparent in every feature of his face. Tom opened the door to let himself and Harry out, slamming it behind them immediately.

Daphne Greengrass filed down the corridor of the girls’ dormitories until she reached the entrance to Hermione Granger’s room. The girl was sobbing in the threshold of her room, covered in mud and blood, two burst bags dangling from the ceiling. Adelaide Lestrange must have charmed them to break when Hermione walked beneath them.

"Granger," she said, hunching down, her wand remaining at the ready just in case.

Hermione glanced up. "What are you going to do to me now?" Her tone was defeated.

"Look, Granger—Lady Granger—I had nothing to do with this. I was at dinner, and so was Millicent. Didn’t you see us?"

Hermione wiped her eyes, which was a useless effort, given her current condition. "I suppose," she mumbled. "How do I know that you really had nothing to do with it?"

Daphne smirked. "You know, I doubted that the Sorting Hat really wanted to place you in Slytherin. You don’t act like a Slytherin. You told it to, because Riddle is here, didn’t you?"

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed, but she managed a nod.

"I thought so. But... the fact that you didn’t believe me immediately means that you’re becoming one of us."

"Is that a compliment?" Hermione said, pulling strings of her befouled hair away from her face futilely. "Did you have anything to do with it? If you did, then... just do whatever you came to do. I don’t care anymore."

Daphne scowled. "I really didn’t have anything to do with it, and no more did Millicent. Believe me or not; it’s your choice. But I want you to know, I did not know they were going to do anything like this, and I think it’s a low, despicable thing to do to a noble-blooded witch."

Hermione gazed at the other girl, afraid to believe. "Tom... Lord Riddle," she corrected herself. "Why didn’t he come back here? You must have heard me scream; didn’t he?" This was the most painful consideration, and she was not sure she wanted to know the answer, but she could not stop herself from asking anyway.

"Boys can’t enter the girls’ living quarters," Daphne said, visibly surprised that Hermione did not know this. "But he heard; believe me."

Her heart thumped. "He’s angry?"

"He’s furious."

Relief flooded her. Tom hadn’t come to her because he was barred from doing so. It wasn’t because he didn’t care or was angry at her for having a friend.

"Thank you so much for coming," she said, trying to get to her feet. "I was...." She hesitated, embarrassed about what she had been thinking. Of course I won’t give up! she thought. I have as much right to be here as anyone else who is here!

Daphne glowered suddenly, getting to her own feet as well. "This does not mean that I’m your friend," she said. "I just think it’s disgusting and disgraceful that they attacked you—and with pig’s blood, at that. The rotten food and the mud were bad enough, but this is inexcusable."

Hermione was not inclined to complain. In fact, she found Daphne’s disclaimer far more reassuring of the girl’s honesty than a declaration of friendship and loyalty would have been. Daphne’s problem with her housemates’ behavior was that it was vile of them to attack a witch of noble blood. Hermione wondered if Daphne would feel the same way about a similar attack on a witch who was not noble... but even so, these qualifiers and conditions made Daphne’s appearance there far more credible than it would have been if she had proclaimed sympathy and friendship all of a sudden.

Hermione stood up. "I thank you nonetheless," she said. "Now... I had better clean myself. Again," she added. "And after that...." She trailed off pointedly as she entered the bedroom.

"Why won’t you retaliate on them?" Harry demanded in the empty hallway outside the Slytherin common room. "What kind of betrothed are you, not to defend your girl?"

Tom rolled his eyes. He really did not have the time for this... but presumably Greengrass was helping Hermione. He grabbed Harry by the shoulder and shoved him against the wall. "What is wrong with you?" he snapped. "Are you really as stupid as you’re acting?"

Harry stared back furiously. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind," Tom said in exasperation, his teeth clenched. "Evidently you are. Tell me, Potter, did the Sorting Hat even want you in Slytherin? I recall that it took a long time with you. Where else did it consider putting you? Gryffindor?"

"What difference does it make?" Harry said defensively.

Tom blew out his breath, rolling his eyes again. "All right, Potter, since you really don’t understand, here is why I cannot retaliate against them. They are young ladies."

Harry looked blank. "So is she. You’re a young lord. And they didn’t act like it."

"I agree, but they are. And a few of them are, unfortunately and undeservedly, higher-ranked than either Hermione or I. Adelaide Lestrange—who obviously set up the mud and pig’s blood, while the rest of her pack were in the common room—she is the daughter of a lord on the Wizards’ Council. She is also the first cousin of a Malfoy. Every one of the girls involved in that attack is the blood of Norman usurpers."

"So is Hermione," Harry said quietly, not quite meeting Tom’s eyes. "She told me about her family history."

Tom paused. Why did he keep forgetting that? "Her grandfather won the family estate back from a Norman robber lord," he said, "yes, by marrying the man’s daughter, but it wasn’t the woman’s fault. My point is, I can’t hurt these girls—openly, at least. It’s just not done for wizards to physically harm noble-born young witches—or, really, even common-born witches—unless they are actually defending themselves in the moment. It’s not appropriate. But Her—Lady Hermione can retaliate on them openly, since she’s a girl herself... and there are other things I can do to them, as long as they aren’t physical. Do you understand, Potter?"

Harry considered for a moment before nodding.

Hermione finally emerged from the bedroom and the girls’ dormitory corridor late that evening. She was twitchy and nervous, having made sure this time that there were no more magical traps set along her path. It made for a slow trek to the common area, but at last she gingerly peeked her head around the doorway that led to the girls’ area.

Tom was the only person still in the room that late. Her heart skipped a beat at that sight. She had hoped he would be there, though she was not sure... but here he was.

He rose from his chair, black robes falling down his form elegantly. "I heard about what happened to you," he said. "It was despicable."

Was that it? Had he no more to say to her than that? Of course it was despicable, she thought. Her face fell slightly as the dark thoughts from earlier in the evening, about the possible significance of their relationship in his mind, flooded her mind once more. Perhaps he really didn’t care anything about the assault except for how it affected him and his family’s honor. He might see an attack on her as an attack on himself and his family, by extension. That might be all there was behind his present anger. Hermione might have grown up in a household with parents who cared for each other, but she was not quite so naïve as to believe that every couple had that sort of relationship. With most couples of her social status, marriage was merely an alliance... so personal pride and honor would come before anything else....

"Yes," she said, her words strangely brittle even to her own ears. "It was. But I have cleaned myself, and Daphne Greengrass helped me."

Tom glanced at her curiously. He had expected her to be angry, but instead, it seemed that she was sad. Indeed, it was written in every line of her face. Why would she be so morose?

"Hermione, are you truly all right?"

She snapped her head up. Her eyes were wide with surprise. Why? he wondered. He briefly locked eyes with hers to attempt to read the surface emotions in her mind... and... oh. She was surprised that he was showing personal concern for her. That... hurt. He had not realized it until now, but he did not want her to believe that he cared nothing about the humiliation and rejection that she had felt in the attack, that his only interest in the disgusting affair was the connection to himself.

"Hermione, come here." He spread his arms to her.

She hesitated for a moment, glancing around briefly to be sure that they were alone and no one would see a moment that should be private, before pressing herself against him. He promptly enclosed her with his arms. It was... nice... she thought. He was warm and strong, and she had never been held by a man other than her own father when she was a little girl. It was very different to be held by Tom. A strange, unfamiliar tingle sparked down her back as he embraced her.

For his part, Tom had never held a girl before, and he felt awkward about doing so initially. He didn’t know how to comfort or reassure her, and in fact, he had little familiarity with reassuring or comforting anyone. His mother had not needed it; she had been the parent, and now she was a ruling noblewoman. He had not had a sweetheart in his previous year at Hogwarts, or before. But Hermione was looking to him for comfort after a horrific, humiliating event... and he realized that he wanted to make her feel better.

He gave her a hug, eliciting a muffled cry of gratitude and pleasure from her. Involuntarily a smile formed on his face at that.

She hugged him back, then drew away. The abject misery and dark resignation had vanished from her face, replaced by relief and contentment. There was something else too, something he approved of just as much: resolve.

"I fully intend to take revenge on them however I can," she said, her voice strong now.

Tom’s lips curled into a smile. "Good," he said, his voice suddenly almost a whisper. "I’m going to as well."

Hermione’s heart thumped at the change in his voice. "You are? But I thought...."

"I didn’t say physically. I am a Slytherin," he explained. "There are things I can do. I happen to have known Adelaide Lestrange for a year, and I have seen her in a situation that I don’t think her father or her fiancé in Aquitaine would approve of."

"Fiancé in Aquitaine...?"

"Yes, apparently no one in this "barbaric’ country is quite good enough for her," Tom snarled. "But I have a memory, and I know how to extract and bottle them. I’ll take revenge on her that way—"

"Blackmail?" she asked in a small voice.

"Hermione, you Sorted yourself into Slytherin... and you’re a witch noble. You might as well learn survival skills."

She looked down for a moment, then looked up and met his eyes with hers. "Very well. You can do that... but I still want to have public revenge on them with my wand."

Tom smirked. "And it is quite appropriate that you should."

Alone in her bedchamber, Hermione pored over her magic books, looking for any and all aggressive spells that she thought she might be able to master quickly. She was unsure as to whether to humiliate Adelaide Lestrange and her pack in a public setting—like the Slytherin common room, or the corridor for the girls’ chambers—or to harm them in other, more subtle, but perhaps also more damaging ways.

Hermione was already outperforming them in all the subjects of magic that they were learning. It seemed that this bothered some of them but not all; the Slytherin noble girls were divided between those who seemed more interested in being wealthy aristocrats and those who cared about being powerful sorceresses in addition. It was hard to say which category Lestrange fit. Others, though... a Confundus Charm was short-lasting, but there were also Memory Charms. The girls who wanted to cultivate reputations of being supremely powerful pureblood witches would be mortified if they suddenly forgot much of their knowledge.

Hermione had also read that Memory Charms, when cast powerfully enough, could cause the mind to have difficulty retaining complicated knowledge permanently at all, even information learned after the spell was cast upon them. The victims of these most powerful and damaging Memory Charms had poor memories for years.

Her conscience pricked at her for the thought of what she was contemplating... but would they do it to her if it occurred to them? Yes, she answered that thought. Without question. And I don’t have to cast a spell in that damaging way, either. An ordinary Memory Charm is quite enough to cause the embarrassment I want them to experience.

What about the other girls, the ones who had—much as they themselves might hate to admit it—more "Muggle" ambitions revolving around nobility and wealth? Their dreams depended on their reputations as "young ladies," and it seemed that Tom had some information that would harm Adelaide Lestrange in that regard... but since they were witches, they too needed to be respected for their magical ability—or perceived ability, since it was all too clear to Hermione that pureblood nobles were automatically assumed to be better wizards and witches than anyone else—if they wanted to achieve their goals of marrying well.

Public humiliation for them, then? Hermione thought about subjecting them to the same sort of sneaky, degrading attack they had subjected her to, before dismissing the idea. The House does respect magical power and aristocratic bloodline, but I doubt my housemates would react quite the same way to me humiliating these girls publicly as they would to one of their own doing so. I am an outsider. They would probably close ranks against me even more than they have. Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode, the two girls who had not participated in the attack, might even become allies in time—as long as Hermione did not "lower" herself publicly to the same kind of disgusting assault that had so appalled them. No, as much as she hated the double standard, Hermione had to admit that it did exist: These girls could, mostly, get away with low behavior directed at her, but she could not.

Nobles duel, she suddenly thought. Muggles do, and I am sure that magical ones do as well, just with their wands. I could challenge them to a duel. That is a very traditional approach. An honorable duel... but I would have to win it, without doubt. And they have known of magic all their lives.

Hermione returned to her spellbooks. It was more important than ever to learn everything she could.

Tom drew his wand away from his forehead, pulling a silvery thread of memory in its wake. He held his wand over a flask he had conjured, then tapped his wand, releasing the memory into the glass bottle, where it transformed to faintly glowing smoke. He corked the flask.

This was rather advanced magic, he reflected, but he had made a point of teaching it to himself once Slughorn had declared him a "natural Legilimens." That much was true enough; he had the ability to perceive people’s emotions innately, and this assessment had sparked his interest in all forms of magic pertaining to the mind. Memory storage was so vastly superior to anything the Muggles had. The best they could do was write down their thoughts. But memory storage was almost like a form of immortality... in fact, it probably was where the ancient Greek wizard Herpo had got his idea....

Tom pushed that thought away. He had not realized that his mother knew about that topic at all, and it had embarrassed him very deeply when she had scolded him in Diagon Alley before Hermione. He had thought that he could simply make vague allusions about the notion of the hypothetical Elixir of Life being inferior to what wizards already could do, showing off for Hermione his knowledge both of existing advanced magic and unrealized magical theory, while his mother assumed he was making a show of empty arrogance.

His thoughts drifted. Herpo... the Greek sorcerer had also bred the first basilisk. That was interesting for a different reason. There was a legend that Slytherin, before his departure from Hogwarts, had left a secret chamber somewhere in its depths, and that it housed a "great serpent" that only he, the Parselmouth, could control.

Well, Tom was a Parselmouth and a descendant of Slytherin. If there was a great serpent, he could control it too. He really wanted to get hold of those family history books in the castle library that his mother had not allowed him to read. As soon as she had seen him reading one, as soon as he had been foolish enough to ask her about their descent from Morgana le Fay and Mordred the Dispossessed, the Wizard-King in Exile, she had put a hex on all genealogy books in the library so that he could not touch them. "You aren’t yet old enough to read about some of this," she had said. That was rubbish. He was plenty old enough. He wanted to know more, both about their royal (and purely English) origins and about this alleged Chamber of Slytherin.

He forced his drifting thoughts to return to the present and to the flask of memory before him. This was what he could do right now. He could humiliate Adelaide Lestrange, who had had it coming for over a year now for what she had constantly said about him last year—"Half-blood churl!"—but to whom he could do nothing due to his social status and his maleness.

He handled the flask with a smirk forming on his face, almost caressing it. Yes, he could use this incredibly valuable memory against her now. He was her social equal now; even if his mother was not a Countess like hers, they were nobles now, and they owed Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange no fealty whatsoever. She had sworn directly to that decrepit Armand Malfoy. And more to the point, he was acting against Lestrange for what she had done to Hermione. It was potentially more than mere humiliation; there was the distinct possibility that her fiancé in Aquitaine would end the betrothal over this, diminishing any future prospects for her. It was not certain, but it was conceivable. Best case—for Tom—the foreigner would demand to have her brought to Europe to be married immediately, so her education would end and Tom would not have to deal with her anymore.

Yes, his betrothal to Hermione had given Tom a perfect excuse to do what he had wanted to do for months... but he still seethed with anger when he thought of the girls’ revolting assault on Hermione. Pig’s blood! It was both inherently disgusting and designed to degrade and debase her. The mere thought angered him on her behalf.

What do I really think of Hermione? he wondered. He wasn’t pleased about her spending so much time with Potter, to be sure. Whenever she mentioned Potter’s name, or he saw her walking down the halls and talking to the boy, something inside him burned with heated fury—especially since she did not seem to understand how much he disapproved of it. But at the same time, perhaps there was a certain logic for all the Slytherin "outsiders"—as much as it outraged him to think of himself in such a way—to band together. Maybe that was what it was for her. And did he want her returning to her overheated "affections" for him, as she had in those first couple of days? He was no fool. He knew perfectly well that she could not have "felt" anything for him other than silly infatuation. She had hardly even known him.

Now, though.... They had known each other for a couple of months, at least, and perhaps he had grown a little possessive of her. He could concede that to himself. It’s because everyone knows about our betrothal, he told himself. Everyone knows, and it would look bad if too many people started to notice that she spends more time with a shopkeeper’s son than with me.

By the time he turned in to go to bed, Tom had convinced himself that he believed this explanation of it.

The following day, after they had finished their instruction but before dinner, Tom took Hermione aside to tell her about his plot. The Slytherin common room would hardly do, so they found a deserted alcove in the castle on the first floor.

"That’s a memory flask?" Hermione murmured as he withdrew it from the pouch he kept inside his outer layer of robes.

He was aware that this was not a question demanding an affirmative answer. "The memory could be rather damaging," he remarked.

"What is it?" she asked. A bit of trepidation shadowed her face. "If—if you think it’s fit to discuss—"

Tom smirked. "It’s not what I expect you think it is. She was thirteen when this happened. That’s just old enough, yes, but...." He trailed off awkwardly at the thought entering his mind; he was thirteen too, and Hermione was that age in a couple of weeks. "This memory is of her in the tavern in Hogsmeade, thoroughly drunk, largely in the company of wizards. There was only one other witch at the bar with her, and I happened to see her hobbling back to the castle surrounded by the wizards."

Hermione’s eyes widened and her face flushed. "Do you think they—I mean—" She broke off, turning even redder at the thought that she would not voice in words.

"I’m sure they wouldn’t have dreamed of taking advantage of a noble witch with such a powerful father, and that nothing happened," Tom said, "but that’s not the point. It looked awful, both for a "young lady’ to be publicly intoxicated after emerging from a lowbrow inn, and for her to stumble home in that state surrounded by wizards of similar status who weren’t close relatives."

Hermione nodded. "It does seem very careless of her. Did she see you at the time?"

"I think she did, and I also think she was just lucid enough to remember it."

"So this—you are going to send it to her father?"

"No," he said, and his facial expression was positively malicious. "Her father would destroy it and probably try to put a Memory Charm on anyone who witnessed it. I’m going to send it to her betrothed in Aquitaine. He will either break it off with her—which will be a disgrace—or he’ll demand that her family send her to him to be married off immediately. Either we will be rid of her, then, or her reputation will be ruined." He raised his eyebrows at Hermione. "Have you thought about what you intend to do?"

She smiled. "It’s a fascinating coincidence that you should mention Memory Charms."

Tom’s eyes gleamed with delight.

For the next couple of days, Hermione bided her time carefully. She decided that she should gain some practice casting Memory Charms... but the only way she could see to do that was to practice on the offending girls themselves.

Probably some of them were merely tagalongs, she mused. They had participated, of course, but they had not been the leaders or necessarily even the ones most enthusiastic about it. Lady Parkinson was very much that sort, a useless sycophant with barely an original thought in her own head, even a vicious thought. On the other hand, she was definitely not one of the ones who were interested in making a name for themselves as great witches. Of course, Hermione thought, public embarrassment at appearing incompetent would work on anyone. Perhaps I should attack all of them with Memory Charms and duel the leaders in public in addition. Yes, that made sense. Hermione modified her plans and considered her best opportunity to attack. Parkinson would be the first victim, then.

Hermione could not yet conceal herself from sight. That was a very advanced spell, and books warned that one did not always even have enough innate magical power to do it until approximately age seventeen. But she could hide in the shadows of the Slytherin girls’ corridor late at night, a long grey cloak further sheltering her from the tired eyes of her housemates.

The Masters of Hogwarts taught nonverbal casting whenever a spell could be done that way. It was seen as a sign of magical weakness to have to speak words. Hermione was grateful for it, because she could cast the Obliviate upon the unsuspecting girl without potentially betraying her presence audibly either.

Parkinson blinked and stopped in the threshold of her room for a second. Hermione held her breath, and then the girl continued into her chamber, as if nothing had happened.

The next day in Potions, Hermione observed out of the corner of one eye as Parkinson fumbled and fumed over her cauldron, apparently having forgotten key attributes of several of her ingredients and, as a result, producing a mess.

Slughorn paused over the acrid fumes. "Lady Parkinson... what has happened? You brewed the Calming Draught last week. This is not so different."

"I am sorry," she said, flushed and angry. "I seem to have forgotten much of it." She drew her wand to vanish the useless muck in her cauldron.

"Well, that happens to all of us," he said genially. "But do be sure to practice extra so that you remember it better."

Millicent Bulstrode, who was near Parkinson, listened to the exchange and chuckled nastily. Her own potion was not perfect, nor close to it, but quite passable. Daphne Greengrass, her partner, smirked. They had no idea of the intrigue, but Slytherin House and the wizarding nobility were both intensely competitive and cutthroat, so any failing by a rival—and everyone who wasn’t very closely related by marriage or blood (and even some of those) was a rival, even if they made common cause politically—was fodder for personal enjoyment.

Hermione lowered her head to hide the smirk she also bore so that Harry would not see. It wasn’t that she distrusted his secrecy, but this might seem a bit sneaky and dubious to him. In some ways, she thought darkly, the common folk had more personal honor than the nobles, who might swear oaths of fealty and alliance but sometimes had no particular qualms about poisoning and other underhanded methods of taking out enemies. Her own parents did not—that she knew of—but they had spoken of peers who they believed did. Hermione would not be surprised to find that it was far more common among the magical aristocracy, who had powerful methods. This, after all, was quite mild. Tom would understand—approve—and he was the person she should confide her secrets to.

Satisfied with how well this had gone, Hermione went for three more of the girls that evening, leaving only Adelaide Lestrange with an undamaged memory. After considering her plans again, Hermione had refined them further. As the clear leader, Adelaide would suffer in the public duel. She would also apparently be the victim of Tom’s... blackmail, if he merely threatened her with the memory, or material damage if he exposed it to the French fiancé. So far, no one suspected anything over the fact that several Slytherin girls were suddenly having difficulty in their magic. If Lestrange, who would be publicly set down over the incident, started acting forgetful too, it might draw unwanted attention to the other girls and expose what Hermione had done.

The following morning, Tom took her aside in the common room. "Meet me in the Owlery just after dinner tonight," he whispered. "I’m going to send it."

Hermione tried not to be distracted by the feeling of him whispering in her ear. She raised her eyebrows. "You won’t... speak of it first? How will she know to attribute it rightly?"