Chapter Text
Tom stood behind the counter, a book in his hand, its leather cover worn from years of use. The shop was quiet, as it often was during daylight hours. He usually had more than enough time to indulge in whatever caught his interest, whether it was reading or studying the peculiarities of an enchanted object. Most of Borgin and Burkes' patrons preferred the cover of darkness for their transactions—a preference Tom found convenient.
The chime of the bell above the door shattered the stillness, and his sharp eyes flicked toward the entrance. He sighed, glancing at his wristwatch. It was much too early for the usual clientele of shady dealers and desperate collectors. That left two possibilities: either foolish students daring each other to enter the notorious shop or Ministry officials looking to root out violations of magical law.
Neither was particularly welcome.
Tom marked his place in the book with a flick of his wand and set it down carefully. His expression remained neutral, though his irritation simmered beneath the surface. He rounded the counter, his movements smooth and deliberate, preparing to either intimidate or charm.
But what he saw stopped him short.
A witch stood in the aisle, her dark red robes stark against the dimly lit shelves. Her hair, a cascade of untamed curls, caught the light as she tilted her head to examine the books. Her posture was self-assured, her movements precise. She didn’t belong here—not in this shadowy den of questionable artifacts—but she didn’t seem out of place, either.
Her fingers trailed along the spines of the books with deliberate care, as if she could extract their secrets through touch alone. There was something unsettling about her poise, her sharp gaze darting over the titles with an intensity he recognized all too well.
Tom cleared his throat.
She didn’t startle. She didn’t even look at him. Instead, she plucked a worn volume from the shelf and examined it, her lips curving into the faintest smile. It wasn’t the kind of smile meant to disarm or charm. It was quiet, almost secretive, as though she’d uncovered something meant only for her.
“Looking for something specific?” His voice came out rougher than he intended, like the dust on the shelves had settled in his throat. He cleared it subtly, masking the lapse with a practiced nonchalance.
“Not really. Just... seeing what’s worth reading.” Her voice was unexpected—low and musical, like tangled piano strings, hauntingly beautiful yet unfamiliar.
“Not many come here just to browse,” Tom remarked, leaning forward slightly, his tone light but curious. He studied her as he spoke, trying to read her expression.
Her fingers lingered on the spine of a book before sliding it back into place, her touch unhurried. “I suppose people are always in a hurry to find something.” Her head turned, movements deliberate, until their eyes met for the first time.
The instant their gazes locked, the air in the shop seemed to shift. A strange stillness fell, as if time itself hesitated. There was no fear in her eyes, no hesitation. Just calm, sharp, and deliberate—an awareness that mirrored his own.
Her gaze was unsettling in its intensity, not cold but cutting, as though she was peeling back layers and weighing the truths beneath. This was no accident; she hadn’t stumbled in here by mistake. She already knew what she was looking at.
The moment stretched, taut and electric, before Tom broke the silence with a soft chuckle. His lips curved into a smile that never quite reached his eyes. “My usual patrons tend to have... special requests. Rarely do they just wander in to browse.” He gestured lightly toward the shelves, the picture of easy charm.
Her lips twitched, amusement flickering faintly. “Maybe I’m just specific in a different way.” She turned back to the books, her fingers gliding over their spines with a quiet reverence. “So which one are you?”
“Pardon?” Tom folded his hands behind his back, his gaze sharp, watching her every move.
She pulled a book from the shelf, glancing over its contents with interest. “Borgin or Burke?” Seemingly satisfied, she hugged the volume to her chest and wandered further into the shop, her curious eyes darting to every shadowy corner.
“Neither,” he replied smoothly, falling into step behind her, his movements silent. “I’m Tom. Tom Riddle. A simple shop boy, though I like to think of myself as a curator.” He gestured toward a nearby display. “This, for example, is—”
“Pixie bones.” The words left her lips softly, almost reverently, as her gaze settled on the tiny, fragile remains encased in glass.
Tom’s eyes sharpened. Most dismissed the delicate bones as trivial or decorative, but not her. He inclined his head, his interest piqued. “You have good eyes, Miss...?”
“Granger. Hermione Granger.” She lifted her gaze to meet his, and the room seemed to narrow, the air thickening around them.
Golden motes of dust floated lazily in the dim light, suspended between them like fireflies. Neither blinked, neither looked away. The space between them grew heavy, charged with an unspoken challenge.
Her eyes held steady, unflinching. For a fleeting moment, Tom thought he saw something behind them—knowledge, perhaps, or defiance. It was impossible to tell.
Straightening, Tom slipped back into his mask of charm, but unease flickered beneath the surface. He didn’t like the way she looked at him, as though she saw too much, knew too much. And yet, he couldn’t look away.
Her name lingered in his mind, turning over like a puzzle piece that refused to fit.
Hermione Granger.
He knew every name that mattered—every witch and wizard of note in Britain and beyond. But hers? Hers was unfamiliar.
Tom’s sharp gaze traced her features, searching for clues, an anchor to place her in the labyrinth of his knowledge. She appeared his age, perhaps younger, but there was a weight to her—a composure that felt older, seasoned.
A Mudblood? The thought flitted through his mind but dissolved as quickly as it came. No, there was a grace in her bearing, an unspoken command in her quiet confidence. If she was a Mudblood, she was unlike any he’d encountered before.
Why didn’t he know her? Someone like her shouldn’t be unknown.
He tucked the questions away behind his usual charm, locking them up for later examination. There was something about her, and Tom didn’t like mysteries—not when he wasn’t the one holding the answers.
“Miss Granger. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at Hogwarts.” His voice was polite, but the strain beneath the surface was difficult to suppress.
She blinked, as if pulled from a distant thought, and answered with a light, practiced tone. “I was homeschooled, if you must know.” She moved toward the counter with the tome in hand, her movements unhurried, deliberate.
Tom’s sharp eyes followed her. The way she held the book—cradled it, almost—spoke volumes. She already understood the weight of what lay between its worn covers. This wasn’t a casual choice. It wasn’t a beginner’s guide.
Half-blood? The thought slithered through his mind, not entirely surprising, but not without intrigue. He stepped behind the counter with the ease of a predator circling its prey, his fingers brushing the ancient wood of the cash register. His eyes never left her face.
“Most people prefer the structure of a school.” His voice was even, conversational, but his gaze was sharp, dissecting her every word, every subtle movement.
The soft clink of the register punctuated the silence, the sound stark in the thick, charged air between them.
Hermione tilted her head slightly, a faint, knowing smile tugging at her lips as she placed the Grimoire on the counter. “I’ve always preferred the freedom to choose what I want to learn. School can be... limiting.”
Her words were careful, too careful. Tom recognized the cadence of a rehearsed answer, one designed to deflect curiosity without inviting more. It made him wonder—what exactly was she hiding?
“Not what I would have guessed,” he said, his tone light but edged with curiosity. “You don’t strike me as a recluse.”
Their eyes met again, her gaze steady and unwavering, her voice laced with dry amusement. “I’m not quite the type people expect, am I?”
She placed a few coins on the counter, her movements smooth and practiced, the transaction routine.
“No,” Tom replied, his fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second over the register. His eyes searched her face, probing for the cracks in her story. She was too composed, her mystery too complete. “You’re not.”
“I imagine your reading material isn’t the sort found in most classrooms,” he added, his words casual but carrying a darker undercurrent. His gaze flicked briefly to the book. “Must make for an... interesting curriculum. A homeschooled student likely has the freedom to explore more unconventional subjects, no?”
“Unconventional, perhaps.” Hermione’s faint smile returned, but there was a glint of mischief in her eyes. Her tone was steady, as if she’d anticipated his probing. “But I’ve always preferred to choose my own subjects of study, rather than be confined to someone else’s idea of what’s worth learning.”
Tom’s gaze narrowed, the barest hint of a smirk curling his lips. He was quiet for a moment, weighing her words. There was a resonance there, faint but undeniable—a shadow of his own sentiments reflected in her answer.
“I can appreciate that,” he said finally, his voice quiet, almost contemplative. “There’s something liberating about pursuing knowledge on your own terms, free of the constraints of those who’d deem certain subjects... off-limits.”
His smirk deepened, though it wasn’t entirely pleasant. “In my experience, the most valuable lessons are often the ones others fear to teach.”
Hermione paused, her expression thoughtful but unreadable. When she spoke, her voice was cool, deliberate. “True. But knowledge isn’t just about what’s learned—it’s about how it’s used.”
She pocketed the last of her change, her eyes lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary. “Intent shapes the value of what’s gained. And not all knowledge is worth seeking, depending on the hand that holds it.”
Her words hung in the air between them, weighted and deliberate, a subtle challenge he couldn’t ignore.
She turned toward the door, the book held tightly in her grasp, her movements calm and composed. But before she stepped outside, she glanced over her shoulder.
Her eyes were colder now, distant, though something unspoken still lingered in her gaze. “I appreciate your time. Have a good day, Mr. Riddle.”
The bell above the door chimed softly as she exited, leaving a strange emptiness behind.
Tom stood motionless for a moment, his eyes fixed on the door long after it swung shut. The room felt quieter now, the faint echoes of their conversation hanging in the stillness.
He didn’t like being left with questions, and she had left him with far too many.
Seems like Abraxas will have a new mission.