Jörmungandr

An Extra Pie for Dinner

Hermione and Riddle stopped at Madam Malkin's next, getting the uniforms she would need in Slytherin green. Then, it was off to the apothecary to pick up a cauldron and supplies. She picked up the Superior Standard Stock for School - 6th year, instead of the basic—there were some interesting substitutions that she could try with the more exotic ingredients. And finally, Simone's Stupendous Sundries where she picked up the rest of the equipment she would need, including the things she would need for sixth-year Divinations.

She frowned at the unfamiliar tools. The crystal ball and tarot deck were obvious, but what did she need a sewing needle and thread for?

She picked up some odds and ends along the way, of course; Hermione was starting from scratch here. She needed inks for god's sake. Altogether, there was quite a haul at the end of the day. Riddle graciously, wordlessly shrank the trunks when finished, turning a dozen books and boxes into something to fit in her pocket.

She politely thanked him and didn't even interrupt him once this time.

See? She could practice her manners.

In fact, it would probably be more beneficial to practice with a dark lord. He was trying to convince the word of his harmlessness; she could do the same. Well, to a degree, Hermione still couldn't lie to save her life.

They returned to the Leaky Cauldron as the sun was setting over the shops. It was just unfamiliar enough to unsettle; the tables were less clustered together, the walls sparser with unfamiliar flyers. The amber of twilight softened the pub, casting warmth into an otherwise stark environment. It hadn't taken that long, truly; it was just the natural consequences of high roofs and an English October.

It wasn't that late at all.

Hermione's stomach growled regardless.

Riddle glanced down at her. She blushed.

"Shall we stop for a bit? The Cauldron has excellent pies," he said lightly, face studiously blank.

"I'm fine; it's really no trouble. Let's just get back, and I can eat at home."

"Nonsense," he said and brought them over to a table in the corner, away from the green dust of the fireplace, "If I were to return you to Headmaster Dippet hungry, he would no doubt deduct a hundred points. I would be the pariah of Slytherin."

"Are you not already?" She followed. No use arguing; she was hungry, "Prefects can't be that popular among the general student body. Given special privileges to report on your fellow student must have made the dorms awkward at times." She remembered her own time as the glorified student police, and the piles of stress it heaped on her. Riddle probably didn't have the same issue. No doubt he reveled in the power.

"At times, but the benefits outweigh the harm. Here."

He pulled out a chair and stood behind it.

Hermione blinked for a moment uncertain what he was doing. Was he going to attack her with it? No, they were in the center of wizarding London; it would be ludicrous to harm her here. Was he just showing it off? It was... a fine chair, a little rough around—

Oh! She walked over and sat in it, giving a quiet, "Thank you," as he stood behind and slid in the chair for her. It was the forties. This was normal behavior of a gentleman.

Tom Riddle smelled like spice and citrus. Strangely, she thought of Christmas.

"I'll go fill our orders," he said quietly as he came back around her. He removed his outer cloak and placed it behind the chair opposite her, leaving him just in a white starch shirt, waistcoat, and Slytherin-green tie, "Steak or vegetable?"