Jörmungandr

Brain Food

The library was busiest on Sunday. It had been the one day she usually tried to avoid it. Students cramming at the last minute for the next week. The charmed-quiet compartments filled up fast and Hermione did not like being out in the main floor filled with poorly prepared students she did not have the energy to pity.

It was, unsurprisingly, much the same in the forties. Nearly the entire quidditch roster was here. If she was unlucky, a brawl would break out between Lestrange and one of the Prewetts. Uniforms may be different but undisciplined children were not. There was the low murmur of stressed studying, no empty tables, and no Riddle to be seen.

The little snake slid down her neck, her arm, and flopped down to the floor, slithering with confidence.

Hermione followed.

To the upper floor compartments. Fifteen. In the corner with windows. Riddle would only settle for the best.

She didn't knock.

Just opened the door and let the snake politely slither in before her. It nodded in thanks.

"You wanted to see me—" she started.

Then stopped.

Then swallowed.

Tom was... a bit of a mess.

She had seen him messy before. Filthy, covered in blood, out of uniform and in soft clothes. Cozy. Exhausted to the bone, a bit grumpy, and in a sour enough mood to kill a snake for a ritual.

But he had not been...anxious. He had not been uncomfortable.

Riddle had his robes off, thrown over the chair. His starch sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his curls haphazard and loose as if he'd been running his hands through them restless. His waistcoat was off. Suspenders down and tie askew. Too tight. Practically choking the boy. His shirt was wrinkled. A dozen books spread neatly across the table, but the parchment in front of him had rumpled edges as if he'd been fiddling with them over and over again until the paper went soft.

His leg was bouncing.

The tempo-quick rhythm of anxiety.

Fast enough that his shoelaces made noise as they hit leather.

He was slouched half over, elbows on the table, one hand propping up his face, over his eyes.

The other clutching at a writhing snake. Little ridges on its neck. The one from her hair.

Ashehza.

Hermione did not think about how she was starting to learn the names of Tom Riddle's fucking snakes.

Tom hissed angrily at the vivid, green snake in his hand, black tongue flicking out careless of who might see. It spoke back in a gnashing, spitting purr. It twisted and flailed out wildly between his fingers. Livid.

"You're late," he snapped in English, not looking at her, a hand still over his eyes as if he had a headache. His grip on the angry snake tightened. "I took time out of my day to help you, and you fucking waste it."

His voice whipped violently. All temper. Not cold. Not drowning. Too uncontrolled for it. A hot slap to her face. She wondered if his eyes were red already.

"Was I supposed to wait in the library all afternoon for you to show up?"

"Yes."

"I'm—apologies," Hermione lied, hurried into the compartment, and shut the door behind her.

The low murmurs of the library quieted. This compartment was the nice one in the corner with double windows and plush, crimson embroidered seats set into them. Only one walled bookshelf stuffed with soft, old spell books. The large, dark wood study table held books, a ridiculous looking crystal ball, dozens of sheets of parchment. Old notes of his, she realized as she approached, from when he was younger, just starting to learn. The writing was ever neat, not as clumsy as she would think for a child learning quills.