#180 in Fanfiction || #1 in Hermione ||
In the language of literature, there exists a seemingly-concrete, antonymous relationship between good and evil, light and dark, hero and monster. And yet, we often disregard the transition from one to anothe...
Sunday morning is as dull as the days prior, the sky lightening into the noon hour as Hermione makes her way to Hogsmeade, on a mission and in need of a distraction. It was only this morning that the heroine remembered Slughorn's party, quickly approaching, and her need for a dress to avoid looking repetitive in the same clothes she always wears. And these thoughts provided a great relief to her, allowing her get-away to nature to ease the tension of worries, all spanning around the Dark Lord. Around her, spring seems to be appearing, the snow beginning to melt and grasses clinging to the cold air of the day. It is a peaceful transition, and one that consciousness rarely experiences, especially in war.
"Hermione!"
That voice, harsh and smooth in the perfect mixture of antonymous attributes that would only work for Tom Riddle himself. But it has Hermione startled, her bushy hair whipping around as she looks to the approaching boy, his strides long and fast, though not running. It is clear he wishes to catch up to her, but is unwilling to show such desperation that running would imply.
"Tom," Hermione greets, calmly and without a pretense of tension in their recent past as he moves in front of her. "What has you going to Hogsmeade this early on a Sunday morning?"
"I do not know. I just followed you," the boy replies, being more elusive than Hermione. She raises an eyebrow at him, greatly surprised at his actions that bode nothing of Friday night's disaster. Indeed, the boy is acting like Friday never happened.
"Three Broomsticks, then?" Hermione offers, not knowing what else to do and ignorantly pushing off her dress-buying duties. It can wait for later.
"Anything to get out of this cold," Tom--hypocritically cold as a creature--says. But Hermione pays little mind to the irony to his words, moving to walk beside him, but with a good distance parting their forms. No sounds are made other than tensed breathing and the crunching of snow beneath their shoes. The tension is thick and unyielding, something that Hermione despises given her background of warm conversations and company paid without Dark Lords. She cannot help her unsteady tongue.
"Have you ever been to a professional Quidditch game?" Hermione asks, the need for conversation too great to ignore and latching onto the first option she considered. Tom looks at her in his continued strides, his eyebrow propped up but sobering in his answer.
"No, I never found it necessary to my plans."
"What about for your entertainment?" Hermione counters with brazenness and without any regard for her Slytherin facade that seems to disappear more often than not and especially around Riddle.
Tom's head turns towards her fully, his eyes widened and eyebrows scrunched in some feeling of misunderstanding. "What?"
"Nothing," she responds, her implication pointless in the mind of the driven and dark Head Boy. You mustn't get so caught up in defeating death that you forget to live, Tom Riddle. But rather, she remembers verbally: "There was this one time that I went with some family friends to a massive Quidditch game. I was so excited at the time...I cannot even remember the teams' names."
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