Chapter 17

The whispers droned around her like gnats. Hermione resisted the urge to scratch at her stiff collar. She was wearing a black frock, her Sunday best, and the only formal dress she had brought from home. It looked very sober and a little matronly in comparison with the rich green velvets of the other girls' dresses, but she was glad for it. She was already conspicuous enough.

A few beads of sweat rested between her collarbones, suspended there like question marks. She was very mindful of the pitcher, aware that if a single drop was spilt, more whispers would abound. The weight numbed her hand. She tried not to bend forward too much as she poured the wine. The Seventh-Years tried to sneak glances at her face, and she was glad for her bushy hair, for once. She had meant to braid it for the occasion, but at the last moment she'd decided it might provide a good hiding place. She'd been right.

Beatrice held the pitcher as it if was of little consequence. Her posture was perfect, yet also nonchalant. She moved past Hermione with a pointed look at her hair. Get it out of your face, the look said.

But Hermione was going to remain concealed.

Through her locks, she stared at the young graduates sitting in the high-backed chairs that each bore the snake crest. The long trestle table had been placed in the middle of the corridor. Every drawing room led to it, but there was no one sitting about in the Common Room to watch the proceedings except for the First-Years and the House Elves. The rest of the Slytherins had either clambered up to their dormitories, or had found refuge somewhere else in the castle.

Hermione regarded each young man and woman in turn, wondering how many of them might be part of Dolohov's society. Was it the ones who sat straight, glancing about them carefully, or the ones who leaned back, casually relaxed? Could the leader be here too?

A young man with wispy black hair and a snaggletooth eyed her rather untowardly and tapped his goblet. When she approached with the pitcher, his fingers pinched a bit of the black fabric at her waist. Hermione flinched and nearly spilled the wine.

"This dress feels very rough to the touch. I wouldn't even give it to my House Elf." He ran his tongue over his tooth. Hermione thought his mouth looked like a wolf's snout.

"It's very lucky you don't have to, then," she replied quietly, raising the pitcher to move away.

"I could buy you a better dress if you asked me properly," he hinted with a glint in his eye.

"No, thank you."

As she swerved past his chair, she thought she heard him saying "little Mudblood waif" under his breath.

Three more hours of this to suffer through and then she would never see him or his friends ever again. She continued, undisturbed.

One young woman with very large dark eyes who looked vaguely familiar commented to her neighbor that it was "unpardonable" that her cousin had been deprived of a spot with the Slytherins while other "disgraceful urchins" populated the dungeons. She smiled coldly at Hermione when she was served.

Hermione found out from Tilda that her name was Lucretia; Lucretia Black. She wondered if she should tell Alphard that his cousin was talking about him.

"You shouldn't tell him. I've got a pretty good hunch he doesn't like Lucretia."

Hermione whipped around, startled. The young woman staring back at her was so frail-looking and underfed that she couldn't possible have read Hermione's thoughts, could she?

"How did you –"

The girl's heavy eyebrows lifted, but there was no humor in her sullen expression. "Most Seventh-Years are versed in Legilimency, you'll find."

Hermione was certain she had read something about it somewhere.

"Can wizards read minds like reading books?"

The girl frowned. "Not quite. People's thoughts are not organized into neat paragraphs."

Hermione nodded, feeling foolish. "That makes sense…"

Already she wished she could drop the pitcher and head straight to the library to find out more about it.

"Guard your mind," the young woman warned. "It's your most valued possession, isn't it?"

Hermione nodded again vigorously. "I will. Thank you…"

"Miss Eileen Prince to you."

"Miss Prince."

Hermione wondered why someone like her who was so regal in bearing had deigned to advise a Muggleborn First-Year, but she was grateful.

Though she was supposed to serve the rest, she often found herself watching Eileen Prince from afar. She was not a very attractive person, but there was a gleam of intelligence in her eyes that singled her out from the rest of the Seventh-Years. It was almost as if Eileen knew the whole thing was a sham.

Hermione couldn't wait to tell Tom –

No. No, I shan't, she thought, snuffing the idea before it took form.

When it was time for the sweetmeats to be served, the table and chairs disappeared and the revelers rose and gathered around small ornate drum tables.

There was a lull in the proceedings as the Seventh-Years moved away from their neighbors to mingle.

Hermione grabbed the small decanter of absinth and placed it on her tray. The clear greenish liquid looked like her father's aftershave. Next to her, Darius Avery was arranging the flutes on his tray. He nodded his head at the absinth.

"Do you think they'd notice if we took a swig?" He sounded almost petulant.

"You'd cough it up right away."

"I wouldn't!"

She shrugged. "Suit yourself. But watch you don't drop those glasses."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"It was only advice."

"You think you're so much better than me," he sneered.

She stared at him in surprise. "I don't."

He pushed past her with a grunt, knocking into her shoulder and making the decanter wobble. Hermione cursed under her breath. A little of the green liquor had spilled on the tray and sprayed the flutes. Hermione fished for her handkerchief and started dabbing quickly.

She paused. Something was not quite right. She stared at the stain spreading against her handkerchief almost as if it was alive. The green liquid bubbled oddly, as if it was trying to tell her something. Slowly, she took out her wand. She had read about a spell which revealed if an object had been tampered with. She did not know if she was doing it properly, but she muttered the incantation and tapped the liquid on the tray. Before her eyes, the absinth turned an inky black and acquired a stink, like rotten eggs.

Hermione's hand shook on the tray.

"Poison," she said, rattled by her discovery. And then louder, "Poison!"

The corridor was reduced to silence almost instantly. No more whispers, no more laughter, no more glasses clinking.

The Seventh-Years looked around in shock, some of them aghast, some disgruntled at being thus interrupted. Every single eye in the room turned to her.

"What is that little squirrel on about?" one of the young women asked, detaching herself from the table.

"She's never seen absinth in her life, so she thinks it's poison," the young man with the snaggletooth replied with a nervous laugh.

Hermione walked up to them and showed them the tray and the blackened liquid.

"Someone has tampered with it," she insisted as more Slytherins gathered around her and peered at the compromised absinth.

"How does a First-Year know how to perform this kind of revealing charm?" another young man wondered out loud.

"I read ahead," she confessed with a furious blush.

"Reading alone doesn't help," he argued, but Lucretia Black tapped him on his broad chest and motioned for him to move aside.

"Enough about her wand work!" she cried. "Someone here has attempted to harm us! All of us! And I'm quite sure it wasn't the House-Elves!"

She looked around in pure horror, hand rising to her throat. "Which one of you was it? Was it you, Flint? You keep smirking!"

The young man with the snaggletooth scowled at her. "You're the one making a fuss, jumping to conclusions, so how do we know a Black's not involved?"

"How dare you!"

The mood quickly turned for the worse. Many people started shouting at once, saying they'd had nothing to do with the drinks and that they preferred Fire-Whiskey anyway, and who was it in fact who had brought the absinth?

That was a good question. Hermione inspected the sideboard of drinks above the serpentine fireplace. She did not remember seeing anyone deposit the decanter of absinth. It had just been there.

She searched for the other First-Years in the room. They all looked positively terrified: even nonchalant Beatrice Pucey had gone quite pale. Poor Darius Avery kept rubbing at his mouth absently, no doubt contemplating his own mortality.

But there was one person in the room who was not shouting and who did not look terribly frightened. In fact, she stood reclined against the archway leading into the Common Room, arms folded primly over her chest. Eileen Prince regarded the commotion sullenly, as if it did not involve her. She was waiting for everyone to settle down.

When the alarum died down, she spoke up in a prickly voice.

"You're all making a fuss for nothing. That is clearly not poison."

Lucrezia turned on her. "What do you know about it, Eileen? Been tinkering with your potions again?"

Eileen shrugged. "If you knew anything about potions, you'd know that what Miss Granger has on her tray is a harmless, diluted version of Veritaserum."

Hermione looked down at the liquid which had now turned from black to a brackish grey. The way she saw it, it would soon become transparent.

Multiple voices rose in protestation once more. "Veritaserum? That's probably worse than poison!"

The young man with the snaggletooth rounded on Eileen. "Everyone knows you're a conniving bitch, Prince. What sort of secrets were you hoping to pry out?"

"Language!" Lucrezia cried, outraged, but she was clearly waiting for an answer too.

Eileen looked down at her feet. "I know one of you here has stolen my diary. I don't think any of you can read it, because I have spelled it thoroughly, but I would like it back, all the same."

Lucrezia's cheeks turned an angry shade of maroon. "So you were going to ply us with truth serum and question us without our knowledge?"

Eileen shrugged again. "It would have been painless and none of you would've been the wiser."

"Merlin's beard, whoever took her diary, give it back!" a Seventh-Year grumbled, rubbing his chin.

"We need to go to Headmaster Dippet," Lucrezia said, gripping her wand tightly. "She'll be expelled."

"We've already graduated," Eileen replied calmly.

"I'll have them revoke your diploma!"

Eileen raised her heavy eyebrows. "Why don't you just give it back to me, Lucrezia?"

Lucrezia opened and closed her mouth angrily. She kept fiddling with her wand, uncertain if she should hex the girl before her.

Something told Hermione she shouldn't try.

Luckily, other voices chimed in to try and settle the matter. Many of them opined that the diary should be returned and the whole thing be brushed under the carpet.

"It was a good jape, after all, and no one was harmed," one young woman insisted with a nervous smile on her lips.

Hermione realized that the Slytherins were rather embarrassed one of their own had pulled such a trick on them and most of them wanted to move on and pretend it had not happened.

The young man called Flint rapped the side of her cheek with his knuckles. Hermione shrank away.

"We have to thank the little waif here for all her trouble. A toast for the Mud – Muggleborn," he said, correcting himself in time.

And to Hermione's shock, the rest of the Seventh-Years raised their goblets reluctantly and tapped them with their wands.

"To – what's your name, eh?"

"Hermione Granger," she said, feeling both elated and ashamed.

"To Hermione Granger!"

Everyone drank a mouthful of water in her name.

"Your blush is worse than mine!" Tilda whispered happily, nudging her in the ribs. Her friend was only too glad to be associated with Hermione's good turn. Hermione couldn't fault her for it.

She was arranging the éclairs on her tray, making sure that there was nothing out of the ordinary about them when Eileen Prince stopped in front of her, blocking her path.

"Oh…hello again."

"I'm leaving early," Eileen announced matter-of-factly, the same sullen expression on her face. She did not look at all repentant. "I don't think I'm wanted here anymore, so there's no point in prolonging my stay."

Hermione did not know what was expected of her to say. In spite of what she'd done, Eileen Prince seemed like a fascinating person to her. Still, she probably shouldn't have doused the absinth in truth serum.

"Did you at least get your diary back?"

Something like amusement flashed in her eyes, though she did not smile. "Oh, yes."

"That's good."

"I did not think anyone would be paying attention to the drinks since you're all First-Years," Eileen confessed, rubbing the side of her arm.

"It was a clever plan," Hermione conceded.

"Not that clever, it would seem. I would apologize for putting you in this position, but I rather think I helped your prospects. You're the unofficial heroine of the day."

Hermione smiled weakly. "I wouldn't say that."

"Well, you're certainly brighter than this lot," she muttered, eyeing her housemates. "I could've poisoned them very easily."

"I'm glad you didn't."

Eileen frowned. "You're sharp for a First-Year. Dolohov did something right for a change. I'll put in a good word for you."

Hermione's heart started beating faster. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. "A good – a good word with – with whom?"

Eileen reached out and picked up one of the éclairs. She stuffed it in her mouth so quickly Hermione barely saw the motion.

She waited with bated breath for her to continue, but Eileen took her time chewing. Then more time to lick her lips and fingers.

Hermione wondered how many éclairs would be enough to fatten her up a little.

When Eileen did deign to speak again, she did not bother to continue their previous conversation.

"While I was rummaging through your head earlier – apologies about that, but you left yourself so open – I couldn't help but notice you're looking for a room in the castle."

Hermione blanched. Oh, no, oh no, please no…

"You don't have to look so panicked," Eileen sniffed as if offended. "I'm not a snitch. I do not much care what your business might be that requires it. But it's quite easy to find a secret place at Hogwarts. You just have to know where to look. I'd start with the Seventh Floor. That horrid tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls ballet, do you know it?"

Hermione nodded wordlessly.

"Well, there you go. Start there."

And before Hermione could thank her or ask her anything else, Eileen Prince had turned around and marched awkwardly out of the dungeons, while the rest of the Seventh-Years ogled her back and whispered in her wake.

"A bitter spinster in the making, that one," the gossip went.

But Hermione disagreed. Despite her appearance and despite her manners, there was something unfathomably alluring about Eileen Prince.

Tom paced back and forth impatiently, feeling the layers of civilization slowly roll off him as with each sorry attempt Hermione lowered her wand, defeated. The tapestry had proven unbeatable so far. There was nothing behind or within it that revealed itself to magic.

"I told you, I've already tried everything," he muttered petulantly. He was very close to losing his temper.

"It doesn't hurt to double-check," Hermione replied stubbornly. This had been her find, after all, and she had gone to some trouble for it. It was going to work. They would crack the answer before they left for the summer holidays.

"You're supposed to be keeping a look-out!" she hissed in his direction when she noticed him lagging.

Tom scowled. "I'd rather we got caught. Maybe then they'd let slip what the secret is."

Hermione would've scoffed at that, but the idea of someone telling them a secret by accident wasn't implausible. Eileen had done it by reading her mind. That was one thing she wanted to get very good at; the art of Legilimency. She would only use it when useful or necessary. For instance, she wouldn't try and read Tom's thoughts because they were worth nothing and were probably very foul indeed.

"What are you smirking at?"

Hermione stepped away from the tapestry. "Nothing at all."

But Tom did not like her superior expression.

"Maybe you overheard wrong, have you considered that? Maybe those nitwits you call House Mates don't know secret rooms from a bar of soap."

Hermione glowered at him. She hadn't told him too much about the banquet or about Eileen Prince; she had instead mentioned eavesdropping on the conversation of two Seventh-Years who'd needed a secret room.

In spite of Tom's cynicism, she was confident Eileen hadn't pulled her leg.

"We just have to look harder."

Tom rolled his eyes, pacing back and forth angrily. "Five more minutes. If we find nothing by then, we leave. Or rather, I leave you to get another detention."

"Afraid of spoiling your good boy reputation?" she taunted, kneeling down to reach the threadbare border of the tapestry.

Tom would've liked to choke her with the loose fringes, but instead he resolved to pace harder. Merlin, it was so difficult not to fly into a rage sometimes. He wondered at himself. Sometimes he felt there was something throbbing in his veins beside blood. A red flux that looked like blood but was actually poisonous, was boiling him from within and only he could contain it. It made him feel like the only person alive in a dead world. Sometimes he wished -

"Tom -! Tom!"

"I'm looking! There's no one coming!" he hissed back.

"No, look!"

Hermione pointed to the wall opposite the tapestry. At first glance you weren't sure it wasn't a trick of the light, but no – set into the granite was the layout of a simple wooden door.

It looked deceptively normal.

Hermione and Tom approached it warily.

"What did you do?" Tom whispered.

"Me? I thought you'd done something!"

Tom frowned. "I was simply walking."

"Well…who's going to open it?" Hermione asked, staring at the knob with some hesitation.

Tom would have normally hesitated too, but something was drawing him to the door, beckoning him, urging him to touch it. As if it was there for him.

So he did.

He twisted the knob and pushed it gently forward.

Hermione held onto his robes with her fingers and stared over his shoulder.

The room stretching before them was very strange. Firstly, it looked more like a corridor than a room. Secondly, it was far too large. Not only that, but there was a throng of windows set against the walls, all framed by billowing white curtains. More shocking still, when they stepped into the room, they saw flurries of snowflakes dancing against the curtains' lace, falling gently on the stone floor.

"How is it snowing in June?" Hermione whispered.

"How is it snowing at all? How are there windows?" Tom wondered, just as astonished.

Hermione walked up to the billowing curtains and tried to get a glimpse outside. The windows had no glass in them, they were merely carvings in the wall and beyond… beyond was a frozen tundra, anonymous and impossible to place. A wasteland of snow. The sky was inky blue and starless. They might have been in the middle of the North Pole.

"Tom," she whispered, feeling her heart pounding fast in her chest.

"I see it too," he said behind her.

Hermione faltered. "It's just magic, it can't be real. We-we must be still at Hogwarts. You can't Apparate from Hogwarts…can you?"

"No, you can't," Tom said, looking up and down the corridor. Odd, he felt almost at peace here, despite the great puzzle it provided.

"So what sort of magic is this?" Hermione insisted, turning to face him.

Her teeth were chattering in her mouth. She had started trembling from the cold. The temperature was unbearably low, practically below freezing point.

Yet he was fine. He only felt a soothing, gentle breeze, a delicious coolness.

Hermione's mouth opened and a plume of steam bloomed from her lips. "How are you – you – you look very comfortable in this weather!"

"I suppose I am… It feels rather nice," he said, nonplussed. There was no steam coming from his mouth. The mystery of the room kept him from being too smug about it. In fact, it rather annoyed him to see his sister trembling like a ninny. He shrugged off his robes and pushed them towards her. Hermione did not even blink. She wrapped herself in them.

"Can we get out of here?" she stammered, clutching herself.

"You go. I want to see where this corridor ends."

"What?"

"It might be my only chance."

Hermione groaned. The door was only a few feet away, leading her back to the tapestry and to the warm corridor, she hoped.

But – she couldn't let Tom just walk into Merlin knew what. Her parents would be awfully upset. And what if her brother found some secret treasure down the line? He would be so priggish about it, no doubt, and try to hoard it for himself.

She heaved a sigh and trailed after him.

Tom frowned. "I told you to go back. You'll freeze to death."

"I'll cast a warming charm," she muttered, though she had already cast several and they had done very little for her.

Tom was oddly pleased at her insistence to follow him. Maybe she really would freeze to death. It was a comforting thought.

They kept passing the same barren windows, the same billowing curtains. The snow never seemed to set on the ground. The snowflakes danced in Hermione's hair. She had small frozen tears at the corner of her eyes.

Tom walked leisurely, breathing in the frozen air with relish.

"What if it never ends?" she mumbled, lips numb. "What if we can't find our way back?"

And now that she was thinking this, she wondered if Eileen Prince had sent her to her death. She did seem the kind to play tricks.

"I don't think it's that kind of place. It does not feel hostile," he mused.

"To you."

"Exactly. I think…"

"What?"

"When I was pacing before, I kept thinking of…well, nothing really, but I felt quite hot with impatience, like I was near boiling point, and now we're in a room that's eerily cold, but not too cold for me."

Hermione frowned. "That is rather convenient."

Tom nodded. "Almost as if I …wished it into existence."

"Oh come off it, you're not all powerful," she snapped, gulping more freezing air.

Tom glared. "No, you idiot. I'm saying that perhaps this is how this place works."

Hermione shook the snow from her hair. "You mean it gives one what one wants?"

"What one needs perhaps," he rectified.

"Well, there's an easy way to v-verify this t-theory!" she cried, teeth chattering. "Let's get out of here and go at it a-again. This time, I'll wish for a t-tropical island."

Tom shushed her. "Stop talking. There. I think I see something in the distance…"

He bolted away from her, drawn to a dark spot further afield. Hermione struggled to catch up, but it was proving too much for her.

"Wait! You – bloody –"

She stumbled and collapsed on her knees, coughing and shuddering with the cold. She could vaguely see the outline of something solid…a shadowy thing...was it a bed? Oh, that would be nice. How she wanted to rest her head a little.

Her eyelids fluttered shut.

But she soon heard footsteps pounding behind her. Someone stopped and knelt beside her and slapped her cheeks none too gently.

"Get up. Get up now. We're leaving this minute. Come on!"

His fingers were warm on her jaw.

"Come on, Hermione."

His hot breath was tickling her nose, her mouth. Was that her name? It didn't sound right coming from him.

His hands were suddenly under her armpits and he was picking her up from the floor, dragging her towards the exit. He had one arm around her waist. Her head was lolling on his shoulder. She inhaled his wintry smell.

Without warning, she was flung into a warm jar of honey. Or so it felt.

She blinked, tried to regain her footing, almost stumbled again. Everything was amber after that terribly blue world.

The cheerful candles in the sconces gave off a buttery light. Barnabas' tapestry looked positively wonderful. She almost knelt to kiss the ground. Warmth trickled into her muscles, until she was able to disengage from Tom. He did not put up much of a fight.

"What a horrid excursion! Why would the Headmaster allow this kind of magic in the castle?"

But her brother was not listening. He was staring behind him at the door they had evacuated. It had now disappeared back into the wall, its outlines barely visible.

There was something closed-off in his expression, almost angry, yet oddly yearning too.

"Don't tell me you want to go back there."

"No, not exactly, but…" he trailed off, voice low and halting. He stared into nothingness.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. A docile Tom was an eerie thing.

"Hang on, what was it you saw down there?"

"Where?"

"You know where. You told me you saw something. You ran ahead of me. What did you see?"

"Oh…nothing."

"No, it was something. I saw its outline. It looked like a -"

"What could you see anyway?" Tom snapped, barely keeping his voice down. "You were near fainting, you're so helpless. There was nothing there."

Hermione folded her arms. "I'm not helpless. You're just trying to distract me. Also, you're lying."

Tom hated her composure at a moment like this. He gestured towards the wall. "Go back in and find out then!"

"I don't understand why you won't tell me."

"There's nothing to tell! And anyway, why would I share anything with you?"

Hermione stepped back. She felt her stomach drop a little, as if his words could actually hurt her. She thought that after what they had seen together in the Prefects' bathroom, things would be a little different. But then she remembered that they could not. She had her own important secrets to hide, and she had no need for his. He was an insufferable git anyway.

She raised her chin. "Very well. I don't care."

Tom looked almost disappointed for a moment. Or perhaps remorseful.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm not lying."

"It's all the same to me," she insisted with a shrug.

Tom clicked his jaw. "Fine. Let's just see if the door appears again."

By the time Hermione returned to her Common Room, they had managed to come up with a viable theory, which was that the room appeared only when "summoned". You had to pace in front of it a couple of times and ask for something important. You had to really need it, the thing you were asking for. The rules were not clear to them yet, but the whole thing reminded Hermione of the strictures of fairy-tales or something out of Lewis Carroll: rigid, yet absurd.

They had gone by turns, asking for things in their head, ranging from a room filled with teacups to a bath house filled with steam (particularly nice after the wintry corridor). They had been excited to find that the possibilities appeared endless (Hermione had discovered, much to her delight, that the room could produce books at will) but their fun was short-lived as they'd had to flee from the encroaching footsteps of a Ravenclaw Prefect.

Now the excitement ebbed away a little as Hermione remembered Tom's misty expression after their first try. He had seen something at the end of that corridor and it had spooked him, and she really wanted to know what it was. He was not easily spooked. Nor was she.

"What is this? Spoils of war?" Beatrice asked, pulling her away from her thoughts. "Don't tell me you got into another scrape."

The Slytherin girl was pointing at her apparel.

Hermione looked down. Much to her dismay, she had forgotten to take off Tom's Gryffindor robes.

A/N: All right, so I had to split this chapter in two because it was getting a bit overwhelming in terms of events. The second half will cover the summer holiday and will include a time jump, but I wanted to give you a break between them, because there's a tonal shift, at one point. I just need to revise the second part a bit and I should, in theory, post it in a week or two? Wish me luck, haha. As for this tricky chapter: probably the big surprise is Eileen Prince. Now, she is canonically three years younger than Tom Riddle, but for the sake of the story, she happens to be a few years older. More will be revealed about her and her connections in coming chapters, but safe to say, she will be important. Apologies for any typos/errors, I'm trying to be more spontaneous with my updates. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and thank you so much for your lovely reviews!