Sorry for the long wait! Thank you so much for reading. I won't put reader responses up for this chapter, because I really want to get this posted. It's not edited as much as I would like, but I hope you enjoy the new installment!

…..

Friday October 29th, 4:23 in the afternoon

On a quiet Thursday afternoon, Hermione had found herself in an unusual situation. She had been sitting in the Gryffindor Common Room by herself and trying to finish an essay when she heard someone plop down in the seat next to her.

"So, how've you been, Hermione?"

Hermione gave Ron a baffled side-glance. "What do you mean? You see me every day."

"What I mean to say is exactly what I said. How've you been?" Ron asked again in the same tone of voice.

The red-head was now subjected to a full frontal baffled look. "You're being weird today."

Ron blew an exasperated sigh. "Can't a man just get a simple answer to his question?"

Hermione mimicked his sigh. "Of course he can. It's just that you rarely ask how I am. Usually, you just know or you're completely oblivious."

"Well, I'll have you know that we – we meaning team Ron and Hermione – haven't been alone in a really long time. And before, we had Ron and Hermione time often, especially when Harry was in one of his 'the-World-is-on-my-shoulders-and-I-need-to-mope-about-it-for-a-little-bit' moods," Ron pointed out matter-of-factly.

Oh, so that's where he's going with this.

She smiled. "Well in that case, I'm great. Thank you for asking."

Ron wasn't satisfied and continued to look at her expectantly.

Some of Hermione's exasperation returned. "What?"

"We've been friends for eight years, and the only thing I get is an 'I'm great?'"

Unwanted, thoughts and events that she had guiltily kept from her friends spilled to the forefront of her mind. And, just to spite her, those thoughts were all narrated by a cynical baritone.

'Who brought you back?'

'Would I have left without retrieving the heather?'

'Fine, I did leave you.'

Snapping out of it, she threw Ron an affectionate eye-roll. "Well, nothing of interest is going on with me. Classes are easier than they were last year, because I know the material already. And, if I was making any progress in the most important aspect of my life, you would already know."

"How hard is it to make progress?" Ron asked vaguely, mindful of the possibility of curious Gryffindors.

Hermione was surprised to see that he was genuinely curious. And her smile brightened. The new defenses she unconsciously built around herself thawed slightly. "It's incredibly difficult," she half-whispered. Her voice sounded so world weary, it was barely recognizable. "I'm frustrated, because I have no knowledge on how to go about this. And you know how I feel about blind missions."

Ron simply nodded, and Hermione found herself surprisingly grateful. In the past seven years of their friendship, Ron had only been understanding on a handful of occasions. In a way, it was their shared secret. He wasn't as dense or as unconsciously unfeeling as some people thought, and, especially since Hermione had been feeling alone lately, this moment made her self-imposed burden seem a little lighter.

"Well, what's so hard about it?"

Hermione turned to him, her body fully engaged in their conversation. "Well, I have all of this information on Riddle, but I can never seem to put it to good use. The list of questions I have in my head always lengthens, never shortens. And for some reason, I feel as if all three of you are relying on me."

Ron appeared thoughtful. "Well, honestly, Harry and I didn't expect you to get much done, and we don't hold it against you. I mean, you have to get in with him from scratch. And as for your list of questions, have you met Harry Potter? You should know from experience that this is normal when trying to solve a mystery."

"I know, it's just I've always been the solver, and I haven't been solving. It's making me feel inadequate," she confided.

Ron patted her hand in his brotherly way. "Well, I don't know how to make you feel better about that, since, you know, I'm not the best when it comes to girl emotions; however, I can tell you that the three of us aren't completely relying on you."

Hermione felt surprised again. She knew that all three of the boys had side projects, but lately, she felt that they had been feeling isolated because she felt that her position with Riddle had designated her, by default, as the primary figure in their plot.

Seeing the confusion on his best friend's face, Ron quickly continued. "What I mean is that we've been collecting bits and pieces, too, so we know that what you have to do is not as straightforward as you want it to be. And no, we haven't been keeping things from you. There's just been nothing important going on lately."

Hermione's analytical mind was now at work. Before continuing, she took out her wand muttered a couple of defensive spells. "Have you at least amassed a list of questions?"

It was Ron's turn to roll his eyes, partially at her show of paranoia and partially at her thought process. "Well, for one, we still don't know who has murdered Neville's granddad." Hermione felt a pang from her strictly repressed feelings. "Second, we don't know why the Death Eaters are the way they are now. They're more of a secret society than a killing squad in this decade, and there are no plans to kill in the future. And lastly, there's a time during the day where Tom Riddle completely disappears, and we want to know where he goes."

Hermione's red flags were raised. "How was I not aware of this?" she asked sharply.

Ron put his hands up in defense to her tone. "Because we were just made aware of it. Merlin!"

She raised her eyebrow, urging a slightly frazzled Ron to go on.

"Draco ran into Harry today and told him about the tabs he's been keeping, basically. Enough time has passed for Draco to figure out Riddle's schedule, and he noticed that there's a significant gap of time where he can't be found. On weekdays, it's before dinner, but on weekends, it's usually after his rounds."

Hermione absorbed that information like a sponge. "What do you think he's been doing?"

"Merlin knows. In all likelihood, he's planning the end of the Muggle world," Ron replied with a smirk.

She slapped him on his arm. "Ow!"

"That's not funny! He could very well be planning the end of the Muggle world. Are his followers with him?"

"No. Draco said that all followers were accounted for during those times," he answered, still rubbing his arm.

Hermione was feeling stressed out again. "There's so much to do!"

She stood, her head too busy contemplating how little she had actually done to notice the worried look of her baffled friend.

"Where are you going?"

She sighed. The truth was, her feelings of inadequacy made her want to sulk, and she didn't want anyone to know that she was doing it. So, she went with her usually answer.

"To do some research." She then turned back around, an afterthought hanging from her tongue. "You've grown up," she said with a smile.

"Nope, still the same," Ron replied flippantly, a slight grin on his face.

Hermione rolled her eyes as she turned once again. "I like it," she threw over her shoulder, hoping he heard as she walked away.

….

An hour later, Hermione was still listlessly skimming a row of books. Instead of sulking, she had decided to search for more clues, but now, her mind was berating her for her optimistic aspirations. Hermione had searched the library dozens of times, and each time, she had come up empty handed.

She supposed that she was desperate. Her justification for her unfruitful searching was that she had been too bogged down with homework to truly commit to her mission. But who was she kidding? She had done the updated and advanced versions of all of these lessons in the future, had turned in similar homework assignments, and had memorized all of the formulas, steps, and incantations the first time around. The real reason for her lack of information was her inability to find it.

In a strange way, the Voldemort years had spoiled her. Oh, Hermione was never one to flaunt her advantages, but her mind had always been working during those seven years, and she had (after some sweat and some extensive snooping) always found answers.

Now, in a decade where there weren't really any immediate dangers, she couldn't find anything from any outside sources. It's as if the Time Traveler's screwing with the universe came with more prices than she had anticipated.

Hermione took another step to the right, and was startled to realize that she had come to the end of the row. The fruitlessness of the search was wearing on her. Not just her current search in the library, but her search in general. She knew it was selfish to feel this way. She knew what she had signed up for.

But, for some reason, she couldn't' shake this feeling of inadequacy from her being. Though this primarily came from her own work ethic and her own insecurities, she also knew that it was 20% Tom Riddle. Hermione remembered, at the beginning of term, that she had been determined to crack him.

But now, she was beginning to think that was impossible.

As she prepared to make her way down the row again, a cynical voice interrupted her thoughts.

"What are you doing here?" it demanded.

As per usual, Hermione's spine stiffened and her hand immediately itched for her want. She shook her instincts, though, and turned to face him. "Riddle, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"What are you doing here?" he repeated, his voice more refined this time.

"What do people usually do in libraries?" she retorted, letting some acid drip from her voice. He was unnaturally annoyed at her presence. For Merlin's sake, she hadn't even done anything yet.

"No one is in the library at this time," he stated pointedly.

Hermione didn't understand. "Our situation obviously disproves that."

After clearly showing his annoyance at her presence, Riddle did the oddest thing. He returned to his work and he shifted. Hermione considered herself a bit of a Riddle connoisseur, and if there was one thing he didn't do, it was showing a weakness. He was always so stoic and stern, and this little show of frustration was a complete novelty.

It also accidentally knocked over his schoolbag – a medium-sized, worm, cloth-like bag that had been propped up casually on his leg. And as the bag hit the floor with a decisive thud! Hermione could see everything.

When her mind would look back on this event, she would reflect that she didn't know how he let it slip. All she knew was that his schoolbag was partially open, and the light from the lamp was hitting it just right. There were dozens of books in there! Dozens! Why did he even need all of them? Why was he storing them? Was he keeping them from her?

Something wasn't right.

Livid and without even thinking, Hermione drew her wand and froze Tom. She then slowly walked over to his schoolbag. Before taking a look inside, she imagined that, if Tom had been given a chance to react, he would have murdered her by now.

Taking that though out of her mind, Hermione forced herself into the mindset she used for intelligence gathering. Search. Find. Take. Search. Find. Take. Search . Find. Take.

There would be terrible repercussions later. But right now, Hermione was so outraged and so frustrated and hopeless that she might as well fully commit to her actions.

Taking extra precautions, she moved Riddle against a bookshelf and cast a more advanced petrifying charm against him. Though she had no trouble with this, she could feel his magic straining against hers. Even as she quickly put his bag on the table, she acknowledged the rarity of feeling a wizard's power against one's own, and she would have to delve into this particular matter later.

Clicking open the brown, extremely worn bag, she gasped at the contents that lay inside. The amount of books he had stored in it were shocking in and of themselves, but the titles of the books was what had her reeling back in fear and fuming with anger all at once.

Roland Skander's Theories on the Soul

Magick and the Soul: A Compilation of Scholarly Articles

Black Soul Magick

The Soul Misinterpreted: Wizard's Assumptions and Their Mistakes

As Hermione flipped through the titles, she realized that, all this time, all of her fruitless searching, he was behind it. She couldn't be sure whether it was because he needed the books for their essay, whether he knew what she was looking for, or whether he was just being vindictive; but, somehow, he had figured out her game, and he had bested her at it.

Until now.

She remembered that Tom was still pushed against a bookshelf and turned to face him. With a flick of her wand, she unfroze his faced. She noted, with mild humor, that a look of pure anger immediately appeared, yet he said nothing.

Hermione jerkily picked up his bag and brought to him. "What is the meaning of this?"

"What is the meaning of this?" he hissed, inclining his head towards his bag. "What is the meaning of you knowingly assaulting the Head Boy? I'll have your head for this, Granger. Say goodbye to your sterling academic record and your means of employment."

Little did he know that, in this time period, that held little to no importance to her. "Be that as it may, it still doesn't explain why you have all of the books that you knew would be useful to me. Even if you choose to damage my academic record, yours is not as perfect as everyone seems to think. Hiding books from your Potions partner? I didn't even think that you could stoop so low."

At that, his jaw started twitching. If she wasn't so used to studying him, she also wouldn't have noticed the fact that his slight, but toned, form was straining against his magical bindings. Hermione knew that he hated not being in control, and she smiled in twisted satisfaction at being the first peer to ever make him feel like this.

"You apparently do think I would stoop so low." Despite the strain on his jaw, his voice came out perfectly normal

He had a point there. "But taking books? For what purpose, Riddle? For not letting me work on the essay?"

For some reason, he seemed to ponder her question before conceding. "Yes. Precisely."

That was a bit too easy, but if he suddenly felt the need to be truthful, she wasn't about to complain.

Instead, she decided that, if he truly didn't want her to do the essay, he would find ways to completely sabotage her every step. Though the Gryffindor in her always had a fighting spirit, she also knew that this fight was worthless. She had more important things to worry about, and she could find another way to contribute.

Nevertheless, Hermione's mind was working on a different strategy. It wouldn't do to simply take the books and run. He would find a way to get them back, and Hermione was in no position to fight for them. She would have to take some of them with his blessing. But how?

She rummaged further through his schoolbag, looking for a very specific book. She didn't know why it seemed pertinent, but if she was going to start negotiating, she supposed that she should start there.

Finding it at the bottom of the bag, she held it up to him. "You should be done with this by now."

That came out a little bolder than expected.

"I was done with it a long time ago," he replied calmly.

She tried not to smirk. "So, you wouldn't mind if I took it? I was in the middle of reading it before you took away my library privileges," she asked innocently.

His gaze narrowed at her tone. "I do mind."

Hermione scowled openly. Honestly, what was his problem? He was done with the book. She knew it was important to him, but if he was that adamant about keeping it, then it must hold more importance than she originally thought.

"Why do you mind? You're obviously done with it. Why are you keeping this from me?" she asked forcefully, shaking the book for emphasis.

"That's no business of yours," he replied stoically.

His words, flat as they were, jolted her into a realization.

"This book is really important to you," she observed, her words a statement, not a question.

"Obviously."

Hermione supposed that he couldn't lie his way out of that one. "Why?"

"That's no business of yours," he repeated.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. Tom Riddle was showing the most emotion he had ever shown on his face. It sparked her tiny vindictive streak and made her want to egg him on. Later, Draco would most likely chastise her for having no sense of self-preservation. Riddle would strike back, but, in Hermione's mind, that wasn't enough to keep her away.

Backing away slightly, she pulled out the chair closest to Tom and plopped herself down. As she crossed her legs, she licked her finger and daintily started turning the pages of the book. "It is my business," she stated in a sharp manner. "It's my business, because you said that this was only about our project."

"Do not continue looking through my property," he commanded, his look growing positively frigid.

She stopped flipping through the book to look at him defiantly. "Give me a good reason, and I'll stop."

She wanted to high-five herself when she visibly saw his jaw clench.

Hermione felt his magic push against hers again. Without much thinking, she knew that she put Tom Riddle in a terrible position. He had probably never felt this out of control his entire stay at Hogwarts, and she instinctively knew the she was driving him mad.

"You stupid girl," he accused, as he mirrored her defiant expression.

She couldn't help but bristle a bit. He had caught her off guard. "Where did that come from, Riddle?"

"Oh don't act so clueless. You're intelligent, sure. But, what makes you as dumb as the rest of these dimwits in this school is that you refuse to see. You prefer denial above seeing truth."

Hermione thought that his calm tone did not justify his harsh words. She uncrossed her legs and slammed the book close before standing and stiffly walking towards him.

With her wand pointed at him for good measure she asked, "Where the hell is this coming from?"

"Again, with the denial," he drawled, not reacting to her aggressive stance.

"You accuse me of not being a realist, Riddle?" she asked, copying his tone. "You have no idea how much of a realist I am. I honestly have no idea where the hell you are coming from."

"The field," he began. "Who took you back? Did you do some private investigating? Did you figure it out?" He asked his questions in rapid succession, and they hit Hermione like stinging spells.

"I still don't know," she admitted, holding her ground.

"Your friends were the only ones who knew exactly where you were, and they didn't come. No one at school has admitted to it." It was as if he was reciting a grocery list.

Hermione wanted to stomp her feet in frustration. "Your point, Riddle. What is it?"

"I took you back, you dimwitted witch," he declared forcefully. "You think I left, when in reality, I went to grab the heather. I returned and brought you back."

Hermione stepped back, feeling as if she had gotten seriously attacked. "I… I don't…"

"What?" he drawled, letting the tiniest bit of venom seep through his voice. "You don't believe me? You know, I always get the feeling that you've judged me and -."

"I judge you?" Hermione interrupted with a cold laugh escaping through her lips. "You, the person who thinks that I am incapable of doing anything without giving me a chance? If we're going to be accusing each other, we might as well be truthful. How I treat you is fair, not judgmental." Inwardly, the brunette tried not to cringe at her lie.

His eyes narrowed, and his voice lowered to a hiss. "I won't go into how un-Gryffindor your statement was. The point is that I brought you back. End of story. And, I think that the reason you're spitting venom at me is because you're being defensive. You know I'm right, Granger. Live up to your own Gryffindor set of beliefs and recognize a deed for what it is."

She couldn't hold back her humorless smile. "Well, your highness, if I stuck to House stereotypes, then I would just assume that you're up to no good." She then sneered something Draco would be proud of. "I will look through this book, Riddle," she promised. "Whether you like it or not."

"People will catch you assaulting me, and they will throw your arse in jail," he threatened.

"That's what nonverbal magic is for," Hermione mumbled, not catching the incredulousness on his features. She then quickly scanned the table of contents and found the page she was looking for. As she turned to page 432, she found it unrecognizable.

"This is an abomination," Hermione whispered. She had never been one for writing in the margins, but he apparently didn't think of books in the same regard. His hand writing was everywhere: in the margins, in between the lines, in all sorts of directions. She looked up at Riddle, and he had grudgingly chosen to stare at a random spot on the bookshelf in front of him.

Smirking, she started reading his notes.

More rosewater to lengthen the time limit.

More bogwart to increase the effects

Find a supplement for pigs' feet.

Two more pinches of pixie dust.

The recipe for true happiness.

Hermione paused at the last one. Did he really doubt the effects of the potion that much?

"Yes, I do," he responded. "Though this potion is extremely advanced, it was invented in during the Muggles' Reformation. It's a bit rudimentary."

That didn't satisfy Hermione. "I know you care about this project, Riddle, but I feel as if you care about it too much."

"Going the extra mile is what is needed to achieve excellence," he responded automatically.

Hermione sighed, finally giving into her curiosiousity. "What is this really about?"

"Oh, don't be daft -."

"I'm not being daft. You keep me in the dark more often than not, and I want to know what all of the secrecy is about." She advanced towards him, her newly acquired recklessness letting her nose almost touch his tense form. She looked into his eyes, her voice lowering to a mere whisper. "Now tell me Riddle. What is all of this actually about?"

To her surprise, Hermione heard a soft thud. The next thing she knew, the Head Boy shoved her gently and quickly walked to gather his belongings.

Hermione's shock allowed her to blurt, "What just happened?"

"Should be obvious," he replied brusquely icily. He then turned around and gave her a glare that shook her insides to the core. "I non-verbally freed myself from your magical chains."

Just as speedily as he turned on her, he summoned his wand and magically bound Hermione to the shelf in his place. He then approached her until he had his wand pressed uncomfortably into her throat. His face was so close that Hermione swore she felt their breath intermingle.

His voice lowered to a murmur as the pressure of his wand increased enough to make her involuntarily whimper. "I never attack other students, Granger; but if you ever use magic against me again, you may not like the consequences. I will react next time. Don't forget that."

Though Hermione should have been trembling in her stockings, the Gryffindor in her didn't take kindly to being threatened. Instead of nodding submissively, she returned his glare. "Then stop being so damn arrogant."

Riddle backed let out a cold chuckle. "I'm arrogant? Look at you! Look at what you just did!"

"Just like a Slytherin to forget his own faults," she spat back. "Why the hell are you trying to change this potion, especially after we had started brewing it? Or better yet, why haven't you told me, and why have you practically stolen all of the books in the library pertaining to the subject? Why is this such a big deal for you? Why -?"

"You, of all people, don't need to know my thoughts," he interrupted sharply. "I am the most accomplished student in this school, and though this may be some silly project to you, it means something to me. I am trying to better myself, Granger. I refuse to except the way things are."

Hermione narrowed her eyes to conceal her sudden emotion. His last comment had hit something within her, something she refused to tap into now. "What are you trying to prove?"

"What kind of a question is that?" he hissed.

"Why this obsession with this potion? What are you worrying about?"

Just as quickly as Hermione had asked her questions, Tom Riddle had his school bag on his shoulder and his wand back in his pocket. "You have no right to be so curious. Not a waste like you."

"A waste like me?" Hermione repeated with a bitter smile. "So that's what you think of me. Is that why you refuse to trust me with something as simple as an essay?"

Riddle's smile matched her own. "No, it's because you refuse to look at me and acknowledge me as your savior."

Hermione's mind became mist and her limbs froze in place.

"That's right," he continued, his smile widening as he observed his affect on her. "You refuse to even think about the fact that I'm the one who took you back. I left for not even two minutes to retrieve the heather, came back, and mobilocorpused your arse back to Hogwarts, but your stupid prejudice can't even acknowledge a good deed for what it's worth."

And just like that, Hermione's mind exploded. "My prejudice? Against what? Your personality?"

"No, you dimwit. Your obviously disgusting blood prejudice," he spat.

The Gryffindor fell back as if he had struck her. And, in a purely metaphorical sense, he had. "My blood prejudice?" Hermione had purposefully represented herself as an unknown Muggle Born. She had never described herself as a pureblood.

"That's why you became a Prefect."

"Dippet said that you made me a Prefect."

Riddle didn't reply to that. For the first time, he doggedly stayed on topic. "You are a pureblood. You've purposefully tried to undermine me in everything that we are forced to share in order to prove your superiority. You think I didn't save you from death, because you think that someone that isn't a Pureblood can't possibly be that heroic."

Her anger was heated to the point of combustion. Before she could reply, she was dropped unceremoniously on the floor. Hermione couldn't find it within herself to stand, so she looked up at him, every bit the lioness.

"I don't know how this happened to you. How could someone so brilliant be so utterly wrong?" she asked, looking straight into his eyes.

And with that was left feeling like a failure.

…..

Later that day, 9:03 PM

Hermione had felt so grateful for him earlier. But now, she had half a mind to hex him. "You told everyone that I was a Pureblood? After I specifically planned to be a Muggleborn!"

Ron's back was pushed so far against the chair that it was as if he wanted to fall through it in order to escape Hermione's wrath. "It's not what you think."

"It's not," said a familiar cynical voice from behind her.

Hermione put her hands on her hips and tried not to give into the temptation of stomping her foot. "Oh you know about this, too? Merlin, how great it feels to be out of the loop."

Instead of copying Ron's extremely uncomfortable body language, he calmly took a seat and looked properly annoyed at how dramatic she was being. "Before I get started on how much of a complete lunatic you are, I would like to point out that your recent dramatic behavior is completely out of character for you."

In lieu of answering him, Hermione continued glaring at him – partially because she knew he was right.

Draco linked his hands on the table and continued in his mild-mannered voice. "We needed you to be unaware of what we were doing."

Hermione's jaw was clenched so tight, she could feel her teeth giving way to the pressure. "It is already common knowledge that I am Muggleborn. How could you be so stupid?"

"Because you were being targeted," Ron blurted.

"Yeah," Draco agreed. "So, we just told everyone you were obsessed with Muggles, and that's why you try to pass yourself off as one."

Hermione's rage subsided for her incredulousness. "And people believed you?"

"It's Hogwarts, and it's me. And I absolutely adore gossip," Draco drawled in an over-dramatic aristocratic voice. "I'm also really persistent. Honestly, Hermione, it had to be done. You were about to be put on a hit list for the future."

And just like that, all of Hermione's war instincts – instincts she had been trying so desperately to suppress – resurfaced and crashed over her like a tidal wave. "What?" she gasped, as if the air had been knocked out of her.

"You're starting to be viewed as a threat," Draco stated casually, continuing where Ron had left off. "Nothing too serious, mind you; but according to what I have noticed and what red-head has been hearing, we concluded that the dormant Death Eaters want to keep a permanent eye on you."

"It's because your magical talent and your clear dislike for Riddle are visible to the public," Ron said before Hermione could start ranting again. "They are taking note of those that fit your profile. However, since you're an important part of this mission, we couldn't have you being surveyed all of the time."

Hermione's jaw was still tensed. "How is telling everyone that I am a Pureblood going to help the situation? The only thing it did was get me an unwanted Prefects position and a gigantic headache."

"Oh c'mon, Granger," Draco lightly chastised, his features slightly twisted into mock disbelief. "Stop letting your stress get to you. Slytherins are all about Purebloods. Talented Purebloods especially. Just putting that label on you will make them switch gears and have them consider you as a possible ally. Being a Gryffindor doesn't matter at this point in time. They're considering all of their options."

As much as her rage was compelling her to argue, Hermione knew that her situation was irreversible. She relaxed her jaw, and instead, allowed herself to frown. "I don't like you three running operations without me."

"Harry wasn't in on it," Ron objected.

"Regardless," Hermione bulldozed through. "It has brought me into closer proximity with our target." She decided not to tell them about her ordeal the day before. "But I wonder, why hasn't he been trying to butter me up to join his band of killers? He's still the same."

"That's something else we need to talk to you about," Ron said, his voice taking on the tone that he used when something was too serious even for his sense of humor. "He might try to butter you up later on. I'm sure he's trying to find the best method to achieve that now, and I know that you would not fall prey to him that easily, but this is just a warning. Be careful with him now."

Hermione wanted to offer a scathing retort on how the only thing she does is exercise caution with him, but she was once again beaten to the punch.

"We have something else," the Slytherin said as he took a letter out of his pocket. "I had received this letter this morning."

Hermione took it gingerly from his hands. The only person who would possibly send them letters in this decade was….

"Snape?" Hermione breathed in surprise. "He must have found something."

"Maybe," Draco replied. "Just open it."

Same meeting place. Same time. November 1st. The information I am handling is of a delicate and explosive nature.

Hermione's brain registered Snape's script as the form the Order used to relay highly important information to their assets around the country. She looked up from the simple letter and let herself sigh for what seemed like the 100th time that day.

"Let's hope he gives us a breakthrough."

…

Friday October 30, 5:00 PM

Hermione didn't know what had brought her to the library again. She was "being targeted" after all. The last thing she should be doing is wandering into enemy territory unaccompanied. And, if she was going to be completely honest, she wasn't on the enemy's turf to wander. She was stalking him.

As much as she had tried to reason with herself that she was only doing what she had been doing for the past three months, this had crossed the line. Usually, she just participated in low-level eye-stalking, but now, she had followed him to the library at a time where she knew he didn't want to be bothered and was watching his every movement through a strategic place behind a bookshelf.

But she was just so curious! And so damn frustrated! Never in her life had she encountered a specimen as complicated as Tom Riddle, but after a long three months, she had chipped a crack into his shell.

She may have even done more than just a little crack.

An idea had occurred to her while she was ruminating about this admittedly every single second of her waking moments. At first it had seem preposterous, but as the idea marinated more in her mind, her logic told her that she needed to disprove herself. She had to prove to her overanalytical brain that this option was most definitely not a possibility.

And then she stalked Tom Riddle to the library. To the exact same place they had their confrontation. Unaccompanied.

As she hid behind one of the Herbology bookshelves and pulled at a small book so that she could use the empty space as a peephole, Hermione knew that she had hit rock bottom. She had charmed herself and stalked Tom Riddle to the library only to watch him and that dark, shiny hair of his pour over the book they had been fighting over for months now.

And then something amazing happened.

Riddle stopped writing for a fraction of a second, ran a frustrated hand through his normally immaculate hair, exhaled sharply, and went back to work.

She knew then.

Hermione didn't know whether it was her overemotional state, her tired brain, or both, but she knew that her unfruitful searching for the meaning behind the first memory was over. There Tom Riddle was, sitting there, scribbling notes furiously into the margins of his Potions book. It all added up. All of her broken thoughts came together. And Hermione, after all of her doubts and her frustration, felt the proud feeling in her chest, welling up inside her, pushing through her esophagus, warming her cheeks and nose, slightly suffocating her until finally the pressure lifted, and she could breathe again.

Discovery.

The fight they had yesterday had made it clear. Tom Riddle, whether he was good or bad at this point in time, was unhappy. Monstrously, enormously, definitively unhappy. She could feel it in her bones as she peeped at him shamelessly through the bookshelf. And suddenly, just as quickly as the feeling of success came, it disappeared. The clouds settled over again, and the world was once again on her shoulders.

Why is he unhappy?

What in his godforsaken life could make him, the most talented wizard in school, the most accomplished boy in the wizarding world, unhappy?

Pushing the books further apart, she stood on her tiptoes, attempting to read what he was writing while simultaneously pondering her questions. It didn't take her long to form possible conclusions, but the conclusions she came to made her wonder is she was half mad. Could it be, even with his soul somewhat gone, that he could still feel? And no, she didn't mean feel as in the watered-down version of the feelings a person with an intact soul would feel. She meant complete, all encompassing feeling. She meant exactly the kind that any normal person would feel.

Was it possible that Tom Riddle hadn't lost as much of his humanity as she thought?

Or, was he unhappy because he couldn't make another Horcrux. Hermione scratched that possibility out completely. He could easily make another Horcrux. He could have made one by now if he himself had killed Neville's grandfather. Hermione knew through research and observation that he hadn't. He was the same at the beginning of the year that he is now. She had trained himself to calculate his coldness, and she wasn't fool enough to believe her feelings were completely accurate, but her intuition – the part of her she trusted least, but had saved her the most – told her that he hadn't changed. And, despite the lack of evidence for her belief, she knew.

There was a third possible option. In her opinion, this one was the least plausible option, but if there was anything she had learned from her time in the 1940s, it's that she can't rule any possibility out.

And, if she were to follow her logic, then she had to consider the chance that Tom Riddle was unhappy with his life.

Hermione reasoned that it wasn't so far out of the realm of possibilities. If he could still feel, then there was no reason why he couldn't feel normal feelings. Sure, to people who didn't know about her situation, Hermione supposed that her question would seem a bit cold. Why wouldn't he be able to feel normal, teenage boy feelings?

In her mind, the answer to her question was fairly simple. She had always assumed that he had lost most of his humanity at this point. Yes, she had allowed that he had retained more than the Time Travelers had previously thought, but she hadn't given him life in her mind. She had thought of him as dead. Lost. Irredeemable.

And maybe, now, he was still lost and irredeemable, but he was most definitely not dead.

Not dead at all.

….

Sorry for the long wait. I didn't take much time to edit it, so I hope you enjoy. I originally didn't plan on putting that last scene in there, but since I hadn't updated in a while, I decided that I'd give you a little bit extra of an extremely important thought process.

Thanks for reading!