Pure of Heart.

What did that even mean?

I had always wondered about purity. Did it signify an untainted past, or was it the ability to stick by the laws of fate and be honest despite a tainted past? Did it imply chastity, or was it the true sweet thoughts you possessed despite the loss of chastity?

And, more importantly, how could anyone be pure? Surely, every person has desired for more at some point or the other.

Maybe I found the dark arts interesting because although the spells required a passable amount of sinister thought, they never played with the lack of these thoughts. I loved challenges, but not impossible ones.

"Try again," she suggested. God, why couldn't she see the reality of it? First she thought I was irreversibly evil, now she assumed I was capable of purity.

Stupidly, I complied – for the twentieth time in the past hour. "Expecto Patronum," I said dully.

Nothing. Not even a spark. I'd never been this useless at other spells and charms.

But I wasn't surprised at my inability to produce a Patronus. I'd tried it before, with same results. I wouldn't be Tom Riddle if I hadn't.

But none of this occurred to Granger. She compressed her lips, and for a moment, I was gleeful that she might just give up. "That was pathetic. You're not saying it strong enough." Honestly, wouldn't she just quit?

"It's nothing to do with strength of words and you know it," I said viciously. "I don't have happy memories, I don't have confidence in anything except my intelligence and, last time I checked, Slytherins were never pure of mind."

She looked like she wanted to debate about the meaning of purity, but then decided against it. "How about this. I've come from a battlefield," she started evenly, not realizing how recent she'd made it sound, "And I've been sorted into Slytherin."

"I'm assuming this is going somewhere."

"Oh, it is definitely going somewhere," she said in a quiet but certain tone. She took out her wand, closed her eyes, inhaled, and opened her eyes to stare serenely forward. She positioned her wand. "Expecto Patronum."

There were several things to marvel at, and they all happened at once. Her voice had pronounced the spell with admirable strength, her two words as clear as the morning wind. The energy that shot out of her wand was so precise, her corporeal form sprung instantly; it wasn't gradual at all.

How much practice had she put into it? Did she have a method to clear her mind? How could anyone who'd lost a love interest, a friend, and her parents be so pure? What was she thinking about?

Had she expected it to be an otter, when she first tried out the spell?

I certainly hadn't.

Though, to be fair, not many animals suited Granger perfectly. Fierce, clever, passionate, secretive and unconditionally kind. Foxes weren't kind. Reptiles weren't passionate. Large cats? I wasn't sure if cats were known for a forgiving nature.

An otter. Unimpressive at first glance. Inconspicuous with its flaws. And as fierce and motherly as hell.

An otter would do.

When I looked at her form, it struck me that this was the first complete Patronus I'd ever seen- or ever would be seeing. Because even though I didn't know what purity meant, I couldn't find another word to describe the otter.

Other than perfect, of course.

And finally, she let it fade, and were it not for the absence of the usual vibrancy in the gentle smile she sent me, I wouldn't have noticed that the charm had taken up a bit more magical energy than she had anticipated.

I was breathless, though. "If Dumbledore, or anybody, manages to cast a better Patronus than yours," I said finally, "I shall fall at their feet, kiss their toes and put on a skirt."

She giggled, partly at the weak humour, and partly because she was pleased I thought so. I noticed how natural her giggle was – feminine, and actually sounded quite close to a person humming underwater. Sort of musical, and nothing like the annoying, fake gurgling that the Abby-fan-girls did.

It was official: Hermione Granger was the most real person I'd ever met. She kept more secrets than I did, she was kind to the people she detested (er, not that I actually saw her detesting anyone. Other than me, and that was until a week ago.), and she scraped through Home-Keeping classes for Witches with wonderfully imitated manners, but she would still be real.

Her realness seemed to intensify in the mornings. She wore a strange cloak, and her hair was covering her face, as always. Honestly, what was the point of tying up your hair if it was going to fall apart, anyway?

"Take off the bun," I said boldly.

She looked as though I'd suggested swallowing a pint of Love Potion to cure rabies. "Why?"

"You don't look too comfortable."

"Don't assume," she said curtly.

I shrugged. "You just don't. Have it your way, then."

She shrugged back, and leaned against the wall, playing with her hair, almost deliberately.

I don't know why, but I didn't like the nonchalant way in which she was behaving. And her hair was annoying me.

I couldn't bear it, finally. "Tie it back, then. A proper bun, or pony tail, or whatever girls call it. Or wear it down."

Her eyes flashed at me. "Why?"

"You don't look comfortable. I think I've mentioned that already."

"No, why should I listen to you?"

"It's not neat. Unbecoming, actually. I don't like it."

"Pity, because that still doesn't explain," she stepped closer, "Why I should listen to you."

The unemotional tone with which she whispered made me swallow. Of course. She'd caught on my weakness: I hated proximity, and females made me particularly uneasy, even if I was attracted to them.

But I couldn't let her win.

"You should listen to me, because I refuse to accept a mess in my surroundings, unevenness and closeness make me uncomfortable, and in this state of mind, I will not hesitate to pull off your bun harshly, or push you away."

I felt a twinge of regret at my practical admission of my weakness, but the bitterness faded when I received the response I was waiting for: shock at my honesty.

After what seemed like ages, she stepped back. "You're very bossy," she declared.

I was forced to agree, to some extent. Mentally, of course.

Outwardly, I said, "Just take off the bun."

We progressed to Transfiguration charms the next morning. At first, she refused to believe I could do well in a subject when I hated the teacher who taught it.

But when I performed a flawless spell to transform a pebble into a Spock 250 – the latest broomstick – and it proved to be just as efficient as the original model, she didn't seem too shocked. I felt a jolt of pride at the fact that she had actually expected me to excel no matter what, and I'd met her expectations.

It was her turn, and her stamina was daring: gravel to edible pudding, a large leaf to a harp(which we disposed off quickly) – her conversions were bizarre but amazing.

We took a break, although we both knew we could shout spells all day and not get exhausted.

Bless her paranoia that rivaled mine.

But I couldn't keep my mouth shut for long. "Could you at least tell me your surname? Your real one."

"It's Granger."

I scowled at her. "You're being rude on purpose. Do you honestly believe this makes you look smart?"

"Tom," she said gently, "My name really is Hermione Granger. I know it's a remarkable coincidence, that you ad Abraxas came up with the same name, but it's true. I guess you've already concluded that Ginny isn't my relative, but she might as well be. I'm a Granger, always have been. Just not with the exact same back story."

And although I found the coincidence quite remarkable, I found the fact I believed her even more so. "Okay."

And that was all it took. She smiled a thank you, and I nodded, silently promising to keep this to myself, and to not bug her about her past unless it was absolutely crucial. It nearly killed me to bottle my curiosity, but I didn't ask.

LEFTYLEFTYLEFTYLEFTYLEFTYLEF TYLEFTYLEFTYLEFTY

"It hurts," Abraxas groaned.

"I know," I was forced to tell him gently. Seriously, it was just a scratch. "I know it does, Abby dear."

I didn't really have much experience with children. It was sort of unfortunate, considering my friend was going to be an eight year old for the next eight hours.

"Hermoy- nee!" Seven year old Ginny Granger whined from the other side of the room. "I don't like your name, I don't like this food, and I don't like this place!"

"Why can't she just shut up," Abraxas muttered. I rolled my eyes. Even as a child, he managed to loath her. "What's her name, anyway?" Pause. "What's my name?" He looked worried now.

See this is what happens when two people cast the Octage Octavius spell at the same time, only to have it backfire on both of them. The spell reduced your age by eight years, for the next eight hours. It was basically a prank spell, and I was relieved that it was the only spell that hit them, considering the other weird curses they'd hurled at each other.

No one knew who had started the fight. They watched as the redhead dodged a powerful body binding hex. Abraxas barely missed a Slug hair curse (he wouldn't have shut up about the absence of his oh-so-amazing hair, so I was glad). The girl stepped aside from a Wooden Legs (nasty spell. Your toes became brittle and were they to break, it would take weeks to grow them back. Not to mention simply walking hurt like crazy) and finally, she was pissed off and yelled, "Octage Octavio!"

But incidentally, Abraxas yelled from the other side of the corridor, "Octage Octavio!"

The spells overlapped, threw them apart, and Hogwarts was presented with exceptionally young students.

And where, you ask, was I, or Granger for that matter? We were in the library, and it was Black who described it to us in detail (he wouldn't step into the library for any other reason).

By the time we got there, Professor Docdame – the Home Keeping teacher – was giving them a stern talk. It was sort of funny; they didn't know their own names, their parent's names, where they were or what had happened, but were forced to learn that, they would soon have something called "detention."

Of course, we were to take them to the infirmary. The Healer Lady (you'd think I would know her name after five or so years here) told us as nicely as possible that we could trust her with the brats for the next few hours.

They really were bratty. The girl, I could understand, but the blond really surprised us. I had expected a gentle, polite, somewhat appealing child who made ladies gush over him. Well, the girls did gush over him, until he bit their fingers and darkly threatened to destroy their planet.

(No comment.)

However, the red head and I got along fabulously. She had a problem with Hermione's name, but loved saying mine, "Tom. Tom. Tom," and it drove people crazy, but I secretly enjoyed it. I'd never received positive attention from a child before. I even sneaked in some cake for them in their third hour, but the girl got the piece with a little more chocolate on it.

From the other corner, the blond scowled, observing this preference.

To be fair, he lapped Granger's attention like a puppy. She didn't treat him like a child, but like a young gentleman – this pleased him, very much. Of course, when he found a tiny cut on his knee, he didn't hesitate to whine her name and bury his head in her lap while she cooed over him.

I met Cassandra on the way back to Potions.

"Are they alright?" she asked worriedly. I nodded, and smiled reassuringly.

(What? I could, you know. Smile reassuringly, I mean.)

(Insert short but painful flashback when Dumbledore got drunk and I had to convince him that Slughorn was not, in fact, a Slug who was going to eat him.)

(Insert shudder at memory.)

"Of course."

"What are they like?"

"Gin-Gin's a darling," I grinned like a maniac, and shocked her completely because a) I was not known as a kid magnet and b) I just called my friend's worst enemy "Gin-Gin" and "darling". "But Abraxas – let's just say he must have been a nightmare as a child."

"Really?"

"I was just as surprised," I said animatedly, not quite feeling like myself. "But he bites girls – he likes Granger, though."

She giggled. "She really is an amazing person, or so it seems. I'd like to get to know her," she admitted shyly.

See? Have you met a more perfect person? But somehow, she couldn't be half as real as Granger could.

Don't get me wrong. Cassandra was nice to me because she actually wanted to be. But something about her told me that she would have forced herself to like me even if I was against every belief she ever held.

Granger, on the other hand, had politely but firmly refused to join Avery's side. She was nice to him, but didn't giggle pretentiously at whatever he said. She gave him rare but genuine, full lipped smiles.

That's why he liked her, I bet. I was beginning to accept he had taste.

I walked into the hall for lunch and, as if to contradict my previous thoughts about her, saw Granger tilt her head and laugh at something Avery said.

She wasn't sucking up to him, I knew. Her laugh was genuine, and to be fair, all the boys had found it particularly funny, too. It just made me realise that it wasn't just my company she enjoyed so much.

I sort of felt stupid after the split second of anger. This was Granger. She could enjoy Grindelwald's company (not a fair expression: I would have liked to ask him some questions, personally), and I suppose I was just flattered by the attention.

Did she even see me and Avery as different people? Or did she give us an equal lack of personal regard – I was just the dorky, awkward half blood with pathetic jokes and Avery was just the prejudiced, rich snob people pretended to care about?

It sort of hurt that the only people who were nice to me and showed that they enjoyed my company – Malfoy, Bolarden, Granger – were the ones who could possibly tolerate trolls, and so it didn't account for much if they were nice to me.

I lost my appetite, and headed for the dorms to get a book.

LEFTYLEFTYLEFTYLEFTYLEFTYLEF TYLEFTYLEFTYLEFTY

"Of course, Professor," I said, flashing him a reassuring smile.

Slughorn smiled nervously, looking slightly disturbed. I'd have to be more careful – I couldn't mention the word "horcrux" again.

I walked back into my room, and found Abraxas sprawled across his bed, in his sixteen year old form. He must have found out about the detention – there were worry lines forming at his brow, and he seemed to be struggling with a nightmare.

It gave me more time to ponder over horcruxes.

Reading the book I had bought in fourth year just reminded me that I had, in fact, already known about horcruxes. I had read it the day I'd bought it. Yet, why had the term seemed unfamiliar this time?

Something was wrong, with me.

I tried to think about my fifth year's end, but it was painful and made me dizzy. This was meant to force people to give up, but I couldn't. I sat down, and followed the technique Granger had suggested, in order to clear my mind.

Breathe. Dig. Concentrate.

Except her method asked to dig for a happy memory, while I was digging for a lost one.

I was muddled up, I knew it. It scared that someone had messed with my mind, but I simply focused on the order of events that happened to me in fifth year. My mind refused to comply: it jumped to an image of a stern Dumbledore telling me that it was advisable to confess killing my father.

I tried harder, pushing through painful barrier after barrier until –

Your Diary.

I had forgotten it completely. Maybe I had written what happened…

I jumped out of my seat and searched frantically for my diary. Obviously, I had changed the location. Finally, I found it between my books and flicked to the last entry.

The contents ended at the Christmas vacation of my fifth year.

And that was it.

But there was something strange about the diary. It seemed to speak dark secrets to me. It felt more vile in my hands than any other Dark spell book I'd ever read, and I reflected that maybe, evil could become something definite, something specific.

But that wasn't it. And then, I realised, the diary did not scare me one bit, even though it should have. I felt connected to it.

It struck me the very next moment. The horrible piece of knowledge sunk in slowly.

I felt connected to it, because it contained a part of my soul.

I had created a horcrux. It was mine, it really was.

And I couldn't remember who I'd killed to create it.

A/N: I do hope everyone has brushed up on their Tom Riddle basics, as well as their Patronus basics. The sudden beginning with the conversation with Slughorn is with reference to the true memory of Horace Slughorn from the sixth book. I'm sorry if you don't like the bit about Tom being bossy, but it was sort of necessary. Not just anybody rises up to become the Dark Lord if they were a wimp as a teenager. So, tell me what you think!