Chapter Text
1936
Hermione Granger had always liked her birthday. When the warmth of August faded into the chill of September, the anticipation began, and it built and built until she could barely sleep the night before. There was something almost magical about waking up on the morning of her birthday to the smell of cake in the oven, knowing her mother would let her lick the frosting off the whisk when she came home from school.
But now, facing the snickering girls in her class, she didn’t feel any magic at all. All she felt was the churning shame low in her stomach and a faint flush high on her freckled cheeks.
Hermione had never fit in at school; when she was much younger, she was more interested in reading rather than talking, and now that she was interested in talking, it seemed none of the other children wanted to talk about the things she was interested in.
None of them seemed interested in discussing why it was that the girls had to wear long itchy skirts that limited their movement, while the boys in their trousers were free to climb without fear of being indecent. They didn’t seem to care that King Geroge V had passed away, and they certainly didn’t want to discuss the possible political ramifications. She’d even tried asking them about the books they were reading. Surely that would spark some conversation, as their whole class had required reading as well as reading of their choice. But they didn’t seem to care about that either.
The girls in her class were more concerned with talking about people than with them, and the boys were so mean to Hermione that she tried to avoid them whenever possible. She’d tried talking to the children in grades above her, thinking they’d be more mature and understand what she wanted to discuss, but they were even less interested in her.
Because it was her birthday, and Hermione was used to things going well on her birthday, she had decided to ask some of the girls in her class if she could play with them at recess. But they only laughed at her and skipped away to play with Constance Ackroyd’s new whip-and-top, leaving her clutching the new book she’d unwrapped that morning over breakfast.
With a sigh of defeat, Hermione trudged across the damp grass, taking care to avoid the boys who were playing football. She sat down against a horse chestnut tree, leaned her back against the trunk, propped up The Flora and Fauna of Ancient Woodlands on her knees and began reading where she left off. She’d barely read the first words about the grass snake, Natrix natrix , when her book was jerked forward — directly into her nose.
The football that the boys had kicked over to her bounced off her book and rolled a few feet away. Based on their snickers, she wasn’t convinced it was an accident.
Robert Varnell came running over, laughing until his cheeks were as red as his curly hair. He kicked the football up into his hands, and said with a nasty grin, “You really had your nose in a book for a second there!”
“Stop laughing at me,” said Hermione sharply with tears pricking at her eyes, “it isn’t nice.”
He opened his mouth, but then one of his many friends called out, “Come on, Robbie!” and he took off again, still laughing.
Teasing from Robert wasn’t new to her; it seemed like he found a new excuse to bump into or hit her every day. He was popular, too, so instead of stopping him, his friends usually goaded him on, laughed along with him, or joined in. It started back in Year 2, but she could barely remember why. Hermione supposed someone was always bound to be picked on, and with her bushy hair, large teeth and bookish ways, she was a prime target. Despite the logic, it didn’t make his blows hurt any less.
Unsure if the tears she blinked away were from the book to the face or Robbie’s words, Hermione realized her nose had bled all over her new book. The pristine page about the grass snake now had drops of crimson blood smeared across it.
She decided birthdays weren’t so great after all.
The rest of her day at school didn’t go much better. In the back of her mind, she couldn’t stop worrying about what she would tell her parents about her newly ruined book. Normally, she would flip through her current books and share passages with them after dinner, however she wasn’t sure she could do so without them seeing the bloodstain, and that would lead to questions she didn’t want to answer. Her parents were already worried she didn’t have friends, and the last thing she needed was them worrying about her being bullied. She could handle it herself. They had enough to worry about.
With her mind made up that they simply couldn’t see the book, she let her thoughts drift to how she could still read the book without having them ask about it. She didn’t sneak around a lot and was a dreadful liar, so she’d have to put some thought into how she’d hide this from them. Guilt swirled and settled in the bottom of her stomach like silt in a river, but she reminded herself this was for the best. She didn’t want to endure another conversation about how school was going.
Hermione remembered the first time her parents had a talk with her about school. Year 3 report cards had just come out, and she was waiting at home for them to come back from a conference with her teacher. She already knew what was on the report card, but what she didn’t know was that her subjects weren’t the only thing she was evaluated on.
Mrs. Henry had been concerned with Hermione’s lack of social skills and friends. Her parents relayed the information to her over her favorite biscuits and tea, and stressed the importance of creating friendships. It wasn’t as if Hermoine didn’t want to have friends, it just seemed that no one wanted to be her friend. No one seemed to want to talk with her, no one could look past her bushy hair and pushy attitude, and whispers always followed her. But as she looked in the eyes of her worried parents, she couldn’t say anything except promises that she’d try harder to make friends.
She wanted so badly to please her parents and Mrs. Henry, to keep her word, but as the years wore on she realized maybe friends weren’t for everyone. Instead, she made friends with the characters in books, with the knowledge that no one could take away from her.
The final bell rang and she leapt up from her rickety chair, grabbing her school bag and book. In her haste to leave, she bumped into a few of her classmates on the way to the door.
“Hey!” she heard Robbie call out. “Come back here!”
She didn’t realize it was Robbie she had bumped into, and her day had already gone so wrong, she couldn’t stand to deal with him again. She just wanted to go home, bury herself under her blush duvet and hide in the pages of her book. Without looking back, Hermione started to run.
But Hermione preferred books to exercise, and Robbie had much longer legs than her, so she soon heard the slap of his leather shoes coming up behind her. He reached out and yanked on her school bag, lurching her off balance and throwing her to the ground. She felt her knees scrape, saw the blood trickling, and could already see where two large bruises would form.
A light breeze blew, and a chill settled in on her wet cheeks. Her vision was blurry, and although she could barely make out Robbie’s face, she could hear his words clearly.
“You better watch where you walk, you stupid blowse,” sneered Robbie.
Hermione boasted an immense vocabulary for her mere ten years, however, in this instance, she felt like she had the vocabulary of a three-year-old faced with a stranger.
“Nothing to say? That’s new for you. Usually you don’t shut up,” he said while looking at her crumpled form. He eyed her book, which laid face down with the pages splayed open, spine arched under the pressure. He nudged it with his foot.
“Leave me alone!” Hermione finally managed to cry.
“What are you gonna do, tattle on me?” Robbie kicked her book off the path into the mud as he spoke.
“Stop it!” Hermione yelled, and as she did, the light breeze turned into a powerful gust of wind that knocked Robbie off his feet. Leaves blew around his face, and Hermione didn’t let the opportunity pass. With a heave of effort, she pulled herself up on aching knees and grabbed her ruined book from the mud.
Then she ran.
Hermione ran until her legs and lungs burned under the exertion. She ran past buildings, streets, and shops. Finally, when she couldn’t run a step further, she let her strides slow to a stop at a large park next to the river. Looking around, she realized she hadn’t been paying attention when she ran, and had never seen this park before. The river, sure, she’d been here with her parents before, but the park they went to was in a much nicer area.
Towering trees lined the river bank, and for a mild September day it wasn’t that crowded. She wandered through the grass, passing by young mothers with babies, and some children around her age playing catch with a ratty old ball. In the shrubbery next to the river, she spotted a break in the leaves that formed a tunnel. The worries of the day started to melt away as she skipped over, book still in hand. Carefully, she stepped through the foliage.
She came out onto a small grassy area no bigger than her room at home. Leaves curled overhead, making a covering over the bank. She could still see the river as it rushed by, dark water sparkling in the September sun. She turned back towards the park, and marveled at how hidden this spot was. It was almost as if the shrubs and trees had leaned in to conceal this place from view after she’d come in. Hermione was so caught up in this new little paradise that she nearly jumped when she heard a voice.
“What are you doing here?”
A dark-haired boy who didn’t look like he could be much older than her sat with his back up against the trunk of a tree. He looked surprised for a moment, but it quickly morphed into irritation.
“I said, what are you doing here?”
Hermione balked. “Pardon me,” she said, “I just didn’t realize you were here.”
“Clearly,” said the boy. “I’ve never seen you here before. Do your parents know you’re here?”
“Do your parents know you’re here?”
He stood up, and brushed the dirt off his trousers that stopped just above his ankle. “I imagine they don’t,” said the boy coldly, “seeing as I haven’t got any.”
Hermione was silent. She’d never met anyone without parents, and she couldn’t imagine not having a family. This boy must be lonely. Maybe more lonely than her, because at least she had her parents. She couldn’t believe she’d said that to him. An idea started to form in her head, and it took off without her consent, leaving her mouth before she’d given it any proper thought.
“I could be your friend!” As soon as it left her mouth, she realized how childish it sounded. She was ten, not four. It’s not like she was particularly socially gifted, but when was the last time she asked that? As much as she wished she’d said anything but that, she would like to have someone to talk to, and the boy hadn’t said anything mean about her hair or bloodied knees.
“I never said I didn’t have friends,” the boy sniffed. “Besides, I don’t even know your name.”
“Hermione,” she said. “My name is Hermione Granger.”
“Hermione,” he repeated slowly. He took a step towards her.
She wrung her hands together and tried to adjust the grip on her book so she might be able to reach the hangnail on her thumb. She could almost reach it, but she heard her parents’ voices reminding her not to bite her nails.
“What’s that?”
Her head snapped up, eyes meeting his.
“Oh, this?” She flipped the book around to show him the cover, which was surprisingly devoid of mud. “My, er, parents” — she didn’t know if she was supposed to mention those around someone who didn’t have any — “got it for me for my birthday.”
She thumbed through the pages, flipping to Natrix natrix. “But I got blood on it. I ruined it.”
“I’ll take it,” the boy said, reaching for the book.
“Wait,” said Hermione, snatching the book back. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Tom Riddle,” said the boy, easily grabbing the book again.
After an evening of presents, cake, and frosting licked from the whisk, Hermione laid in bed, finally tucked safely under her duvet. She stared up at her ceiling with wide eyes, noticing the patterns and shadows the moonlight made as it danced across her room. She had to lie to her parents about the book. They were so happy when she told them she loaned it to a friend they didn’t question it. She felt bad, but what was she supposed to say? It wasn’t a total lie. Tom Riddle might be her friend at some point.
But none of that was what kept sleep from her. Thoughts of lies and strange boys flitted across the back of her brain, but the page on Natrix natrix is what took up the majority of her thoughts. She didn’t realize until she got home, but once she did, it was all she could think about.
When she showed Tom Riddle the book, there wasn’t a single drop of blood on the page.