From the Ashes
If there was one man Hermione could get along with it was Professor Thomas Alexander. He seemed to her to be the only one that could see who she was, and ignore the glaring absence of that person she had been before.
After the war she'd been very reserved and reclusive. She hated to dwell on it but she was still angry, angry at Voldemort, herself, even Harry. It had been nearly a year since she'd spoken to him. She had preferred the silence and solitude as well as the completely intoxicating misery.
Hogwarts could never turn away its prize student and she returned to its old walls to hide in its rich shadows, to haunt its corridors and delve deep out of her mind into the library texts.
She'd been there two years and her third school year was fast approaching. Her thoughts were on lesson plans, her itching crescent scar and of course Thomas Alexander.
When he was introduced to her, only mere months before, he hadn't grimaced at her scar or tried to avoid it. He had just gazed at her solidly, and in that moment she could tell he was just like her: still angry and alone. He often found her in the library, fingers tracing old favourites before passing them by for her requirements and he would join her in quiet conversation and peaceful reflection.
He was to teach Defence. He'd listened in silent amusement as she recounted the fates of the professors who had come before. He nodded sagely before stating calmly he would still be there in a year, if only to help her hide away in bookshelves.
Hermione smiled, but why would Alexander be immune to the curse?
Even Harry had tried to break it, but he too had left before the year was through because of deep unrest in the south. McGonagall's disappointment had been tangible as she hounded Hermione for news, news she did not have, news that if she were honest she didn't even want. She was not the same Hermione Granger, just as Harry wasn't the same. Facts had to be faced, Harry was gone, as surely as the Gryffindor bookworm and that red headed boy who'd loved his Quidditch.
Her scar began to burn and she conjured ice to cool it. It stung her blazing cheek but she was hardened to it. Damn Lucius Malfoy, she cursed, but her lips barely twitched as she extinguished the curse's fire. She knew she'd survive it but how she hated it! She allowed herself a rare smile; she was alive. Somehow she was still alive. None of the Malfoys could claim the same and Lucius had gone particularly painfully at the hands of his very own, beloved Dark Lord. Revenge was sweet, punishment for failing to kill her. Voldemort had been furious. Harry had been hospitalised in a coma-like state until his temper had eased. Voldemort had unknowingly given her the sweetest compensation. She was still angry, but a darkened part of could not help but be grateful. Lucius was dead. Dead. Her anger was appeased.
"You seem in a good mood".
Only Thomas Alexander spoke to her out of classes. Snape on occasion would shout, bawl, and even scream in his feeble attempt to draw her out. She appreciated the effort but she tired of him so easily. Thomas listened, not only did her listen, he understood.
"He's gone. When I think on that I can summon a smile."
His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened.
"I was unaware they had discovered a body"
Hermione stared at him in confusion before she realised.
"Oh. No. I meant Lucius Malfoy."
"You care for his death beyond Voldemort's?"
"Oh yes."
Her eyes gleamed dangerously for a moment and Alexander moved closer.
"You are incomparably interesting, Hermione. I wonder though, do you know why he was killed?"
Hermione sighed as she saw again the scenes that ghosted over every thought, every movement, and every word.
"He failed to kill me. He only scarred me." Her hand reached to her cheek hesitantly and she felt the whisper beneath her fingertips. Always there.
"Of course, if he hadn't been so desperate to prove his superiority and his higher nature, he would have succeeded. It was strangely fortunate that he was an arrogant, conceited – and pompous - prat."
Thomas was still for a moment and Hermione supposed he must be mulling the information over and considering it.
"You're slightly mistaken. I have it on good authority he was killed because he had the audacity to make the attempt."
"That makes no sense".
"Voldemort was rather possessive".
"That's completely illogical."
"Oh, even he didn't think it was logical, Hermione. Do you hate him?"
"He's dead; why bother?"
"Yet you maintain it for Lucius?"
"I cannot hate Voldemort."
"How delightfully interesting. Why?"
"He killed him."
Thomas stepped close and took her hand and looked directly at her.
"I doubt he understood the implications of his actions on your behalf. Is this the reason you shun old friends, the people who call your name with such pain and reverence? Is that why you hide here in the familiarity of Hogwarts, safe in its changing faces?"
"I…"
"I do the same, of course".
Hermione wanted to look away but his offhand confession gave her confidence.
"I can't stand to be around Harry, not when I know I cannot hate the man who has destroyed him inside, not when I know we are both so different. I'm so cold now so much of the time."
"I wonder, Hermione, would you care for a drink?"
"Now?" she all but squeaked, "It's barely an hour past lunch!"
"I assure you, you are going to need it."
She nodded numbly and he led her out of the room and out of her comfort zone.
One painting caught their attention. Thomas' glare ought to have set it alight and the man inside it returned the gesture whole-heartedly. Thomas held a slight smirk. Satisfaction. The figure's hair was bedraggled and his face a criss-cross of angry scars and welts that seemed far from healed. His teeth were blackened and he was entirely too angular. His eyes widened as he took in her form and for a moment she saw Albus Dumbledore, and she wondered at it for he had not looked so foul, at least not on the outside. She was pulled away gently, but his smirk had not left. He had altered the portrait, she realised.
"You didn't like him then, Thomas?"
"I disapproved of his methods, his priorities and his values".
"That's a no, then?"
"The hand on hers tightened slightly.
"We never had much time for one another."
Hermione smiled. It made her jaw ache uncomfortably. Her smile had lost its ease. She was glad she wasn't the only one who disliked the old man. She'd been appalled as she'd seen what Albus Dumbledore was prepared to leave in his wake. She hated how he justified himself, how he valued deaths as vital costs to his 'greater good'. Hermione detested the idea. The 'greater good' was utter rubbish if it wasn't the right thing to do. Her faith was trampled upon and the anger had began to surge.
Thomas' rooms were surprising. His taste was unparalleled in an eerie way. The colour purple consumed Hermione as she walked in but snakes were everywhere, glinting in the woodwork, in the paintings, in the ornaments. Green oddments were scattered here, there and everywhere; and pages and pages of used parchment were piled untidily across the floor. Her gaze fell on a set of knives on his bedside table and she spied a dark wand, yew she guessed, on a bookshelf. It was dusty.
He sat down before realising he'd forgotten the drinks and quickly got up to rummage through a cupboard.
"I haven't settled in yet. Stuff is everywhere. I hope you'll return when it resembles living quarters once again".
He poured a Hermione a glass of red wine and returned to his seat. For a moment he just stared at the glass darkly.
"Voldemort is not quite dead, Hermione."
A quick glance showed him Hermione had not reacted at all.
"In fact I believe he is more alive that he has ever been He is whole again. Potter's curse didn't work as advertised".
"So he's recovered his soul"
"Yes. He's become his natural self. He's retained his memories but his magic and body have been returned to their ordinary state."
"So he's angry".
"Not at all. He's decidedly happy to be whole again. He had thought it impossible. He was lost in his obsessions, in his own corruption. Anger and hatred started it and he knows not to allow himself to submit to their lure again. More importantly, Hermione, is the fact that he doesn't want to."
"Did you work for him?"
Her voice was steady but her fingers twitched nervously.
"No, Hermione. I did not."
Her relief was short lived.
"I was him".
"What?"
"I was Voldemort."
"But…"
"I am as I was. Tom Riddle, pre-Horcrux days thankfully".
She stared at him, but the horror refused to come. He was unchanged, still Thomas, if not Alexander, the quiet man with darkness behind his eyes."
"You were a subject of… intrigue for me. No Death Eater was permitted to harm you. I hoped, beyond all hopes, that you would discover him, to see him as I did".
"Dumbledore?"
"Yes. You do, don't you?"
"I don't know how you see him".
Thomas ran a hand through his hair as he composed a response.
"I see his destruction, even now. I am not the only wizard who succumbed to the temptation in my youth. He was brilliant, just like me; just like you. You were stronger though, or perhaps had a certain lack of opportunity. He felt the burn as I did. Did you find his Investigation Centre?"
Hermione nodded numbly. The scenes of emaciated children still walked behind her eyelids. The documents in a fine script recounted their torture and interrogation all undersigned by his flowing signature, elegantly evil.
"You saw him in battle, the glint in his eyes, the spells he used. He used everyone, everything. All was a value. It infuriated me. He came for me at 11, for the school. I won't lie; my childhood was troubled and I was never a nice child, even if I was a good child - for the most part. I felt him break into my head, at 11! I was powerless against him. I was determined to never feel like that again. He would never get a second glimpse inside my mind. He didn't, but it started it all – the anger and the indignation."
Hermione took a large gulp of the wine, before considering whether that was wise. She paused before shrugging and taking another.
"Of course, I probably came off better than Severus. You can see, even now, what war did to him, what Dumbledore did to him and worst of all what I did to him."
"I know".
She did know. She felt for him. She understood, but he needed to believe it had been for a purpose, for the greater good, for Dumbledore, and this gaping void between them meant she could not react to him; she couldn't connect. He was just another victim who followed Dumbledore.
Thomas downed his wine and was giving the bottle an indecisive glance. He reluctantly returned his gaze to Hermione.
"Do you hate me?"
"I told you. I cannot."
"Because of Lucius"
"Yes, but had I had opportunity I would have defected, against him, even it meant going against Harry. I assumed I would be killed on sight. I'm glad you killed Dumbledore too. I've never been able to say that out loud."
"I see. You do not hate me, but it is not because of me."
He forcefully grabbed the bottle and refilled his glass. Her own was nearly empty.
"I don't hate Voldemort because of Lucius, and Dumbledore. Mainly Lucius"
Her cheek itched, but it was a weak effort. She stepped out of her chair and moved towards him, smoothly separating his fingers from his wine glass.
"But…" She took a teasing sip before setting it aside.
"But…?"
She smiled.
"But I like you, for you. You're the only person I have even been able to tolerate since the war, let alone like. The fact I am able to like you is nothing short of a miracle."
Thomas' eyes closed and he lay back in his chair.
"Miracle is a good choice of word."
One eye snuck open and he reached for her hand again pulling it to his chest.
"That is proof of a miracle, Hermione".
She felt the solid thump of his heart beneath her hand. His fingers entwined with hers as he pulled her down to join him in the chair and she rested her head on his shoulder.
"I meant what I said. I'll be here next year, the year after, as long as you're here".
"But why?"
"My affection and admiration for you are not newly discovered. That was my motivation for killing Lucius. I wanted you then, wanted you to see him and come to me, but even then I knew I was beyond return. I knew I could only corrupt you, and even as Voldemort I did not want that – so I stayed away. And I forced myself to fight it, and fight the war as well, knowing in any eventual battle you would be there, against me, and that you would hate me.
"After… when I was me again, when I was complete and whole, I came to find you. You took some finding. Your solitude kept me from you. They don't speak of you very often. Many I asked simply didn't know where you were. But then I did find you… but it was several months into the school year, and so I had to wait."
Hermione felt rather uncomfortable hearing it, knowing whilst she was hiding someone had been searching, and had found her, but he was here now and she wanted him to be. She also couldn't deny the fire in her as she heard Lucius was dead for her and as she looked upon the man in front of her she knew this was Tom, not Voldemort. Harry had killed Voldemort. The prophecy was dead. The tracking spells failed because his flesh was gone. The scar was dead because there was no connection. Even the aura's trace was dead because his magic was whole, and him, and nothing else.
Tom was just as jaded, perhaps even as angry as before, but he was infinitely more human, even vulnerable if his shaking hands on her back were anything to go by.
She leant forwards to kiss him, but he pulled away, and nudged her to her feet, a tortured smile across his lips.
"Perhaps the wine was not a good idea."
"Don't be stupid."
He blinked. She moved back to him and just held him, glad when he held her back. His hands traced her neck, and trailed down her spine. She shivered before slapping his hands away gently.
"That tickles."
He grinned, but let his hands drop.
"Let me escort you to your chambers. I'm sure you have more important things to be doing before dinner."
"We have plenty of time."
"Precisely".