Author's Note: I deleted and then reuploaded this chapter because for whatever reason, it cut off part of the ending and I only just now realized it? It's entirely the same, aside from an extra passage at the bottom, and my sincerest apologies for this blunder.

Chapter Three: Dumbledore's Portrait

"I know this may seem strange, Headmistress, but I really need to speak with Dumbledore privately. I hope this isn't an inconvenience to you," Hermione said as she followed Minerva McGonagall up the spiral staircase to her office. Tom stood behind her, walking far too close to her for her liking. She knew he would not do anything to her, would not risk harming her when he had no way of finding out what was happening without her. Still, the thought did little to make her feel less uneasy, and she took extra care to walk faster to move away from him.

"Please, dear, call me Minerva. And it is of no inconvenience, though are you sure there is nothing I can do to help you?" the older witch said in her thick Scottish accent. She turned to face Hermione in front of the door, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Tom, finally caught up with her, was standing so close that his chest pressed against her back, and she flinched at the contact, pulling away from him. He only moved closer, chuckling at her discomfort as she cleared her throat and said, "Really, Headmis- Minerva. I don't want to take up any more of your time than necessary, and I think this is something that Dumbledore is best suited for." 'Please get into the office,' she thought as Tom began running his fingers lightly down her back, his laugh echoing in her ears as she flinched at the sensation.

"Very well then, Hermione. Though I expect the next time you come to visit me that we will have a nice chat over some tea and biscuits," she said, smiling congenially at her as she twisted the doorknob and entered the office.

Hermione practically ran inside, shivering as his hand slipped away from her, and she settled in front of the desk, sighing in relief at Dumbledore's portrait. The old man was reclining leisurely on a large, wingback chair, his hands folded in his lap. He leaned forward, his eyes bright and twinkling as he smiled down at her, raising a hand to stroke his long, silvery beard. "Ah, Miss Granger! How good it is to see you! Everything is well I hope?" he asked. The door clicked as McGonagall left them alone, having a meeting to attend to, and she glanced around the room to where Tom wandered off, his hands behind his back as he looked at the portraits hanging on the walls. So not even Dumbledore- or any of the other former Headmasters- could see Tom. It was becoming entirely clear that she was the only one who could.

"Thing's...could be better, Headmaster," she admitted, drawing her gaze away from the young Dark Lord.

His eyes seemed to darken at that, frowning. "Why, my dear? What happened?"

"It's sort of a long story, sir. And I'm not entirely sure about any of it still," she said, moving to stand in front of the desk, leaning against it. Suddenly Tom was at her side, moving with startling stealth. He looked up at the portrait with a wide self-satisfied grin, triumphant. The look made her stomach roil, knowing that he was clearly delighting in the fact that he had at least taken down the great Albus Dumbledore. That, in his mind, he believed this to mean he was a superior wizard.

Looking away from the terrible grin, she pulled her bag in front of her and ruffled through it, muttering as she did. "I was given this task, by my supervisor. I know I shouldn't mention it to anyone, being an Unspeakable, but I don't know what to do and I think that this may be outside Adesa's expertise." Pulling the diary out from her bag, she extended it forward to allow him to see what she was holding.

His brows rose in surprise, pursing his lips. "Am I to assume that you were tasked with studying Tom Riddle's horcruxes then? I did not think that they would allow such an opportunity to pass them by," he said, his voice lowering to a more serious tone. "Have you run into a problem? You should not be in any danger, all the horcruxes have been destroyed."

"That's what I thought," she said, nervously glancing in Tom's direction. "But I used a potion on it...and...I don't know how to say this, but Tom Riddle is standing beside me, sir."

The blue eyes, widened now, looked to her side, lingering in place as though he might have seen him after all, but then returned to Hermione, narrowed in thought. "I'm afraid I do not see anyone there, Miss Granger. Are you certain of this?"

Tom scoffed noisily, but she ignored him, stepping forward. "I am certain. For some reason, no one but myself can hear or see him. But I assure you, he's there." Reaching up to her neck, her fingers brushing her hair away, she tilted her chin, revealing light bruise marks running up and down her throat. "I even have bruises from where he tried to choke me this afternoon. He can touch me, it seems, but no one else, and he can touch things but not move or lift them."

Dumbledore leaned back in the painted chair, his fingers steepled before him as he rose them to his lips in contemplation. He hummed softly, looking at Hermione and around her as though he were looking for Tom Riddle to suddenly materialize before him. When he did not, he turned his attention back to her and said, "Well, that does seem like quite a predicament. May I ask what potion you used?"

She was rummaging through her bag again, pulling out the book and flipping to the marked page. Clearing her throat, she began to read the entire section aloud. Dumbledore listened intently, nodding his head occasionally. When she finally finished with it, she looked up at him, closing the book and pressing it flat against her lap. "Adesa said that the soul remains trapped within the horcrux, even after it is destroyed. Is it possible that I...let his soul get out? Or...partly?" she asked, glancing at Riddle once more. His lips were in a tightly pinched together, his jaw clenching as she spoke.

"I don't think so, Miss Granger. I think what you have done is...far more interesting, and far more difficult to get rid of than his soul. If that were the case, you should have been able to be done with him by destroying the horcrux once more, which I assume you tried?" She nodded, ignoring the disgruntled sound coming from her side. He clearly did not appreciate being spoken of in such a manner, as if he was something to simply get rid of. A problem to be dealt with, an infestation to be disposed of, instead of being respected for the powerful wizard he was. But how powerful was he really, when he could not perform magic?

"If not that, then what? I just...don't understand," she said in slight exasperation.

Dumbledore sighed then, smiling at her in what she thought was a reassuring smile, though not an entirely convincing one. "You wrote in his diary, and though it no longer had any magic of its own, it was still able to latch onto yours, if only a slight connection. And when you administered the potion to it...Hermione, I believe you may have bound his soul to your own."

She knitted her brows at him, turning to face Tom when he made a sound that was a cross between a sputter of disgust and a laugh. She pursed her lips together as she snapped, "What? What's so funny about that?"

He looked at her, his eyes dark as he made a menacing grin. "It's not funny. It's deplorable. What is funny is the fact that you clearly have no idea what soul binding is. Some bookworm you are. Though I suppose I can only expect so much from a mudblood," he said in a mocking tone of pity, his lips raising into a snarl when her eyes hardened at him, her knuckles turning white.

She rose her chin though, deciding not to give him the benefit of seeing her respond to that vicious word. "I'm sorry if I haven't spent the entirety of my existence studying dark magic like yourself. Please, let me in on your well of knowledge," she hissed, aware that Dumbledore's portrait was fixing her with an intrigued look as she spook to what appeared to be air.

He chuckled. "It's not really dark magic. At least, it wasn't at first. In fact it was quite common among Pureblood families to bind their souls to their...significant others. Though they were never so incompetent as to do it by accident," he answered, and she grimaced, turning her attention back to Dumbledore, begging for him to explain.

"Typically done through blood magic, soul binding was a ritual performed- typically- by betrothed Purebloods. However, it has long since been considered outdated, as it's rather macabre and esoteric. To bound your soul to another was to permanently tie yourself to their magic and their life. It had some benefits, but the cons outweighed the pros and it has not been practiced for hundreds of years after it fell out of popularity," he explained, shrugging his shoulders. His eyes twinkled then as he straightened in his chair, looking at them with keen interest. "But- seeing as how Mr. Riddle does not have a body of his own, I can't say for certain how much you will experience."

She shook her head, growing impatient. For once, she just wanted a straight answer from him. "But what does that mean for us?" she asked, gesturing between herself and Riddle before realizing how silly that was. He did not see Riddle, after all. "Is that why only I can see and hear him? And how do I get him to go away?"

Dumbledore frowned, shaking his head. "This is not something I have great knowledge in, I'm afraid. But what I can tell you- and I say this more for Mr. Riddle as it appears he has already tried to kill you- is that if you are to die, Hermione, than so will Tom, and he will lose all connection to this world," he said, dipping his head forward to peer at them from over the top of his half moon glasses. "That was one of the cons, you see. That if one who was soul bound died, they would take the other with them. Tom cannot die on his own, as he has no body to destroy, but he will perish just as well if you do."

Hermione heard what sounded like a displeased growl from Tom's throat as she reached out and clasped her fingers over her neck, sighing in relief somewhat. Riddle would not harm her, not so long as he stood to lose his own life in the process. It was a reassurance of some sort, though not necessarily a great one.

"Ask him if it can be reversed," Tom requested through his teeth, fixing her with a hard and terrifying glare. She did so, parroting the words back to Dumbledore.

He pinched his lips. "I do not know. But I can give you the name of a friend of mine, one who studied this extensively. If anyone can help you, she can, though you may have to travel far for her assistance- she moves around quite frequently, and it may take some time for you to establish correspondence. For that, I am sorry," he said to Hermione, the unspoken words left between them. Sorry that until that time, Tom Riddle would be at her side, her own personal specter to haunt her. "I can also recommend some books that may be of assistance to you. Until then, I recommend you ask your supervisor to put your current research on hold, in favor of a new one."

She swallowed, rubbing her eyes at that. "It's something. Hopefully we will have our answers soon," she said, taking a quill and parchment to write down the information Dumbledore offered to her, of the books to read and the people to speak to. After it was all neatly scrawled on the paper, she folded it and placed it securely within her inner robe pocket, patting it down. She then gathered her belongings, tossing them into her bag as she straightened up. "Thank you for your help, Professor. We should get going to the library I suppose," she started moving around the desk.

But she came to a halt when Dumbledore spoke once more, his voice lower and more grave than she had ever heard it. "Be forewarned, Miss Granger. That if there is a way to sever the soul binding, that would still not entirely rid his soul from you, or this earth. It would not lock his soul back within the diary. You may come up with some other answers on your research, and I hope you do, but don't be surprised if in order to expel him for good you'll have to bring him back to a corporeal form. Surely, I don't need to tell you that a potion or spell of that nature will be inherently dark."

She slowly turned back to face him, her brows knitted. Riddle chuckled beside her, a smug smile pulling on his lips as he muttered, "This just got very interesting."

She frowned, shaking her head. "But how would that actually expel him? That seems to me like the exact opposite of what I want to do."

Dumbledore sighed, his eyes looking weary as he spoke. "It won't. You'll have to kill him afterwards, before he gets the chance to kill you."

-xXx-

By the time Hermione returned to her office from the library, it was well into the evening. The department was thankfully quiet and empty, and she sighed as she settled the mountain of books down on her desk. "I don't think I've ever had to read so much in my entire life," she said, for once feeling overwhelmed by the work before her. The tomes themselves either very new or very old and falling apart, barely tethered together by the leather binding. She had grabbed essentially everything she could find that had any mention of horcruxes, soul binding and blood magic. A grand total of fifty-seven books, each at over four hundred pages. There wasn't enough coffee or tea in the world for this level of research.

Reaching into her bag- the expandable charm in place- she began pulling out the other books that would not fit in her hands, shrunken down in size and weight to make them tolerable to carry. She settled them all within a drawer, locking it closed. She would read those ones later, she thought, settling down in her chair as she pulled out a quill and parchment. "Once I finish this letter, I'll send it to Dumbledore's friend through the owlery. Hopefully we'll hear back soon," she spoke tersely, sitting straighter in her chair as Tom moved closer, running his hand over the surface of her desk. "Dumbledore was woefully unhelpful," she mumbled under her breath, exhaustion heavy in her voice as she rubbed an eye with the heel of her palm.

Tom smirked, stopping when he stood just behind and leaning forward so that one hand was placed on either side of her, his arms acting as a cage. Her quill stilled for a moment as she swallowed nervously, sitting straighter to pull away from him somewhat. "I don't know about that. I found his last piece of advice particularly helpful. I've been nothing more than a memory for so long, and this state of being...it's such a tease. I'd like to have a proper body," he said silkily, his lips settling just at Hermione's ear, and she shivered from the feeling of his hot breath on her skin. "And you should know Hermione, that I don't intend to lose it so easily."

He could hear her own breathing hitch in her throat, her jaw clicking as the muscles clenched tightly. "I'm sure there will be other means of locking you back into the diary. Dumbledore is merely unaware of them, but with proper research I'm certain I will find a way more convenient for myself," she said, her voice clipped and professional sounding as though she were simply discussing a matter with a client. "And even if that is the only option we have, I should point out that you will be at a disadvantage. You haven't got a wand. It was destroyed after the war, along with your body."

Suddenly his fingers latched onto her shoulders, his nails digging deeply into her skin and she gasped out in pain, the quill slipping from her hands. "Do not compare me to him," he hissed spitefully, his words venomous as the grip on her grew tighter, one hand moving to cup under her chin. He pulled her head back, her neck bending painfully over so that she was forced to look up at him, her eyes widening as they gazed into his own. "He was a failure, a fool who could not so much as kill a pathetic baby, let alone the useless boy he grew up to be. Do not consider him and I as one in the same, as I assure you, I would not fail where he did."

As far as Tom was concerned, Voldemort was nothing more than a sliver of himself, the rogue piece of his soul left to wander the earth after he greedily created far too many horcruxes. It was his greatest mistake, tearing his soul asunder to the point of being barely a man, hardly a wizard. A monster who could not think properly, consumed by what few emotions he managed to retain, by what little reasoning could be expected of someone with so little left of them. He hadn't considered- had foolishly overlooked it- that when Slughorn said each horcrux would split his soul in half, that he would only continue to whittle it down with each one. That in the end, he had been left with one percent of himself. That was hardly enough for Voldemort and Tom Riddle to be the same, and surely that had been the cause of his failing. What effect could that have had on his magic? What could one really achieve when they were only one percent of what they had started as?

Being the remainder of the first horcrux he had created, he himself was only half of what he was. He would be reborn again, he was sure of it, and he would use his soul more wisely.

Hermione was pulling from him now, trying to move away from his grip, and stiffly, he allowed her to, stepping back. He needed Hermione to be alive- she was the thread tenuously tying him to this world- and he would not be so foolish as to be his own undoing. Not again. It would only make the moment he could kill her, when he was truly alive and flesh and bone, that much sweeter, and he would bask in the moment.

She stood from the chair so quickly that the front legs of it hovered in the air for seconds before it fell over, tossed to the floor. She scribbled on the parchment quickly, the tip of it aggressively scratching on it before she brought it to her chest, the letter finished. "I'm going to mail this now. Until I receive a response, I'll read what I can. However, you should know, that is Friday evening, and I do not work the weekends. Unfortunately for you, that means you will have to stay here until I return," she said dismissively, pulling out the battered diary from her bag and walking towards the glass case containing the other horcruxes. "You don't have enough of your own magic to stray away from this, especially once I secure the wards on it."

He pursed his lips, reaching a hand out to grab hold of her wrist, stopping her from placing the diary within. "Take it with you," he commanded, not wanting to waste two days alone in her office, where he could not even so much as a read a book. "I can help." He tried to sound warmer, kinder to her, panic building in his chest like a tight knot. He had hated the limitations of the diary when that Weasley girl had used it, when he had started to leech off of her soul. He could not influence beyond its field of magic, was held back as it pulled to him and rooted him in place. He did not want to be so limited again, to be trapped within a room. He had spent sixty years in such a manner, he did not intend to send a second more like that now that he had escaped, if only partially.

But she shook her head, a determined look hardening her features. "No," she answered, shoving his hand away and dropping the book unceremoniously within, closing the lid over it. "Have a wonderful weekend, Riddle."

And with that, she left the room, locking and warding the door behind her as a dangerous look settled in his dark blue eyes. Oh yes, he simply couldn't wait until he was truly alive once more, and would make her beg for forgiveness and mercy before he would kill and discard, her usefulness having met its end.

-xXx-

Hermione sighed softly as she turned over in her sleep, burying her face into the plush pillows. She had slept soundlessly, her heavy lids eager to settle in when she finally arrived at her flat late into the evening. The day had been exhausting, the sort of exhaustion that was felt in your bones and in your muscles, creating an ache that could not be ignored. Not since her time hunting horcruxes had she felt so physically defeated, tired and hungry and cold. How appropriate then, that it was once again Tom Riddle and his infernal horcruxes that wore her down so.

By the time she had mailed the letter and apparated home, Ron was already asleep, the covers twisted to his own side of the bed, his fists tightly clutching the silken duvet. He was still angry with her, she knew, and a small spark went off in her own chest at the sight of him, the remembrance of his words. A hand fell to her stomach, smoothing over the fabric of her nightgown before she settled in bed, recalling that she had once been told to never go to bed angry. But she was also tired, and surely that trumped all other emotions, and perhaps a good lie in was all she needed to feel renewed and ready to tackle the insurmountable task before her.

The task of bringing down Tom Riddle.

And so she slept, not giving any more thought to the diary, to Dumbledore's words of warning, or the handsome young wizard with cold, distant eyes.

When she awoke, it was too an empty bed. Unusual, as she was normally awake before Ron, prodding at him to get up as her frustrations grew with his refusal. Molly Weasley was a saint, she often thought in the mornings.

She stretched languidly, rolling over so that she was on her back and in the middle of the bed, enjoying the luxury of the large, queen sized mattress all to herself.

She let her hands drop onto her pillows, above her head, and she sighed contentedly. It was a new day, and she could feel the heat of the sun as it reached in through the window, basking her in warmth. A new, lovely Saturday morning, and she would put her mind at rest, her heart at ease, and try to enjoy it. She would apologize to Ron, perhaps try to convince him to go out for breakfast at a local bakery. Or brunch, as the light that filtered through her thin eyelids told her that breakfast time had long since passed.

'A walk in the park to clear my head, maybe a visit to Harry and Ginny's,' she thought, humming as she wriggled her toes. Anything to distract her from the events of the previous day, a reprieve before she returned to work on Monday. 'Did Molly invite us to dinner today, or tomorrow?'

She had a calendar in the kitchen, marked with any and all important and pertinent dates. That would answer her question. She opened her eyes, blinking up at the ceiling and the looming face of one Tom Riddle, his lips twisted into a parody of a smile, scorn and rage but self-satisfaction all at once marring his features. Like a cheshire, his smile widened.

"Good morning, Sunshine," he sneered from above her, grimacing when she let out a piercing scream.