Just Let Me Wake Up Already

Disclaimer: I do not own HP or any of its characters. I only have this plot, and several created Death Eater characters, but who really wants them? xD

A/N: thought I'd update tonight because today (July 20!) happens to be my birthday. Happy Birthday to me!

Thanks and a slice of cake to: Jess, Hpfanf, Sakura Takanouchi, Nerys, Coco96, Ankoku Dezaia, Ruby Red Sunshine, aries vs. leo, CartoonOni, Ilaaris, HarryGinnyJamesLily, Hatiti, My Misguided Fairytale, Bubbly.at.Heart, and PurplePeopleEater. Thanks for reviewing on Chapter Ten!

This is one of my favorite chapters, and I hope you all like it too!

Remember, I will still be here
As long as you hold me, in your memory

Remember, when your dreams have ended
Time can be transcended
Just remember me

I am the one star that keeps burning, so brightly,
It is the last light, to fade into the rising sun

I'm with you
whenever you tell, my story

Remember, I will still be here
As long as you hold me, in your memory
Remember me

I am the one voice in the cold wind, that whispers
And if you listen, you'll hear me call across the sky

As long as I still can reach out, and touch you
Then I will never die

Remember, I'll never leave you
If you will only
Remember me Remember me...

—Josh Groban, "Remember"

Recap from Chapter Ten:

But, if he had paused to consider his place in her heart, he would never have known that he, also, knew nothing of her true feelings.

Chapter Eleven: As the Clock Strikes Twelve

Oh, yes, the girl was mad.

Hermione could not believe the nerve of that man. She had never thought that she could ever begin to understand Tom Riddle's actions or his thought processes, but the night's activities only put one continuously rotating thought in her mind:

What the HELL just happened?

She wasn't so much confused as completely perplexed, utterly puzzled, and somewhat annoyed.

Couldn't he just make up his mind for once?

Hermione ticked off the occasions in her mind. First he hates me, then he kisses me, then he's civil, then he hates me again, then he mocks me, then he protects me from a killer snake, then he hates me again.

And there were only a few of those things she could blame on raging male hormones.

Hermione hated not knowing the answers to any questions raised in her schoolwork or about magic, so this was just downright exasperating.

And if he doesn't want my help, so be it, she thought. He had sent her on an espionage mission, and she, in some unknown fit of mental aberration, had actually complied with his request. And he had only turned her away.

The corners of her mouth quirked upwards as she let out a low laugh. She had often run into the same problems with Ron in her fifth year, where his pride and hotheadedness had often caused scrabbles between the two. Was it really that hard just to accept someone's help, and accept who they were and the care that they had to give?

Concern and sympathy were not pity, and compassion was not weakness. What was it that made this so hard to understand? Hermione got it instantly.

Well…maybe not always instantly. But she had learned to understand it, and her experiences both in the magical and Muggle realms had helped her sense of person grow.

That stubborn, egotistical ass, she scoffed. By the time you get it, it'll be too late.

She resigned herself to another night on the couch in the Gryffindor common room, but figured sleep was a long way coming. She almost didn't want to sleep—while life awake may not always be interesting, it was still time that she couldn't pass up; it was invaluable.

It was priceless.

Several hours later, Hermione was still awake, sitting on a red couch in the common room, her chin propped up on one hand as she leaned over the armrest.

Even if she had wanted to sleep, she was kept awake by the gaggle of Gryffindor girls laughing away slumber-party style in front of the fireplace, gossiping about an upcoming ball being held by Slughorn's 'Slug Club.' Apparently, the highlight of the conversation had been Susan's invitation to the ball by that "ruggedly handsome" Quidditch captain Michael.

Is this some sort of torture? Am I being punished for something I did wrong?

Listening to gossip had the strange power to completely lower a person's mental thinking ability, and Hermione couldn't put together a coherent thought without the phrases "Slug Club Ball" or "Oh my gosh!" running through her mind.

Hermione slumped over. My punishment…

All this dance-talk reminded her of her own fourth-year experience at the Yule Ball. She really hadn't had much fun, she reflected. She had spent hours on her hair and dress, only to be fought over the whole night and made to feel horrible for her choice in dance partner.

If the conversations tonight were any indication, the times had not changed much. After Michael, the main conversation was about the multiple scandalous inter-house relationships.

Hermione snorted. Really, it doesn't take much to grow a little maturity.

But these are the times, I suppose, she thought. She had even heard rumors from these girls that some Slytherins even intended to hold pranks against the other Houses the next day.

Hermione yawned loudly. Maybe all this will put me to sleep, she thought jokingly.

She glanced outside the darkened window, and wondered briefly what Tom was doing at that moment.

Tom was in his Slytherin dormitory, the dark green curtains pulled around his bed as he reclined against his pillow, trying desperately to go to sleep.

Anything, really, to clear the onslaught of thoughts that barraged his mind as he tried to relax.

The thoughts he was having were anything but relaxing.

He gritted his teeth, folding his hands behind his head, wishing briefly for more sleeping potion. Even the one that brought on strange dreams would be welcome, as his life seemed to be more dream than reality lately. It was an odd feeling, one he was unfamiliar with; time seemed to stretch on forever, while the days passed so quickly, and most of the time carried a sense of utter boredom along with it. It was like he had nothing marking the days, so they blended together like a skillfully done Impressionist painting; from a distance, it seemed almost normal, but only close-up could one see the distinctions and abrupt changes in color.

But unlike the typical flower bushes or landscapes of normal Impressionist works, it seemed more like a fuzzy Persistence of Memory, with each clock bent out of shape, the hands blurry so that the time could not be read.

Tom wondered how long it had felt like that. A few days, maybe? He really didn't know, it wasn't the sort of thing he thought about normally.

He hadn't even thought about Hermione in the past hour or so; he'd been trying to concentrate his thoughts on anything else, even reciting Arithmancy formulas or the placement of stars or the diets of various magical creatures. That one, he reflected, was sure to put off sleep for at least another half-hour…

His almost mournful sentimentality of earlier in the night turned to stabbing anger.

Why must that girl be so difficult? I…

I don't care what she does anymore.

Hermione cracked open her eyes as the light flooded into the common room. She wasn't sure if she had been able to get to sleep or not, but she had been able to tune out the drone of voices and relax slightly, musing in that drowsy state between dreaming and waking. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant state of mind, as the body still recuperated while the mind was allowed free creative reign or simply meditated on the clearness.

What to do today?

At some level, she no longer cared. It wasn't like she had anything to do, anything to even get up for. She stopped herself short of 'anything to live for,' for there was always the possibility of going home, of becoming real, of anything to alleviate the sheer boredom she felt at the raw truthfulness of the thought that she really didn't have anything here.

That in itself was a very lonely thought.

Hermione wasn't all that familiar with loneliness, and the thought slightly scared her. Although she hated to admit it, Tom was really all she had.

The slightly prickled sensation crept back through her at the thought of going home. If it was possible, isn't that what she wanted?

An even more raw truth, Hermione realized that she no longer even knew what she wanted anymore.

…Damn…she thought. And I was hoping I could avoid 'Tom-the-Terror' for another day at least…

She laughed, that had a great ring to it. She wondered briefly what his reaction would be if she called him that to his face.

Well, his reaction would prove it true, at any rate, she laughed.

Hermione's thoughts drifted back towards her unusual situation, and the jumble of thoughts that clouded her head, the endless facts pointing in one direction while she found herself inexplicably moving in another.

For the first time here, she wished for some paper. If she could write down her thoughts, it would be like separating them. Or maybe a small pensieve of her own, she could dissect the causes of her feelings, figure out the source, the effects.

(Emotions are not scientific…)

It was the main way she approached a problem, and no one had told her that it doesn't work that way. It never did. If anything, it only caused more confusion. More pain.

The thought sparked something else in Hermione. Inquisitively, she focused on that single thought. Do ghosts feel pain?

Of course not, she remembered. Sir Nicholas can detach his head, and that doesn't hurt him.

Hermione had never met the Grey Lady, or she would have known that emotional pain does indeed carry over into the spiritual, vaporous form they both shared.

(And it HURTS…)

It hurts a thousand times more than physical pain ever can. Particularly, wounds associated with that fickle emotion love…

Hermione was staring out the window, contemplating what to do. It was a nice day, she could go outside. She was in the proper mood; she could go antagonize Tom for a bit.

Hmm, that sounded nice. A little conversation, some verbal sparring, maybe a kiss if she was lucky…

No, not thinking that route, she told herself. Not at all. Anything but.

She hopped up from the couch, heading to the portrait hole and floating through the image. The sensation felt weird to her, kind of like the first time she'd done it, shivering at the odd feeling of occupying the same space as a solid object. Kind of like pinpricks, kind of like swimming through extremely heavy water. All-inclusive, and cold.

Time to see what Tom's been up to…

Tom was still in his room, so aggravated that he had faked illness to skip out on his classes. It wasn't hard: a few coughs, an understanding glance from Slughorn, and he had the rest of the day free to do whatever he wanted.

He glanced to his bedside table. Aidan, thinking the illness was real, had even gone to the trouble to procure assorted candies laced with healing droughts from the infirmary. Tom waved his wand lazily, setting the whole batch on fire.

He really needed to invest in some more intelligent followers.

He straightened his comforter with a flick of his wand, then turned back around to see that the small fire hadn't just burned itself out like he'd thought would happen, instead catching on a corner of the curtain bordering his bed, making the green fabric erupt in flames.

Tom instinctively cast 'Aguamenti,' dousing the flames over the curtains and charred candy, snorting disapprovingly as he examined the ragged edges of the burned curtain.

Soft laughter from the entrance of the room jerked Tom out of his momentary reverie. He turned, his eyes widening slightly in surprise to see Hermione there, covering her mouth with one hand to try and stifle her laughter.

It really wasn't working, but the idea that Tom Riddle had inadvertently set first candy, then curtains on fire was too much to pass up. Hermione chanced a glance at Tom's expression, and didn't know whether to immediately quit her laughter or laugh harder. She settled for the further, deciding that any efforts at a truce between the two would be short-lived if she started by practically laughing in his face.

"What are you here for?" Tom's words were slightly harsher than he intended for them to be.

"Well, to see the show, isn't that obvious?" She taunted. "What are you going to set on fire next? There's some particularly ugly wall-art in your common room, you could start with that." The laughter had returned, no matter how hard she tried to subdue it.

"What was that stuff anyways?" Hermione asked, gesturing to the half-scorched, half-melted lump of candy. It actually looked quite disgusting.

Tom vanished it with a flick of his wand. "Anything else?" He asked, his voice mockingly calm.

"Hmm, possibly," she flounced further into the room, studying the burned curtains. "Why stop with the curtains? Scorch marks are in this year, I hear." Her words had practically set her own death sentence, but when it was this much fun the danger seemed not to register in her senses.

"Such a trendsetter," she mused. "Maybe the rest of the boys will scorch their own just to copy you?" The innocent grin was hard to maintain, and Hermione felt hers slipping under Tom's venomous glare.

"Ooh, the theme of the Slug Club ball is supposed to be a secret," Hermione continued, blatantly ignoring all the danger signals. "Maybe you're in on it and burned the whole place, and…" she trailed off, waiting for a reaction.

"The theme is this fancy Victorian nonsense," Tom stated flatly.

"Oh, that's nice," Hermione responded automatically.

"Suppose you're not going to go," Tom sneered. In return, Hermione offered a blankly indifferent look. "Why not?"

"Well, you're not real," Tom said frankly, crossing his arms as he leaned against one of the posters at the foot of his bed.

"Hmm, I wonder what that says about your own mental processes," Hermione countered as she moved to open the dormitory window so the acrid smell of burned cloth could filter out. "Talking to someone who's not real, that must make you crazy."

Tom frowned. "Well—"

Hermione interrupted them, still riding the rails of that blissful train of indiscretion. "Thanks for suggesting it, I might actually go now to the ball! Watch where you dance, or you might just trip," she mimed the action, delighting at the muscle in Tom's jaw that looked like it was ready to break free at any moment.

Suddenly, the angry expression was gone, replaced with a coldly calculating one. Hermione knew that look, but the euphoria was making her boldly unaware of its presence.

"You're jealous, aren't you?" Tom's tone was accusing and strident.

"Of course not," Hermione scoffed. "I've seen the girl, looks like she got on the wrong end of some Crabbe genes." She hesitated. "They're related, right?"

Tom ignored her. "You are." Why on Earth would she be? She can't have expected any less to happen. He paused mid-thought. That doesn't mean she has to be happy of it.

"Jealous of what," Hermione countered. "I'm in the Slug Club, and trust me, its nothing to be jealous of. It's horrible torture." She recalled with a slight grin the similarities between last night's gossip-fest and the Slug Club meetings. Certainly the topics of conversation were different, but the flattery and discussions were the same. And the blatant subjectivity was obvious enough.

Tom never got the chance to respond to Hermione, for at that moment they both could hear footsteps on the stairs right before the door, and a hand jostling the doorknob. A wave of his wand, and Tom's curtains repaired themselves, setting Hermione off into a fit of laughter again.

In walked three Slytherins Hermione recognized from her appearance at their meeting the previous day: Aidan and Abraxas Malfoy, and Pollux Black. She opened her mouth in surprise, and then promptly closed it. Of course they had every right to be there, it was their dormitory as well as Tom's. She leaned back against the wall, a small smile on her face. If they were here to talk to Tom, that would be one interesting conversation.

"Lord Voldemort!" Abraxas Malfoy greeted him with a strange combination of both reverence and cheerfulness.

Tom glared down the three Death Eaters, obviously hating being interrupted. "What are you doing here?" The question was addressed to them all, but Abraxas was the one who chose to answer it.

"We came to see you," he spoke slowly, his words obviously rehearsed. He didn't get very far along in his script, before Aidan looked around the room, a confused expression on his face.

"I heard another voice in here as we walked up," Aidan said. "Yeah, you were talking in here with someone!"

"I heard a voice too," Pollux added, obviously wanting to contribute something to the conversation.

"It was a girl's voice! I'm sure of it!" Aidan concluded proudly, not noticing the irate expression on Tom's face.

Hermione, meanwhile, had stopped laughing and was staring at the three Death Eaters curiously. They had actually heard me?

Hermione studied Tom's face for his reaction to their words, but he only looked languorously uncaring. His Death Eaters could each grow an extra set of ears and she doubted his mask would change.

"Alright, so where is she?" Pollux demanded, his voice much harsher than Hermione believed she had ever heard from him before.

"Where is who," Tom replied icily.

Pollux lumbered around the room, looking around the beds and finally returning to the door, leaning very close to where Hermione was standing. "My sister. Where is she?" He repeated.

"Cedrella?" Aidan asked confusedly. There was complete silence in the room for several seconds. "We just saw her in the common room, Pollux," Aidan gently reminded him.

That was all it took, Hermione burst out laughing again, moving to lean against the wall as she made no motion to silence her laughter. The others made no motions to show that they had even heard her, although Tom's eyes darted over to her position before settling back on the three minions. Really, it was almost lucky that their bodies hadn't just collapsed from lack of brain activity.

Abraxas read the flicker in Tom's eyes in a completely different manner. "So there was a girl in here!" He concluded, moving to the window. Hermione rushed back towards the corner as he occupied the space she had just recently stood in. "You flew her out the window!"

"That's ridiculous," Tom stated, affronted.

Pollux's forehead was contorted angrily. "You're cheating on my sister?"

Tom's face darkened. "It appears neither of you remember who you are speaking to! Besides, it's not like Cedrella means anything to me."

At those words, Pollux turned and trudged out of the room. His heavy footsteps could be heard as he descended the stairs in the now-quiet room.

"And where is he going?" Tom asked, focusing on Abraxas.

Abraxas swallowed. "Well, probably to tell his sister."

At this, Hermione dissolved into another fit of giggles as Tom headed out the door, bounding down the steps. This was playing out just like a soap opera! If only they knew the truth…

The giggling stopped. These three had basically just accused Tom of being involved in a romantic relationship with some nameless girl in the room…they meant her!

Well, she supposed it could be funny in another light.

Hermione followed the others out of the room, treading noiselessly on the stairs. A black-haired girl, supposedly Cedrella, was seated in a green chair, tears silently leaking down her face as Pollux did his best to comfort her. Hermione supposed they really did look related, in an obscurely twisted way. Where Pollux was bulky and tall, Cedrella was thin and short, her features and limbs shaped almost delicately.

Hermione stood off to the side, not wanting to be directly in front of the staircase in case anyone else wanted to join the fun. She couldn't see Tom's eyes, but figured that she really didn't want to. It was, if one chose to look at it that way, technically her fault he was accused of cheating anyway.

Wait…her eyes flashed from Cedrella to Tom. He really was cheating on her! With me!

The knowledge that she was the 'other woman' in a sense was both extremely amusing and slightly horrifying, but Hermione was jolted back to the scene in front of her when she heard Cedrella speak quietly.

"Is it true?" She asked Tom, her tear-streaked face turned upwards towards him.

Tom's lips twisted into a cruel smile, his words, unlike Cedrella's, loud enough for the whole room to hear.

"Yes."

Cedrella ran, not even trying to stifle her tears as she tore away from the common room, running illogically through the halls of Hogwarts, rising up the flights of stairs until she finally collapsed against a wall, sobbing into the sleeves of her robe.

Hermione stared, horrified, at Tom as he turned towards her, his eyes seeming to lock straight with hers, although to everyone else he was only staring at empty air. He walked back up the stairs, and Hermione could faintly hear the sound of a door slamming.

The various people in the room all shrugged, turning back to their textbooks or magazines, the girls arranging themselves back into circles to gossip about this newest revelation, the boys making quick excuses to leave the room or go play sports or eat.

Typical Slytherins, Hermione scoffed, spinning on her heel and marching back up the staircase, not even bothering to warn him before floating through the solid wood, crossing her arms angrily as she glared at Tom, whose back was to her as he faced the window.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Hermione asked. Tom spun around to face her, the calm detached expression she had often associated with him only serving to make her angrier.

Tom's voice was quieter; while she didn't have to control the volume of her words, he did not want to give the rest of the Slytherins downstairs anything else to chat about.

"Pollux and Aidan forced the situation," Tom said coolly, his own hands folded behind his back. "If they had never interfered, the situation would never have happened."

Hermione rolled her eyes; this was far more than a simple 'situation.'

"That girl has emotions, and feelings! You hurt her." Only after the words had left Hermione's mouth than she realized how absurd they actually sounded. He was Lord Voldemort—hurting people was his job.

"She'll get over it," Tom dismissed her words like they were nothing, and in his own attempt at desensitizing the situation did not notice how furious Hermione was with him. He wasn't paying attention to her, he wasn't attentive enough to the subtle differences in her posture and the set of her jaw that it was like all the work and effort put into their 'relationship' was crumbling away beneath them.

Tom was still studying her face; she should be proud that he had chosen her, but no, she would reject him for the very act!

He moved a few steps closer to her, raising his arms to trail lightly along her own, raising goose bumps in their wake. He leaned closer to Hermione, and she could feel his breath against her neck. She could feel one of his hands turning her head slightly, but Hermione pulled away when his mouth began to descend towards hers.

"You…you bastard," she told him softly, backing away and running from the room, returning to the Gryffindor common room because that was the one place she knew he could never go after her.

Tom was left alone in the room, the soft breeze doing nothing to keep him from reminding himself that Hermione was no longer in his arms.

"Well, what did you expect?" He subvocalized, his voice barely audible even to his own ears.

The next day…

Tom stood alone in his room, his black dress robes on, his hair smoothed; the perfect image of flawlessness.

From the neck down, at least.

His face sported a deep scowl, making his somewhat classical features seem just that much more twisted, his lips firmly turned down as his eyes glared at his reflection, as though blaming it for something that he himself could never be blamed for.

The night of the ball, Tom Riddle was dateless.

Some part of him slowly admitted that it probably wasn't the best idea at the time to completely throw away Cedrella's affections. She would have come in handy, right about now. Although, he remembered distastefully, she had found herself a new date mere hours after she and Tom had fallen apart.

Pretty fast turnaround, even for a Slytherin.

He straightened the collar of his robes, half wishing he could just not go, just turn around and forget about its very existence.

He wasn't too keen on the idea from the start, but as the head of Slughorn's club, it would be a hit to his reputation not to attend. He had never felt the remotest bit of excitement about the ball, but tonight he seemed almost negative towards the whole idea.

He shrugged, his features melting back into the charming, diligent face that his professors associated him with.

It was just a ball, after all. It's not like four hours of networking, being social, and dancing would kill a person.

He walked slowly out of the room, his polished shoes echoing heavily on the floor. Everyone else was probably there by now, already enjoying themselves.

They are simply early, Tom thought. I am always on time.

Several minutes later, and Tom found himself in the Great Hall, which had been removed of benches and chairs and outfitted in such splendor that he was sure Slughorn's magical abilities could not have provided it. The ceiling, while still bewitched to show the night sky, instead zoomed around to different constellations, planets and other astrological bodies. There was a string quintet currently playing in the front of the Hall, with the instrument's bows moving magically over the instruments, hovering and playing without a body to guide them.

Tom's presence drew the majority of the people to him like a magnet. Professors like Slughorn welcomed him, mumbling apologies about the unfairness of "unrequited teenage love." Tom was sure that a long and overly informative story was sure to follow, and he quickly ducked away from Slughorn and into a conversation with another of Slughorn's 'celebrity' friends, faking interest in dragon hunting or broomstick making, whichever the person did, it all became a blur after the first few minutes.

Whenever a dance were to strike up, Tom felt terribly awkward. He would alternate between leaning on columns or talking with other Professors or special guests, commenting on the astounding magic used in the decorations or other forced flattery that would usually make his stomach queasy.

Tom had been surreptitiously keeping an eye out for two people that night, although he would never admit to either. The first was Cedrella; he was somewhat curious as to who she had found as her new date—although he had seen no sight of her the entire night. He had tried to ask Slughorn casually, who made it a point to talk to each student invited at least once throughout the night, but the Potions Professor merely gave him a sympathetic look, and pointed him instead in the direction of the food table, with the adage that "chocolate cures all problems, but especially those of the heart."

Slughorn must've had several "heart" problems, and all too recently, Tom thought critically as he noted the rather strained buttons on Slughorn's waistcoat.

Even changing the topic in his mind did little to put the second person far from Tom's consciousness. The girl with her mass of tangled curls and eyes that so often were turned disapprovingly towards him, she was the one he could not even hope to not think about.

And Hermione Granger was nowhere to be seen.

Not that he didn't think she would stay away; he was sure she would make an appearance sometime during the night. She was homesick, bored, and couldn't stay away from him.

Tom was forced to endure another half-hour of scorching agony as several unattached women asked him to dance to particularly slow songs, one right after the other. He was sure the group of girls had planned this; every time he tried to escape, one would corner him in front of a Professor and Tom would be obliged to smile, offer his arm to the lady, and graciously ask her to "do him the honor" of dancing with her.

Tom froze.

And there she was, looking in from a window far off near a corner, leaning in as if to get close enough to the light and societal feelings emanating from the room. She had not entered, almost as if she didn't want to intrude on the moment. Her eyes had widened slightly upon seeing the room, with its many couples whirling in sync on the dance floor, nearly every patron and guest involved in the complicated dance or in other ways positioned across the room, their movements and places almost posed in their appearance.

Tom's concentration was broken when he caught sight of another hopeful looking girl in front of him, gritting his teeth under his cool grin in preparation for another five minutes or so of torture.

This one looks like a female Slughorn…

Luckily for Tom, this particular dance was a contra dance, where the couples routinely broke apart and turned in formations with the other couples around them. Tom had merely seized the first opportunity, and ducked out of the dance when he turned close enough to the milling crowd behind him. Less than three minutes later, and he was headed for the double doors to the outside, Hermione's form already gone from the window.

Tom frowned. He would find her.

Hermione had sat in the Gryffindor girl's dormitory for hours, sitting on the same place where her own bed was in her time.

She missed it. Terribly.

She realized how many small things she took for granted that she didn't have in this time, like talking to friends, eating, participating in class; things that until now had always been staples in her life.

The only thing, ironically, that I have is Tom, she recognized.

But how can I even count him when I don't even know what I am to him?

Hermione found herself inexplicably drawn to Tom, she acknowledged that much. But to what degree, she had always been careful to ignore.

Extremely, extremely careful.

Which is why she found herself now in such a position, torn between wanting to know the solid truth, more solid than she herself even felt now, how Tom felt about her and wanting to avoid the question entirely to save herself the damage if the answer was that heart-breaking and soul-destroying 'nothing.'

She needed to know the truth. It was like the food or water she needed in this time. While she could live without those particular basics, truth and knowledge were her food, and she was currently starving.

She was still running over their most recent words together in her mind. True, Tom had been a bit of an ass, but she would never want him to change. It was all of him, even the arrogant, commanding part, that excited her.

She had immediately decided upon visiting the ball briefly, then spent the rest of the afternoon trying to convince herself how horrible an idea it was.

Needless to say, it hadn't worked, which is how she found herself in the dark creeping up to one of the tall cathedral-style windows in the Great Hall, the glass panels crisscrossed with black in the tall arches and sweeping lines usually reserved for color in stained-glass windows.

Hermione peered in the window, frowning at how grimy it was. She moved down a panel, and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the back of Tom's head, dancing with some unknown girl in a dark blue dress who looked about ready to faint from happiness.

When they spun around, Hermione was clearly able to see Tom's face for the first time that night.

For some reason, she was delighted in the fact that Tom looked completely miserable.

She moved down yet another window, closer to the corner and further from the dancing. She didn't want him to notice her, and something about the dancing just set her nerves off slightly.

And then it clicked.

The silk banners covering the lower parts of the ceiling and the arched columns, the gold, bronze, and silver colors covering the checkerboard-looking floor and the highlighted stage, with the charmed orchestra finishing the dying strains of a waltz. The girls in their multicolored dresses of taffeta, silk, velvet, or other luxurious fabrics twirling in unison on the arms of men who looked equally as impressive, their synchronization unnerving and at the same time artistic.

It reminded Hermione uncannily of her dream.

She thought about it as The dream, for none could even hope to come close in the future to the sheer sense of reality the dream evoked in her, and the true fantasy she experienced and her concluding dance with Tom Marvolo Riddle.

She could hardly hope for the same thing to happen here; for one, she was invisible. She could hardly find herself in the same beautiful dress, feeling confident and beautiful in the arms of a gorgeous stranger she barely remembered.

No, dreams were a fantasy. This was reality. For all she knew, the girl dancing with Tom was his new date.

She frowned slightly. Then why would he look so unhappy?

She found him again, dancing close to the edge of the swirling couples with a completely different girl. He spun again, and their eyes met.

It was a strangely disconcerting experience, Hermione reflected, how his eyes seemed to have the power to see right through her with no effort on his part. And not just physically, but emotionally. It was like the way she felt walking through walls; it felt exactly the same each time she did it, and she doubted she would ever get used to the sensation.

Hermione turned away from the window, walking back into the darkness of the courtyard. The similarities to the dream…it was all too much. It was like it was mocking her, with its unnatural perfection, but this time excluding her to the outside.

No more…

Tom managed to sneak out of the ballroom-turned Great Hall with surprisingly little difficulty, heading outside to where he supposed Hermione had gone. He couldn't place it, but he felt an extreme sense of urgency in finding her.

He didn't even know what he would say to her when that happened.

The courtyards were darkened, and Tom made his way around turned-off fountains or flowering shrubs with only the light from his wand, grimacing when the toe of his shoe caught on a large sunken rock.

She laughed, and he turned around and saw her.

With the slight transparency of her body, it almost looked like she was glowing, but at the same time blending into the shadows whenever clouds would bury the waning moon beneath their silken cover.

Tom waved his wand once more, and the lamps in the courtyard and outdoor pathways lit, illuminating the evening in a soft glow. Tom walked a few steps towards Hermione, the words already out of his mouth before he even had time to think them over twice.

"Dance with me."

They both looked shocked at the words, Tom covering his surprise quickly while Hermione's mouth dropped into a perfect 'o,' blushing slightly as Tom held out his hand to her.

Hermione smiled lightly; she also didn't need to think twice about her decision. She placed her hand in his, and he swept her into a light waltz, guided by the faint strains of the quintet in the Great Hall. He held her close, their eyes locked as their feet moved together, somehow executing the steps perfectly, naturally.

He spun her, returning Hermione quickly to his embrace, neither of them sharing any more words than the single offer, their actions speaking for them as they moved together around the small stone courtyard.

Hermione had to smile; this was so unlike her dream world but it felt so natural, even though Tom was in his best dress robes while she wore her Hogwarts uniform, by now horribly creased and wrinkled, her hair in disarray, but she never felt prettier.

The way Tom looked at her, she felt appreciated, almost loved, even. It was the sort of thing he would never say in words, but could communicate through this one action.

They continued to dance, draped in the comfort of the evening; the music never seemed to end.

"I love you," the words were softly spoken, but Cedrella heard them loudly, the pleased smile growing even wider as she turned towards the man that she knew was her perfect match.

She ruffled his red hair with one hand, drawing him into a kiss. "I'm glad," she responded.

Septimus Weasley had found Cedrella crying in the hallway near Gryffindor, and had immediately comforted her, telling her everything his heart had wished to for years but had been too afraid to ask. She had accepted him completely, and for that he considered himself the happiest man in the world.

The two were walking outside, hand in hand. They had stayed at the ball for no longer than twenty minutes, preferring the company of the other over the superficiality of the ball. They noticed briefly that the courtyard area was lit up, but paid it no mind as they walked together, sharing secrets and whispering sweet endearments into the other's ears.

Cedrella looked around curiously; she could hear movement somewhere nearby, the shuffling of feet and the rustle of grass and trees. She peered around a corner, and nearly gasped at the sight before her.

"What is it?" Septimus asked her, but Cedrella pushed him behind her, whispering "stay quiet" in his ear. Septimus tried to lean around her, but Cedrella kept him back, finally turning and whispering, "It's Tom Riddle," as quietly as she could. Septimus froze, then glanced quickly over the side of a column, to see what had puzzled Cedrella so thoroughly.

Tom Riddle was in the middle of the courtyard, dancing.

And alone.

"What's he doing?" Septimus asked, fidgeting in place. Alright, so the Slytherin guy wasn't as sane as everyone thought, but it was nothing to get worked up about.

"He's…" Cedrella said, her voice breathy with awe. "He's in love."

Septimus' voice raised such that he thought for a moment that they would be overheard.

"What?"

"He's in love," Cedrella repeated simply, turning back towards Septimus and lacing his hand through her own, leading him back down the path they'd came.

"How do you figure that?" Septimus asked. Cedrella had to smile. He really was cute when he was confused.

"Because," she said, giving Septimus an adoring smile. "The look in his eyes is the same one that I see when you look at me."

The two never spoke of that again, content to enjoy the moment in each other's presence as they approached the doors of the castle, the faint sound of the clock chiming the hour reaching their ears with its palpable toll.

Midnight.

You're in my arms
And all the world is calm
The music playing on for only two
So close together
And when I'm with you
So close to feeling alive

So close
And still so far

—John McLaughlin, "So Close," from Enchanted

A/N: One more chapter to go, everybody. I know some of you might be sad that it's ending, but its time. I couldn't drag this out forever, and besides it wouldn't be as interesting with all that filler. The sequel does promise to be quite as good as the original, and I will be releasing the summary along with the next chapter.

Also, Cedrella Black and Septimus Weasley really do eventually get married. I wondered how that happened, and decided to write my own version.

Also, if anyone hasn't heard them, go listen to the two songs featured in this chapter. 'Remember' is one of the most haunting songs I've ever heard, and I think 'So Close' perfectly captures the ballroom scene.

Reviews make the best birthday present. And it's free! You don't even have to gift-wrap it!

Love, Kako