Sonder: The profound feeling of realizing that everyone, including strangers passed in the street, has a life as complex as one's own, which they are constantly living despite one's personal lack of awareness of it
Tom had been instructed to wait a few minutes before going back to Hermione's office. "A few" could mean just about anything - two, or maybe five, but he assumed she had meant closer to ten because she was paranoid. Though he did his best to be patient, it felt like his entire body was just buzzing with anticipation, which made it noticeably more difficult. He entertained himself by pressing into the bruises and bites that littered his neck and shoulders. It hurt. A soft, dull ache from each bit of pressure applied by the pads of his fingers.
It was real. The tender soreness was a reminder - proof - that it had been real. Her moans. The feeling of her waist against his hands. It had all been real. Not just a fantasy this time. He hadn't gotten to properly shag her(or even get under her knickers, regrettably), and she kept saying, 'I hate you,' but it had been more perfect than he could have imagined.
Despite being alone, he still discreetly adjusted his robes.
He checked his watch. Four minutes. It had been four minutes, not ten, but he found he could not wait any longer. With an astounding amount of self restraint, he walked back to her office as briskly as he could without drawing attention(being asked why he was running would slow him down, no doubt).
When he reached her office door, he did not hesitate to open it. If she was in there, she would be in there. If she had lied, he'd track her down and do whatever he damn well had to in order to make her stay put.
And lecture her about lying to him, of course.
Much to his relief, she was already there. Just as she said she'd be. She sat at her desk, a stack of essays a mountain high beside her, while she marked each one with a quill dipped in red ink.
She did not look up as he entered. She did not greet him. He approached the desk, but before he could even get within three feet of her, she halted him.
"You can sit on the couch." Her voice was sharp, clipped. Cold.
Arguing or pushing her further would be counterproductive, so he walked over to her shelves, grabbed a book titled The Science of the Soul(which he was surprised to note he had never read before) and sat down.
There was no sound between them except the flipping of pages, the drip of ink, and the scratch of a quill. Thrilled as he was to be back in her presence, he still wanted more.
"It says here," he stated, "that a soul can not be destroyed once created. That, even if you vanish a human being, make it disappear into non-being, the soul will still remain. How exactly does that work?"
She did not look up from her paper, but she did, much to his satisfaction, answer. "Their body is vanished," she explained, "but the soul will continue to exist. Either as a ghost, should they so choose, or by moving on 'into the unknown afterlife.'"
With a nod, he turned back to the book. He always felt supremely pleased when she answered his questions. Peeved when she answered other people's questions, but he didn't hold it against her. It was her job, after all.
Despite the interesting content of the book, he found himself unable to focus on the text. He kept looking over to her, to where she was not looking back at him in return.
"Hermione."
"Hmm?" She did not look up.
"What did you do while you were avoiding me?"
Pausing her grading, she took a deep breath before answering. She still did not look up. "I did what I normally do as a teacher. Teach. Grade. Read."
A beat of silence. Then, he spoke again.
"How did you feel? While I was gone."
Finally, she looked up. "What have I told you about impromptu therapy sessions?"
"That you won't have them with a sixteen year old psychopath," he answered blankly. "I'm seventeen, almost eighteen, actually, not a psychopath, and this isn't a therapy session."
She propped her elbows on the table and placed her head in her hands. Her hair looked unusually disheveled, even for her. He wondered how much of that was his doing. "Why?"
"Because I want to know. I like knowing what you think and how you feel."
At first she said nothing. Her fingers tightened around the roots of her hair, pulling at her scalp in exasperation. Finally, she spoke.
"I missed you," she murmured, so quietly he nearly missed it. The guilt and the shame in her voice was clear, underlined with a nearly undetectable hint of confusion.
Pride bloomed in his chest.
Upon hearing her confession, he immediately began to sit up, but before he could even fully remove himself from the sofa, she interjected.
"Stay on the couch."
With a small smile, he did as bade.
She was his. Entirely, irrevocably, his.
She did not attempt to make conversation throughout the rest of the evening, only providing short, clipped responses to the many questions he asked. Aside from a few sharp comments about "crying wolf," she acted much like her usual self: paranoid and passive aggressive, yet simultaneously attentive and considerate. It was an odd combination of traits, no doubt, but a mix he had become quite fond of nonetheless.
If she was pointedly not allowing him close enough to touch her, he still considered it an improvement over being ignored.
The following day, he was growing more and more certain that things must have been returning to relative normality, judging by the state of his returned essay. A perfect grade, but with a section underlined in red ink. It must have been in the pile she went through the previous night, he deduced.
He was certain of this not only because of what she had written on it, but because the week she had been avoiding him, she hadn't even read the work he turned in. This, he knew because he had deliberately misquoted Hogwarts: A History and still got a perfect grade.
You're not technically wrong, she wrote, but I feel obligated to tell you this is obnoxious.
He snickered as he put the rolled up parchment back into his bookbag.
As class dismissed, Dolohov got up and gave him a questioning glance towards the door. In response, Tom shook his head, signaling that he was staying behind like he usually did.
"I'll see you at dinner, then," said Antonin, dismissing himself.
Tom gathered his bag and approached where Hermione was sitting at her desk, preparing for her next class. "You feel obligated to tell me that my opinion on the Ministry regulation of dark magic is 'obnoxious'?" He questioned, not bothering to hide his amusement. "And yet you admit I'm 'not wrong.'"
She looked up. "You're not technically wrong, no, but your wording is condescending at best, and any other teacher would have docked points for the bit where you called Aurors 'assassins on a Ministry payroll.' And what was that about how you think they're all a bunch of hypocritical cowards? Honestly, you should know better."
"I do know better," he stressed, finding that her distaste did little to dissuade him. "I would not have told any other teacher that, truly. You really should accept that as the compliment it is. Don't think I haven't noticed that you're agreeing with me."
With a swish of her hand, all the chairs in the room pushed properly into their seats. She gave him a stern look, but it lacked its intended bite. "You're missing the point."
She sat against the edge of her desk, and he pretended not to notice the way she scooted away as he joined her. "I'd argue that you're the one missing the point," he countered.
Though she opened her mouth to retort, whatever reply she had died in her throat as she turned to look at him. He noticed the way her eyes lingered on him for just a second too long before she gave him a stony glare and quickly averted her gaze.
'Still feeling shy, then', he mused, but made no comment. His eyes tracked the movement as her hand raised, perhaps subconsciously, to press her fingertips into the side of her neck.
Bruises, Tom had learned, could not be healed like a cut or burn because of the nature of the wound. A simple episkey could be cast and heal the injury, but the blood that had been shed underneath the skin would not disappear. It would have to reabsorb and fade on its own or be temporarily glamoured away.
Her throat had been beautifully displayed with her hair pulled back into a plait. The skin was unblemished, showing no traces of the marks left the previous night. But that hand, and the way she pressed against where he knew he had bit down less than gently - he knew she had merely covered them, not healed them. She kept a reminder that could be felt, but not seen.
He knew, because he had done the same.
In a way he hoped went unnoticed, he shifted closer to her. "How are you feeling?"
As she turned to look at him, her face formed an incredulous expression. "Now you're just being obnoxious," she muttered.
"Pardon?"
"Oh, don't act like you don't know exactly what you're doing - looking at me with you angel eyes and fluttery lashes and thinking that if you just look cute and innocent enough I'll forget that you're practically a demon."
Not missing that she had called him cute, he ran his tongue over his teeth before a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
"A demon?" He chuckled. "Been talking to Mrs Cole, have you? And now you think I'm, what - attempting to steal your soul by inquiring about your well-being?"
"It wouldn't shock me," she replied icily.
She met his amused grin with a scowl. He bit back the remainder of his laugher, knowing that the humor in the situation was being entirely unappreciated on her end.
"What's your last class?" He asked as though he did not already know.
"Third years, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff," she answered. "And you have a free period, which you usually spend breaking into my office and snooping around."
"I unlock your door. That hardly qualifies as breaking in."
She rolled her eyes. "You completely unravel my locking charms, is what you do. But since you're going to regardless of what I say, would you mind bringing a few papers back with you?"
Just as he opened his mouth to reply, the door opened and three children wearing blue and bronze walked in, having arrived to class early. Hermione immediately pushed herself off the desk and walked back over to the bookshelves, pretending to be searching for something.
Tom took a deep breath, attempting to calm his sudden irritation. "I wouldn't mind," he replied politely.
After approaching her desk and grabbing a pile of essays, she pushed the aforementioned papers into his arms with the polite, rehearsed smile that he had come to hate.
He grit his teeth and left the classroom.
He was relieved to see she was back on the Astronomy Tower that night. Usually, he studied in her office until dinner, at which point he left to eat and do whatever mandatory school related business he had(Prefect rounds, Head Boy responsibilities, Slug Club meetings, etc.), and he didn't get to see her again until he would find her reading under the stars in the highest tower of the castle. During the week she had been avoiding him, she hadn't been there. Having checked several times, he was certain of that. Now, however, she was back in her usual spot. Feeling particularly pleased with himself, he took that as a indication of submission on her part.
For once, she did not have a book in her hand.
Rather than pressing herself against either the castle wall or the railing, she had laid back against the stone floor with her knees propped up and her robe rolled up underneath her head. A book, apparently no longer worthy of her attention, rested discarded bedside her.
Her eyes flickered to him in acknowledgement but she made no move to greet him.
Taking his usual place, he found the section of railing closest to where she had sprawled out and sat down with his back to the metal. He said nothing.
Hermione broke the silence. "You're uncharacteristically quiet."
"You're uncharacteristically unoccupied," he retorted.
"I got distracted."
"By what? There's nothing up here. Did a particularly interesting bird fly by? Was there an unusually shaped cloud? Did someone get dragged off into the forbidden forest and eaten by centaurs?"
"Don't be ridiculous; centaurs don't eat people." She tossed him a glare. "I find reading and existential dread to be incompatible," she deadpanned.
He barked out a laugh. "You're an odd one, aren't you?"
For a moment she simply watched him laugh with an expression caught somewhere between intrigue, curiosity, and confusion. Like she couldn't fully comprehend what she was seeing.
As quickly as he had seen it, it was gone.
Lips forming a lopsided frown, her eyes narrowed in his direction. "I hardly think you are the authority on what's considered normal, thanks."
"It's a compliment, love."
"Calling me 'odd' is not a compliment."
"If the alternative is calling you ordinary, then it most certainly is," he countered. She did not seem amused. "Don't you ever get bored of making everything I say to you a personal attack?"
"What kind of a question is that?" She shot back defensively.
The irony of her response was not lost on him, but he ignored his urge to remark on it. He merely rolled his eyes at her obvious scowl and refrained from pointing out that this little attitude of hers was exactly why the two of them hadn't progressed further in their relationship. "The kind that warrants a response," he drawled, "preferably an honest one."
Pulling herself up into a seated position, she continued to scowl at him. "Do you ever get tired of pretending to care about other people? Does that mask you force yourself into ever start to itch?"
The unnecessary hostility on her part was grating on his nerves. He took a controlled breath. Yelling at her would not fix the problem. Neither would hurting her. He simply needed to show her how ridiculous she was being.
In response, he kept his tone and demeanor as unaffected as possible. "Would you like me to answer that? I'm willing to have an candid exchange with you if you're willing to participate."
"Willing?" She scoffed. "You're not even capable!"
Now she was just sounding like a petulant child.
He kept his eyes locked and level with her own. "Try me."
There was a certain level of pride he was able to take in the uncertainty that formed in her eyes. "I don't owe you anything, Tom," she said coldly. "Just because you want something from me doesn't mean you get to have it."
Despite his attempts to stay calm, reasonable since she obviously could not, he felt his jaw tick. She was deliberately pushing his buttons. Trying to make him angry to prove a point. Succeeding, too.
He glanced over to the railing.
If he was remembering correctly, it was approximately a ninety foot drop to the ground. Hermione was afraid of heights - she had mentioned that once. Could that be used to his advantage, he wondered. Use her fear to force honesty out of her, and offer mercy to reinforce an intimate connection.
If given no other option, she would have to trust him, wouldn't she?
He banished the thought, turning back to the witch in front of him. She let out a soft sigh before propping her head up on her hand and giving him a look he couldn't quite decipher - something like disappointment, but with sharper edges. "There's no getting rid of you, is there? There's nothing I can say to convince you that you're not right where you want to be?"
Feigning interest in her book, he moved forward and reached for it. After taking a quick glance at the title - The Psychology of Grief was, in his mind, an unusual choice - he placed it back down.
"No," he replied firmly, "there's not. I know what I want."
She gave a small, acknowledging nod that seemed to be more to herself than to him. There was an odd beat of silence between them before she broke it.
"You are nothing," she said quietly, with a forced sense of calm, "but an angry, scared, sick little boy. And no matter how many people you hurt, no matter how many lives you ruin, you will never be anything but that. You could be, but you won't. Because you have no desire to. You're just going to sit in your bed at night with the knowledge that you're the best, and the worst, and that you always will be, because you are mad and foolish enough to truly believe that's the only life worth living."
His initial response was nothing but a cold, analytical stare. She was wrong, of course. This was not the first time in his life that he had been called mad. Even as a child, he understood that it was just the interpretation of people too stupid to comprehend his superiority. Hermione, though, he had expected better of.
He tilted his head. "Are you under the impression that if you repeat that to yourself enough, you'll eventually begin to believe it?"
"I hate you," she childishly retorted.
"I thought we had already verbally established and agreed upon our friendship."
"You hate all your friends. Is there a reason I can't do the same?"
Her tone was flat. He imagined that if she had meant it, truly, that she'd have cried, or perhaps spit the words with fury and venom. Nearly rolling his eyes, he thought better of it.
'Not all of them,' he thought.
Instead, his lips formed a taunting grin. "Do you often find yourself kissing the men you claim to hate?"
"Only occasionally," she replied dryly. Not having expected that response, he nearly flinched. It was once, so far. That could hardly be considered 'occasionally'. "When they're kissing me, I hardly have a choice."
"Don't act like you weren't an eager participant," he snapped with more coldness than was necessary, "victimhood doesn't suit you."
"You're deluded."
His jaw clenched with a flash of sudden irritation. This was going nowhere. They were just talking in circles - arguing and then arguing back.
"Stop lying."
The command was less than subtle. His voice came out harsh and restrained, the tone much lower and colder than anything he typically used with her. His shoulders straightened slightly as his eyes fixed into a harsh glare.
In the orphanage, other children(and even much of the staff) had come to fear any expression of anger that crossed his features. Since he started school, he was no longer able to openly torment those who displeased him, but the few who had seen that same look often found it intimidating enough that it seemed he hadn't need to.
Hermione, on the other hand, seemed to perk up. Her eyes brightened at the sight of seeing her own frustration now reflected in him. The corner of her lips quirked into something resembling a smirk of misplaced self satisfaction.
She looked almost triumphant.
It was unnerving, Tom thought.
Though he felt his hand practically itch to grab his wand, he refrained. She wanted to be proven right and he would not give her that. He consciously relaxed his tense jaw and took a deep, hopefully subtle breath through his nose.
He looked up to face her again. Her head had tilted and her eyes glinted with uncertainty. The smirk had dropped, much to his delight.
"No," he replied with the ease of a man discussing the weather, "you don't hate me. You don't. You may wish you did, because it would be easier, and you may try to, but you don't."
She didn't deny it. She didn't confirm it either, but the way her hands fisted around the fabric of her robe until her knuckles turned white and the anxious swallow she gave may as well have been a confession.
"You're acting different towards me," he started. After receiving no response, he decided to break the ice with another question. "You're not usually this hostile. What's wrong?"
"Are you seriously asking me that?" She asked incredulously.
"Yes. I want you to tell me, explicitly, everything that is upsetting you. And then I'm going to fix it, and for once in your life you're going to relax. What will it take for you to see that I'm not your enemy here?"
"You've killed four people," she deadpanned, "you've maimed your own friends. You can't just 'fix' that, Tom! And I know, trust me, I know that I can't stop you from doing whatever you want, but why on earth do you have to keep involving me?"
As she kept talking, her voice kept rising, steadily becoming more and more shrill. "I don't want to join your cult, or be your pet mudblood, or be your audience while you become the darkest wizard in history! You won't let me distance myself from you, you won't accept the word 'no' - what the bloody hell am I supposed to do?"
Folding his arms over his chest, he arched a brow. "Is that all?"
"Kissing me was uncalled for." She spat it out like it was a bitter afterthought, but he knew better.
'And there it is', he mused to himself. Finally, she was showing a sliver of honesty.
It was never his wickedness that pushed her away. From the very beginning, she had known he was different, that he did not allow himself to be held back by anything. Even as a child, she had been able to accurately clock him as a killer. As destined for greatness. And yet, she stayed close because she liked to watch. Fearful, cautious, and performatively repulsed as she may be, she could not help her fascination. He understood that about her - in so many ways, they were so much alike.
It was never his wickedness that pushed her away - it was fear of her own. She was afraid that it said something about her to be intrigued by the darkness of the world. To have such a morbid curiosity. To be having these types of feelings towards someone who was both her student and, in her mind, a monster.
It did, of course. Because it was him, and he was not something as simple or as common as just a student or a murderer, it said she had good taste. Still, it was definitely a sore spot for her.
"Was it really?" He asked dryly.
"Yes."
"Are you waiting for another kiss or an apology?" It was unwise, he knew, to be teasing her instead of persuading her, but he rather liked the way it made her bristle. If she was this determined to argue, he may as well amuse himself until it resolved. "I know I certainly have a preference, a rather strong one, in fact - Do you?"
Heat rose to her face, coloring her cheeks with a furious blush. Her eyes widened. For a second she just looked stunned by his nerve until finally, she collected herself and she spoke.
"I don't have to tolerate this," she said with a calm, authoritative tone that he did not think suited her one bit. "I may not have a choice with you bloody stalking me, but I'm not going to sit here and let you mock me."
Though another smart remark was on the tip of his tongue, it swallowed down and died in his throat as he saw her collect her book and get up to leave.
Immediately, he jumped to his feet as well. "Hermione," he protested, "wait. Don't." He placed a hand on her shoulder. Though it could have been seen as a reassuring gesture, the way his fingers dug into her flesh proved its true nature.
As soon as he touched her, she froze. Her breath hitched. "Stay," he murmured. "I - I don't want you to leave yet. I missed you."
"And you don't see that as a problem?" She stared at his hand on her shoulder like it were some sort of trap that had caught her in its teeth. Very slowly, her gaze followed back up to where it finally rested on his face.
He frowned. "Having you close would rid me of the problem entirely. Missing you may be problematic, but keeping you is the solution."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not a pet," she answered coldly. "You don't just get to decide to 'keep' me. I decide for myself where I want to go or who I want to be with."
"You'll pick me," he answered immediately, without thought. The grip he held on her tightened. "You want me. I know you do. You even said yourself that you missed me too. But I'll make sure, just in case. I'll make you want me so bad that you'll beg me to keep you."
Prying his hand off her shoulder, she discarded his hold on her. She pursed her lips and shook her head. "Goodnight, Tom."
Though he felt an urge to follow her, to push and prod and continue arguing until she was sick of it and gave in, his feet stayed firmly planted.
Wednesday morning, a package was dropped off directly in front of Tom at the breakfast table. Having never received anything by owl post other than his school lists and badges, he eyed the package with both intrigue and confusion. As he checked the wrapping, he found the words 'Flourish and Blotts' and very quickly understood.
With a glance to the Head table, he saw Dumbledore send him a nod. The Professor had told him he'd be ordering the book needed for his project for him, though Tom had assumed it would be delivered to the school(or at least Dumbledore) rather than to himself personally.
Still, he did not complain. Any excuse to avoid the old coot was valid.
Vanishing the packaging, he tucked the book safely away in his bag while he ate. The boys around him chatted amongst themselves.
About ten minutes later, Malfoy and Lestrange both excused themselves for early morning Quidditch practice, leaving Tom and Antonin the only seventh years left in their section of the table.
"So," Tony said conversationally between sips of pumpkin juice, "I take everything it is normal between you and Granger again?"
"Any particular reason you're asking?"
"She didn't flee from the classroom as soon as the period ended yesterday. That, and you seem significantly calmer than you did last week - you actually came to breakfast with us, you didn't hex Mulciber for accidentally spilling his water on you, and you're no longer gritting your teeth when you look at the Heads table. Also, the charm on your neck needs to be reapplied," Dolohov answered casually as he reached for his fork again. "I suppose you have gotten that from another girl, but I find that unlikely. Last week I saw you turn around and walk the other way when you noticed Parkinson coming towards you. Last year, you pointedly switched projects in potions and decided to work on a Bone Regrowth elixir, even though the fumes make you sick, because it was a group project and that was the only group that didn't have any girls in it. And then there was that time in fifth year, where you-"
"Are you sure it's wise to confess you've been watching me?" Tom interrupted. In a way he hoped went unnoticed, he tilted his wand towards his own throat and discreetly reapplied the glamour before continuing to glare at Dolohov.
(It was not, Tom mentally explained, that he had any sort of fear or general dislike of the fairer sex. It was simply that they were so bloody distracting - not in their looks, no matter how pretty they may be - but that they always wanted something from him. He did not like to be interrupted while studying by girls fawning all over him. He did not like to have his time wasted by having to reject Hogsmeade invitations. Though he was not above using a sweet smile and a bit of boyish charm if he was in need of something, it was simply easiest to avoid them.)
The other boy seemed completely impervious to his annoyance.
"I'm a Slytherin," Dolohov replied with a shrug, "observation and resourcefulness are key to success, particularly in social situations where norms and customs vary. You make it sound like I'm spying."
"You are the one who makes it sound like you're spying." Tom glanced down at his wristwatch before quickly dismissing himself from the table.
He still had an hour before Transfiguration, and this was not how he wanted to spend it.
Much as he valued the Slytherin ideals, his classmates could really get on his nerves. Ambition and resourcefulness were traits he valued in himself and very select others - in his opposition, he loathed them.
Tom entered his first class of the day just as the bell rang out. Though he wasn't late, he still saw that many of his classmates had already pulled out their work and started scribbling down notes.
For Transfiguration, the period was again going to be wasted doing nothing more than reading through books and beginning to form presentations on their assigned subjects. Tom took his usual seat in the back of the room and pulled The Ageless Mysteries of Time out of his bag. As he began to open the book, he noticed Dumbledore's eyes meeting his own, and he swore he saw that maddening twinkle gleam a bit brighter with, well - something. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew something was off about the situation.
Paranoid as she was, he could not help but be reminded of what Hermione said, and his own subsequent promise to be careful.
After mentally cataloguing the placement of his wand(right sleeve, in holster), he leaned back into his chair and resolutely ignored the man.
Only getting about three pages into the book, he still came to the conclusion that the librarian had been right: the author was a madman and it was a load of rubbish. The book was a waste of time, money, ink, and paper that never deserved to have been in the Hogwarts library in the first place. The science of time was only briefly mentioned to explain the real message of the book, which was little more than the ramblings of a lunatic. Cornelius Warren went on and on about how he was just sure that seemingly random individuals throughout history were time travelers, with no solid evidence to support his wild claims.
Usually, the people he had singled out had inconspicuous jobs like secretaries, were close to notable figures in history(politicians, inventors, etc.), had little known about their early lives(probably because they were just normal people, and no one cared enough to document it), and more often than not disappeared. They'd either quit a job, move away, and never be heard from again, or they'd simply vanish.
It described the workings of the theory of time, and how many of these "disappearances" were possibly time travelers either returning to their own time, or the product of a paradox resulting in an 'unbirth'.
In Tom's opinion, it was all utter shite. Someone has to take the tedious jobs for high ranking politicians and innovators - it doesn't mean that those people are in on some conspiracy theory. Sometimes people disappear by choice and don't want to be found, and that doesn't have to have anything to do with time travel.
'Also', he mentally added, 'sometimes they get murdered and the body is never discovered. That's not the result of a paradox either.'
He flipped back to the table of contents, curious to see if there was anything he'd find less annoying than the current chapter, and for a moment briefly glanced up.
Dumbledore was staring at him.
Okay, maybe not staring, but looking at him in a way he was less than comfortable with. There was that damn twinkle in his eye again, too, and-
Without any warning, a piercing, intense pain filled his skull, radiating from behind his eyes. He let out a sharp hiss of pain as his hand reflexively reached up to grab at his head.
It hurt - ached. He felt perfectly fine one second and then the next it felt like someone had cracked open and rummaged through his skull.
As Dumbledore approached his desk, Tom used every bit of his self restraint to hide his unease. His head still throbbed, but he did his best to ignore it for the time being.
"Feeling alright, Tom?" Asked the Professor.
"Yes, sorry sir. Just a bit of a headache, I'm afraid." In an attempt to look genuine that he knew would go unappreciated, he smiled softly.
The old man frowned. "Headache, is it? Perhaps you ought to get away from the light and noise for a bit. As Head Boy, I'm sure you can be trusted to continue studying should I allow you to return to your dormitory."
Tom, still feeling uneasy, shook his head. The unusual suggestion that he go to his dormitory rather than the infirmary(where one typically goes when in need of medical assistance) was not lost on him. "That's a very generous offer, sir, and I appreciate it, but it's unnecessary. It's only a slight inconvenience; I can remain in class."
Dumbledore gave him a knowing smile. "Do not believe the lie that suffering builds character, Tom. There's no need to endure through it when I'm sure you'd be much more productive and comfortable elsewhere."
Realizing there was no way out of this, and feeling surprisingly ungrateful for the opportunity to escape, Tom nodded. "I suppose, if you insist, sir."
"I do." Dumbledore motioned towards the door with one hand. "Off you go."
Tom did not need to be told twice.
Back in the solitude of his room, Tom pulled out the book again and gave it an odd glance. Dumbledore wanted him to read it. He said he was trusting him to read it.
That alone was reason enough for him to not want to do it.
And yet, his curiosity could not be helped. Why this specific book? Why did Dumbledore want him to read it, rather than someone - anyone - else? Unfortunately, he would not know unless he opened it up and actually read it like he was told to.
With a groan, he reopened it to the Table of Contents and looked for a more interesting chapter. With class not even half over, he did have time to read more thoroughly, but for now he didn't want to read rubbish again. Not unless he truly had no other choice.
Unfortunately for him, the entire book was rubbish - stark raving mad, barely coherent rubbish. So he settled for opening to a chapter that, at the very least, looked less boring than conspiracy theories about insignificant people throughout history.
Chapter Fifteen: Distinctions of a Time Traveler
At least with that chapter, he could create his own idiotic conspiracy theories rather than have to listen to someone else's.
He began to read.
'Solitary individuals who avoid attention'
He read through the paragraph below it, describing the reasoning as to why time travelers would feel the need to keep to themselves - legal consequences, societal stigma and social hassle(everyone wants to know how they're going to die, certainly - Tom nearly rolled his eyes), an attachment to their own timeline, a desire to prevent any changes in descendents, etc.
That reasoning, he admitted, was sound. While it was obviously insane to assume all solitary individuals were time travelers - just because it has four legs, doesn't mean it's a cat - he supposed it would be logical for time travelers to be isolative in nature, assuming they existed in the first place.
'Significant, but limited, relationships'
Of the people he listed as suspected time travelers, they all lived unusually empty lives with a few notable exceptions. Claudia Hewitt, for example, was a woman Warren had accused of time travel. She was an orphan no known friends, and lived a private, quiet life with the exception of her affair with the French Minister for Magic back in the early 1800's. He was assassinated shortly after beginning a new campaign, and she seemed to fall off the radar after his funeral. No culprit was ever found, but it did become public knowledge that he had been planning to declare war(...And that she had been trying to persuade him not to).
Again, Tom agreed that, in theory, this was a trait that would be fitting of a time traveler. Still, it was too vague. It could apply to almost any shy or introverted individual. He could think of a dozen social outcasts who had latched onto more popular individuals like leeches.
Beyond that, some people simply didn't wish to waste their time on meaningless socialization - Hermione, for example, had no friends or noteworthy relationships other than himself and(if you were to use the term 'relationship' loosely enough) Dumbledore, and perhaps Slughorn.
It was no proper indication of a conspiracy.
'Any evidence of previous life exists only through a paper trail and word of mouth.'
This section went on to describe how time travelers may have degrees, school records, and stories about their lives, but no witnesses to testify that it were true. They may have people who parrot the lies for them("oh, he went to Durmstrung - he told me so!") to create a publicly accepted image, but of those who knew them, no one was present during their upbringing. It went on to give an example of how about two decades ago, a Ministry worker disappeared. When his wife rushed in, claiming the children were gone as well and the Ministry simply must investigate, it had been discovered that his records - all of them - were fake. A fake birth certificate, fake school diploma, and fake OWL and NEWT scores.
This was much more suspicious, he admitted, though still not evidence of time travel. This man would hardly have been the first to assume a fake identity. And with people raised in the muggle world especially, it really should be expected that no one would be around to testify of their childhood - muggles don't enter the wizarding world. Theoretically, it would apply to homeschooled people as well since they would have been inherently more isolated than the average school-going child. Hermione, for example-
He stopped on that thought - hadn't he compared the last one to Hermione as well?
It most likely was just coincidence. Or that since Hermione had come to be a significant part of his life, making mental connections to her was something that his mind did with little prompting.
He narrowed his eyes towards the page, but kept reading.
'An uncanny knowledge of subjects they haven't formally studied or events they were not present for'
The book went on to describe two examples - a young potioneer who just so happened to know additional uses of mermaid's tears before it was formally discovered two decades later, and a journalist who was known to publish articles about events only minutes after they happened with alarming detail, despite not having attended them. Those could both be explained logically - perhaps the potioneer simply knew more than she ever sought to seek credit for(despite the leading statement, she had in fact studied magical potion ingredients, thus making her a poor example on the author's part), or that the author of the paper publishing the additional uses had copied her former work. The journalist could have had informants or used spycharms. Suspicious, sure - but there could be lots of explanations for such knowledge.
He mind again flickered back to Hermione. Hermione, who had spoken of magic in ways he had never heard even textbooks describe. Hermione, who somehow knew of his ancestry and had tied it to the opening of the Chamber of Secrets. Hermione, who somehow knew he had killed his father despite the Ministry never making the case against Morfin public knowledge, and Little Hangleton not being a big enough city to easily attract that type of attention.
It was admittedly worrisome, but he refused to let it bother him. He wasn't mad enough to truly believe any of this was connected. He turned the page and read the last criteria that Hector Cornelius Warren had used to 'identify' time travelers.
'Unexplained disappearances following major events'
Upon reading that, a gnawing pit formed in his stomach. It was irrational, he knew, to be so concerned about this. He was reading the ramblings of a madman and attempting to make sense where there was none.
Still, he could not help but feel a sense of anxiety as he continued reading. The book was firm in its theory - these people did not just skip town or run away, they vanished into nonbeing as the result of a paradox, or traveled back to their own time. They could not be found because there was nothing to find. They were not missing, they were gone.
Mentally, he dug through everything he knew of Hermione. Every conversation they had had. Every time he had heard the other teachers mention her. The way the bloody Room of Requirement had shown him a bizarre range of devices used to tell time, and how they had, of course reversed right in front of him. The conversation he had overheard with Dumbledore, which he now viewed in an entirely new and incriminating light. Dumbledore's less than subtle insistence that he be the one to read this book, combined with the comment that he would find the book had more value than could be understood by most.
(The idea that Dumbledore not only knew of this secret, been trusted with it when he had not, and then felt fit to taunt him with the knowledge by hanging it over his head was unbearable to think about.)
His hands began to shake.
It sounded completely mad. It made sense, it all fit, but it sounded completely, undeniably, and unequivocally insane.
If, if, this theory held any merit, and if it could be applied to Hermione at all, he needed to know. He needed to know and be sure, no matter how small and unlikely the chance, because he adamantly refused to allow her to leave for her time, or worse, vanish - to die and deprive himself of her presence.
He checked his watch.
There were ten minutes left before classes would dismiss, and then he'd have another fifteen minutes to get to potions, assuming he wanted to go at all. At the moment, he was feeling like he didn't.
He felt nauseous.
Closing the book, he tossed it onto the desk across the room. Having irrationally blamed it for his troubles, he did not allow it to stay in his bed or in his bag with his other books.
He entered the bathroom and turned on the sink. Repeatedly, he told himself to think clearly, think rationally, and to think logically as he splashed cold water over his face.
Turning the faucet off, he reached for a towel and patted his face dry. He was extremely alarmed to discover that it still made sense.
He checked his watch again. Eight minutes. That was enough time for a cigarette, he decided as he pulled the packet out of his bag and shoved it into his pocket.
Usually, Tom found smoking to be calming. A habit that he picked up a few summers before, he generally appreciated the opportunity to step back from his personal hell and recollect himself. In this instance, it had precisely the opposite effect. Being left alone with his thoughts as they began to spiral only made him feel worse.
The nausea came back. He felt his hands twitch and shake beyond his control. He could feel his pulse race and hear the sound of blood rushing in his ears. As he wandered the halls, every single noise felt deafening. With each portrait passed, he felt an urge to pull his wand and set them all alight.
Just as he contemplated actually doing it(if he burned them all, quickly enough, there would be no witnesses), classes dismissed and the halls flooded with students scrambling to get to their next class on time. He grit his teeth and kept walking.
He didn't even realize where he was going until he had reached her classroom door.
Without further thought, he pushed it open and stepped inside.
As he entered, she looked up from her desk. Immediately, her brows furrowed. "Tom?"
Standing still, he said nothing. He had no excuse to be here, and no real reason for it. He hadn't exactly come here by any conscious decision, he would later note. It more or less just happened.
He nearly turned around, but then she walked away from the desk and approached him. Her lips and curled into a very noticeable frown. "What happened? What's wrong?"
He tensed his jaw. There wasn't anything he could say that wouldn't sound barking mad, and he didn't exactly have the time to explain himself at the moment. "I'm not feeling well," he said quickly, attempting to smooth over the situation. He cleared his throat. "I'll just be onto the infirmary - I must have lost my way as I walked. Quite silly of me; I apologize."
She took a step forward, looking him up and down. "No," she said, face very obviously burdened with a look of concern. She pulled her wand from her pocket, then flicked it towards the door. The distinct sound of a lock was heard. "No, you never put on that act for me. Now I'm certain something's not right." She sounded almost frantic, but he hardly noticed. "It's alright, just - just sit down."
For once, he did not argue. Pulling out a chair, he sat down with an expectant expression.
That expression quickly turned to one of surprise when she stepped forward and immediately began to loosen the knot of his tie. "What in Merlin's name are you doing?" He exclaimed.
"Relax," she ordered, "your tie is very pretty, but it's easy to feel constricted when you have a fashionable noose around your neck."
She pulled at the knot completely, leaving it entirely undone as it hung unevenly from his both sides of throat. Then, she undid just the top button of his shirt.
At the brief contract of her fingers against the skin of his chest, he closed his eyes for only a moment. Not even a second later, she pulled away.
"Now," she said, pulling out a chair and sitting directly in front of him, "what are the three primary ingredients in Polyjuice Potion?"
His eyes flashed in irritation. "What?"
"What," she repeated, "are the three primary ingredients in Polyjuice Potion? Tell me. Now."
"Lacewing flies, Fluxweed, and shredded boomslang skin," he answered immediately.
"And if you wish to dilute it," she asked with misplaced urgency, "how would you go about doing that?"
He blinked. "By substituting the leeches with mosquitoes, and adding dragon's blood to the initial mixture."
She smiled. "Good. How long does a Draught of Living Death affect the drinker?"
Leaning forward, suddenly attentive, he answered, "until the antidote has been administered."
"Correct," she nodded. "Now, inhale for seven seconds."
"What? Why?"
"Stop questioning me and do as I say."
Though he felt a reflexive urge to be difficult and disobey, he complied. It's not like he could just stop breathing, after all. At the seventh count, he looked at her.
"Hold it for another seven seconds, then exhale for the same count. Repeat it."
Again, he followed her directions. Seven seconds in, seven seconds holding, seven seconds out, seven second pause. After the second cycle, he noticed that his hands had stopped shaking. Immediately he understood the reason for the irrelevant pop quiz and bizarre instructions, even if he didn't fully understand the process.
"What did you do?" He asked, still mentally keeping track of his breathing.
"You were nervous," she answered calmly. "I diverted your attention from that anxiety so that you stopped psyching yourself up by ruminating. The regulated breathing calmed your autonomic nervous system."
Moving forward, she rebuttoned the top of his shirt and knotted the tie back in place. She smoothed it down before leaning back to scrutinize her work from a distance. While he generally liked to bask in her attention, he was again reminded of why he was here in the first place, and it was not simply for her company.
This was a problem. Regardless of whether or not his suspicions had merit, the uncertainty in and of itself could not be tolerated and would cause complications if he did not get rid of it, one way or another.
The problem within the problem was that, in order to solve the problem in the first place, he would have to address the elephant in the room. That was something he most certainly could not do - not now when his time was limited, and not without sounding like he needed to be shipped off to Mungo's.
He noted with no small amount of irony that time was what he needed - time to think, time to research, time to play his cards right.
"Tom," Hermione's voice pulled him from his thoughts, "what's wrong?"
He swallowed. He wet his lips. "Dolohov annoyed me," he answered. Though it was not a lie, it was not the truth either.
With a soft smile, she shook her head. "Everyone annoys you. You're lying."
He averted his gaze and said nothing. He knew it only added to his appearance of guilt, it hardly mattered.
"You can tell me," she coaxed, leaning forward again.
Her voice was annoying him. Usually, he quite liked to listen to her talk, liked having her full attention, but now he found himself angered that she would have the audacity to ask information from him when she met all his personal inquiries with paranoia and evasion. He was exceptional, certainly, but there was a limit to how much patience any man had.
"I'm just trying to-"
"Who are you?" He irritably cut her off. "Can you just answer that for me? Honestly. Have I not earned that from you?"
As she swallowed nervously, her eyes flickered back and forth between his own like she was trying to figure out what had brought on the sudden question. He wouldn't tell her. Not unless she gave him suitable reason to.
"I'm your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," she finally answered calmly.
"Don't give me that," he sneered. "You know what I'm asking."
He did not at all like the way she looked at him then. Too hard and too soft in all the wrong ways, she looked at him like she couldn't decide if he was a threat, or if she pitied him. Neither was appropriate for the situation.
"I'm also your friend," she said quietly. "And I'm trying to help you."
"You can help me by-"
Much to his surprise, she cut him off not by attempting to speak over him, but by pushing herself forward and using her hand to cover his mouth. The blazing look he gave did nothing to halt her.
"Tom, there are seven minutes left until class starts. That means two minutes before students start filing in here, meaning I have to unlock the door or they will ask questions about why you and I were locked alone in my classroom. And one minute before Horace starts fretting over you and sends one of his less favored students to come find you. Now is not the time to attempt an interrogation."
He wrapped his hand tightly around her wrist. Tight enough to bruise, no doubt. She did not flinch or attempt to remove it from where it was. For a moment, it was quiet as their battle of wills morphed into a staring contest.
Despite his stubborn refusal to say it out loud, he knew she was right. There was nothing to be gained from attempting to argue with her now. He was ill prepared, stretched for time, and in much too public a setting to continue this conversation in earnest.
Still, even if he would have otherwise been willing to admit that she was right, the way she spoke to him like he was a kneazle she had to hold back by the scruff of its neck pissed him off. It was condescending. It was uncalled for.
It did not change that she was right, and he felt the need to punish her for it.
Loosening his grip, he slid his hand past her wrist until it met the tips of her fingers. He pulled them into his hand and brought them to his lips in a parody of the chivalrous gesture. His eyes never left her own. As soon as his lips made contact with the skin of her knuckles, she shivered. It was subtle, but it did not escape his notice. A second later, color rose to her cheeks. Though he did his best to bite back his amusement, she must have seen it somehow, because in the next she ripped back her hand and used it to swat at his shoulder.
"Stop that," she hissed. "You are not doing this when anyone could walk in and see you."
"When, then?"
The question could have been seen as flirtatious, but they both knew better. He was asking for confirmation that this was not over, that the conversation would be continued later.
She ran her hand over her face. "Later. Not now."
"How conveniently nonspecific."
"Tom," her voice was just barely above a whine, "please. Later."
He ran his tongue along his teeth. That was still not a confirmation, and he shouldn't accept it as good enough, but she had said please. She was begging him to let it go. It was in his power to offer her mercy, to allow trust to build.
He forced his muscles to relax as he gave her a solemn look. "I'll hold you to that."
With five minutes left before class, he unlocked the door himself on the way out.
Author's Note: A few things here
- I know this took longer than usual to update, but please understand that I'm doing this in my free time and when I don't have time, I don't have time.
- Last time, some readers appreciated the little explanations I added about Hermione's behavior. Again, no spoilers, but I want to justify my chatacterization of her here. A Hermione that handles her emotions in a healthy, assertive, productive way is OOC, and you can fight me on that. As much as she lectures Ron and Harry about their emotions, she handles her own by either being passive aggressive or wallowing in self pity. As annoying as I find that, writing her any other way just felt too OOC for me. Her hot and cold attitude towards Tom here is due to her internal struggle about being angry with herself for liking him, and also feeling responsible for him as her student.