Chapter 20: Of Strawberry Surprises and Long-Lost Memories
Saturday, December 4, 1944
10:31 A.M.
"What did you say you were doing today?" Ginny asked Hermione from her place curled up comfortably on a fluffy recliner in the made-over, currently den-like Room of Requirement.
"I'm..." Hermione paused in front of an elegant, full-length mirror set up decoratively along one of the Room's walls. "Erm..." Sticking two sturdy hair bands between her teeth, she pulled what she could of her soft, curly chocolate brown hair into two French-braided pigtails, adding the ties at the end of each braid as she went so only a few curly wisps around her face remained free. "...going to Hogsmeade."
"Oh, that's right, Hogsmeade", Ginny muttered darkly, not coming off as one in a particularly cheerful mood. Critically eyeing the remainder of her appearance — nearly knee length, furry white snow boots, a toasty but attractive time-appropriate skirt, rose turtleneck sweater, and her blue and bronze embroidered, dark Ravenclaw cloak — Hermione decided that a simple warming charm would most likely serve as good enough guard against the unrelenting, bitter winter chill that she would undoubtedly find at the village.
Her eyes taking in the otherwise deserted Room of Requirement, Hermione frowned. "Hey, Gin, have you seen everyone else? I know Harry's last Dark Arts meeting was last night, if you know what I mean, but Ron, Lav, and Draco said they would all be going."
"Oh, I know what you mean," Ginny agreed, "and the merry band of resident DEs partied until the wee hours of the night, if you know what I mean. So Harry crashed back into the Slytherin Commons at three in the morning and hasn't woken up yet. I don't especially blame him. As for the rest of them, I've got one word for you, darling." Ginny unaffectedly flipped the page of the 1944 December edition of Witches' Vogue in her hands. "And that's 'Quidditch.' "
Hermione's mouth dropped open, and she glanced over her shoulder and through the frosted window... at the fat, falling, blowing snow that seemed as if it had appeared out of a winter wonderland. "They have practice in that?" Goodness, guys and sports... Wait, I take that back, Lavender's not a guy, and she's out there...
"Yeah, thank Captain Abraxas who decided to use his brain for once and not book Slytherin the pitch on a weekend; it's saved us a nasty bit of flying, let me tell you. Hufflepuff's practice runs today, though, right after Gryffindor's, so neither Ron nor Lavender could make it." "Apparently, Beater Draco's not doing as well as he had hoped; Captain Ab's giving him a bit of a hard time for it right now in the Quidditch lockers, or so I've heard, so he's out for the rest of this afternoon... and you know I've got this stupid Herbology project with Stefan Stinkerpinks, or whatever his sodding name is..."
"Shrimperdinks", Hermione corrected absently, throwing on her cloak. "Whatever." Ginny rolled her eyes. Absently, she fingered the green and red cover of Witches' Vogue, but then, as if on inspiration, she snapped her fingers, pointing at Hermione. "Why don't you go with Dominic Davies? Ravenclaw doesn't have Quidditch today, and I've heard that Davies has a bit of a thing for you, actually— And Hermione, you have to admit, with him being the captain of the Ravenclaw team, you have a very eligible with a capital E Christmas Soiree date in the bag—"
"Actually", Hermione began, returning her attention to the mirror and watching her reflection as she wrapped her striped Ravenclaw scarf around her neck, moving on to her blue and bronze gloves, "I'm already going with someone. To Hogsmeade, I mean." She finished with the gloves and moved on to a dark blue winter hat, complete with a little round puff of bronze and blue at the top. She pulled it over her French-braided head, watching Ginny watch her in a calculating manner in the mirror. Deciding that a quick exit was the best way to go, she waved as cheerfully as she could at Ginny's redheaded reflection and turned toward the door... but before she made it, Ginny inquired in a neutral voice, "Did he ask, or did you?"
Hermione's feet reluctantly halted, inches from the door. "I did," she replied honestly, spinning back around toward Ginny. "He hasn't gone before because he never had any parents to sign his permission. Ever."
Ginny snorted. "Oh, poor boy, then, isn't he?" Flinging aside the Witches' Vogue with a sudden, newfound energy, and using that dark, acidic tone she only used when talking about Lord Voldemort —the man who had possessed her, had made her first year at Hogwarts a waking nightmare— Ginny stood lithely, tightly grasping Hermione's shoulders. "Don't think for a minute that he hasn't been there, Hermione! You can bet that he's gone there illegally for all of his Dark Magic activities and Death Eater contacts, you can bet yourself that!"
Hermione sighed and wrapped her arms around Ginny's, placing her hands on Ginny's shoulders. "Ginevra, do you remember what I asked all of you to do for me back in here a few days ago, particularly regarding a certain curse, a certain plan of mine, and a certain Heir of Slytherin?"
At hearing her full name, Ginny winced, but that didn't mean she was giving up. "I know, I know, Hermione; no interfering. But let me say this once, one time, and then I swear on Merlin's grave, I will never bring it up again. I will never even mention your relationship with Vol —Riddle— ever, ever again. I swear." Somehow, Hermione found Ginny's last phrase a bit hard to swallow, but didn't interrupt.
Her voice lowered urgently, gaining both momentum and a desperate, untamed air. "Hermione, I've seen the side of him that you can't seem to accept is there. I've seen the Darker side, I've felt the pure, utter evil that eats and eats away at innocent people's souls!" Her normally assertive voice caught slightly, but she swallowed hard and continued quietly, "Until all that's left is a ghost of what was."
"I remember, Gin," Hermione muttered, leaning her forehead against Ginny's, their arms still entangled, "You know that I do." Her eyes saddened at the memory. By no means had she forgotten how the Diary had, for so long, affected Ginny. But... there was something about that idea, the idea of the diary...
Hermione frowned momentarily, but her mind was racing. Slowly, thoughtfully, not quite sure where the actual inspiration for it came, she mused, "But was it Riddle who actually set up that diary to act as it did, Gin, or was it Lord Voldemort?"
Abruptly, Ginny untangled herself and stepped back from Hermione. Her brown eyes probed her friend in disbelief, as if she couldn't quite believe that the Head Girl for two years running was not able to see what she, Ginny —and what everyone else, it seemed— so clearly saw. "You know, Hermione, call me crazy, but I've always been under the rather popular impression that Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort are, and always have been, the same person."
Her hand resting on the smooth, cool knob of the Room of Requirement door, Hermione froze. She had never thought of it like that before, but Ginny was right: they were the same person. Weren't they?
10:56 A.M.
Hermione was still mulling over Ginny's parting words as she trotted down the stairs outside the Great Hall. Of course Riddle was Lord Voldemort... After all, it was he who had invented the name in the first place. Thinking that the two weren't one and the same was madness, utter rubbish...
But yet, as cruel, dangerous, sinister, and murderous as she knew Lord Voldemort to be... she was still waiting for Tom Riddle to do anything more than raise his voice to her. And Riddle had only done that once, when he had found out that she was running an underground party operation behind his back. Had the roles been reversed, Hermione would have probably hexed him on the spot. And then Riddle had turned around and thanked her; not once, not twice, but three times.
It could have all been an act, she reminded herself wearily, tired of constantly arguing back and forth with herself on this subject when she was clearly going nowhere with it. You've seen for yourself how skilled he is at spinning entirely convincing stories. But, in all honesty, she thought - waving back at Dominic Davies after he and about five other seventh year Ravenclaw she remembered meeting during classes or at lunch beckoned her over to their haunt by the open courtyard door - she didn't think that any of the comments Riddle had voiced to her the previous Thursday night —the night she had asked him to Hogsmeade— were acts. Or, for some mad reason, she just desperately wanted to believe that he was telling her the truth.
"Hermione!" Davies greeted enthusiastically as soon as she arrived. Hermione couldn't help but be struck by how much he resembled his grandson Roger... the same impression she got every time she saw him. "Going to Hogsmeade, I see; excellent!"
"Excellent except I should probably finish all of my Christmas shopping today", Hermione countered, then groaned as the truth of the statement sank in. With the rapid approach of the Christmas Soiree (and all the extensive preparations involved), this would most likely be her last free weekend, let alone free Hogsmeade weekend, before Christmas. "Is it still snowing?"
Davies cocked his head to the left a bit so he could see out the courtyard door. "Nope, looks like it let up for a bit", he reported as the cavalry of horseless carriages arrived... Horseless, at least, for those students still innocent to the trials of life, Hermione thought as she noticed one thestral quicken its pace to catch up to the carriage in front of it.
"Du Lac let slip in Potions yesterday about how none of them could make it to Hogsmeade this weekend... except you." The Ravenclaw grinned amicably, the smile lighting up his unquestionably good-looking, fair features. "If you're desperate, you're always welcome to join up with a couple of blokes like us."
"I know, Dominic", she smiled. Standing beside the six strapping, lofty Ravenclaw Quidditch players, she suddenly realised how an ant must feel walking into a roomful of humans. Right now, she was definitely the ant. "Thanks, really, but today I have some official business I'm on, I'm afraid."
DONG!... DONG!... DONG!...
Before Davies could question her on what exactly this 'official business' was, the ancient clock in the Great Hall struck eleven; its low, resonate sound could be heard even over the nearly riotous noise of rowdy students. By now, the front foyer and parts of the snow-dusted courtyard outside were choked with witches and wizards of all ages, sizes, and dress.
Somehow, though, Hermione doubted Tom Riddle would ever approach her if she was standing around talking with a large group of seventh year Quidditch players, including a captain. Tom Riddle just didn't work that way. Cheerfully, she waved goodbye as Davies disappointedly nodded his farewell, and he his way out to the carriages with the five other Ravenclaws. The group easily managed to pick up a few giggling girls in the relatively short distance between the courtyard door and the line of waiting escorts.
With a last glance out the door, Hermione turned, carefully scanning the crowded room from top to bottom for a glimpse of Tom Riddle's dark head. She found nothing. Luckily, her invite from the past night chose that exact moment to run through her memory. "I'll meet you at the Great Hall staircase at eleven?" Of course, the staircase!
Deftly twirling her wand twice about her fingers, Hermione threaded, to the best of her ability, through the various cliques of students. She jammed her wand back in her pocket as the crowd spit her out, astonishingly unscathed but gasping for air, right in front of the staircase. Well, that was luck.
Still seeing no sign of Riddle, Hermione perched precariously on the edge of the seventh step up. Another unsuccessful search around the foyer below, and a doubt, a tiny seed of a doubt but still a seed nonetheless, began to take root in the pit of her stomach. Would Riddle be hopelessly late, just to capitalise on the nasty lack of punctuality that had seemed to follow Hermione around at the beginning of the year? Had he forgotten, even? Would he even show up at all?
Eleven passers-bys later, a long shadow appeared over her right shoulder, and her suspicions were, blissfully, proved wrong when she tilted her head backwards, her relieved eyes meeting Tom Riddle's exhausted ones.
Okay, so maybe she was just a tad bit surprised that Riddle had showed up. She wasn't surprised, though, when she caught a little glimpse of Riddle's uniform through the folds of his worn but thick, dark, forest green cloak. Was he glued to that uniform?
"Morning", she greeted, giving him a bright smile— albeit an upside-down one, from his point of view above her. She squinted in the bright torchlight shining directly to his left. "Ready?" Riddle simply tilted his head toward the courtyard door. "The carriages are about to leave. Let's go." "Okay, okay, I'm coming," she muttered, pushing herself to her feet. Even from Riddle's opening words, she was getting the odd impression that he was keeping himself more guarded today than usual.
Brushing off the back of her cloak, Hermione followed Riddle down the remaining Great Hall steps, taking the lead out into the snow-dusted, grey winter morning. The icy winter blast blew savagely through the folds of her cloak, and she quickened her pace, purposefully striding toward the very last carriage. Wrenching open the nearly frozen-shut door, she hopped energetically inside.
Plopping down on the soft, rich, warm crimson seat, she expected Riddle to be right after her... but he was trailing some way behind, head bowed slightly, arms wrapped around himself to block the cold— but also as if in... self-defence? His steps were slower than usual as well; each one seemed deliberate, calculated. Tentative, even? No. Hermione shook her head, deciding her imagination had gone too far. If Tom Riddle was anything, he wasn't tentative. Riddle climbed into the carriage a moment before it pulled away.
The carriage jerked abruptly and began to roll forward. Hermione noticed that Riddle was also very quiet. As the short journey to Hogsmeade went on, the lids of his tired eyes would occasionally droop in the dim carriage lighting, but he did a fine job of keeping them open by focusing his blank gaze directly across from him, on a random spot on Hermione's dusty rose sweater. He couldn't, however, hide the small but extremely conspicuous dark half circles under his eyes.
Her stomach sank. This, if anything, directly pointed toward the boy across from her as leader of the Death Eaters. If Harry was still asleep after the meeting the night before, then Riddle should have been dead in bed... Figuratively speaking, of course. She was amazed that he had agreed to come to Hogsmeade in the first place.
Now, though, was the perfect opportunity for her to find out more about his daily whereabouts, Hermione realised. She stopped watching the all-white scenery blur by the frosted window, and, shifting her eyes to face Tom Riddle, asked innocently, "Late night?" Riddle's eyes flickered up to Hermione's face, completely unreadable, as usual. "You could say that," he muttered apathetically, coolly. Not elaborating.
Aw, come on, Tom, you can do better than that. Hermione pretended to nod in mock-satisfaction, began to turn back toward the window... and sharply glanced back at Riddle, her eyes curious. "Why?" Riddle shrugged, much less carelessly than in her previous experiences with him, and a little half-smirk appeared on his face. "You don't give up, do you?" he asked, his voice quiet, weary. It was more of a statement than a question, really, and as such she didn't warrant him with an answer.
He absently removed his dark gloves and began rubbing them absently between his fingers. Out of the blue, he said, "I read the book you gave me." His stormy eyes left the weaves and folds of his gloves to gauge Hermione's reaction. Before she could stop it, a teasing smile lit her face, and she decided to drop the Death Eater meetings mini-investigation... for now. "So, was it everything you dreamed it would be, and more?" she asked with the slightest of smiles.
Riddle smirked and looked out the carriage window. "It was worth reading, if that's what you mean." The passing pristine and snow-covered wilderness had begun to thin out, signalling their arrival to Hogsmeade. As he began to tug his gloves back on his hands, he added, more roughly, "Where's du Lac, Nefertari? And the rest of your entourage, West and West and Evans and Brown? It's not at all like them to leave you all by your lonely self."
Hermione's eyebrows popped up incredulously. Good Merlin, I get you permission to come here and this is what I get? Honestly. Exasperatedly, she rolled her eyes, praying that this would not be a Tom Riddle Attitude Day.
"First off, Riddle," she began tartly, "they are not my entourage, they are my friends. Big difference there. Second, it's not possible for me to be 'left by my lonely self' because I have this incredible —and somewhat rare ability, in your case— to enjoy myself most anywhere, at most any time, with most any person, in most any situation." All right, so that may be stretching it just a bit. But he doesn't know that!
"Third," she briskly continued before Riddle could get a word in edgewise, her crisp voice raising a notch, almost to the point where she would have knowingly waggled a finger at him had they actually been friends, "had Draco, Ron, and Lavender not had Quidditch practice, had Harry not been sleeping, and had Ginny not needed to finish an urgent Herbology project, you can bet they would be here right now."
She paused for breath, her heart pounding in her chest, suddenly growing concerned about how Riddle would take her rant. Great. For all she knew, she could have just ruined the afternoon. Yeah, way to worry about that now, Hermione. He started it! A corner of her mind bleated childishly. The one thing she didn't expect, however, was the corner of Riddle's lips to quirk upward into another of his smirks. "So there."
What? she thought as the carriage rolled to a shaky stop and its doors clicked open. As Riddle gracefully exited the carriage, her eyes narrowed for a split second, about ready to come up with some kind of sarcastic comeback. 'So there?' In spite of herself, a laugh escaped her lips as the appropriateness of his two words hit her.
Hurriedly, she pulled on her cloak and poked her head out the carriage door, the frigid wind not the least bit inviting. Riddle was leaning casually against the side of the carriage, large white snowflakes already beginning to dot his dark hair. "Touché, Riddle, touché". Smile still on her face, she wrinkled her nose. "I suppose I deserved that, didn't I?"
"Thank you", he replied mildly, his voice augmenting slightly to be heard over the growing yells of the rest of the student body being let loose, "and yes, you did."
Unexpectedly, almost nonchalantly, Tom Riddle reached up from his lounge against the carriage and offered her his hand. Hermione gaped down at his outstretched glove for at least five seconds, completely taken aback. Her mouth opened, snapped shut... and she took it, balancing on his hand as she bounced out of the carriage and to the ground. She released it quickly. "Thanks."
Proud at how well she had masked her utter shock at his... manners, should she call them?— Hermione shook her head slightly. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind. This was going to be an interesting afternoon.
2:23 P.M.
"And that one—that one right there—that's a Tongue Twisting Toffee". Hermione pointed at one of the several variously shaped wrapped candies Tom Riddle was holding up in his gloved palm. A strong gust of wind blasted through the small village, and she involuntarily shuddered... whether from the weather or from the thought of what the toffee could do to a person, Hermione wasn't sure. "Trust me, you don't want that one."
Riddle sceptically studied the pile of sweets in his hand. "If it were you who had to risk it, which one would you have?" Hermione furrowed her brow, seriously considering his question. The muffled conversations and sporadic shouts from inside the Three Broomsticks only served to radically disrupt her concentration. "Well, I actually have to admit, I do like a lot of them —yeah, scary, isn't it?— but my favourite one... would have to be..."
Scooting right next to Riddle, closer than she would have ever dared to be —or even wanted to be, for that matter— before the past few weeks, Hermione poured over his glove, some wisps of curly hair falling into her face as she lightly pawed through her options.
"Umm... This one". She emerged triumphantly, holding up a brightly wrapped spiral. Riddle eyed the candy suspiciously, sliding the remaining sweets back into the bag he had been carrying: a small, red paper pouch with an ornate, cursive gold Honeydukes stamped onto its side. She handed Tom Riddle the spiral, pink paper-wrapped toffee.
"What is it?" he asked circumspectly, eying it warily. "It's called a Strawberry Surprise; it tastes like strawberry". Hermione began walking alongside him down the snowy avenue, their feet crunching with each step as they passed a group of frolicking third-years, the bright but cloudy morning already having darkened into afternoon. "Well, isn't that original". As Hermione narrowly dodged a rogue snowball, he smiled. "Why is it a surprise?"
Hermione dignifiedly straightened her cloak, tossing a dirty look over her shoulder at Dominic Davies, the culprit of the snowball, which she now figured wasn't as rogue as she had first thought it to be. Turning back to Riddle, she mirrored his expression. "It's a surprise, Riddle, because you never know what you might get."
Another burst of snow blew up and danced across the road in front of them, and one of Hermione's braids actually whipped up into Riddle's shoulder. Laughing, she grabbed her hat with one hand and pulled the braid back with the other, partially tucking it under her cloak.
Riddle, though, went silent, and the only other noise came in the form of war whoops from the full-fledged snowball fight that had erupted in the street behind them. As even that began to fade into the distance, Hermione could honestly say that she was glad to leave the hectic business of the village behind.
"What does it do?" Riddle finally asked, holding up the spiral toffee once more. Out of nowhere, her competitive streak reared its eager head. "Hm, don't know," she mused quite innocently, though the wicked smile that had slid across her face sent quite an opposite message. She nodded slyly at the Strawberry Surprise. "Why don't you try it and find out?"
Riddle's eyebrows shot up. He stared at her briefly, then deftly unwrapped the spiral, revealing two toffee cylinders, one pink and one white, wrapped together like a double helix. Though she still strolled on, Hermione slowed down and reached over. Carefully taking hold of the pink strand, she peeled the two apart so that he was only holding the thin white roll. "All right, you eat that one, and I eat this pink one. On three. One, two..."
Both she and Riddle popped their respective pieces into their mouths, and a familiar, mouth-watering, heavenly fruity flavour burst through her taste buds. Closing her eyes, savouring the taste, she waited for the sure-fire comment from Riddle... and, not surprisingly, it came soon after. "For as good as it tastes, Nefertari, nothing exciting's happening."
Hermione glanced over her shoulder to making sure that she and he were the only two within a reasonable distance. Momentarily smiling at the flashing cloaks and flying snowballs that she could just make out in the Hogsmeade streets at least a quarter of a kilometre back, Hermione slid off one of her blue gloves and stopped walking. "Now touch my hand."
Tom didn't even bother to hide the suspicion that jumped back to his eyes. "Why?" he asked guardedly, no doubt remembering the several other instances in which his skin and Hermione's had made physical contact. Delighted, gleeful, Hermione realised that her best response was a question that she had been dying, dying to ask for weeks, but had never had the proper opportunity. Now, though, she seized her chance.
Giving Tom Riddle her most charming smile, feeling her eyes light up, her one dimple even sliding into place — that being a miracle in itself— she inquired in the most innocent, most charismatic, most sincere-sounding voice she had ever used on anyone, "Tom... Don't you trust me?"
Riddle's wary expression froze on his face. Thinking back on it, Hermione honestly couldn't remember ever seeing anyone go as still as quickly as Riddle had just then. For at least a minute, he hesitated, and their breathing — his controlled and rhythmic, hers light and slightly breathless, the quiet whoooosh of the breeze, the distant student howls, the chattering winter birds, and the occasional heavy thud as a pile of snow fell from a tree branch to the ground were the only sounds audible to both of them.
Hermione's mind wandered back to her earlier years, her naive years when she had had no knowledge of the wonders of the wizarding world, wandered to her Muggle school literature classes —simplified for the younger children, of course— where she had readily memorised the four conflicts of the human person: Man vs. nature, man vs. society, man vs. man... And man vs. self. She knew that her last rhetorical question had thrown another clash into his mind. By going along with her original request, Tom Riddle would be giving out an extremely personal statement. Yes, he'd touch her hand, or no, he wouldn't? Did he trust her or not?
Slowly, ever so slowly, with his grey, piercing gaze never losing sight of her face, Riddle stuck his Honeydukes bag into his cloak pocket and began to tug off the fingers of his right glove, removing them one by one. He took such a long time, Hermione wondered if he was repeatedly re-convincing himself, with each finger, to do what he was about to. Finally, though, the dark glove was off. And with a final, intense gaze into her expectant eyes, Riddle extended his hand.
Hermione watched, not moving an inch, her breath surprisingly coming in quicker, more vigorous bursts, as he reached out to her. His fingers, long, piano player like, hovered for a split second, indecisive... until they gave in and brushed against her soft fingertips.
At the exact moment Riddle made contact with her, she firmly closed her hand around his, waiting for the Strawberry Surprise to kick in. It didn't disappoint. Almost immediately his eyes squeezed shut, and a small, hardly noticeable jerk passed through him. Just as quickly, his eyelids fluttered open again, and he seemed a bit disorientated, his hand gripping hers more tightly. "What..." His unsteady gaze finally landed on her, and he seemed almost surprised to see her standing next to him. "Was that yours?"
Hermione nodded, a smile breaking out on her face despite the overcast, dismal skies. Flicking a few snowflakes off her nose, she asked curiously, "What'd you see?"
Riddle distantly glanced off toward the forest, his eyes not seeming to stare at any one spot in particular, and caught his breath. "I saw... you, but you were younger, much younger, and a woman who looked like she could be... your mother?" Hermione nodded, suddenly grateful that her mum had always been one to tan easily and retain the colouring all year long. She had a vague idea of which happy memory of hers the Strawberry Surprise toffee had given to Riddle, but she signalled for him to continue.
"Your mother, and, judging by the lack of space, your entire family was there, I assume... It looked to be Christmas..." Riddle furrowed his dark brow. "You were decorating, singing, eating... doing whatever else it is that people like yourself do at parties..."
'People like yourself...' Purebloods, you mean. Hermione couldn't help but give a little dignified snort at his last comment. If only he knew the truth— Hey! It's still here!
Gleefully, Hermione spied a small, snow-covered gazebo in the near distance, its white colouring almost rendering it camouflaged with its surroundings. In the past —er, future— the gazebo was broken-down, dirty, cobwebbed, and used as a far border for the fence surrounding the Shrieking Shack. Now, though, the Shrieking Shack was not yet constructed, and it looked sparkling clean, brand new, empty, inviting, and completely— "Dry", she said dreamily, then covered her mouth in dismay when she realised that she had actually voiced the thought aloud. Bemused, Riddle followed her gaze, his eyes landing on the gazebo. "I actually agree with you entirely on this one, Nefertari."
That was all the encouragement Hermione needed. Her original smile never having totally left her face, she tugged on his hand —still holding hers— and began to pull him off the beaten path toward the bench... before she remembered exactly who she was touching and swiftly released his hand, taking up the narrative.
"I don't think I'll ever forget that Christmas. Just imagine this. You were right, I have a huge extended family, and we've all chipped in and rented out a French chateau for the week. It's madness; I swear, I'll never do it again. Dad and the other big, strong men of the family decide to 'venture out into the wilderness' and cut the Christmas tree 'the old-fashioned way.' So they go right out into the woods next to the chateau with these gigantic axes and saws and such, and come back hours later, dragging this massive thing—which they can barely even fit through the chateau doors, might I add."
Muttering under her breath what remotely sounded like, "Men", she laughed, hopping a log and landing in half-metre pile of snow on the other side. Stupid... snow...
With determination, she pulled herself free and trudged doggedly onward toward the gazebo. Whoever puts a gazebo this far away from the road, anyway?
"Anyway, as I've said, the whole family's over", she decided to continue, "and we have the admittedly... unwise custom of putting up all the Christmas decorations on Christmas Eve and then crashing until Christmas afternoon— And you can just wipe that smirk off your face; I didn't make the stupid tradition up!— so the entire place is basically in general chaos for twenty hours. So, dad's finally gotten the tree up, but as it was, he had forgotten to ask the family of squirrels already living in the tree to move out first."
From behind her, she heard him doubtfully ask, "Are you serious?"
Again glancing back over her shoulder at him, she was surprised to see that he appeared to be listening attentively to her every word, his mouth actually open just a bit, as if in surprise, and she laughed. "Oh, just wait, it gets better". Before she could continue, though, she shot into the gazebo with one last bound.
Merlin, we've made it! Immediately, she felt the shelter's wind-blocking ability take effect.
Relieved, she spun in a circle, arms held out, until she dizzily plopped down on one of the snow-free benches, completely worn out. Riddle followed close behind, a small smirk on his face, the top of his dark head now dusted with a light covering of snow. Hermione could only assume he was as happy to temporarily get out of the elements as she was... minus the circle-spinning, of course.
"Meanwhile, those little buggers are wreaking havoc on the chateau— Oooo, my dad wants to kill them". Smiling to herself as she remembered, she yawned and leaned her head back against one of the gazebo supports. "Of course, I'm only eight, I think they're the cutest things I've ever seen, and I've already picked out the one I want to keep, so, naturally, I get so upset with him when he just whips out a—, erm, wand."
Not noticing her almost-slip, Riddle smirked again, leaning against the support beam completely opposite her. "Naturally", he echoed, drawing his wand, tapping his hand, and muttering a simple warming charm.
"Right, and I naturally didn't speak to him for a week after that. I was a mean little kid. Anyway, those things are fast; dad nearly did more damage than the squirrels did". Wondering if he was planning on sitting down any time soon, Hermione paused, looking up at the tall Slytherin... and she trailed off, her words imperceptibly fading into oblivion, her mouth partially agape.
Tom Riddle was smiling, smiling an actual smile— she could tell because a few lines around the corners of his eyes had crinkled up, something that she had never seen occur during his barrage of insincere smirks and vacant grins. As abruptly as it had come, however, the smile faded, and Riddle sighed. Brushing a layer of snow off the shoulders of his cloak, he crossed the gazebo's diameter in less than two steps and sank down onto the bench beside her, staring at his hands: one glove-clad and black, the other exposed and light.
Hermione held back, hoping, praying that this entire afternoon had not been in vain, that she had given enough of herself to at least temporarily receive some of him in return. Come on, Riddle... say something...
"I wish I had memories like that."
Recognising when best to pull out of the game and turn spectator, Hermione hugged one knee up to her chest and leaned her head on it, merely gazing at him silently, feeling sympathy in her expression in spite of herself.
"Sometimes", Riddle continued in a low, raw voice, "Sometimes... I hate my life. I hate who I was, who I am, and I... I want to be someone else. Someone who has more control over what happens to him, someone who has the power to get exactly what he wants in life and not have anyone tell him that he's not good enough..." He looked away, off at the snow-covered vista, his jaw visibly clenched. Hermione felt her stomach sink, certain he was going to start preaching the Dark Arts any time now. She began to stare blankly at her snow-covered boot as he went on, "Someone I know I could be, there's no doubt of that, but someone I'm..."
He hesitated, and a spring of hope rushed back to Hermione's mind. She tore her gaze back to his face with interest as he said, even more quietly, "Someone I'm not entirely sure I want to be, now." He stopped speaking suddenly, as if realising he had said too much. "It's rather difficult to explain", he muttered. He shook his head resignedly, inadvertently sending a small shower of stray snowflakes flying in all directions.
Hermione's stunned eyes, still wide open from Riddle's extremely personal revelations, quickly blinked and cleared, and she studied his angry, frustrated, wholly cheerless profile. Her mind, however, was racing, zooming at record speeds, his last line still reverberating in her mind like a broken record: 'Someone I'm not entirely sure I want to be, now'... 'Someone I'm not entirely sure I want to be, now...' But why now; why not before?...
"Riddle", she began slowly, wanting nothing more than to punch herself just to shut off her own over-analytical brain, "you can't control everything that happens. It's not possib—"
"Look at you!" he burst out unexpectedly, spinning back around to stare at her accusingly. Hermione quickly, subconsciously slid a few inches away from him down the bench. "Look at your bloody life! Your perfect family, your happy little friends..." A bitter scowl spread across his face as he turned away again and bit out scathingly, "You know a lot, Nefertari, I won't deny that, but you can't even begin to understand anything about how much of a hell this horrid thing we call life can be—"
"My parents are dead," Hermione said quietly, calmly. Waiting.
"-you can't even—What?" he asked suddenly, nearly tripping over his own momentum as he came to an abrupt stop, still slightly breathless from his outburst. He sharply swivelled his head back to stare at her.
"My parents died when I was fifteen years old," she repeated patiently, her mouth going dry. "I came home fifteen minutes too late."
Riddle's eyebrows shot up. She had clearly caught him completely off-guard: he wasn't even bothering to hide the intense astonishment, as well as the —was it guilt?— scrawled all over his face. He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, closed it, then opened it again. "They... they did?" he asked dubiously.
Hermione gave him a small, empty smile. She had known that their conversations would most likely come down to this; she had realised that her passed family would eventually end up being a source of leverage, a source of connection between Tom Riddle and herself and their similar situations. Well, sort of similar. Now, though, now that the time to discuss it had actually come ...
Mum! Dad! Where are you? Her mind bleated piteously, desperately, and right at that very moment, more than anything, Hermione wanted her parents more than she had ever wanted them during the past two and a half years they had been gone. "Yes", she eventually answered Riddle quietly, "they did."
"But..." the Slytherin shook his head, and he looked like he was still having an extremely difficult time swallowing what she had just told him. "But that was only two years ago."
"Three, actually", Hermione said absently, staring at a pair of students —who suspiciously resembled Jacobson Andrews and Phyllis Hardiman— as they danced down the road a bit of a distance away, holding hands, and, ultimately, ducking into a small, abandoned shack set a few metres from the deserted avenue. She smiled half-heartedly. If only.
"You're eighteen?" he asked, and she was surprised to detect even more surprise and disorientation in his normally super-composed, omniscient voice. "Yes, last September..." She tore her eyes from the spot Jacobson and Phyllis had disappeared and straightened up. "Riddle, please, please hear me out, because this is really important." She scooted over and turned herself on the bench so she was facing Riddle's stiff figure directly, not even concerned that her face was no more than twelve inches from his.
"I can't say", Hermione began carefully, deliberately picking over her words, "that I know what if feels like to have my own father disown me," —she noticed the knuckles on Riddle's one ungloved hand grip the bench and turn white— "nor can I say that my mother has cursed me," —all the colouring drained from his face— "but I loved my parents very, very much, Riddle, and I..."
Her pitch raised a notch, and, to her horror, her eyes begin to burn, hot and powerfully, with unshed tears. Violently, she shoved the sensation away and continued, strangled, "I saw them both lying, dead, in our own house, on our own living room floor. And they were still warm, still... still—" Her voice catching, she choked up. Swearing at herself for suddenly becoming a wimp, she doggedly shook her head, feeling the tears recess back in. She was going to get through this; she always had.
Sucking in a breath, she continued in a stronger but relatively lifeless voice, "And I have to live with the knowledge that if I hadn't lingered on the way home, if I wouldn't have asked my ride to stop for a cup of coffee, if we wouldn't have talked to the waitress for so long, if I would have suggested another, faster route home... I might have gotten back in time to do something."
'Right, Hermione, something; what, you would've fought against the most powerful dark lord of our time and somehow managed to save all your lives?' Ron's scornful comment from so many years ago floated through her mind. 'Hermione, you're lucky you did do all those things... or we wouldn't have you with us right now.'
"And, just so you know," she addedy, "that is hell to deal with, too."
It may have been her imagination, but Hermione thought she actually saw Riddle's stormy eyes soften as he stared at her. Finally, he ripped his gaze back to his hands. "I suppose we've both lost everything in our own different ways, then... haven't we?"
She blinked rapidly and quickly glanced up at the gazebo's roof, feeling one single, runaway tear escape from her eye and trickle along the side of her face, freezing solid halfway down her cheek. "Yes." Both Head Boy and Girl fell silent, but soon Hermione felt Riddle's eyes again land on her, and he muttered, "Nefertari, what happened?"
A distinct, eerie chill tingled down her spine at the cruel irony of the entire situation. "They were both murdered by..." she thoughtfully ran her tongue over her cold lips, "the epitome of evil." Riddle sat quietly, mulling, before he asked, "Grindelwald?"
"It doesn't matter who", Hermione said firmly, wanting to move the conversation back to a definite safe zone. "What matters is —the point of this entire speech, from which I've gone so horribly off-topic, is... Riddle," she began again, having composed herself enough to finish what she had started, her eyes lighting up encouragingly, "You can make memories like the ones I have, you know. No matter what's happened in your life, you can."
Briefly, he closed his eyes, and, in his lap, his hands balled into fists. Ducking his head, shaking it half-heartedly as if to disagree, Tom Riddle muttered, "Quite the idealistic picture you've painted, Nefertari, but you've come a bit too late for me, I'm afraid."
Hermione lowered her head slightly to his hunched level. Tilting it to the left so she could see into his eyes, she searched his gaze warmly, genuinely, deciding that she wasn't going to let him get off that easily. "Tom," she said delicately, almost breathlessly, knowing he would look at her like he always did whenever she called him by his first name, "It's never too late."
For an instant, for a single, solitary instant, Hermione thought that she could see a tiny, longing flicker of hope deep within Tom Riddle's apathetic grey eyes. Maybe, just maybe—
Suddenly, he emitted a small, startled yelp, bit his lip, and doubled over, clutching his stomach with one hand and the back of the bench with the other; in a matter of seconds, his face had turned completely ashen, and he began to cough violently, hardly able to catch his own breath.
For some bizarre reason —bizarre in that this was the possible future murderer of her parents with whom she was dealing— Hermione felt the bottom of her own already-queasy stomach fall out from under her at seeing someone —yes, even if that someone included Tom Riddle— hurting so badly. Even though she knew exactly what was going on, she grabbed his shoulder frantically and heaved him upright, asking automatically, urgently, "Tom! What's wrong?"
Instead, as a second jolt ripped through his body, she actually saw the pain in Tom Riddle's agonised grey eyes...and it wasn't Hermione who passed out next, but Riddle.