Thank you so much for all your reviews!
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I do want to address one specific question from azneejit for the benefit of all. I won't be writing sex scenes. I don't really trust myself with them. I've read a couple before, but I feel as if my writing one would result in dipping into a dreary bunch of clichés. So my apologies if you wanted to read one XD I assure you, reading a sex scene written by a 16-year-old girl who's never kissed a guy? You're not missing out on much.
Love,
Speechwriter.
Hermione flicked her wand, and the fork soared over to Revelend. He changed it into a small rubber duck, which was a strange choice for Revelend, and sent it flying to Riddle, who transformed it into a live mouse and shot it back at Hermione. She jabbed her wand at it. The newly-formed eggcup flew over to Abraxas, and he fired a spell at it, but it missed, and the eggcup hit the ground, shattering.
"I win!" said Hermione. "Oh, victory is sweet."
"Great," mumbled Herpo. "Erm, can I have my fork back now?"
Hermione laughed and handed him hers. "Sorry."
Wizard taps was excellent fun, Hermione decided. She was in high spirits that day – Tom was holding her hand, and Hermione didn't feel like anyone cared. She felt like she had been freed from the gossip cycle. None of the Gryffindors seemed to care at all what she did anymore, which was fantastic, despite the pangs in her chest she got whenever she caught Miranda or Godric's eyes in the Great Hall, or in the hallways.
Albus, though... Hermione didn't know about Albus. He wasn't the same Dumbledore she'd known. She knew that Dumbledore had had sort of a wild phase – and 1918 might have been right around the time that phase was ending. This Dumbledore certainly seemed like he was concealing something beneath his kind exterior, like he was still having trouble with his past – while the Albus Hermione had known had definitely managed to move on, leave it behind him. Weirdly enough, this was so much more evident from a distance, so much more evident when Hermione saw Albus striding around, giving glances to either side every so often, rather than the cool, calm sweep of earth's Dumbledore. And if this were a different Dumbledore, perhaps she was better off away from him, better off where she didn't have to risk changing her memory of the kind Dumbledore of her past.
After all, it was the same sort of thing with Tom. He was not the same, not at all. The Voldemort of earth would never even have had a chance if someone tried to get close to him. Tom, somehow, had let that happen.
He didn't even seem to be dwelling much on her broken promise, thank God. Maybe someday she could tell him, though it would hurt.
She was confident in her ability to keep secrets, though, confident that she had sufficiently hidden those days where he could not get at them, even if he cast Legilimens on her from around the corner or when he was kissing her.
Not that it was hard to make her mind go blank when he was kissing her.
"Off to Quidditch," sighed Abraxas. Hermione wasn't sure exactly what had turned him around, but the day after Riddle had told her he loved her Abraxas was sitting at breakfast, as cheery as he had ever been. Whatever it had been, Hermione was glad. She needed someone who was as irritatingly enthusiastic as Abraxas to balance out characters like Herpo and Revelend.
"Have a good practice," Hermione told Abraxas. He grinned and clapped Herpo on the back, sending him pitching forward.
There was no end to laughs at Herpo's expense. Hermione marveled at how good-natured he seemed to be, despite his scowls and sighs and general melodrama. With all the negative attention he got from his friends, however joking, Hermione felt like she would have tired of it – but he always just seemed to scowl and move on, and Hermione found herself joining in the laughter, because Revelend had told her once that scowling was Herpo's way of laughing.
"So, what are you doing today, Revelend?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I was thinking I might go and blow up some stuff in the Room of Requirement."
Hermione chuckled. "Well, have fun." He nodded stiffly and left the Great Hall.
Tom sighed. "The day I see Revelend emote, the world may end."
"Maybe you should lend him some of your repressed anger," teased Hermione.
His eyes narrowed. "I enjoy my repressed anger exactly where it is, Ms. Granger."
They made their way up the Grand Staircase and to Hermione's room. Then she reached under her pillow and pulled something out, a barely-suppressed grin on her face. "I got you something."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"
"Consider it a very late Christmas present. Or birthday present."
Riddle scrutinized the gift. She had wrapped it and everything – what a bizarre amount of effort for something completely unnecessary.
He removed the brown paper, and his lips quivered a little in a restrained laugh. "I hope you know I may never actually read this," he said, dangling the works of Dante between two fingers.
"Don't be like that. It's good, I promise. Just pretend Dante was some obscure wizard from ancient Peru or something."
Riddle gave a rare chuckle and opened the volume, which had THE DIVINE COMEDY emblazoned in obnoxiously large letters on the navy blue cover. The first page read, THE INFERNO. "So this is..."
Hermione pointed at the page. "This is the first of three books in the volume. The first describes the nine circles of Hell, the second describes Purgatory, and the last describes Heaven."
"Lovely," Riddle sighed. "I may flip through the 'Hell' section, if I feel like some bland reading..."
Hermione elbowed him. "This is far more quality literature than that stuff you read about making blood sacrifices."
"Au contraire," said Riddle smoothly. "The blood sacrifice book was actually based on fact. Now, the one about inhalation of toxic fumes and their effect on corpses might have been a bit speculative -"
Hermione's lip curled in mild disgust. "Honestly, Tom, I don't understand how you enjoy reading that."
"I don't understand how you don't. For one who preaches the wonders of open-mindedness, Hermione..."
She laughed. "As if open-mindedness really entails the approval of some creepy old Scottish wizard who went digging around through people's graves after sniffing glue."
Riddle closed his new book and placed it into the pocket of his robes. "Well, that certainly sounds like you've done some research on the topic," he said with a smirk. "Don't elbow me -"
She elbowed him. "All right. The library calls. I challenge you to find a book about something happy for a change."
"Boring," he mumbled as they walked down the hallway. "I'd rather read the Muggle Hell book."
"It's called The Inferno," Hermione said hotly, "not the Muggle Hell book."
Riddle shrugged. "Where did you even find it?"
"Room of Requirement. Handy for books you can't find in the library, I've found, although you can't really get them content-specific, which is irritating."
"Yes, the Room can only do so much," agreed Riddle. "Have you ever tried stretching it to its limits? It's surprisingly capable – I found an elephant in there once."
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "I've never really had the time."
"Let me guess. Too busy... studying?"
The way he said it was mocking, and Hermione shot him a dark look. "Maybe so," she sniffed.
He put an arm around her. "You know I find your study habits endearing."
They took a seat on the sofa. Melia had cast a fresh snowfall to celebrate the first day of February, so the castle's inhabitants had flocked outside, leaving the library deserted.
Riddle stretched out his legs, taking The Divine Comedy from his pocket. "Fine, I'll poke through this thing."
Hermione kissed him on the cheek. "Wonderful. I'm off to find some light reading." She walked into the many shelves of the library, leaving Riddle opening the book to the first page with ultimate distaste on his face.
Yet as Riddle read through it at his usual quick pace, he found himself not only interested by the book, but moderately disturbed by it. The godless, the lustful, the murderers, the proud – pretty much anything that this author deemed mildly 'wrong' was repaid a hundredfold within the pages of this book. He even made specific references to certain Muggles that Riddle had, mostly, never heard of.
It irked Riddle to see exactly how many of these categories he managed to slide into. In fact, it was so irritating that he snapped the book shut when he reached the eighth circle, not wanting to read further. He stared straight ahead, his dark eyes narrowed. Apparently everything was a so-called sin in the ancient Muggle world.
So he put his mind from the book, put his mind from thoughts of what he'd done that may or may not have been 'wrong', and his thoughts fixed again on Hermione.
She seemed ridiculously cheerful these days, as if there were a sun hidden inside her that shone out through her eyes and her smile, lending her hidden warmth. It almost made Riddle happy. He wondered, though, if she'd forgotten what she needed to do – get back to earth.
The thought of her leaving made Tom's stomach boil. He wanted to keep her there, keep her for himself. But some part of him knew that she felt obliged to return, that it pulled at her sense of righteousness. And Hermione Granger's sense of justice was not to be tried.
Tom attempted to wipe the dark look from his face as Hermione returned with a teetering stack of books and let them thud onto the table in front of them. Her eyes found his, and she said immediately, "What's wrong?"
He snatched the nearest available excuse. "The Muggle Hell book is annoying me immensely."
"Why is The Inferno irritating you?"
"Because, according to your precious Dante, I would be in practically all of these damn circles."
Hermione's eyebrows rose slightly. "Ah," she said, a little surprised that he actually cared. "Well, it's just his hypothesis," she continued. "Not like any of this is based in fact or anything. I just find it interesting to analyze." She sat down next to him, a bit concerned about the foul humor that seemed to have come over him. He turned, slinging his legs over the sofa arm, and laid his head in her lap.
"Muggles," he mumbled.
"I know," Hermione sighed. It was no wonder he hated Muggles so much, when the face he associated them with – Peterson's face – had such horrific memories attached. Her mind flicked back to Drew Caeziten's words – The darkest of sin is the most mortal – and then Hermione wondered what had happened to Peterson. That quote in the newspaper – I'm not sorry – was deeply, deeply disturbing. More disturbing was the idea that Tom might have drawn inspiration from that quote, might have never seen fit to apologize for anything because the man who had violated him, one who had been supposed to be trustworthy, had refused to apologize.
Hermione lightly traced Riddle's face with her index finger. The sunlight streaming in from the high windows illuminated his features with unnatural golden light, illuminated her small hand as it smoothed out the worry from his brow, illuminated every soft, fine strand of his dark hair. It was so difficult to recall the memories that lived behind that face, at least without a thudding reaction from her heart. No wonder he had such an unshakable poker face; he had been perfecting it since the age of six. It was small wonder he ever managed to relax that expression. But now he looked peaceful, calm, and Hermione wondered what he was thinking about.
Riddle felt her small hands trail over his face with immense satisfaction. Those hands were nowhere but on him, her legs were nowhere but under him, her face was nowhere but mere feet away, his to kiss if he wished. He let out a small sigh, and willed back the curiosity that inevitably streamed in when he was feeling at peace, but it couldn't be contained, as usual.
It had been a while since she'd had that haunted expression, that lost, wounded expression of remembrance, and he didn't miss it, because it meant she was in pain. But he wondered how she'd managed to forget everything, managed to push it beneath the surface of her mind. It was nearly as well as he'd managed to contain his own memories.
Riddle was still pulling together ideas to discover her death, but he was doing so halfheartedly, because the idea of hurting her was growing ever more unappealing. But one specific idea stuck in his mind, an idea that would surely stun her so completely that she'd be unable to resist a Legilimens. It wouldn't even take long – it couldn't hurt her for that long, if it was relatively quick, right?
He opened his eyes. Hermione was looking up at the windows, the yellowed light glowing on her face. Riddle swallowed and sat up slowly, slight dizziness striking him, and he wondered for the millionth time what it had been like to die, to be ripped soul from body – had it hurt? Had she been dueling someone? Which of his miserable followers had it been? Or had it been a mistake?
Hermione reached for the book on top of the stack. The Wizarding Worlds: Magical Cultures Around the Globe. She flipped it open and started to read, smiling slightly as her eyes trailed down the page.
Riddle sat up slowly. "Hermione," he said quietly, "you need to get back to earth."
And he knew, as he said the words, that they were true, no matter how much he may have wished for them to be false. And through the pain in her expression he could see that she knew it too. "I know," she whispered. "I just can't bring myself to want to."
"I don't want you to either," he said.
"Haven't you said Tom Riddle always get what he wants?"
He moved forward and pressed his lips briefly to hers, then put a pale hand to her face as he leaned back. "Not always," he whispered, "but that's a well-kept secret."
Hermione kissed him again, letting her book fall face-down into her lap as she lifted her hands to him.
"What if you move on?" Tom murmured. "You'll have missed your chance."
"That won't be for a while yet," sighed Hermione, pulling back. "I've heard the fastest anyone's ever moved is three years."
"Three years?" Tom said, his voice strained. "Hermione, that means you'll only have lived for twenty-one years. That's nothing. You should be trying to get back to earth, attempting to live out a long existence -"
"I told you," Hermione whispered fiercely, "I'm not leaving you here."
It would be safer if you did, Riddle thought to himself. Apparently, she still didn't fully realize what the curiosity of Tom Riddle could bring down upon someone. When he wanted to know something, he found it out, plain and simple, no matter what might happen along the way. If the plan he was mentally arranging now didn't work, he didn't know how long he'd be able to go without knowing. The four days since the broken promise already felt like years, years that it had been withheld, years that he had been planning, and then trying not to, but falling back into fantasies of plots –
And suddenly the idea of her trying to get back to earth was very unappealing indeed, for a very different reason than before. Not ever knowing the answer? Not ever? That could not happen. He wouldn't allow that to happen.
Riddle breathed out slowly as she placed her head on his shoulder. He should have known better than to think he might be able to have a normal relationship with someone. Not while this secret was alive – or relatively so – and well-kept.
xXxXxXxXx
Hermione looked over at the Gryffindor table. Someone was dinging a glass, a tall blond boy Hermione didn't know.
With his words, everything got very different, very fast.
"We have a new arrival," he said.
Hermione's heart seemed to slow down in her chest. Oh God please not Harry not Ron not Neville not Fred not George not Ginny not
"Minerva McGonagall."
Hermione stared. A sort of stricken sob emerged from her chest, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, but suddenly tears were spilling from her closed eyes, and there were several pairs of eyes on her. Hermione bit her tongue, desperately trying to restrain it. No, no, no, no, not Professor McGonagall not her not her NOT HER
A tall, sharp-eyed girl stood at the Gryffindor table and lifted a hand in a short greeting, then sat back down. Hermione's eyes were glued to the girl's face. Though young, she had the same face shape, the same serious expression – she was the same – she was here...
Hermione frantically reassured herself, looking back down at her plate, though she suddenly didn't feel hungry at all. This didn't mean McGonagall was necessarily dead, right? She could have done something that would have sent her here, something else – like Dumbledore – and with Minerva McGonagall's magical prowess, that wasn't unlikely. No, surely – surely – out of everyone, Professor McGonagall would be the one to survive, the one to live.
Riddle turned an eye on her. "Should we leave?"
Hermione shook her head and wiped her eyes, taking in a deep breath, still attempting to reassure herself. "No," she choked out. "I'm fine."
The chatter of the Great Hall resumed. Hermione looked over at the doors to see that Professor McGonagall was leaving, and Hermione nearly tripped and fell in a hurry to leave as well.
A little surprised, Riddle followed her. He could have sworn there had been a McGonagall a year or two above him back when he'd been at Hogwarts – was this the same girl? She'd been Head Girl – very abrupt, too, wouldn't stand for any messing about in the hallways or anything –
Hermione saw Professor McGonagall ahead, about halfway up the Grand Staircase. "Hello?" she called, her voice strangled, her throat seeming to have trouble letting anything out.
Professor McGonagall turned, and as her eyes fixed on Hermione, her mouth drifted open, her eyes widening. She stopped in the middle of the stairs. "Hermione Granger?"
Hermione turned. Tom was right behind her, but he couldn't be here for this. "Um," she said quietly, "could I see you later? This is... I just..."
He nodded and said, "No need to explain," turned, and walked back to the Great Hall, casting a glance over his shoulder at the McGonagall girl, but she wasn't looking at him – she was looking at Hermione. Staring, actually.
Hermione sprinted up the stairs and wrapped McGonagall in a fierce, tight hug, and suddenly she was crying again. "Professor," she sobbed, "please don't tell me you're – please don't tell me you're -"
McGonagall's thin eyebrows rose, and she took a step back, appraising Hermione. "Pull yourself together, Granger," she said.
Hermione sniffled and bit her lip, trying to restrain herself. "You're not dead, are you?"
It seemed like an eternity to Hermione before McGonagall answered. "No," she said. "No, I am not. Is that a customary inquiry for this castle?"
Hermione felt herself go limp with utter relief. She actually staggered down to a lower step, lifting a hand to her face, wiping her tears, and then a huge smile erupted on her face. "Oh, thank Merlin – thank God you're -"
Then McGonagall's eyebrows met in a sudden frown, and her eyes flashed with alarm. "Ms. Granger, are you...? Surely, you're – you're not..." She trailed off, unable to finish.
Hermione nodded slowly. "Yes. I've died," she said quietly.
McGonagall swallowed, a strange look on her face. Hermione realized her Transfiguration professor was upset. She always had been one of McGonagall's best students, after all – McGonagall had been so determined that Hermione would do well, at their Career meeting. To have all that ripped away…
"Tell me what's been happening," Hermione said. "Tell me what's going on at Hogwarts."
McGonagall swallowed. "Well, You-Kn – Voldemort – has sworn not to abandon Hogwarts until Harry Potter has been killed."
"So he's still alive?" breathed Hermione. "There are people who are okay? Are Harry and Ron okay? Who –"
"I don't know," sighed McGonagall, putting a hand to her forehead. "All I know is that Neville Longbottom and George Weasley are both alive and well – we three had been hiding in the walls of the Owlery, and we heard a noise, and I closed my eyes, and suddenly I was here."
"A loud noise?" Hermione asked breathlessly. George was alive. Neville was alive. That damn Boggart hadn't gotten the best of her – "What type of noise?"
"Like a … an explosion. But we weren't within range."
Hermione nodded slowly. McGonagall must have done some magic on Hogwarts that had been blown up, and then she'd been sent here – three people I know are alive and well. Hermione felt her eyes flooding with tears again, but she blinked them back. Three people shouldn't have been much of a relief, but now she knew there were some people who were all right – at least some – Merlin... the Dark Lord hadn't managed to catch everyone even with so much time to search. Hermione felt a strange triumph building inside her. "Is it still impossible to get out?" she asked.
McGonagall nodded. "The shields are still up all around the castle. Anti-Apparition wards, Impenetrables, Fortinbras' Membranes, everything he put up back when it first began – it's all still there. No matter how deep we dug, they didn't end." Hermione closed her eyes. They were still trapped inside, unable to leave. Then, "What happened to you?" whispered McGonagall, her eyes suddenly glimmering with worry again. "Why are you here, Ms. Granger?"
"I hid in the Room of Requirement. But he found me."
McGonagall's hand flew to her mouth.
"Three days, but I didn't tell him anything," Hermione murmured, trying to keep It as concise as possible, so she wouldn't remember it, so it wouldn't surface – "and then... and then the end."
McGonagall leaned against the stair's railing. "Granger, you are a true Gryffindor," she said softly, and Hermione thought her heart would burst from the praise – but there was no time for that, there was no time for her own memories; Minerva McGonagall was alive and well and standing right there –
"Are the Boggarts dead?" Hermione asked quickly.
"Yes. The Death Eaters grew tired of them."
Hermione sighed in relief. That had been half of the nightmare, for her – now the people who were there, the people who remained, could at least know what was real. "And... you haven't seen or heard anything about anyone else?"
"I was in a classroom, and I heard some talk about having some sort of 'she' in custody for questioning," said McGonagall. "Gracious, it's hard to believe I'm no longer there."
"You get used to it," Hermione replied quietly. "Have you met Godric Gryffindor?"
McGonagall nodded. "Quite a surprise," she said, with a rare tight-lipped smile. "One wouldn't think he would be such a buffoon."
Hermione chuckled, fondness spreading through her. That was the word, indeed... She shook her head. "How long has it been since the Death Eaters got in?" she asked, just to make sure it had been a little over ten months, as it should have been.
"Nearly seven months," McGonagall replied. Hermione frowned. That didn't work, with her calculations.
"Are you... are you sure?" Hermione asked. She'd used hers and R.J.'s exact dates of arrival; how could... but then again, time was only ever fluid, perhaps inconsistent – so there was no way to figure out the time back on earth. Hermione swallowed, panic filling her. That meant that time could be rushing by right now after a slow patch and she would never know, meant that one second could be a month and –
"Yes, I'm sure. I feel as if I've aged twenty years in those months," said McGonagall. "It's awful, Granger. We've called them the Days of Terror, though who knows if they'll ever end -"
"Tell me everything," Hermione said fiercely. "Tell me everything that's happened to you, everything you've seen. I have to know."
They walked up to an empty classroom, sat down, and McGonagall told her exactly that.
xXxXxXxXx
Riddle sat in front of the fire, feeling alone. This McGonagall girl – so Hermione had known her, back on earth? Was McGonagall at that dark Hogwarts? Was she dead? Hermione had apparently thought so, given her reaction... who was she to Hermione? A friend? A mentor? A friend's parent?
He closed his eyes. Not more questions. More questions were exactly what he didn't need right now, not with that single throbbing question sitting right in the middle of his chest.
Could McGonagall know who had killed Hermione? How she'd died?
But no – the very last bit before Hermione had blocked him off, the very last thing he'd seen was her sprinting down a hallway and into a door, alone. McGonagall couldn't have been involved in that.
What if Hermione had told her?
No, that was stupid – if Hermione could tell McGonagall, then she could definitely tell him... right? She trusted him enough to tell him something she'd tell someone else, surely. No, McGonagall couldn't know – although perhaps there was a way he could make sure, because if there was even the slightest chance...
Riddle swallowed.
McGonagall would also know him as Voldemort. When she met him, she too would have that mistrustful, horrified look Hermione had had for so long. The look that read, This is him – this is your worst nightmare, in the flesh, and so Riddle might not be able to get her alone.
Hermione would kill him if he did anything to McGonagall, did anything to someone from her life. If he were to do something to her and Hermione were to find out … no, that would not be acceptable.
A thought hissed across Riddle's mind – what if he were to curse McGonagall where Hermione could see? Would that be enough of a shock to surprise Hermione out of Occlumency?
No. Hermione was used to the idea of him hurting others, of him torturing others. Especially after she'd gone through his memories, now, and seen him hurting so many people, at Hogwarts, and here, too...
Riddle looked up. The door opened, and Hermione walked in, looking utterly spent. He stood. "Are you all right?"
Hermione sat on the sofa. "I suppose."
"How are things on earth?" Riddle said.
She shook her head. "As bad as ever." After having just been told for two hours about the last seven months of McGonagall's life, she now fully remembered how horrific every single day had been, how even the tiny things, like finding a place to sleep, had been the worst – although thank God for magic, for being able to summon food from the Kitchens... And every miniscule detail spoke of ominous days, like the fact that all the portraits had beenempty, that all the House-elves had managed to find some way to leave the castle, or at least hide themselves very well, that behind every door there was just as much chance, it seemed, that there would be a Death Eater as not, even though there could only have been thirty of them, maybe, spread out all over the castle... thirty agents of misery and murder...
"Your friend... McGonagall, she's not dead, is she?"
Hermione gave a tired smile. "No. No, she isn't, thank God. She was my Transfiguration teacher."
"Have you learned anything new?" He sat down beside her and kissed her forehead lightly. "What did she tell you?"
But he saw something in her eyes he hadn't seen in so very long – distrust.
Of course, after speaking for hours about what his earthly counterpart was doing to everyone she knew – of course she'd feel disinclined to tell him much of anything.
The distrust faded, though, into a sort of resignation, and she leaned her head on his chest. "I know that a couple of my friends are alive. I'd thought one of them was dead, but he's not."
"That's good," Riddle murmured.
Hermione smiled sadly. Yes. But there was so much that McGonagall hadn't been able to tell her, so many people she still didn't have any idea about... Harry. Ron. Luna. Ginny. Fred. Hagrid. Bill. Ms. Weasley. Mr. Weasley. All the teachers. The entire Order...
Hermione curled up miserably against Tom. His strong arms were around her, but for once, she didn't feel safe. She felt what everyone back on earth was feeling. Alone. Terrified. Like the end was very, very near.
"Nagini is dead," whispered Hermione.
Riddle frowned. Who was Nagini? The name sounded just a bit familiar, like she'd told him it before, like he'd heard it in her memories... "Who?"
"Your last horcrux," her voice said into his chest, and he froze, fighting back nauseating panic.
He'd known this would happen. It couldn't have lasted for much longer, of course, if so many people knew about its existence, if it were a living thing... Riddle's heart thudded painfully hard, and he found that his mouth was dry. He controlled himself. As long as he was still alive, back on earth, there was a chance he could fix his soul before the rest of him came to join him in this median world – there was a chance he could feel remorse, somehow, cure himself of this self-inflicted disease and not be stuck here for eternity.
He realized he was gripping Hermione's arm too hard, and he relaxed his hold a little. "I see," he said. That was all he could manage. I see. He saw. He saw what he had to do... but he just couldn't do it.
Hermione lay down on the sofa, bringing him down with her. They were so close that he could hardly tell where his body ended and where hers began, so close that he could practically close his eyes and pretend she would never move on, never leave him stuck behind with a broken heart and a broken soul.
And in that moment he knew he was going to do it. He knew he was going to hurt her. But it was the only way he could know, and if she was going to leave him – he subconsciously tightened his arms around her – if she was going to leave him... then she would leave him with the knowledge he needed.
xXxXxXxXx
Hermione felt like something had changed, but she didn't know what it was. Whatever it was, it was evident in his kisses, in his eyes, in his hold. Like every single touch was going to be the last. Like after every kiss they would be torn apart. Hermione had ceased to tell him that they had all the time in the world, because he wouldn't listen, and because she couldn't help worrying about time herself.
Not necessarily the time she had with him – just time. Time that was slipping away from her on earth. Time that was running out for all her friends. Time that was unreliable and immeasurable...
Hermione wondered about Tom. Was it that he was genuinely normalizing, or that he was getting better at hiding his abnormalities? He said things that were normal, did things that were normal. He and Abraxas seemed to have completely made up, and Abraxas, weirdly, didn't seem scared of Riddle anymore. Hermione felt like that should have been a pressure point for Riddle, but he didn't seem to mind that Abraxas wasn't scared of him. Was it because everyone else in the castle was scared, because they knew about the Cruciatus Curse? Or was it that Riddle actually had a weird sort of friendship building with Abraxas? Hermione didn't know, but it was gladdening to see Tom associate with Abraxas like he was just any other boy.
McGonagall heard about her and Riddle being together two days after she arrived. Hermione did not begrudge the looks of utter shock, of utter alarm, of rage. After all, Hermione didn't know what she would have said if someone had told her, upon her arrival, that she would someday find herself in love with Tom Riddle. She probably would have laughed at the messenger, or hexed him severely. But McGonagall never outright asked Hermione about it. She stuck by Albus, and Hermione felt a weird sort of joy swelling inside her whenever she saw Minerva and Albus walking together, just like old times, speaking about something just like they used to do back when the world was normal.
Hermione did speak with McGonagall about what to tell the people in this Hogwarts, though. Minerva agreed – she, like Hermione, wasn't inclined to tell them a thing about the present state of the world. Not about Voldemort, not about the dark Hogwarts... not about anything. When the word 'Voldemort' left her lips, she gave Hermione a very familiar piercing stare, and Hermione's only response was, "He's changed."
And her Transfiguration professor sighed and turned away, but made no objection.