A/N: Section of chapter revised slightly to have a bit more Tom/Hermione. So... read it again, and you will discover which section ;-).

A burst of unparalleled love swam across Hermione's vision, and she couldn't stop another contented smile from tugging at her lips as she looked up at Tom, affectionately rubbing her fingers in circles through his hair, tousling it beyond belief, but he didn't especially seem to mind. His words also triggered the very first coherent post-kiss thought that burst into Hermione's head like a brilliant sunburst.

Why on earth had it never occurred to her before? she wondered vaguely. She planted a light kiss on his lips and gently pulled away, knowing that her friends were waiting for her; that, somehow, her life would never be the same again.

Tom abruptly caught her hands in his as she stepped backward, holding on until the last possible second. Hermione had never imagined that his eyes could actually light up, but, as she said with another warm smile, "Tom — my name's Hermione," the Heir of Slytherin's eyes lit up like she herself had flicked on a 100-watt light bulb.

Chapter 29: Dying to Love

Saturday, December 25, 1944

10:47 P.M.

For a good five minutes, Hermione held a staring contest with the knob of the gloomy brown Room of Requirements door, temporarily set in the wall in front of her. On the other side of a three-inch thick slab of wood were her waiting friends, and she was sure they weren't going to greet her with a "Oh, hello, Hermione, and how was Tom? We're so glad you finally decided to spend some quality time with such a wonderful boy on Christmas instead of us! No, really, we're so happy the two of you clicked."

Yes, her parents' apparent approval of the whole thing had reassured Hermione that her heart was her own and she was going to follow it and it alone, and it had seemed so easy to think that when she had seen her parents and when she had been with Tom.

But now, it had occurred to her that her parents and their support were gone again, Tom Riddle was going downhill awfully fast, and the five people with whom she would probably be thrown together for the rest of her life as she knew it held an indestructible grudge against the Heir of Slytherin— a grudge, she suspected, which ran far deeper than any of her abilities to convince them that he wasn't who they thought he was.

Reality sucks when it decides to creep up on you after one of the best moments of your life. It really does.

At one point, she honestly considered turning around and sprinting back to the safety of the Head common room.

She smiled hollowly as soon as the thought crossed her mind. At the start of this school year, she would have never believed that, a mere four months later, she would categorize the Head common room that she shared with Tom Riddle as "safe," versus the Room of Requirements—which had always been a bit of a haven for her and her friends—as "dangerous territory."

Hermione, you can't hide forever! some rational part of her admonished.

But what would she say? Would she tell them that Tom had taken her to the Chamber? How would she ever explain to them that she loved him, really loved him, despite everything Lord Voldemort had taken from her, from all of them?

Of course, she would probably have to worry about those deep questions after they mentioned that little episode with the mistl—Sweet Merlin. She did not feel like facing, let alone speaking to Draco du Lac. Damn. She wouldn't mention it, she'd let them bring it up; that was it. And if the slimy prat even decided to speak to her, she would glare.

All right, she could do this. She had a plan. She wouldn't look at anyone, would avoid any subject related to Tom Riddle or mistletoe like the plague, and would glare, glare, glare.

It was a fairly sound plan, in her opinion.

Taking a deep breath, praying that the nervous, frantic hammering of her heart was not an ominous sign, the feeling of dread in her stomach augmenting exponentially, Hermione pushed open the gloomy brown door to a burst of conversation, which silenced as soon as Hermione quelled the urge to throw up and stepped inside the Room of Requirements.

The Room had again turned itself into a mock ski chalet, with a fire blazing merrily in the hearth, oak and cherry finishes on elaborate wooden furniture, and that same gigantic hanging pair of buck antlers completing its adornment. Lavender was sprawled across the length of a rustic sofa with her head resting on pillow that had been propped against the legs of an irritated-looking Ron, and Harry had claimed the wooden rocker, the Quiddich strategies manual Ginny had picked up for him for Christmas lying open across his lap.

"Hey, Mione," Harry finally greeted, his voiced sounding strained.

Oh God, not a good sign, Hermione thought, and couldn't help but glance around suspiciously at the conspicuous absence of a certain Slytherin as she fully entered the Room and pulled the door closed behind her. "Where is he?"

"Hello to you, too," she heard Ron mutter as she walked over to a padded armchair next to Harry's and sank down into it.

Harry sighed, shut the Quiddich book with a soft thump, and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "Where's who?"

The Room was toasty warm, and Hermione suddenly remembered that she was wearing a double layer. With a look of distaste at Draco's Christmas present, she pulled the periwinkle blue sweater up over her head and threw it down next to a pile of sweets on a platter on the rich mahogany coffee table in front of her. "The wanker who decided to manually clean out my throat in front of the entire staff."

"Oh—he and Ginny took a run over to Hogsmeade," Harry said, apparently having no problem figuring out exactly who her colorful description had illustrated. "Du Lac knew a few stores that are open on Christmas so he could get that present for Salvi, and Gin needed some crushed hydralia rose petals for a potions project, so they went through the tunnel about an hour ago."

Another uncomfortable silence filled the room. Hermione bit her lip and drummed her fingers on her knee, the entire awkwardness of it all considerably dulling the magical moments from earlier that night. Once she had seen that Draco wasn't in the vicinity, she had thought that she would be able to survive the rest of that night after all… but no, she should have known that this situation would be bad whether Draco was there or not.

Finally, with a little ladylike grunt, Lavender broke the quiet and heaved herself up, prowling over to the mound of chocolates, sweet breads, and desserts on the coffee table. She had just begun to paw through them interestedly when Ron asked bluntly, "Why are you still going on with him, Hermione?"

Damn, there it was. Somehow, Hermione doubted that the scowling, shaggy redhead was talking about Draco. "Ron, what are you talking about?" she asked tiredly, shaking her head slightly, closing her eyes and resting her cheek in the palm of her hand.

"What am I talking about?" Ron echoed in disbelief, and he seemed astonished that Hermione didn't have the ability to read his mind. When she said nothing further, he exploded, "The bloody Dark Lord, Hermione! The same one you have just spent all of Christmas night with, alone, doing Merlin knows what!"

Just tell him that you love Tom already!

Hermione's eyes flashed open angrily, and she fought to keep from bursting out and saying what her insides were screaming.

No, he'll never understand! None of them will!

"Don't be a prick, Ronald," she finally snapped waspishly, her voice tense. Glare! her mind dutifully reminded her.

"Don't be a prick?" Ron repeated again, leaving Hermione to wonder if there was an echo in the room, and he looked personally insulted. Hermione suddenly found it ironic that he seemed to be lecturing her instead of vice-versa. "You're calling me a prick? What part of 'He is the Dark Lord' do you not understand? You've gotten him where we needed him to be. You should be done with him before he's done with you—"

"No."

At the abrupt and completely unexpected interjection, Hermione felt her mouth drop open, and her eyes suddenly brightened, hoping against some crazy hope...

She swung her curly head toward her messy haired best friend, staring at him as if he had just sprouted antennas, and Harry's piercing green gaze shrewdly bore back into hers. Hermione desperately tried to read his expression, but for as well as she knew him, Harry's face was completely unreadable to her now… she could only hope that he didn't misinterpret the pleading that had to be obvious in her eyes.

Finally, Harry replaced his glasses. With one last glance at Hermione, Harry nodded slightly as if agreeing with himself, and he said slowly, as though he were thinking out every word, "I've been thinking about this. Even though Riddle's dying, he could still cause a lot of damage if you, erm, dump him, so to speak."

Oh my God, Harry, if you say what I think you're going to say, I will never hound you about your disorganized-ness again, I swear.

Ron's mouth, which had been poised and ready to fire out a comment, suddenly snapped shut, and his wide hazel eyes on The Boy Who Lived. "Are you serious, mate?"

I will even buy you a new broomstick each year for the rest of your functional life.

"Think about it, Ron. If you were him, wouldn't you want to kill someone if the girl you were dying to love suddenly left you?" Harry explained slowly, while Hermione simply stared at him, hardly daring to breath, anticipation shining in her eyes as he turned back to her. "Mione, I think you should keep up the act."

Hermione didn't know if Harry had just given her his permission to carry on with Tom Riddle because of the perfectly logical explanation he had just given or because he knew that something was going on between them, and, frankly, she didn't care.

A small smile broke out on her face, and her eyes screamed ten thousand grateful thank-yous. Although Harry didn't look especially happy, he smiled back and at least seemed willing to deal with the ramifications of his statement.

Harry, I love you.

Lavender plopped back down next to a rumpled Ron, popped a chocolate into her mouth and held up a little round tart. "Raspberry cream, Hermy?"

I swear the only reason she calls me that is because she knows I can't stand it.

Hermione smiled in a silly sort of desperate relief and held up her hand, suddenly hungry enough to eat an entire army of raspberry cream tarts. Lavender grinned mischievously and, with perfect aim, lobbed the tart across the coffee table. Harry flipped open his Quiddich manual and picked up reading where he had left off. Ron shook his head and summoned the entire plate of desserts over to him, shoving an entire slice of caramel apple cake into his mouth.

The world was again as it should be.

And so Hermione's entire dilemma was solved without her having to explain a single thing.

Friday, January 7, 1945

9:41 P.M.

An old, musty scent of ancient leather and forest wood filled the air. By now, most of the hushed, distant voices of studying students had disappeared, and the silence in the library only grew stronger as the clock steadily inched its way closer to curfew.

After discreetly peeking around her dismal surroundings to reassure herself of her seclusion far back in the rear of the library, Hermione poked her wand out of the folds of Harry's invisibility cloak. The end of it lit without her murmuring so much as a simple "Lumos," and she casually held it up as she walked along the aisle of books, squinting as she read each faded, scripted book title on the shelves.

Of course, being Head Girl, she did have free reign of the Restricted Section, but she didn't especially feel like been seen in the cult subdivision of the shadowy library quarter.

Shrouded in the blackness of the area save her lighted wand, her eyes warily moved along the shelves. Pausing, she yawned hugely, but the motion died on her lips as her eyes caught sight of a faded title stamped along the spine of what looked to be an ancient book: Gemma Persuasio.

Cult of Gemology.

Yes. Smiling grimly, Hermione cautiously reached up and tugged the book from its place perched imperiously on the shelf above her. A plume of dust billowed up as it landed in her arms.

Quickly, she scrunched her nose and sucked in a breath, holding it until the urge to sneeze passed. As soon as it did, Hermione flipped open to the Table of Contents and ran her hand down the ancient Latin script until one slim finger landed upon the section on rubies. 687.

Cradling Gemma Persuasio in one hand and her wand-light in another, Hermione flipped open to page 687 and began to read, her mind nimbly translating the Latin into English as she did.

It is rare to find a flawless ruby. Many qualities of a ruby exist that will give it a good astrological effect: it should sparkle, have a fine shape and internal brilliance, be smooth… Blah blah blah. Hermione quickly scanned the ancient text further. Each ruby has its own personality and power… If one wears an unflawed ruby… will become wealthy and have honor, prestige, and property… status in life will improve… wearer will develop a royal life…

Well, at least that's true, Hermione thought with a wry grin, thinking about the power and prestige of the real Nefertari family. She glanced back down at the book, her eyes nearing the bottom of the page. Abruptly, she stopped.

In the case of the most potent rubies, the wearer will began to take on the power of the ruby itself. Perhaps one of the most famous examples of this phenomenon is the Amulet of Eras, the royal jewel of the Egyptian magical line. Egyptians argue that the ruby serves to augment their ruler's already considerable magical prowess, but many gemologists argue that it is not the line, but the Amulet of Eras itself, that holds the magical energy, and has simply bestowed this energy upon its present owner, who coincidentally happens to be the Egyptian throne…

Hermione stared at the paragraph in a mixture of shock and dawning realization. Oh my God. It was true, many wizards and witches strongly followed the dark magick gemological beliefs, but Hermione had always held what she had heard of it to be a load of rubbish… until now, perhaps.

Absently, she reached back under the invisibility cloak with her wand hand and felt for the lump to which she had become accustomed, just to make sure it was still there. So… now that she was, for all means and purposes, the ruby's present owner… did that mean the Amulet of Eras was bestowing its energy upon her?

Was that how she was suddenly completing all sorts of magical feats with ease, from charming every single complex decoration at the Holiday Soiree to suddenly having a greater aptitude for nonverbal magic …not because she had taken on the Nefertari name— which she had actually begun to fear as the source—but because she was simply wearing the Amulet of Eras?

The thought of a rock having that kind of immense power, especially over her, wasn't exactly the most comforting thought, but Hermione didn't have much time before the library closed, so she plunged back into the remaining text on rubies. Wearing rubies is beneficial for persons in authority or trying to get into a high position… helps develop will-power and determination…. Errm, don't need to know that… don't need to know that…

One line from the bottom of the page, Hermione came upon what she had originally been searching for. Rubies are also highly sensitive to their environment, and they have a tendency to take on heat in the presence of strong emotions.

She paused and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, systematically attempting to sift through the times she could recall noticing the Amulet of Eras grow hot. Once dancing with Draco— heat of the dance… Once during her huge argument with Tom after the prefect meeting—heat of anger… Once, erm… once during—

Suddenly, in the midst of the few remaining student voices coming from the main alcove of the library, a muffled BANG! angrily echoed nearby.

Hermione leapt half a foot in the air and instantly extinguished her wand. Crap, crap, crap…

The entire Restricted Section again plunged into darkness as she quickly snapped the book shut and fumbled around and found its place on the shelf, sliding it back and before she had a chance to turn the page and read the final line in the section on rubies:

It is said that, in the rare event a ruby begins to glow, the wearer is in grave danger.

Her heart beating furiously, Hermione steadied herself and tried to breathe as silently as possible. The hushed but heated conversation of two decidedly male voices became distinguishable, and she let out a slow breath of air, allowing herself to slowly relax. Now simply curious, she drew herself up and exited the Restricted Section, following the sound of voices that sounded like they were coming from an alcove in the same rather abandoned section of the library.

Deftly shedding her invisibility cloak and balling it up into an inconspicuous mass in her hand as the voices grew louder, Hermione yawned again, and her rational side took advantage of the time to make fun of herself. Right, Mione, who'd you think it was going to be? Some Death Eater stalking you, just waiting to catch you off guard before he—

The thought froze on Hermione's stream of consciousness as she turned into another wing of workstations and bookshelves, and abruptly, she found herself staring at the oddest, most unexpected sight she could remember coming upon:

Calugala Malfoy standing in the aisle with his wand outstretched belligerently, and Tom Riddle clinging to a bookshelf with one hand while his other brandished his own wand directly at Malfoy, balancing completely on his left knee while his right splayed out in front of him at an odd angle, random books littering the floor around him as if they had fallen from the shelf.

Hermione vaguely wondered if the sound of them falling from the shelves had been the culprit of the banging noise she had heard earlier.

She was almost as shocked to see Tom in the library as she was to see him and Calugala Malfoy standing at a magical stalemate. Tom's condition had rapidly and steadily deteriorated since Christmas, despite their increased physical contact and her feelings for him. When her parents had died instantly, sure, that had been absolutely terrible to deal with, but this waiting and waiting and waiting for him to die, to go at any moment of any day, was positively agonizing.

An ache that had been hurting Hermione quite often now again took root in the pit of her stomach as soon as Tom's pained eyes swiftly darted from Malfoy, to her, and back to Malfoy again. The ill Slytherin had missed an inhuman amount of school since classes had restarted due to spending long hours hovering in and out of consciousness in the Hospital Wing, so whatever had happened between them on Christmas night…

Well, neither of them had mentioned it since, and she hadn't really had much time to talk to him anyway, what with him usually being asleep when she came, or the mounds of homework the professors had suddenly, sadistically heaped upon her.

Of course, that didn't mean Hermione hadn't thought about it every other minute for the past two weeks, remember exactly how he had tasted, how he had felt… but, she had reasoned with herself, it wouldn't have had much time to manifest into anything greater, anyway.

Hermione blinked rapidly and shook her head. As soon as she had appeared, their fiery conversation had faded into silence… but, almost immediately, she noticed a faint light shimmering around her neck, and she absently glanced down to see, down through the little slit at the top of her shirt, the Amulet of Eras glowing. Great. Gemma Persuasio covered everything except that.

Quickly, she assessed the situation, and an nauseous sensation threatened to burst from her lips as she briefly glanced at Tom's right leg again, the broken bone above his knee obvious to her, even through his robes. She forced her gaze away and instead lowered it, cold and angry, on Calugala Malfoy, smoothly pulling her own wand. "Better get out of here before the Head Boy doubles the detention I'm giving you now."

Malfoy rotated his head and lowered his cool azure gaze on her. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

She raised an eyebrow coolly. Yes, Calugala Malfoy was dangerous, but that night in the potions room a few weeks ago had proved that she could handle him… and with Tom as a backup… "Are you threatening my authority, Malfoy?" she asked frigidly.

"Heavens, no," Malfoy said, sounding insulted, and placed a hand over his heart.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she was more than a little surprised when the blond Slytherin willingly lowered his wand and immediately turned his back on Tom. Instead, time seemed to momentarily stop as he stepped right up to Hermione, towering over her as he said in a hushed voice she was fairly certain Tom couldn't hear, "I'll admit it, Nefertari, I was wrong. You and the half-breed really are made for each other."

She narrowed her eyes heatedly. "What is that supposed to mean?" she snapped impatiently, still steadily aiming her wand in his general direction. One step closer and I will not hesitate to mangle you.

"I think you know…" He leaned close to her, so close that his stomach bumped against the end of her wand, but he didn't seemed to care. Hermione uncomfortably shuffled, inching away from him as he brought his lips right up her ear so she was able to feel his nauseatingly hot breath on her skin, and he whispered in a sort of victorious finale, "mudblood."

Sweet mother of Merlin.

Instantly, Hermione jerked away as if he had just told her he was a carrier of the plague, her stomach reeling from the impact of that one little word, and huge, deafening alarm bells began going off in her head. Oh my God, there is no way he can know that! If he knows, then who else—No! Worry about that later! Act casual!

"Excuse me?" she asked rudely, briefly gaping at him with something much more than loathing in her eyes before she snapped her mouth shut and glared indifferently at him. You can't look affected!

Malfoy, however, simply smirked knowingly. "Oh, I think you heard me." He stepped away from her, their exchange brief, his damage done, and time started up again.

"I'll be seeing you later, Nefertari," he said in a louder, smugly conversational voice, and turned to Tom, still partly sprawled out on the floor and breathing hard. Malfoy's smirk widened as he curtly nodded down at his fellow Slytherin and then shook his head. "Somehow, I don't get the feeling I'll be seeing you later."

Tom paled a bit, but his darkening eyes made up for it, and they held a burning anger Hermione had only seen a few times before; now the Amulet of Eras was burning, burning and glowing. "You have two minutes to get out of this library and go. to. hell," he ground out, his voice low, dangerous, and were he well, Hermione didn't doubt it would be Malfoy who was heading off to the Hospital Wing.

The affront didn't faze Malfoy in the least, however. Rather, he seemed to be malevolently delighted, as if he had been expecting those exact words from Tom all along and had planned out his retort weeks in advance. "Oh, but my dear Riddle," he drawled innocently, contorting his face into one of mock concern, "I do believe you'll be arriving there far sooner than I will."

A wicked smile broke out across Malfoy's face as, almost immediately, what little color was left in Tom's ashen complexion drained to a ghostly white. Hermione's ears vaguely caught the comment, but she didn't exactly stop to consider the obvious implications behind it, though; she was too busy worrying about his comment to her.

It was just an insult. Just a name. I said he had improper breeding the last time; he got me back, she thought, panicking as Malfoy mockingly tipping his blond head at her, made an exaggeratedly drunken about-face, and headed off toward the main foyer of the library without a second glance back at them. He doesn't honestly think that I'm a…a…

Does he?

How could he?

Hermione didn't have much time to dwell on it. As soon as the sound of Malfoy's footsteps faded, Tom's good leg wobbled and he collapsed heavily to the ground. A little hiss of pain escaped his lips as he landed on the break above his knee, and, suddenly, the only thing Hermione could hear were his ragged breaths echoing in the hanging silence of the abandoned library wing.

Immediately, she forced the image of Calugala Malfoy's smirking face from her mind. She crossed the aisle to the small alcove he was in in less than two steps. Tom was gripping his leg, though, all color gone from his drawn face, and didn't even seem to notice her presence, so she began to levitate up the books around him and carelessly ram them back onto the shelves, her wand hand shaking slightly.

Tom's voice suddenly broke the silence, although it sounded to Hermione like gritting out each syllable was torturous for him. "Come make yourself useful, already."

Swiftly, she glanced down at him and saw that he was no longer holding his twisted, broken leg, but squinting up at her in the dim light. "What do you need me to do?" she asked softly, immediately dropping down and crouching beside him.

Tom stared at her briefly, as if appraising her, and then nodded to himself, obviously in great pain, clenching his jaw so tightly that Hermione could actually see a blood vessel throbbing in his temple. "Cogito curatio. Nonverbal," he said quietly, his voice weakening with each word, and he lethargically pulled one edge of his robe away, revealing a ripped, bloody pant leg.

Oh God. Hermione choked back another urge to be sick and placed a hand over her mouth, her heart began to thud apprehensively. Good Merlin… but he was so advanced… what if she couldn't do it?

She felt his gaze burn into the side of her face. "Concentrate on the spell and nothing else," he murmured softly, patiently, even though taking the time to teach her how to do the healing spell he had created and probably knew like the back of his hand must have been excruciating. "Don't focus on what you think you can and can't do."

He was incredible. She had no idea how he did it; it was as if he could look at her and read her fears. Anxiously, Hermione bit her lip, bringing her wand toward the small but clearly abnormal bulge just above his right knee where she could only assume a bone was jutting out, stopping the tip inches above the break. "Now what?" she whispered.

"Now close your eyes… take a breath… feel the magic in you. Cogito curatio." Tom paused to inhale painfully, his rapid-fire breaths increasing in speed, and briefly closed his own eyes before biting out with a bit of difficulty, "Picture exactly what it's going to do."

Hermione did, closed her eyes and tried to picture his healed leg because it was a bit difficult to do with her eyes open and staring at a mess of blood. She took in a shuddery breath and steadied her nerves, adrenaline pulsing through her veins. She was a skilled witch. She was at the top of her class. Hell, she was wearing the bloody Amulet of Eras.

If you can't complete a spell that the Heir of Slytherin made up, who can? she told herself determinedly as he added tiredly, "And then release it."

Hermione hovered for a moment, a buzzing silence growing her in mind, and then let out the breath while concentrating completely on thirteen letters: Cogito curatio. Instantly, she felt a warm tingle edge down the fingertips of her wand hand, and, opening her eyes, she watched in awe as a fine green glow radiated from her wand and surrounded his wounded leg.

A moment later, the glow faded, and although Tom's leg was still darkened with blood, the bulge in the pant material had caved in to nothing. So… had it worked?

"Hermione…" Distantly, she felt a hand grasp her shoulder and shake it lightly, and, no longer sounding strained and in pain, his voice said quietly, "You did it."

The Head Girl blinked her focus back to reality, and a small smile broke out across her face. "Yeah. Yeah, I did!" Her smile widened in excitement as she glanced over at him, but she sobered up just as quickly at the still-serious expression on his face. "Erm, I mean…. Does it feel alright? Does it feel like the spell worked correctly?"

"Yes," he muttered, but he suddenly sounded quite distracted, and he crossed his arms, pulling his knees up to his chest and looking off into the shadows of that rear area of the library.

Hermione sighed heavily and stuck her wand back in her pocket, the exhilaration of the moment ruined. His little swings were always a mystery to her, why his mood always changed when it did, how it did… until after the episode passed, and then she normally could look back and understand his actions quite clearly.

"Why aren't you in the Hospital Wing?" she finally asked gently, trying to sound as non-accusatory as possible. Because I'm pretty sure Madam L is going to hunt you down when she finds out you're not in bed anymore.

Tom looked over at her, a terrifying amount of defeat in his gray eyes. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life in there," he said dully, sucking in ragged breath, still breathing hard. Listlessly, he turned his head away, and asked in a slightly strangled voice, "What do you think it's like, dying?"

Like a burst of sun out from behind a cloud, the reasons behind his sudden aloofness became much clearer to Hermione, although the question still caught her completely off guard.

She glanced at Tom quickly, concerned, but the boy was staring blankly at the spine of a random book in the shelf across the aisle, his face a mask of nothingness, his voice sharing much of the same flatness. "Do you think life's just like a tunnel… that when we reach the end, there's only blackness? Do we forget this life… who we were, what we did, who we knew?"

Hermione bit her lip thoughtfully. She didn't want to say the wrong thing... although, really, was there even a wrong thing to say? "I… I don't know," she admitted softly. And she really didn't. "I haven't really had the time to dwell on it, to be honest." Too busy fighting to live. She studied him carefully, then gently, compassionately touched his shoulder. "Tom, what's wrong?"

The dark-haired Slytherin feebly yanked his arm away from her, and Hermione pulled her hand back as if it had been wounded. "Nothing," he snapped brusquely, still facing the opposite bookshelf, his breathing too even, too steady, as if he was trying to control and hold back some rush of emotion, and he laughed hollowly. "No one'll care if I live or die, anyway."

Hermione felt tears spring to her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, determinedly holding them back. "I'll care," she whispered honestly.

Listlessly, Tom snapped his head toward her, his gray eyes wide in disbelief, but just as quickly bit his lip and sharply turned away again. For a second, he hovered indecisively, and then, with an abrupt, jagged motion, he dug his fingers into a bookcase shelf behind him and looked like he was jerkily trying to stand, but he was so weak he could only pull himself a few inches off the ground.

In the end, he only succeeded in slamming against the bookcase to such an extent that several books she had just replaced jarred loose and rained down around him again before he fell to his knees, one heavy volume soundly bouncing off his shoulder on its way to the ground, but he didn't even seem to feel it.

He simply brought his hands up to cover his face and gulped in several rapid, deep, choking breaths.

Hermione realized she couldn't stop him from trying to run from his emotion before he completely lost it, probably for the first time in his life, but her heart broke for him nonetheless, and she immediately scooted next to him, hesitating for only a moment before she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

At her touch, Tom stiffened like a board and struggled against her grasp. "Dammit, g'way," he ground out harshly, his words muffled and garbled as they came through his hands, but Hermione stubbornly held on.

"Stop it, you'll only make yourself die sooner!" she hissed fiercely. It was below the belt, but she smiled grimly as, with those words, all the fight seemed to drain from Tom's body, and he sagged wearily, not making a sound, not even moving. Very cautiously, she reached around to his freezing cold, trembling hands and gently took them in her own.

After a halfhearted resistance, Tom allowed her to pull his long fingers away from his face, and she saw, for the first time in her life, real, honest-to-God tears threatening to spill from the Heir of Slytherin's forlorn, stormy eyes. With the troubled expression of someone who had just been backed into a corner, the look he gave her then, a mix of such utter terror, humiliated shame, and desperate loneliness in the swirling gaze of one of the most powerful young wizards in the world…

She was sure it would haunt her until the day she died.

Tom's hopeless gray eyes quickly searched hers as if looking for something, anything that he could hold on to, and he roughly murmured, "Hermione… I'm so scared, and -" he broke off and gave a short, bitter laugh, "and damn it, I shouldn't be, I'm the bloody Heir of Slytherin, I—"

His voice cracked harshly, as if finishing the sentence would only cause him more suffering than he could physically, emotionally handle at that point, and Hermione instantly tightened her embrace, her stomach twisting into a burning little ball of pity. "Even the Heir of Slytherin's allowed to be scared, love… and," she added softly, "he's allowed to cry."

He faltered, choking in a small gulp of air, groping for words. "No, that's not… Hermione — I…" Suddenly, a rush of tears pooled over and silently leaked down his thin, pale cheeks. He didn't seem to notice; instead he stared unblinkingly, hopelessly into Hermione's eyes and whispered faintly, "I don't want to forget you…"

As he lowered his gaze and roughly swiped at his eyes, Hermione helplessly felt tears begin to spill from her own eyes, crying that he, not the Dark Lord, not the Heir of Slytherin, but her friend, was dying more quickly than she could have ever imagined, and there was absolutely nothing that she could do about it. "You will always have me, even on that day when you're no longer here," she fiercely whispered into his soft hair, desperately placing gentle kisses along the side of his head. "Always."

With a pitiful, miserable little strangled noise, one huge tremor jolted through Tom's entire body, and his shoulders began to wrack with otherwise silent sobs, heaving violently with each one. Without thought, Hermione began to rhythmically run her hand through his dark hair, and she tenderly pressed her lips against his surprisingly warm, sweaty forehead.

"Don't leave me," he suddenly croaked in tortured, pleading voice that was so unlike him, and she felt all the breath knocked from her lungs as he desperately wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in the crook between her shoulder and her neck. "Oh God, don't leave me!"

Squeezing her aching eyes shut in pain, Hermione held the Heir of Slytherin back just as securely. "I won't," she eventually managed to choke out, reminding herself to breathe as she instintively moved her hand downward, cupping the back of his neck with her hand, holding him to her in a death grip. "I'm here, I'm right here."

He gasped in another shuddery breath and continued to cling to her like a child, like she was the only thing between him and death itself. "Please… don' leave me," he repeated weakly, his voice beginning to slur.

"Sssssssh, I'm not going anywhere, I'm not," she soothed softly, smoothly rubbing her other hand in comforting circles over his back and sniffing unsteadily, trying to regain at least a bit of her composure. "I promise you I'll always be here."

Her hand moved up to massage his neck—Suddenly, quite literally out of nowhere, she felt his grip on her loosen, and an almost unbearably heavy mass compressed against her shoulder, as if he had slumped all of his weight against her.

Hermione would later swear that her heart stopped beating.

"Tom," she whispered tremulously, not allowing her thoughts to jump to any conclusion of what had just occurred.

Silence.

"Tom?" she repeated, more urgently now, awkwardly turning her head so she could look down and sideways at the same time, dreading what she might find...

But, no, thank Merlin, it was alright.

Inexpressible relief flooding through every pore in her body, and she breathed deeply, carefully checking over his conditions. He was still breathing, but now, from this angle, she could see that his eyes were closed as his head leaned limply against her shoulder, the blotchy skin around his eyes and a single tear still clinging to his pale cheek testaments that the Heir of Slytherin had indeed been crying.

He must have passed out. She couldn't exactly blame him, really: after than kind of intense emotional roller coaster, he had probably exhausted, especially if he wasn't used to doing it, and with the Curse on top of it...

Hermione gritted her teeth, closing her eyes and offering a silent prayer of thanks up to the mahogany ceiling of the darkened library. She hated this Curse, she hated it; it was so awful, so debilitating, she thought mutely, staring back down, horrified, at Tom's inert body, her numb mind only able to command her arms to carefully prop him up.

He's not dead yet, and that's all that matters, she thought roughly, a bit disturbed that such a morbid thought reassured her as much as it did. Don't just sit here like an idiot; get moving!

Hermione thought for a second, and then she did the same thing she had done when he had passed out in Hogsmeade: she levitated him up and out of the library to the Head dorms. This time, though, she had an invisibility cloak, which she wasted no time in putting to use by throwing it over him to avoid the understandable suspicion she would receive if anyone happened to see her strolling through the halls, an unconscious Head Boy floating beside her.

His bedroom was a pit of pitch-blackness, but, although she was still levitating Tom with her wand, Hermione impatiently, sharply muttered another lighting spell, and the lamp on his desk flickered once and came to life, casting a faint glow on one side of the room. Maneuvering him across the room and gently lowering him onto his bed, it didn't even occur to her to pause and celebrate her first deliberate wandless magic achievement.

It took her a good five minutes to carefully transfer Tom's lifeless body out of his worn school robes, his shoes, and into the bed itself. Hermione had just sank down into the plump green armchair near the side of his bed, the same one that she had sat in after she had brought him back from Hogsmeade, and closed her eyes, rubbing her throbbing temples, when a voice whispered, "Hermione?"

She jerked back to earth at the hardly audible sound, her gaze meeting two fatigued, gray eyes. "Tom, thank God," she breathed in relief, standing slightly and scraping the chair closer to his bedside, and she couldn't stop a bright little smile from lighting up her face. Thank God.

Tom squinted at her like he was suddenly in desperate need of a pair of Harry's glasses, blinking lethargically. "Where…. Where am I?" he eventualy asked quietly, his voice hoarse and slightly slurred.

"In your own room," Hermione said gently, trying to stay upbeat and positive for his sake. "I didn't think you'd want to go back to the Hospital Wing," she added, and a dizzying wave of déjà vu from that Hogsmeade weekend - it seemed so long ago!- washed over her.

"In… in my own… ?" the Slytherin echoed faintly, looking a bit dazed and disorientated as he broke off, coughing roughly, shutting his eyes tightly again as his hands slowly, weakly moved to clutch the green sheets in his thin fingers.

The feeling that assaulted Hermione next was one she knew well but one she hated with a passion. She had felt this way several times in her life, when she had been off fighting in the war or when others she had loved - specifically, Harry and Ron - had gone off and done something reckless and dangerous -

It was fear.

She was scared, really scared, but not for herself. It was never herself she was scared for. This time, it was Tom. His condition had never been this bad, and the logical part of her mind knew that the end wouldn't be long in coming, though her emotions instantly shoved the unacceptable thought from her mind before it could stay long enough for her to sink into a depression thinking about it…

"Yeah," she murmured, and she attempted an encouragingly smile as he caught his breath and met her gaze again, desperately trying to hang onto the connection. A few beats of dead silence passed save Tom's ragged intakes of air and her steady ones. "You passed out in the library," she finally explained, simply because she didn't know what else to say.

"Oh," he said faintly, his eyes looking a bit more clear now as he blinked again and refocused his gaze on her. "I... remember... a bit."

Hermione nodded, but before she could respond, she yawned again, her face muscles screaming in protest as her mouth involuntarily stretched to its limits, and she covered her gaping mouth with a hand. "Sorry. It's not you, really."

"Merlin, if you keep doing that, I'll fall asleep for the both of us," Tom whispered suddenly, a trace of amused humor in his voice. Weakly, he shifted himself to the left, leaving a queen-sized space next to him on the king-sized, Slytherin green and silver trimmed bed, and he lifted the blanket up so the sheet was still between them. "Get up here."

Hermione felt her eyes widen to such an extent that she prayed she didn't resemble an insect, and she stared between the unbelievably comfortable-looking bed and Tom, locks of dark hair spilling into his eyes in an incredibly sexy manner that she was fairly certain was unintentional. "Well…"

I really shouldn't… But I really want to…

"Ah-hhhuuuuhhhhmm…" She suddenly yawned hugely again. A tiny, knowing smirk sprang to Tom's face, and she wrinkled her nose at him. "Alright, Mr. Know-it-All." She kicked off her shoes, left her robe on his chair, and executed a little half-jump from the chair onto the soft springiness that was his bed, still in the uniform skirt and blouse.

As she settled herself into the bed, Tom rolled over on one side so he could face her, his left cheek buried in the pillow. Shoving her long, soft tresses back over her shoulders, Hermione took the edge of the blanket from him, threw it over her so that it covered both of them, and good-naturedly waved her finger at his nose. "But only for a minute."

The Heir of Slytherin smirked weakly, his voice fading even more the longer he continued to speak. "Give it time."

Her blood instantly turned cold, and with the one simple phrase everything she had been trying to deny for the past month came rushing back to her at horrifying speeds. But that's exactly what you don't have! Time!

Suddenly, the single light in the room seemed far too bright, blinding, even, and she waved her wand at the lamp on his desk to dim it even further before sliding the slender spring of wood under the pillow nearest her head as she had often seen Tom and Harry do. "Time for what?" she fianlly asked, unhesitatingly snuggling so close to him that her head and his shared the same pillow, that she could actually feel his warm breaths blowing against her face.

"Time to see the world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wildflower," Tom whispered faintly, too weak to even lift his hand to move several stands of dark hair from his pale face. "To hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour. William Blake."

Tom Riddle did not just quote a Muggle Romanticist.

"You read nonmagic poetry?" Hermione asked curiously watching her own hand slowly reach over and begin to gently trace his smooth, clearly defined cheekbone as if it had a life of its own, and she smiled as she saw some of the tension ease out of his body.

"I read everything," he tiredly replied, and gray eyes exhaustedly flickered shut as she continued to lightly run her fingers over his hollow cheek, then moved up to brush the sweaty locks out of his eyes and smooth them back along the side of his head to lay with the rest of his thick hair.

"I'm impressed," she eventually murmured with a smile, finally partly giving in to the siren-like call of sleep and reluctantly allowing her eyes to fall shut.

"Thanks," the Slytherin whispered, though whether for her compliment or her touch, Hermione didn't know. She did know, however, that athough his chest was rising and falling much more rapidly than it had been a few moments before, he made no attempt to remove her hand.

"How do you feel?" she asked softly. The answer abviously wasn't going to be 'just peachy,' but in all honestly, Hermione just wanted to keep him talking for as long as possible. She wasn't sure why, but a cloud of utter foreboding was hanging over her head. It was completely unfounded, she knew, but somehow... she felt like she might never get another chance.

"Tired," Tom answered in an honest murmur, and in a movement so subtle she hardly noticed that he had even moved, he wrapped his arm around her back like it was the most natural thing in the world and weakly, gently pulled her closer to him.

It was the strangest sensation, as if she was actually being perfectly molded against his body, and her heart jumped in surprise as she felt a soft kiss being pressed between her uniform top and against her collarbone. Just as quickly, the comforting presence retreated slighty, and Hermione opened her eyes to find her warm forehead flush against Tom's eerily cold one, her eyes mere inches from his now-closed ones... her mouth mere inches from his.

Desperately biting down her lip before her raging emotions took full control of her actions, she smiled affectionately and permanently rested her hand lightly on the side of his head that was not against his pillow, needily tangling her fingers in his hair. "Me too," she finally managed to choke out, unable to tear her gaze from his half-conscious face.

"I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't transferred here this year," he suddenly breathed drowsily, sounding like an exhausted five-year-old who desperately wanted to stay up for the rest of the party but had to be carried, half-asleep and protesting halfheartedly, to bed by his parents.

Hermione felt his thumb began to gently, rhythmically stroke the small of her back, and she instantly shivered at the amazing feeling that was his touch, yet she felt the blood drain from her face. You wouldn't die, for starters. And then I know exactly what you'd have gone on to do.

Kill everyone.

Oh God, she couldn't do this, she couldn't be in the same bed with him, so couldn't be so close to him with her entire body feeling as if it were electrified every time his fingers brushed against her skin... Luckily, her fatigue numbed the sensations slightly, and she really didn't want to leave him, not when he was this sick.

Anyway, it wasn't as if anything was going to happen.

Quickly, trying to sound as lighthearted as she possibly could, she whispered brightly, "So, are you going to go back to my dear Uncle Al, who was responsible for my coming here in the first place, and tell him, 'Oh, I'm so sorry for ever being offensive or not paying attention in class, thank you so much—' "

"Stooop," Tom slurred tiredly, his eyes opening a crack as he listlessly lifted his free hand a placed a finger over her lips. "The image is disturbing enough without the dialog..." As his hand limply fell back to the bed, though, he added in a voice so quiet she barely caught his words, "But… I might think it." He closed his eyes again, struggling to swallow. "I might think it," he repeated faintly.

Whether she was meant to hear it or not, Hermione's heart swelled, and the toasty warmness she felt there spread throughout her entire body. Oh sweet goodness.. how had she gotten on without him for seventeen years? "Oh, you're sosweet... Oh God, I think we're having a tender moment," she muttered sleepily, moving her left hand down from his face and carefully draping her arm over his gently rising and falling side.

"Merlin help us, you'd better leave," he mumbled into the pillow, his breaths already beginning to steady and even out, and it sounded like he was on the threshold betweem unconsciousness, amusement... and something more.

"Yeah." Hermione smiled tiredly, happy that they had found something to smile about in the closing darkness. She somehow mustered up the strength to reopen her eyes, and she didn't even have to reach to affectionately kiss the tip of his cold nose. "I'll run."

Even on the verge of sleep, pale moonlight flickering in through the floor-to-ceiling west windows due to the absense of blinds he had for weeks failed to close because he had been in the Hospital Wing, Hermione saw the smallest of smiles brighten the Heir of Slytherin's ashen face as he wearily murmured, "Shut the door on your way out."

Know-it-all prat, she thought fondly, snuggling even more into his warm embrace. She could not recall a time when she had ever been so physically close to a man like this, yet she couldn't imagine her very platonic 'first time' being anything more incredible that that very moment. Tom wasn't pressuring her for more, he wasn't forcing her to do things she wasn't comfortable with, he was just... being in time with her, for however long time had left to give him.

God, I love him, was the last thought that floated through Hermione's mind before she willingly succumbed the blissful darkness that was calling her name.

Saturday, January 8, 1945

7:43 A.M.

A strangely familiar, heavy, musty, earthy smell filled the air. She was cold, terribly cold, which was strange considering that she was covered with a three-inch thick Slytherin green coverlet. Shaky and more weak than she had ever felt before, even worse than when she had caught the flu the summer of her third year, and scared beyond recognition—Suddenly, cold, dark walls began to close around her…

Hermione let out a throaty choke, and her entire body jerked as her eyes flew open, her chest heaving, her heart hammering as her eyes wildly darted, trying to identify her surroundings in the muted light. Green… green everywhere, all around… where was she?

In his bedroom, you moron. Relax, it was just a dream.

Yeah, dream, more like a nightmare.

Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Hermione yawned and sleepily turned her head in the pillow, glancing to her right. Rumpled silver sheets and an abandoned, forest green pillow were all that greeted her.

Tom wasn't there.

Hermione groaned and rolled over in the bed, becoming tangled in the blanket as she checked the hands of his clock, perched on a bed stand all the way on the other side of the gigantic mattress. A pair of dull gray hands pointed to a seven and a forty-four. Merlin, where on earth had he gone this early?

Suddenly, something large, thin, and antiquated yellow appeared before her fuzzy vision.

Blinking woozily, cobwebs still strung across her brain, Hermione sat up and plucked the folded but full-sized sheet of parchment from the air, staring at it warily. It was Tom's type of parchment, but he had never written her anything nearly this long before.

Cautiously running a finger down the edge, she opened it and a shiny silver pendant slipped out, landing on her lap. Confused, Hermione fumbled around, managed to wrap her fingers around the chain and lifted it up in front of her face. Tiredly, she squinted at the pendant as best she could, considering the time of morning.

And found a pair of tiny, emerald, glittering eyes coldly gazing back at her.

Her breath hitched.

Tom's Slytherin amulet.

But why… why on earth had he given it to her?

Confusion rapidly giving way to worry, Hermione snatched the note back up and exasperatedly pulled her wand from her back pocket, pointing it at the parchment. With a flick of her wrist, a small pearl of sparkling light appeared over the letter, hovering, illuminating the hand-scrawled words.

Yes, the writing was unmistakably Tom's as well, but it was different, somehow…

It was wobbly, Hermione realized in concern, as she looked at the first few words without really reading them, but then the mist fogging her mind cleared and she did read them, scanning the lines quickly, her alarm amplifying exponentially with each word.

My dearest Hermione,

I will begin with the curse. Anima Adflictatio. I know you know about it; you have for several weeks now, or at least a month, so I see no need in describing it to you— the day you stopped incessantly asking me about my condition was around the time you must have found out.

One of the reasons I'm writing this is because I don't want you to feel guilty that you haven't done enough for me while I was sick, because you have. There had never been anything like you in this world for me, and here I've given you practically nothing in return. So I want you to keep the Slytherin crest. Don't try to use it to come back to the Chamber—it isn't a safe place for anyone but someone of Slytherin descent, and it's not a place where I want you to be, either.

And it's also why I've enchanted this letter to appear after I have died.

Horrified, Hermione jerked the letter away, then brought it back to her face and re-read the last line to make sure her eyes weren't playing some sick joke on her mind.

And it's also why I've enchanted this letter to appear after I have died.

That… that was impossible… Tom… She had been with him the entire night, and he had been okay! There… there had to be some mistake! Blinking back a disbelieving, dizzying wave of emotion and dread, Hermione picked up where she had left off.

Maybe thirty, forty, fifty years from now, even, when you've retired from being ridiculously successful at whatever you've decided to do, with children, with grandchildren, with all the happiness someone like you deserves to have… maybe you'll pull the crest out of some forgotten drawer where you left it decades earlier. And maybe you'll remember, for the briefest of moments, Salazar Slytherin's last heir— nothing more than a seventeen year old boy who allowed himself to be overrun by a curse, simply because he fancied a girl.

She choked back a humorless, miserable chuckle at how he had so brutally to-the-point summed up the past two months, beginning to have a ghastly idea of where this was going… and she didn't want to get there. But she couldn't bring herself to tear her eyes from the scripted words.

And, lest you look back on him as the most complete idiot you have ever had the misfortune of meeting —Hermione couldn't help but laugh tremulously at that— allow me to assure you that he was well aware of what he was doing. He had always known what the curse could do to him, and so he had decided that solitude and hate were better than love, because solitude and hate kept him alive, and they were all he had ever known.

But then she came along, and everything changed. Not only was she intelligent, beautiful, and hardly afraid of anyone or anything, she didn't judge him by his blood or the wretched place he came from. She talked to him, listened to him, argued with him, she made him smile. She made him want to become a better person. Suddenly, he had someone, and she wasn't just someone, she was everyone, and she was all he had ever had. Ever. And he realized that one minute, one second with her was worth more than an entire lifetime without her.

A veil of tears suddenly blurred her vision, and she blinked rapidly, covering her mouth and biting her lip to keep her chin from quivering, from breaking down completely, hating herself so much... hating herself - She had brought this on him! She had... she had...

By now his rather pathetic story has probably bored you quite successfully, I expect, so I'll leave you with only one regret—his main regret, really: That he hadn't the chance to tell her something he had never told anyone else before, because he never had anyone to tell it to.

But it's something he's wanted say to her from the moment the curse moved into Irreversible.

With the utmost dread, she read the last line, and she immediately closed her eyes in agony and turned her head away from the words, praying that this was all some sort of awful, awful nightmare.

Hermione, I love you.

The letter fell from her cold, limp fingers and hit the ground with a soft, whooshing brush before her perusing eyes even reached the conclusion: three simple letters.

Tom

Tears were streaming from her eyes, and that horrible ache had begun eating away at the pit of her stomach, but she didn't even realize it.

No.

No!

This wasn't happening. It wasn't real. It was a lie, it was all a lie. He wasn't going to die; she wouldn't let him. Damn his stupid enchantment to hell, he was not dead!

Thankfully, her rational side chose that moment to kick in and took control before her panicking emotions could send her into hyperventilation. The only way you can help him is if you breathe. Breathe! it instructed harshly, and Hermione did, gasping in great gulps of air while attempting to calm her panicking mind. Alright, now think this through: Why did he enchant the letter after he had died?

To stop teachers from finding him, trying to help him, and prolonging the pain, Hermione automatically answered herself. … or to make sure I didn't come looking for him. Was that it? Had he been afraid she would have tried to get to him before he had died, seen more than she should have to see?

Well, he had been right, I would have—No, she corrected stubbornly, I will. She was going to see him again. There was no doubt in her mind.

So where had he gone?

Obviously not the Hospital Wing. Hermione had come to the conclusion that he hated that place just as much as he hated the orphanage. Ignoring the blatant, horrible truth glaring off the paper in front of her, Hermione gulped in a another breath and snatched up the letter, forcing herself to systematically look back over the second paragraph. You've done enough… keep the Crest… don't come back to the Chamber.

Don't come back to the Chamber.

For some reason, the line struck her as significant, and she stared at it for a moment swiftly continuing reading, the beginnings of a theory starting to form in her mind. Not safe… not a place I want you to be… and it's why I've enchanted this letter.

Yes.

That was it,it had to be. He had gone to the Chamber of Secrets. And it made complete sense, she thought, nodding to herself in reassurance as she snatched up the invisibility cloak off the back of the chair, and jammed both the letter and amulet deep into a pocket. What better place for the Heir of Slytherin to go to his resting place? Anyway, it was the only lead she had, and Hermione clung to it desperately.

Without pausing to think of what she could possibly do for him considering that he had already died, Hermione leapt to her feet and ran like a bat out of hell itself, bounding down the flight of stairs to the Head common room. Only one thought filled her mind:

Get to Tom.

7:59 A.M.

And the only way she was going to get to Tom was if she found the only other person in Hogwarts who spoke Parseltongue and had him open the Defense Against the Dark Arts entrance to the Chamber if Secrets—or the bathroom entrance, or whatever entrance, she didn't care.

She just needed Harry, and she needed him now!

Which is why the Head Girl found herself flying into the cold, gaping abyss of a Slytherin common room, wheezing for breath. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she rested her hands on her knees, dangling her head toward the ground as the Common Room wall entrance closed behind her, thanking everything holy that the Head Boy and Girl were privy to every House's password.

Get up! You don't have much time!

Quickly reassuring herself that the lightheadedness was gone and she wouldn't pass out on the Slytherin floor, Hermione sucked in a deep, steady breath and lifted her head, anticipating a hoard of Slytherin students staring at her, one of them preferably being Harry. Or Ginny or Draco, she would take anyone who could point her in the right direction… and she froze in horror.

Oh God, no.

The bloody common room was completely abandoned. And, as there were no staircases to distinguish or even indicate the location of one sleeping area from another, she had absolutely no idea where the entrances to the dorms were.

Desperately, Hermione contemplated throwing her hands up and screaming bloody murder in the hope that at least one student would hear her, would come down to see what was wrong, and could then show her the way to the Seventh Year boys' dorms. Then again, that one student would probably be Calugala Malfoy, or, even worse, Calugala Malfoy plus his band of Crabbes, Goyles, Lestranges, and Blacks.

She blew out an aggravated stream of air, a lock of curly hair gusting up out of her face and over her head. Yes, it was the weekend, and yes, it was early, but it wasn't that early! Stupid… blasted…no good, lazy Slytherins—

"Damn it!" Hermione shouted furiously, frustratedly kicking the leg of the couch beside her, but just as quickly winced at her stupidity and hopped around as a spike of pain pulsed up her foot. But no, she wasn't giving up, not yet…this was a huge common room… Surely someone was in there somewhere!

Refusing to let it go, she frantically dashed around the dungeon-like cavern of a common room, irrationally checking on top of, under, over, behind partially-obscured couches, oversized chairs, nooks, crannies, tucks under staircases. A part of her dully began to accept defeat, but she couldn't stop searching, her mind on a crazy overdrive as if she had lost control of it completely, until she had circled the entire Slytherin common room.

No, the only signs of life were the dying embers of the black, yawning, furnace-like fireplace next to which she was currently standing.

Hermione had never hated the House of Snakes as much as she did then.

In that moment of absolute hopelessness, she finally allowed herself to open up to the ugly truth. You are ridiculous, that same, rational part of her scorned cruelly. Ignoring the facts won't change them, you know that. It Tom Riddle said he enchanted a letter to appear after he had died, then it appeared after he died.

The exhaustion of running clear across the castle from the Head dorms to the Slytherin common room suddenly slammed into her like a ton of bricks, she dropped the balled-up invisibility cloak on the ground and dejectedly sank down on the still armchair nearest the hearth, absorbing what little heat it was still giving off, rubbing her temples, no longer fighting back tears.

And yet you've just wasted half your energy running around harboring the mad idea that you could somehow… What? Bring him back to life? No one has that power! You couldn't even do that for your parents!

She couldn't find Harry.

She couldn't get into the Chamber of Secrets.

Tom was dead.

And all she could hear was his voice, his weak, forlorn voice pleading over and over again, Don't leave me, oh God, don't leave me….

The tears began to flow freely now, not so much burning, but more a constant, cool flow, and she stared without blinking into the glowing red and black coals. Her entire body felt numb, void, dead, the same horrible lack of sensation that she had experienced three years ago when she had discovered her parents dead.

This is my fault, this is all my fault…

In her original scheming to ruin his life, she had, in the long run, inadvertently ruined hers, too. Just when she had found someone with whom she could move on, someone with whom she was truly happy, and someone who had been truly happy with her as well… he was gone.

Every person she had ever loved as something much, much more than a good friend… they had died. She identified with Harry more than he knew. Would it ever end?

Why me, God? she screamed fiercely, bitterly, and, were the am in the room, she probably would have shook her fist at him. What did I do to deserve losing them all? What did all of us do to deserve sacrificing our life to travel back in time in the first place? Why did I have to live in a war, and why did my best friend happen to be the sole person the Dark Lord was after? Why does this always have to happen to me?

The silent minutes agonizingly ticked by, but time held no meaning for her anymore.

Wallowing in her own-self pity, Hermione's vacant gaze was eventually, absently drawn to a rather large pile of chunky ash near the far right corner of what had once been part of the fire—in particular, a rather large, sharply triangular remain, one that strangely reminded her of the corner of a book cover.

Suspiciously, Hermione sniffed once, swiped a hand across her wet cheeks, and narrowed her eyes, disgust replacing some of her emotional impassiveness. Sacrilege! Book burning Slytherins, if that doesn't just put the cherry on top of my perfect day, she thought sarcastically. She was tempted to launch off into another round of Oh woe is me, but, for some reason, she stopped.

It was funny in an ironic way, almost, how the strangest, most random things could upset her in a moment when she really should have been solely focused on one of the worst things that had ever happened to her in her life.

Curious about what some Slytherin had been so intent to destroy, Hermione limply held out her wand and deadpanned, "Accio."

Immediately, what remained of whatever had been burned shot from the fire, tiny, ashy specks flying out behind it. Inches from her face, she stopped the charred, faded, curled-around-the-edges section of black book binding and squinted through a veil of fresh tears as she read what was left of what she assumed was the title, glossed with glittering red letters:

-lèges Tragiques.

French. –lèges Tragiques. Why did that sound familiar to her?

"Hermy," Lavender insisted stubbornly. Her voice rose to a whine as she urgently jabbed a slender, manicured fingernail at her French book's unmistakable, almost blood-red writing. "I think this might be important!"

The memory slammed back into Hermione's mind for the first time in practically a month. Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques. That's what the full title had been, she recalled clearly, sitting up straight and leaning forward, her elbows resting on her knees as she interestedly examined the thin remnant, her tears instantly drying on her cheeks. A Killer Love and Other Once Tragic Enchantments.

And, suddenly, Lavender's insistent whining made complete sense.

'A Killer Love.' Obviously, that part of the title could have been referring to the Anima Curse, she thought, her heart beginning to hammer in anticipation, like the way one gets when she doesn't yet understand the full significance of something, but still knows that it is important.

But… once tragic? Did that mean to imply that… it wasn't tragic anymore? But how… how could it not be tragic, unless…

Unless the book had held a cure.

Hermione gaped at the glaring pile of ash in the fireplace in absolute horror, stunned realization dawning on her face.

Holy bloody hell.

A/N: Ummm… what am I forgetting… Oh! As always, do read and review, your thoughts and comments are appreciated! I really do love to read each of them, and my review responses will be up tomorrow afternoon, so come back if you missed them tonight! Thank you for being so patient with me. The only humanly possible way I would be able to update sooner than that is if my life revolves around fanfiction, which it doesn't.

Much love-

Peace out

Lady Moonglow