Notes: Thank you so much as always! I hope that the events of this chapter aren't a disappointment. The event that you are all waiting for will happen, and I expect every one of you can guess when after reading this. But I want to make it worthy of the wait and buildup.

Credit where due: The end sequence of this chapter is heavily inspired by Chapter 16 of my pal bainsidhe's fic From the Ashes (her profile is accessible from my favorite stories on my profile page). I say this because she'll recognize the inspiration. ;)

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Dark Night of the Soul

Dumbledore closed the door behind himself and Tom and regarded the young wizard with a look of deep disapproval on his face. "You are fortunate, Lord Thomas. You are fortunate that this monster did not kill Lady Hermione, and you are also fortunate that the wizarding populace is in a state of unease. Your lady mother obviously must know about this—and I rather expect that Lady Hermione will see to that," he said with a hard look, "but luckily for you, the present political situation makes it… inadvisable… for me to allow this information to spread any farther. Lord Malfoy would certainly use it against all of us."

Tom had not even thought about that, but of course, it was true. He remained silent as the High Master continued to speak.

"I am not going to waste time scolding you for the fact that you harmed Lady Hermione," he said. "You should feel remorseful for that yourself, and if you do not, then my words certainly will not make a difference."

Tom gaped at Dumbledore. "Of course I feel bad about that!" he protested. "I did not mean for the beast to endanger anyone in the school, let alone her! I would like to see her as soon as Master Slughorn gives her the restorative potion."

"The last thing Lady Hermione will remember upon awakening is catching a glimpse of Slytherin's monster. The professor will have to explain to her what happened and why she is in the sickroom, and you should consider the possibility that she may not wish to see you immediately after that."

Anger rose in Tom's chest. "I have the right—"

"You are not in charge of this castle, Lord Thomas. I am. If Lady Hermione wishes to see you when she wakes up, that is a different matter, but I will not force it upon her."

"You would keep me from her? It's unlawful to kidnap someone else's spouse, even in one's own castle…."

"Hermione is not your wife, and no one is 'kidnapping' her. While she is a pupil in this castle, I am responsible for her. You will not be admitted to the sickroom unless she asks for you." Dumbledore eyed him dubiously. "What I mean to discuss with you is the Chamber itself. I have known of its existence; I was one of the Founders' own pupils, after all. But I have not known where its entrance was. I presume it requires words to be spoken in Parseltongue."

Tom nodded. "There is a ward in Parseltongue, but I think it is also linked to the blood of Slytherin."

"As master of this school, it is not acceptable to me for a lethal monster to reside in its bowels, accessible to a single student," Dumbledore said severely.

"You would kill it?" he exclaimed in horror. If Dumbledore had the basilisk killed, that could mark the end of his dreams of revolution. He would not cooperate, he vowed. The Chamber would not open except to a command in Parseltongue, and he would not speak it on the command of someone who wished to kill the basilisk. "Professor—please—it belongs to my family—"

"You said that you did not mean for it to endanger anyone in the school. What was your intention, may I ask? What did you mean to do?"

"I was going to take it out of the school and settle it in the dungeons of my mother's castle."

"How were you planning to get it there? You cannot Apparate with such a creature."

Tom had not considered that part. He temporized. "I would have taken it outside the school grounds and… ordered the house-elves to bring a cart," he said. "I would have put it back to sleep after it was inside."

"That would have been a long journey for you."

Anger surged in him once again. "Are you implying that I'm lying to you? I tell you, I did not mean to harm any students or professors with it! If I had, why would I have brought it out at night, after most of the students went home?"

"Mind your tongue! I do believe you when you say you didn't mean to harm anyone here, but your 'plan' for getting it home seems half-baked at best. I will not have this creature in the school, Lord Thomas. I would strongly advise against bringing it to your own castle, but if you insist upon it, you have until the school reopens in January to work out a feasible plan for removing it safely. Otherwise, I will take the necessary measures."

Tom glared back. "And how do you suppose you will do that, Professor? The Chamber only opens to Parselmouths, and only those of Slytherin's blood can control the basilisk."

"Your lady mother is a Parselmouth of Slytherin's blood," Dumbledore said pointedly. "I expect that when she learns of the danger, she will gladly help."

"You would pressure my mother—?"

"I would ask your mother. I meant what I said. That basilisk will be out of my school soon, one way or the other." He peered at Tom icily. "I recommend that you go to bed, Lord Thomas. The restorative potion will not be ready until daybreak anyway, and I will not let you sit in the sickroom overnight."

With that, Dumbledore stalked to the door, opened it, and walked away briskly, leaving Tom to his thoughts.

Tom considered returning to the Chamber to brood and think there, but he decided against it. If he had to devise a plan to keep Slytherin's basilisk from being destroyed, it was best not to do something that this old man would probably consider blatant defiance. He returned to his bedchamber in the Slytherin dormitories, a headache now throbbing away, and plopped down on his bed to think.

Hermione almost died, he thought. The basilisk almost killed her. It would have if I had not blindfolded it. I wish there had been thicker material in the castle! But she will be all right in the morning, after Slughorn gives her the mandrake potion.

I almost lost Hermione. It has been two years since we had our first fight, and that's quite long enough. I almost lost her, and it is time to make amends. Dumbledore may ban me from the sickroom, but he cannot keep her locked inside it forever. When she comes out, we will finally talk. Surely she will understand that this was completely an accident. We can talk about the things we argued about, the alliances and the Adelaide Lestrange matter. I really do want to have that talk now, and I will listen to what she has to say. I have to get her back. She cannot think that I did this on purpose. Tom sighed, rubbing his aching temples. He was hopeful that the discussion would go well… but there was still a voice of doubt deep in his mind. He could not pinpoint just what it might be about this plan that made that part of him skeptical, though. Dismissing the concern, he rolled off the bed and stumbled over to the cabinet where he kept general-purpose medicinal potions. Finding one that would cure a headache, he gulped down the requisite amount and fell onto the bed again to wait for it to take effect.

Hermione is lucky, in a way, he thought, staring at the ceiling. She is unconscious. I am the one who will have a terrible night.

Hermione awoke the next morning choking, her mouth full of a foul-tasting fluid. Her vision was fuzzy, and her entire body ached, as if she had not moved a muscle for hours. She closed her eyes, which seemed unnaturally dry, to allow them to lubricate. She swallowed the remaining liquid—she realized, on some level, that it must be a potion, so it was presumably safe—and felt the pain in her arms and legs lessen as she did. Her eyes seemed to settle as well, and she opened her eyelids and blinked several times before recognizing Professor Slughorn and Mistress Pomfrey, the school healer.

"Uggh," she groaned, rising from her pillow. This was not her own room; it was the infirmary. She tried to remember how she had gotten here, but she found that she could not. The last thing that she remembered was… it suddenly hit her. Tom was in the storage closet with a giant snake beside him, its eyes blindfolded, but I could still see two great yellow blurs through the cloth. Hot rage flooded her body as she realized what this meant had happened.

"Lady Hermione," Slughorn said solicitously, "are you feeling all right?" He looked anxious. "You have just recovered from being Petrified…."

She blinked again. "Petrified," she repeated. "For how long?"

"Just overnight! We had all the ingredients on hand to make the restorative draught for you."

She considered that. It meant that… today was the day she was supposed to go to Parselhall. With Tom, she thought, the mere thought of his name in her mind sending a new spark of anger through her. Where was he, anyway? He was responsible for this, and he did not even have the decency to show up when she was awakened?

"Where is Lord Thomas?" she asked tartly, not caring that Slughorn grimaced at the formality of her question and the fact that she did not call him by his nickname.

"He is probably in the Slytherin common room or his bedchamber," Slughorn said.

"I see." She threw the sheet down the bed and got to her feet. She was still dressed in the day robes she had worn yesterday, so she did not need to worry about being decent. "In that case, if I am well now, I had best go so that I can gather up my belongings." She gazed at the healer for confirmation of this.

"Yes," Mistress Pomfrey said, "you are quite well now. Careful on your feet, though, my lady!" she added as Hermione wobbled a bit.

As she made her way to the Slytherin rooms, Hermione resolved on what she would do. It hurt, but enough was enough. No one could expect her to marry someone who would treat her as something lower than a mistress, blame her for events that were not her fault, and then put her life in such grave danger—and express no contrition for any of it. Well, no one in the magical community who is not a Malfoy or Malfoy ally, she thought cynically, before feeling bad about the thought. Well… surely my parents would not insist that I wed someone who hurt me. But many Muggle nobles would. Lady Merope, though, is the one who gets to make the final decision, and she promised me that she would break the contract if I asked her to. I will offer to swear my wand to her service instead. She needs magical vassals. She may not want to accept that, because of the complication with Tom… but I suppose it is time I accept the fact that there may not be a complication with Tom. He was not here this morning when I was awakened.

She entered the Slytherin common room and immediately saw Tom himself seated in front of the hearth, gazing out at the cold unlit fireplace silently. He turned around as she entered the room, and his dark eyes widened. He rose from his seat and approached her.

Instantly, instinctively, Hermione drew her wand and pointed it at his heart. "Stay away from me," she said, her words so cold that it surprised her.

He stopped abruptly and gazed at her. "Hermione, please, let me explain."

"Explain?" she repeated. "I cannot imagine what 'explanation' you can have for Petrifying me with Slytherin's basilisk and then not even being present in the sickroom when I wake up, but I suppose you'll say it anyway. Very well, then. 'Explain' yourself. It should be quite amusing," she sneered.

His eyebrows narrowed. "Are you even going to give me a chance?"

"How dare you? I owe you nothing. Now is your 'chance' to speak, though, so get to it!"

He breathed deeply, trying to control himself and the storm of emotions that he felt. "I wanted to be in the sickroom, but Dumbledore would not allow it," he said. "He forbade me from being there."

Her gaze softened ever so slightly at that. Encouraged, Tom continued. "As for the basilisk—I really didn't mean for that to happen! I would never set it on you, Hermione! It was an accident. Please believe me. I can't even express how grateful I am that you weren't killed." He moved forward, reaching for her hands, but she recoiled. He stopped and gazed at her face, plain need written in his features. "I was awake for most of last night, Hermione. I could not get to sleep."

"You could not get to sleep," she repeated, her eyes hard and set. "What are you implying, Tom? That you had it worse last night?"

"Well, didn't I? I mean, you were unconscious."

"Tom—"

He winced, realizing that that had not gone well at all. "My point is, I thought about what had happened, and it made me realize that I… well, I need you. I don't want to be alone—without you. I regret that it took almost losing you for me to realize that. I'm sorry about the basilisk. It really was an accident, and after all, you were awakened quickly. It will never happen again. Will you forgive me?"

Hermione stared at him in disgusted amazement. "That's it, Tom? You truly think that that is all you need to say to me? That I will take you back after those pathetic words?"

He drew back as if she had slapped him. "I don't understand, Hermione. I am sorry about it! I never meant for this to happen…."

"Tom, let me 'explain' something to you now. If you had meant for it to happen, you would not be standing here. You would be the one in the infirmary!" she roared, her voice suddenly hot with outrage.

He stared at her with pleading eyes. "Hermione, what should I say? What do you want from me? I don't want to lose you. I realized that last night, after I almost did."

"What do I want from you? What I want," she said, her voice suddenly breaking, "is something that you are clearly incapable of offering, Tom."

"What do you mean?" A chill darted down his spine at her words.

"Have you even been listening to yourself? Everything that you have said to me has been about how bad you have felt, how much you think you couldn't do without me, and how much of an accident this was—more excuses for yourself, and what does it say that you think you need to tell me that? Do you think that I believed you did this on purpose, and that saying it was an accident will therefore make everything all right? Because it will not, Tom."

He gaped. "I don't understand."

"You certainly don't. You have said not one word about any of the problems we had over the past two years—nothing about your atrocious treatment of me in my second year here, all supposedly to please your 'allies' whose families already knew about the betrothal. You have also had not one word to say about the time you blamed me for Carrow's torture of you. And now, you don't seem to think you owe me any explanation or apology for the basilisk other than 'it was an accident.' You really seem to think that you have suffered more last night, in your fear that you would 'lose me,' than I have suffered for the past two years." She stared at him with wide, sad eyes. "Tom, I cannot marry someone who disregards me, unjustly blames me for things, has no consideration for my feelings, and insists upon heedless pursuits that will endanger my life."

Tom was gazing at her in growing horror. "What are you saying?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "We are going to your mother's castle today. At some point, whenever the time is right, I am going to tell her that I want the contract broken after I complete my education here."

His mouth dropped open in shock.

"I will swear my wand to her service," Hermione said, the idea taking solid shape in her mind as she spoke the fateful words. "I have great respect for your mother. I want to help your family, and since she is with child, she needs more defenders."

"You can't," he protested, reaching for her hands again. "Hermione, no, you can't—"

She pulled away, avoiding facing him. It broke her heart all over again to see that look of shock and abject misery in his eyes, but she could not allow a consideration like that to persuade her. Tom had expressed contrition for what had happened, but that was it—it was for "what had happened," not "what he had done to her," either now or any time over the previous two years. His words had made it plain that he had not thought about her feelings whatsoever, but was instead focused on how much he thought he would suffer. Worse, it had not even occurred to him that she would be offended and hurt by that reaction.

"Tom," she finally said, "for two years, you have scorned and dismissed me because you took for granted that 'I can't' do anything in response. It's time you learned that, as a matter of fact, I can."

With that, she turned on her heels and went to her bedchamber, leaving him in the common room with devastation inscribed on his face.

What can I do? Tom thought as he paced back and forth in his Hogwarts bedroom. The shock of what had just happened had fully sunk in, and he was horrified and distraught. Mother would accept Hermione's offer. There was no doubt in his mind of that. Mother liked Hermione, and if Hermione made her loyalty to Mother as clear as a sworn oath would imply, then she would take up the offer. He would then have to go about the grounds of Hangleton, perhaps even the castle of Parselhall, knowing that Hermione was there but had rejected him and moved on with her life. How could Hermione have felt as she claimed she did for so long without his knowing about it? He was a perceptive person, a Legilimens. How could this be?

Well, Hermione is an Occlumens, he thought unhappily. She has hidden her thoughts and feelings from me… and now she blames me for not seeing them? I don't understand. She always chose her studies and her friendships… she wanted no part of my doings after our first fight and tried to dissuade me from my goals for some reason I could never understand… she disliked my friends because of politics, I thought, at least…. I remember how, after Mother formed alliances with my friends' parents, it was perhaps time for me to talk to Hermione, since I no longer needed to keep my distance from her to impress those families. But then she involved herself in the Lestrange business, and I was tortured over the murder of that filth….

As he dredged up the memories, the anger that he had felt at the time resurfaced once more. That was not productive; he realized that, but he could not figure out what to do. He did not really even know how to begin winning her back. They had been estranged for so long.

Is it true? he thought miserably. Is this the end? What can I do? I would say whatever it is that she wants to hear from me, but I don't know what it is now. And if I said, "Of course you have suffered, and I am sorry for that," she would consider it insincere, since she accused me of not saying those things a little while ago. And… Tom sighed deeply at this… I suppose it would be insincere, because I don't understand her feelings.

He had already packed, but as he brooded, his eye caught the gleam of an empty flask on a shelf. It was the one that had held the green potion from the sea cave.

Slughorn said that the potion makes one feel remorse. It brings up memories of one's worst moments, he thought. I wonder….

The idea flashed through his mind that if he drank the potion, he might get to take the artifact that hopefully lay at the bottom of the basin. His heart thumped oddly at that. He did not even know what it was. It probably was not Excalibur… that basin did not look large enough to hold a sword… but whatever it was—if indeed an artifact existed—it was something that was significant to the Gaunt family.

Perhaps I can drink the potion, see these events again and gain some new insight about them that will help me talk to Hermione, and also gain the object! Tom thought excitedly, springing to his feet. The object could be a reward for doing that! Perhaps this is the answer. And Slughorn said that there was probably another potion nearby to restore one's health and vigor. It could be the water. It could be. This is what I will do, then.

They were to Apparate to Parselhall that afternoon. Tom glanced at his pack. He could bring it with him, making it appear that he was already at Parselhall in case he did not return from the sea cave in time and Hermione asked Slughorn to look for him.

She might not, he thought. She might assume that I had gone on without her anyway. That thought did not offer him any comfort, but he could not ignore it. Sighing, he picked up the pack and left the Slytherin rooms to walk to the Apparition point in the castle courtyard.

Having been to the site of the sea cave before made it possible for Tom to Apparate directly there—or, rather, almost directly there. He emerged from the unpleasant constriction to face the salt spray of the sea, which was a very different matter in late December than it had been in the middle of summer. To make matters worse, a storm was battering the coast with damp, frigid gusts of wind, so sodden with moisture that he could see them in the distance as fast-moving white clouds. Tom shivered immediately as the water soaked him through. The elements were certainly going to make him earn whatever was in the basin, he thought.

He pulled the hood of his dark green cloak over his head, tugged his pack across his shoulders, and turned away from the sea to face the back wall of the shallow antechamber. The storm had pushed the water about an inch deep along the floor of this outer cave, and the back wall was blasted with spray. However, Tom remembered where to go. Even amid the howling of the icy wind, the thrum of ancient blood magic called out to him, thump-thump, as it had that summer. He walked to the spot and shivered as he cut his palm open to offer the ward passage. As he expected, the rock of the wall slid away, revealing the inner cave, bathed in a cold green glow. Tom breathed deeply and pressed forward into the dim light.

The fresh water inside the vast inner cave was unnaturally still, even though the storm outside had free rein to enter this chamber now. In fact… Tom realized that he himself could not feel the wind. Magic, he realized. The air was full of it. He followed his magical sense to the spot where magical power seemed to converge, grasped at air that was suddenly thick and solid, and pulled on the shining silver rope that appeared in his hands. It was attached to a boat that slid out of the water with much greater ease than it should have. In the absence of magic, it should be impossible to pull a submerged boat by hand with only a rope, but with the charms that Tom could sense covered this boat and its rope, it was a relatively simple task. When the boat emerged fully from the water—again, barely making any ripples at all, Tom noted—it was already dry on the inside. He gathered up the long folds of his cloak and robes and sat down. There was a single oar, which he used alternately on each side to propel the boat toward the glowing island in the center of the lake. No ripples disturbed the surface of the unnatural, obviously enchanted fresh water.

Why did I not notice this before? Tom thought about halfway to the lake. Was I so focused on getting treasure out of the basin that I did not make note of anything else except for barriers that I had to overcome? This water is obviously highly magical.

In a bit, the boat bumped against the island, and Tom got out, making sure to tie it to a large rock on the bank. He scrambled to the pinnacle of the small island, where the glowing basin rested atop a short pillar, its light illuminating the vastness of the cave on all sides. Tom gazed at the green surface, almost glittering with potency.

The worst moments of one's life. Tom's stomach churned at the thought of what that might be like. It is so that I can understand, he told himself, taking a silver goblet out of his pack. I need to know what the past two years were like to Hermione, since they were clearly much worse to her than they were to me. I did not just declare I would break the contract, after all. And… she is right… I assumed that she would not do it either.

Shivering in dread of what he expected to come, Tom dunked his goblet in the basin and drew out a cupful of the green potion. Closing his eyes tightly, his mouth already puckered into a wince, he downed it.

The effect was not immediate. For a few seconds, Tom gazed down at the basin, which was now a bit less full. Then the potion took effect.

A scene appeared in his mind from two years ago. He and Hermione were standing in the courtyard of Hogwarts, just returned from a holiday visit to Parselhall. Although he did not have access to her exact thoughts, the potion-induced memory did provide him with a sense of what she was feeling. At this moment, she was happy and content, her satisfaction tainted only slightly by a sense of darkness on the horizon. In the memory, he brought her hand to his lips, smiling back. The happiness in her face suddenly seemed to release a pent-up urge inside him, and he pulled her close, kissing her in full view of anyone else who might be present—which included his Lords of Beltane.

In the cave, Tom did not want to relive this, but the potion was in his system, and he had no choice now. He observed in horror as he scorned Hermione before his friends, alluding crudely to their intimacies—a private, special, almost sacred part of their lives—as though they were no more than a romp with a whore. The boys tittered, and Hermione stared at him in shame and betrayal. For the first time, Tom saw it as Hermione had seen it: A Muggle-born who had wanted so much to be part of the world to which she belonged by birth, who had been bound to him but found joy in that due to their early friendship, and then found that joy curdling into sadness, confusion, betrayal, and dread.

Not her, Tom thought in the cave as the memory repeated itself almost endlessly. She was so innocent then. I never realized how much she simply enjoyed her life, despite being under threat. At least she had my affections, and hope for a happy future…. What have I done?

He finally came back to himself and gazed down at the basin. It seemed so full yet. Shuddering, he dipped the goblet into the bowl again and drank another full cup of the potion.

In his memories, Hermione was returning from the seventh-floor room where the Friends of the Founders met. She had just learned that Neville Longbottom's parents were going to take the oath of fealty to Dumbledore, aligning Hogsmeade under the authority of Hogwarts. He had been outraged that she would go to the meetings, accusing her of "swanning about with other wizards" and "switching sides."

"Are they your people, Hermione?" he asked her in the memory, a nasty smirk overspreading his face. The question had been little more than an attempt to get at her; he had not meant to actually exclude her from wizarding England either as a Muggle-born or a part-Norman, but she had interpreted it to mean both. In the cave, Tom felt the cold knife of rejection himself. What had been a spiteful comment on his part, uttered because he was jealous of her persistent friendship with Potter and worried about political matters that were out of his control, had hurt her deeply. The wizard she was supposed to marry had essentially just told her that she did not belong.

Tom noticed as he pulled himself out of the memory that his eyes were damp. He was starting to feel physically weak as well. He grimaced and downed another goblet of the potion.

They were standing in one of the paths on the grounds of Hangleton, alone, the summer sun radiating down upon them. "You really have joined these 'Friends,' haven't you? You have sided against me—betraying me—"

Hermione was angry now; Tom could tell that in the memory. His words no longer had the same degree of power to hurt her that they used to. She was already hardening to him. That realization was horrifying. Tom watched in the memory as they argued about how he treated her and how he professed to regard witches. At the end of the encounter, she had stormed off, leaving him alone. He had wanted to follow her—and, for the first time, Tom in the present realized that she had wanted him to follow her. She had wanted him to chase after her and express his contrition. She had hoped that her logical argument—if he really respected witches, he should treat her better—would persuade him to do that. It had not, and another little bit of hope died inside her at that moment.

Tom stooped over the basin, wiping away the tear that now trickled down his face. He doubted that it would contaminate the potion if it fell in, but best not to let it happen anyway. He realized that he was clutching the rounded sides of the bowl for support, and his head felt light, as if he were soon going to faint.

Not yet, he thought, drinking another gobletful. At least the basin was finally noticeably emptier, but that was the only good thing.

It was another Friends of the Founders meeting, this a meeting that he had agreed to attend. He had decided it was best to see if he could guess what their families might be up to, as well as to stake his claim on Hermione in front of Potter, Longbottom, and the others.

"I asked you this once, and I will ask you again now: Whose side are you on?"

That still hurt. The implicit accusation of betrayal still hurt her, and now, it combined with anger and outrage over the fact that she was convinced that he had betrayed her by his treatment of her.

In the memory, they went upstairs together to the meeting, but it had ended rapidly in disaster when Tom learned that Hermione had signed a magically binding oath not to speak of their doings to Malfoy or his allies. He had stormed out of the meeting, refusing to take the oath himself even though he knew it was not one he ought to have an objection to—and leaving Hermione standing in the room before her friends and companions, utterly humiliated. Now, though, Tom himself felt every pang of humiliation, every stab of rage and shame as Weasley and his girl laughed at her.

She believed, at that time, that she was bound to me with no choice in the matter, that I cared so little about her that I would humiliate her in public before social inferiors, and she suffered mockery and ridicule from people who knew that they did have freedom to choose their partners, he thought, staring at the green potion that remained. The horrifying magnitude of his mistreatment of Hermione was slowly becoming clear to him.

"What have I done?" he whimpered, his words barely audible, though there was no one else in the cave to hear him anyway. He did not want to drink any more of that potion, but the bowl still had plenty for him. Clinging to the sides, his knees bending, he swallowed another cupful—and immediately wished that he had not. This was the worst by far—at least as of yet.

Hermione had long known that horrible crimes such as rape occurred, but her encounter with the pregnant, morose, terrified Adelaide Lestrange was her first experience with a person who had suffered such a trauma. She had struggled with her misgivings about helping a foe, but in the end, her fundamental compassion and sense of justice had won the day, and she had made the potion for Adelaide that would prevent her from being at the mercy of the rapist and her villainous, also-rapist father. Tom had been so quick to chastise her for not swearing Adelaide to an oath of silence, or otherwise protecting herself, but he had ignored the fact that, despite the second-class status bestowed upon her by Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange himself, despite the ridicule she suffered at school, despite the mistreatment by him—the one person who, more than any other, should love and cherish her—she was still a kind person who wanted to do the right thing and help those who were suffering. Perhaps he had had a point that she should have protected herself better, but he had placed no value on her basic compassionate instinct. Even if he himself did not share it, he should have valued it in her, as something that she did better than he did—a strength to counter what was a weakness in him. And if we had been together, he thought miserably, we would have discussed it and devised a way to keep Lestrange from a forced marriage to a rapist, see justice done to the criminal himself, and protect Hermione's role in it. It had not had to have happened the way it had.

"What have I done?" he repeated again—or perhaps he only thought it. He did not know, but it did not matter—and worse was still to come.

The second wave of the memory slammed him like a dragon. He had blamed Hermione's letter to Bellatrix Lestrange for the fact that he had been tortured over the rapist's murder. I was angry and scared, he thought. I could have died that day, and I knew it—and I took that fear out on her.

The horrible fight occurred once again in the memory, only now, he saw it from Hermione's perspective when he spitefully revealed the bargain he had made with Mother about their betrothal contract. She had been angry, but it had hurt and shocked her deeply. For the first time, Hermione had questioned if he cared for her anymore.

When Tom came back to the present time in the cave, he realized that he was not standing upright anymore, but rather, was clinging to the pillar where the basin rested, his knees bent. He was not sure that he could rise again. The water, that cold and unnaturally still magical water, beckoned to him…. It could restore strength, he thought—but only for a moment. He might regain his strength, but somehow he knew that if he drank from the lake now, before the basin was drained, he would be barred from ever trying again. The artifact therein would be sealed against him, and he would lose Hermione, even after the memories that he had already relived. He could not explain how or why, and he supposed that it was his magical instinct that told him this rather than any part of his logical brain, but somehow he knew that draining the basin was necessary for him to have a chance at changing Hermione's mind. Shuddering and shivering, he reached in the dim light for the side of the basin, hoping that it was magically secured and he did not pull the thing onto himself. Clutching it, he hoisted himself up and gazed upon the remaining potion. He filled up his goblet yet again, noticing that after this one, there appeared to be only one cupful left. He could not scoop up every last drop, but the magic of the bowl would detect when he could not get any more. He drank the potion he had just gathered and braced himself.

This memory was not about Hermione. Instead, he was reliving the horrible argument he had had with his mother after he had killed his father. He experienced it from her viewpoint, and this was just as horrible—if not worse—as anything he had experienced from Hermione's view.

Hypocrite. Liar. Every word was a stab to his mother's heart, as she questioned and second-guessed her own choices in life. She had told lies, but it had not been out of casual unconcern for the truth. It was because she had agonized over when she ought to reveal the awful truth to Tom—the truth that she had eloped with his father as a young woman, barely adult, no older than he himself was right now, in order to prevent her own brother from raping her on a hideous, unholy mockery of a "wedding night."

"Who was it? There must have been someone. There always is for noble spawn." That question, tumbling viciously from his lips, had brought up memories of awful dread in her mind.

"Why did I say that?" he murmured—or thought—as he relived the memory of saying that to her. "I could tell that the question hurt her, and that was why I asked it. She could have told me the truth in her own way." Shame filled him at the thought of it.

She had set up the betrothal between him and Hermione because she had had such a bad experience with her first marriage. He had been correct about that, he realized. But she had genuinely believed that two young people barely out of childhood who had so much in common would be happier, and love would come naturally, if they went through their young adult years contractually committed to each other. She had meant well for him. Everything she had done had been well-intended, whether it was ultimately a good decision or not. Tom felt ill at the memory of accusing her of selfishness—especially after he had just acted very selfishly.

Tom's legs had already collapsed and were unable to support his weight now. He was clinging to the basin for support as he scooped up the last of the potion that he could. He noted, vaguely, that there was indeed something in the basin, though he could not quite tell what it was. It was something elongated. Perhaps a wand? But no, wands were a recent magical innovation, he vaguely remembered. It was certainly not the Holy Grail. Perhaps Excalibur? Wasn't a sword supposed to be longer than that, though? Tom's vision was fuzzy and growing dark, and his entire body ached. After this, he would fall to his knees and drink that water. He downed the last of the potion and tumbled to the ground, curling up on his side. Somehow, he knew what memory that this cup was going to invoke. That did not make it any easier.

Tom closed his eyes, feeling his cheeks dampen, as he relived the talk he had just had with Hermione.

She does not think I set the basilisk on her deliberately, but she does not trust me to ever change—not so much to change my plans; she does not care so much about that, but to ever consider her well-being, her feelings, or even, now, her safety and life when I make my plans. In some recess of his soul, he had already known this truth by now. The sweet, innocent Hermione he had met three and a half years ago was gone, and largely by his own deeds. All people lost some of their innocence as they grew up, but they retained their idealism about some things, usually. Hermione had lost her idealism about him, at long last. Three and a half years ago, she looked forward to marrying me. Now, she thinks I will be her death if she stays with me.

He was not sure how long he remained curled up on that cold, rocky bank. It might not have been long at all, but the pain—both physical and mental—was so intense, and he felt so utterly, deathly tired, that time itself seemed to become impossible to track. Please, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, let her never be hurt again. Not her. Me. Not her. Not them. Me. That thought repeated in his mind until, at last, it faded to a vague buzz. Some of the physical pain seemed to lift.

I am dying, he thought suddenly. In that moment, he remembered the water. It took every ounce of his remaining strength, but he was able to drag himself to the bank. He did not hesitate. Making sure that his nose remained above the surface, he plunged his face into the water.

It tasted vaguely unpleasant, not at all like the pure magically infused "water of life" that he had expected, but as he drank deeply, he felt his strength returning to him. The pangs of physical agony returned, but only briefly. Another swallow of the water, and they began to fade.

Tom crawled from the bank, still feeling tired, but no longer as though he were dying. Instead, he felt as though he had gained several years of wisdom. He stood up on the rocks, the water swirling around his feet, and clutched the now almost-empty basin for support.

There was indeed something at the bottom. He had not been in a potion-induced hallucination. Tom steadied himself and gazed down at a sheathed blade. Gingerly he lifted it out of the basin. The sheath itself was clearly ancient and valuable, being made of perfectly molded copper, chased with fantastic beasts and Celtic knots, studded here and there with green beryls. Tom's pulse quickened as he drew out the short blade, silver-white and pristine. The edge was clearly sharp enough to cut even after… how long?

Tom soon had his answer as he examined it. It was not a sword. It was not properly a dagger. This blade, he realized, was an ancient athame, an artifact used by witches and wizards of old in potionmaking, in ritual magic, in blood spells. On the hilt, right below a sharp-eyed raven, were inscribed the words,

MORGANA, DAUGHTER OF IGRAINE

Tom gazed at it longingly. It was true, then, at least some of the legend about this cave. What power this artifact might hold….

But no, he realized. He knew what he had to do with it. In the end, it was not for him.