Jukebox Plays- Remembering Jenny, from BtVS (beautiful instrumental, as a note.)

Chapter 9

Hermione searched the endless gray nothing, eyes focused for the barest hint of light or change in the shifting mists. Even the pains of being compressed into a physical form, nothing compared to her deathly fear of spending eternity wandering through this Nothing place. She did not know how long she waited, staring out into the vast and unknowable distance, before she heard the voices.

Quiet at first, maddening whispers in the ethereal fog. Paused, waiting to hear them again. So faint that it was impossible to make out words or names from the sound. Straining in the dense muteness, wishing and praying for something, for someone, for anything to break the hopeless monotony of the Nothing. Of the void which stretched on forever- and then, the voices again.

"Incredible save, Harry!"

"I can't believe we got out of that in one piece."

"Damn Malfoy, doesn't know what he's talking about."

"I don't know what Ron sees in you."

"The brightest witch of her age"

So familiar, so safe, yet gone forever. But she couldn't block it out, the chorus of a million phrases heard before. A fresh blade on the knife of her despair, like clinging to a raft that is slowly sinking beneath you. Unable to reach for the lifeline, because it would mean leaving the familiar. No matter that it will do you no good, praying your fears are unfounded.

In her formless state, there were no tears to cry. No mouth to form any sound to express her grief. Finally, desperately trying to force the guilt of her own failure into the box. The chest that held fear and joy, and hope. Distancing herself from the memories that threatened to overwhelm her- in a place where there was nowhere to hide. No wall or rock or anything; just the empty Nothing that afforded her no shelter.

"Ye'll have t'go back eventually, ye know." Came a voice from behind her. At least, 'behind' was relative, it could have been above or below, or any other direction in the mad place. It was a familiar voice, a soft Scottish brogue that didn't seem as tied to the guilt as the other sweet siren whispers. She turned then, half out of her own inability to place this new voice.

Short, dark hair. Bright, kind eyes that looked so very sad, as though the message he bore brought him no joy. His dark red sweater was frayed at the cuffs and collar, (You know, my mum's don't wind out like that… she remembered someone saying.) And he was far too young to look so very old. Of all the people she could have ever imagined to guide her to the afterlife- he was not one of them.

"Oliver?" She asked after a long moment's hesitation. The Hermione of old would have analyzed, wondered why now she could speak; contemplated why it would be him and not one of her nearest and dearest, that had come to save her from this place. But this Hermione did neither; reaching out with hands she did not recall having.

The figure shook his head, taking her hand in both of his and patting it lightly. Hermione looked down to where her hand rested between his larger ones, and choked back the urge to cry. Tears that scalded, a lump in her throat she could not swallow. For the first time in so very, very long to feel she was not alone. And it didn't matter to her that she had barely paid two knuts attention to him in life, what mattered was that he was here now.

"No, I'm not. Ye're not ready to face yet, all ye've seen- but neither can ye stay here any longer. Still alive, and this is no place for ye. That's why ye see me though; because this face isn't tied to the pain'an the guilt. Go… We'll all be 'ere when ye're ready to accept it."

Her stomach hurt, a pain that lanced bitter cold up from across her hip. Infected with the slithery chill of Dark Magic; she knew at once it was the very wound which had laid her low in the first place. Hermione panicked then, grasping at Oliver's hands with all of her might, begging him in a broken voice to please, please not make her go back! That she wasn't ready to face the word, she wasn't strong enough to make her way back through the Nothing. There was no path, no guide; she would be lost here forever.

"Please don't do this! Don't let me go!" She cried, clawing at the hands that were slowly fading away beneath her. Leaving her once more alone in the silence, devoid of the steady rock he had provided since his appearance. "Please Oliver! Please, don't leave me here alone!"

He shook his head once more, vanishing faster now into the misty Nothing void that surrounded them both. His sad eyes looked over her shoulder, staring at some point she could not see. "Jus' follow the light, it'll lead ye back." And with that, he was no more.

--

Everyone seemed to think that the Library at Hogwarts was merely a repository for books of knowledge. Texts and tomes of all shapes and sizes, to cover whatever your studying needs may be. So bogged down by their studies, their social lives and their laziness; very few students ever really realized that there was a whole section of fiction (Muggle and Magical) there at their fingertips to whisk them away into their own imagination.

The strange, worried looks from his familiar had eventually driven Tom from his dorm in annoyance. He was tired, and felt as though he had not slept at all the night before—despite the fact that he knew full well that he had gotten more then enough rest. And so it was, with his homework finished and hours left until his rounds, that the young man found himself at rather loose ends.

His fingers trailed lightly, almost reverently over the leather spines of the books. Stories and tales so familiar that reading them was almost like being back in his happiest moments. Swiss Family Robinson…The Lord of the Rings…Peter Pan… and there on the end, the slim, little battered red volume of "Alice in Wonderland". Like many things in his life, Tom would never admit to having a childhood love of the ridiculous story.

But when is a little boy, trapped in an Orphanage where 'homey' is the last word that comes to mind; being passed over week after week for younger, sweeter children… Well the works of Lewis Carroll were the next best thing to being free yourself. Where the laws of physics and gravity and sanity just don't apply anymore. A land where Magic was real.

These sentimental thoughts were pushed away with a bitter smirk. Turning the worn cover over in his hands, it was familiar though he had not picked it up in quite a few years. Three years, he reminded himself. He had not read this story since the June before he left his fourth year at Hogwarts. Weeks before… Tom slammed down on that though brutally, shoving it back into the far corner of his mind and locking it behind a wall of sheer will.

Tiny memories had been niggling his mind all day, like tiny little fish biting at a baited hook. Memories that he though he had done away with forever, now rising, unwanted, to the surface. Why today of all days, he had no idea. Slowly he closed his eyes, taking a shallow breath to calm his internal musings. It didn't matter after all, 'why today'- it was in the past, and in the past it would stay.

Of course, that didn't stop him from signing out the copy of Alice in Wonderland on his way out of the library doors. And not a moment too soon, as he ducked around a corner to avoid the trio of Black, Lestrange and Malfoy. It galled him more then he would care to admit, avoiding the likes of those idiot purebloods. He consoled himself with the knowledge that his patience would win out in the end.

The doors to the Infirmary were always open a little, and tonight was no exception. Tom walked passed them carelessly, the little book folded loosely in his hand. He would not go in there. He didn't care weather the little witch lived or died… But… But could it really hurt just to check, and make sure?

He stopped, staring down at the solid, reliable gray stone under his black polished shoes. It was a quarrel he had with himself, curiosity waging war against the analyst that refused to give quarter. It was such a rare thing, really. Tom had prided himself for so long; on his clear and level headed thinking- that he had almost entirely forgotten what it was to face a quandary within yourself.

And for the second time that night, Tom closed his eyes and sighed. The sound was loud in the silent corridor, a tiny noise that anywhere else would have been entirely lost. A turn on his heel as he entered the doors- he would not ask himself why it was that option he chose. Simply making his way down to the end of the room, stepping lightly through the pools of sunset purple light that rested on the floors.

The Infirmary was quiet, the single other patient already off to the land of the Sandman with a draught of Dreamless Sleep potion. He clutched the book more tightly, a reflexive action that betrayed the calm he wore as a mask on his face. A minute flaw in the façade that was Tom Riddle's outward persona.

The chair stood where it had been before, empty beside the bed of this mystery Snow White. He stepped through the curtains that surrounded the area, a space that was theirs and theirs alone. And that was the though that undid his resolve, the very notion that this had become his refuge; his place away from the noise and the music and the strange looks. Where this Snow White didn't mock him for remaining silent, she asked for nothing, and he had nothing in that moment to give, save the truth.

Reaching out, he placed his free hand lightly over her cool ones, feeling the gentle pulse of her blood beneath the parchment skin. The curtains shadowed them from the rest of the world, gave him the clarity to see passed his own evasions and self betrayals- just for a moment, long enough to speak the words the pressed against the inside of his mind. As clear as a bolt of blue lightening in the fog of his thoughts. (That the words were not his own seemed not to matter, taken as they were from his favorite line in the book he held in his hand.)

"I can't explain myself, I'm afraid…" But the voice which finished the line was not his own. It was small and thin, and sounded as though it had not been used in a very long time.

"For I am not myself, you see."

Tom blinked hard; lifting his gaze to the face of the woman he had named Snow White in his mind. To her eyes, the color of dark chocolate in the shadowy light. To the beautiful frailty that hung around her like a martyr's halo, the broken soul that he could glimpse for a fraction of a second before it was gone. Hidden away inside the box that would not, could not, allow her to show him that much weakness.

And he stared at her for a long moment, memorizing and committing to memory every detail of her at that exact instant. So deeply surprised that he didn't move, not even aware that his hand was still resting against hers. Deaf to the sound of the little book falling to the chair beside him.

The second moment when these two existed on the same wavelength, lost for a brief second in time in their own little world. The rest of the universe just didn't matter, nor did they care that it couldn't be explained away with any logic, save for the next words that were pulled from straight from Tom's thoughts, and into existence.

"I didn't want you to die."

- ---

And there you have it, she is awake!

An immense thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. You have no idea how much I was tempted to just take your advice and have him kiss her, Disney style )

Blindfaith- You wanted her awake, you have it.

Speed of Darkness- no Tom in a clown suit this time around, but I'll see what I can do… muse rolls eyes

Annikacan- you read the last chapter instead of studying, yikes! shoo's you off to the books

Ryn- Another vote for the kiss-and-wake-up method…or failing that, cold water. You know, I think a lot of people reading this would support that. But fear not, she's all un-coma'd now.

Jamie- Definetly not having them jump eachother. I understand that this is moving really slowly, and Im sorry if that's not working so well. But I just do what the muses demand.