Dedicated to Svelte Rose, who has labeled herself my #1 fan. Just because the thought of meriting a #1 fan is just so cool.

Chapter 18

Hermione Granger was very dedicated to her studies. It had been both her blessing and her bane, the cause of ridicule in her younger years. Her devotion had saved lives during the war, planned the perfect strategies- and watch them fall to ruinous pieces around her. But never before had she been forced to study through the knowledge that her life alone weighed in the balance of success or failure.

The silence of the Ravenclaw Common Room was a deafening, each crackle of the logs in the hearth, or whispering sound of the turning pages echoed into her head. The words blurred in her sight, fading and morphing into linear patterns and nonsense squiggly lines across the parchment. For all the sense it made, she realized she might as well be reading ancient Greek. Save for the undeniable fact that ancient Greek could be more easily translated.

The Library was an equally barren place. With all the students gone for the holidays, it was as hollow as an empty tomb. No children being a little too loud, or passing notes between the tables. The endless shelves of books spread on into the dark, holding their council, and theirs alone. The creeping fatigue clouded her mind like opium, begging her to put down the books and sleep. To rest her head, and close her eyes, and make all the aching stop.

And so it was that desperate desire to solve this puzzle of her mortality, and the more human craving for contact, that drew her to the portrait of Pandora that guarded the chambers of the Head Boy and (absent) Head Girl. Hermione stood before the painting, looking into the crux of her own indecision. The dark haired Pandora smiled at her sympathetically, lifting her watercolor hands from the lid of the box. The Box that held all the evils of mankind, waiting for the chance to spread over the world like a disease.

Hermione could empathize. During the War, her own death had been a trivial matter. Every morning she awoke beside men and women with the same fears, and the same knowledge that each day must be lived for it's fullest- because there was so much a chance that by dusk, it would be forever altered. You learned to drown out the sounds of couples reaffirming that, for this one moment, they could be together.

And through it all she had smiled, and wished Ron well as he grasped with both hands, a black powder love with Lavender- the type that ignited with a great explosion, and left both people reeling from the intensity. It was the kind of love she could not give him, and so Hermione had learned to move past that as well, buried in the studies that sustained her.

Bit here in this place, it was her life alone that stood in the balance. Her own existence that teetered on the razor fine edge between a long life, and a certain sudden and painful death. And for the first time in her life, Hermione feared for her own life. Muted with the hundreds of thousands of What Ifs that circled around in her mind.

When the silent hallways had beaten her, stripping away the defense of her own studious logic; leaving her with only the doubts and maybes that she would never be able to find an answer for. Reaching out, she leaned against the wall in exhaustion, only asking the sweet faced Pandora to tell Tom that she was outside.

The tiny common was a room he rarely used. Too often filled with the big band music and new rock that was such a favorite of the Head Girl, Tom preferred what little solitude and quiet he could garner behind his own closed door. But for all that, it was a comfortable room. Warm, neutral colors that reflected the flickering orange and gold firelight. A soft couch and a loveseat that rested at angles towards the hearth, and the small wooden table that was currently layered with uneven stacks of every text and tomb he could find relating to the Dark Arts.

More then a few were taken from the confines of his own small but impressive collection. Libya was coiled upon a copy of The Human Mirror: The Truth Behind Dark Magic, basking in the warm glow of the fireplace. It was a rare occasion that she was let out of the bedroom, and the change of scenery was a cherished treat. She raised her small green head a fraction when one of the portraits announced a visitor- but was content to let her companion deal with whatever had arisen.

A brief flash of irritation crossed Tom's elegant features as he marked his place in the book that was open on his lap. It was a tedious task, where every possible success magically transfigured itself to an impassible dead end. Indeed, as the books dwindled in number, so to did his faith in his ability to solve the problem.

The corridor was a little chillier then the common room, as Tom swung open the portrait door. But all thoughts of irritation fled when he took in the sight of the woman before him. Her lips were the color of the ashes of roses, set in a face that was too pale by far. Her eyes were underscored by circles such a dark purple that they looked like bruises. Her whole body leaned against the wall, as though balanced between the support and the weight of the bag she carried with her.

No words passed between them as he stepped out the way, allowing her to pass slowly into the warmth of the room behind him. A sudden impulse urged him to help her, quelled by the self-loathing that stilled his hands. He would not touch her, not taint her with the foul stain of physical contact. He pushed his hands roughly into the pockets of his black uniform pants, and watched as she carefully lowered herself into the vacant loveseat.

Tom took his own place once more, waiting for her to explain her sudden presence at his door. Pushing aside the quiet whisper in the back of his mind that he did not mind in the least, that as long as he could see her, glowing in the light of the fire, framed by dark, then she could stay as long as she wished. He picked up his book once more, running a finger absently over the slightly uneven edges of the pages. Anything to keep him from giving into the temptation to reach out for her.

Her brown eyes reflected the firelight in the color of sherry, as they touched over the surface of the room with mild curiosity. Coming to rest on the slender coils of the leaf green garden snake that was now watching her with more then a fair share of vested interest. Those black eyes glittered with intelligence, beyond that of the few snakes she had come in contact with in the past.

And part of her didn't want to know, feared the answer that a part of her mind knew must be coming. Refusing to waste what would possibly be the last days of her life with mind games and tricks. As she looked into those cunning, calculating eyes and asked quietly, "What's your name?"

Tom watched the interaction between his familiar and his… Whatever Hermione was- with faintly amused interest. His familiar had never taken well to others, reciting the evils and ills that she had befallen at the hands of young humans before she had met him. And at the hands of the cruel Slytherins afterwards. And so it was with a mix of surprise and respect that he listened to Hermione address the serpent, and not simply ask him, as most other people would.

A long pause followed, broken only by the faint popping hiss of the pitch in the logs coming in contact with the bright flames. While Libya looked over the brown haired girl, and weighted and measured her worth- valuing her against the other humans that she had known in her years. Her tongue lightly flickered out of her mouth as she turned her wedge shaped head towards Tom and hissed,

I like this one. She doesn't act as though I am a witless creature at your command.

Both humans felt as though they had passed some impossible and sudden test, as Tom turned to her and said, "Her name is Libya," And Hermione couldn't help the rush of relief that surged through her veins at being proven wrong. This was not the cursed Nagini that had been the constant companion of Lord Voldemort. The venomous serpent that they had never managed to create an antidote for.

Lifting one of the books from her bag, Hermione opened to the marked page. Tom followed suit; and soon a pleasant stillness filled the room. It was the comfortable silence of two people lost in their own thoughts. Both reminded of those first simple days after she had awakened in the Infirmary. Pulled around full circle by the same magnetic force that had drawn him to her time after time.

And had brought her to him, when she had nowhere else to turn. If they questioned the other, then they would be forced to question their own actions. And so they remained quiet, and for the most part content. Though since that last night in the hospital wing, there had been in their minds a new element. A quiet lingering whisper that the distance between them was better crossed.

The firelight was orange and red, and his hair reflected the color as an almost violet, instead of the highlights of blue it had in the sunlight. Hermione looked at him carefully over of the top of her book, drinking in this side of him that she had so rarely had the chance to see. His grey eyes scrolled across the narrow lines of black text, the tip of one finger almost caressing the edges of the pages, as though he was anxious to turn them.

His skin was so fair as to almost repel the light of the flames, leaving them to dance in strange patterns of light and dark against his cheek. His lips open, very faintly, as he drew in a quietly frustrated breath. Apparently the passage did not agree with him, as he set down the book- and she quickly lowered her own eyes to the page in front of her.

"Do you think we're going to find anything?"

The words slipped out of her mouth unbidden, as she mentally cursed her own doubt. Tom looked over at her, his face an unreadable façade, softened ever so slightly from the cold marble he showed to the rest of the world.

"Why would you doubt it?" As much as he would like to, he could not bring himself to tell her that all would be well. Looking at her, pale against the dark russet color of the loveseat behind her, it seemed she was fading away from him already. One foot slipping ever closer to the open, gaping maw of an open and greedy grave.

"There are so many things I wanted to do… I don't want to die without, I mean, if I never have the chance to." She admitted after a long pause, setting down her book on the table- an excuse not to meet whatever disdainful emotion she was sure would be simmering in his gaze. She could barely tolerate the weakness in that statement, as true as it may be- he was sure to be disgusted.

It was a small couch that she was sitting on, and so when his weight gingerly settled on the very far edge, it seemed as though the very room had begun to close in around them. She could almost feel the warmth of his skin, and she could smell the scent of wintergreen and peppermint that was so uniquely Tom.

His body had acted without his permission. Some long dormant part of his mind acting against the grain that he had tried to mold himself into. The passing thought of her fading away had sent a sharp glacial chill into his blood, numbing all though save for the almost overwhelming- don't you dare let her go.

And it was going against everything that he had promised himself.

And it went against everything that she thought she had known to be true.

But when Hermione finally forced herself to look up at him, there was no derision in his face. No condemnation for her moment of frailty. The face looking back at her was oddly hesitant, acting so far out of his usual part. The script for this scene had not been written, their ad libbing carrying them until this point- where words abandoned them completely.

"Hermione I…" Tom began, his hand reaching out to touch her cheek. The pressure in his chest increasing as he realized that she was still warm. That no spectre of Death had taken her from him yet. Marveling at the tiny motion, of her leaning ever so slightly into his touch. Allowing himself to believe for a still moment in time, that he may not be the only one who was drawn to the contact between them.

Not caring that it was a mistake, and finally silencing for the time, the little nay saying voice that dwelled in the back of her mind. Drawing towards him, seeing the unease in his eyes that she felt mirrored in herself. Her gaze touching on the perfect curve of his lower lip as she tilted her head to the side slightly. She watched as the room faded, her eyes slowly drifting closed, crosshatched by her dark lashes- until the scene became nothing but the red firelight glowing through her eyelids. Then the black, as he came between her and the fire.

The slight touch of his breath on her skin, and the almost feverish anticipation that she had never felt before. And then they met, in the barest feather light brush of their lips across each other. A nervous and hesitant touch that pulled her in closer, even as he pulled away.

Wrapping both arms around her tightly, Tom pressed a kiss to the wild curls that were so uniquely and perfectly a part of her. His voice was low, and rasped raw against the edges, genuine and overwhelming emotion coloring the usual smooth, even tones. It sent a shiver down her spine, even as she melted against him.

"I won't let anything happen to you."

And no matter the odds, Hermione believed him.

…

Tom carefully reached for the last book on the teetering tower. The flames in the fireplace had burned down to barely more then embers, and so little light that it was hard to read by. But her every breath ghosted along the back of his hand, reinforcing his determination to solve the mystery of the curse that had befallen her. He would question the logic later- perhaps.

He silently thought to himself that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't need to catalogue and define it away. Adding the cold touch of harsh logic to this flawlessly perfect moment, and the stirrings of joy he felt every time he looked down at the woman curled against him, overcome by the draining exhaustion of the curse.

It was a small book, bound in dark brown leather and stamped with faded gold letters in the corner. Tom Marvolo Riddle it read, as he flipped it open without glancing at the cover. Staring down at the answer to the problem that had tormented them, that had been so absent in the great books littering the table.

The vile, half finished curse of his own creation, staring up at him formed of the even, graceful curves of his own copperplate script. The answer, and his own condemnation.

They had not found the curse, because he had not finished it yet.

- ---

An incredible thank you to everyone who had reviewed this story! You are the reason and the inspiration behind every chapter- Thank you, and thank you again. 148 reviews. In the nearly 10 years I've been writing fan fiction, I have never had that kind of response. You all continually amaze me.

LunaLovegoss

Enviousmoon

Tom the Riddle

Nerys

Ryn

Voldy's pink teddy

Michaela

Akira

Ivory – thanks for the review, you didn't log in, so Im thanking you here!

Unenlightened

Lisiegirl

Sachita

Blindfaith

Svelte Rose