Notes: Thank you for continuing to read. I am so thankful for all of you.
Warnings: sexual content (mild), canon torture
9. Though Waiting So Be Hell
~*~ Before~*~
She feels the weight of his stare.
Hermione shifts, limbs stretching as her body comes fully awake. She peers across the tent and finds Harry holding a letter, an unfamiliar owl perched on the couch behind him. Luminous emerald eyes meet hers.
His expression is blank, carefully controlled, but Hermione can read every line of him.
"Still no news?"
Harry shakes his head. "It's been weeks, 'Mione. Weeks."
She knows. They've been half-heartedly hunting Horcruxes, but truly they have been searching for Ron. She alternates between hating her friend for his abrupt departure and fearing the worst. The Weasleys haven't heard a word either and all of them are getting desperate.
Desperate enough to turn to Severus Snape. But Ron hasn't been captured. At least, not yet. But Hermione knows how impetuous he can be. She doesn't imagine him lasting long on his own. But she also doesn't imagine him abandoning them entirely.
It is one thing to be furious with Harry and Hermione, to let jealous rage dictate his actions. It is quite another to forsake the Order of the Phoenix entirely.
Harry feeds the owl a leftover tidbit from their dinner. The bird takes the offering with a quiet hoot and spreads its wings. They watch it fly out the tent flap. Hermione imagines its tawny wings beating against the black fabric of the night. She wishes she could fly away too.
She swallows down the bitter longing and holds a hand out to Harry. "Come back to bed."
He places the letter on the side table, atop a stack of at least a dozen others. They have all been disappointments. He lets out a sigh that fills the tent, a declaration of defeat. He rolls his shoulders, runs a hand through his matted curls and finally deposits his glasses on the table beside the letters.
Hermione watches him intently as he crosses to her, his emerald eyes glossy and dark. Harry lets her take his hand, draw him to her until he is beside the bed, his warmth buffeting her like the sun in the heart of winter. She wants to consume his pain, to devour it until he is nothing but joy and vitality.
She does the next best thing.
She draws him down to her, ghosting her lips across the pounding pulse at the base of his neck before moving upward along the strong line of his jaw. He exhales and it is like a cage breaking open, his entire body quivering with the release of breath. He pushes the blankets away, baring her naked body to the cool night. But when she shivers it is because of the heat he evokes with the sweep of his fingers across her needy flesh, not the chill air.
Hermione tears at his rumpled tee and cotton boxers. He obliges her and the final layers between them drop away.
He enters her before he kisses her. It is exquisite, the feeling of this boy she loves buried inside her. She pulls him closer. He hums against her skin and rocks them gently.
She knows nothing has changed. Their friend is still lost; they are still on the run. But heavens above can Harry make her forget, help her remember the joy between them is stronger than the despair they face. Together, they can conquer this too.
She buries her head in the crook of his neck and peppers sloppy kisses against his flushed skin. She murmurs his name over and over as the world fractures around them. Harry clings to her just as tightly, his breath a steady pant against her collar bone, his moans the melody to her chant.
They collapse in each other's arms, sated, blissfully ignorant for a few precious moments.
Hermione wishes she could freeze time and dwell in this ecstasy forever. But even forever ends.
~*~ Now ~*~
She forgot this, the expansive void that consumes her bit by bit like a cat returning to its hidden prey. She became accustomed to her companion. She is no longer so careless.
What hope she found fades with every miserable drip of water in this den of despair. She is alone again. Perhaps she has always been alone. Perhaps his sapphire eyes were a figment of her desperate mind. Or were his eyes luminous emeralds? She cannot recall, but she sees both stares in the darkness, jewel tones illuminated by anguish. She thinks they are a symptom of her descent into madness.
She feels the brush of lips across her brow, the whisper of a name that might be hers, but she can't hold the memory long enough to examine it. She begins to believe the jeweled eyes are only wishful thinking, her brain creating what she needs to push back the void that caresses her with daring strokes, a lover made of darkness and despair.
She found a piece of bloodied flint, but besides the sparks she makes when she drags it along the stone, there is no light. Her hands search the corners of the cell for the shape of something she can't remember. No matter how often she searches, she finds nothing.
Time fractures, inhales stretching to eternity while the slash of angry wands passes in mere seconds. She stops counting the wounds when she can no longer differentiate the new from the old.
Sometimes she listens to the water drip. Other times it is her blood that falls in steady drops. In the dark it is hard to tell the difference.
She knows she is losing something important with every exhale. She imagines her soul coiling out of her like rings of smoke, churning upward until it is one with the void. She wonders how many exhales she has left to give.
Dying seems easier, but she has yet to put the flint to her own throat, though she has an impression of scraping the stone across flesh before. Perhaps she has tried and failed to end this misery.
She does not want to fail again.
Draco hurries down the hall, his footfalls as silent as possible. Ahead of him, a head of dark hair turns the corner. He curses under his breath and slips forward, ever vigilant of the many doors that open into this particular corridor of the Manor.
He wants to scream, to berate Tom at the top of his lungs for taking such a stupid risk, but that would only draw attention to them. So he trails the other boy. He knows Tom is perfectly capable of performing an adequate disillusionment spell, but for a reason Draco can't comprehend, he isn't using it.
He isn't remotely surprised when the other boy turns toward the dungeons. They've yet to visit Granger—it's only been a week—but Draco should have known better than to keep them apart. Despite Tom's occasional flirtatious insinuations that make Draco's heart spasm like an acromantula's deadly pincers, Draco has ascertained that Tom cares deeply for Granger.
Whatever lies between them doesn't, however, seem particularly romantic. Having spent a week with Tom, Draco knows he isn't pining for Granger. He's fuming, ready to rip out throats and toss Cruciatus Curses like they're candy, but not because he's in love with her. Whatever binds them is infinitely more complex than simple affection or desire. Draco isn't sure he wants to understand.
Sometimes when Tom speaks, it's as if he's been inside Granger's head and has experienced her denigration firsthand. It doesn't seem possible, but the effect is eerie. Tom's vacant stares send chills down Draco's spine, and his hollow words hone the blade of guilt that slides through his gut.
None of it will matter if Tom gets caught.
Draco throws caution into the wind and barrels through the halls. He just misses Tom at the dungeon stair. To make matters worse, he hears the unhinged cackles of his blasted aunt in the depths below.
The blood drains from Draco's face. Tom is about to make a very, very poor decision.
His heart is in his throat, choking him, as he scrambles after the boy. He tries to be as quiet as possible, but speed is more important than stealth. He can explain a loud footstep; he can't explain an avenging young Lord Voldemort.
He finds the darker boy at the base of the stairs, wand raised. Draco acts before he thinks. He grabs Tom from behind, hauling him with the strength of desperate adrenaline into the shadowy depths of the dungeon. He casts a wandless silencing spell as Tom begins to thrash against his grip. Draco only pulls him tighter against his chest.
He feels fury radiating from the other boy, the energy of it making every hair on his body stand on end. He does not let go.
Tom attempts to dig an elbow into Draco's gut. When that fails, he slams them both against the dungeon wall. The breath is knocked from Draco's heaving lungs, but he refuses to yield. Tom twists a hand, his fingers splayed wide.
"Don't you dare," Draco hisses under his breath. "You use magic like that and they'll know in an instant. You're useless to her if my bloody aunt finds you down here. If she finds you at all."
Tom freezes in Draco's arms, but Draco knows better than to relax his grip. He keeps talking, a ghost of a whisper. Tom is flush against him and Draco's lips press against the curve of his ear.
"I have no idea what you were thinking, but you can't stop this. Not if you want to save her. You have to think strategically. With your head, not your gut."
Tom's full weight sags against Draco, black waves splaying across Draco's jumper as his head falls back. The strands are softer than satin where they brush the exposed flesh of his neck. A shudder shakes Tom's solid frame. Draco loosens his grip the slightest fraction. The other boy doesn't move.
In the distance they can clearly see the scene playing out within Granger's cell. His aunt has Granger by the hair—it no longer gleams, but falls in ragged clumps about her mottled face. She's torn chunks out again. Bellatrix's wand is pointed at Hermione's arm and blood drips to the ground in erratic splats and plinks. It takes Draco a moment to realize she's carving words into Granger's flesh.
Tom trembles against him and Draco pulls him back until there is no air between them. He has no idea if he fears Tom will try to intervene once more or simply craves the comfort of the other boy's warmth. Their hearts clamber in synchronous, erratic horror. Tom's fingers circle Draco's wrist, nails digging into the soft flesh. Draco doesn't mind the pain. It is nothing compared to what Granger must be experiencing.
Bellatrix cackles, her mad joy echoing through the dungeon like the impact of a reducto. Tom tenses and Draco hisses in his ear, "no."
It is an awful, bloody eternity before the Death Eaters are satisfied. Draco knows only minutes have passed, but time loses sense in the face of such malicious violence.
Granger has not cried out once and Draco finds that infinitely more terrifying than if she'd filled the cavern with shrieks and blood-choked moans. He maintains his hold on Tom until the small party is long gone. Only when the footfalls above fade to nothing for minutes on end does he release the trembling boy in his arms.
Tom doesn't spring away, doesn't race to Granger's side. He only collapses back against Draco, their pulses fluttering in tandem. Their faces are mere breaths apart. Draco brings an arm around Tom's waist, his fingers splaying over the hard muscles of the boy's abdomen. He lifts the other hand to tilt Tom's trembling jaw toward him. There is no light in the dungeon anymore, but Draco can feel the weight of Tom's azure stare. Draco inclines his head and their breath mingles. He swallows the hot pants of Tom's exhales.
Before he thinks better of it, he dips his head and their lips brush. Tom's are satin soft and blazing warm. It is not quite a kiss, but it is bone-achingly intimate.
Draco speaks against Tom's lips. "Go to her now. Be furious with me later."
The pressure between their lips increases, becoming a proper kiss. Draco gasps into Tom's mouth. The other boy twists until he faces Draco, his weight pressing Draco back against the stone. His mouth is brutal, bruising as he takes what Draco offers.
An instant later, Tom is gone.
Draco's head spins as he collapses to the ground. He hears Tom slide the key into the cell's lock, the dulcet tones of his deep voice as he murmurs soothing words to Granger. But Draco's lips are searing and his heart has yet to find its way back into his ribcage.
He has no idea what either of them is playing at. But he is no longer able to deny that something lies between them. Something that is certainly not affection, but feels like more than mere lust.
His head cracks against the stone, but the pain hardly registers. His first kiss with another boy and it's Tom Riddle. He thinks he should be terrified of what that means. He is already playing a complicated hand; he cannot afford to take another risk. But now he has truly made a mess of everything. He's pining after Harry Potter, deceiving the Dark Lord and kissing a Horcrux. He's well and truly fucked.
Light flickers in the dungeon. Tom brought Granger another candle. Draco can't bear to look at the cell. Partially because he does not want to see her suffer, but mostly because he can't look at Tom. He is an utter coward for it, but if he looks at him and sees only loathing in those arresting azure eyes, Draco will break here and now. He would much rather fall to pieces later, sequestered away with rigorous silencing spells shielding his weakness.
He grips his wand tightly and walks to the stairs.
"Running away, Malfoy?"
Tom's voice is pure poison, lethal in every way that matters. Draco doesn't look back as he climbs.
He keeps walking until he's outside the manor. It's late spring and the rose garden is suffused with blooms, verdant green stems topped with hues of scarlet, citrine and marmalade. Their alluring aromas waft on the warm breeze and Draco inhales, letting the familiar perfume pervade his senses. He winds his way through the thorny bushes until he comes across a rose of the palest pink, its petals like the first blush of dawn. He drops down beside it, inhaling its heady fragrance deeply. The scent reminds him of sweet June afternoons with his mother, her pale skin brushing against his chubby limbs as he wobbles between the plants. He can hear her laughter, bright and clear and everything his life is no longer.
He hates that his mouth still tingles. That he yearns for the forbidden taste of those velvet lips against his own.
His laughter is halfway to a sob.
He could condone imagining Potter against him, but this is so much worse. He collapses in the dirt beside his favorite rose.
And both of them belong to Hermione Granger.
Now his shoulders are heaving, hateful moisture trailing down his cheeks and watering the earth. Merlin, he wishes he could just love Astoria the way she wants. That he could be anyone else at all.
The soil is silent as he trembles against it. He is thankful for that small mercy.
She thinks she's dreaming again. Only in dreams do warm hands caress her. Only in dreams does she feel safe and whole and apart from pain. And even still, her pain chases her into dreams, takes the lovely satins of her sweetest imagination and stains them with the bitter ash of agony. For she is never free.
But the warm hand doesn't fade or disintegrate into nebulous darkness. It stays against her cheek, cradling her gently until she finds the strength to lift her lids.
"I'm here, Hermione," a voice she almost remembers sooths.
She blinks and searches the murky depths of her mind. She finds a name. "Harry?"
The hand at her cheek tenses for half a breath, but quickly resumes its tender caress. "No, Hermione, not Harry."
She looks up into brilliant sapphire irises. The jolt of recognition is instantaneous. "Tom."
He nods and presses a warm kiss to her temple. "Let's get you cleaned up."
Is she dirty? Hermione looks down at her hands. Her nails are broken, coated with dirt and rust. No, not rust, blood. She shakes as she examines her arms, staring in horror at the crimson staining her filthy skin. On one arm, letters ooze red tears.
She can't help the bile that rises, that spills across the trousers of the boy who holds her. He doesn't admonish her. He simply whispers a gentle reassurance in her ear and uses his wand to vanish the evidence of her revulsion.
With his clothes—a midnight blue sweater that emphasizes his magnetic eyes even in the muted light of the candle and trousers that are dark enough to have masked the stain of her sickness even without magic—clean, he shifts to lean against the lone stone wall of her cell.
The sight of him against the filthy stone is so familiar, her heart aches. It takes several moments for the memories to follow, for her to understand who he is and what he means to her.
Hermione crawls to him and he guides her into his lap, his legs crossed under her as she drapes her trembling limbs over his solid form. She feels the lean muscles of his thighs shifting, adjusting to the weight of her. She rests her head against his chest as he guides her bloodied legs to one side. It should be awkward, their pieces not quite fitting together, but it isn't. She feels nothing beyond safe.
"I'm going to see what I can do about your arm," he murmurs into her crusty hair. "That bitch used a nasty curse when she cut into you and I may not be able to heal you properly. At least, not without some research and a better wand."
Hermione nods and sighs, "do what you can."
She did not expect to be healed at all. She had forgotten him, as she has forgotten every bit of her life that matters. That she can recall him now gives her a shadow of hope. Perhaps her past has not been erased entirely, simply misplaced within the torture ravaged hellscape of her mind.
"How long has it been?" she asks as he runs his fingers over the mangled flesh that once was her arm. The blood hisses and roils, refusing to be staunched.
He growls, low and dangerous, but answers her question. "An entire bloody week. That moron, Malfoy, refused to let me see you so I had to take matters into my own hands."
Something about the way his jaw twitches as he says the sunshine boy's name tells Hermione there's more to the story. "You don't like him."
Tom freezes, his fingers bumping into her tender flesh. She hisses and he swears under his breath, followed by an apology. She waits for him to respond. Tom switches to using his wand and an entirely different incantation before he slides his gaze sideways to her.
"I don't like his cowardice. He could have taken you from this place a thousand times, but he has not. And now he wants to make me a coward like him."
Hermione still doesn't remember anything important about who Draco Malfoy actually is. But she does know he has shown her kindness despite his fear. "I think he feels as trapped as I am. He does not enjoy serving the other… you. He stays because he is too afraid to go, because he wants to survive more than he wants to fight back. I think that's only natural. You can't expect everyone to act as you think they should. Everyone has a story."
She hasn't used her voice this much in days and she is hoarse by the time she reaches the end. But she is glad to have spoken despite the discomfort.
Tom turns his attention back to her stubborn injury. "He is nothing but fear. It's disgusting."
"And are you not afraid?"
He has finally found a spell that knits her flesh back together. It does not return to the smooth unblemished state like her other injuries, but at least she no longer drips blood over the both of them.
"What do I have to fear?" Tom counters as he traces one of the O's etched into her. "I am more powerful than anyone except myself."
"But you created your Horcrux for a reason," she reminds him. "And that reason was fear. Fear of death, fear of losing you power, fear of not being the most powerful wizard."
He scoffs, but she can see the gears turning in his mind. He will not acknowledge the truth of her words, but he knows them to be true. "Malfoy is afraid of everything."
"He didn't seem particularly afraid of you," she counters, though her memories of the two of them together are limited.
Tom laughs, but it is a bitter, cold thing. "Oh, no, he's utterly terrified of me."
Hermione narrows her eyes at Tom. She does not understand. "What are you doing to him, Tom? What scheme are you concocting?"
His sapphire eyes slide to meet her charged stare. His full lips twist upward. "You know me too well."
"You're a manipulative, self-serving bastard. There's not much else to know." The words are harsh, but amusement colors her tone.
"As I said, you know me too well," he reiterates. He pulls his wand away from her arm. The skin is an ugly mass of red scars, but she doesn't care. The throbbing pain has abated to a dull ache and she no longer has the urge to simply tear her arm from its socket.
"Mudblood," she mutters, reading the word for the first time. She grimaces and looks away. The word means something to her, conjures a wisp of her lost identity.
"Don't say that," Tom snarls into her ear, his breath hot.
"I'm merely reading what has been permanently etched into my skin." She lets her head fall back against his chest with a dull thump. She swallows heavily and wills moisture into the parched walls of her throat. His heartbeat is oddly erratic as it throbs into her skull. "Anyway, it's true. I'm Muggleborn. As far away from pureblooded as you can get." That she remembers.
Tom's heart beats in double time. "I'm not pureblooded either."
She hums her agreement. "I know, your father was a Muggle."
"And I killed him for it."
The words don't surprise her. She thinks this is information she already knew, in the life she no longer remembers. "Simply because he wasn't magical?"
"Well, no," Tom admits. "Mostly because I wanted to make a Horcrux, partially because he abandoned my mother when he learned the truth about her magic and only a little bit because he was a useless Muggle. And maybe a bit because he and I looked exactly alike."
"Unbearably handsome, you mean?"
Tom's low chuckle rumbles through his chest. "I admit to all of that and your only reply is to comment on my appearance?"
"You are unbearably handsome."
He sighs and she can feel him roll his eyes. "Yes, I know people respond positively to me. It's worked to my advantage on too many occasions to count. The boy with the compelling blue eyes and face of an angel can't possibly be the murderer. At least, I assume that's what they think."
"You've been murdering people that often?"
The teasing lilt to her voice evokes another rumbling chuckle. "Well, no. Just my father. And my grandparents, but that was by necessity. And the—" he cuts off abruptly, his teeth clacking as his jaw slams closed. There's a long beat of silence before he continues. "Any other deaths were merely accidental. The girl at Hogwarts included." He shifts her, his thumb guiding her chin up until their eyes can meet. "You're being awfully cavalier about all of this. I'm getting worried."
She sighs, not entirely able to explain it herself. "I don't condone any of it, but I can hardly blame you—the physical, real boy in front of me—for things you did half a century ago. Yes, that boy created you, but you aren't the same anymore. You've experienced things—"
"That he could never imagine," Tom interrupts, finishing the sentence for her. He's captured the gist of it, so she stays silent, studying the shifting planes of his face. His fingers skate the length of her jaw, trailing pleasant tingles in their wake. "I have no idea who I am anymore. I can't be the callous, arrogant boy I was, not with what I—we've experienced. I can't believe in blood purity when men of pure blood can act so base. But I'm no angel either. I still crave power, control, dominance. I still see every path to achieve what I desire and I am still willing to sacrifice others along the way. I may no longer aspire to be the Devil himself, but I am still gladly a sinner."
Then you are the poster boy for sin, she thinks, but she only says, "I have no idea who I am either. Perhaps we can help each other forge new identities."
Tom's lips curve upward in a smile that ignites his eyes, the sapphire of his irises glowing like the heart of a flame. "I think I would like that very much."
"Promise me one thing."
He gently brings her higher against his chest, until she can feel the heat of his breath across her cheeks. "Anything."
"Don't destroy him." Tom blinks vacantly and she clarifies, "Draco Malfoy. Don't destroy him. He may not have made the best decisions, but he showed me kindness, if not mercy."
Tom doesn't meet her eyes as he says, "I can't promise that."
"For me."
"My priority is getting you and I out of here. I will do what I must."
His heart hammers against her and she knows she will not approve of whatever game he is playing. "There are always choices, Tom. View this as the first chance to make a different one. To find that new identity. To be more than you have been."
He laughs, but there is no humor in it. "You aren't going to make this easy for me."
"You don't deserve for it to be easy," she replies. Hermione may not know all of his sins, but she knows they are myriad. She knows he is the reason she has lost herself. He is different now, but not different enough. She needs him to be greater, to deserve the incomprehensible attachment she feels to him. Because if she clings to a monster, what does that say about who she has become?
He brushes his lips across her brow, tender and quick.
"No, I don't."
He kisses her cheek and buries his face the crook of her neck. She lets her lids fall closed to the steady rhythm of his heart at her back and the comforting warmth of his breath on her skin.