Notes: Thank you all for continuing to read. We're to part II! So exciting. Out of the dungeons and into the world.

I'll remind everyone that this story is messy in terms of pairings. I did not set out to write a Tom/Hermione or Tom/Draco story. I set out to write about the depths of suffering and the balm of finding out you're not suffering alone. About how fear can paralyze us into inaction, despite the truths in the depths of our hearts. How who and when and how we love can be beyond our control and our understanding. How doing the right thing isn't always possible. About relationships that are deep and full of scars. About every shade of love and friendship. And second chances and the grueling work it takes to change, if that's even possible when it comes to fundamental parts of ourselves. And a bunch of other stuff too. So this isn't about a pairing. This is about life and how damn messy it gets. Um, thanks for coming to my rant. It's over now.

WARNINGS: Allusions to canon violence

Part II: The Sea

13. Ev'n So My Sun One Early Morn Did Shine

She is almost real. That's what she thinks as she stares down at her hands and sees fingers and wrinkled skin instead of shrunken, filthy bone. Not that her skin ever peeled away so completely. Not that she recalls anyway.

No matter how many pieces of her are restored, she still does not remember. There are shades of darkness within the minefield of her head. Things she can almost touch and things so far away she no longer knows what they might have been. She feels their absence in different ways.

Crackling horror wraps around many of the almost-there memories, an unmistakable warning. She knows she could push deeper, could edge herself beyond the cruel bite and discover what lies beneath. But she will not. She has enough blood-drenched fragments scratching the surface already. She knows going deeper will only bring more suffering and she has come to understand that she is brimming enough with such horror already.

The second type of missing piece is a complete void, an absence that is greater than its presence. It is the knowledge that what has once been is no longer. No emotion. No warning. Just the deepest, truest null. No matter how long she scrambles along the edges, no matter how deep she's willing to dive, there is nothing.

She knows their origins are different, but she cannot explain the latter. The former is the familiar shape of trauma spared, of her brain fighting to protect her against the hell of her imprisonment. She remembers reading about such things, thinks she will likely have to be far from this dark void before she can properly process any of what she's endured. But that doesn't explain the holes, the sudden knowledge directly adjacent to nothing at all.

How can she know Voldemort—a nebulous evil she understands, but doesn't know—resurrected using Harry Potter's blood when she can't conjure a picture of Harry no matter how hard she tries? She ought to know this boy who Draco speaks of with quiet reserve and Tom seems to at once abhor and admire. But she doesn't. She doesn't remember him or Hogwarts or anything about the Horcruxes Tom explained. She knows only the magic she has seen, can imagine only what Draco and Tom have shared.

But the sight of a wand doesn't surprise her. She knows most people—Muggles—don't believe in magic, but she is accustomed to it. Even the word carved into her arm evokes the ghost of feeling that suddenly dies, as if her memory of its full meaning cuts off abruptly if she tries to understand beyond a surface level definition.

She no longer spends long hours yearning for oblivion, but rather wondering why she has found it randomly distributed within her mind. For the void has spread through her like silken webs, tangling through her every thought, spinning into far corners of her mind she does not know how to search. It has consumed something fundamental and she does not know how to miss it.

"You look serious."

Hermione raises her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "Just contemplating all that is beyond the scope of my knowledge. It seems to be rather more than it ought to be."

Tom's sapphire eyes are serious as he turns the key in the lock, his features shifting through several emotions before settling on the hard edges of worry. "You still can't remember."

She shakes her head. "Not things that I ought to. Like where I went to school after I was ten or what unlucky boy was my first kiss."

Tom lifts a refined brow as he settles down next to her. "Is that an invitation?"

She knows he isn't serious. His lips have met her skin a hundred times by now, but she knows he would never take what she's unprepared to give. "Be serious."

"I am," he deadpans before relenting with a chuckle. "Okay, I am. We'll look into it more after we're out of here. I can…"

He trails off and she sees his jaw clench as he looks abruptly away. He shifts away from her and she feels the absence of him like a cold breeze on a warm day.

"What?"

He is silent so long she does not think he will answer.

When he does speak, Tom doesn't look at her and his voice is full of rough edges and dropped syllables. "I… you know who I was. Until I met you down here… until that." He does not need to specify what he means by that. She does not think the word either, not if she can help it. "I was cavalier with how I treated people. I got what I wanted and didn't care what I left behind." Dark cobalt eyes slide toward her. "Sometimes I still don't."

Hermione remains silent. She knows he is not good, but he is not what he once was. They are both misshapen shadows of themselves.

When she doesn't comment, doesn't judge, he continues. "One of the ways I used to control the narrative, to achieve what I wanted was something called Legilimency. It's essentially the ability to read someone's mind without their permission. I was—am good at it. Only the most highly trained Occlumens can resist me. Malfoy is a good example. Even if I wanted to, I can't see into his thoughts because he has perfected the ability to deflect me. If I didn't know he was so skilled, I might not even realize I was only seeing what he wanted me to."

It's fascinating, but obviously comes with its own moral quandaries. "Are you saying you can look around my head for me?"

Tom swallows thickly and nods, his ebony hair falling in front of his wide eyes. "But only with your permission and only as far as you want me to go. It's a violation akin to…"

She understands his reluctance now. "I trust you to never hurt me, Tom."

"You really shouldn't."

He thinks so little of himself. She isn't sure he's wrong. Some twisted version of him condoned this never-ending assault on her body. But he isn't right either. She has known him for his entire existence—the months he has been separate from the diary. What came before is something beyond his control, but what comes after will define him. So far he has given her no reason to doubt.

She presses a kiss to the porcelain skin of his cheek. "Yes, I should."

He looks down at her as Hermione pulls away and she can see a million secrets hidden in the depths of his dark eyes. She knows each has the power to corrupt him, if given the chance to molder into something dark and true. She can't bring herself to care. She will never let that happen.

"But you didn't come down here to talk about my incomplete memory."

"No," he admits, voice closer to his usual hypnotic baritone. "I came because Malfoy died last night—don't worry, it all went as planned. Thus, the Lestrange woman is on the war path after witnessing her dear nephew's violent passing. I've orchestrated her arrival to the dungeons soon. Nothing more than a few breadcrumbs I've already placed. She's livid and she won't hold back."

Hermione knows this is the plan—that she insisted on this plan to mitigate the risks to people she's never met but cannot stand the thought of harming with her escape—but she hates every facet of it.

As if reading her mind, Tom murmurs, "I hate this far more than you do, Hermione, but you were right. To get out without causing any collateral damage, we can't let them doubt, even for a moment, the truth of our illusion." Tom presses his lips against the grimy tangles of her hair. "I'll be here, in the shadows. My disillusionment spell is impenetrable to these morons. As long as I don't run into myself."

Cold dread ices her veins. "Is that possible?"

"Nothing is guaranteed, but it's not likely."

She can't control the tremble that courses through her. Tom pulls her into him and she absorbs his warmth like it's the last rays of sunshine in the universe.

"I can't do this alone."

"Yes, you can," he counters. "But you don't have to."

Hermione has endured so much, but she cannot imagine living through another second of the scorching pain Bellatrix Lestrange so enjoys. She became accustomed to the protection Draco and Tom afforded her. She is soft now, too soft for the harsh cut of agony. She allowed herself to feel and now she will pay the price.

She angrily palms away that tears that escape, that bear witness to her weakness. Tom does not try to comfort her, does not whisper empty words of consolation into the dismal silence. But neither does he pull away. He may know only a fraction of her terror, but he knows enough. He knows no amount of words or warmth or empathy will change what she faces. He knows she is already far too broken.

They sit in horrible silence as her tears fall. When the sobs have run their course and she is just empty enough, he passes her two capsules. They are clear and sparkle with an effervescent liquid that seems more suited to a fairy tale of snow and ice rather than death.

"Break one when you still have your wits." She hears the regret tearing apart his words. "The other will likely break after you lose control."

"How long?"

"Minutes before you're out. Nearly two days before you wake."

She swallows and closes her hand around her escape route. "And if they try to mutilate me? Burn my body?"

His eyes darken, the façade that hides his true nature cracking. "Then they will wish they were never born."

She believes him.

"Okay."

She is not ready. Everything is so far from okay, but she can't see any direction except forward into the depths of this misery. The only way out is through. She must burn like a phoenix to rise again. She wishes she did not have to feel the flames.

"I will never let anything happen to you."

It is the type of vow lovers make or fathers and brothers. It speaks to a depth of emotion he should not possess. Not if he is half a man and born of the vilest magic. But Hermione doesn't have space for understanding in her heart right now, only faith.

So she looks in his dark, beautiful eyes and says, "I know."

The end comes in spurts, a wobbling course between consciousness and delusion. She knows the heat of Tom's fingers as they brush her wet cheeks. She hears his whispered words as he retreats, but she does not understand them. They are music in the key of confusion, notes skipped and lost.

But when the voices come, when the hisses and lights and spells that promise agony descend, she knows nothing. Everything she has built within collapses, every foundation she has poured crumpling in upon itself. She is no longer flesh and blood, but pain and endings. She is so many endings.

She does not remember to bite the capsules, but her seizing jaw clamps down on foreign crystal and her mouth is awash with luminous diamonds. The sweetness is consumed by the tang of blood and the raw ache of screams.

She finally finds her end.

Warmth. No, not warmth. Sun.

She cracks open her eyes and stares. Her eyes burn, tears welling, but she does not blink. This pain is what joy tastes like, so sweet it burns. She crawls forward, heedless of the bedcovers falling away, until she presses her trembling hands to the glass. Her forehead smashes up against the window pane. The glass is cool against her feverish skin. She hardly feels the chill, the radiation lancing through her every pore.

She stares until black spots cloud her vision and she abruptly remembers her father telling her staring in such a manner could cause permanent eye damage. She laughs, a bitter, crooked sound, and does not blink. She is already damaged beyond repair. The sun will not harm her any more than she already ails.

A door shuts in the distance and then another clicks gently open. She maintains her vigil. It is a miracle she will not let slip through her grasp.

She does not flinch as familiar hands settle on her shoulders. Tom's warmth makes her burn brighter than ever. She leans back into his touch, never looking away from the late afternoon sun hovering high over glittering ocean and tiled roofs.

"It's magnificent." Her voice is distorted, syrupy with disuse and abuse.

He leans down until his breath warms her ear. "Not as magnificent as you are, Hermione Granger."

She shivers and he puts an arm around her shoulders as he settles on the bed behind her. Hermione shifts until her back is aligned with his chest. He brings his other arm around her. She is nestled between his comforting heat and the impossible brilliance of the sun. His heart hammers gently against her shoulder blades. She breaths in time with its steady rhythm.

"How bad was it?"

"You really don't want to know."

And she doesn't. She isn't the least bit curious how Draco's insane relative chose to slice her open this time. Her body feels whole, but she knows that is likely Tom's doing. His raw power and decent skill with healing spells are the only things standing between her and whatever barbarism they perpetrated.

"Did they try to burn my body?"

She feels Tom shake his head, satin hair brushing against the nape of her neck. She realizes he has gathered her hair atop her head in some sort of elaborate braid. It surprises her. She can't quite imagine his elegant fingers threading through her frizzy tangles, working through the snags until he can bring the pieces together in a such a delicate pattern.

But what he will do for her seems fathomless. She is thankful, even if she cannot fully understand his devotion.

"No. They dumped your body in the woods beyond the Manor. Told the mangy werewolf that he could snack on your rotting corpse during the next full moon if the other animals hadn't already torn you to pieces." Hermione can't help the chill the races down her spine. Tom pulls her closer. "Made my work easier. All I had to do was wait until they left, douse the area in goat entrails—don't worry, they were from a butcher shop in town—and apparate you away."

She shifts forward, tearing her gaze away from the glorious sun to give Tom an incredulous lift of her brows. "You faked my mutilated remains with goat entrails?"

He shrugs carelessly, a shadow of amusement clinging to his lips. "Well, I didn't think they were going to look terribly closely. And the superior senses of the wolf won't matter after a few days. Rotting flesh is rotting flesh no matter what it comes from. Would you rather I have murdered someone else in your place? The thought did occur to me."

Of course it did. He is still part murdering psychopath. Hermione lets out an exasperated breath and looks back out the window. "No, I wouldn't rather you killed someone. The goat is fine."

"Glad you approve," he snipes, but there's no bite to it.

"How long have I been out?"

She studies the way the sunlight refracts in the thick glass, the light trapped within making it glow. She has never noticed these details before. She has never bothered to look. She will never take such wonders for granted again.

"A week." Her head whips around and she stares at Tom, searching his chiseled features. He has no reason to lie to her and the tension in his jaw supports his words. He lifts a hand to caress her cheek. "For a few horrible days I wasn't sure you were going to wake at all."

Her lips are chapped, too dry and too idle. She forces them to move, to ask, "it was that bad?"

"Worse."

"God."

He tilts her chin until she has no choice but to look him in the eye. His eyes are the riotous blue of summer skies. She wishes she could fall into their depths; she wishes she did not see the sheen of terror just beneath their surface.

"You are the strongest person I know, Hermione Granger. Lesser mortals would have surely perished." His lips twitch and his gaze becomes too glassy. He mutters under his breath, quietly, but not too softly for her to hear. "Fuck, Hermione. I thought you had. For the first bloody day, I thought you had."

His pulse is anything but calm now. She presses her palm against his chest, feels the frantic jackhammer of his heart. "How close?"

"Too bloody close. I had to supplement what I knew with a handful of healing arts books from the nearest wizarding bookshop."

She can imagine the fright he must have given the shopkeeper. "But you had faith."

He peers down at her through sooty lashes, the sunlight illuminating him in a wonderous combination of shadow and light. His lips twitch in confusion. "What?"

"I put my faith in you and you put your faith in me. And neither of us let the other down." She closes her eyes and shifts until she feels the steady bake of the sun's rays. "Perhaps we are not so hopeless after all."

Tom says nothing, but she doesn't mind. She is satisfied with the brilliant light of day as it sears away the edges of her darkness.