Notes: Thank you for all your love and support. I so enjoying hearting the vast array of your reactions to this story and its eternally messy characters.
WARNINGS: Canon violence
20. Shadows Like to Thee Do Mock My Sight
Hermione feels the warmth of the sun against her eyelids. She cracks open her eyes and squints. Her throat aches and her head feels like a hippogriff performed a polka on her skull. She stares at sheer white curtains blowing softly in front of a window. The sight is at once familiar and entirely foreign.
She reaches for the gauzy fabric and slides the material between her fingers. She's done this a thousand times. She's also never felt the fabric before. Her thoughts bump up against each other, as if unaccustomed to sharing space.
Her head snaps up—Merlin, she shouldn't have done that—when the door opens. A boy with platinum hair pulled into a knot at the nape of his neck enters. She knows him. He is Draco, her almost friend and sometime caretaker. He is Draco Malfoy, arrogant Pureblood and known Death Eater. Two versions of him shimmer as if she's seeing double. She shakes her head and the two collapse into one.
She presses her hands to her temples. The pressure within her skull builds, a balloon swelling with discordant thoughts. She stands with her feet in two worlds, a yawning chasm between them. The ground shifts beneath her, the two halves crashing together in a mess of memory and agony.
Hermione screams.
Something clatters to the floor, but she doesn't have to the sense to examine the world around her. Her mind is breaking down, shifting, becoming something unfamiliar. She has no control over the chaos.
Her throat is hoarse now. She must have already worn it out. Before.
She tries to remember and white-hot agony descends.
She forgets everything but the steady rise and fall of her chest. Slowly, she counts her breaths. She gets to ten, then a hundred. The agony dulls to a paralyzing ache from a raging storm.
Fresh air fills her lungs. The sun is hot on her face. She remembers her name.
It was lost before, known only because others gave it to her. Now it is hers.
Hermione gasps, fingers clawing into the cotton sheet below. A million impressions inundate her, saturating her memory with all that was lost. Hogwarts. Harry. The war. Her decision. They flood into the crevices of her mind, swelling around the boulders of after, the memories she gained after her mind broke.
Her affection for Harry oozes into her memories of Tom, the two opposing realities tangling into each other. Hermione gags, her hand flying to her mouth. Her stomach churns as she understands what has happened.
She lives with Tom Riddle and Draco Malfoy.
It's nearly incomprehensible. She combs through her recent memories—the hazy after impressions that lack the clarity of her true life, her fully operational mind.
She can't stop the bile this time.
Malfoy—or is it Draco? Godric, she doesn't even know what to call him—is at her side in an instant. He holds back her hair as she retches. She wants to pull away, he is a disgusting, vile boy, but she allows the kindness. If her broken memories are anything to go by, he isn't who she thought he was. He may be a loathsome cockroach, but he helped her escape the Death Eaters. His cowardice hurt her in irrevocable ways, but he developed enough of a backbone to bring Harry to her, even when she didn't know who he was. Malfoy is more than the sum of his past she decides as she wipes her mouth with the bedsheet.
He vanishes the bile from the wooden floorboards. His lips are pressed in a thin line and his hands twine together in a nervous flutter as he takes a step back.
"So you do remember."
Hermione isn't sure how he can tell, but she's glad he knows. Whatever has existed between them is gone. Left in its wake is a web of broken memories and lies. She doesn't look at him as she pads across the room to her closet. She remembers these clothes. They are not hers, but they fit her body, their fabric familiar against her skin. She wraps herself in a lilac cardigan that resembles something her mother would wear.
"Yes."
"You hate me."
It isn't a question and Hermione doesn't deign to reply. She doesn't hate him, but she certainly feels very little fondness for him. Malfoy has treated her with nothing but kindness since he arrived here. He has even faked his death for her, but she cannot reconcile the divergent portions of her mind. She cannot forget his childhood cruelty or his decision to serve Voldemort.
Her thoughts trip over each other, falling over a precipice. She sees eyes of the deepest sapphire. She turns away. She will not acknowledge the truths that lurk beyond.
"Can I get you anything? Water? Food?"
Malfoy shifts on his feet and she resists the urge to snap at him to get out. Her mouth is dry and her stomach, despite the knots, could use some sustenance. "Both, please."
He nods, sharp and mechanical and disappears out the door.
Hermione drifts toward the mirror hanging above the oak dresser. Her reflection could be another girl entirely. Her cheeks are too gaunt, her eyes sunken and full of hidden horrors. Her hair is limp for once, the frizzy mass tamed at last by malnutrition and neglect. She runs a hand over her lips. They're pale and cracked. The edges of her mouth ache where splitting sores have only just begun to fully heal.
She looks like she's been dragged through hell by her hair. If the pieces she has put together are accurate, she may well have been.
Malfoy knocks on the doorframe. She looks at him through the mirror. He isn't the boy she recalls from before. His features are haggard and his eyes are too old for his youthful frame. She motions toward the small desk and he sets a steaming bowl of soup and a glass of water on the desk. The soup's aroma fills the room and her stomach growls.
Hermione sighs and crosses to the food. Malfoy retreats a half step, but doesn't leave. She wishes he would.
The soups is warm, but not scalding and its flavor is pleasant enough. She sips greedily.
Malfoy shuffles behind her. "I can contact Harry. You can return to the Order if you'd like. It will be risky since you're supposed to be dead, but I'm sure they could work something out."
"No." Her voice is too sharp and she feels the keen edge of Malfoy's stare. She isn't ready to face Harry yet. She may have woken to a disaster in this cottage, but it has not tempered the memory of his arms around Ron.
She is allowed a respite from his choice no longer. Hermione shakes her head. Those are thoughts for later, when Malfoy isn't boring a hole in her head with his silver stare. "You were correct not to let anyone in the Order know about my survival. We've had leaks before and something of this magnitude is too much to risk. That Harry knows is bad enough."
She hears Malfoy swallow. "I couldn't tell him you were dead."
Hermione slowly pivots to face him. The anguish contorting his angular features isn't easily dismissed. She hears a deep baritone explaining a certain truth about Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. She ignores the voice, but searches the words.
"You're in love with Harry."
Malfoy's pallor goes from ivory to ashen. "I… I was for a very long time. In my own twisted way."
She supposes that's the only way any of them love. "What changed?"
Malfoy's eyes skitter over her. He's clearly uneasy having this conversation with her. Hermione doesn't care. He owes her far more than this.
"I told Potter I'm gay and he told me he couldn't quite understand because he's only ever liked girls." He lets out a cynical laugh. "Broke my heart in the same sentence he offered his support. Classic case of irony."
Hermione takes several more gulps of her soup. She finds an echo of this conversation in her distorted memories, as if this isn't the first time they've discussed Harry. But she didn't know who they were talking about then—he was an idea, not a person.
She pauses, spoon hanging over the bowl. "Just because he's not into you doesn't mean you automatically no longer love him."
"I'm well aware of that," Malfoy sighs. "But it did give me leave to move on."
She almost asks to what, but then she remembers ebony and platinum melding together. She downs the entire glass of water.
The glass thuds as she places it on the desk. "So what now?"
Malfoy's stormy eyes narrow, but he doesn't object to the abrupt change in topic. If anything, he appears a touch relieved.
"We're working on finding several obscure dark magic books that deal with the details of Horcruxes. We're hoping we no longer need to destroy each Horcrux individually." There is no doubt as to the we he refers to.
Hermione does her best not to think about that. "So if we find these books, we can find a way to destroy You Know Who without wasting time and resources on the Horcruxes."
"Precisely." Some of Malfoy's color returns as he continues, "we weren't able to find the books when you both went because—because of the circumstances, but if we return and scour the hidden library, we should be able to find the resources the Dark Lord doesn't want anyone knowing about."
Circumstances. Her hands tremble and the soup spoon clatters against the bowl. That particular encounter is unfortunately crystal clear. She hasn't begun to parse it. She won't start now.
"Then let's get moving. The sooner we find the books, the sooner we can be out of this… catastrophe."
Malfoy gives her a look that's far too familiar—the product of months of cohabitating. She wants to claw the expression from his face with her nails.
"You need to recover and heal." He glances up at the ceiling, as if seeking divine support. "And you need to talk to him."
She bloody well does not. She picks up her bowl and noisily slurps down the rest of the soup. She doesn't miss Malfoy's exhausted sigh.
"Granger, you can't avoid this. For today, sure. But not tomorrow. Tomorrow you're going to wake up in this same room and nothing will have changed. You'll still be dead as far as the Order is concerned. We'll still be safely warded because of his magic. And he'll still be the only resource we have to ending the Dark Lord."
The springs of her bed creak as Malfoy settles onto it. It's an invasion of her space, but she understands he's sat there dozens of times before. "You promised you'd forgive him."
She distinctly recalls. However, her promise extended only to the restoration of her memory. Not to tricking her into needing him, or creating the cloying attachment that coats every thought of him.
Hermione says nothing at all and Malfoy grunts in annoyance. "This isn't a bloody schoolyard drama. This isn't something you can afford to ignore. He's volatile, Granger. He won't react well to you shutting him down completely. And despite how you might feel right now—I understand this has to be incredibly difficult for you—Tom isn't someone to be trifled with. Don't be willfully ignorant."
She hates that he's right. She lashes out. "And you're the one shagging him. Isn't that a bit willfully ignorant?"
"We're not talking about the mess that is my life," Malfoy replies wearily, surprising her. She expected venom, not calm resignation. Everything appears the slightest bit different, the medium changing from air to water, her expectations distorting. "Besides, Tom isn't going to lose his bloody mind if I cut him off. That honor falls to you whether you want it or not."
Hermione absolutely does not. But she also knows what he did for her, what he shared with her.
She allows the memories to crash through the dam she tried to maintain. She allows him to exist beyond feelings of betrayal and disgust. Her heart loses its rhythm, her pulse skitters in frantic recognition. Her breath becomes hisses and moans. She tears her fingers through her tangled hair. None of it matters. None of it changes a fundamental truth.
She loves Tom Riddle.
It's not a romantic love. It's not platonic either. It's something unique and deep, beyond her comprehension. The details don't matter. In her broken stupor, she has betrayed herself in the most fundamental way.
When she looks up, she finds silent sympathy in the depths of Malfoy's churning eyes. He of all people understands what it is to be caught in Tom's web.
Hermione's hands close into fists, her blunt nails digging as deep as they can into the soft flesh of her palms. She wishes she could forget all over again.
Draco crashes to the ground, his knees scaping against rough stone. He hisses and slashes his wand. The air turns acrid as his spell streaks across the cavern.
The rock to the left of Tom's head explodes in a glittering array of fine crystal. Tom grins, sharp and expectant.
"You can do better than that."
He can, but he's rusty. He hasn't fought since the night he died and the circumstances at the cottage haven't allowed Tom and Draco to spar like they did at Malfoy Manor.
He tries to think of a particularly nasty hex. The incantation comes slower than usual, a clear sign he hasn't been fighting for his life recently. He sighs and hurls the curse at Tom anyway.
The dark boy bats it away as if it were an errant leaf falling from a tree. Draco groans in frustration. Tom's eyes darken, flickering in the dim light of the torches. He twirls his wand between his dexterous fingers, never taking his gaze from Draco.
"I expect better of you."
Draco's can't harness his annoyance. He's tired of this particular farce. "Great, I've failed to meet expectations yet again. Not exactly a novel feeling for me, Tom. Can we just get on with what we're supposed to be doing?"
Tom hums quietly, his wand still dancing in his hand. "I suppose."
Draco looks away to mask his relief. Sparring with Tom is one thing. Sparring with Tom in Voldemort's hidden lair is quite another.
"Expelliarmus!"
Draco crashes onto his ass and his wand flies into Tom's outstretched hand. It doesn't hurt his body nearly as much as his pride.
"What the fuck, Tom?"
Azure eyes flash with devilish glee as Tom closes the distance between them. He holds out a hand—the one that doesn't clutch both their wands. "Come on, Draco. It's just a spot of fun."
It really isn't. Draco yanks particularly roughly on Tom's arm as he rises to his feet. "Give it back."
"No, I rather don't think I will. It isn't yours anyway."
How Tom could possibly know Draco held on to Dumbledore's wand is unsettling. They've never talked about what led Draco to enter the Death Eater ranks and he's absolutely certain Tom has never been in his head.
A satisfied smirk pulls at Tom's full lips as he tosses Draco McNair's wand. "I hate this thing anyway."
That Draco believes. He sighs and examines the wand. It's a lighter wood than the wand Tom now holds and lacks any of the decorative flair. Where the old man's wand had carving along its shaft, this one is simple, smooth wood. The core vibrates differently, its energy lethargic. It's vastly inferior, but he isn't about to fight Tom over the swap. Currently, he doesn't need a wand to fight with, only to brew potions and provide the occasional healing spell. It isn't pretty, but it will serve.
He tucks it into the back pocket of his trousers and stares balefully back at Tom. "You could have just asked for it. We didn't have to have an impromptu duel in the middle of the Dark Lord's atrium or whatever the hell this is."
Tom's gaze hasn't strayed from his new acquisition. "This wand has to be won, darling. You handing it to me would have done me no good."
Unease flutters in the depths of Draco's gut. He's missing something. Tom is way too interested in the wand. He watches the other boy run his fingers down the length of the dark wood, skating along the tapering shaft and carved ornamentation. Tom's eyes have darkened beyond blue to a covetous midnight.
Draco clears his throat.
Tom's expression clears in a heartbeat, but he keeps the wand clenched in his hand as he motions toward the dark corridor beyond.
Draco follows at a healthy distance, mulling over what he's observed. He trusts his gut feeling, but knows better than to show any external doubt. There's nothing to do but keep an eye on Tom, something Draco already does on a regular basis.
He forces his breath to come out even and sure as they enter the hidden library. Even though he knows what to expect, he shudders as they pass through a final set of wards. It feels as if chilled fingers trace the length of his spine. But the room is empty and they've successfully penetrated the lair.
Bookshelves line the opposite side of the cavern, glut with the darkest tomes imaginable. Draco nearly takes a step backward. If the library at the Manor is considered dark, then this is evil's private collection. The spells in his family library harm and maim, even kill, but they do not seek to decimate, to obliterate beyond all recognition. These are not books for wizards, these are books for Death himself.
Draco can't imagine the time it took to amass this collection, the dedication to the Dark Arts. He slides his gaze to Tom. The boy has finally put away his new wand, but the gleam in his eyes is no less unnerving.
"How long?" He forces his mouth to move, to ask the only thing he deems innocuous.
Tom's head jerks toward Draco, dark curls bouncing. He blinks, as if just remembering he's not alone.
"A long time," he murmurs, striding to stand before the central shelves. He runs a hand over a potions text that would send either of them straight to Azkaban if found in their possession. "I started at Hogwarts. It was easy really. A few sweet words here, a stolen kiss there and I had another piece of the forbidden."
His smile is sharp, cutting beneath Draco's skin as he turns to face him. "I've found charm rather than threats is the most effective method of obtaining what I want. There was a Transfiguration teacher—long before McGonagall—who was particularly interested in collecting rare volumes. He didn't care terribly that many of them were banned or outright lethal if not handled properly. He simply enjoyed having something rare in his possession." Tom's expression becomes enticingly wicked when he continues. "It turns out he rather enjoyed having me in his possession more than his books."
Tom bites his bottom lip and it flushes a dark, inviting crimson. "But you understand that, don't you?"
That Tom uses his exquisite appearance and carnal wiles is hardly news to Draco. He knows exactly how they came together. "Do you have a point, Tom?"
Tom holds his stare for a beat before shrugging. The overtly sensual pout of his lips fades. "I suppose not. It's just fascinating what people will choose to do for you if given the proper motivation."
Draco doesn't think it's fascinating at all. But he's never been a particularly good manipulator. He always lacked the subtly and confidence required.
"You can't charm everyone."
Tom's hungry expression wipes away in a heartbeat. Emotion drains from his face until all that's left is coldly implacable lines and contours. Draco grimaces and turns to examine a shelf further down the wall. He knows better than to remind the other boy of Hermione Granger.
She hasn't spoken to Tom—refused to even see him—since her memory returned. Granger is as insufferable as ever; a fact Draco doesn't particularly appreciate. He became accustomed to the more affable version of her, the one who didn't remember every terrible thing he ever did. But she's as prickly as a cactus now and he's reminded daily why he loathed her so completely for years.
That she absolutely refuses to see Potter as well doesn't help matters. Draco understands—he'd be bloody upset if Potter chose Ron Weasley over him too. Granted, he's pretty sure Potter did choose Ron Weasley over him, but for justifiable reasons. He just doesn't appreciate being the only person with whom she will actually communicate.
Aside from his initial breakdown, Tom is disturbingly stoic when it comes to the topic of Granger. He hasn't shown any overt signs he's bothered by Granger's decision to ignore him, but Draco knows better than to believe his façade.
Tom's kisses are too aggressive, their sex more like a duel than a languid exploration of passion. Draco feels Tom's pain in every drop of blood drawn from his lips and every bruise left upon his hips. Draco could stop Tom, could protect his skin from the scars of the other's boy's agony, but he doesn't. He takes the small abuses and lets them roll off him like rain against a protego bubble. Tom isn't hurting him in any way he doesn't enjoy. And Draco worries what will happen if even this small outlet is removed.
Tom may want to be better, to be more, but he is still built on a foundation of sinister power. If pushed, he will flounder and when he falls, it will be back into the well of darkness. So Draco absorbs his suffering and holds Tom close in the dead of the night when Granger's screams reverberate down the hall.
It is untenable, but it is all he can manage without Granger's cooperation.
Tom's footfalls echo in the great cavern as he moves down the line of shelves. Draco angles so he can see him out of the corner of his eye. Tom's fingers skate over the volumes with little regard for their lethal content. He's already aware of the ghastly knowledge each contains. He pauses, hand pushing his silken hair from his forehead as he crouches down.
Draco moves to stand behind him, peering over the boy's shoulder. Tom pulls two books from the darkest corner of the bottom shelf and hands them to Draco. Draco's surprised when neither volume curses him upon contact.
Tom's lips tug upward. It isn't a smile, but it's so much better than the blank slate Draco's earlier comment evoked. "I'm not trying to kill you, Draco. Believe me, you'll know when I am."
That is not reassuring in the least and Draco supposes Tom doesn't intend it to be. He angles the books to read their spines. The Heresy of Soulcraft and Darkest Magicks of Death and His Kin.
Draco's skin crawls. The first title is chilling, but the second leaves his mouth dry and his hands clammy. Both texts appear on the verge of disintegration, their edges worn to crumbling bits of leather. He's not sure he wants to know where Tom procured either. These are clearly far beyond the collection of his seduced professor.
He forces sound through the cotton of his mouth, "this will help us kill the Dark Lord?"
Tom retrieves the books from Draco's quivering fingers. "Far beyond that. This will allow me to fully restore my soul. And give me full access to my magic and his."
Draco hasn't fully considered how magic is allocated between the two versions of Tom. "Are you not at full power?"
It's a terrifying prospect. Tom has been able to heal Hermione with the precision of a skilled healer. He's disarmed Draco with the mere wave of his hand. That his power might only be a fraction of his full capacity is nearly inconceivable.
Tom tilts his head, as if the answer is complex and he has to examine his response. "No, I do not possess the same access to magic I enjoyed before I split my soul. But I certainly have more than half my magic, which indicates it is separate from the amount of my soul. I have to admit, I do not fully understand. I believe I absorbed all of—" Tom swallows, eyes sharpening to flint. "I took all of the bastard's magic when I became corporeal, but he was not particularly skilled. Thus, perhaps I have some of my own and all of his. It is immaterial as long as I destroy my counterpart and regain the portion of my power he currently commands."
Draco finally asks the question that has been lingering on his tongue, sour and insistent. "And what do you plan to do when you regain all this power?"
"Why, conquer Death, of course."
Draco blinks, unwilling to let a single tic of his jaw escape.
Tom laughs, bright and warm, not maniacally hollow. "Sweet Salazar, your face is priceless."
Clearly Draco needs to improve his poker face. He's out of practice with that too, living beyond the constant threat of discovery.
"You're a dick."
Tom huffs, amusement brightening his alluring features. "You enjoy it."
Draco's eyes roll to the cavern ceiling. "Seriously, what do you want to do?"
"I honestly haven't thought that far ahead."
Certainly a lie. Tom is pathological in his need to prepare, to assure the outcome he most desires. He may be playing nice, but there's no way he's given up the game. But Draco's unwilling to push him, not when he hovers so close to the edge.
"Fine. Keep your secrets."
Tom's mouth crashes into his, the books crushed between them. Draco's pulse jumps in time to the waves crashing above. He welcomes the invasion, the familiar taste of bitter cloves upon Tom's tongue. Tom's hands are hot on his back as they push beneath the layers of his shirt and jumper.
Draco stumbles back a step and hits one of the reading desks. Tom's hips grind into him and the table groans in protest. Tom pulls away only long enough to safely stow their bounty on a nearby chair.
Draco gasps as Tom hefts him onto the desk, their hips sliding against each other with delicious friction. The desk sways, clearly not up to the task. Tom mutters a curse followed by a stabilizing spell.
Draco gapes up at Tom. "Here?"
The dark boy runs a provocative hand along the length of Draco's arousal. "Yes, here. I want to christen this room as my own. Care to help?"
All his blood rushes to meet Tom's slow caress. Draco doesn't have the strength to protest. They're surrounded by the darkest books, the most arcane secrets of power. As much as it chills him, it's also darkly tantalizing. To be claimed in the heart of darkness.
He's panting, lips begging for heat as he lays back against the table. Tom smirks, pure wanton sin, and it does unspeakable things to Draco. He tangles his hand in ebony waves and yanks the dark boy down to him.
"Let's make a bloody declaration."
They don't talk after that.