Notes: Thank you all for giving this a chance. A quick aside... there are a lot of types of love. And you can love someone and not like them at the moment. That, I feel, happens often in life. Doesn't mean the love you feel isn't true and real. And loving someone does not automatically mean you're in love with them. So many shades of how humanity cares.

WARNINGS: In depth description of torture, sexual assault. Not super wordy, but very clear.

23. To Weigh How I Once Suffered

Hermione reaches up to push her hair behind her ear and freezes halfway through the gesture. Her hair is glamoured to a short, dirty-blond bob that ends at her chin. She drops her hand back to her lap and ignores the itch of the ends brushing her neck.

She pushes her glasses further up her nose, suppressing an annoyed sigh. They fall down every ten seconds. She doesn't understand how Harry can stand to wear something so irritating on a daily basis.

Beneath the heavy rims, her eyes are now a dull gray, similar to Draco's but with none of the multifaceted shading. With the weight she's lost over the past year, they're confident she's unrecognizable as Gryffindor's Golden Girl. She avoids making eye contact for longer than a handful of seconds just to be sure.

The Order safehouse is crowded, clearly a medical waystation more than a residence. She barely remembers the days when she was on the other side of the triage system, sorting members as they stumbled back to safety. Now she sits in the corner, out of the way of the more pressing ailments, waiting for Harry's contact to call her into one of the backrooms.

It's a bit like visiting St. Mungo's, but only if the hospital downgraded to a family living room. She tries not to think about what comes next. Her body hasn't functioned correctly in over a year, perhaps longer. Even when she was on the run with Harry and Ron, her periods became irregular and light. She hasn't properly bled since before she entered the dungeons.

Her fingers dig into the denim of her loose jeans. She dressed for comfort over form or fashion for this appointment. The jeans hang low on her hips and her oversized hoodie nearly swallows her whole. It protects her from recognition, but it also allows Hermione to hide her body, a barrier behind which she can disappear. She pulls her knees to her chest and sets her chin upon them.

The wait begins to wear on her. She feels her mind skittering down paths it has no business exploring. She closes her eyes and sees ebony waves falling over molten sapphire eyes. She does not allow herself to wish he were here.

The other thoughts are worse. The memories of the man in her cell, of the feeling of her flesh ripping in unspeakable ways. The detached observation that she is likely broken beyond repair. The consequences she refuses to understand.

"Jenna?"

There's beat of silence before Hermione remembers that her name is Jenna Coleman today. She's just another Order recruit who was captured and needs to undergo a physical evaluation. Technically she should also undergo a psychological evaluation, but they've omitted that from Hermione's schedule. She is thankful. This is more than enough for her to handle.

She pushes to her feet and follows the other woman. The healer's temples have gone gray, but the only sign of wrinkles are the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. She leads Hermione to the farthest room from the makeshift waiting area. The healer's gaze is kind as she takes in Hermione's slumped shoulders and oversize clothes.

She shuts the door and casts locking and sophisticated silencing spells. Hermione perches on the edge of the medical cot, her weight barely pressing into the rough cotton of its sheets.

The woman settles on a stool near the door. She lifts a hand as she says, "my name is Anna and I'll be working with you today."

Hermione nods, unsure of what to say or do.

The healer's smile is all too knowing as she continues, "how about we chat first?"

"Okay," Hermione murmurs, her hands burrowing into the central pocket of her hoodie.

"How long since you escaped?"

She does the math in her head. It's longer than she expected. "A little over two months."

Anna nods and jots down a note with her quill. Hermione is thankful she doesn't ask why Hermione's only seeking care now. Maybe this type of delay isn't unusual. "And how long were you held against your will?"

"I think… based on what I've been told, somewhere around ten months."

Another scratch of her quill against the parchment. "For the next set of questions, all I did from you is a yes or no. You don't have to go into any detail."

She waits until Hermione nods before asking, "were you deprived of regular food?"

"Yes."

"Water?"

"Yes."

She remembers how dry her mouth became. How her lips would crack and bleed.

"Were you physically tortured using non-magical violence such as blows to the body or head?"

"Yes."

Anna doesn't react to the litany of positive responses, but Hermione feels the air grow heavier, the weight of it pressing against her chest until she strains to breathe.

The healer looks up from her latest note. "You're safe now, Jenna."

"I know." And she does. She understands that nothing is going to happen to her in this room with this woman, but she hasn't risked remembering this magnitude of detail before. All she's done is forget and now remembering feels like shards of glass beneath her fingernails.

"Are you okay to continue?"

She may never be okay again. But Hermione nods and Anna pulls back another layer of her trauma. "Were you tortured using magic?"

"Yes."

The quill pauses. "Cruciatus?"

"Yes."

"Another form of dark magic, something the Order might not have seen before?"

"Yes." Hermione pries her hands apart and slowly draws the arm of her sweatshirt up. The letters Bellatrix Lestrange carved into her gleam, the scars angry and red. She knows it would have been so much worse without Tom's initial intervention.

The first chink in Anna's armor appears. The healer's quick intake is well hidden, but Hermione doesn't miss it. She doesn't blame the woman. It is likely more grotesque than she's used to. Or perhaps it isn't. Hermione has no idea how the Death Eaters have treated their prisoners over the past year.

"It seems you've already tried healing this on your own."

"Not entirely on my own," Hermione admits. She has no idea what Tom did, she was too out of it due to both the trauma and the swiss cheese of her memory.

"May I?" Anna indicates her arm and Hermione extends it. The woman's touch is cool against her flushed skin. She sweeps her fingers gently over the raised ridges of knotted skin. Hermione doesn't mind the sensation. It isn't anything like the violence that begat the wound. The healer sighs, her lips pursing as she releases Hermione's arm. "I haven't seen this type of scarring before, especially not after healing spells have already been implemented. I'm not sure I can do anything for it right now, but I'll consult with my colleagues and get back to you on a path toward healing that."

Hermione blinks. She already gave up the notion of ever being free of the scars. "That would be… wonderful. Please let Harry know if you figure anything out."

Anna glances at Hermione over the top of her parchment. "Are you and Harry Potter close?"

Saying yes would raise too many questions. Hermione shakes her head as she forces an abashed smile across her lips. "Not particularly, but he's been so kind to me after my rescue."

Anna gives her a knowing smile. "Harry is a very kind young man. But I'm not sure he'll recover from his girlfriend's death any time soon. Hermione Granger was truly something special."

It's the first time Hermione's been directly confronted by the choices they have made. By the truth of her death. She can't help her curiosity. "How is the Order dealing the recent confirmation of her death? I can't believe it."

The healer studies her, but eventually answers, "she was Harry's anchor. We all worry about him now that she's gone. It certainly doesn't help that Harry isn't speaking to Ron Weasley lately. Not sure what exactly happened, but I suspect it had something to do with Granger's death." She gives Hermione a charged look. "You'd best leave him alone for now, love. He isn't ready for anything new."

Hermione does her best to flush as expected. She isn't the least bit embarrassed. It's been too long since she experienced normal life. She's been under lock and key—literally at the Manor and then metaphorically at their cottage. She hasn't had the chance to consider how the rest of the Order is coping, how Harry's life is progressing beyond the fight against Voldemort.

She feels no joy at the news that Harry and Ron have drifted apart, but it doesn't surprise her either. If Harry truly feels as strongly about Hermione as he claims, he likely has no idea how to parse his decision to save his best friend over her. Not now that he knows what truly happened to her.

"I was just curious," Hermione defers.

Anna lets it slide, returning to her checklist. "The next few questions are very personal, but they're going to help me know what to check during your physical examination." Hermione nods, the blond bob tickling her neck. "Okay, during your imprisonment, were you sexually mistreated?"

This time her voice catches, wavering as she whispers, "ye…yes."

Anna swallows and gives up the pretense of writing. "I'm going to give you a series of locations. If your assault included that area, I want you to nod."

"Okay." Her voice is a wisp, ready to blow away at the slightest provocation.

"Orally—your mouth." Hermione's jaw clenches as she nods.

Anna takes a deep breath before she says, "vaginal penetration." Another nod.

"Last question. Anal penetration?"

Hermione has a sudden and horrible flashback to the one time her tormentor brought a friend. Her nails dig bloody rivets in her arm despite the thick hoodie. She nods again.

"Merlin." Anna speaks so softly Hermione can barely hear her.

The healer's face is a mask of compassion as she indicates the cot Hermione sits upon. "I'm going to need you to lie back. The wonderful thing about magic is that I'm not going to have to touch you. But I am going to direct several internal scans toward your pelvic region. Is that okay?"

Hermione shifts slowly, her legs heavy as she draws them onto the cot.

It's the first time she's fully admitted the extent to which her body was violated. Although she spoke portions of that truth to Tom, this is different. This is real. Her mind is her own and she is fully aware of what has been taken from her.

"Just take some deep breaths, Jenna," the healer soothes. Hermione does her best to follow her instructions. Her chest rattles, hollow and wrong. Hermione's hands tear into the sheet below.

Anna's cool fingers cover Hermione's. "I'm with you. You're safe and you're not alone."

It's enough to settle her heaving chest, to keep the moisture welling in her eyes at bay. She watches the healer's wand travel the length of her limbs before beginning concentric circles over her pelvis. The woman's face remains neutral as her wand vibrates and glows. Hermione wishes she remembered more of their healing coursework. But Hogwarts never went into this type of trauma exam and she can only guess at what each signal means.

After several long minutes, Anna retreats. "You can sit up now, Jenna."

Hermione pulls her knees up to her chest, arms crossing in front. The silence stretches as Anna records her observations on the parchment. It continues after her quill falls silent. Hermione's stomach drops through the floor. Whatever comes next will not be good news.

The woman rests a hand at her graying temple. Her eyes are twin wells of sorrow as she studies Hermione.

Hermione swallows her dread. "Just tell me."

Anna's eyes squeeze close, as if the words she's about to utter will cut her tongue. "There's extensive damage."

"Where?"

"To your ovaries and your uterus."

Hermione curls further in on herself. "What does that mean?"

"The uterus we can heal. There will be scarring, but the organ can regain full functionality."

"But…"

"The damage to your ovaries is irreversible and significant." Anna's gaze fractures and her lips tremble the slightest bit as she reveals, "Jenna, you're never going to have children of your own. They stole that from you."

Hermione rocks.

Anna puts a hand on her shoulder and the dam breaks.

Her thoughts are a blur, her emotions a maelstrom of anger and grief and darker urges that make her fingers clench.

She says nothing to Harry when he apparates her back to the cottage. Nothing to Draco when he looks up from his latest potion for the Order.

When Harry begins to follow her inside, she finally manages to growl, "go."

He looks to Draco. The blonde levels a stare at him that indicates Harry will get no support from him. Hermione is thankful, but she doesn't say it.

She doesn't move until she hears the pop of Harry's departure. Then she pivots toward the door.

"Where are you going, Hermione?" Draco's tone is carefully neutral.

"Out," she snarls and slams the door behind her. Draco doesn't follow.

She pays no heed to where she's going. The beach crowd is too lively—the gleeful cries of the children make her knees wobble. She veers away, into the trees. She ducks around branches and crashes through bushes. Leaves rip from their stems and embed in her wild hair—the glamour removed by Harry upon their return.

She hears nothing but the thundering of her heart. Sees nothing but a blur of green leaves and tan earth. She swipes her eyes. Her hands come away dripping.

Hermione pauses in the midst of a circular clearing, her breath ragged. She scrubs madly at her eyes, but the moisture won't be erased.

"You look like hell."

She spins. Of all the places she could have run, she has ended up standing within a stone's throw of Tom bloody Riddle. In the clearing where he discerned the source of her memory loss was none other than Hermione and a desperate obliviate.

That her feet led her here makes the dark fury simmering in her veins throb. She glares across the glen at Tom.

He raises a cigarette to his lips and takes a long drag. The smoke he exhales smells sweet as it wafts between them. She watches it wind toward the sky.

Tom leans against a tree, one knee bent, his booted foot propped against the trunk. He wears Muggle clothing, a plain black tee shirt and slim, dark wash jeans. It's the same outfit he wears every bloody day, as if he's trying to become James Dean.

His skin is pearlescent against the dark material. His lips are overly red, trails of smoke sliding between them. He brushes ebony hair from his crystalline eyes and takes another drag.

She watches his lips part. The smoke blows in a perfect ring toward her. His mouth curls into a wicked smirk as she stares, open mouthed.

Hermione clears her throat, batting the smoke away. "You know those things will kill you."

Dark brows raise. "So you're speaking to me now?"

All her previous emotions seem petty. She isn't the same person she was just an hour ago.

Hermione holds her hand out. "Give it here."

Tom brings the cigarette to his lips again, slowly. He watches her intently as he closes his lips over the rolled paper. The end flares as he inhales, a few ashes scattering to the sandy loam at their feet. His eyes burn into her as he lowers the cigarette and holds it out. Smoke leaks from the corners of his lips and nostrils, but he holds majority in.

Hermione has never tried this. She doesn't give a shit about that right now. She mimics Tom's hold on the small cylinder and brings it tentatively to her lips. The smoke tastes acrid, but that doesn't faze her.

She closes her lips around the end and watches Tom's pupils flare. She's never had this kind of effect on him before either. She holds his gaze as she inhales, just managing not to cough. Her eyes burn and her throat tickles, but she lets the smoke saturate every surface.

When she can't bear it a moment longer, she releases the smoke. Her mind goes comfortably numb as she watches the tendrils chase into the summer sky.

Tom exhales and she's bathed in the sweet clove scent.

"Come here," he murmurs. She lets him pull her forward, his hand hot through her hoodie. He recovers the cigarette from her trembling fingers. He brings it to his mouth again, the end flaring.

Holding her gaze, he uses his free hand to tip her chin up. Then he traces the line of her lips with a finger until they part. He ducks his head and suddenly her mouth is full of smoke and his lips are sealed to hers.

This is the last thing she should be doing right now. She's past caring.

She inhales the smoke. He pulls away, sapphire eyes glassy. Tom retreats a step and slumps against the tree once more.

Hermione can barely remember how to breath, let alone think.

She wants to do it again.

Hermione takes a step forward, reaching for the cigarette. He holds it out of reach.

"Not until you tell me what the hell is wrong with you."

Tom is the last person she wants to talk to, except perhaps Harry. He also just dissolved the tension that threatened to consume her. Her anger has faded to a sizzle and her thoughts are no longer a raging storm.

Perhaps she has punished both of them long enough.

"I can't have children."

He coughs on his latest inhale. Smoke scatters everywhere. "What?"

"I just got done with the Order healer. My ovaries are damaged beyond repair. Even with the best healing the Wizarding world has to offer."

He hands her the cigarette. "But you wanted children, didn't you?"

She takes the longest drag she can manage without hacking. "I always imagined having a family. Not now, obviously, but some day. At my age you're usually more worried about preventing pregnancy than infertility. But now that it's been taken from me? I know for sure I want them. I can feel it deep in my bones."

His fingers skim hers as he retrieves the clove cigarette. His eyes are the deepest blue, like the sky before sunrise, as he holds her miserable stare. "I will end every single one of them. I promise."

"It won't fix this. Violence can't fix this."

Tom takes an angry drag. "Then what can I do?"

She has no idea. She has no idea how to move forward herself. Nor what she truly feels.

All she does know is that she is stable now. She no longer wants to claw the skin from her arms or slam every door in their cottage. It's nothing like peace, but for the first time since Anna spoke those awful words, it isn't chaos either.

It's completely unacceptable to feel this way about him. To have him sooth her so effectively. He is darkness and depravity. He cannot be good for her.

But he is.

She steals one last drag. Perhaps not good. She probably shouldn't be inhaling this many carcinogens, but it's what she needs right now. She has to cope first, before she can mend.

"I forgive you."

His lips freeze midway through a smoke ring. "What?"

"You know what I'm talking about. I forgive you. I promised I would and I do. I wouldn't be myself if you hadn't had the guts to do that. So I forgive you for that horror show."

He grinds the burning embers beneath his boot. When he looks at her again, his expression is all serious lines and solemn eyes. "You remember that."

"Thanks to you, I remember everything."

"I'd gathered." He removes a fresh cigarette from his back pocket and twirls it between his fingers. "Is there any particular reason you decided to ignore me for the last month? I understand before, when you were upset about Malfoy and all… that. But I can't quite figure what you're afraid of this time."

Despite having only known a fragment of her, Tom can read her like a neon sign. Perhaps more of her existed in that cell than she imagined.

He knows she's afraid, but he's missed the obvious. "You. I'm afraid of you."

He blinks wide eyes at her. "Me?" He pushes off the tree and squats in front of her. "I have truly failed to let you see me if you think I could ever hurt you without extenuating circumstances."

She hauls him to his feet. His breath is warm on her cheek as he hovers, the scent of cloves saturating the air between them.

"Not that you'll hurt me," she clarifies.

"Then what?"

She regrets having him this close. This is a conversation for a different day, a different life. But everything is falling to pieces slowly but surely. There is no guarantee of another day and she is well and truly stuck with this life.

"What do you think, Tom?" she hisses. "What would make me so concerned when my memory was fully restored? You're clever. You ought to be able to make an educated guess."

His teeth sink into his bottom lip. His eyes are heavy with shared truth as he whispers, "maybe I want to hear you say it."

Hermione wants to slap him. To tear his perfect face apart with her nails until he isn't there. But he isn't going anywhere and she's past the end of her rope.

"I love you, Tom Riddle."

His eyes darken to midnight, but he doesn't move a muscle. He knows she has more to say. "Somewhere in the middle of this nightmare, I started to love you. Not because you protected me or because you shared my suffering, but because you never gave up on me. Because you saw who I could be clearly enough—despite having never met the real me—that you turned your wand on me when I begged you to. And you had the necessary faith that I'd come back. Draco was willing to let me rot, Harry was willing to leave me behind. But you, you kept fighting even when it stopped serving you.

"So when I finally got my head on straight, I was furious. Furious that I'd come to depend on you and furious that I'd let myself begin to love you—a half-souled boy made from the foulest magic. I've spent half my life trying to kill you, Tom. I am not pleased to find I no longer wish to do so."

He runs his tongue across his lips. Hermione can't help but watch. He inhales sharply and takes a step back. "That isn't wise. No longer wanting to kill me."

"No shit." She plucks the cigarette from his limp fingers. He holds out his wand, a tiny flame dancing at its tip.

She paces across the clearing and sucks down a mouthful of smoke. It's disgusting. It feels bloody good.

She swings back to Tom. He runs a hand through his ebony hair, the gesture reminiscent of Harry. She blows a cloud of smoke in his general direction.

"Are you going to contribute to this deeply personal conversation, Tom? I've spilled my deepest, darkest secrets and I'll I've learned is that you smoke clove cigarettes, which I already bloody knew and seriously pales in comparison to my confession."

His luminous eyes are wary as he asks, "and what would you have me say?"

"Something true. No lie. No manipulation. Just a soul—or half-soul—deep truth."

He looks to the sky, the column of his neck stretching. Hermione wants to run her lips across his skin. She swallows. It's the first overtly sexual thought she's had in a while. Apparently certain parts of her are intent on healing, even if her biology will never be up to the task.

"I worry I'll never escape my true nature."

She puffs the cigarette again. "And what exactly is that?"

"Darkness, agony, sadism, death. The stuff of nightmares."

He claims the cigarette and retreats to his tree.

Hermione remains in the sunlight. "Have you always felt that way? Like part of you was wrong? Dark when it should have been light?"

"I've never been made of light, if that's what you're asking." He twirls his wand—she's sure it was Draco's not so long ago—end over end. "But no, I wasn't born plotting murder and torturing small animals."

"Have you done that?"

He squints at her. "What? Murder? You know I have."

"No, the animals."

"Only insects when I was perfecting the Cruciatus Curse. Believe it or not, I didn't arrive at the orphanage an evil baby. But I was odd. Too quiet and observant. The other children didn't trust me. And you know how cruel children can be."

She never thought of it like that. From all Harry shared, she imagined Tom the aggressor from the start. But it makes sense that he started out as every other child. Perhaps a touch too clever, but nothing dangerous. Years of being shunned, being treated as the other consumed him, built his rage until it was a chilling inferno that obliterated them all.

He learned his silent wrath from the callous Muggles around him and no one understood what that did to him until it was too late.

"Do you hate them?" She waves toward the beach, toward the hordes of nonmagical families scattered across the sand.

"Not as you might assume," he answers, cigarette back at his lips. "I find them weak, a general waste of space. But I'm not going to go out of my way to hurt them. I'm certainly not going to make a habit of killing them. They're not worth the energy."

"He would disagree."

"He is brain dead."

She won't argue with Tom there. "What are you still doing with us, Tom? You have the resources you need to kill him and restore your soul. So why stay?"

"Ah," his lips curve upward, the barest hint of a smile. "There are some secrets I must still keep, Hermione Granger."

Hermione closes the distances between them and steals his cigarette. "I hate you."

"We both know that isn't true."

"I regret telling you anything."

He laughs, deep and full of promise. "Okay, that's probably true."

Hermione smokes the rest of his cigarette in blissful silence. She only coughs once.