Chapter Sixty-Three: Therapy with Ed Moldrit
Six Months Later
"Your next client is here at ten, Hermione," Stebbins said.
"Oh good," Hermione said, "send him in when he arrives, Kyle."
Stebbins had decided two days before the first week of classes that he wanted to help be a counselor to the witches and wizards who needed it alongside Hermione. He'd done a crash course in Muggle behavior before joining Hermione at Oxford, and had already been excelling in his classes through dedicated study. He'd started working mornings at her cozy office for some extra money and experience, proving to be a huge asset.
Hermione adjusted her notes in front of her. The photo on her desk of her mother and father sat next to a row of wizarding photos of her favorite people. Ron sat there, winking, forever sixteen. There was a photo of Harry, Brigitte, and Blaise, who'd gone out to dinner with her as friends the other night. Sure Blaise had gotten drunk and tried to kiss her at the end, right in front of Harry and Brigitte. But she hadn't let him. Progress.
It was a new patient this morning, Ed Moldrit, a twenty something man who couldn't get over a lost love. Stebbins had taken all the notes over the phone for her, meticulous as always.
The fact that Ed Moldrit had telephoned the details instead of owling them was unusual, but Hermione had discovered Muggleborns preferred that mode of intake, so as to leave less of a paper trail if they decided never to show up. Apparently this Ed Moldrit was desperate to move on from what he now understood was an unhealthy attachment to a woman who didn't want him anymore.
It was a welcome relief from the endless stream of traumatized and suffering witches and wizards who had started coming to Hermione a month ago when she'd opened up the little office right next door to Sticks and Stones and Broken Bones and declared herself ready to help the magical community. Perhaps she was jumping the gun a still had years until she was Muggle certified. But the wizarding community had proven themselves to be needing her help now, however inexpert her help might be.
The first line of mental health potions had hit the market from Sticks and Stones and Broken Bones. Potions that helped with nightmares and insomnia and chronic muttering and anxiety. There hadn't been many buyers of the chronic muttering, aside from Hermione, but the rest were selling like gangbusters. They were still working on a potion for depression. It was proving the hardest nut to crack. Well, after Hermione's special project. But the potions had been enormously helpful, the rehabilitation and confinement of the Azkaban prisoners sans dementors even more popular with the public after; a initial public outcry in which Hermione had wondered if she was going to have produce thrown at her in public.
On top of all that, when Hermione had opened her doors to patients a month ago she had been slammed ever since. Harry had rang and been booked as the first patient, for all Hermione had told him they could just talk as mates for free.
"But then you might not give me brutal honesty," Harry had said, as the disco ball in Grimmauld place twirled overhead and Kreacher did a disco point to the music. Brigitte was smoking a suspicious substance in the corner in lingerie, but Hermione was past caring about the ins and outs of their relationship at this point.
"Since when have I not been brutally honest to you?" Hermione had said, insulted.
"Since you learned in class that it's not super effective," Harry said.
"So why would I do it as your therapist if it's not effective?" Hermione reasoned.
"Good point,'' Harry had said, but he'd still been there at nine am her first day anyway, grinning.
He hadn't been grinning when he left, though. They'd dug up some ugly stuff to do with the Dursleys.
But he had gone out to the Broomsticks with Dudley that night, and come to Hermione's home in Hogsmeade with her dad, dead drunk and singing. And after that, he'd started to go round to the Dursleys for regular tea. Hermione chalked it up as a win.
"He's here, Hermione," Stebbins said through her speaker that she'd insisted upon. It was a magical therapy practice, yes, but she couldn't help but retain some Muggle touches.
"Send him in, Kyle," Hermione said a trifle impatiently. She'd already told him to do so when the man arrived, hadn't she?
"Yes, Doctor, but-"
Hermione hung up, taking a sip of tea to stave off her irritation at the mistake about Moldrit and Stebbins calling her Doctor yet again, when she was nowhere near a doctor. Stebbins was trying. He was a good kid. Or, young adult. Sometimes she forgot how old she was getting.
The door opened, and Tom Riddle walked in.
Hermione dropped her teacup, cracking it in half.
Stebbins was hovering behind Riddle, looking nervous.
"I told him to wait, Doctor," he said.
"And I heard her tell you to send me in," Riddle said.
In the six months since she'd run into him in person, he'd grown only more handsome. How was it bloody possible? Hermione knew she looked better than she had six months ago, but she'd looked half dead when she'd broken off whatever twisted relationship she'd had with Riddle that day in his office. Now she slept regularly, thanks to Sticks and Stones and Broken Bones and their potions. She ate well. She exercised and occasionally went to tropical locales with Harry and Brigitte and sometimes the twins. Riddle, when she'd seen him in the paper being lauded for being bloody perfect or whatever, had looked gorgeous as always. But in the flesh, there was no comparison. Her breath almost left her.
"You're not Ed Moldrit," Hermione blurted awkwardly.
"I most certainly am," Riddle assured her, "Mr. Stebbins, could you leave now, perhaps? Patient confidentiality, you know. It's key, or so I've read, to the psychological arts."
Hermione nodded at Stebbins curtly, who walked out looking alarmed.
"So you've pulled the old anagram trick again," Hermione said flatly, "adorable. No 'Lord' this time, though?"
"I've turned over a new leaf," Riddle said, "or haven't you heard?"
"I haven't," Hermione lied.
She had, of course. Riddle had unexpectedly backed their fight to rid Azkaban of the dementors, right when the public outcry had gotten ugliest. He'd started a number of initiates to help destitute witches and wizards. He'd funded a scholarship to the school in Igneus's name. He'd even started a three week class at Hogwarts teaching students how to avoid getting sucked into the lure of the Dark Arts.
Hermione had written furiously to Remus and Snape about that one, saying he was most likely using it as an excuse to indoctrinate more followers. Remus had written back about it sounding like Hermione needed a chill pill. Snape, after calling her a dunderhead a few times, had been more helpful, and assured her Riddle was under close supervision he was unaware of every time he taught. But a snake could shed its skin. It didn't mean it was no longer a snake.
"I've been doing what you asked," Riddle said.
"Lying about your identity in order to bother me?" Hermione said acidly. "Or is Ed Moldrit another personality you've developed?"
"Would you have seen me if I'd used my own name?" Riddle asked reasonably, "Or would you have turned me away?"
"It would've shown you stopped lying about everything for no reason," Hermione insisted, though of course, Riddle was saying nothing but the truth. She never would have allowed Riddle in, if she'd known it was him.
"I've been showing remorse," Riddle clarified, "for my horrible actions. That's what you've wanted, isn't it? That, and for me to leave you alone while you were studying at Oxford? Haven't I done that as well?"
"Yes," Hermione said grudgingly, "but I'm not done studying."
"I know," Riddle shrugged, "unlike you to be so lax with your standards. But if you're breaking the rules to start this practice, I can come and see you, can't I?"
"I suppose," Hermione said, trying to find the logic in a counter argument that didn't make her look like a total hypocrite. She was still standing, her hands on her desk, but Riddle sat down on her comfiest couch across from her, lying down, crossing his arms and placing them behind his head. That one strand of hair flopped into his eye. "You don't actually need to lay like that," Hermione informed him, "that's only in movies."
"I'm comfortable," Riddle said, "and I have an appointment."
"Are you actually remorseful?" Hermione asked, "or is it just a show for my benefit?"
"I don't know," Riddle admitted, "how do you tell the difference?"
Hermione almost threw something in outrage, then she reconsidered. Maybe he was being serious. She forced herself to sit in the squashy floral armchair she'd carefully chosen as non threatening and soothing. She picked up her clipboard and quill. She found the pen usually unnerved the non Muggleborns too much. On second thought…she swapped the quill for the pen. She did so enjoy unnerving Riddle.
"Do you think about it, what you've done?" she asked.
"Yes," Riddle said at once. Hermione made a note.
"How often, would you say?" she asked, "do you think about what you've done, I mean?"
"Daily," Riddle said at once. He was staring at her ceiling fixedly, like he was too ashamed to meet her eyes.
"When?" Hermione prodded.
"All times," Riddle said, "often when I'm trying to sleep."
"Do you have bad dreams about it?" Hermione asked, making another note. She darted another glance at Riddle, who was still staring at the ceiling.
"All the time," Riddle said, "but sometimes they're good. That's worse. I dream I killed him, and then I became him. You're my dark queen beside me. Lady Voldemort. I wake up happy. That feels worse."
Hermione was dearly thankful she'd put down the quill, or else she would've snapped it in half. In her mind, she saw Ginny, the last unfortunate Lady Voldemort.
"How is that worse?" she said after a brief pause, glad Riddle was still feigning remorse at her ceiling.
"Because then I feel sick about the things I used to want," Riddle said, looking at her at last from underneath his eyelashes and fetching strand of hair.
A man shouldn't have such luxurious eyelashes. What a bloody waste. Him and Harry both. On Harry it was even worse, with the glasses covering them and all. Hermione pulled it together.
"That's good," she forced herself to say, "that does sound like you have made some progress."
"I have,'' Riddle said, "I have been atoning. For my awful ways."
"I noticed," Hermione said, then forced herself to add, "I've heard good things about your course at Hogwarts."
"From Lupin?'' Riddle said, raising an eyebrow, "you can't take his owls seriously about me. He's often zonked on tranquilizing potions."
"Still?" Hermione sighed, making a separate note that Sticks and Stones and Broken Bones should get to work immediately on a potion for anger that didn't turn you into a zen, possibly stoned werewolf at all times.
She'd tried to convince Evelyn repeatedly that they needed to make Remus's special potion a priority, and Evelyn had tartly pointed out every time that a potion for one angry werewolf was a lower priority than a position for depression for thousands. Maybe Hermione should just suggest Remus come by for a chat. Hmmm. That was an idea.
"Hermione?" Riddle said, "Am I getting your full attention?" She jerked guiltily, sending a sprawl in her notes about Remus.
"I'm proud of you," she blurted, horrified at her own unprofessional behavior.
If her professors at Oxford found out that she'd set up shop when she wasn't even close to qualified, she'd be in for it. And they'd be right. She knew it was too early. She had years left. But who else did witches and wizards have? The ones left alive after the second wizarding war were a mess. They badly needed someone, even if that someone was a mess herself.
"Proud of me?" Riddle said, a note in his voice she didn't like. Or maybe she liked too much, "That's touching, Hermione. But not helping with my real issue. I was promised over the phone by your delightful secretary you could fix it. It's most plaguing."
"Your real issue?" Hermione said blankly, worried that Riddle had started murdering again and he was pretending to be upset about it.
"Did he not write it down?'' Riddle said, propping himself up on one elbow. He was sitting like a bimbo male model in a men's magazine, and yet Hermione still had an overwhelming urge to snog him again. God, she was worse off than she thought. She checked her notes from Stebbins. Her face flushed.
"Oh you areshole!" she exploded, "and I thought you'd changed!"
"Everything okay in there, Hermine?" Stebbins called through the door.
"Is he listening in?" Riddle said, flopping onto his back again, staring at the ceiling with a sigh, "not terribly confidential these sessions, eh?"
"Kyle, it's fine," Hermione snapped, "go back to your desk and confirm tomorrow's appointments."
"I already-"
"Kyle!" Hermione barked, "confidentiality!"
"Yes, Hermione," Stebbins said dutifully.
"You," Hermione hissed when she heard Stebbins walk away, "are such a lying little toad, a duplicitous worm, a-"
"This is what you get paid for?'' Riddle said, his hands behind his head, "Insulting your clients? you've got a leak in your pipes, you know? There's a stain on this ceiling."
Hermione choked with outrage. "That's why you've been staring at it!" she said, "you're not ashamed at all!"
"I am," Riddle said, looking at her again, "check your notes. You were very proud."
"I am checking them," Hermione said through her teeth. "It says right here that Ed Moldrit wants to get over his obsession over a woman he knows he can't ever have. May I ask why you think that obsession will be helped by coming to said women's place of business?"
"Who said I was talking about you?" Riddle said, "rather presumptuous, Hermione. Maybe Contessa is the one who got away."
He looked at her from under his eyelashes again. Hermione picked up the flowery soothing pillow behind her and threw it at him. It smacked him square in the perfect face, then bumped softly to the ground.
"Wow," Riddle drawled, "the pain. It's unbearable. And I'm not referring to your twenty galleon charge."
"So are you trying to get over me or not?" Hermione said flatly, "if you are, that's wonderful. I can help."
"Can you?" Riddle said, "you look exquisite, by the way."
Hermione closed her eyes. She'd deliberately been dressing in Muggle professional wear to look the part. Today of all days she'd chosen a wool green dress. It was sensible. Flat heels. But still Slytherin green. She counted to ten. Opened her eyes. Closed them and counted to ten again. She'd have to tell Remus about this strategy instead of the constant tranquilizing potions.
Then again, she was still enraged. Maybe Remus would finally cop to using tranquilizing potions and let her know what he was drinking if she admitted she needed them too.
"Thank you," Hermione forced herself to say evenly, "so you are trying to get over me?"
"I stayed away for six months, didn't I?" Riddle said.
"And did everything I asked of you," Hermione said, "well, everything you could do, anyway."
"Meaning?" Riddle said.
"You can't grow a heart," Hermione said, "or time travel. Well. I suppose you can time travel, if you steal the stones of time from the Ministry."
"Oh?" Riddle said, "the already stolen box of Aeternus Lapideus isn't still in your possession, then?"
"However," Hermione determinedly continued, ignoring that last comment. She'd been meaning to return them after all, " you can't undo what you've done or grow a-"
"Neither can you," Riddle pointed out, "undo what you've done. And have you forgiven yourself?"
"No," Hermione said, "never."
They stared at each other.
"Ah," Riddle said, "well, I've forgiven you."
"For what?" Hermione said "what could I have possibly done to you?"
"Far worse than what I've done to you, I assure you," Riddle said, "the worst thing anyone's done to me, in fact. And I'll remind you Grindelwald chained me to a wall in his cliched lair and tried to kill me. Twice. Belinda tried to kill me that one time. I almost died in that alleyway in Hogsmeade next to a flying pig in a tutu. Oh, and the times Belinda broke my nose. Not to mention everyone thinking I'd lost you to a Malfoy, of all people. Those history lessons with Binns. Pretending I didn't know about the Tarts. Those times I had to listen to Dumbledore accuse me of things while offering me sweets-"
"Are you getting to a point?'' Hermione snapped.
"You made me love you," Riddle said, "on purpose. And then you never loved me in return. What kind of monster does that?"
Hermione dearly wished she was able to snarl back an angry reply to this accusation. But she couldn't.
"It was for a good reason," she said finally. Her lips felt numb.
"Yes?" Riddle said, "what reason was that? So you could use me to help defeat your evil Dark Lord?"
"Not quite," Hermione said, "I thought you were-you know what? Forget it. I don't feel guilty about this."
"Then why should I feel guilty about anything I've done?" Riddle pounced at once.
"That's...it's entirely different!" Hermione sputtered, "don't pretend like it's not entirely different!"
"There are some differences," Riddle acknowledged, "but overall-"
"No, not some differences!" Hermione said, throwing down her pen onto her notes and leaning forward. "I didn't take away your will and then touch your body, for example!"
"I didn't take away your will," Riddle argued, "I took away your memory of Lord Voldemort, that's it. Everything you did you wanted to do. It's not like I used the Imperius, Hermione!"
He'd sat up, scowling, like she'd said something wildly offensive. Her anger rose higher. Maybe she'd tell Remus she needed two chill pill potions. She'd double fist them. And then maybe she wouldn't join Belinda Harper in breaking Riddle's the other hand, maybe he'd be uglier with a broken nose and her vagina would stop betraying her brain so thoroughly.
"You removed my ability to choose," Hermione said through her teeth, "I didn't make an informed-"
"You're always acting like I'm a monster!" Riddle said, "You wanted me! You still want me, just because I-"
"I would've never touched you," Hermione hissed, "If I'd known who you really were. Why can't you understand that?"
Riddle's cheeks were full of color again. A perverse stab of joy went through Hermione. She knew how much he hated flushed cheeks on his perfect face.
"Liar," Riddle said, "you touched me plenty when that charm wasn't even in place."
"That was different," Hermione blustered.
"I know," Riddle said, "because you were using your body to manipulate me into doing your bidding. Into loving you."
"It's not the same," Hermione said, because it wasn't. But she still felt sick with guilt. "We're talking in circles," she said.
"Isn't that therapy?" Riddle said with a little smirk.
"No," Hermione said, after counting to ten again and feeling her rage triple instead, "no it's not. So you want to get over me? Fine. I can tell you the excruciating details of how I fucked Phobos."
They stared at each other. That one strand of hair gently flopped into Riddle's eye.
"And I can tell you about Contessa," Riddle said at last, "and quite a few other-"
"I don't care," Hermione said bluntly, ignoring whatever it was her stomach had just done, making a mental note to tell Stebbins that she was clearly hungry and he should order them lunch, "I don't need to get over you."
"Yes, rub it in," Riddle said, "really, are these your methods, Hermione? I've been doing research, you know, and the books all say-"
"Research into what?" Hermione said, already feeling the dreadful realization wash over her of what Riddle was about to say. No one knew Tom Riddle better than Hermione.
It was a sick thought, but true. "What are you talking about?"
"Psychology, of course," Riddle said, and her stomach lurched again, "I like to understand what you understand, after all."
"Of course you do," Hermione said sarcastically, "not the best method for getting over your hopeless ah, love."
"And this is not the prescribed method for dealing with a patient," Riddle said, shaking his head mournfully, "then again, you're still in school. I'm sure you haven't learned that yet."
Hermione's pen broke in half.
"Been working out?" Riddle said mildly, "that's good for mental health. So I hear. I've been working out a bit myself."
"I couldn't tell," Hermione said nastily. It was a lie. She'd seen that photo of Riddle with Contessa on a beach, after all. How could she not? It was run in some paper or other at least once a week, often blown up to cover the whole page. Hermione would blame the shameless editors grasping for galleons by flinging away their ethics, but every time they did it the papers would sell out by noon. The wizarding world's economy was in shambles. How many times had Percy droned on about it at her? Could she blame them for using Riddle's looks to make up for the disaster that had befallen the Prophet years before? She'd seen him in person, wrestling Harry. She'd seen the approximately forty-two billion photos and articles about the incident in the papers. It had even hit the front page in the French papers!
"I can show you if you'd like," Riddle shrugged, toying with his shirtsleeves, "but I hear that might be inappropriate between patient and therapist. Of course, you did already talk about your sex life and threw a pillow in my face. so we might've blown past appropriate a while back."
Everything in Hermione was screaming at her to order Riddle to leave. But she didn't.
"Am I going to see you in classes?" she asked through her teeth, "is that the next surprise I have to look forward to from you?"
"I have a job," Riddle said mildly.
"That wasn't an answer," Hermione retorted.
"It was clear enough, for someone with a brain," Riddle said, "which I have always thought you were in possession of. Has something happened in the last few months?"
"Charming," Hermione said, "oh look at the time. Your session is over."
"It's been fifteen minutes," Riddle pointed out.
"What do you want from me?" Hermione said, "I'm sick of the games. Tell me. None of your antics. What do you want from me?"
"But you already know," Riddle said, raising a dark brow, "I want you. That's your fault, you know. You put yourself in my path, made me notice you, made me want you. So I'd help you kill your dark lord. You can't just decide to get rid of my attention now. That's not how it works. I've been doing what you ask of me. I spend hours every single week thinking of ways to improve myself, doing….charitable endeavors." If it were anyone else, Hermione wouldn't have heard the little sneer in those last two words.
"But you are only doing them to fuck me," Hermione said bluntly, and was annoyed at herself when she felt pleasure at Riddle's tiny recoil at her usage of the word fuck. Was he still this faux fainting violet? Still? "I wanted you to do them because you meant it. Because you felt remorse for what you'd done."
"I do feel remorse," Riddle said, "we've been over this. Check your notes."
Hermione ostentatiously checked her notes.
"Oh look," she said, "it says here, 'still a lying liar who lies.'"
"I believe the technical term is, 'compulsive liar,'" Riddle said with a private smile that chilled her to the bone.
"You're not coming to my classes, are you?" Hermione said, her heart was hammering. With dread, of course. Absolutely with dread. "have you been using polyjuice?" Come to think of it, there had been a boy with spiky hair and eyeliner and a choker necklace who kept looking at her. When she'd catch him, he'd pretend it had never happened. That of course assumed Riddle was not only aware of the punk rock aesthetic for men, but was willing to wear it. Even wearing someone else's face.
"Why?" Riddle said, "afraid you'll be distracted? And why would I use polyjuice, Hermione? I know how much you like my face."
"Like to punch it," Hermione said. Well, that was true. But she did like it for other reasons as well, the fucking arsehole. "And what exactly would I be distracted by?" Hermione said, "a fifth rate attempt at psychology?"
"Then don't worry," Riddle said, "I couldn't possibly distract you, even if I did show up. You find me repulsive, and a liar. I mean, so you say. Your heart rate says differently. Your tongue in my office said differently as well."
"I'm warning you," Hermione said shrilly.
"I'm terrified," Riddle said. He flicked the stupid strand of hair. She was wrong. He'd gotten twenty-five times more handsome in half a year. What the hell had he done? How as that even possible? Hermione leapt to her feet.
"Out!" she shrieked, "I'm terminating you as a patient!"
"Oh dear," Riddle said, "that does sound serious."
"Kyle!" Hermione bellowed, flinging her notes to the floor. Stebbins came sprinting in like he'd been hovering inches from the door again.
"Yes, Doctor-I mean, Hermione-er, Ms. Granger?" he panted.
"Remove this boy!'' Hermione said, her hand shaking as she pointed at Riddle.
"Boy?'' Riddle said.
He flicked the strand of hair. Hermione felt an uncomfortable twinge in her lower body. It had been too long since Phobos. And Blaise had dumped Emilie the day after the charity ball. Had mostly stopped drinking. Had swanned around her with his dimples and blue eyes and beautiful face and curly hair and bronze skin. and she'd been forced to resist him. She must not toy with Blaise ever again. Then she would become the monster she'd always accused Riddle of being.
"You heard me, Riddle!" Hermione blustered, "I don't ever want to see you here again!"
"Not a problem," Riddle said, standing up, hands in his pockets.
An ominous feeling washed over Hermione as he sauntered out, Stebbins hovering like a nervous hen, like he could actually best Tom Riddle in a wand fight. Or a fist fight. Or any kind of fight, ever.
"See you later, doctor," Riddle said over his shoulder. Hermione picked up the nearest object and threw it. It was a glass object from Harry that Stebbins had proudly displayed with bland white roses inside. Hermione had a shrewd suspicion the "vase" was actually an object to smoke weed out of. She hadn't the heart to tell Stebbins, even when he'd showed it off to his visiting parents as sent from the Chosen Boy himself. Stebbins's parents had exclaimed over it while Hermione smiled nervously, sweating. It was okay. The Stebbins family weren't Muggleborn. Even if people heard the words "Harry Potter is a weed addict" they would think Harry had taken to eating Gillyweed and hanging with mermaids. The maybe bong shattered in a thousand pieces against the now shut door, spilling the white roses to the floor.
"Reparo!"Stebbins said hastily.
Hermione realized she'd started sweating at some point for some reason. Her hair had come undone from her carefully constructed updo, even though Riddle hadn't laid a finger on her. Stebbins was replacing the repaired fancy blown glass bong on a shelf. How much had Harry wasted on an Italian crystal hand blown bong? And why had Brigitte not stopped him?
"Don't worry, Hermione," Stebbins said with the misplaced confidence of an eighteen year old boy, "I'll keep him away."
"No one can keep him away," Hermione said dully, "not if he puts his mind to it."
She ignored the leap of excitement that had shot through her at the thought of Riddle being in her life again. It hadn't been excitement. It had been deep and utter disgust. Maybe she should show up to Harry's and ask for an actual functional bong to borrow. Not that she'd know what to do with it. Maybe he'd bake her the brownies he was rumored to be eating thrice daily at work if she asked nicely. He'd gained half a stone, but all of his colleagues had agreed his work demeanor had dramatically improved. Even the dark wizards he arrested had remarked on the positive change in the Chosen Boy's attitude.
Despite her fears, Riddle didn't show up to her classes the next day. Or the day after. Or the week after. But right when Hermione was breathing a sigh of relief, she realized the term was almost over, and Riddle couldn't possibly show up this late to school. He'd just been messing with her, making her scared for no reason. Bone deep relief should've washed over her. But it didn't. Instead, she felt something she had learned to recognize as an emotion her clinical psychology professor Dr. Herkins would describe as "a brutal moment of honesty from your brain." Hermione had felt disappointment that Riddle hadn't shown up to her psychology classes to help her learn how to better the wizarding world through therapy for witches and wizards. He hadn't wanted to change at all. He hadn't shown remorse. He hadn't even tried to rid himself of his Horcrux. All he still cared about was power. Power over the Wizarding World, power over Hermione. That was the only reason he'd ever wanted her. He wanted power over the one woman who didn't let him get power over her. And once he got that power over her, he'd grow bored with her at once. Oh, he'd keep her around, use her for Ministry social climbing purposes, but screw around with groupies on the side, never caring about any of them. She'd be his favorite trophy, his most prized conquest, and that was it. Hermione knew that, she'd always known that, She'd known even clearer that Riddle would never change, and yet she still felt disappointment course through her that he hadn't. That was it. Maybe she should ask Evelyn to Obliviate Tom Riddle from her brain once and for all.
"Here again," Hermione sighed, as the unicorn picked its way through the forest to them.
"And I thought we were becoming friends," William said, "no?"
"I don't consider people who are giant pains in my arses to be my friends," Hermione said, then reconsidered, as Ron flashed through her brain. "well, only one.'' Then she saw Fred and George winking at her, and Harry dueling Snape in a vat of jello. It had been for charity, but still. "okay, maybe a few of my friends are giant pains in the arses. But-"
"It's your own fault you know," Violet told her, watching the unicorn foal.
"Because I didn't burn your robe? Good point," Hermione said thoughtfully, "I should do that."
"Good luck," William said cheerfully, "they're impervious."
"Tell that to Annette Skrammande," Violet quipped.
"Impervious to burning at least," William amended, "and unweaving. And drowning."
"How could you drown a robe?" Hermione asked, intrigued against her will.
"He's joking," Violet sighed.
"I am not,'' William said, "say you tied one of the robes to a rock and threw it into the middle of the ocean. It should drown, yes?"
"Sink," Violet muttered, rolling her eyes.
Hermione had become so used to their banter she glanced at her watch, hoping she'd wake up soon. Her watch turned into a white rabbit with a timepiece that winked at her. Hermione sighed. Bloody walking dreams.
"Well, it doesn't," William said triumphantly, "it just pops right back up! like a cork!"
"Without the wine," Violet said regretfully, "shame."
"You couldn't drown it in wine either," William said, "I tried, that one time, when we were testing it out in Sicily. I swam through a vat of wine in that little rustic vineyard, you remember, and I drank a bit while I swam, I won't say I didn't, and-"
"It's your own fault we're here again, because you won't admit to your real feelings," Violet said, cutting off William, "for that boy."
"He might be older than us now, Vi," William said regretfully, "not a boy anymore. Well, I mean, we're older, of course, our dusty bones are ancient, but-"
"The point being," Violet said, "that we only show up when you're being particularly obtuse, Miss Granger. You bury your real feelings and you bury them more, and right when you're about to go really mad we're here, dragged out of our restful peace that we earned, thank you very much, to help you get a clue as to what you should do with your life."
"Do you show up to Riddle, and Brigitte, and Harry?" Hermione said, intrigued against her will. "When they're being obtuse?"
"We've been telling Harry to stop with that magical grass for years now," William sighed. "And yet-"
"I haven't been telling him that,'' Violet muttered, "he's much more fun that way."
"So it's your fault I've been dragged into a hundred dreams that start with a glowing flower that smells like magic grass!" William said, outraged, "and that French girl, she's always distraught over pastries missing butter. Quite tragique."
"A travesty, I quite agree," Violet said as the unicorn came closer. They didn't have much time left.
"And Riddle?" Hermione prompted, quite sure William and Violet were messing with her, and not telling her the real reasons they visited Harry and Brigitte and not pushing them for it. It's not like she wanted her friends to know what they showed up to tell her. The white rabbit with the pocket watch hopped into her lap and tapped the watch with more urgency.
"He doesn't dream at all," Violet said at once, but the white rabbit looked at Hermione and wagged his eyebrows up and down meaningfully.
"You're lying," Hermione said, outraged, "you're lying for him!"
"He dreams of you," William confided, "it's quite provocative. Violet is very offended, for all she forgets she's not a virgin anymore either."
"William!" Violet gasped.
Hermione sighed. "How many times," she said, "do I have to tell you it's hundreds of years later and your sex lives do not scandalize me in the least?"
"About as many times as we have to tell you why you keep dreaming about us," William quipped, "for all your brains, you're not quite with it about your own mind, are you?"
"I'll have you know I'm known for being insightful," Hermione said, a pang hitting her, "Ron always said I should write a manual." A horrible thought occurred to her, "why is it that you can visit me like this, and yet Ron never does? It's not like I don't have robes of his."
She had a whole trunk of his, in fact. Most of his room at the Burrow was intact, just as it always had been. The Burrow itself was a bit of a museum. Dobby went weekly to keep it clean in his free time, and when anyone tried to pay him he reminded them all quite shrilly that he was a free elf and could do what he wanted on his days off. He didn't turn down the gift of Mrs. Weasley's old yarn and knitting needles, however, and had presented them all with Weasley jumpers last Christmas that had caused Harry, Hermione, and the twins to sob.
Percy and the twins went to the Burrow from time to time, but it was too painful to really live there. And it didn't help that there had been a growing group of wizards and witches making pilgrimages. The ghoul over Ron's old room had been ecstatic, and often wailed out of the attic window at people who came to gawk at the home of the Weasley's. There had cropped up a whole tourist industry around the heroes of the first and second wizarding wars. People even went to stare at the place where number eleven met number thirteen and sighed over old photos of Sirius, back before he'd gone to Azkaban, young and so handsome he was like a model. Even Hermione's childhood home had become a bit of an attraction, and number four, Privet drive. But no one could really live at any of those places anymore. They were too haunted by Petunia Dursley, and Hermione's mum, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, Ron, and Ginny.
So Harry had taken care of Pig, and Hermione had made off with Ron's trunk. It had his favorite battered wizard's chess set, and his softest, oldest Chudley Cannon robe, and the broken halves of his first wand, and his chocolate card collection. But Ron never came to her, no matter how many times Hermione had stolen the death stone from Harry's room while he was blazed out on weed and flipped it. No one had returned to her at all.
"He's at peace," Violet said simply.
"And you're not?" Hermione said, feeling a stab of sympathy go through her. She'd gotten to know Violet and William. Not just through these sporadic dreams where she watched them die by evil witch murder again and again, after they had made fun of Hermione and her life in various ways, but through books, and scrolls, and legends. She'd even gone to see their graves. They'd mocked her particularly hard the dream she'd had after that, but she'd seen the look in their eyes. They'd been touched by her visit.
"No," William said simply.
"Is it because of me?" Hermione said, then hastily amended, "because of us, I mean? Keeping you here with your robes?"
"No," Violet said, as the unicorn drew so close Hermione knew she was due to wake up soon. "That's not why either."
"Can I help you?" Hermione said, "Is there anything I can-?"
She woke up, gasping, clutching at her stomach where the unicorn had gored Violet. Her father stood in her doorway.
"Another one, pumpkin?" he said, rubbing at his eyes.
"Sorry dad," Hermione said, "I took the potion. It should've worked."
Her eyes wandered to the closet where she kept Violet's robe stuffed into the back. The potion her mates at Sticks and Stones and Broken Bones had created had stopped the rest of her problems with her dreams. But it hadn't kept out William and Violet.
"What you need," her dad said, "is to stop apologizing." He sat on the bed and hugged her, and Hermione hugged him back, squeezing her eyes shut. Perhaps she was due a visit to the library. A proper library.
Hermione had often wondered which architect of Oxford had actually attended Hogwarts. There was no doubt whoever had designed Duke Humfrey's Library had been an alumni of Hogwarts. The gothic architecture. The small wooden tables. The towering stacks near arched windows. The pin drop silence.
She wandered the nearly deserted nooks, occasionally seeing a student or professor buried nose deep in an ancient book or map. She must not feel like she was doing something wrong. She wasn't, not really. She was a student studying in a library at a school she went to, after all. Was it her fault that on her first trip to the library she'd discovered that the left side of the section on medieval history were really magical books in disguise?
Hermione glanced casually around. There was a boy who looked about twelve three rows over. He was muttering to a map. The older she got, the younger everyone else looked to her. She plucked a book at random. To anyone watching, it was random, of course. She casually flipped open the cover stamped with a side view of William of Orange.
"That one's good," Riddle said from behind her, "of course, he almost got burned at the stake when his mistress discovered he was a warlock. Not that that would've been a problem now, of course, but-"
"The flame freezing charm hadn't been invented yet," Hermione said, her eyes closed in resignation.
She saw that stupid white rabbit from her dream with Violet and William waggling it's eyebrows at her. The white rabbit was judging her for her internal lying, just like Violet and William. Resignation had made her closer her eyes? Or was it excitement that Riddle had finally shown up to her school? Excitement that she desperately didn't want him to see?
"So what do Violet and William talk to you about when you dream of them?" Hermione asked, snapping the book shut a bit too hard, looking around guiltily, and then turning to Riddle, right hand on hip. The offensive. That was the ground she knew with Riddle. The defensive had never worked out with him.
"Love," Riddle said simply.
"Love?" Hermione said, glancing around them for an angry library worker. The employees at Duke Humphreys' made Pince look sane.
Riddle smiled. "Just kidding," he said, "we talk about my murderous past, of course. They're quite obsessed with it."
"Why do you sound like you're bragging," Hermione said irritably, gently placing the book down and picking up another, also in blue leathered tooled with golden writing. She knew one of the blue and gold books had knowledge about spirits trapped in objects. But which one had it been? And why had she been so stupid not to read it thoroughly when she'd found it a month ago? Sure, she'd been looking at the time for help with more mental health potions, but…
"They killed people too, you know," Riddle told her, plucking a book out of the shelves and flipping through it more idly than a five hundred year old book warranted, "or have you decided they're saints to you?"
"Of course they have," Hermione said, refusing to concede by voice or look that she was shaken by this knowledge. She'd researched William and Violet thoroughly when the battle had ended. She'd even started writing a book on their lives in one of her rare energized phases when she'd been dating Blaise. She'd written twenty thousand words in a chalet in Switzerland and then woken up one day after a particularly heinous nightmare about Voldemort enslaving Ginny in marriage and been back in a dark funk that had lasted for two months, even after Blaise had dragged her all over the tropics and shagged her brains out on command.
Violet and William had always been mentioned briefly as fighters in the war against the dark witch Annette Skrammand and her goal of Muggle extermination. Once, there had been a brief mention of their star crossed romance, in an obscure text about the hundreds years ago wizarding war. But even that had been mostly lost to history. Hermione had wondered why. It would've made a lovely story. Who didn't enjoy a romance that briefly flourished and then was cruelly cut short? And why had no one talked about it? Surely Lavender and Parvati would've loved it. Surely Dumbledore could've used it as an example to yammer on about house unity, particularly amongst the Slytherins and Gryffindors. But during all her research, she'd never read anything about Violet and William killing anyone.
"Oh, I see I have shaken you," Riddle said, "sorry, I suppose. But that's no reason not to admire them. They were powerful people. With conviction, and grit, and genius, and determination."
"How did you even find out about the robes to begin with?" Hermione asked, flicking through another book. She didn't want to talk about Violet and William killing anyone. It was unfair of her. But she didn't want to know. She wanted to think of them as the tragic lovers who'd given up everything to save everyone else. "In the first place, I mean. I never asked you. You'd been having Borgin and Burkes hold them for you for ages. In both universes."
"Research," Riddle said, "and a little detective work."
"Please," Hermione said, "be less loquacious. I can't handle all this chatter from you."
"It's this one," Riddle said maddeningly, ignoring her question and handing her the book he'd picked she'd thought was random, "The book you're looking for. Souls trapped in objects?"
"So who did they kill?" Hermione asked, taking the book with an irritated sigh. How did the bastard always know?
"Evildoers," Riddle shrugged. "like what you did. That's why I told you. You admire them, as you should. But you hate yourself for doing the same thing they did."
"I killed innocent people," Hermione said in a harsh whisper, her eyes still darting about for witnesses, "so did you. it's not the same thing."
"Have you not grown tired of this same old song and dance?" Riddle said, "I have. How long will you punish yourself, Hermione? Did you deliberately kill an innocent person?"
"No," Hermione said, "but-"
"Did I deliberately kill an innocent person?" Riddle asked.
"Yes," Hermione said, indignant, her voice rising on accident. "what are you on about, Rid-"
"I said deliberately," Riddle said, "not by accident. Myrtle was an accident. I told you."
"And what did you think would happen when you released an evil snake into a castle that killed Muggleborns?" Hermione hissed, "a tea party?"
"Honestly, I thought it was a myth," Riddle said, "a lie. Even if it was real, it had been a thousand years. I assumed if it was real, it was dead. I was obsessed with finding it, but I thought I'd find nothing. I didn't know what the beast was, either. All I had found was that it would rid the school of those not worthy. "
"Like me?" Hermione said acidly.
"Like those who tormented me," Riddle retorted, "like your pal, Phobos. You don't know what it was like, Hermione. especially at first. How I was treated. An orphan, and everyone knew I was there on charity. Shabby robes and cauldron and everything else too, except for my wand. A half blood, and I couldn't hide that. I didn't know of course, assumed my father was a wizard, but everyone pureblood knew 'Riddle' was no wizard name. I didn't believe them. I searched high and low for proof that Riddle was a wizard name, and I eventually found they were telling the truth."
Riddle lapsed into moody silence.
"So they picked on you," Hermione said, "you're telling me you opened the chamber to kill purebloods? And you expect me to believe that? And think that's ok?"
"Again," Riddle said, "I didn't know it would kill anyone. It said purge the unworthy."
"What the bloody hell else could that mean?" Hermione said, her voice rising a bit above their whispers. The nearby student shushed them in fear, pointing at one of the overzealous librarians. "And are you trying to tell me that you had no idea it was going to attack Muggleborns?"
"I did know it would attack Muggleborns," Riddle surprised her by admitting, "but only after I called it the first time. I will be honest, Hermione. I had become angry at my father. My grandparents. The Muggles, you know. For abandoning me when they were so rich."
"That was awful of them," Hermione admitted, "but Harry's Muggle family are terrible, and he-"
"The Dursleys?" Riddle said, eyebrows raised, "didn't they help stop the Death Eaters, and his aunt died heroically?"
"Yes," Hermione said, "but you don't know what they were like at first!"
"They still raised him," Riddle retorted, "they still kept him fed, and and clothed, and let him go to Hogwarts-"
"They locked in a bloody cupboard and starved him half the time," Hermione said bluntly, "they made him their servant and gave him giant faded hand-me-down clothes. He had broken glasses and half destroyed trainers and was skinny as a reed. He was short, like a plant that's been kept in the dark. He only got to come to Hogwarts cause Dumbledore intervened. They tried to stop him."
"And yet they raised him," Riddle persisted stubbornly, "they didn't let him rot in an orphanage. They came round. They fought evil, even when they should've all died. His aunt did die. His parents died to save him. My mother let herself die over some stupid arrogant Muggle who never cared for her. My father didn't care if I was alive or dead. The Dursleys, as awful as they treated Harry, were still nothing compared to my family."
"So you had a hard life," Hermione said, "I sympathize. I really do. But did all the other kids in that orphanage with you grow up to be sociopathic murderers?"
Riddle paused, a peculiar look on his face.
"Have you even looked them up?" Hermione said, "your old friends."
"They weren't my friends," Riddle said at once, "they hated me. Shunned me. Feared-"
"And I'm sure they had no reason for any of those things," Hermione said sarcastically, "so you didn't see if they were doing alright. Did you even think about them, once you left?"
"No," Riddle said shortly.
"Never was curious?" Hermione needled, "never looked for revenge by ah, purging their unworthy souls?"
"You met Miss Cole," Riddle surprised her by saying, "you have my file. You saw what her right hand woman, Willa Cobbins did, didn't you?"
"Yes," Hermione said after an uncomfortable moment. How much did Riddle know about her trip to the past? Who had told him? And did that mean he knew what she was planning for him?
"And did you see that Willa Cobbins is still alive?" Riddle pressed, "working at the orphanage, in fact? In my reality, I mean. of course she's dead here. One of the many ways this reality is superior."
"Yes, I saw that she's still working there," Hermione said, shifting from foot to foot.
"After what she did to us?" Riddle said, "and you think I should've understood how Muggles are good at the age of eleven?"
"You killed Myrtle at the age of sixteen," Hermione pointed out, "stop downplaying–"
"I repeat," Riddle said, "you saw what Willa Cobbins did. What Mrs. Cole turned a blind eye to to keep the peace."
"I don't think I saw it all," Hermione said, frowning a little, "based on your reaction."
"No of course not," Riddle said, "I suppose that makes sense. She was questioned by police but got off. Honestly, I'm surprised she was even questioned. It's not like anyone cares about a bunch of orphans. I found out later it was due to a girl that had been adopted by a rich family. They brought it to the police, but even their money couldn't make anyone care. but Mrs. Cole would've gotten questioned too if they'd known. They should've both gone to jail."
"Stop changing the subject off your murdering habit," Hermione said, " I don't care what they did. A lot of people have horrible things happen to them and still don't turn to–"
"You don't care what happened to me? To us? a bunch of abandoned kids?" Riddle said, "I don't believe you. Not when you're such a bleeding heart. Not when you're obsessed with me."
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, before she realized it was better this way. Riddle couldn't know why she was investigating his childhood. Better to let him think she was as obsessed with him like he thought he was with her.
"I do care," Hermione amended, because it was true in a way, "that was cruel of me. But–"
"As for the incident with the basilisk," Riddle interrupted, as if they were discussing a time he'd pulled a girl's pigtails and ran away, "I'll say this. Do the best you can until you know better. then when you know better, do better."
Hermione stared at him in disbelief. He stared back.
"Are you…are you quoting Maya Angelou at me?" Hermione said.
"I find her wisdom appealing," Riddle said, "that surprises you?"
"Oh, just a little," Hermione said sarcastically, "any other pearls you'd like to share with me?"
"Gladly," Riddle said, eying a passing student before speaking again, "I'm partial to, 'I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. brilliant, really. He should've thought of that. Would've saved him from making a lot of mistakes."
Hermione tried to picture the "he" Riddle was talking about. Lord Voldemort reading a book by Maya Angelou. Her brain broke.
"I don't think he had time for books written by Muggles," she said at last.
"Too busy writing fake diaries in glitter pens and screwing Bellatrix," Riddle said, scowling, "idiot."
Hermione snickered. Riddle smiled at her. Goddammit it. They were having a moment. They weren't supposed to have moments.
"And how do you interpret that quote?' she overcorrected hastily.
"Well it's obvious," Riddle said, "although, you at least never seem to forget what I did and said. But you definitely remember how I made you feel, don't you, Hermione?"
"All too well,'' Hermione said, trying not to think about the things she'd felt that were currently attached to Riddle's body. Well, she could change that. Just say the word and a nice severing charm would do the trick. As for the way he made her feel emotionally, best to chalk that up to a year of witnessing murder and almos being murdered and killing in self defense and what that did to a healthy brain.
"And I can't forget how you make me feel either," Riddle said, picking up another book and flicking through it. "No matter how hard I try. No matter what I do. No matter who I do. So I suppose I have to do what you requested."
"Huh?" Hermione said blankly. She tried to remember their last conversation that she'd been deliberately not thinking about. "About never coming to my office again?"
"No," Riddle said, "about trying for remorse."
Hermione sighed. "right, well we've established that you're pretending remorse as a way to get me to pay attention to you and–"
"No," Riddle said, shutting the book with a snap, "you misunderstand me. Not that conversation. From how you told me you could love me back. I'm going to fix the Horcrux. By feeling what I've done. It might kill me, but then you'll–"
"What?" Hermione screamed, and when the librarian came over to whisper scream at them Hermione Granger got kicked out of a library for the first time in her life.
Author's Note: Thank you so much for your support! :)