Every night when I go to bed, I hope that I may never wake again, and every morning renews my grief. –Franz Schubert
Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars. –Khalil Gibran
oooo
She wakes up in the dark.
It is cold down here, in this place – wherever this place is – and she pulls her nightgown and robe more tightly around her, shifting on the hard stone floor and blinking rapidly until her eyes adjust to the darkness. She is on her back, still in her nightclothes, which are nearly soaked through with moisture. She tries to sit up, and it takes several attempts before she is successful. Turning her head this way and that to work out the kinks that have formed from sleeping on a cold, stone floor, she squints and pushes her loose, sticky hair from her face.
And then she remembers.
Hermione awoke at dawn to the soft stroking of her hair. She opened her eyes and looked up sleepily.
"Time to wake up, my dear," said Madam Soranus. "You need to take a few potions and I need to check on Mister Mallery – then you can go back to sleep, if you like."
Hermione obediently sat up in the bed she shared with Draco. "All right." Her voice was thick with sleep, but her senses were quickly sharpening. Living through years of conflict had made sure she knew how to keep her wits about her at all times, so she shook off her tiredness and soreness and was fully alert within half a minute. The hospital wing was quiet and empty, and she could hear the melodious chirping of the birds outside, heralding the dawn.
Out of habit she subtly sniffed each potion before she drank them, instinctively smelling for poison. It was stupid, she knew. Madam Soranus was a trained mediwitch and as such was probably very careful with those in her care.
Nonetheless, Hermione watched the older witch administer to Draco. She poured a couple of potions down his throat, magically induced him to swallow, rubbed an oily potion on his bare torso, and then began to cast a series of spells over his prone form.
Hermione cleared her throat, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to face them. "Can you tell me more about his condition and treatment?" she asked quietly, meeting the matron's blue eyes as she turned to look at her.
"Well, the primary concern, other than some superficial wounds, is the illness that has taken hold. It is affecting the health of his organs," the older woman said, still waving her wand.
Hermione nodded, sighing. "Dumbledore told me as much," she said. "He also told me that he wouldn't survive for very long."
The mediwitch looked surprised at her statement, apparently under the impression that Albus wouldn't have burdened her with this information so soon. "Well, yes…" she said hesitantly. "It's hard to tell, because I've never seen anything like it before. All I can really do is try to slow the progression of it and try to keep him comfortable in the mean time; the potions and spells I'm using are for pain and cell regeneration. However, I can only slow it down – I can't stop it. I'm very sorry, dear," she finished, looking stricken.
Hermione nodded, dry-eyed. The tears would come later, she expected – after the shock fully faded and she was alone. "Thank you, Madam," she replied. "I'm grateful for your skill and compassion." The woman's face softened further. "Albus seems to think that he will wake up – do you have any idea when that is likely to happen?"
Soranus sighed. "I can't be sure, dear. Could be a week. Could be a month. But I doubt that it will be less than two weeks. His body has been kept in excellent condition overall, but this spell has wreaked havoc. He is very weak, and this coma will let him get the healing that he needs. But I'm afraid, over time, he will continue to deteriorate."
"Can you give me any idea of how long?" Hermione asked.
The matron pursed her lips. "I'll have a better idea as I see the illness spread over the next few days, but I would venture to guess he has until the New Year, perhaps. That's the best I can do for now. It could be sooner, it could be later. But he will pass, Miss Granger, unless someone can come up with something to cure him."
Hermione nodded in response, vowing to research it as soon as she could make it to the library. "Will you promise to come find me immediately after he wakes? No matter what I'm doing at the time. I want to be here."
"Of course," Madam Soranus replied. She left Draco's bedside, patting Hermione on the shoulder. Unused to physical contact with anyone except for her closest friends, Hermione tried not to flinch away. She had to put on an act, now. She would put herself in danger if she couldn't.
"Also Madam, do you mind if I used your bathroom facilities? I find I'm in desperate need of a shower. And is there any way I might borrow some clothes?" she asked, realizing that she didn't have any appropriate clothing to suit the 1940s style in her bag, except for a couple of muggle-style formal gowns and dresses that she might get away with.
Madam Soranus smiled, adjusting her bonnet. "There is a private lavatory in the corner over there," she replied, pointing. "And I think I might be able to work some clothing out, although there aren't many girls that are as skinny as you are, my dear. We might have to adjust some things."
"I have plenty of money, if needed," Hermione said. "I wouldn't want to impose on anyone."
"Oh, it's not a problem, Miss Granger," she said, waving her hand. "I'll send a house elf up with some bath supplies for you. I have to replenish my potions stores, but I'll be back in less than an hour. I'll send someone in to check on you in a few minutes, just to make sure you're all right."
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For everything. It is a privilege to have such a caring staff. It's something I've not seen in a long time."
Madam Soranus looked embarrassed and pleased with the praise, looking down at the floor and blushing. "I hope you can find a home here, Miss Granger. I assume you'll be staying here for a while, and I'm glad you feel welcome so far. We're very happy to have you, and we'll do everything we can for Mr. Mallery."
Hermione neglected to mention that she was already home.
oooo
Hermione was twenty minutes into her luxurious bath, and was immensely enjoying a soak that she was long overdue for (apparently showers weren't as readily available, as they were still an up and coming invention in the wizarding world in the 1940s, much as they were in the muggle world). She was horrified that she had to change the bathwater twice, despite the Scourgify she'd gotten the day before.
In the midst of rinsing her hair out from its second wash a knock sounded on the door. She squeaked in a very undignified manner, her hand automatically darting for her wand, only to realize that no, she wasn't on a battlefield anymore. She rolled her eyes at herself; still, Mad Eye's voice reverberated through her skull: Better safe than sorry! So she casually rested her hand next to her wand just in case.
"Come in," she said, sinking farther down below the bubbles. She wasn't very modest – after all, modesty had no place in the middle of a war when sharing rooms and tents with male and female comrades – but she still didn't like the idea of a complete stranger seeing her butt-naked in the bath.
The door opened to reveal a lovely girl in a prefect's badge that gleamed gold against black robes with crimson lining. Hermione visibly relaxed – Gryffindor was familiar to her, and she took some comfort in it; though it was no guarantee of a person's character; Peter Pettigrew's sneering visage flashed through her mind.
The girl was carrying a stack of clothes: a long-sleeved black wrap shirt with a very subtle rose pattern around the v-shaped neckline, a grey skirt that fell to the knees, a pair of black Oxford pumps in true 1940s fashion, and a set of hooded charcoal and black robes to wear over the top. The hood was lined with rabbit fur.
When the pretty brunette gently smiled at her, Hermione was instantly put at ease. She relaxed into the water. The approaching student was slender and lovely, with dark, lustrous hair that fell straight down her back to her waist. She was a bit taller than Hermione; with intense eyes the exact color of an Antarctic ice shelf. Her teeth were straight and white.
"Hi, Hermione, my name is Sabrina Snowborn. I was told to bring you clothes?" the girl said, gesturing to the things in her arms.
"Yes, thank you Sabrina," Hermione said in return. "It's very nice to meet you. Are these your clothes?" she asked as Sabrina set them down on the counter.
"Madam Soranus figured we might be about the same size," the girl responded, clasping her hands in front of her.
"I promise to get them right back to you as soon as I can get to Hogsmeade to buy some of my own," she replied. "I really appreciate you loaning them to me."
"Oh, it's no problem," Sabrina supplied, seeming to gain a little confidence in the light of Hermione's attitude. After all, she hadn't known what to expect, and Hermione suspected that she might have been intimidated by the prospect of meeting the new girl that yesterday had been covered in blood. The blood of her enemies more so than her own, she thought vindictively. If she had been Snowborn she might have been apprehensive, too. "I'm glad to see that you're up and about. I heard from my friend Lyall – he was there when Professor Dumbledore took you to the hospital wing yesterday – that you were something of a mess when you arrived. It's good that you've recovered some. Madam Soranus is something of a miracle worker."
Hermione gave her a soft smile, glad for the kindness. "She is. I'm thankful for her expertise. So I see from your uniform that you're a Gryffindor?"
"You're familiar with the houses?" Snowborn asked, surprised.
"I learned a little about Hogwarts over the years – I am originally from England, after all – and Dumbledore also gave me the rundown on things here," she said smoothly. What was another lie in the web of lies she would have to spin?
"Ah, I see," she other girl said, nodding. "I am the seventh year Gryffindor prefect, actually. Do you know what a prefect is?" she asked.
Hermione nodded. "More or less," she said with an internal smile. She had once been a prefect, after all. "An officer of sorts, yes? Tell me Sabrina, would you be available to show me around the school and get me acquainted with the students? I would go with Professor Dumbledore, of course, but professors often don't know as much about the social ladder as students do." She winked at the other girl. "Do you think you have time today?"
Sabrina grinned. "Of course! I actually have both of my morning periods free today, so I have plenty of time to give you the scoop on things. Shall I wait outside while you finish your bath, or do you need assistance with anything in here?"
Hermione smiled. "No, I'm fine, thank you. I'll just pop out there when I'm done and we can be on our merry way."
With a cheery "Alright!" Sabrina left the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Hermione sighed and went about finishing her bath, wincing once again at the feel of the hot water on her burned back.
When she drained the tub and stepped out (not without some groaning; she felt like she'd been hit by the Knight Bus) she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and gasped.
Despite her still haggard appearance (baths could only get you so far, after all), Hermione was somehow…different…than she had been before. Her eyes, having been a steady, unchanging brown all of her life, were bright with shades of umber and black and gold, the whites of her eyes more white than usual and contrasting acutely against her irises. It wasn't as if her eyes had been boring, before; she'd liked them, found them to be earnest and expressive, and they'd fit within her face just right. But now they were sharper, even more intelligent, if possible, and were unnerving in their intensity. Her hair, before a medium shade of brown that was as common as her eyes had been, had subtly changed as well, becoming, like her eyes, more complex, smoother, curlier and less frizzy. Her skin remained the same shade, a fair golden tone with smatterings of light freckles that graced her nose and shoulders – but it seemed to glow with an inner light. As she watched, she noticed a quick ripple of orange light pulse throughout her body, as gone as quickly as it had come. She felt the effects down to her bones, and it yet again was an uncomfortable reminder that she was harboring another being in her body.
She wondered what else had changed as a result of Fawkes' presence; she wondered if her magic had changed, and if it would respond as well to Bellatrix's old wand. She wondered if her patronus would still be a lion. She wondered if her core magic would still be the same, and if she would still have great skill in wandless and nonverbal magic.
She had so many questions; too bad the only being that could answer them couldn't actually speak.
Her wounds from the battle were ugly, though mostly healed now. They fit right in with her array of scars. Her torso was an angry array of colors; looking at them, she knew that she had broken her ribs, and that they would continue to bruise colorfully over the next few days, despite the mediwitch's attention. The burn on her back was horrendously bad, and, before she dressed, she placed a clean sheet of gauze that Soranus had left for her on top of its oozing presence. She secured it with magic.
She dressed and dried her hair with a wave of her wand – she was right, it did feel different now; something about her magic was responding strangely to Bellatrix's old wand – forgoing any glamour charms despite the bruising on her face and the split lip. She tucked her shrunken purple bag back into her newly cleaned bra (courtesy of the Hogwarts house elves, she was sure). She had to adjust the shoes, for she had very small feet, but they were comfortable once she put them on. The clothing hung a little bit on her frame – Sabrina, though naturally slender, had not spent the last few months half-starved and constantly doing something physical, and therefore she had a little less muscle and a little more meat on her bones. Maybe, just maybe, Hermione could fill out a bit more now that she was in Hogwarts and had access to a regular source of food. It might be nice to get back to the healthy weight she'd been before they'd been ousted from Grimmauld Place and forced to live in tents.
Finished, marveling at how nice her hair and skin looked, she stepped out of the bathroom and saw Sabrina sitting on the hospital bed on the far side of Draco. "Are you ready, Snowborn?" Hermione asked kindly. It was now almost nine o'clock; she had lost track of time in the bath.
Sabrina jumped up enthusiastically. "Let's go!" she said. She led Hermione to the doors, and they stepped out into a peaceful Hogwarts Hermione hadn't seen in six years.
She listened with half an ear while Sabrina led her down corridors and through rooms, as Hermione knew everything there was to know about the castle; she would venture to guess she knew most of its secrets, too, although she was sure Hogwarts had quite a few things up its proverbial sleeve that she wasn't aware of.
She did not, however, know anything about any of the students here, with one exception…although she didn't know a whole lot about Tom's Hogwarts days besides what she had learned about his involvement with the Chamber of Secrets in his fifth year and knowing that he'd spent the summer before his seventh year killing his family and creating a second horcrux. The thought of it made her shiver. She also knew that he was supposedly incredibly charming, and had many professors and students in his pocket. And she knew that his group of original Death Eaters, or rather his Knights of Walpurgis at this stage, had already been formed.
Therefore, she listened very carefully when Sabrina gave her the lowdown on the students of Hogwarts. When students were pointed out to her in the hallways, she committed their faces and names to her memory. Snowborn was apparently something of a social butterfly, obviously well liked and well known by her peers. Out of habit, Hermione paid extra attention to the Slytherins that were mentioned.
Sabrina waved at a trio of people coming down the hallway towards them, and Hermione stopped with her guide. Two boys and a girl came to stand in front of them.
Her sweet guide pulled Hermione forward, and, once again, she struggled not to wriggle away and draw her wand on the woman. She remained perfectly still, and thankfully the girl drew her hands away and Hermione was able to relax.
"This is Hermione Granger, our newest transfer," Sabrina said, and the handsome brunette boy in Gryffindor robes trained his sharp blue eyes on Hermione. This was the man that had helped levitate Draco's body into the hospital wing. He wore a prefect badge that matched Sabrina's.
"I'm Lyall Lupin," he said, sticking his hand out. She took it, somewhat in shock from his name and his relation to her old friend (this was Remus' father! How surreal!), and his hands were delightfully cool. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Hermione. You look a sight better than you did yesterday, that's for sure."
Hermione's lips quirked. "I imagine so, Mr. Lupin. It's nice to meet a new friend."
The girl in Ravenclaw attire was the same one that had helped her get to the infirmary yesterday morning. She was a hefty and big-boned woman, but certainly not fat. She had a wide, pleasant face and hair the color of straw. She had more freckles than Hermione, but less than Ginny.
"Bertha Higgs," she said, shaking Hermione's hand in the same manner. "I'm one of the seventh year Ravenclaw prefects, and if you ever need anything just let me know. I'm tall enough that you can usually see me in a crowd," she joked, smiling at Hermione.
She grinned in return. "I'll keep that in mind, Higgs. Thank you."
She turned to the third figure, taller than the rest. "I'm Ignatius Prewett," he said, reaching for her hand. "Nice to meet you."
Hermione shook his hand mindlessly, stunned. While she could see little resemblance between Lyall Lupin and his son, looking at Ignatius Prewett was like looking into the face of Molly, Fred and George Weasley. He even resembled Ron a little, with a sprinkling of freckles across his long nose. His eyes were Molly's eyes – and Ginny's eyes. Hazel rimmed in gold.
"It's very nice to meet you," she said numbly, seemingly in a daze. She let go of his hand as quickly as was socially acceptable and turned to Sabrina. "Do you mind directing me to the nearest bathroom?" she said, trying to hide the slight shake of her hands by clasping them together. "I need to use the loo, and I also would like to check the bandages on my back."
Sabrina frown but gestured to her left. "There's a small co-ed bathroom around that corner – is everything all right? Do you want me to come with you?"
Hermione smiled but shook her head. "I'll be right back. I just need a moment."
As she turned the corner she could hear a few muffled words, and then she slipped into the co-ed bathroom that she had used many a time during her schooling. She closed the door and leaned up against it, closing her eyes and breathing heavily, struggling to keep her tears from falling.
It was three years, today, since Ron, Ginny, Seamus and Fleur had died. It reminded her that today was her twenty-third birthday. It had since become a day of mourning, not one of celebration. The entire Order of the Phoenix had taken to ignoring her birthday for that very reason; it reminded them of what had happened on that day – September 19, 1999. It reminded them of what was so obviously missing.
But they hadn't been there. They had not seen what she had seen. They hadn't been cursed with the imagery that haunted her dreams every night. Of course they mourned, and they cried, and they wept with love for Ron and Ginny and Fleur and Seamus, missing them. But they did not know.
And they would never know. Those memories were her burden to bear. Not Harry's, not Draco's, not Arthur's or Charlie's or Pansy's. They were hers, and hers alone.
They would never know.
Shaking the horrible memories from her head and steeling her resolve, she approached the mirror, again preparing to check her ribs and back, just in case. She had broken her ribs and they had all been repaired, but she still had a nice gash that ran horizontal across her torso, curving under her right breast and crisscrossing the scar that Dolohov had given her in the Department of Mysteries so long ago. As she shed her robes and pulled up her shirt, she saw that it was red and angry, now glistening with fresh blood where it had cracked open.
"Shit," she said, dabbing at it with a finger. "Well that's just fantastic."
"Ahem."
She shrieked and opened her eyes, her brown gaze jumping to the solitary figure in the mirror that had come to stand behind her. She should have been paying attention! Out of habit she cast a silent, wandless Expelliarmus, and a long, pale wand twitched in the hand that held it before the spell was blocked. Unfazed, she grabbed her wand from where it had been tucked into the back of her skirt and pointed it at the lone figure. She met his eyes, and almost dropped the crooked twig of walnut and dragon heartstring.
Those eyes. Hauntingly and horribly familiar. Because even though Voldemort's eyes had been red during her lifetime, and young Tom Riddle's eyes were deep and dark, there was a familiar spark of cruelty that resonated within her – a flinty gleam that both the past and future Dark Lord shared.
"Ouch," he said simply, pointing at the wounds on her torso. If he was surprised by her show of magic, it did not show on his perfect porcelain face, though she thought she saw his eyes flash with something that could have been anger.
She relaxed, but stowed her wand up her sleeve, ready to draw it at a moment's notice. She turned back to the mirror to continue to inspect her injuries. It occurred to her that she might not want to be so comfortable in Tom Riddle's presence, but at the same time she could not let him see that he affected her. That could turn out to be deadly. She was supposed to not know anything about him, and showing any sort of suspicion beyond the normal stranger-danger wariness would tip him off. As such, she forced herself to stay cool.
"Indeed. Lots of pretty colors, though," she said in response, muttering a healing spell to re-close the gash.
She saw his slight smile in the mirror. He hummed in agreement. "Very festive."
This made her chuckle – it was genuine amusement, to her surprise. "My very own private fireworks show," she remarked. She was just as amused by the fact that she was joking around with Lord Voldemort as she was by the humorous comments themselves. Honestly, she was trying to stay under his radar, and apparently failing. She straightened her clothes and turned to face him.
"I'm sorry I tried to disarm you." she apologized. She was torn between being genuinely shameful of her actions and the sudden urge to kill him mercilessly on the spot. It was a close call, but she decided to put her anger away for now, and focused on being present in the moment. "You startled me." She winced. She was still primed for war, stuck in a place of peace, and it was not an easy transition. "I didn't realize someone was in here, before I came barging in – so I'll just be going now – "
He stepped forward, and she resisted the urge to a) flee like a traumatized rabbit and b) hit him in the face with a Confringo and watch as he blew into a million fiery pieces. Instead she took a step back, but remained facing him.
"We never got the chance to be properly introduced," he said, his voice sliding over her like the finest silk. "You passed out before we could shake hands." He stuck out his hand. "Tom Riddle, Head Boy."
She took his hand hesitantly and felt her heart rate kick up, blood pumping wildly through her veins. She felt hot. Suddenly she could feel Fawkes' presence more strongly than before. It did not hurt, this time – just made her feel like she was immersed in water that was just a tad bit too hot to be comfortable.
"Hermione," she replied, relieved that her voice, whilst soft, was steady.
"And does Hermione have a last name to go with the first? Hermione, Queen of Sicily, or Hermione of Sparta? Or is it something a bit simpler? I've never been good at guessing games, I admit." His handsome mouth quirked into a smile, his eyes shining with equal parts curiosity and derision.
She felt embarrassed. Her cheeks heated, and she gritted her teeth. She had faced far worse than this teenage Tom Riddle – only a shadow of the terrifying Lord Voldemort she knew. She had fought worse, and won. She could not let his presence affect her so much.
She raised an eyebrow imperiously, squeezed his hand lightly, and then let it go, stepping back. "Hermione Granger," she offered. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Riddle – "
"Please, call me Tom," he interrupted.
"Tom," she said reluctantly, somewhat surprised at the request. "It's been nice to officially meet you. I'm glad I was able to make it through this time without collapsing." She smirked softly. Wait…was that humor she heard in her voice? Damn it, Hermione! The smile disappeared, shifting into the best impersonation of Draco that she could manage. She'd gotten quite good at it, she thought, over the years. "However, I must be going," she continued. "I left my companions waiting around the corner, and I have to get back. Sorry for intruding on your…activities," she finished, waving her hand nonchalantly towards the bathroom stalls. She was sure her smirk showed in her eyes if nowhere else. She turned to go, her hand on the doorknob. She turned it.
"And will I be seeing you again, Miss Hermione Granger?" he asked, his eyes boring into the back of her head.
She twisted her neck around to give him a measured look. "It is likely," she said, nodding. "Draco and I will be staying for a while, it seems." She paused, and then opened the door. "Enjoy your day, Mr. Riddle – Tom," she corrected.
She was not afraid of a seventeen-year-old Lord Voldemort. And she would eat him alive if he tried anything with her or her best friend – she vowed it. Perhaps she was in danger here, in this time, with him in the castle…but he was in danger, too. For she knew so many of his secrets, and she would turn them against him in a way that would completely blindside him.
Before he could reply, she was gone, as swift as the wind and just as quiet. Shivering, she returned to her new friends, the only somewhat sure thing she had in this place. She wished Draco were with her. He meant safety. He always made sure she could keep her head clear and straight. She smiled at her three new companions, actively trying to make herself look at Ron's great uncle without flinching.
"We were just headed down to the kitchens," Lyall said easily, his hands in his pockets. "Would you care to join us? I figure you might not want to endure the hectic mob that lunch in the Great Hall sometimes turns into." Ah, so someone else knew the secret of the ticklish pear.
She nodded her assent, and Lyall tucked Hermione's hand into the crook of his arm (she wasn't overly bothered by it this time, as she needed the comfort of another body next to her after her little soiree with Riddle). They walked downward towards the dungeons, chatting amiably about this and that and the other. "Blimey, Dumbledore is allowing you to have your own suite until you get sorted? Lucky!" "I heard you came from China – what part?" "Will you be enrolled in school here, do you think? What house do you think you'll be in?" Hermione listened with half an ear.
She flexed her hand and wiped it on her old-fashioned dress. She could still feel Riddle's hand, cool, dry and callused, against her own. She remembered the way that Fawkes, still trapped inside her weary body, had reacted to his presence. It had not been negative, just strong. Strong and conflicted, and, strangely enough, curious.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw no one. But she swore she could feel cold, dark eyes at her back as she walked and she shuddered, unnerved.
Those eyes haunted her mind for the rest of the day.
oooo
Tom flushed the toilet and buttoned his fly, eager to get back to his studies. He had only encountered a handful of school subjects that ever gave him any trouble, and this newest project in Transfiguration was irritatingly difficult. Apparently turning a very small inanimate object into a very large living thing took a lot more power and concentration than other kinds of transfiguration. So converting a knut into a horse was proving to be particularly difficult. Right as he opened his stall door, he nearly jumped a foot in the air. He drew his wand instead.
BANG!
Tom started, looking up as the door to the empty lavatory he inhabited swung open and cracked loudly against the wall. The person responsible closed it just as quickly, and then leant back upon it, breathing heavily.
He remained silent, content to just watch. It was that girl again – the one who had leaned upon him on her way to the hospital wing yesterday morning, covered in blood and dirt. The one riddled with scars, whose deep, dark eyes had seemed to cut him down to the bone. He remembered, yesterday, the nonchalance with which she answered his question: "What happened?" "Werewolf – albeit in human form. After that, infection." He recalled the uttered explicative she had let loose as he had attempted to heal her badly broken wrist, remembered his surprise as the word "fuck" left her mouth in an unladylike snarl; remembered the burning hot glare he had received as he'd taunted her about it.
She was garbed in proper clothing now – a shirt and skirt and two-toned robes open in the front. Her heaving bosom swelled modestly over the v-neck of the wrap blouse – a popular style these days with wizarding women. Her legs were bare and her small feet were tucked into a pair of simple black Oxfords with a modest heel. Her hair was loose, and slightly damp at the ends, falling around her shoulders and down her back in riotous curls that were somehow very becoming. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed, and the expression upon her face was one of deep grief, her mouth twisted into a grimace of pain.
He watched her, for a moment – took the time to observe her unabashedly, without the constraints of having her aware of his presence. Her expression was open, unguarded; innocent and beautiful, and yet fraught with a sorrow beyond her years. He spotted a scar, high upon her cheek, like a silver thread on a tapestry of gold. Her parted lips were moist and pink and still swollen from where she had been hit across the face. Her eyelashes were long and jet-black, free of mascara, casting soft shadows against the tops of her cheeks.
She really was quite lovely, he mused. Sometimes, when he was at his most distracted, he found himself looking at women, judging them. Most of them he found plain, and those that he thought to be pretty tended to annoy him. They all simpered and smiled and whined and batted their eyelashes at him, hoping to endear themselves to him. In keeping with his gentlemanly façade, he only ever smiled and, as gently as possible, rebuffed their advances. In reality he longed to sneer at them and turn his back. How he wished he could ignore them without seeming like an utter arse!
However, he would never hit a woman. He might torture one, or verbally insult one, or kill one. But hitting a woman was somehow baser, meaner – and a demonstration of how men were physically stronger. It was so…muggle. And so seeing the dark, swollen spot on the girl's lip and the bruise on her jaw incited an irrational surge of anger and contempt. She was a witch, and someone had slapped her across the face like a common brute.
He didn't like it.
He liked it less when she threw off her robes and indecently lifted up her shirt to reveal a mottled bunch of bruises, a fresh, ugly slash across her thin torso, and a long, dark scar that ran from beneath her right breast (concealed by a very curiously cut beige brassiere; he was aware that women's lingerie was getting more risqué as time passed, but he had not heard of anything that looked quite like the undergarment she was wearing, even if he could only see the bottom part of one of the cups) to her left hip. She bit her lip as she touched a finger to the newly bleeding cut over her ribs, but to his surprise remained dry-eyed and relatively stoic. Once again, he was amused at her choice of language as she cursed, and appreciated her sarcasm when she said, "Well, that's just fantastic."
Tom decided that it was time to announce his presence. He cleared his throat.
What he did not expect was the cracked scream of surprise and the sudden flash of scarlet light that had him immediately throwing up a hasty shield, glad that he had his wand in his hand. A film of hot, heavy magic settled in the air before it rapidly disappeared. She had whirled around almost inhumanly fast, and had merely reached out with her left hand and his wand had twitched towards her like it had never belonged with him to begin with – as if its proper place was in her outstretched fist.
He didn't want to admit it, but this girl had come closer to disarming him than anyone ever had.
Fury swept through him as he found himself suddenly at the end of her wand. How dare this girl presume to disarm him! In his castle, nonetheless, after having barged into an occupied lavatory without thought or care!
As he met her eyes, though, he hesitated. His fury drained into a feeling of extreme annoyance, which was, at the same time, tinged with curiosity and perhaps a little surprise. Her hair was crackling with magic, her eyes alive and ablaze with power – and utter, unmistakable fear, which dissipated as she calmed.
This realization quelled his anger a bit. He'd caught her off guard, and she had merely reacted, startled and afraid. Her reaction was definitely intriguing, however. Not many people, presumably within his age range, had such sharp instincts and could wield wandless, nonverbal magic so flawlessly. It just served to further confirm the information that Edmond had overheard – that she and her companion had been at war in China. And yet she was undoubtedly English, and could not have been much older than he, if at all. Tom wasn't entirely aware of the situation over in Asia – it did not really apply to him, after all – but was now sufficiently interested. How was it that a seemingly teenage girl had been in the midst of a bloody war?
Attempting to dispel the tension in the air, he looked back down at her bared torso. "Ouch," he said, raising his eyebrows but keeping his face carefully neutral.
Her wand remained gripped tightly in her hand, but she visibly relaxed and turned back to the mirror. He twirled his own wand between his fingers, relishing the feel of it in his hand – humiliated and angry that it had been almost taken from him in the first place – and tucked it into his pocket in a show of uncharacteristic faith. As he had suspected, however, after a few seconds she stowed her wand, although it was so quick that he did not see where she put it.
He remained silent, one eyebrow raised. As easy as breathing, he slipped back into the cool mind of Lord Voldemort – leaving the inquisitive, slightly more lenient Tom Riddle, Jr., more prone to have feelings, behind. He stared at her, unblinking.
"Indeed," she said, her voice a slow, deliberate intonation. "Lots of pretty colors, though."
He almost laughed out loud, but he contained his amusement, merely smirking in response. "Very festive," he returned, enjoying the nonchalance with which she spoke and moved. He enjoyed the view of so much of her skin on display, as well; although his self-control was so impeccable he did not let it affect him. He had no time or energy for such things. Although he had experimented a handful of times – Primrose Selwyn was more than happy to oblige him, and she was conveniently easy to Obliviate afterwards so that she didn't get the impression that there was anything between them, the stupid cow – he generally operated under the belief that sex was an annoying distraction, and something that he was above. The body had needs, though. His body was no exception. Besides, his was a naturally curious mind.
Her grin was lightning fast and equally as striking, and he felt uncharacteristically proud when he drew a chuckle from her. So apparently the Lord Voldemort side of his personality was on holiday. He'd have to make do with his weaker persona, for now.
"My very own private fireworks show," she remarked, and winced as she muttered a spell to close up the weeping scrape on her ribs. She turned again, catching his gaze. "I'm sorry I tried to disarm you," she said, catching him off-guard with her apology. "You startled me. I didn't realize someone was in here, before I came barging in – so I'll just be going now – "
He stepped forward, and noticed how her wand hand twitched. She took a step back, her eyes reflecting wariness.
"We never got the chance to be properly introduced," he crooned, trying to put her at ease with the smooth tone of his voice. It usually had that effect. Irritatingly, she showed no signs of relaxation. "You passed out before we could shake hands." He stuck out his hand. "Tom Riddle, Head Boy."
When she finally, cautiously grabbed his hand, shaking it, he watched, captivated, as her dark eyes flashed gold for a split second. Her hand settled into his, and the skin of her palm seared his for just a moment, as if he had dunked his hand into a cauldron of too-hot water. He almost expected steam to rise from where their skin met.
Tom would have thought he was imagining things, it had happened so fast – that the orange-gold flash of her bright eyes and the crackling of her hair and the hot flush of her skin on his were mere tricks of his imagination. Except, Tom Riddle did not imagine things. And he was never, ever wrong.
"Hermione," she said, her voice low and steady. Her hand still grasped his, warm but no longer hot.
"And does Hermione have a last name to go with the first?" he asked mockingly, his mouth quirking up. He relished the spots of color that bloomed high on her cheeks. "Hermione, Queen of Sicily, or Hermione of Sparta? Or is it something a bit simpler? I've never been good at guessing games, I admit."
Her eyes hardened with determination and – could it be? – a hint of scorn to match his own. "Hermione Granger," she said, her voice slightly acidic. She squeezed his hand and then released it, soft skin sliding over his own. A callus on the inside of her pointer finger grazed against his palm. From a wand, or a quill, or both, he didn't know. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Riddle – "
"Please, call me Tom."
It was said without thought, as if some part of his brain, rising up in rebellion, pushed the words up his throat and through his mouth without his permission. No one called him Tom, except, on occasion, for his closest followers – in public, when they couldn't call him "My Lord" without drawing suspicious and aghast glances. Dumbledore still called him Tom, probably knowing that it got under his skin. Sometimes girls would call him Tom, hoping for illusions of closeness that they did not have; he generally discouraged this, sometimes using subtle hints of Legilimency that would make them feel as though they had somehow crossed a line – with a smile on his face all the while. But he had never really given anyone express permission to call him Tom. He was Lord Voldemort, or Riddle, or My Lord. He was not Tom.
What had he been thinking?
"Tom," she repeated, and, though it seemed to be pushed from between her lips with a certain level of resistance, it sounded beautiful, complex…different, in her penetrating, lilting voice. It was pleasant. "It's been nice to officially meet you," she continued, tilting her head of curly hair towards him. "I'm glad I was able to make it through this time without collapsing." She smirked, and he found his own lips turning up at the corners. Then the smile slid from her features, her warm, multifaceted eyes grew hard and empty, and her face smoothed into an expression worthy of any Slytherin – one of affected boredom, indifference, and coolness. She cleared her throat. "However, I must be going," she said, backing away from him. "I left my companions waiting around the corner, and I must get back. Sorry for intruding on your…activities." Her eyes lit up with a dark, secret humor that made his previous irritation flare up again. She turned to go, her graceful left hand, with a small, white scar across the back, resting on the doorknob.
"And will I be seeing you again, Miss Hermione Granger?" He said it almost hastily, out of a desire to see her face once again. He clenched his teeth. He was merely curious about her, was all. The ease with which she had almost disarmed him, the varied expressions that flitted across her face…the many, many colors in her brown eyes, and how they had flashed orange. The heat of her skin.
That head of shiny brown hair swiveled, and she gave him a long, calculating look that very suddenly and unexpectedly sent every synapse in his brain whirring. Danger! Danger! Danger! His eyes sharpened on hers, and he tried to ignore the warning bells that had suddenly gone off in his head.
"It is likely," she said finally, in a slow, honeyed drawl that resonated inside his spinning head. "Draco and I will be staying for a while, it seems." She gave him the barest hint of a smile. "Enjoy your day, Mr. Riddle – Tom."
With a soft whoosh of air she was gone, and the door shut quietly, unassumingly, behind her. He stared at it. Her unsettling eyes remained imprinted on his mind, staring at him, full of fear, grief, anger, calculation and sharp, terrifying intelligence.
Curiosity, he told himself. He sat down on the chair in the corner, forcing himself not to follow her. He was merely curious.
He tried not to think about the sudden anxiety that leapt into his brain as she had turned those eyes on him one final time. Because the only other time he'd felt that way had been while staring into the eyes of his basilisk for the first time.
Despite the initial fear and pain he had seen in her gaze – that emotion that had so enraptured him to begin with – that last look had been calculating, measuring, cunning.
Dangerous.
Predatory.
And filled with a certain kind of recognition that made absolutely no sense.
oooo
Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think of their first official meeting.
Btw, I'm so excited about chapter 8 and 9 it's not even funny. I love the tension that develops between the two. I can't wait for you to read it.
Giraffe :)