From the top of Ravenclaw tower Tom Riddle could see Spring beginning to forge its way across the grounds. The earth was becoming more tactile, the grass more vibrant, and the glorious stretch of the Scottish planes all the more enticing. Already students were starting to take their first tentative steps outside, neglecting the shaded inner passages for the warmth of the sun.

It couldn't have suited his mood any less.

Up on the tower the air was sharp and bitter. The hard, cold stonework didn't help, digging into his thighs, now his elbows, now his shoulders, as he moved from spot to spot. But he would not leave. No, he needed to feel the chill, get away from the buoyancy of his peers. Even his knights seemed less afraid of him these days, all the more willing but in a way that suggested there was something waiting for them after his commands were met. There was hope in the air. It sickened him.

Just because the seasons were changing didn't mean the world was. Things would carry on as they had been. Just more things might take place outside. Tom's situation certainly wouldn't get any better. With that stupid girl continuing to be nothing but a stupid waste of time. He hadn't been back in a while. Hadn't lifted the veil off his side of the mirror, although he could feel her there, sense her presence. He didn't want to see her. She would only look at him with those innocently mocking eyes. Her perplexity and subsequent indignation with his temper would only trouble him further. He wasn't sure she was worth the effort anymore. Perhaps he'd just kill her and be done with it. She would make a suitable first kill.

She'd seen the future. She lived in it. So what?

He wasn't well versed in the workings of time, but it didn't seem likely that anything would change. She was evidence of the ways in which events were set in stone. So, she was utterly useless, no help at all, he wouldn't go back again. It had all been a complete waste.

Tom huffed and drew his robes around himself tightly. He felt so angry. With everything. Nothing was going as he wanted it to. He was losing control of all his carefully laid plans. More worryingly, he was losing control of himself.

"Your brooding is not so charming today." Called a light but assertive voice.

Tom turned with a violent sneer, thoughtlessly expecting to be faced with the snooty irritant of a witch that was Hermione. What greeted him was a tall pale figure of the Grey Lady in all her glory. When he realised it was Helena, he stopped in his tracks. It took a moment for his brain to make the switch it needed. Then his features were as soft and inviting as a lover's.

He stood to greet her. "My lady. I had not expected to find you today."

"Oh? So, you did not come to find me?" She sounded disappointed.

"I did not wish to presume you would bless me with your presence." He bowed slightly, pulling a face she couldn't see as he did so. When he lifted his head again it bore his best smile.

The Grey Lady preened. "You are too humble, Mr Gaunt, or may I call you Tom?"

"I would be honoured for you to address me by my first name, my lady."

She hovered closer to him then, a gentle smile on her lips. "Then you must call me Helena."

"Of course, Helena."

She hummed in delight, before letting out a sigh with enough force to chill the air. "I do so like how my name sounds from your lips. How lovely your little witch must find her own."

Tom scoffed slightly at the reference to Hermione.

It did not pass Helena's notice. "You have not angered her again, boy?"

"I…" Tom made to go on the defensive, knowing that their last argument had more to do with Hermione's ridiculous behaviour than it did with any of his actions. But he knew saying so would not ingratiate him to Rowena. "Not intentionally. No."

The Grey Lady frowned.

Tom continued. "I said some things that were perhaps quite harsh. But only because I was tired of seeing her get hurt by others."

Her frown deepened. "This is often the case?"

"Almost always, as far as I can see. But she just blithely accepts it all, as if she deserves it. As if she isn't twice as powerful and smart and important as them. As if she couldn't force them all to bow before her." Tom turned back to look out at the grounds, bracing himself against a pillar. "It's just so frustrating. If I were there people would know not to trifle with her, I would make them see that they were nothing compared to her, but she refuses to use her magic for herself, refuses to make them see what she could do…"

Tom looked down on all the tiny figures wandering the grounds. That was why he couldn't kill her. She had so much potential. And he wanted to make it his.

Helena's voice came from behind him, much brighter than it had been before. "And you want to make her believe this? You want her to recognise her power? You want others to grovel before her and know she is not to be reckoned with?"

Intrigued by Helena's tone, Tom turned. "Yes."

Helena smiled, but this time Tom felt recognised a cunning behind it that he hadn't seen in her before.

"Then listen well."

For the next week Hermione had gone back every day to the room of requirement. She had sat curled up with her work, idly making amendments until she got into the full swing of it. Then ardently scribbling, trying to stretch out the hours with all the information she could. She was sure her essays had never been so thoroughly proofread and amended before. By the end of the first week however, she had simply run out of work to do. So, she had begun to read, to practice wand work, to pace and think and talk while she waited for something, anything, to happen.

Once or twice, she thought she caught a flicker of movement at the edge of the mirror and her heart would tremble in anticipation. Her back would straighten, her eyes would widen, every taut nerve in her body would fire up, oversaturated as they were with expectation and guilt. And every time nothing would happen. Her body would deflate in humiliation, crumple in defeat. Then there were the days that she almost fell asleep in her chair, catching herself just before she drifted. Exhausted and alone, she would cover up her side of the mirror and, despite it all, she would linger at the doorway, tempted but not moved to look back.

It was not a sustainable endeavour. She had no way of contacting him otherwise, to find out if he would come back, but she couldn't keep it up. For one thing Harry and Ron were starting to question her, having noticed her late-night escapades. Harry was concerned she was pushing herself too hard again. Ron was concerned she went off to snog Viktor. She didn't want to have to keep dodging their questions. She didn't want to add more worry to their already awful situation. So, she stopped.

She didn't give herself time to think about it. It wouldn't have helped. It was clear that his decision was a conscious one and after the last task Hermione knew she needed to be there for Harry more than ever.

Their recent visit to see Sirius had reminded her how dear Harry was, to her, to the Weasleys, to Sirius. It reminded her that Harry had to be her priority right now. She'd done what she had to do for Tom. There was no longer any obligation binding her to him. She had to move on. If he was going to refuse to see her after their last argument then she would refuse to see him, too. Nothing gained, nothing lost. Whatever it was she could have wanted on the other side wasn't worth losing her friends for.

On the night of her decision, she had lingered for longer than she wanted to admit. Her eyes were tired, and her head was aching. She'd been attempting to revise but found no luck. She simply couldn't focus on her work while the mirror lay there, open but undisturbed. Ten minutes before curfew she packed her things and made to leave, but her feet brought her right up to the mirror.

"Tom?" She called.

There was no response.

"I know you're not there. But I don't know how else to tell you…" Hermione sighed.

This was stupid. Still, she lingered.

"I'm not going to come back anymore. I can't just wait for you to decide you aren't mad. Not that you deserve to be mad, in the first place. But, anyway, if you're there, now is the time to tell me, your last chance to tell me." Hermione paused.

Nothing changed.

"Stupid boy."

With a huff she flicked her wand to bring up the veil and turned to leave. As always, she stopped at the doorway, hand lingering on its frame, but she did not turn back to look.

If she had, she would have seen the corner of glass left exposed by the covering, and the cool glow of the room beyond it.

He had sensed her. As he paced in his room before the mirror, he had sensed her. The faint aura of her warmth had trickled through the edges of the covering, giving off a subtle glow when she came by each evening. But he couldn't risk opening it, not yet. He heard all her sighs, all her scribbles, all her mutterings. And her message.

He was glad in the end, that he hadn't reacted quicker. It would have ruined everything. But he couldn't help the sharp feeling in his chest when he ripped away the covering only to discover that she had already left, the glow of her fire extinguished in her wake. But her leaving meant things could go as planned. She may not have been able to wait, but he most certainly could.

The boys that knelt before him would keep him entertained until then.

They knew not to ask about the mirror by now, though each thought about it often. Of all of them, it intrigued Nott the most, however. He was the only one to wonder if its presence had something to do with his change in temperament. At once crueller and more thoughtful, the mirror had switched something in Tom.

And Nott was eager to find out what.