((A.N. Here is Chapter 7. One day late, admittedly, but I hope the length makes up for it. To put it shortly, I was having some characterization problems. I hope they're fixed now, but I might be reposting this again once I've worked all the kinks out. First, once again a very long chapter, and for lack of a better word, a philosophical one. Secondly, I know I promised some snogging, but it looks as if you're going to have to wait one more chapter. !cowers from readers in fear! Please don't be mad. Third, I have... 97 reviews! That's crazy! Impossible! Nearly 100! I'm so ecstatic. Thanks to EuphoniumGurl0, princess of slytherin, adriana, Magic and Sparkle, Loriliant Angelisa Snape, Kou Shun'u, meandmysharpie, deivinething, flyonthewall, KittyKateKat, candice, KyootNshort, steffy-potter, Lady Moofin, Tears-That-Fall, Black-Rose23, silvergaze, sexy-jess, ramones4me, Sarah, blue ice2, and Quinn. You're all so great and supportive. Thanks most of all to Drama Shethan for all of your help on this chapter. Sorry for this ridiculously long author's note, and enjoy!))

The good, the bad, hardship, joy, tragedy, love, and happiness are all interwoven into one indescribable whole that is called life. You cannot separate the good from the evil, but perhaps there is no need to do so.

– Jacqueline Onassis

Chapter 7– Best For Them

Tom opened his eyes, immediately aware of his surroundings. He was in the infirmary, and he had forgotten to do his Charms homework . . .

He was in the infirmary. How had he gotten there? The last thing he remembered was the Quidditch match, and how he had seen Rhion Malfoy hit the bludger at Helen Nestowe . . .

The memories came flooding back. He had gone into the sharpest dive he had ever attempted in his life, and caught Helen moments before she had plunged to certain death. He had managed to pull his broom up just feet from the ground, but apparently it had not been enough to stop them from crashing.

Why? Itwas the first thing that came to his mind. He had never, and was certain that he would never again risk his life to save someone else. In a way, the reason Malfoy had hit the bludger at Helen was Tom's own fault. He had told Malfoy that he wanted to get back at her, and Rhion had taken his idea of revenge to a whole new level.

Tom turned his head slowly, and to his surprise saw her lying on a separate bed next to him. She looked so pale and lifeless that he wondered if she was dead. Not that he cared, if she was.

"Awake, are we, Mr. Riddle?"

Tom jerked his head to the other side and saw Dumbledore sitting in an overstuffed chair, watching him calmly.

Tom tried to sit up, thinking that he would never want Dumbledore to see him this vulnerable, but a sharp pain in his hip stopped him.

"Madame Baroma has informed me that you've fractured your hip. You won't be able to walk for two or three days, until it magically splints together," Dumbledore informed him politely.

Tom cursed inwardly. If there was one thing he hated, it was being weak, and lying in a hospital bed for three days certainly wasn't his idea of strength.

"You saved Helen Nestowe's life," Dumbledore said bluntly. His stare was probing as he gazed at Tom. "Why?"

"It is my duty as Head Boy, sir, to ensure the safety and well-being of all students," Tom replied blankly.

"But surely it is not your duty to risk your own life in the process?" Dumbledore replied evenly.

Tom took a deep breath. "I felt responsible for her fall, Professor. After all, it was a Beater on my team that hit her with the bludger."

"Speaking of Rhion Malfoy, he's been waiting to see you. Why don't we bring him in?"

Dumbledore waved his hand and Madame Baroma nodded in acknowledgement. A few moments later Rhion entered the room. Did Rhion look just a little paler? Were his eyes a tiny bit stormier?

"I'm pleased to tell you, Mr. Malfoy, that it looks as if Helen will have no permanent injuries from the fall, thanks to Mr. Riddle here," Dumbledore said gravely.

Rhion ran a hand through his silvery hair, nodding slowly.

"Tell me, Mister Malfoy, what was the reason for beating that bludger at her?"

"It was completely unintentional, sir," Malfoy lied easily. "A Gryffindor Chaser was right in front of me one moment, and disappeared the next. The bludger flew past him and hit her in the back."

His words were met with silence.

"I see," said Dumbledore. It was obvious, at least to Tom, that Dumbledore did not believe a word of it.

"I have other business to attend to, then. Mr. Riddle, you have done a wonderful thing today. The Headmaster has agreed that you deserve a Medal of Magical Merit for your actions. I wish you a speedy recovery." There was still a questioning look in Dumbledore's eyes as he left.

Rhion and Tom remained, alone in silence. Sunlight streamed evasively through the window, which was veiled in curtains. It gave the room a dim, lazy sort of light that seemed to mute the strained silence in the room.

"Malfoy . . . what were you thinking? Of course I wanted revenge, but I didn't want you to kill the girl!"

"What do you care if she lives or dies?" Malfoy questioned aggressively. His silver hair looked as if it had been combed hastily aside, and his cheeks were flushed with indignation. It sufficed to say that he was not his usual calm and collected self.

"It's a lot of investigations and paperwork that the school and your family don't need, Malfoy, is what I care about," Tom said sternly. He didn't care at all, really.

"I didn't think it would kill her, to be honest," Malfoy said after a while. "I just wanted to give her a scare, you know, so that she knows not to mess with the Slytherins."

"I don't think I needed your help with that one, Malfoy," Tom said coldly. Something clicked in his brain. Why are you sticking up for her? Why are you defending a Mudblood?

"It's really all right, though, now that she's not dead. I find the whole situation kind of amusing. Your intentions were good, Malfoy, and that's all that matters," Tom said lightly. No need to lose an important ally over a misunderstanding.

"Thanks for getting me out of trouble, Riddle. You're not so bad," Malfoy said, which was as close to a compliment as a Malfoy would ever come. Tom nodded, and Rhion gave him a hasty goodbye but striding away. That left Tom alone in silence.

Tom nodded, feeling drowsy. Of course that was why he had caught her. He had not wanted to get himself into trouble, was all. He had done it to save himself, and no one else. It isn't as if– as if . . .

But he was already asleep.

" . . . the talk of the entire school, Helen," Tom heard a voice say from far away. He did not open his eyes.

"What– Tom Riddle?" he heard Helen say incredulously.

"You should have seen it. That git Malfoy slammed a bludger at you, and you tumbled off of the balcony. Emma screamed, and you screamed, and everyone just watched in horror as you plummeted down. Tom was the highest up out of all the Quidditch players, but as soon as he saw you he dove down–"

" . . .you should've seen it . . ." another voice chimed in.

" . . .like a rocket . . ." said yet another.

"Shhh! He dove down and caught you just before you landed, and then you both tumbled off his broom, and everyone was so worried, Helen, they thought you were both dead."

"Bravest thing I've ever seen a Slytherin do," he heard a deep male voice admit grudgingly. Chistoph Black, of course.

Tom opened his eyes to see three students clustered around Helen, backs turned. The look on her face was unforgettable. She looked horrified. Her expression was a mask of pain, and he knew it had nothing to do with her injuries.

The Gryffindors were clueless, as always. Emma grabbed her hand, saying, "You must be in so much pain. You need some rest. We'll leave you now."

Hermione nodded numbly as she watched them file out. Her eyes flickered to Tom for a moment and she closed them quickly. The door shut, and there was silence.

"Don't pretend you're asleep," Tom said after a few moments.

She opened her eyes finally, and looked at him. He stared back at her, curious as to why she had looked so pained when she had realized that he had saved her life.

"You caught me as I was falling," she said unnecessarily.

"That I did. It was my job, though."

"You say that about a lot of things, don't you?" Hermione retorted, a hint of anger in her voice. Suddenly she pushed herself up and leaned forward.

"Why do you have to make everything so hard!" she yelled, though she feared it would attract the attention of Madame Baroma. Her voice rose an octave. Tom raised an eyebrow. She was acting as if he had tried to murder her, not save her life.

"Can't you just mind your own business!" she persisted.

"What, and let you fall?"

"You don't have any idea what you're doing!" she cried, two angry tears pricking her eyes.

Tom suddenly realized what the problem was. She had a nasty bump on the side of her head, and it was obviously the sign of a concussion. She was not thinking straight.

"Go to sleep," he said dispassionately. At least she isn't sniveling all over me, Tom thought gratefully. But then again, he had never expected her to.

"Saving my life is not your job!" she said accusingly, her voice louder than ever. "So why? Why did you do it?"

"Let's get one thing straight here, Nestowe . . ."

But he broke off as Madame Baroma bustled in. Apparently, the school nurse had not heard anything of their conversation.

"My, look at this, both of you awake! That was a very brave thing you did, Mr. Riddle. Helen owes you thanks," Madame Baroma said merrily.

Stop! Tom wanted to scream. I'm not a hero, I'm not brave, I'm not anything! I did it to save myself and Malfoy from getting into trouble!

"Anyone would've done it," Tom said offhandedly, instead.

Madame Baroma scuttled around, taking their temperatures and checking their injuries.

"Well, Miss Nestowe, it looks as if you'll be here until at least tomorrow evening. No less than three days for you, Mr. Riddle. That hip is a tricky thing to heal, even with magic. Now I want both of you to drink this."

She handed them each a cup of steaming liquid, and Tom recognized it as somnifier potion. He could not think, not now, and he needed an escape. He drank it quickly and felt himself immediately begin to doze off.

After Madame Baroma had left, Hermione set her cup down on the table.

Tom had saved her life, and when she had found that out, all of her resolution had come crashing down.

She looked over at his peacefully sleeping form, taking in the dark hair and the pale skin and the imperious expression he wore even as he slept. She could kill him now, and she knew the situation could not be more perfect. He was already in critical condition, and her wand was right there . . . if she performed Avada Kedavra, there would be no way of telling if he had died of natural causes, or if someone had killed him. Even then, who would suspect that Helen Nestowe had killed Tom Riddle, the very person who had saved her own life?

But she could not, and that was the bottom line. I could never kill someone who saved my own life. And whether this was some Gryffindor code of honour or some law of nature or some feeling she had deep down inside, killing him was completely out of the question. If anything, she owed her life to him.

She had yelled at him because when she had realized that she could not kill him, she had also realized that she had let her friends down. Not just her friends, actually, but the world. The world would suffer Lord Voldemort's wrath because of a silly girl's silly feelings. If he had not saved her, perhaps she would have had the heart to finish him off.

Tears came to her eyes as she realized that she had no idea what to do. She looked at Tom, and for once he did not look haunted or calculating or powerful. Hermione agreed that Emma definitely had not been wrong about Tom Riddle's looks. He was classically good looking, and had a statuesque beauty about him that could not be matched.

Everything about Tom was tainted by the fact that she had seen him kill mercilessly, however. No amount of beauty could make up for the things he had done, the things he would do. How did someone so wonderful become so . . . ? He was brilliant, gorgeous, witty, charming, and had saved her life. She felt an odd flip in her stomach when she looked at him.

Why did he save my life? She wondered. The last thing I did, in fact, was slap him across the face as hard as I could. I don't buy it for a moment that it was 'his job' And if it wasn't his job, then what did he think he was doing?

His face was always so blank, his expression so frigid, that she could figure anything out about him. What was he feeling?

Suddenly the impression came to her that he felt nothing. If that was the truth, then Tom Riddle was hopeless.

Tom stirred groggily, wondering where he was. He opened his eyes, and they were met by blackness. Am I dead? He wondered vaguely. His eyes began adjusting, and he remembered that he was in the hospital wing. There were no lights on, but the blinds were drawn back, and moonlight spilled into the room, bathing its inhabitants in a pearly, splendid luminescence.

Tom looked over at Helen. Several moonbeams glanced off of her honey brown locks, highlighting the parts that framed her face. Her face, half bathed in shadow, was a mixture of light and darkness. Dark, full lips, thick lashes, and smooth pale cheekbones glowed in the starlight.

Momentarily, she stirred. She opened her eyes, and they seemed strange and troubled in the darkness that enveloped them both. He took his eyes off of her, and sipped some water from the cup by his bedside.

She seemed surprised to find him awake also. Their eyes met for a moment, hers large and a bit apprehensive, his like midnight black ice chips, impenetrable.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked quietly. Tom looked away and said nothing. She sighed, and realized what a relief it was not to look at him as a victim.

"I guess I never really thanked you for saving my life," Hermione said softly.

"Quite the contrary," Tom replied wryly. He did not seem hurt by it. He was merely stating an observation.

"Thanks, then. There's not a lot of people who would do that for me."

Any more. You killed them all. But she would leave that part unspoken.

To her surprise, he did not immediately jump to defend himself. There was silence for almost a minute before Tom spoke.

"I suppose I should tell you the truth."

The truth? Hermione's heart began pounding. She waited, holding her breath.

"You see . . . I basically told Malfoy to hit you with that bludger," Tom said blankly. A feeling like ice ran through Hermione.

"You . . . told him?"

"Well, I wanted revenge on you, sort of, for when you'd slapped me. I wanted to show you your place. I told Malfoy about it, and he basically took revenge into his own hands. The only reason I caught you was to get Malfoy and myself out of trouble. So don't think it's some heroic–"

"I never did," she said icily. I should have known. Of course he only did it for himself. How did I ever convince myself otherwise?

"You said earlier that I didn't know you very well," Hermione continued coldly. "Well, I do. At least, well enough to understand that you'd stop at nothing to become the most powerful wizard in the world. Not even killing innocent people, and much less the Dark Arts ."

Tom looked at her.

"You don't understand. I am one of the only Half-bloods in Slytherin. I had to do absolutely anything I could to prove myself to them. To prove that I belonged. Dark Arts just happened to be the way to do that," he said, feeling suddenly smothered in heat. Why was he telling her this? It was as if he was under Veritaserum.

"But can't you see that Dark Arts are evil? Can't you see that they were only created to hurt people?"

Tom couldn't help wondering why she was fixated on this topic, so he continued talking.

"Good . . . evil . . . those are just words people use to justify their actions. What is the 'right thing'? No one ever seems to know, do they? That's because it doesn't exist. People, in the end, only do what's best for them. I grew up in a place where 'the right thing' was what would help me survive. Dark Arts aren't evil to me. Why would they be if they helped me survive? Good and evil are essentially the same thing. In the end, I believe people are all the same too. People only do what's best for them."

And she wished whole heartedly that she could say, no, Tom, it isn't true, there are good people and there are bad people and it's easy to distinguish what is right from what is wrong, because, Tom, I've stood alongside Harry Potter all of my life and he has always done the right thing, but none of it would have been true. Harry was good and wonderful and selfless, but even he had a dark side to him, and she had seen it come out every so often, when he thought that no one was watching.

Harry, the Hero of the Light, the Treasure of the Good, was evil to some extent. Everyone was. And simultaneously she realized that Tom Riddle, Future Lord of the Dark, had to be good, to some extent. In fact, why did people label others as 'good' or 'evil'? She realized blatantly that everyone was a subtle mixture of the two.

People only do what's best for them.

She wished it was untrue. Good and evil were perhaps illusions created by wistful thinkers. Tom had never had parents to instill traditional morals and values into him. He'd had to teach himself. He was the most brilliant thinker of his time, and he had come up with this flawless logic that, ultimately, gave him power to do what ordinary men would never dream of.

"I see," she murmured quietly. Tom was extremely surprised at her reaction, though he only nodded. Where was the opposition, where were the counter arguments, where was the doubt? No one had ever agreed with him. Then again, he realized, I've never talked to anyone about this.

Hermione paused for a moment. "So catching me . . . was that 'right?'"

And then his face seemed to shut down. His eyes became blank and emotionless. "Catching you . . . it helped me, so of course it was right."

But for the first time she had ever known, there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

As Hermione drifted off to sleep, she remembered his words, and wondered.

Was Tom inherently dark, or had he become that way? Was he destined to be Lord Voldemort, or had certain situations made him who he was? Where was it possible to draw the line between whom a person was and whom a person was meant to be?

The last thing she remembered thinking was that Tom Riddle reminded her undeniably of Harry Potter.

((A.N. So how are Tom and Hermione coming along? And why in the world did heartless Tom save Hermione? Review!))