"My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was... He didn't like magic, my father…"

They sit over a cliff because she went to visit him and he didn't know where to take her. He couldn't let see the orphanage, he couldn't let her see how small he was there, how little he meant to anyone, he couldn't bear her pity, he couldn't bear meaning any less to her.

So, they walked. He took her around the area, through broken streets and run-down shops and, eventually, they took a train to Little Hangleton because it was the only place he had ever been and he wanted to take her away, far away, as far as he could get from the putrid orphanage and Mrs. Cole and all the terrible children and his thin bed and raggedy sheets and his miserable existence there.

So, they had walked to this cliff, this jut of land that overlooked the village, and they had stared out at the area and she had known that he was upset, of course she had known, and she had reached over and took hold of his hand and, beyond all logic and reason, it had made him feel better. The anger that took over whenever he thought about his parents lessened, if only just a little, and her hand, which was just as cold as his and ringed in the itchy wool cuff of her coat, somehow brought warmth to him, comfort, and he cherished the pale skin wrapped around his, cherished her bushy hair and drab clothes, her kind smile and big eyes, her freckles and her intelligence, he cherished her.

"Where is your mother now, Tom?"

He forces his eyes to stray from the brown rooftops of the homes of sleeping people to the brown of her eyes, but he can't bear to look at her, not when talking about this. He knows anger will flash in his eyes because he can never keep anything from her, no matter how hard he tries, and she will see it and she will know something is wrong and pry or she will know that he is angry and be afraid and he does not want her to be afraid of him, not anymore. There was a time when such a thing was all he desired, to have the strange new girl bow down to him, listen to him, obey him, but now he cherishes everything that he hated before. He needs someone that will challenge him, that will make him think and worry and plan the world; he needs her, of course.

So, he has to look away, back at the rooftops as smoke starts coming out of a chimney, the first in the village to start their day just as Tom talks about the ending of another's.

"Dead. She passed away during childbirth."

She's quiet for a second and he feels her hand stiffen for no longer than her silence before she asks, "And your father?"

And, something in her voice, in her eyes gives it away because, with a shock he hadn't known in years, with a betrayal, with an anger and a frustration, confusion, perhaps adoration, he realizes, through her shifted gaze, her tense shoulders, her stiffened hand, her lame attempt at complete nonchalance-

"You know."

She knows what he did and she is utterly horrified and he doesn't understand how she found out, how she could have possibly realized the truth, but it does not matter because she knows and he is impressed in a million ways but he has no time to dwell on that.

She nods, short and curt, draws her hand away from his lap, looks out at the village. His eyes stay on her, track and memorize every rise of her chest as she breathes, every strand of hair that shifts with the wisps of air, every shift in her gaze downward, every twitch of her hand.

"Are you afraid?"

And she turns to him and almost smiles, the action filling her eyes with a humor he doesn't understand, but her lips not moving in any direction but the ones needed for her next word.

"Petrified."

And there's no humor in it, but there is still the glowing air of laughter in her eyes anyways and it makes no sense to him and he's not entirely sure it makes any sense to her either, but yet, there it is, alive and alight like the sun shining through the trees of a forest.

"Why did you come see me then, if you're so afraid? So petrified?"

And he feels anger rising in him and it doesn't make any sense. He shouldn't be angry. Tom Riddle is always calm, cool, collected.

But.

But that's not quite true.

He is purposely ignoring the one exception to the rule, the exception he knows quite well. Her.

Hermione James does not allow him to be calm or cool or collected. She inspires rage and joy and distress and hope and everything in between. Tom Riddle cannot possibly be anything near calm, cool and collected when Hermione James is involved.

She lets out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh and nowhere near either.

"I don't know."

She shakes her head and then looks at him, finally. Her eyes are rimmed in tears and she's still shaking her head, a soft, sad smile on her face.

"You're evil and you scare me, but I came and I don't know why and it doesn't make any sense."

And she shakes her head again and he doesn't know what to say to her. How much does she know? How much does she still have left to find out? Does she hate him? How could she, the perfect, pure she, know everything and not hate him? How does she know any of this? Did Alphard tell her what he knew and then she figure out the rest? Has she been following him? Does he need to kill her? Would he? If he needed to? If he needed to.

He looks at her, her frail, sad form. Her tired eyes, her weak smile, the intellect and wit he knows lay just behind both and he knows

No.

He couldn't.

He couldn't possibly kill her.

The thought of it as he looks at her almost makes him sick.

He barely registers her shallow breath in and out before she's talking again, looking him right in the eyes, and him getting the tiniest sense that she is hiding something from him. Again.

"Tom, you're smart and interesting and beyond strange and a challenge that my mind hasn't been subjected to in a long time."

And she's smiling at him again, the rare smile, her true smile, and he knows that there was some truth in her words, there had to be, and he thinks he might be in love with this strange girl who came from nowhere, with this strange girl who is always so sad, with this strange girl who's never shown anyone anything but kindness but he is sure could kill them all if the desire every struck her.

He is in love with a girl that is engaged and that might hate him and that is completely afraid of him.

And, from the silence of the moment, the seriousness, her eyes suddenly brighten and she turns around, away from him, and towards her bag.

"I almost forgot!"

There is a small box in her hand, wrapped in green paper imprinted with a golden, flowery design and he takes the package from her hand and into his, entirely confused. He looks up at her rosy cheeks and wide smile, her bright eyes and excited words.

"Happy birthday, Tom."

And, again, it doesn't make any sense. He's confused because of her, wrapped so neatly in her wool coat, and this gift, wrapped so neatly in its shimmering paper and so loosely in time and winter and fear.

So, he's confused, too many thoughts running through his head to be able to concentrate on pushing one down and pulling it out, so all he manages to say, dully, dumbly.

"You got me a present."

And it's not quite a question and it's not quite a statement, but something she answers, nevertheless.

"Of course."

And she's all smiles and the flowery brightness she shows to everyone else and he feels vaguely betrayed. He feels as if he is worth much more than this façade she puts on for everyone else and her showing him this side of her, especially when they're alone, especially when the sun has yet to rise, especially when the world is asleep, is almost offensive. They have shared their lives with each other. He has told her things about himself that he would never dare even think about around anyone else and, even after all of that, he is receiving this fake her. This her that has been carefully crafted to avoid questions, to avoid having to answer to anything or anyone that she does not want to deal with. And, logically, he knows that she is reeling too, trying to gather her thoughts after what they had just said to each other, trying to cope with the new, absolute, destroying layer to their already complex relationship, their already difficult existences, but it does not mean that he is not offended, not upset, not saddened.

But, he cannot bring this up to her, he does not want to have to explain himself, his thoughts, his feelings, for even that would be a step down from what they've always known. They've never had to explain what they're thinking or feeling to each other, it's always been understood and known and unspoken, silent and beautiful and always so completely right. And he does not want to explain himself, he does not want to make it all be completely wrong and grotesque and so very unlike them.

So, he doesn't.

He fumbles with the wrapping paper and fumbles with his words, a quick and quiet 'thank you' and he does not open the package enveloped within. It sits between them as they look out at the village, the sun beginning to rise now, making the discarded metallic paper shine and dulling the spark of conversation and understanding between the duo. They sit. Mutely. Resolutely.

She clears her throat and turns to him, smiling softly, ever so falsely.

"I hope you like it. I had to reserve it a very long time in advance and, even then, it was almost shipped off to the first rich bloke who walked through the door, flaunting his bag full of galleons and-"

"We don't have to do this."

And her face falls quickly from the mounting anger and frustration of her story, to his, to the face he knows so well and craves so much. The broken girl he fears because he might love her and the very thought frightens him nearly as much as death does, but there is no professor he can sweet talk or book he can read or ritual he can perform to save him from this mortal malady.

She looks away again, looks down, smiles.

"But it does feel a bit normal, doesn't it? As if there weren't bad things happening or any pressures on your shoulders? As if," she stops. She takes a breath, "As if, it were really this simple, as if the biggest worry in our lives was whether or not our friend would like the birthday present we got them."

Now, he smiles.

"We're friends?"

And she laughs.

"Of course we're friends! Do you think I would have followed you to the middle of God-knows-where if we weren't?"

It's not a sobering question, but it inspires a sobering thought, "Even after everything?"

And he doesn't look at her to say this, but, out of the corner of his eye, he sees that when she turns to him, the smile is still present on her face.

"Do I really have a choice?"