"It won't come until it's called."
He whispers it in her ear and he's not sure if she shivers out of disgust or fear or love, but it happens nevertheless, his breath pulling it through her like the moon to the ocean.
Goosebumps mark her skin, her eyes still closed, his hands so very close to her, but never touching her, never marring her delicate, risen skin with his own venom.
She takes a deep breath, he stands behind her and sees her shoulders rise, hears her whistled inhale, her whispery exhale. Her shoulders are no less tense after the breath than before, but she claims she's ready. Her nod is slow and careful, and he wouldn't dare question her, even though he fears she might not be ready for what comes next and he's tempted to reassure her that she'll be fine, that it'll all be fine. They stand in the Chamber of Secrets and he feels very worried, as if he should be protecting her, taking her away. His hands hover above her shoulders before he brings them back to himself. He takes a deep breath and he's forced to acknowledge that he is nervous, worried, afraid. He should be protecting her.
"Hermione, are you sure?"
His voice sounds sincere and it surprises even him.
He sees her shoulders rise with another breath.
"I trust you."
She should, he supposes. After all, he certainly isn't the one that asked her if she wanted to see the basilisk in his Chamber of Secrets. He isn't the one that pushed the idea, that assured him it would be fine.
"That might not be the wisest choice."
She laughs, softly and nervously, but she laughs, mirroring the tinkling sound of a fairy's wings beating hard and fast as they futilely try to get away.
He steps away from her. Takes another deep breath and looks out towards the stone he knows the serpent will come from. He calls it to him and he's hardly finished speaking in the distinct tongue before the basilisk comes barreling out, the walls shaking with the brunt force and speed of it.
It charges at Hermione, who is trembling, who has since reached to take a hold of Tom's wrist and holds it tightly in her hand. Her breath comes in short pants and her eyes are scrunched closed tightly.
But the basilisk has almost reached her and his words stumble over themselves as he orders it to stop, quickly, desperately.
And the creature halts its progress just before it attacks her, just before it reaches her, just before it destroys her, and his disbelief is almost palpable. He longs to pull his sleeve from her petrified claws, from her dirty fingers, but his surprise keeps him from moving.
It is a thing that had crossed his mind, with a name like James, it was impossible that it wouldn't have crossed his mind, but he had never truly believed it to be true. She was marrying into the Black family, after all, they must check.
He can't believe it. He doesn't want to believe it. But the proof is there. In the fury of the basilisk, in her name, in her hidden world and secret life.
"You're a mudblood."
He doesn't remember forming words, doesn't remember issuing a command for them to sprout from him. He hears his voice as if coming from some disembodied object. The words, his words, are there, but they could not have possibly come from him. He is in control, after all. He would know if he had spoken. But, her voice responds to him, surprised, of course, but not because this information is anything new to her and certainly not because his words had come from somewhere else. He feels sick.
"You're not killing me."
Her words are almost a question and surprise rings in every syllable. Her hands are still shaking and clenched, her shoulders still tense, her eyes still scrunched closed, everything about her screaming fear, but her voice, her words, registering some kind of bizarre hope and incredible disbelief.
And he's not killing her. It makes about as much sense to her as it does to him, which is a figure very near none. As has happened many times before, he considers killing her, considers letting the basilisk do what it is meant to and end the mudblood's life. And, again, he can't find it in himself to kill her. To rid the world of her would be a fantastic crime.
But
She is a mudblood.
There is no doubt about that now and he does not know what to do, how to feel, what to think. He draws within himself, scrapes the web of veins and cells off the edges of himself, pans them, searching for hatred, trying desperately to find some ill feeling towards her, wanting to hate her and discovering nothing. In the whole of himself, there is no part that hates her or can even pretend to, no part that wishes to kill her. Even with this new information, he does not, can not, hate her and it's frustrating and anger-inducing and terrible and frightening and completely defeating.
His head drops, his breath slows, his fists relax.
"I am not evil."
And he's not.
But he's powerful. Her life is completely up to him here and she trusts him, has to. She's let her life drop into his hands. She trusted him to save her or else wanted to die. Neither thought soothes his nausea.
If she trusts him, she must feel something for him. Something. Anything. She must. She couldn't possibly suggest this and believe that he would save her without feeling something for him, without believing in whatever good might exist within him.
Or else she was testing him and so he should be angry or
Or she wanted to die.
And he doesn't know how to feel about that, what to say to that.
She let her life fall into his hands and he thought she hated him. But she couldn't possibly. She just couldn't.
He's so lost in his own thoughts that, when she speaks, her voice trembling, cracking on her only syllable as she calls his name, it's as if hearing her from the bottom of the ocean and he must force himself to swim up to reach her, kicking as hard as he can until he breaks the surface and the water clears from his ears, the sounds of the world rushing back quickly.
The basilisk is far too close to her. In his time spent thinking, it inched forward. Its head so close to hers, almost as if it were smelling her. Hermione's eyes are scrunched closed so tightly it'd be a wonder to see her ever open them again.
The basilisk inches forward again, its mouth trembling slightly, almost as if it was aching to taste her and her voice rings again, afraid and nervous and no doubt worrying that she made a mistake in trusting him. And maybe she had.
He wills his mouth to move, his words to come, but the image of these magnificent creatures interacting, and each action so opposed to the continuance of the others', was a sight to see, a wonder that he felt so very honored to have the privilege to witness. And he would like to continue watching it.
But, she hadn't made a mistake in trusting him. She hadn't.
He orders the beast away and it's upset. This isn't the first time he's done this and Tom knows that the basilisk is upset by it every time, but, as he sees the beast glance behind him, sees it calculating how quickly it can get away, he knows that he has made a mistake. The beast has had enough and it is upset and Tom does not have a plan for how to handle this, how to control it. He considers cursing it, but he needs it and it's a beautiful creature and he hates Hermione for making him care more about her than power. He hates her but he can't possibly. If this is love, then nothing but confusing and he wants nothing to do with it, and so much to do with her.
It is expected but it happens so very quickly that Tom does not have time to prepare, to think of a solution, to be ready.
The beast quickly sidesteps Hermione and barrels its way towards Tom, changing direction faster than Tom could move out of the way, and escaping up the tunnel Tom and Hermione had come down through.
He is angry and worried. He glances at Hermione quickly, her fists still clenched, her eyes still shut, her shoulders still shaking, before he runs after the basilisk, runs after this beast that he had always admired so. This beast that he now thinks he might be willing to kill if it dares upset her.
She would hate him if something happened, if it killed or hurt anyone. She would hate him and he couldn't possibly deal with her hating him, not now, not ever, it is unthinkable, undesirable, incomprehensible, a thought that he would prefer to keep far away and unbeknown to himself, something to remain foreign and alien. The possibility is so very close and he doesn't like it, doesn't want it, would do anything to avoid it.
She would hate him if something happened.
She would hate him, so he has to run after the beast, has to catch it, has to tame it, has to stop it, to make sure it doesn't hurt anyone for it would surely hurt her and her hurt would pain him more than anything else. The realization of this makes him sick, the fact that his being is so entirely dependent on her and her happiness makes him sick, but it is not something he can simply send away, Crucio and Obliviate and know that it'll be okay. It is not something he knows how to control; it is not something he can control and it makes him sick. She is a disease that he craves and cannot rid himself of and he does not know what to do, how to handle it, how to live with such a thing. But he must learn, he must learn because it is not going away anytime soon. Not while she is still so intelligent, so powerful, so witty and kind and secretive and mysterious and a puzzle he longs to solve that won't lend itself to his mind.
It kills the mudblood girl. Mary or Murray or Myrtle or something. He gets the basilisk back, he reaches it, but not in time, not before it reaches her, not before it kills the girl, and spreads a panic through the school, not before a fear grips Hermione's heart. A fear that he sees every time she avoids his eyes, every time she jumps at the sound of his voice, every time she walks the other way when she sees him coming, rushes out of class the second they're allowed to, makes sure to sit at a crowded table in the library where there is never enough room for him.
She is afraid of him and the consequences that it might bring frighten him. He can't talk to her, look at her, have her see reason, convince her of his good intentions. He didn't mean for it to kill anyone; he didn't mean for anything to happen. He was willing to show her this part of himself, this part of his life that he had never shown to anyone else and, instead of strengthening whatever their relationship was, it may have destroyed it, it may have ruined whatever she felt for him, of him, with him.
He is sorry. Not for the basilisk's action or the girl's death or the school's panic, but for himself, for his own pain at not being able to speak to her anymore. He is sorry because he cares for her too much, far more than he ever meant to care for anyone and it makes him sad and sick and suffer and he hates it more than he hopes she could ever hate him.