When Bravery Abandons Ship Chapter 11: Common, a harry potter fanfic

"You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle Father's name forever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother's side? I, keep the name of the foul, common muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch?"

He's angry and she's afraid and she doesn't mean to upset him and she's sorry that life has been so cruel to him. She's sorry that he wasn't raised by loving people. She's sorry that everything in his life had been so entirely sour up until that point, she's sorry that not a single drop of honey has fallen into his cup and that he has only been left with a bitter tea and endless anger. She's sorry no one had ever loved him and that he had never learned to love or live. She's sorry but she's more afraid than anything else. He is angry and an angry Tom Riddle, even as a teenager, is not something to laugh at, not something to even glance at. It is something to run from, to hide from, something to fuel nightmares and regrets and pains.

"I'm sorry, Tom."

She says it quietly, slowly, considers not using his given name but fears using his chosen one more, fears what powers it may remind him of, what darkness it may bring into his mind and through his wand.

Neither speaks. He lets out a heavy breath and turns away from her, his arms loosely crossed over his chest before he lets them fall and dips his head.

"Hermione."

He hesitates, unsure of his words and of himself and she only looks at him. His hand is shaking, just a bit. He takes another deep breath, his chest rising and falling steeply with the action and he still doesn't look at her when he speaks, when he finally asks what he's been meaning to, her heart stops and she doesn't know how to respond and dread fills her, blanketing her thoughts and stilling her heart.

"Do you love me?"

He reaches his hand out to her, the pale thing shaking a minute amount and she nearly cringes at the sight, at the thought of him loving her and the thought of him touching her, caressing her, caring about and for her, but, that is the plan, right?

He draws his shaking hand back to himself, quickly, fearing his own weakness and they fall into a gap of words, into a new silence not unlike the old once again.

She gathers the courage to speak, because she is courageous and she has a mission and a duty and important things to save and do and be, so, after a shaky breath, she speaks, looking directly at him though she wishes she could look away or run away or all of the above.

"Do you love me?"

He doesn't respond, just as she didn't respond and suddenly all these weird feelings that exist in between them, the strange thoughts and terrifying what-ifs she has always thrown to the wind, the sideways glances and whispered phrases she has always let go, that have always come knocking on her window at night, ready to infiltrate her sleep, to plague her every moment with him, seem like the funniest thing in the world and she can't but laugh, just a quick, quiet thing, but the first time it's happened in a while. The conditions for this one, however, are much darker than what would be needed for a light, heartfelt thing of a joyful laugh. This is a laugh of pain, of desperation, of having no other option. Her laugh is low and sad and nothing like what used to be her truth.

He looks up sharply at the sound, at the distortions and the pains that make up this foreign, unrecognizable melody.

Her laughter fades into a smile and, as tears reach her eyes and a sadness hunches her shoulders and freezes over, forcing her to wrap her arms around herself and bow her head, the cold grey of the stone beneath her feet making a home for itself in the brown of her eyes.

And he, very quietly, asks if she has to marry Alphard.

She takes a deep breath, tries to collect herself, tries to banish the grey from her eyes, the sadness from her shoulders, the pain from her heart, but she cannot bring herself to shift her position, to straighten herself, to lighten herself, to love herself, so she doesn't. She stays hunched and tired and sad as she responds.

"I hope the stability my marriage to him will bring will help me think of death less."

She cannot say his name, cannot sully it with the truth and the lies of the statement and all that she has forced into his life.

"Does he know of your blood status?"

She takes a breath and hesitates, is this a thing she can tell him? A thing he should know? A thing that would help their mission? Her mission? And she nods.

"He knows, of course he knows."

"And his family—"

"Does not, of course."

He nods. He looks away. He sighs. He runs a hand through his hair, mucking up the ever-present air of perfection surrounding him, creating some scene of frustration, a distortion in the smooth surface that makes up Tom Riddle.

"Do you love him?"

His voice cracks with the word and a cold knife glides over Hermione's spine, chilling her to the core.

She begins to shake her head, still looking at him, but can't bring herself to brace the waves of his eyes, rising with a hope she feels no right to give him, and has to look away, has to swim towards land and safety and away from all he expects and all he wants and all she must do.

"I don't know."

It's as if, for just a second, the entire world stops. Owls freeze in flight, the wind ceases its rampage on flags and hair and hearts, snores pause, sleepwalkers stall, and the tsunami readying itself in his eyes stills, the quiet before the storm, and she finally looks at him once again, her shore meeting his ocean.

"I hope I will, I really hope I will, Tom."

"Please, Professor, I don't want to do this anymore. I'm afraid of what he might do, or say, or, or, or feel. Professor, I don't want to be a part of this, please."

Her hands shake, her lips shake, her eyelids flutter, her heart skips, her tears ache for release, but she tries to hold it all in, for Dumbledore's sake, for Alphard's sake, for her own sake.

And she finally gathers the courage to look Dumbledore in the eye, expecting to be met with shame, with concern, with some kind of care, but finding only a smile peeking through the man's beard, a smile that does not speak towards her wishes, her desires, her needs, but rather a self-satisfied and happy smile, and such a thing could only worry her when placed on this man's face. This man who had forced her into so much, this man that had always revealed less than he knew, always remained wise and far and more now becomes cruel and close and less and it frightens her, the shift pains her.

She takes a breath, trying to control her tears, now sprouting from her own desperation, from her own fear that she will never escape this, that Voldemort and all the misery he brings with him will always be a part of her life, will always be a part of her.

Her voice is shaky, but with a power raging behind it, as if the cracks were not from her fear or from her desperation, but from the great earthquake of anger powering through her.

"Why are you smiling?"

If Dumbledore is surprised by her sudden change in disposition, he does not show it. He merely continues smiling and the fear and anger in Hermione continue rising.

"Miss James, I smile because Tom is showing change, even if just a little, and even if it is slow."

Hermione is at a loss for words. Everything she could have said and would have said rushes out of her because of the chill Dumbledore's words have brought upon her. She has created change. She has doomed herself and many others to despair, but she has created change, just a little and very slowly, but change, nevertheless. She has an effect on the beast and she doesn't know whether to cry or cheer and so does neither instead, she simply sits quietly and stares at her hands, as if willing them to rise up and choke her, to end this, or willing them to grab her wand and curse the professor, kill Tom, her mind racing to catch up with all the emotions and thoughts that must be made a part of her, that must be ingrained and pained over.

It is silent in the room until Dumbledore clears his throat, his smile gone and a strange expression on his face, as if he would have been ashamed to ask in another life and the shadow of the thought rests upon him and linger on his face.

And he, very quietly, asks if she has to marry Alphard.

"He makes me feel at home, less like dying and something like living."

He doesn't press the issue.

She's sure he notices the bags underneath her eyes, the new and extreme paleness of her skin, the shaking of her hands, the carnage of her lower lip, the mess of her hair, the pain of her heart, but he doesn't say a word about it. He holds her hand gently and he leads her to the couch, to the prim and proper and uncomfortable couch. He rubs her cheeks and she hadn't noticed any tears had fallen, but he wipes them away anyways and doesn't say a word about them. He kisses her nose and she feels him flinch at the cold, but his lips bring her nothing but warmth.

She doesn't want to talk about it, and he knows, he understands, and so he doesn't, and a warmth encompasses her at his touch and she wishes she loved him now more than ever before. She imagines it would make things easier, but, logically, thoughtfully, honestly, she knows it wouldn't. Nothing could make this easier.

He says he's glad the plan is working. She doesn't believe him. He's just saying what he's supposed to. She can see he's tired too and she wishes he didn't have to be a part of this.

And she, very quietly, asks if he has to marry her. He says he's sorry. She says she's sorry.

Wrapped in his embrace, their lips meet and the warmth, the love and care, the understanding that it brings into her strikes her heart, punctures her soul and she cries. The tears leak from her eyes slowly and painfully, each one leaving a blazing hot trail that chills her to the core. The tears meet their joined mouths and she can see their hopelessness on his lips when he pulls away. He pulls her into himself once again, her tears still falling silently, her shoulders shaking quietly, and he doesn't ask questions, doesn't force her to speak when he knows that she doesn't want to think about it, talk about it, care about it. He grants her relief and, in this time, it's the closest she can get to joy. And, even though she knows all this, even as she tries to think of only Alphard and all that he is to her and all that he has done for her, she can't help but think of him, of how he would ask questions, force her to talk until she broke and then twist uncomfortably, trying to decide whether to ridicule her or comfort her. Wrapped in love and she can think of only him and she hates herself all the more.