"Winky, can you help me with something?"
Ever since Hermione learned of Winky's habit to drink herself into stupors that land her in the kitchen's supply closet, she's taken to calling on the girl at every possible moment – even when it isn't entirely necessary. Whether this is for her own peace of mind or to keep Winky so busy she doesn't have time to traipse to the liquor cabinet downstairs – or both – is controvertible.
"What is it?" Winky sets down the basket of clothes on her hip and comes over. Her tiny body combined with big, slightly bulging hazel eyes and short brown hair cut in a bob would be pretty on a fatter face. She reminds Hermione of a restless hummingbird with a razor-sharp beak poised for whatever use it deems necessary.
"I don't need these anymore. Here." Hermione thrusts a pile of this past week's newspapers at her. "Oh wait-!" She grabs one in the middle, snaps a pair of scissors expertly, and surfaces with another ad which she waves triumphantly. It declaresJob Opening at Scrivenshaft's Pen Shop, Where The Best Pens are Made By Hand! The offered position is shelf-stocking. Winky frowns. "There we are," she says. "If you could just take those away and bring me back some…uh…" She looks around for inspiration. "Oh, ah, paper for the typewriter."
"The typewriter you've never used?" Winky says dubiously.
"The very one." Hermione's persistent cheerfulness doesn't waver even when the maid fixes her with a skeptical glare, before sighing and trudging away. The door shuts behind her sharply.
Hermione's smile fades as she looks down at the ad in her hand. The prospect of stocking shelves again does not enthuse her, not even if the alternative is staying here with Tom. But what would she be if the circumstances were different? What would she be? The answer's simple.
She has no idea.
Winky returns, finding Hermione still at the desk and compiling a list of job offers, neatly writing down their addresses, requirements, et cetera. She stuffs paper into the typewriter and sets the remainder on the side, placing one of the many newspapers littering Hermione's bedroom – she picks Columbia Daily Spectator – on top to keep it from falling off. "Is there anything else you need?" she inquires.
"Um." Hermione looks around, frowning when she finds nothing. Winky eagerly edges toward the door. "I'm sure there's…something," she mutters. Her eyes suddenly brighten. "Ah, I know, show me how to use the typewriter."
"I don't even know how to use that thing." Winky casts a repulsed look at the offending piece of machinery, as if it could sprout wings and a row of venom-covered teeth.
Hermione slumps in her chair. "Drat."
"Why are you so keen on giving me stuff to do anyway?" Winky demands, coming around to the desk and sticking her hands on her pointy hips. Hermione winces guiltily under her withering glare. "I know you and Dobby have been getting friendly, so I assume he ran his mouth and told you about my drinking-" Hermione opens her mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand. "-but I don't care about that," she continues. "I just want you to know I don't appreciate your treating me differently because of that. We can be friends, but you can't be my nanny, Hermione. I'm a grown woman. I make my own decisions."
"I just…" She sighs. "I want to help you."
Winky attempts to keep her stern look in place, but it slips slightly, revealing a slight smile. "Don't be silly, Hermione. Girls like you and me-" She pauses, her voice unconsciously softening. "-we haven't got anybody but ourselves."
Hermione blinks.
Winky clears her throat, seeming to remember her characteristic gruffness. "If there really is nothing for me to do though, I should get back to work. I do have other things to do, you know. This place doesn't clean itself."
Hermione grimaces. "Oh, right. I hadn't thought about that when I…" She starts again, "Is it ok if I still call you for help with things? I like your company."
"If you must." Winky sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes. When Hermione doesn't smile, she hesitates before adding, "Does this have anything to do with Mr. Voldemort by any chance?"
"What?" Hermione says, so sharply that Winky's eyes immediately shutter in suspicion. "I-I mean, of course not. He's usually like this, isn't he? I mean, he has to work. Paintings don't…paint themselves, do they?"
Winky cocks a brow, saying nothing.
Hermione turns bright red.
Thankfully, the maid has the grace to change the subject. "So you're looking for work, are you?" she asks, stepping up and peering nosily at the papers scattered across the desk. Hermione nods and frowns at a thought, tapping a fountain pen against her top lip. "Not much luck, I'm guessing."
"Rotten luck," Hermione grumbles.
"I don't suppose you'd be interested in becoming a maid?"
Hermione blinks at Winky, surprised, then horrified. "Oh no, I couldn't possibly-" At Winky's insulted look, she quickly adds, "I mean, of course I don't have anything against the position, but I just couldn't work here. That's the thing." She lowers her voice. "I'm trying to get work so I don't…" Here, she stops, cautious as to how much she should tell Winky. She's never trusted anyone except Tom before, and it's clear how ill that turned out.
She doesn't think she knows how to trust anyone at all.
"So you don't…?" Winky prods.
"So I can move out and start a life of my own," Hermione says finally, figuring this is enough to surpass Winky's keen inspection. It seems to be, too, since Winky nods and even smiles a little at her answer.
"I like that. I've always thought independent women are the best kind," Winky comments philosophically. "Much better than snot-nosed housewives with Crisco for brains, anyway."
Hermione grins. "Well, thanks for the offer anyway."
"Actually, I never meant for you to work here," Winky says, absently picking at a loose stitch on the hip of her pleated dress. "I know a friend of mine who just left a house in Manchester. She worked for a very kind family, a little uppity but nice enough – you know the type. Anywho, she's gone into retirement and their looking for a replacement to fill her place. I could always talk to her if you want, put in a good word for you and see if they've found anyone yet. It might be a while though, as mail is slow and she doesn't have a telephone."
There's a beat of silence.
Finally, Hermione speaks, and her voice is sour as curdled milk. "You know, it isn't kind to get my hopes up like that, Winky."
"To get your hopes up?"
"Yes," she repeats, irritated. She grabs a new pen and starts scribbling on her list again. "I really thought you were better than that."
"But I wasn't lying," Winky protests, surprised. "I'm serious, there's a housekeeper opening in Manchester."
Hermione pauses, looking at her through narrowed eyes. "Really?"
"Of course," Winky says. "Why would I make something like that up?"
She stares at her, and the look on her face is paradoxical: a mixture of relief and doubt. "Oh, I'm sorry. I-" She bites her lip. "I thought you were pulling my leg."
"Well, I wasn't. Now do you want the job or not?"
"Of course I want it," Hermione says quickly. "Just, what do I need to do?"
Winky rolls her eyes. "Well, learn how to use a feather duster, for starters-"
"No, no, not for the position," she interrupts, spinning around to face her. "But for you to do this for me. What do you want in return?"
"Nothing, it's just a favor." Winky regards her queerly. "Why do you think I'd want something from you?"
"I just assumed." Hermione's tone is off-hand, but it can't quite hide her confusion. What is she missing? Doesn't everything come at a price, a demand, or from some ulterior motive? Perhaps Winky is only exceptionally generous. "Well, um…thank you."
"You don't need to thank me." The words are uttered so gently she looks up. The pitiful look Winky is giving her, she thinks, seems to understand what is going through her head a little too well. It understands her more than anyone should ever understand Hermione Granger.
Despite what she told Winky, Hermione isn't as unaffected by Tom's absence as she claims. After the maid promised to look into the housework position for her, Hermione was quietly glowing for quite a while, but the feeling eventually faded when she realized she didn't have anyone else to share her news with. The room felt large and quiet after Winky had left…and lonely.
Actually, for the past few days, that's how it's generally been. When Winky isn't around, Hermione has nothing to do but shuffle through newspapers she's already read a hundred times over, or walk around the hallways of the mansion searching for entertainment. Twice per day, she stops by the kitchen to say hello to Dobby, and she once even tried to get Kreacher to warm up to her by attempting to strike a conversation (he wouldn't have any of it, apparently having decided long ago to loath her), but for the most part she is very bored. She catches herself missing a certain someone more than once.
And it's not even that Tom is gone really. In fact, he's right here in the mansion every day, holed up in his art studio. The staff refer to it as a taboo territory. She has only been in his studio once, when investigating the identity of her host…but now that she knows what it is, she doesn't dare go there. The secrecy surrounding it suggests that of the sketchbooks Tom used to keep at Wool's. She could look through them, but only when they were finished.
An art studio does not seem like a place where anything remains finished for long.
Also, Tom works in episodes. Winky told her that when he goes into his art studio he stays there for hours and hours – sometimes he doesn't come out until three o' clock in the morning, having his meals sent to him throughout the day and only ever stepping out to use the loo for a minute. She'd said certain things triggered such episodes: a stroke of inspiration, poor sleep, competition. Competition sticks with Hermione; it sounds most befitting of Tom, although Winky says he's probably up there because of the upcoming art exhibition next week.
Hermione pulls up the desk chair to the typewriter, sitting down. She fiddles with a knob on the top of the shiny machine, wishing there was some sort of instruction manual someone thought to leave her. Gnawing on her lip, she taps the buttons, but not hard enough to make the contraption do anything. Me, a writer? That Tom could even suggest it with a straight face baffles her. What ever gave him that idea? If anything, she used to read, and that's all. What would she possibly write about?
Testing it out, she pushes down one of the shiny buttons. It makes a satisfying snap as it crunches out a letter. The ding the typewriter makes when it slides the paper up to the next line is even more satisfying.
She stays there, carefully typing for some time.
The fifth dinner alone is the last straw.
After someone clears away her food, Hermione leaves the dining room and goes upstairs – but this time she doesn't stop at the second floor where her bedroom is, but goes onto the third. She follows the same path from a little under three weeks ago, moving through the winding halls and past blown-up photos in grainy black and white, pictures of exotic landscapes she's never seen before and circus people twisted into grotesque positions. It's empty up here at this time, half of the staff having gone home or cleaned this part of the house already. She stops outside the studio.
Hi Tom. I was just walking by and thought I'd stop in… Do you mind? No, that's idiotic. He'll see through her in a second. Hermione rolls back on her heels, frustrated. It doesn't feel as if she is entering just any room, however, but a…a chamber of Tom Riddle. A secret, private part of himself that he guards so actively no one but himself is allowed inside it. Worst come to worst, he'll throw me out, she reminds herself not so encouragingly. At least, if he does, she can hate him again without restraint, and all will be as it should be. She can realize that this – whatever is making her pulse fly so fast, her sleep so awful, her throat choke up – isn't truly missing him at all, but only the dissatisfied sensation of missing human company.
Instead of knocking, she walks inside. The art studio is much as it was when she last saw it, crates of supplies crammed against the walls, finished canvases propped up wherever the law of gravity allows, tarp on the floor, paint and who-knows-what-else splattered everywhere else. She searches the room for the furiously working artist she'd imagined she would find whipping paint at the walls like the hounds of Hell are snapping at his heels, but finds nothing except the balcony on the opposite of the room, doors ajar. Instantly, she knows Tom is there.
Breathing lightly to avoid the fumes of chemicals, Hermione toes around the junk and masterpieces, glancing at the covered ones curiously as she passes them. She reaches the balcony and nudges the door some more, hoping it will creak to alert the lone figure outside to her presence. Of course, it doesn't, seeing as Karma hates all her human foes.
Hermione counts to three in her head, takes a deep breath, and steps outside, clearing her throat loudly. "AHEM."
"What-" Tom jumps like a startled cat, spinning around. He blinks. "Hermione?" He glances past her, as if expecting to find someone else, and frowns when he doesn't. "What are you doing in here?"
"I wanted to see what was keeping you from civilization," she says, striving for casualness as she walks up beside him. There is a safe amount of distance between them, three feet or more, but it still feels like she's standing on the precipice of a towering mountain. She tucks her fingers around the railing.
In her peripherals, Hermione sees Tom arch a brow, but he only turns back to the paramount view spread out in front of them. His arms settle back on the granite railing, the dark hairs on them flecked with paint, shoulders relaxing. Another tiny blot of pigment kisses his cheek like a purple beauty mark. Hermione studies the field of wild flowers below them, barely visible in the moonlight.
"Do you remember Mrs. Cole?" he says suddenly.
She starts, throwing him a disconcerted look. "How couldn't I? She watched over us like a hawk half our lives." In a mutter, she adds, "She despised us."
"Us? Ha!" Tom smirks, tracing a pattern only he can see on the night sky with his finger. Hermione follows the imaginary path up into the stars, wondering if he spotted a constellation, or something only he can see. "More like she despised mefor never letting her within two feet of you." She scoffs in agreement, and he grins at her. The moon is in his hair, turning the edges blue-black, and his smile is so wide she can see the back row of his even teeth. Peter Pan's smile. Her stomach quivers forebodingly and she has to look away before the feeling can process any further, studying a passing ferry in the distance, only noticeable because of the tiny lights embedded in its side.
"She thought I was some sort of demon child."
"You were a demon child."
"That's debatable."
"I beg to differ."
He whispers something unflattering about their possibly deceased matron into the night.
"Don't say that," she reprimands, but can't help the unsaid laughter in her voice. "What would Mrs. Cole do if she heard you?"
"Flog me with a wooden spoon? Her favorite tennis racket?" he guesses. Hermione snorts.
"Precisely."
"Well, with luck that old bat is dead now and no longer torturing poor orphans in downtown London," Tom says with an off-handed callousness that's really no shock coming from him. Hermione starts to make a retort, but is cut off when he continues, in a different tone, "Remember the time I boxed Piotr's ears?"
Hermione's smile falls and goosebumps that have no business in the dead of summer zip down her arms like tiny insects. She rubs at them, shivering. "You mean when you nearly gave him a concussion?"
He nods. "And you remember, of course, how Mrs. Cole asked you what had happened."
"Yes," she says stiltedly. "I lied, because you told me to."
"Tut tut, Hermione." Tom's eyes are admonishing, dancing with the light of a joke he hasn't let her in on yet. "You didn't do it because I wanted you to. You did it because you wanted to protect me, because you liked that I fought for you."
"Don't be ridic-"
"Don't bother denying it," he orders, then softens his voice at her flinch. "Don't you recall the time you saw me kissing some girl in the park, Hermione? Don't you remember what you did?"
She glares at him. "'Some girl in the park'? You do know you've kissed a million girls-"
"That isn't an answer to my question."
An impatient huff escapes her. So fast the words are barely comprehensible, she admits, "Yes, I remember. You got mad at me for seeing and you wouldn't talk to me the whole walk back to Wool's until I said I was over it-"
"Yes, yes." He waves a hand dismissively. "But what matters is you weren't. You held a grudge against me for days and you tricked Eric Whalley into thinking you had a crush on him in this crazy little scheme to get back at me."
Hermione balks. "T-that's outrageous! I have no idea what you're talking about."
"When we were in the cafeteria for lunch one day," Tom goes on, as if she hadn't spoken, "I was sitting at our usual table, waiting for you. I remember seeing you walk in and go over to Eric for a chat – you didn't look at me once, which of course, made it even worse. And then you kissed his cheek." His eyes pierce her, a reminiscent smirk edging around his lips. "And you knew I was watching. You wanted me to see."
"I don't remember any of this," Hermione whispers, mouth dry. Her brain sifts through the past wildly, frantically, and to her horror, foggy silhouettes of memory begin to take shape in her mind. She and some teenage boy walk outside, stopping when a figure they didn't see before peels himself off the brick wall and grabs the boy's hair without a word, smashing his face into the dirt, then jerking him up and throwing him face-first into the wall with supernatural strength, again, again, again…
"So just like you wanted me to, I got jealous," Tom says lightly. But there's an old rage burning under his words, like a lighter lifted to a half-eaten cigarette. Hermione waits for the conclusion she has already come to. "I cornered Eric in the courtyard at recess and beat him to a pulp; you just cried and watched me. But you took my side when Mrs. Cole came around to break it up, vouched for me, claimed Eric attacked me first and I was only defending myself. And how could she not believe you? You've always been the good one." He smirks. "Besides, you were the only witness. I never had to ask you to do it either... but I know why you did. I've been thinking about it." He turns his body toward her completely, leaning in so close she stiffens at the scent of paint and mint toothpaste, a too-familiar aroma that rolls off his skin like toxins. "It was because you wanted to see me lose it, Hermione," he whispers savagely. "You wanted to see me come undone at a little wriggle of your finger. You knew I couldn't take it when you played with my feelings, and you just loved to mess with me. You had to get your revenge. Always."
Hermione stares at him, a very quiet, tiny defiant gleam in her eye. "And?"
"And I have a theory." Closer he comes. Close enough to have to look down at her to meet her eyes, to make her hold her breath. "You pretend you don't have any part in…this." His fingers lightly touch her side, she tenses. "You've erased every instant where I'm not this terrible monster from your brain, so that I really am a monster to you now. You don't remember all the awful things you've done right beside me, because they've been crossed out of your memory. You don't want to remember the girl you used to be, do you? Because if you do, you'll realize that deep down you're a lot like me." He shakes his head. "And if that's the case, how could you ever live with yourself?"
She purses her lips. "That's just a theory."
"Yes, it is." Tom leans back and oxygen seems to become accessible again. "How does my theory fare though?" he asks.
"It has some validity...but errors, too."
"Such as?"
"For one, I would never break eight of Eric's teeth." He scoffs. "For another thing," she continues, "I haven't erased every memory where you're not abhorrent. Just most of them." With that, she turns to leave, but one last question from Tom stops her.
"Will you come to the art show tomorrow?" he asks.
She looks back at him, surprised. Tom seems tentative, younger somehow, and closer to the version of himself who used to draw her in the park and trace her smiles with his fingertips. Like he didn't understand how she could have so many of them. "I thought I was already going," she says. He blinks.
Then bizarrely, they smile at each other. The too-heavy thunks of her heart start to agitate, and his words chant themselves in her head over and over again, determined not to be forgotten, too important to be lost. You wanted to see me lose it.
And she did. She had wanted to see Tom Riddle break for her with every inch of her soul.
As soon as the elevator doors rattle open, Hermione thinks she knows why Tom never goes to his art shows.
The viewers and critics that hop through the reception area are in formal dresses and snazzy suits, crowding around the pieces that have already been sold, sounding like a great bee hive as they mutter and hum. As they amble along, Hermione learns the art is abstract expressionism (Voldemort's favorite mode, it appears, and a sensational one at that), but to her just means splatters of paint and occasionally, some dots. Bystanders dash frequent glances at Tom when they realize who he is, and especially how fetching. It makes Hermione uncomfortable to stand beside him, like a little girl playing dress-up at an adult party.
"See how boring this is?" Tom murmurs under his breath, although he guides them through the crowd with a permanently pleasant smile. "Look what I would've had to suffer through alone if you hadn't come."
Hermione laughs for the first time tonight, but it's more a nervous reaction than genuine. "Yes, this all looks very dire." She scans the vicinity and meets the black gaze of a nearby photographer's camera as he snaps a shot of them. She blinks at the flash and flushes, unaccustomed to a place where pictures aren't an occasional ceremony but taken almost casually. Tom glares at the cameraman until he gets the message and skitters away to bother some other bystanders.
"Are you alright?" he asks, once the man's gone. His eyes run over her as if they might find some fatal bodily injury, hand lifting as if he'll touch her to check.
"Yes, of course." Hermione frowns at him. They've been getting along well since last night's intervention, and she doesn't want this Pax Romana to end – at least, not yet. She's enjoying having her friend back, even if it's only temporary.
She doesn't indulge the tiny morsel of her that is flattered by his attentions.
Their conversation grinds to a halt when another friend of so-and-so comes up to them; they gloss on plastic smiles the way Cygnus advised her to and Tom already does anyway, while Tom does the introductions. Ah, yes! So nice to meet you Mrs. This-of-that, and you, Mr. That-of-this. Why, they're excellent pieces – your finest, I daresay. Oh, thank you. You know I'm nothing without your generous support, truly…
When there's finally a gap in the terrible, meaningless chatter, Hermione turns to Tom, hissing, "How can you do this all the time? It's so…so…"
"Contemptuous? Artificial?"
"Nauseating," she finishes grimly.
A lady chewing bubble gum floats up to them, backed by a duo of women. One of the women has long blonde hair, tumbling past her waist and extremely garnished. Turnips, garlic cloves, fake jewels, and tulips are braided through her wild tangled locks, setting off a zesty aroma whenever she moves her head. The other woman with them looks younger than the rest – and haughtier. She has dark brown hair wound into an elegant bun and smoky brown eyes Hermione can describe with no other word than sultry. She scans Hermione and smiles mysteriously behind a hand of crimson nails.
"Hermione, pumpkin," Pansy exclaims with extreme relief, like they've been searching for each other for centuries and are finally reunited. She glides forward, pecking her on the cheek with lips that smell like strawberry gum. "It's so good to see you again. Look here, I've brought the editor's daughter of the Quibbler, just as promised." She winks, turning to Tom, while Hermione quizzically looks past her at the vegetable woman. "Now Voldemort, I hope you do not mind my entourage at your little party. We're only here to look. Cross my heart." A toxic smile crosses her face that instantly convinces one otherwise.
Unimpressed, Tom simply looks at her. "I hope that's the case, Miss Parkinson. The last time you brought-" His dark eyes roam over the tagalongs behind Pansy carefully. -"...friends, I'm afraid you nearly burnt the building down."
Pansy waves a dismissive hand. "Accidents, petty misunderstandings, a little bonfire, blah blah blah. It's all in the past, isn't it?" She smiles at Hermione indulgently. "Hermione, why don't you come along and I'll give you the rounds, introduce you to the big people and all that jazz?"
"Well, I-"
"Well, you what?" Coming forward, Pansy snatches her hand before she can answer, and Hermione reluctantly lets her drag her aside. "Bellatrix?" she inquires, peeking around Hermione's hair. The young woman looks up at them with a disinterest extremely similar to Tom's. Hermione frowns. "Are you coming?"
"No thanks, doll." Bellatrix's voice alone is sex and trouble with a promise, more of a rasp than a tenor. She smirks at Tom, whose intense eyes are on Hermione's hand. She looks down, realizing Pansy's is still clasped around it, and returns his look with a significant one. We're friends now, she tries to say with her eyes. Friends let other people touch them. In response, his fingers tighten around his champagne glass. The time they spent talking on the balcony last night feels very faraway.
Bellatrix interrupts their moment with a sharp laugh. "Oh, I've got everything I need right here," she says, a hint of an endearing Southern drawl rolling into her raspy voice. "We'll catch y'all later."
We? Pansy smiles back, but is rolling her eyes by the time they turn away. "Art whore," she mutters. Seeing the blonde woman with them start to wander, she snaps to attention, calling "Luna!"
Luna stops, raising her eyebrows at them. "Ye-es?"
Pansy sighs, cutting Hermione an exhausted look. "It's like I'm the god-damn babysitter," she sneers under her breath, before marching up to Luna with a brilliant smile. If Hermione wasn't sure before, she is now certain she doesn't like the looks of that curly grin. When she catches up to the two, it's in time to hear Pansy saying, "-so dear, please do keep up. I wouldn't want to lose you."
Luna nods serenely, floating back to her companion's side. As they walk, Pansy blabbers away, pointing out all different critics and popular faces. There's a famous actress in an upcoming moving picture. There's her director - and apparently, he's her belle, too. Here is a washed-up artist. Here is a rising one. Here is the senator and here is his wife; his mistress is right over there schmoozing the elevator man…
Try as she might, Hermione can't find the patience to focus on anything that passes Pansy's lips. She watches the pieces of art as they walk by them. Black on white, rolled so it guides your eye and makes you feel small as Alice when she ate the teacake; paint splattered every which way in warm autumn tones, chaotic like a hurricane, dripping up and down the canvas, throwing you into a conundrum that makes your head pound the more you stare, trying to understand-
"Darling!" Pansy's shrill call rips Hermione out of her daze. She's spotted Antonin Dolohov, a rumored double agent from some sort of spy agency in Soviet Russia (aparently, he turned traitor eleven years ago and had been promptly exiled) and at his side, Abraxas Malfoy, who handles Voldemort's finances. Hermione's eyes widen at Malfoy. The sight of him reminds her of her intentions to learn more about Voldemort's...elusive past.
She's about to follow Pansy over so that she might speak to him when she realizes Vegetable Woman is missing. She looks around, just in time to the see the back of her silvery dress trail between a group of drunk old men. Oh great. She shoots a glance at Pansy, who seems not to have noticed. Should she say something, or just ignore it and get her information from Malfoy? After a moment of deliberation, she sighs, turns on her heel, and goes after her.
"Hey Luna, wait!" she calls. Luna looks back and blinks at her, not like she's surprised, but as if waking up from a very pleasant dream. "Where are you going?" Hermione asks.
"To see my friends over there." Luna indicates an in-construction exhibit near the back, where a small cluster of people relax around an elegant table setting of drinks and tiny appetizers. "Would you like to come?" she says politely.
"Oh, um, that's alright." Hermione clears her throat. "I don't want to impose-"
"Who are you again?"
She breaks off, staring confusedly at Luna, who stares expectantly back. "Hermione Granger," she says slowly. "A – um – friend of Pansy's."
"I don't like her very much," Luna says, which instantly makes Hermione like her more, "but yes, you can come."
"But I never said-" Hermione begins, then stops because Luna is walking away again. She sighs and follows her.
"Hello everyone," Luna says sagely, once they're standing before the group. The others look up and for a moment, Hermione worries that Luna has confused her 'friends' with some other batch of people when they say nothing. But suddenly, a grin breaks onto a young man's face, pushing up the spectacles he wears and drawing attention to an oddly-shaped scar on his temple – Hermione is shocked when she realizes he is the man from Flourish & Blotts – he waves at Luna.
"Hey Luna." Like Cygnus, he has a Scottish accent. "Who's your friend here?"
"Friend?" Luna echoes, confused, and looks around. Hermione flushes and the rest of the group looks awkward, but also used to this airy, disconnected response from Luna. "Oh. You mean Hermione Granger. Yes, she's quite nice. Very friendly. A little skittish, but overall pleasant."
The group gives a chorus of hellos after another uncomfortable pause and Hermione mutters a greeting back, embarrassed. She looks over her shoulder, hunting the crowd – which has grown by an entire half – for Cygnus or Tom. Neither of them are anywhere in sight. She wonders if Tom is with Bellatrix.
The man in the glasses steps forward, extending a hand and friendly smile. "Hi, Hermione. I'm Harry Potter."
She glances down at his hand, hesitates, and shakes it, although a shiver goes down her spine as she does. The memory of Tom's hard eyes as Pansy guided her away and the knowledge he for some reason dislikes this man is enough to make her pull back quickly though. She looks around to see the others are watching her closely for some unknown reason, like they're expecting a reaction - except for Luna, that is, who is studying a painting and thoughtfully murmuring adjectives in Turkish. She clears her throat.
That seems to snap them out of it.
"Er, well." Harry takes up the task of being the ice-breaker once again. "Hermione…this is Tonks, Lupin, Neville, Seamus, Ginny, and Ron." He points to each person in turn, but they all go by so fast Hermione barely remembers them.
The group admits cursory greetings again, before slowly dissolving back into conversation. Hermione stands there, not willing to go back to Pansy but not quite knowing where to go if she leaves either. She feels eyes on her and raises her head to find the redhead – she thinks his name is Ron – staring at her. His frown deepens and he looks at her harder, blue eyes speculative. Her heart skips a beat. She's about to make a quick getaway when Harry comes over.
"Ron, what are you up to over here?" he says lightly, with a forced laugh and pointed look at his companion that seems to say Stop being creepy. "You look like you're trying to do algebra."
Ron goes red from his ears to his neck and mutters something unflattering about Harry's active duty under his breath.
"Don't mind him, Hermione," Harry assures her. "He's harmless as a fly."
"Right." She isn't convinced. Ron is back to staring again. She smiles at him tightly, looking away and pretending to search the crowd.
"Sorry," Ron says abruptly, when the awkward silence between the three of them builds. "It's just... I knew a Hermione once and you look really familiar." He stares at her hard, as if that will dispel the trance of déja-vu.
"Really?" That's strange. Most people have never met anyone with the name Hermione, so to be mistaken for someone else is a surprise to her. She studies Ron back now, puzzled. "I'm sorry, but that can't be possible. I grew up in an orphanage, so we couldn't have met before."
His eyebrows shoot up, perhaps in disappointment, perhaps in disgust. "Oh, I guess not." But the unsaid question lingers in both their eyes: Do I know you? Logic says otherwise - there's no way a memorable stranger could be squeezed into the nine years she spent at Wool's Orphanage, after all - but Hermione can't get the feeling of recognition out of her head. And the more she stares at Ron, the more she remembers something...
"Harry," Ginny says, appearing at Harry's side. Hermione observes her carrot-orange hair, freckles and blue eyes, looking back at Ron. The two are definitely related, despite the large age difference between them. Why do they seem so familiar?"Don't look now, but trouble is coming - and it's got be-otch written all over her."
On cue, all of them turn around - much to Ginny's annoyance - and their eyes fall on Pansy Parkinson, strutting around with her hands lounging coolly on her skirt-fluffed hips. Hermione groans a little too drastically and Harry shoots her a glance, cocking a thumb at Pansy. "Do you know her?" he asks.
Unfortunately. "Yes, she's a...friend," she says reluctantly. "I was trying to hide from her."
Ron, who has apparently been eavesdropping, looks amused. "You hide from your friends?"
She blinks. "Well...yes?"
"We'll help hide you," Harry whispers and Ron nods. Before Hermione can even process this, the two men have slid in front of her, forming a barrier between her and Pansy. Astonished, she stares at their backs in shock - and then Pansy's voice suddenly comes through her self-acclaimed invisibility cloaks, distracting her.
"Hello there," Pansy says, cool and impersonal. "Have you seen a pal of mine? Hermione?"
"No," Ron replies shortly. "Haven't even heard of the name, so why don't you keep moving, venom toad? Go scuttle around with Voldemort's other henchmen."
Venom toad? Beyond that though, Hermione puzzles over henchmen. What the hell does that mean?
"Ha!" Pansy scoffs. "That's almost clever, and I almost actually care what you have to say, except..." She snaps her fingers in inspiration. "Ah, that's right, I don't. So keep your mouth shut and buy a comb for that exploded tomato on your head, why don't you?"
In front of Hermione, Ron goes rigid and clenches his fists. "If you weren't female-" he growls.
"Mr. Potter," Pansy interrupts. Hermione peers around Ron's arm to see her facing Harry, who is stone-faced but has his fists clenched as well. He and Ron look ready for a brawl. "Have you seen a woman with brown hair, a plain dress on? She's a little on the short side and I really do need to find her..."
"No, I haven't seen anyone like that," Harry says stiffly. "But now that you're done here, Pansy, why don't you get going?"
Pansy spares another brief, calculating glance at the lot of them, and gives a curt nod. "Enjoy the show, Mr. Potter...and Mr. Potter's friends." At the end, her thin upper lip curls in a light sneer. She spins in a flourish and strides away, pumps snapping across the polished floors. Hermione scowls after her.
Harry and Ron turn around. Ron still looks red with rage, but Harry seems to have cooled down. Hermione regards them both critically. "You didn't have to do that, you know."
"Yes, but Luna said you're nice, so we did," Harry says, as if that explains anything.
"I told you not to look," Ginny grumbles.
"Sorry." He offers her a rueful smile and she blushes to the roots of her hair, much as Ron did when Harry made fun of him. The resemblance between them strikes Hermione again. She wonders what it is that's so utterly familiar about them.
"Thank you for what you did," she says suddenly. "You really...did me a favor." That's two favors today, Hermione thinks, remembering Winky. And I didn't do anything to deserve them.
Harry and Ron blink at her, surprised, before almost simultaneously bursting into laughter. She stares at them, boggled, and feels a hot rush of indignance - why are they laughing?- but later realizes that she may have accidentally made a joke. Ron straightens to full height, wiping at his eye. "Oh, that's classic, Hermione," he wheezes. "You've got one of the most well-off heiresses trailing around after you like a lost puppy and you want to get rid of her."
"Well, she's flaky," she says defensively, which sends both Harry and Ron into another round of hysterics.
"They've had far too much to drink," Ginny mutters.
"Obviously," Tonks pitches in, taking a sip of her own scotch. She runs a hand through cropped navy blue hair and glances over Hermione. "You don't seem like the art type," she observes. "How did a little thing like you come to be here?"
"I'm not," Hermione confesses. "I'm an old friend of Voldemort's, he wanted me to come along."
That brings Harry and Ron's laughter to a grinding halt.
"You mean you're one of them?" Ginny says, reeling back and staring at her as if she just grew horns out of her eyeballs. Hermione is afraid the girl might hiss at her. "But you're not even semi-witchlike."
"It explains the affiliation with Parkinson," Tonks whispers to Lupin and Neville, who have somehow joined the audience. They nod in assent. Hermione feels herself go red.
"Sorry?" she says, lost - and a little irritated. "What's going on?"
"Voldemort is Harry's archenemy," Ginny explains. "There's a prophecy and everything."
Harry rolls his eyes. "No, he isn't - and that prophecy was a gag. You know the psychic we saw at that New Year's party was just for kicks."
Ron snickers. "Trelawney sees all!" he intones, wriggling his fingers at Harry and hunching his shoulders like an old hag. Harry groans. "Not one can paint with acrylics while the other uses watercolors..."
"Why would you two be enemies?" Hermione inquires.
"We're not-" Harry starts, but Ron cuts him off.
"Harry is an art prodigy, a rising star, known all over for his work and all, right?" he says, in a way that suggests she should know this already. Hermione nods, surprised but following. "Well, so is Voldemort. Or at least he was the youngest prodigy to make it big until Harry came along three years ago and took his thunder. Anyway, Voldemort is still extremely famous, but it's not enough for him to share the spotlight. Now he's got a huge grudge against him and the two of them are constantly competing for glory, although Harry always denies it. It's like an art war or something."
War? Hermione goes a degree colder inside, because that word perfectly describes what envy and competition can very easily reduce Tom to. She thinks back to what Cygnus said earlier at their arrival, when Tom had complained about their coming here: There was word that your...competitor might be stopping by tonight. I thought I'd call you in, just in case rumors proved true.
And it seems Harry Potter did show.
"The crowd Voldemort hangs with is always a shifty, stuck-up bunch," Ron goes on, "so that you're one of his friends just threw us for a bit of a loop." He smiles at her bashfully. "Not that you're shifty at all."
Hermione stares at Ron's embarrassed grin, then back into his blue eyes. "I'm sorry if this sounds strange, but do you mind telling me your last name?"
He frowns. "Er, it's Marsh. Why?"
She studies him, frowning, and it suddenly clicks. Marsh.
"Thanks, Mrs. Marsh." Hermione puts the two crowns deep inside her satchel and waves to the Marsh family. All six of them are bundled in their homey flat two sizes too small just inside the threshold she now stands on. Five red-headed children shout out their returning goodbyes – Mr. Marsh, who is off in the factory where he works part-time and builds parts for ships, already said his parting an hour past – and Mrs. Marsh, rosy-cheeked and kindly stern as a Mary Poppins, hustles Hermione away, warning her to get going before it goes dark…
"Ron."
"Ye-es?"
Hermione beams and bounds forward, throwing her arms around his grown-up, lanky frame. "Ron!"
"Hermione?"
"Yes, yes," she says excitedly, pulling away. Ron is blushing furiously. "It's me, Hermione. Hermione Granger. Don't you remember me? I used to live on Little Hemmingway and I came to your house during the week to clean. Where is everyone? Where's Fred and George and Charlie and Percy and...?" She stops and whirls around, facing Ginny, whose eyebrows shoot up to the hairline at her unrestrained glee. "Gin-gin!"
"Who-who?" Ginny asks, glowering at her.
"Oh my... you're so big. I think you were a baby the last time I saw you," Hermione gushes. She can't believe her luck. Long ago, she had forgotten the Marshs and resigned herself to a part of the past she would never touch again, but now,somehow...
"I'm lost," Harry says, scratching the odd scar on his forehead. "You two know each other?"
"From a long time ago," Ron says distantly. He and Hermione look at each other, and he grins.
"Well then, we'll all have to keep in touch so we can get together again." Harry looks between the two of them, deeply amused for some reason Hermione can't fathom - and she suddenly realizes what their staring must look like. She breaks the connection fast, averting her eyes awkwardly. Ron looks away as well, as if he's just realized it too.
Maybe it's time she gets going.
Before she departs, Harry gives Hermione his telephone line and makes sure she promises to call - there's a party downtown they invite her to - she gives her word. Tucking the stationary inside her dress, she walks away, feeling light as whipped cream as she searches for Tom in the procession. Should I tell him? Or maybe I'll just tell Winky. She finds Cygnus in the crowd and hurries over to him.
"Cyg," she says when she reaches him. He looks at her sternly, in full curator mode, but surprise flickers in his eyes at her flushed face and ecstatic smile. "Have you seen Tom anywhere?"
"Tom?" He looks briefly confused, but then his face clears. "Oh, you mean Voldemort." He tuts. "I feel as though all you ever do is ask me this question. Why don't we have a deep conversation for once? Why can't we hold a discussion about current events, or some other stimulating subject-?"
"Cygnus."
"Oh alright." He purses his lips to one side for a pensive moment. "Last I saw Voldemort, he was with Bellatrix on the balcony outside. Happy?"
Hermione freezes.
A cold, cruel stab of invisible ice water shatters down her back as she remembers the way Bellatrix smiled at her, how she said, We'll catch up with you later. She hears herself say, "With Bellatrix?"
"Yes, the crazy cousin I mentioned that one time." He sighs, toying with a lighter in his handkerchief pocket. "She's got quite a crush on him too, so I would keep an eye out if I were you."
"Yeah," she agrees softly, not even bothering to correct his assumption that they're together. Her thoughts are already miles ahead.
She finally finds Tom in an in-construction exhibit, hidden behind a tarp in an empty corner of the vast showroom. She hurries over, but then slows when she sees he isn't alone.
Hermione strides through the reception at a brisk pace, shouldering aside the observers without apology or pause. She heads toward the balcony, where she can see two doors halfway open, their gauzy curtains aflutter in the late July breeze.
There's a girl here.
Hermione freezes, watching Tom and the girl bend and twist messily. The girl is pretty and looks to be a year older than him. She giggles and laughs while they French kiss. Hermione blushes, because she knows Tom kisses other girls - he's told her so – but seeing him do it is another thing entirely, and it makes her feel strange. Like she's on the outside. Like she's been forgotten.
God, she hates to be forgotten.
Tom opens his sleepy eyes from behind the girl's wavy golden hair and sees her watching. He blinks. She bolts.
She throws back the doors, eyes whipping all around.
Hurrying away, Hermione curses herself. Why did she have to stay and look? Why did Tom have to see her? Oh, this is so embarrassing…
Slapping herself down on the bench, she finds she feels quite put out.
Tom turns around from where he drifts against the iron railing, Bellatrix turning along beside him. "Hermione?" he says, perplexed.
"You did that on purpose," Tom accuses. "You set me up to fight Eric Whalley."
She blinks up at him innocently. "I didn't do anything, Tom."
"Yes, you did, damn it." He steps closer, eyes burning with jealous rage, jaw taut. "You know you're mine. Why would you kiss him? Why?"
"You kiss other girls."
"That's different."
"How come?" she challenges.
"Because it is," he growls. "Now you're going to stay away from Eric, or Mrs. Cole won't be able to stop me from turning him into a corpse next time."
Her eyes fill with tears, at his horribleness and the bitter triumph of winning a lost fight. "Do you mean that?"
"Yes." He kisses her. His fingers pull at her hair and claw her closer. She holds him as close as she can, laughing inside. Laughing, crying, laughing.
"You're not..." Hermione looks back and forth between the two of them, standing perfectly apart, confused. She clears her throat. "Sorry. I can come back later, if I interrupted..."
"No, that won't be necessary." Tom waves a casual hand at Bellatrix, dismissing her. Bellatrix whispers something in his ear he doesn't react to and strolls past Hermione, sending her a fearsome, twisted smile she isn't sure how to respond to. The door clicks shut behind Bellatrix too gently.
"What's wrong?" Tom asks, eying her carefully.
"Nothing." Hermione makes herself smile, brushing back a curl of hair as if she doesn't have a worry in the world. Her heart pounds out her relief though, the relief she doesn't understand at all. "Um…are you ready to go?"
He rolls his eyes. "I've been ready to leave since we got here."
"Oh, good." She nods, probably too quickly judging by the suspicious look he gives her. She presses a hand to the pulse leaping in her neck, sucking in a gust of air. "Um, I'll be down in the car, whenever you're ready. Excuse me." She breaks away before he can stop her, rushing through the din inside to the elevator. The doors are about to shut when she runs up to them, flagging down the elevator man. He slides the doors and grate back open with a heavy sigh.
Hermione rides down with a group of strangers, thinking of the jealousy – there's no use denying what it is – she felt when she bursts onto the balcony, and how ridiculously relieved she was to see them standing feet apart. Thank God, a part of her still keens, thank God, thank God. She doesn't know what she would've done if she saw Bellatrix's arms locked around Tom's neck. Maybe broken them off and fed them to her?
They hit the main floor.
Hermione goes outside and the chauffeur brings around the car, summoning the private driver from where he stands at a Greek cuisine stand chatting with the vendor. She packs herself inside it, smelling the gasoline and new leather, trying not to think about what just happened. Hoping Tom will have forgotten all about it by the time he gets in the car.
Of course, he hasn't.
When Tom gets in, he doesn't say anything until they start driving. Then he leans forward, slides up the divider between them and the driver the rest of the way, and faces her. He looks furious, judging by the reflection of his cold, fine-boned features in the window. Hermione stares at that instead of the real him. She doesn't trust herself to look at the real Tom Riddle.
"You think I have a fling with Bellatrix Lestrange," he says flatly.
Hermione pauses. "Well, I thought you did." She glances at his reflection again, before rolling over in the leather seat to face him. He glares down at her. "Judging by your tone now, however…" She stops, realizing something. "Who told you that?"
"Black," he says curtly. Hermione feels briefly betrayed by the ease with which Cygnus turned her in, but remembers what Ron said about Voldemort's henchmen. Her mouth tightens. "But that doesn't matter, what matters is that you do feel for me, you feel something, I knew it-" He reaches for her, scowling in aggravation when she scoots back. Face twisting, his fingers curl into a taut white fist.
"Why-" He pauses, lowering his fist and gently, gently knocking it against the window, although every corded muscle in his body tells him to shatter it. "Why," he hisses, "would you think that I'd ever have an interest in Bellatrix, of all people? In anyone? Haven't I made my feelings clear?"
"Well." She swallows. "You can hardly blame me after all the stunts you pulled when we were kids."
"Yes, when we were kids, but we're not kids anymore, Hermione. I don't care about Bellatrix, or any of them," he says with conviction. "They're all nothing to me, less than nothing. What can I do to make you see that?"
"I…" Hermione begins. I want you to never so much as look at that bat Bellatrix again, to know that you're mine, to remember how I can make you want me. I want you, I want you, I want you like the moon wants the sun and the dark wants the light. "You can't," she chokes out. "I'm always going to be afraid of you."
He rubs his forehead. "Don't be-"
"I wish I wasn't." She breathes out, digging her fingers into the seat to steel herself for what comes next. The backs of her eyes sting. "I hate you for making me feel this way."
Tom looks at her. Just looks. "Have you always hated me?" he says at last, his voice soft and tremulous. "Truly?"
"Do you really hate me?" Tom says at last.
"No." Hermione wipes her raw eyes on her sleeve, looking over at him. He looks scared.
Her voice cracks. "Yes."
Tom goes stiff. His proud shoulders curve inward, his round boy nails pinch into his palms, and he's taut as a pulled arrow for a moment, ready to explode into black rage - but then the hard edges start to fuzz and the rigid muscles slide, until he's nothing but a boy staring blankly out the window.
"I'm sorry." Sorry for lying to you again.
Tom doesn't reply. He's turned away from her, but she can see his chest breathe slowly, the Adam's apple in his throat slide. He struggles to stifle the emotions, to be cold and empty, but cannot manage this once. The angel eyes whir at the passing buildings outside, eyelashes beating frantically, and there's...something that fills Hermione with utter horror. Something rolling down his cheek, some inhuman sound clawing out of his mouth before he bites his lip fast, some intense pain she can't take seeing trying to destroy him from the inside out. She wants to escape, but she can't throw open the door and roll herself into the street… even if it is preferable to this.
Tom Riddle never cries. Not when he was a baby, not when he slipped on a mop and fell down three flights of stairs, dislocating his shoulder when he was six. Not ever.
So how can he possibly cry now?
"Tom, I..." she whispers, but it's too late. She's pushed too far. She's been too cruel. She's hurt him, just as she's always wanted to do since the night he hurt her the worst, six years ago. She is victor. She has finally got her revenge.
So deep down, she supposes, she is a lot like him.
Except she's worse.