Hermione wakes with a jolt, drenched in sweat and shaking.

Her heart jackhammers painfully against her ribs as she tries to breathe, choking out one jagged breath after the next. Her body convulses without permission, hands desperately grasping for something to hold onto. She tries to regain control of herself, curling inwards, forcing her hands into fists. She stays there for what feels like hours, teeth clenched, shivering in cold and terror. Maybe it only takes minutes. Time runs through her hands like river water.

Next to her, something moves. Instinct kicks in, and she shoves herself upright, wand at the ready. As her eyes adjust to the dull embers of a dying campfire, a face looks back at her, a mixture of pity and understanding. Tom.

"Sorry," she stammers, clenching her hand harder around the wood of her wand, muscles straining to force her arm down. Shame tints her cheeks red.

"There's nothing to apologize for." His voice is husky from exhaustion. He's half-lying against the trunk of a tree, a rat-bitten blanket pulled up to his chin. He starts to shift, blindly searching for something under his cover. Hermione's eyes track his every move, focusing on the hand he extends to her. A little violet casket rests in his palm.. "Want some sleeping drops?"

"No thanks," she says, still struggling for self-control. She recognizes the casket from Borgin and Burkes. Stolen. She doesn't comment on it. "Why are you still awake?"

"Sleep doesn't come easily for me," he murmurs, pushing his hand back under the woollen blanket. Under the faint glow of the dying bonfire, the dark circles under Tom's eyes are bluish-violet. It's the first time she can see fatigue in his beautiful face. His brows are eased, yet slightly downward. Even halfway hidden under the blanket, he looks haunted.

"I see." She readjusts, turning towards him. Tucking in her knees, she leans her back against the trunk behind her. "What about that page we found?"

Maybe a diversion would do them both some good.

"I waited for you," he says. I don't want to be alone with myself, he means. Hermione understands. She takes her blanket and goes over to sit next to him. By the time she's settled, the diary page has replaced the casket in Tom's hand, and has already begun weaving its web. Familiar golden dust sprinkles over their camp, until walls, a roof, and the cold surface of dirty tiles obscure the forest around them. Desperate sobbing abruptly cuts through the air.

The room is small. Barely big enough for a bed, desk, and a Victorian cupboard. No strong smells accompany the memory, just the orange haze of a flickering lightbulb. Across from where Tom and Hermione sit, a small body cowers in front of the bed. The boy is shaking, trying to muffle the sobs with a wrinkled bed sheet. There's a nun next to the boy with a long bamboo stick in her old, wrinkled hands. Horror spreads through Hermione's veins. Tom is a child. Barely older than seven.

"Stop crying," the nun hisses, bringing the stick down on the boy's bent back. Tom flinches with each smack. Again. And again. And again. She does, too.

"Get yourself under control," the nun spits between blows, punctuating her strikes with insults. Abomination. Filth. Monster. Her abuse knows no bounds, each word sharper than any physical blow.

Little Tom stops sobbing - moving - the nun stops. Turning to leave, the nun stops in the doorway. Even before she opens her mouth Hermione can feel the cruelty dripping from her lips. "Look at you. Hardly surprising that your mother didn't want you. You'll rot in here. You'll always be alone. There's nothing worthy in you, Tom Riddle."

She spits his name with such ferocity that both Toms flinch. The whole scene dissolves into golden dust when the nun slams the door.

This memory is by far the shortest they ever visited, and Hermione is relieved that there's no more to see. The relief quickly gives way to disgust. Outrage. Her body vibrates with the urge to do something - anything - to help the sobbing boy with the baggy clothes. Besides her, however, Tom is motionless.

"You ok?" Hermione asks carefully.

Tom is still, unmoving. He doesn't even blink, just stares out into the night. She reaches out to touch his hand, fingertips barely grazing his. He flinches back like a wounded animal, but the spell that kept him in the memory is broken. He blinks rapidly before finally relaxing.

"Yeah." Tom clears his throat, then looks at her. He's fidgeting with the violet casket in his hand, drumming his fingers against the metal to some silent melody. "Yeah. It's in the past."

"Doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt," she says. Her anger slowly dissolves, much like the spell of the diary. She can feel the raw and delicate state of his soul. She doesn't want to scare him off.

Tom looks away. At first down at the ground, then up at the cloud-hung sky.

"It doesn't. Not anymore. At least not the scars that remained or the sleepless nights. The only thing that still hurts are the memories, once they return."

Hermione startles.

"Wait, so each memory we're visiting, is one you're missing?"

"Missing is the wrong word. The Horcruxes took them from me. They devoured them." The blanket falls down from his chin to his knees. Tom doesn't seem to notice, but his body does. Goosebumps rise on his arms and up his neck. "Memories are the backbone of our existence. The moment you lose yourself to the spell, it eats you from the inside out. That's the essence of creating a Horcrux. A life condemned in shapeless despair."

"That's... horrible." Hermione shivers from terror. Offering everything of yourself only to be nothing more than a shell of a human being … she doesn't want to think about it.

"You might think so. But if you don't have a lot of happy memories, it's easy to give up on the bad ones you have." Tom looks down at his hands. Realizing he's still fidgeting with the casket, he puts it away, bringing the blanket back up to his chin. More unspoken words hang between them.

"Let's get some rest," Hermione says after a while. They still sit close enough to touch, the warmth they share grounding her.

"There's no rest for me in this world," Tom says. Still, he slithers into a more comfortable position and closes his eyes.

Maybe in the next one, Hermione thinks, and follows him soon after.