They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.

- F. Scott Fitzgerald


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When she returned to her room after the Slug Club party, Hermione found the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw waiting for her.

It was long past midnight: less than ideal timing for a visit. And besides she was tired, a little drunk and very disturbed by her own desire. But she made a valiant effort to pull herself together.

"Good evening," Helena said, a touch sarcastically as though Hermione was late for an appointment.

"Hello," Hermione replied, sinking onto her sofa and taking off her shoes. She winced in relief, feet sore despite the cushioning charms. "I've been looking for you."

"I know," the ghost replied in her soft whispery voice. "I… was not ready to share my story with you. But now I think perhaps I can tell you a little of it."

And so Hermione sat and listened to the long-dead woman's tragic tale, the gist of which Harry had already told her.

"Help me leave this place," Helena said at last. That seemed strange suddenly, hearing of her death in Albania. Why would she be here?

"Why are you here? Can't you just go somewhere else?"

"I was the last Ravenclaw heir," Helena said. "My mother's only child. When I chose not to pass on, driven by spite against her, I rose as a ghost returned to the very place I had fled from. She awaited me Beyond, and I thought to punish her for sending that terrible man to me by denying her the reconciliation she desired. I did not know, then, that it was myself I was dooming to punishment. I was the heir to my House. The last one. It ties me to Hogwarts."

She floated upwards, and turned to face out of the window.

"He chose to come here. He claims it is to atone for what he did. But I think it is because he would follow me even in death." She said this with distaste. "We both came here, and I have been haunted by his presence for a thousand years. He will not leave and I cannot stay."

Hermione suddenly felt quite startlingly sober.

"How does that work? The heir part?" she asked.

"I was her only child, heir to her estates, her secrets, and her power. My mother and her comrades tied their magic to the castle. I do not know the details. All I know is that I am tied here against my will, even in death. To guide and help those of my mother's house so that there may always be a Ravenclaw at Hogwarts."

There was a lot to say, but nothing came. It was a dreadful fate, but the implications for other heirs were unpleasant.

"Thank you for telling me your story. I'll do some research over the holidays and see what I can find out," Hermione told her after a moment's thought. She suppressed a yawn. "I'm so sorry. It's very late."

"You will find a way to free me. I believe it, it is meant. Good night, Helen's daughter, and may your Yule time celebrations be merry and the New Year bring blessings."

"And to you, Lady."

.

.

Hermione slept fitfully, Helena's story pricking at her consciousness. She woke a few hours later, dry-eyed and dry-mouthed. Outside, there was little promise of dawn: the sky was still dark and forbidding and the snow-covered ground eerily reflecting what light there was.

She lit her fire, and took down a slim volume from among books she hadn't packed from her shelf. Four Quartets. It wasn't clear why such a recent Muggle poem had found its way to Hogsmeade's little bookshop, but the memory that her mother had loved it had made her choose that one. She'd read about a quarter of the books she'd bought earlier in the term, but not that one. In fact, she'd never read any of his work before before. Eleven wasn't really considered the proper age for T.S. Eliot and she'd never taken much interest in poetry.

Before, there had been too much to learn about her new world. But now, with no need to prove herself and a recurring need to escape her own head, now she was finding she liked literature. Her parents, sensible dentists that they were, had always loved reading novels and going to the theatre, but she'd thought it was something she'd cast off when she'd started having fantastical adventures in her real life.

The words leapt out off the page immediately, burning into her skin, her brain and sending it racing.

Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future,

And time future contained in time past.

If all time is eternally present

All time is unredeemable.

She read on, devouring the words like a woman staved. He knew, she thought. This man understood.

The poetry gripped her, and she read the whole collection, in all four parts.

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

It felt like a moment of guidance when she'd most needed it. But it was also a terrible reminder that there was no we in her exploration. She would be alone. How could she share herself, her life, when its purpose was to arrive back where she'd started?

Anyone she took with her would have a half-life, a journey forward to a previous existence.

She dressed, filled with regret for the boy with the soft brown eyes whose heart she was going to hurt from selfish fear.

Poor Marcus, she thought. How cruel she'd been, to seek comfort in his arms when she had nothing to offer him but a lifetime of exploration and learning and waiting, hiding her true self behind a mask for everyone's safety.

.

.

"I'm sorry," she told him, looking out towards the lake, as the half-risen sun lit up the water and set the snow glittering. "I can't be what you want."

"I am sorry too, Hermione," Marcus said bitterly. "Is it him?"

"No," she replied. "No. This is me. I'll never settle. I want to explore the world and see all its wonders and keep learning; and you want to live and love and make a home. I have a home, I don't want another one. One day, I hope you'll understand that I'm setting you free."

He left and she let him go, heart hard with righteousness.

This was kinder, in the long run. It was right.

.

.

.

Later, she found an empty compartment on the train, letting Marcus find comfort in their shared friends. It was ridiculous she even had to take the train, instead of just going home with Cerdic, but Professor Dippet had insisted.

Hermione had received enough special treatment, he'd said, and this wasn't just a school rule, it was the law. All students had to travel on the Hogwarts Express. Cerdic was probably enjoying a leisurely lunch with Dumbledore before Apparating to London, she reflected jealously.

Sophia had caught her boarding and kissed her and said, "I'll see you soon – at New Year if not before. Promise you'll come?"

"Yes," Hermione had replied. "I'll be there. I promise. I'll write to you and we can pick a day for present shopping."

"Perfect. Goodbye darling, and don't worry about Marcus."

But Hermione's compartment was not empty for long. The small red-headed boy who'd joined her on the way to Hogwarts peered in and then entered with a big smile. She'd seen Henry a little over the term and it was good to see the bright eyed boy, though not so small as he had been in September, far more full of confidence than he had been in September.

Henry told her all about the things he'd learnt, and the friends he'd made, and wasn't everything so exciting. She'd forgotten what a chatterbox he was, and she began to struggle to remain similarly enthused. Her head ached. It was ironic, she thought, that her journey to and from the castle should be so similar and yet feel so different.

Henry stayed until the door opened again, making him look up and gasp. He jumped to his feet.

"I um, I should rejoin my friends. I'll see you later Hermione. Have a marvellous Christmas."

It was Tom Riddle, of course. The Head Boy's presence automatically terrifying for a First Year.

"You too, Henry. Owl me if you're still finding Transfiguration difficult and I'll see if I can help."

"Oh thank you. I will," he replied, and cheeks aflame, he dashed out of the compartment, ducking under a rather amused looking Riddle's arm.

"Friend of yours?" Tom said, dropping onto the seat opposite.

"Yes, actually," she snapped.

He raised his hands innocently.

"I should tell you that one is a Hufflepuff, so probably not worth your time."

She glared at him and he smiled back.

"Not with your Housemates?" he asked, gesturing at the empty space and she raised an eyebrow.

"Clearly not."

"I meant," he said, irritated, "why are you not with your friends?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"Hermione," he sounded exasperated now, "you know what I'm asking."

She gave in. It was easier, and she was tired.

"I broke up with Marcus," she explained, very determinedly not looking at the boy opposite her. "It seemed polite not to force my presence on them at present."

He didn't say anything, just let out a sigh that could have meant anything, but as she was very specifically not looking at him, she couldn't search for that flash of emotion that always snuck out, that she'd learnt to spot.

"You look tired," he said at last.

"Charming."

"Why are you being difficult this morning? Would you like a hangover potion?"

Actually, yes that's exactly what she wanted. She was also starving. After her talk with Marcus, breakfast had seemed singularly unappetising.

But she didn't want it from him!

"I'm fine, thank you Tom."

He rolled his eyes and she noticed how tired he was. But his dark eyes were ablaze with something she'd never seen before, something unguarded and glorious and when he muttered something about obstinate witches and pulled a half-empty bottle from a pocket and offered it to her, she accepted it.

Her Inner-Harry voice screamed at her not to be a lunatic. You're not here, she told it firmly, and drank.

She felt better almost immediately.

"Bloody firewhisky," she said. "Thank you."

Thanking him was hard. The words tasted like bitter betrayal on her tongue but then he smiled, and there was something so genuinely relaxed about it that she couldn't help smiling back.

"What are you reading?" she asked, clutching for a safe topic. He had only a small book with him. It looked oddly familiar and yet certainly wasn't magical. To her surprise, he flushed.

"Ah. Remember when you fell asleep when we were looking after our Polyjuice potion?"

"Yes…" Vividly. She'd been terrified.

How far they'd come since then, Hermione reflected. Whatever this boy would come, she suspected she would feel only awkwardness falling asleep in front of him now. It was an unpleasant realisation but she brushed it aside. She was too interested in why, for the first time ever, he looked sheepish.

"Well, I'd seen you summoning things out of your bag in the Library and I was… curious. And about you, as you know perfectly well," he added, as though that wasn't quite a creepy thing to say.

Not that it sounded creepy this time. Not like it had when he'd pulled her into a deserted classroom and told her he'd warned the Slytherins off her because he found her interesting.

"Well anyway, I had a look in your bag, very nice Undetectable Extension Charm, by the way – people say it's hard to work on leather – and I made a copy of your book."

"Yes, people add a strengthening charm but that makes it brittle, you have to – wait, what? What book?"

"Paradise Lost," he muttered.

"My Muggle book? You're reading one of my Muggle books?" she asked, flabbergasted.

"Clearly," he snapped, guard shutting down and she regretted the outburst. She'd forgotten how defensive he could be.

"I didn't mean it like that. I was just surprised. You seem to have so little… time for them usually. Like most Wizards."

"Most Wizards don't have as much reason as I do to hate them. You should see what they've done to London. But it appears they are not all completely hopeless."

"What did you think?" She was fascinated. Tom Riddle reading Muggle poetry about God and Adam and Eve and… Satan. Ah. No wonder he was clutching it like a lifeline.

"I think it would be a cruel God indeed that would forbid someone to seek knowledge. It's… a trap, and an unconscionable one. Heaven is for thee too high To know what passes there. Be lowly wise; Think only what concerns thee and thy being; Dream not to other worlds, what creatures there etc. etc. Unbearable."

She made a valiant effort to stop herself being impressed as his ability to reel off chunks of the text.

"I… thought exactly the same thing," she said, frowning. "It is unconscionable. It felt like we were supposed to dislike God. But everything I've read or heard about Milton indicated he was a very devout man."

"Does Satan… love Eve?" he asked her, and there was something in his voice she couldn't quite read.

"Love? I don't think so. He... envies her. But – not in that he's jealous, but, um, envy and sympathy are very related, right? So he feels this connection to Adam and Eve, to their innocence and goodness. I mean, we obviously are set up with him as the structural hero – and we feel tremendous sympathy for him but he just… he falls short. And he's too proud to repent and go back to goodness."

She wondered what resonance such words might have for his own future: O then at last relent: is there no place Left for Repentance, none for Pardon left? None left but by submission; and that word Disdain forbids me and my dread of shame Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduc'd

"The typical warning against ambition," Tom said, crossly. "And here's another thing - I didn't think anything said Satan did or said was as bad as Hee for God only, shee for God in him."

He'd never looked more handsome, she thought. Or surprised her more. This wasn't what he was supposed to be like. He was supposed to be off torturing First Years and controlling minions and plotting, not sitting discussing how appallingly anti-feminist Muggle religious doctrine could be, and especially not when it was interpreted into poetry.

"I… I hated that too. But, and I'm no expert, I mean isn't that just what Muggles believed then?"

"Yes, it's all in the Bible," he said thoughtlessly. "Although, I once pointed that out to the Matron at the orphanage during Bible study. She was... displeased."

"You had Bible study?" she asked, curious. Another unexpected facet of his character.

"Twice a day, and then Church and Sunday School. There were Nuns in the orphanage, doing what they called God's work but did not seem like that to us. They thought I was quite the little abomination."

His face was dark with hatred, and she wondered what they'd done to a boy with magic. Her own, largely kind, teachers had struggled to reconcile strange incidents with the intensely well-behaved and studious child. Still, they'd never really punished her for it and nor had her parents. Not physically. She'd been told off, of course, like every child in the Muggle world with magic. She wondered how her accidental magic would have reacted to true punishment, by an adult. Causing a girl trying to steal her lunch to burn their fingers, or making Camilla Arnold's teeth grow to look just like hers when she'd finally had enough of the girl's cruelty, was hardly comparable.

And there had been newspaper stories in her time of the abuse people had suffered in Orphanages in the 1920s and 1930s. All sorts of horrific stories, unfathomable cruelty to the most vulnerable children -

And then, quite without thinking she leaned across, and hugged him. A moment later, they both tensed together in shock at what she'd done, but it was too late.

"Sorry," she muttered, her face burning as she pulled away. "I just – it doesn't sound like the sort of place any child should grow up."

She really shouldn't have danced with him.

He nodded, and the awkwardness was unbearable. She looked down at her hands. Stupid stupid stupid. He's Voldemort! Not Harry or Crookshanks. He's evil, Hermione. You can't just go around hugging him and feeling sorry for him. And a bad upbringing isn't an excuse!

"It's fine… Um –" he floundered, as though she'd completely uprooted him with a moment of accidental kindness and she couldn't help it, couldn't help wondering if anyone had ever held him as a child. If he'd ever actually been held kindly before.

But he'd closed back into himself, and she was tremendously relieved when someone knocked at the door.

"Anything from the trolley, dears?" the old woman asked, and Hermione leapt gratefully to her feet.

"Oh, yes please. Can I have two – no four – chocolate cauldrons and two pumpkin pasties. And two bottles of pumpkin fizz."

She paid for the food and wordlessly handed him half. He frowned, muttering a thanks, and they ate in silence for a while, as the snow faded away from the landscape, the mountains flattening into rolling grey-green hills that lead into towns and then moors and fields ploughed brown and empty, trees bare with winter.

"Why are you like this?" he asked, as they pulled out of York.

"Like what?" she asked, confused.

"You are… kind," he said tentatively, like he was tasting the word for the first time, as if it was a word he'd never uttered before.

"Why am I kind? I don't understand."

"I have never met anyone who does anything without some personal gain but you… you don't even seem to think about it. You just are. I've seen you help the younger students, even when you don't think anyone can see you. You feel… something for my circumstances that isn't pity and yet… What is it that you seek?"

"I don't seek anything. I'm just not – I mean, I think a better question – or – no one? Really? How is that possible?"

She stared at him, confounded. What an awful way to see the world.

"Forget it," he muttered, pulling another book out of his bag. A textbook, this time.

.

.

As King's Cross drew closer, and the darkness drew in, Hermione broke the silence again.

"Are you really coming to Wales?" she asked, because it had been preying on her mind, and although they'd both avoided mentioning the night before, as though by tacit agreement, she really needed to know.

If he was actually – surreally – going to visit, there was a lot she needed to prepare for. She wasn't stupid enough to think that he wouldn't go snooping around to uncover the secrets he sensed within her.

He closed his book and examined her.

"That does not please you," he stated.

She felt embarrassed, caught out her need to be polite.

"No, it's not that. I've just never had a school friend to stay at my house before." And that wasn't really a lie, because Harry and Ron had never come. They had never shown an interest in seeing her life, really, something that she'd tried not to let rankle because after all The Burrow had been more interesting than her parents' house in Islington, and she had cast off a great deal of that life to spend time there or at school without sparing a thought for the people who had raised her.

He seemed to believe her, because his face relaxed again a little.

"I have business in Wales, so yes, I take your father up on his invitation. Just after Christmas, before I go to Malfoy's party."

"Oh, are you going there for New Year as well?" she asked, without thinking.

"Yes. If it would be… convenient, I could escort you there?"

Hermione bit her lip in consternation. This was a turn of events she frankly could never have imagined even after a dose of the Weasleys Wizard Wheezes' strongest mind-altering potion (available to of-age Wizards only). Even if she'd chased it with half a gallon of firewhisky.

Did he want to be her date? That was ridiculous.

On the other hand, she really didn't want to turn up to a party at Malfoy Manor by herself. Sophia would already be there, of course, and several of her friends. Refusing without a reason would be rude and she didn't have one.

"Yes," she said, "I suppose that could work. We can take my father's carriage. It's… I don't know why but it's considered uncouth to Apparate to a party. I think it's actually just to stop people splinching themselves on the way home, and Portkey invitations are only one-way so–"

"You're babbling," he said, amazed.

"Oh, shut up."

"I've never seen you babble. Do I make you nervous, Hermione?"

"Tom, stop it. I'm going to read my book."

"Yes, Thirty Six Rules for the Intermediate Arithmancer does look fascinating, and not at all below your level."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," she retorted, glad to be back on familiar ground.

"That's a bit rich, coming from you."

She smirked.

"For you information, I'm revising for NEWTs."

"You're revising? It's December. And you could pass them tomorrow without batting an eyelid anyway. Why are you revising?"

"Do you really think so?" she asked, pleased.

He rolled his eyes in response.

"I'm not going to pander to your ego. You know you're quite clever. Almost as clever as I am."

"Almost! I beat you on three tests in the last month, and two essays."

"The fact that you've treasured those small moments tells me all I need to know."

She huffed, but after all it was true. And wasn't that why she was sat there, contentedly talking to him? Because she'd never, ever met anyone her age cleverer than her before, and it was intoxicating and amazing and he didn't make her feel ridiculous for being so fascinated by everything, didn't make her feel like a freak.

"Just wait till I beat you in the duelling contest," she hissed.

"I am eagerly anticipating our duels, Hermione," he said, eyes glittering with a savage fire that scared and enticed her at the same time. "We're nearly there. I'd better go and change in a minute."

"Where are you going after this?"

"My father's house, I told you. I'll apparate there from the station. It's strange - I've never left Hogwarts for Christmas before."

He looked a little melancholy at the memory.

"Tom – don't spend too much time on your own. It's not healthy. Go to the pub, meet some Muggles. I don't think they'll be as bad as you think they are."

"There's a War on, Hermione. If I go out the Muggles ask me why I'm not fighting for my country and call me a coward and give me white feathers. I don't look like a schoolboy."

That shut her up completely for a moment. She'd never considered it, not really.

"Will they ask you to fight?"

"They… sent a letter. For my 'National Service'. I'm turning eighteen soon, but as I'm still at school I'm not eligible until the summer."

"Surely you're not going to do it?"

Actually, the War would be over by then, as she knew, but National Service wouldn't be and many Allied soldiers would remain abroad.

"Fight for the people that – no I'm not. That's not my country. It doesn't matter, I'm not a part of that world."

"Hypothetically speaking," she said, her mind so used to plotting the answer came easily, "you could cast a charm on your name that would just make them skip you whenever it came to anything official, without removing yourself completely. You'd just need to sneak into wherever it is the Muggles hold the first copy of records, or it might even work on a certificate of birth – do Muggles have those?"

Her face was a picture of innocence.

His eyes glinted for a moment with greed and admiration.

"Yes, the original copy. What charm would you recommend? Hypothetically."

She named two that might work, and then another thought occurred.

"But don't we have an agreement about this with the Muggle Prime Minister? I thought every new Prime Minister was introduced to our world when they took office."

"I think he'd be more interested in making Wizards fight his battles for him, than letting us avoid signing up, don't you?"

That was true.

But they could help, she thought. And yet… that might do more damage – weren't there just as many people who might fight for the other side? And that could cause untold damage.

No. It was better – essential – that the Wizards stayed out of Muggle conflicts.

"Cripes," he muttered. "We're in London. I'd better change. I'll see you after Christmas."

"Have – have a good one. Don't spend it on your own."

He just frowned at her as though she was being ridiculous, and then he was gone.

It had been her strangest journey on the Hogwarts Express to date, even the Dementors' visit didn't really compare, and yet she couldn't remember one that had flown past so quickly.

When the train pulled into the station five minutes later, she pocketed her shrunken trunk, and Pevensie's cage (he'd opted to fly to Wales by himself) and, not bothering to change, went to find Cerdic.

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What did you think? What are your theories? What's going to happen next?!

Thank you thank you as always to my glorious reviewers xx