You don't ask people with knives in their stomachs what would make them happy; happiness is no longer the point. It's all about survival; it's all about whether you pull the knife out and bleed to death or keep it in…
Nick Hornby – How to Be Good
On the following morning, Hermione woke surprisingly refreshed and rather later than usual. She'd braced herself for nightmares; braced herself for Bellatrix's face staring back from the mirror she saw again and again, for new ones. For a screaming man tied to a corpse.
But no nightmare had come. She'd killed a man, in what could conceivably pass as cold blood and she hadn't even dreamt about it. She hadn't even dreamt about being taken. She'd just slept peacefully through the night.
War-hardened, she thought. But that wasn't just it –
More complicated, and more worryingly, was the fact that Tom Riddle had saved her from capture. She wasn't used to being rescued and, truth be told, it was heady. She fought a giddy smile because – stupid.
And then, after he'd rescued her, he'd made her feel safe. He had unthinkingly protected her, in a direct contradiction of everything she'd ever been told about him.
And all that had wedged open a crack that she'd known was there, a crack that said is he really unsalvageable?
(After-all, she'd jumped fifty-five years in time. Surely anything was possible -
what if what if what if what if they were wrong and she could change the future?)
And even if she couldn't, didn't, was she –
- no. She wasn't a murderer like him. She wasn't.
No.
"You are being quite ridiculous," she told her own reflection. "Chasing after false hopes."
What if? her mind replied. She ignored it, pushing the thought away and locking it up tightly. Dangerous.
Like Tom Riddle. How he'd become Tom and not Riddle, how he talked to her like an equal, how he was fascinating and engaging and her friend. Like his lips and his eyes and his touch and –
No, not that either. She wouldn't think about that. Taking a deep breath she locked away her wanting and the fire that danced over her skin at his touch and his dark eyes and his strange melancholy and her capricious heart, took them and locked them away so that she could remember Harry and Cedric and Moody and Mary Cattermole and Amelia Bones and Sirius and –
She went down to breakfast.
.
.
Cerdic and Tom were already there; she could hear their voices and, curiously, she paused outside the door.
"- so really it's actually very recently that boys from nonmagical backgrounds like you – parentage aside – would have been allowed to go to Hogwarts at all. I mean there was a good two – possibly three you'd have to check – hundred year period after the Statute where no Muggleborns went to Hogwarts at all. Their parents wouldn't let them and the school was happy enough to let them go."
They were talking about the topic Cerdic has raised at Slughorn's party and Hermione frowned. It was strange that this interested Tom so much; perhaps he felt hard done by that he hadn't been adopted? Or, more likely, he was finding out skeletons with which to coerce his housemates…
"When did it change?"
"Well, you got the odd one or two coming a year but there were plenty more Purebloods in those days, see, so it wasn't an issue. Then inbreeding started to catch up with families, well that's what some of us think at least, and we've been slowly dying out for years. Some families – most of the ones that still exist – have had a few Muggleborn children adopted into them but the magical adoption spell still limits the pool. It helps but… anyone who breeds animals will tell you new blood is important every now and then. Take you, for instance, I'd wager you're far more powerful than most of the children in your year?"
"Yes, I am. But then the few Muggleborns that were in our year have either dropped out or struggle – so really, isn't it kinder not to force them into our world?"
"Well, that was the thinking behind early adoption, see. You get a few every now and then who weather the change well but most… most do struggle. It's the difference in world I think, not a question of ability. There was a boy in my year, tremendously talented, but could never quite accept our world. Always felt he was doing something wrong somehow, I think. Eventually, he went back to the Muggle world as so many do."
"Doesn't that pose a huge risk for our society though?"
"What, of discovery? Perhaps… more so now the numbers of Muggleborns are increasing I spose. Not sure if that really matters though – Muggles aren't what they used to be."
"They seem fairly terrible to me," Tom said in a low voice, and Hermione was amazed at how open he was with Cerdic. He continued, "It's amazing how little history we're really taught at Hogwarts - Hermione was right yesterday."
"Yes, she's a clever thing."
That was quite enough eavesdropping for one day, Hermione thought, and opened the door, cutting off Tom's next question.
"Good morning," she said, stopping to pat Alhabor who surged up so greet her.
"Can you take Alhabor for a walk this morning children?" Cerdic asked.
"Yes of course," she said, sitting down and reaching for the coffee. "We've got a couple of hours before Tom has to Apparate."
"Smashing, smashing. Well, I'd best be off or something might explore. All a bit sensitive. Owl post for you in the hall, Hermione. See you in a few days, Tom m'boy."
He carelessly brushed a kiss on the top of her head and was gone, leaving an aching absence, a buffer removed. They were alone.
"Good morning," Tom said, politely.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked, equally politely as she spooned some porridge into her bowl.
Just be civil, keep him at arms' length, she told herself as they exchanged small-talk. Yes, he was charming and yes, she'd kissed him. Twice. Kissed him and felt like all the fucking stars were aligning for a moment for them, kissed him and felt for those brief moments a hundred thousand times more than she'd felt with every kiss from Marcus combined, felt a fire in her blood and light dancing on her skin.
Felt more than she had for months, possibly years. Felt.
(She wished she could tell herself she'd forgotten who he was, for a moment, but she hadn't and she'd kissed him despite that).
.
.
Robes were by far the most irritating things to walk in, and so before they left the castle Hermione ran upstairs and changed into one of the pairs of trousers she'd had made. Even Cerdic thought they were eccentric, preferring – like most Wizards – to wear proper robes, Hogwarts uniform aside.
She'd left Tom reading the newspapers while she changed; he was dressed in Muggle clothes for the day and although he hadn't told her much about his business in South Wales, and she had deliberately avoided asking, because, really, that was just easier. And, she told herself, being civil and friendly was the best way to stop him being more suspicious of her than he already was. She suspected he'd got up early to have a snoop, but that was fine.
After-all, it would be a shame if all her hard-work in preparing the house for his visit went to waste.
.
"I didn't know there was a courtyard," he commented as they walked down one a passage at the back of the house, its windows opening onto the little quad.
"The castle probably wouldn't take you out to it in this weather – it keeps the wind off so it's a good place to eat in summer. Also it helps with all the… you know, magical shifting around."
The castle's awareness had surprised her, after she'd returned for Christmas. The adoption spell had, in making her a proper Dearborn, tied her to the place so that she could feel the thrumming magic, could almost communicate with the building. Indeed, it still held surprises; when Tom had touched her Tower door the previous night she'd felt it, felt the door ask for permission to enter. It had carried some magical imprint that was wholly Tom, an imprint that held intention – looking for her – as well as whom.
It had been an extraordinary moment, and she'd felt a strange pleasure that this was home now. Of course she'd loved her real childhood home, loved the Burrow too, but this –
It was a true magical home. And it was quite wondrous. Although a maintenance nightmare and, according to Cerdic, quite stubborn.
"Would you like to go up the hill or round the lake?" she asked Tom as she pulled on her wellington boots in the boot room at the back of the house. "Also it's quite muddy so help yourself if any of these boots fit."
"Whichever," he shrugged indifferently and she suddenly realised he was eyeing the dog warily.
"Are you alright with dogs?" she asked, trying to keep the disbelief out of her voice. It hadn't occurred to her that Tom Riddle would be scared of anything but Alhabor was trying to lick him and Tom looked endearingly uncomfortable.
"Um," he seemed tongue-tied for a moment and she took pity on him. She'd found the wolfhound off-putting at first and she was used to Sirius in his Animagus form – not wholly dissimilar.
"Alhabor. Stop that. Come on boy, off you go."
She unlatched the door for him but he ignored her, wagging his long, bristly tail happily and rubbing his nose against Tom's stomach. He reluctantly stroked the dog's great head, relaxing as he met the melting brown eyes.
"Why is your dog the same size as a horse?" he muttered, but there was a smile just dancing on his lips as his hand his fingers through the wiry dark grey hair.
"That's an excellent question – my father's choice. He's very sweet though, I promise. I think he likes you, he's usually a bit more wary of strangers."
"He's alright, actually," he said stepping away, and followed Hermione through the door and out of the castle.
It wasn't a beautiful day by any means, but there were lingering touches of frost in the shadows and creeping along tree branches. They left the castle through the back entrance, walking out onto a small path that would wind up the cliff behind, a myriad little staircases carved secretly into the rock.
"There's a path that goes round the lake and then up the hill and back down the front by the waterfall before it splits. It's lovely, we'll go that way."
She sensed her audience was supremely uninterested in the choice of walk – but he'd relaxed when the great wolfhound had bounded off.
They walked in silence for a while; and she drank in the beautiful scenery, the crisp air, the way the misty clouds clung to the hilltops in the distance, the dark arch of the woods reflected in the water.
She was shamefully aware of Tom, self-conscious of her shortened breath, of her hair and how she looked and moved and where her hands should be and that strange and underlying urge to touch him again, to perhaps take his hand and stroll together, a wish to feel his arm around her shoulders.
"Can you tell me a little bit more about the people who are trying to kidnap me now?" she asked, breaking the quietude.
He sighed.
"Alright, but I should think you've sent a fairly clear message. It's a man called Fletcher, some sort of gang. From what I saw, briefly, in that man's mind he runs a professional operation of thieves and kidnapping is more of a side-line. I spoke to your father this morning, he knew already don't give me that look, and they've sent him several threats so it's the same people."
"He knew?"
"Yes, he said they went through the first ring of wards. Anyway, it's being dealt with so you don't need to worry about it."
There was something in his voice that both reassured her and concerned her at the same time, something Harryish in the set of his eyes as she looked up at him.
"What aren't you telling me?"
And then in her head something clicked, Fletcher. Mundungus Fletcher had clearly not been the first thief in his family. She scowled at Tom misread it as directed at him.
"Can you please just trust me that you're safe?" he snapped, seizing her arm.
"I don't like people making decisions for me," she told him yanking her arm ineffectively. "And you have absolutely no right to do that!"
"No right?" he asked, dark eyes blazing and he pulled her towards him. "Perhaps not, but I would never let any hard come to you."
He stooped as though to kiss her, and she turned her head away, dizzy with want.
"Don't," she murmured. "Tom – don't kiss me."
"Why not?" he asked, holding her close.
"I'm just… I'm confused. I need to think."
"You think too much," he said, but he let her go, surprisingly respectful. "I know you feel this too, Hermione."
[She did, and that was the problem.
whatifwhatifwhatif, sang her traitorous heart].
"Is this about the letter from Blishwick?" he asked, face pale and eyes suddenly seeking out anything but hers.
"What letter?"
"In the hall… you had one."
"Did you read it?" she asked, appalled.
"Of course not, it was sealed. It had his name on the back." The smirk on his lips flickered up and she found one on her own matching it, just for a second, because that was surprisingly honest and – actually he was so honest with her, with Cerdic. Was she a fool to think so? Was it just part of his act?
Instinct told her not, but unlike Harry she didn't rely just on instinct.
They walked on for about fifteen minutes, following the curve of the lake around until the castle was out of sight, and then up the path as it wound up the hill, trees thickening around it until they were in the woods.
Hermione felt a distinct tug of regret she'd chosen this way; she'd forgotten how much of the path went through the woods on the far side of the hill, hadn't thought it might make her feel so unsettled.
She looked behind her sharply as a branch snapped in the distance.
"We're still on your land aren't we?" Tom asked knowingly, but his voice was soothing.
"Yes," she said, embarrassed. She brushed her fingers along the chain of her compass and felt safe again. It would warn her if there was danger; she wasn't being hunted again. And besides; what could possibly come along that was more dangerous than the man next to her? The adrenaline that had surged up in her blood gradually faded away and her heart rate slowed back to a normal rate for climbing up a hill.
"Ally," she called out, as the dog gambolled ahead. "Don't go too far."
Like many creatures that had grown up saturated with magic, he was slightly more intelligent than normal although she couldn't help being suspicious of this when he trotted back towards them and affectionately head-butted Tom again. Animals were supposed to be good judges of character; perhaps that only happened in novels. She'd never had a dog growing up and so she couldn't tell if that was really true.
"I quite like this dog," Tom said and then as they broke through the woods onto the top of the cliff. "Oh, wow!"
The water, which bubbled up and formed a large stream slightly further back ran right to the edge before free-falling down a little while, forming the first of a series of cascades down the sloping cliff-face.
"Quite something isn't it? It's the highest waterfall in Wales, but don't tell the Muggles. They think it's Pistyll Rhaeadr but this is about four times the size. It's not wholly natural though, so I suppose it wouldn't count."
"Do you think it really is a fae-fall?"
"I think it's an interesting hypothesis. You'll see a bit further down that when it splits around the castle that that's magical, and I think the source is too to be honest. I hadn't thought about it and I don't really know much about these things but it's a funny place for so much water to spill up from the earth."
"I've never heard much about the fae at all," he said.
"No, neither have I – just from Dominic last night. I mean I think I knew about the fae but it's a footnote in books. I expect it's a horrible side of Wizarding history they've chosen to breeze past."
He peered right over the cliff-face and laughed, a joyous sound that rang out above the gushing water. Her heart leapt.
"Don't fall over," she muttered. "Come on we go down here."
The path was marked with two small beech trees trained to bow to each other in an arch, the last of their copper-brown leaves clinging to their twigs, many more scattered underfoot.
The trail was gentler than one would expect, sloping back away from the cascade for a while; it traversed down, criss-crossing one way and then back the other. Where it was too steep there were stairs cut into the rock, although some close to the falls were slippery and damp from the spray.
About halfway down the cliff widened out into a huge ledge, gardened and beautiful. Hermione dropped, thankfully, onto a little bench and Tom sat down beside her, closer than was quite comfortable.
Alhabor thrust his head onto Tom's arm, pressing his pony-sized body against him.
"If you pet him," she warned, "he'll stay there forever."
Bemused, she watched as he did, and wondered if it was bravado or if he'd genuinely got over his obvious dislike in the space of forty minutes.
"That's alright. Like I said, I don't mind this dog. In London all the dogs are scrappy mongrels and guard dogs – I was bitten a few times when I was a boy."
She watched his long, dextrous fingers as they reduced Alhabor to some level of ecstasy and found an errant, uncontrolled wish that she could throw herself as unthinkingly into his arms as the damn dog.
"Your house is amazing," he said after a moment. "You're very lucky."
And there it was, some acceptance of her story, something she knew he'd been suspicious of for months. It had worked. A tension she hadn't been aware of slipped away and she smiled.
"I am, aren't I?" And for the first time, she realised that she was, that although being ripped away from her life had been traumatic and horrifying and she still ached for it, that despite all that she was slowly beginning to feel as though she belonged in the Wizarding world in a way she had never quite felt before.
She hadn't sat up on the ledge before; most of her time at the castle had been spent learning it rather than enjoying it and she gazed around at the lovely garden, the grotto that cut back into the rock, the way the water cut through the middle, a pretty wooden bridge arching over it, the white flowers (only white) blooming despite the season, the red-leaved Japanese trees looking over the water where it pooled under the first cascade, before streaming across the ledge to fall again to the next one and then, after that, the last, greatest one, down around the house.
"We'd better get you back," she said after a minute.
"Yes," he agreed, glancing at his watch (she was sure she'd never seen him wearing it before).
"Where are you going?"
"Cardiff first, and then Swansea."
"Why?" she asked, baffled as she followed him along the next path. She'd tried not to but… they were very strange choices of destination.
He paused and looked back at her over his shoulder, frowning slightly.
"I'm retracing my parents' steps… they ran away you see. His Muggle family thought she was… beneath them. At some point she sold something – an old heirloom from my magical family. The Gaunts. I'd like to have it back."
"Gaunt," she said, unable to stop herself. "How interesting."
His face darkened and he walked on ahead of her in silence.
"They weren't," he called back after a few minutes. "They weren't interesting at all."
There was, she thought, a great deal of heartbreak in that sentence.
.
.
This seems like a really good plan tbh Hermione. Nailed it.
'Wow' has been in use in English since the early 1500s. I checked before I used it. I do things like that.
I hope you enjoyed this little interlude. I'm posting today because the last chapter got more than fifty reviews and I just love you all so much I had to write instead of doing my dissertation… (Which is due imminently and I'm super-stressed about it).
Tom-interacting-with-animals seems to be a niche of mine at the moment! Mainly for Enabler-in-Chief Marsala who loved Tom/Alhabor and wanted to see more of that. So this chapter is for you!
Guest reviews – answered on tumblr (unless they contain major spoilers probably – sometimes I skip them just in case).
Also – someone asked about fan art and ? YES? Of course. I die. Please go for it. Make all the things.
Thank you thank you and send me luck for the dissertation?
