Two weeks and no progress. Avery was in the hospital wing with "nightmares"—all his followers were too weak to be of assistance. As for Abraxas, Tom didn't know why he hadn't killed him yet. As he was no longer a follower, though, it seemed absurd to practice anything with him. Abraxas would know when he perfected the art (or even pushed past the current barrier of being unable to see past the present) because Abraxas would be his second target.

Hermione would be the first.

For the moment, though, he would have to settle for torturing Abraxas occasionally—only three times in the last week, though each session had been personally satisfying. And Tom was done speculating with Hermione. He would have her back, but first he needed information. And she might have foreseen more than he gave her credit for; the veritaserum was nearly perfected, and might be ready before he could see for himself.

That's why he was spending a little more extracurricular time than normal—even for him—working on the delicate potion. Praise from Slughorn was not his object, no matter what the imbecile thought. "Don't worry, m'boy," Slughorn had told him earlier that day, "I'll put in a good word for you with the Headmaster." As though Tom needed to stay late to have Slughorn wrapped around his finger. What a pathetic man.

And so Tom was leaving the brewing station behind the potions classroom at nearly one o'clock in the morning when he almost ran into Dorea Black, who was looking much less scared than the last time he had seen her. Well he could fix that; he was running on a short fuse these days, anyway.

"Tom Riddle," she spoke his name like it was one word; her voice held a false determination that he didn't have patience for. It sounded as though she was been building toward this confrontation.

Tom sighed. He had no interest in this interaction. "Clearly you've been rehearsing whatever you have to say in your head so go ahead and say it," Tom greeted her in a bored voice. As an afterthought, he wordlessly levitated her into an empty classroom and tied her to a chair.

"You killed Abraxas. I just wanted you to know that I know."

Tom reflexively buried his shock and any other emotions that might have been written on his face were he less controlled. Tom had just seen Abraxas earlier that day; but wouldn't the most logical explanation be that it wasn't Abraxas?

Tom resisted the urge to pace as his mind raced, not wanting to tip off the irritating girl tied up three feet from him.

Abraxas was certainly acting strangely enough. But who would it be? Someone using Polyjuice hourly? The most compelling proof for this new hypothesis was that he knew Black, at least, believed she was telling the truth.

"When did you last see Abraxas?" Tom asked, ensuring that Black didn't think he killed him in the last few hours.

"Weeks ago. I don't know the exact day." Her voice was confused; she obviously wasn't expecting this line of questioning. What was the girl expecting, coming and confronting him—a man she was terrified of? What was she after? Tom brushed the questions aside. First, he needed to find out as much as he could about Black's beliefs regarding Abraxas and the possible imposter. Then, he could deal with her motives (and with her).

"Who is posing as Abraxas?"

"I don't—I don't know."

"That's the first lie you've told, Black. Cruicio!" Tom broke it quickly, putting a silencing charm on the door and then repeating it before Black could finish her sigh of relief.

"Let's try this again. Who is posing as Abraxas?"

"I don't know."

Tom tortured her silently, letting the questioning drop memontarily as he turned his back to her. Hermione was with "Abraxas" now… that much was clear. She had barely been to their common room, and according to Avery and Lestrange, he was no longer staying in the room; it was obvious to Tom they were using the Room of Requirement—his room—as some sort of meeting place. He brushed that aside; this wasn't important right now.

If Abraxas weren't Abraxas, and Hermione was with—Abraxas 2, let's call him—then maybe she was with Abraxas 2 that night. And Abraxas was telling the truth when he was begging for his life… when Tom killed him. Maybe Abraxas 2 was the real problem; the real wedge between Tom and Hermione. And finding his identity would be the first step toward finding his motives… and his weaknesses.

Perhaps Legilimency is like a Patronus… not that I could ever achieve one, Tom thought grimly to himself. He closed his eyes and pictured an unpleasant thought—Hermione and Abraxas 2 in the library, kissing, his mouth moving to form "Granger,"—"LEGILIMENS!" Tom shouted at the top of his lungs.

He saw Black's widening brown eyes before he found himself vividly in her memory; it had been at the forefront of her mind but this level of detail was still a breakthrough for Tom.

"Fine, we can just wait until your Polyjuice wears off," Dorea haughtily told Abraxas (or someone who looked like him) in the memory. She had him tied up—just as she was now.

"Good luck with that."

"And what is that supposed to mean? You think you're going to talk me into letting you go before the hour is up?"

"No, clearly you're going to do whatever you want, but there will be no change of my appearance. This is what I look like."

"So what are you saying, that you're his twin? I've known Abraxas since he was a child, and he doesn't have a twin."

"You might as well do whatever you're going to do because you won't believe my story regardless."

"Try me."

"First can I get a name now that we've established I'm not Abraxas?"

Tom raised an eyebrow—not a student, then, if he were telling the truth. Frustratingly, Tom's ability to detect falsehoods didn't seem the translate to a memory. "Dorea. Dorea Black." The scene turned translucent momentarily, threatening to recede. Tom refocused his efforts on the memory; analysis must wait.

"Let's see. I'm Abraxas's grandson from the future. I somewhat blindly went back in time to rescue Hermione from Riddle only to find that she is in love with him, and he killed Abraxas so Dumbledore asked me to take his place. I think that about sums it up."

Black dropped her wand as Tom tried to retain everything he was hearing without pondering—he could sort it out later. "Abraxas is dead?"

"Yes. I'm truly sorry you're finding out like this. Dumbledore insisted that there was no one Abraxas was close to who would want to attend the funeral. I should have known he was lying."

"He probably didn't know. Was it a nice funeral?" Black was crying. Pathetic.

"It was."

"Was it just you there?"

"Dumbledore and Hermione were also there. It was at the Manor." Hermione knows?

Focus!

"Good. He would have wanted that."

"That's what I thought. Malfoy pride goes back a long way."

"So you said you're his grandson? Then how are you here."

"Magic. I'm actually related to you, too."

"Am I your grandmother?" Tom sighed in frustration; Black was so easily distracted.

"No. I'm sorry—I didn't mean to suggest—" And with his frustration the scene shook violently, nearly out of his grasp.

The next few lines were muffled, but Tom pushed his way back in, focusing on the task at hand, pushing out every other thought but his desire for the memory.

"Draco." It was the first clear word.

"So you and Hermione?"

"She's really fixated on Tom." Tom didn't expect those words, and thus couldn't push back the rush of satisfaction he felt upon hearing them.

And he felt himself yanked out of the memory.

Black's eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, and her expression frozen in horror.

Tom looked at the problem in front of him with irritation; he didn't care to deal with Black anymore, not even to torture her. He wanted to sort out what he had learned, but he couldn't let her go running around the castle; could he?

On the other hand, torturing her seemed to be of little help. She was obviously irritated at his supposed killing of Abraxas—Tom felt a twinge of emotion—and her behavior was erratic and unpredictable, if approaching him was any indication.

Killing another student, though, wasn't an option. If the memories were true, Dumbledore knew he had killed, and the man already suspected him for killing Myrtle. Could Dumbledore even cover another killing up? I could give her to the vampires.

Tom shook his head. It was too risky. Black wasn't Abraxas; she had too many people invested in her. The Potters would be clamoring to find her, and her family would be no better (and far more ruthless in discovering the truth).

No.

"If you're going to kill me, just do it," Black spat back at him.

"I'm not going to kill you, you pathetic girl."

Confusion highlighted her aristocratic features.

"You deserve much worse. Imperio," he whispered, noting with delight the fear that flashed in her eyes before her face formed a blank mask, fully under his control.

"Hermione." Long fingers traced her face. She tried to open her eyes to see him; she had missed those fingers, but she had also missed looking upon his gray eyes, alive only for her. But he pushed her eyes closed and she felt fabric against the sensitive skin behind her eyelids.

"I've waited too long." And the sensual lilt of his already dangerously deep voice was too much.

"Merlin, Tom, I missed you," she practically moaned against him.

"You have no idea, Hermione." And she couldn't control the yelp of surprise as his hands roughly pushed hers back against the cold wall behind her. Why was it so cold? Where was she, again?

But his teeth roughly broke the skin on her neck, and she could feel the cold air against the moisture there, not knowing if it was Tom's saliva or her blood. But she didn't care, didn't care at all as her fingers started to numb from the pressure against her wrists.

And slowly Hermione awoke, seeing a blurry Draco hovering directly above her as she slipped back into consciousness. The unsatisfied feeling of lust remained from her dream, interwoven by a sharp sense of disappointment. But as she analyzed the emotion, it faded. The more she thought, the more it eluded her until she found herself fully focused on Draco. The lust came back mixed with a rush of affection.

"It sounded like you were having a good dream," Draco teased, his warm breath tickling her lips.

"Yes," Hermione breathed, confused. She felt nothing for Tom—nothing—and yet the dream…

"Care to reenact it?"

Her attention fully occupied, Hermione smiled and nodded. Dreams were just dreams, after all, perhaps a vestige of her previous love for him. The love that had been extinguished upon learning of his latest kill.

Those thoughts receded as Draco languidly unbuttoned her blouse—no, it was his blouse—tracing and lightly kissing the newly exposed skin. She noted the contrast from her dream, but felt no emotion regarding it. Once her shirt was fully open, he continued to explore, moving from her belly button to her nipples, pausing there and surprising her with his a light brush of his teeth as she gasped in surprise. He smirked, emboldened, as she pulled him closer against her.

Yes, dreams were just dreams.