A/N: And finally, a VERY delayed update. Thanks to all of you who continue to follow this story!

A good memory charm was a delicate task; too far and the object of the spell could lose all memory, even sanity. Too little and the charm would be useless, leaving them slightly confused at best.

Luckily, Tom didn't need a good memory charm. He just needed a powerful one, be damned if it damages the object.

Just as well; precision could be difficult when channeled through an Imperius Curse. He just hoped that the witch would be powerful enough to really destroy her mind. Otherwise he might have to do it in her stead, which would be something he would rather avoid. Either way, though, whoever found her would be able to easily see the last charm she performed: Obliviate.

But she was struggling. Wriggling around as though if she could somehow leave her skin, the Imperius Curse would leave, too. Not so. The struggling was good; Tom knew he would win, but it meant she was powerful. Maybe powerful enough where she could do this odious task herself.

He had considered having her kill Draco. He really, really considered it, telling her to shut up filtered through the lens of his Imperius Curse while he could think about the prospect. He had been right the first time; Abraxas had no family.

But it was still messy. And there wasn't enough satisfaction in it. It felt like the wrong way to make his way back to Hermione.

Tom continued to think through the topic as he continued to press his new command deeper and deeper, telling her over and over again to destroy her mind.

He saw the fight leave her eyes as the curse infected her.

Tom was glad he had the foresight to silence the classroom as Dorea screamed Obliviate at the top of her lungs with her wand pointed at her head like a muggle gun.

When he heard the "O," Tom disillusioned himself.

"Hermione," Draco sighed, "this is the third time tonight I've heard you say his name."

Hermione awkwardly shifted around, pulling at the hair collected at the nape of her neck while her head bent sideways and her bottom lip was wedged in between her teeth. "Perhaps you should start sleeping better?" She chuckled nervously. Draco didn't, leaning against the wall next to his side of the bed and staring at her, hard.

"I don't know, Draco," she offered, retreating into her shoulders like a small turtle.

"Are you lying to me about your feelings?"

"No!"

"Are you lying to yourself?"

Hermione had asked herself the same question following Abraxas's death, but there was no sense of deceit or wishful thinking—she wasn't with Draco because he was better. She was with him because she wanted to be. Instead of voicing all this, she just shook her head.

"I think you should leave."

"Draco…"

"As you said, I need to sleep." He didn't seem angry, just resigned and exhausted.

Hermione slipped out, tears streaming down her face. She sobbed into her pillow once she reached her room, not able to fall back asleep until she had calmed enough to steady her breathing.

As she slipped into sleep, she lamented how haywire her emotions had been lately. It wasn't like her.

Tom left Dorea lying in the hallway with her speech incoherent and directed at no one in particular. He slipped back into the potions lab for some pepper-up potion Slughorn left lying around. This night wasn't over and it likely wouldn't be before the sun came up.

After downing the unpleasant potion, Tom slunk off to his old common room, beelining for his bedroom.

He woke Lestrange and told him to check the empty classroom across from Slughorn's lab.

"Dorea is there," he explained in a faux distressed tone. "She's damaged."

"Damaged…?"

Tom pretended to be choked up in case Lestrange's memory was viewed. "I couldn't stand to stay and check the extent. Can you? And if her memory seems permanently damaged, you'll need to take her to Madam Ward."

Tom searched Lestrange's eyes as he relayed the instructions and saw a flash of understanding that told Tom he knew what was necessary: ensure her memory is completely gone before enlisting help.

"I understand, Riddle." Tom suppressed his grin. The use of his last name instead of his title confirmed it.

"Thank you, I wish I could…"

"I know, Riddle." Lestrange awkwardly patted him on the back before slipping out.

Confident Lestrange would take care of the task, Tom crossed the dark common room and broke the charm on the witches' staircase quickly and easily—it wasn't the first time—making his way into Dorea's room. The lack of women in her year certainly made things easier.

He quietly sent a serious stunner at her obnoxious roommate and cast a Silencing Spell at the door before ransacking Dorea's room.

There was little of use. Tom took three textbooks he didn't recognize in case they prove important. Otherwise, there was a journal sealed with what Tom determined was a blood ward. Frustrated, he threw the journal across the wall.

Tom paced across the room, trying to decide whether to take it; it would surely be missed and he couldn't open it. But what if it contained information about…?

Tom paused, breaking into a genuine smile.

He could break it. "I'm actually related to you, too."

And he could confront Draco in the process. Things really were coming together.

As an exhausted but exhilarated Tom Riddle returned to his lodgings, he heard movement from Hermione's room. Tom paused; Hermione hadn't been home in ages. He scoffed at himself for thinking the word "home," but had no feeling behind it. It was home.

Almost on autopilot, Tom quickly stopping into his room, heavily warding Dorea's effects. He then uncorked and used his previously made potion to break the wards on Hermione's door, pushing it open and leaning against the doorframe, just for a moment.

She was thrashing about in her bed, her curls even more wild than usual. He could only make out her form through the stream of light filtering in through the common area, but it was enough to just highlight her, leaving the surrounding room shrouded in darkness.

Tom didn't know how long he watched her, almost falling asleep himself despite the uncomfortable prodding of the doorjamb. But he jerked awake and upright. He must have heard her wrong. But then she repeated it: his name. Tom.

It didn't sound like she were arguing with him her dream, nor did her voice lack emotion as it did the last time they have truly spoken. It sounded familiar. A small voice in the back of his head told him it sounded like love.

Tom glanced back at the common area, eyes landing on the door leading to his bedroom. He should go back. Interfering with Hermione's dream would have no benefit. He needed to polish his Legilimency skills; he needed to find out what happened.

But a stronger part of him kept thinking back to a yellowing page in a book where the spine was so cracked it was hard to make out the title. His photographic memory kept running over the same line. Legilimency through touch rather than eye contact is possible. When performed when the victim is subconscious the spell is even simpler than using eye contact on an awake subject.

Tom hadn't really thought through his options further when he was by her bedside, closer than he had been to the comfortable bed since she had been away. He remembered sleeping there, angry and churlish but not without hope. He still wasn't without hope for them, but it was getting harder seeing her with Malfoy and knowing she wasn't even sleeping in her bed anymore.

Tom examined the sleeping form beneath him; where could he touch her where she wouldn't wake up? He studied the problem objectively; he also needed to be in a position that he wouldn't slip out of accidentally if he got involved with an argument with Hermione in her subconscious (which was almost certain to happen).

Tom levitated himself slightly until he was horizontal above the empty part of Hermione's bed. He slowly lowered himself so as to move the bed as little as possible. Carefully, he moved over to his side, now facing Hermione.

He sucked a breath in. He slowly closed in on her until he was so close that he could feel her breath on his nose, and had to hold himself back from fully closing his arms around her. What in Salazar's name am I doing? This is pathetic. I will claim her when I am ready, when I am powerful enough. Tom prevented himself from groaning in frustration. I'm just gathering information, he reasoned with himself.

Gently—in order to not wake her—he placed his right hand on her stomach. He had considered placing his hand on hers, but was concerned that the link would be broken too easily if he shifted at all. She stopped thrashing around for a moment, and he held his breath as he wondered if she would wake. She didn't. Her breathing deepened again.

Tom carefully pulled his wand out of his back pocket, pointing it to the point of connection between him and Hermione. "Legilimens." It was a whisper, but it was enough.

Well, this isn't what I was expecting, Tom thought to himself as he sharply inhaled.

Hermione and him—or a dream version of him—were wrapped up in each other on an ugly brown couch he had never seen before. Her head was buried in his chest and her shoulders were shaking. She was crying.

Tom swallowed, trying to collect himself. "Hermione," he called out loudly and clearly. He was ignored. Despite the fact that the scene above him was happening—in a sense—in real time, he was unable to interact with it, just like a memory. But this certainly wasn't a memory; it didn't seem familiar.

He tried to walk over to "him" and see if he could join with his form. He couldn't. Now he was just standing awkwardly over the pair. He reached out; his hand went right through other-him. No sensation whatsoever.

He could hear muffled words from Hermione, but couldn't make out anything. Tom leaned in closer, so that his ear was almost aligned with that of his other self. It was disconcerting, but he could hear.

"…and it's all covered, like I couldn't see three feet in front of me if I tried," she was saying.

There was a long silence. "Like a snowstorm?" Dream Tom asked.

"Yes. But there is no clarity, even through the flakes."

"Can you see me now?"

"Yes, but"—Hermione hesitated—"usually no." It sounded difficult for her to admit.

"Why don't you tell me when you can't see me?"

"Because I can't see myself, either." And Hermione was crying again, this time with renewed force. The room shifted slightly as a red haze started to choke the dream version of him, who was coughing while Hermione continued to cry.

Outside the dream, Tom let go, startled and unsure of how to interpret what he had just seen, but hoping, somewhat inexplicably, that he would find answers through Draco's blood.

Sleepily, his fingers laced through Hermione's without any thought of re-entering her dreams.

Draco winced as he left the castle the next morning; the sun was bright and seemed to bounce off the trees and the ground to burrow its way into his eyes.

He had been meeting Lyra quite often for Quidditch practice. Combined with his House Quidditch practices—and Hermione's frustrating sleep-talking—sleep had been largely eluding him, making the brightness of the sky oppressive.

Through the light, he saw a blot of dark hair on the pitch otherwise bathed in sunlight.

"Lyra!"

"Hi, fake Abraxas," she said in a dreamy voice.

Draco placed his hands above his eyebrows like a visor as he neared the strange girl.

"You don't have your broom," he observed out loud.

"No."

Frustrated, Draco kicked the grass. "I thought we were practicing this morning."

"No," she repeated.

"Then why am I here?"

"I have a gift for you." Her hands were clasped together, fingers of her left hand curling around the ridge of her right hand and vice versa. It looked like something was moving in between her pale hands.

He raised his eyebrows but she simply looked at him with wide eyes.

"May I?" He asked, waiting for her to nod before placing his broom on the grass and then unfurling her fingers slowly. As he peeled back her index finger and middle finger, he saw an ever-moving golden snitch nestled in between her hands.

"You're giving me your snitch?" He forgot all about his previous annoyance. He had known Lyra for a short time, but long enough to know how treasured her snitch was.

"You're going to need it," she said in the same flat tone. For the first time that morning, he realized her tenuous smile was just that, not the light effortless one she normally wore.

"But you're our seeker."

Lyra's head shook ever-so-slightly.

"You're not?"

"That's you."

"But—but you said you're better than me," Draco responded, trying to keep the mood light.

"That's definitely true." A flash of an actual smile. "But I have to get married."

"Married? I didn't even know you were dating anyone."

She shrugged as though it were a small detail she left out. "I'm betrothed. I had planned to extricate myself from the obligation."

"And you changed your mind?"

"I changed my plans," Lyra responded with a pained expression. "Will you take it?"

"Won't you want it regardless? Even if you're not playing professionally."

"I want you to have it." She opened her hands just enough for him to catch it in his own. The snitch continued to hum around in his hands.

"It likes you."