Though the walls surrounding Hermione's room were thicker than she was accustomed to with her Gryffindor dorm, they weren't impervious. Hearing noise, she tried to turn over and go back to sleep. As the sound seemed to grow, she grunted and buried herself under her pillow, twisting around on her side and flipping one leg over her blankets.
But it wasn't what was going on outside her room that caused her to finally awake. As she flipped over, she noticed that the sheets next to her were slightly folded over—as if someone had left the bed and not bothered to smooth over the blankets with their exit. At first her mind drifted to Draco and hope swelled in her chest that he had forgotten their row from just hours ago, but then she realized he wouldn't able to break in.
Tom.
But why would he have been in her bed the middle of the night?
She shook her head as if that would somehow erase the line she had drawn connecting the dots, and told herself that she must have left the bed and forgotten to smooth over the sheets around her in her troubled state last night.
Hermione rose and slowly begun to dress. Now that she was up, she might as well see what was happening outside her dorm.
She tried to fix her hair, frowning in her mirror as her reflection seemed to mock her attempts to smooth it down. Sighing, she buttoned her cardigan, effectively giving up. As she lazily finished getting ready, the buzz in the hallway was cut with a single high-pitched shriek.
She bolted out of her room and then the common room, wand in hand.
The hallway was a sight.
A Slytherin girl Hermione vaguely recognized was down on her knees in the middle of the hallway, crumpled up against herself as she sobbed. Hermione felt it was a safe guess that she was the source of the scream.
Other students were huddled around her and another girl in a sort of semi-circle a few feet away, seemingly in a half-hearted attempt to give the two witches space. As Hermione approached, she recognized the calmer one as Olive Hornby.
"Olive, what's going on?" Hermione asked, her voice wavering slightly. It was difficult not to be somewhat affected by the sheer despair radiating off the Slytherin.
"Rose just found out what happened to Dorea—have you heard?"
"No," Hermione responded in a small voice, remembering Tom's eyes searing through her when he witnessed the cold exchange between her and Dorea in the library.
"What happened?"
"Now isn't a good time, Hermione. I need to—" Olive gestured toward Rose.
Hermione nodded and walked past them, pushing through the crowd. She didn't consciously know where she was going, but her feet led her to the hospital wing.
The wing was sealed, the always-open door closed, its bronze designs that she had never noticed mocking her. She leaned against the door and sunk down, her mind cycling through the worst possibilities. Maybe she's just sick… but the scream and the closed door told another story entirely.
The first rays of light were streaming through the tall windows of the Headmaster's office. Tom fixed his face into a worried mask as Dippet made his way around the large desk and settled into his seat.
"First, Mr. Riddle, I would like to thank you for bringing Ms. Black's condition to Mr. Lestrange's attention." Tom had his head hung down in a picture of a distraught student, but glanced up through his lashes at Dippet to assess the situation. There was no suspicion in the old man's face. Perfect.
"I regret not taking her the hospital wing myself. I just couldn't… seeing her like that, I…" Tom trailed off, wanting to give as little detail as possible that he would have to remember to make his lies consistent.
"That's quite understandable, Mr. Riddle. What I want to ask you about is one of your prior roommates: Mr. Malfoy."
Tom kept his features schooled. He had expected a line of questioning about his whereabouts the prior evening when Dippet had called him to the office, and though he had been surprised that any suspicion had been cast his way, Tom had attributed it to Dumbledore. But perhaps it wasn't him who Dippet suspected of foul play.
"Yes, sir?"
"Mr. Lestrange tells me that Mr. Malfoy has rarely been in their shared room recently, including last night. I know you no longer live there, but have you had an opportunity to observe the same behavior?"
Tom wanted to laugh at that question; what an abominable questioning technique! Dippet should have asked him what he knew without telling him what Lestrange already said. Normally, he would find throwing the new Malfoy behind the bars of Azkaban a wonderful prospect, but he needed to access him to acquire his blood, and he couldn't do that while Draco was under investigation or after he was put away. It was obvious that the Black family wanted a head on a spike and he did not want to do anything to put himself in the line of their rage. After all, eventually he would need their support to bring his plans to fruition. There was also the pesky fact that Draco was privy to information about Abraxas, and that his mere existence was evidence that the real Abraxas was missing at best.
"I have not seen for myself, Professor Dippet."
"I am sure you are aware that Mr. Malfoy was betrothed to Ms. Black. What do you know of the circumstances of the betrothal ending and how they felt about each other before last night?" Dippet looked deeply uncomfortable while asking Tom about two students' intimate relationship, confirming Tom's thoughts that the Black family must have already begun to apply pressure.
Tom's mind raced, and decided quickly that painting Malfoy as having no feelings for the girl in the hospital wing was the best course of action. Otherwise, there was a much uglier picture of a jealous ex taking what no longer belonged to him. "Abraxas broke off the betrothal. He was not interested in Ms. Black, and did not wish to marry her. As far as I know, they've been distant ever since."
"Thank you, Mr. Riddle. You've been very helpful." Dippet was obviously dismissing him.
"Sir, I apologize, but may I inquire as to the state of Ms. Black's health?" Tom thought that would be natural enough for him to know, and he did want confirmation that he was done with the irritating girl.
"Of course, Mr. Riddle. I don't have good news. She will be transferred to St. Mungo's soon, but there's little hope of a full recovery."
"What happened?"
"That is what everyone wants to know," Dippet responded, looking tired and slightly annoyed.
Tom nodded. "Please let me know if I can be of further assistance, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. Riddle."
Hermione didn't know how long she had been sitting there as she felt a familiar arm slink around her, pulling her against his chest.
She didn't move; aching with the warring feelings inside her of warm familiarity and the familiar ice pressing against her chest, reminding her that she no longer loved the man next to her.
"Tom," she greeted him stiffly, jerking away from his grasp and turning to face him.
"Hermione," he said smoothly. His mask was firmly in place, but he seemed less troubled then he had been lately. Perhaps he was moving on. It was probably for the best.
Her mind, distracted with thoughts of Dorea, drifted back to her bed that morning. "Were you in my bed last night?"
A cocked eyebrow and no response.
"Tom?" She pressed.
"Yes."
Hermione wrinkled her nose in disapproval. "Tom…" she trailed off, her voice sympathetic. "It's over."
"You said my name." He studied her face, as though deciding something. "I think your resolve is weaker in your sleep."
"Draco has said the same thing. I don't know what it is," she admitted. "I feel no conflict right now, looking at you."
Tom twitched; he actually twitched and her heart went out to him, but only platonically.
"I'll figure it out."
"I'm not a puzzle, Tom. I'm a person, and my feelings have changed."
"You are a puzzle of a person."
Hermione sighed, deeming further argument useless.
"So what did you do this time?" Hermione asked, gesturing behind her to the closed door she had been propped up against.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Something horrible has often happened to Dorea. You have nothing to do with it?"
"Why would I hurt Dorea?"
"Not a no," Hermione observed, her tone bored.
Tom shrugged, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. "Tom…" She begun.
"We'll speak about this and everything else once I put you back together, Hermione."
Her shoulders slouched, and she nearly laughed at realizing that she was feeling overwhelming pity for the future Dark Lord. Still, she reminded him: "I'm not broken."
"We'll see," Tom said cryptically. "I need you to do something for me."
Hermione shot him a questioning glance. "And why would I help you?"
Tom chuckled—not the rich, textured one that used to send shivers down her spine, but a laugh jaded and forced that reminded her more of Voldemort than the man she had gotten to know. "I know you wouldn't help me unless there was something in it for you right now, Hermione. You have made that abundantly clear. But I think your little infatuation might mean that our interests are aligned. Can we talk somewhere more private?"
Hermione felt a spark of anger at the characterization of her feelings for Draco as "infatuation," but was intrigued enough not to comment on it.
Despite her changed feelings and the strange edge to his voice, she followed him without hesitation, confident that he would never hurt her.
"So?" Hermione asked, her eyes drooping slightly from her disrupted sleep.
"Dippet suspects Draco. You need to say you were with him all night. Get the message to him, too. That was all."
Hermione gaped, her voice coming out slightly strangled. "Draco?!"
Tom lunged at her, his right arm pulling her closer and his left hand covering her mouth. "I didn't realize I needed a silencing spell, Hermione. Can we discuss this like we are of age?"
Hermione groaned at his condescending tone but nodded.
"How much do you know?" She was emotional—shaking, in fact—more out of fear than concern about his feelings. It was strange; it was a scene she had played over so many times in her mind. How would he react? Would he still love her? Did he ever love her?
But now—now it just felt like she was watching a movie. Someone else was talking to the man she had been so desperately in love with.
How could one person's death change everything so much?
Tom considered her question for a moment. "I know Draco is a time traveler who tried to rescue you from me. I assume you are also a time traveler. I will find out more about the circumstances."
He leaned in now, his calm façade dropping. "And you might think you're rescued, but no one can ever keep you away from me."
Her breath caught and for seconds she felt that if she just reached out, she could feel for him again. As though it were just out of her reach…
And then he moved away, and so did the thought, such an odd thought, because she loved Draco, not Tom.
Tom descended into the dungeons, seeking out Lestrange. He would have to handle the matter delicately: praise him for performing an odious task, but scold him for putting ideas into Dippet's head that he did not want—namely, that Draco might be a suspect.
For now, he shoved his conversation with Hermione out of his head, pleased that he had full confirmation now that she, too, was a time traveler. Her knowledge about him made sense, though it was a bit troubling that even someone in the future knew his deepest secrets. He felt less concern than he normally would, though. Soon, he would be able to penetrate her mind; he had already succeeded once. Plans were finally aligning.
When Tom found Lestrange alone in his dorm, he briefly told him how pleased he was with how he handled the Black girl. Lestrange was clearly a little too satisfied with himself, so Tom quickly went to the actual purpose of the conversation: "You need to scale back whatever you said about Malfoy."
"My Lord, I only thought that, given his recent behavior, and to divert suspicion from you—"
Tom cut him off. "If I wanted Malfoy in Azkaban for this crime, do you think I would have any problem achieving that?"
"No, my Lord."
"There is something I need to extract from him," Tom offered by way of explanation. He knew Lestrange was feeding off being his new favorite, and wanted him to remain fiercely loyal. The best way to do so was to explain to him that "Abraxas" was still out of his good graces, but Tom didn't want to explain exactly how much he had turned on the blonde.
"Information," Lestrange mused.
Blood, Tom corrected internally. Likely a significant amount.
Externally, he nodded curtly.