Tom felt tears coming down hot and quick as he tried to silently will them away, not wanting to disturb Hermione. He would not let her see him like this, Tom thought as he tried to calm down even as his body wanted to collapse into itself.

Tom tried to focus on action, but the natural path forward would not lead to Hermione. He could read up on the details of the potion, procure an antidote if it even existed, and present it to her, but why would she believe him? He had been more open with her than he had ever been with anyone else, but he never knew that he was not starting from scratch. Hermione already hated him the first time she laid eyes on him; she had even promised Malfoy his figurative head. And she clearly trusted Malfoy and try as Tom might to blame the potion for that, he knew she already had before Dorea somehow slipped her the love potion—that fucking love potion.

Tom recognized that this chain of thought would bring him nowhere as he felt the urge to completely break down more strongly than before. Not bothering to wipe the tears from his cheeks or clothes, which were sticking to him from the moisture, Tom climbed down from his bed and knelt down to face his nightstand drawer. His voice croaked when he tried to verbally unlock the drawer, so he instead focused his energy into doing so silently. Tom was rewarded as he opened the wooden drawer with ease, greeted by a glimmering gold vial.

Gingerly, Tom picked it up and stared at the brilliant hue promising luck. Tom had always planned to save this fortune for some future plan but had yet to factor it in because his plans did not require luck—they were well thought out, perfectly planned and perfectly executed. But for once in his life, Tom had no plan and no hope of forming one so it seemed fitting to chug the warm gold liquid mixed with salt from his tears in a moment that he hadn't planned to use it.

A warmth began to spread through his body, leading Tom to sigh contentedly as he returned to the softness of his bed. But paradoxically, even as his confidence and a bit of calm began to return to him, he felt that he should embrace his tears and let himself cry as much as he wanted. And so, with the comfort of that strange liquid luck, Tom let himself think about the things he had tried to push to the side: Hermione's betrayal, her confused state brought on by the love potion, and most overwhelmingly, the feeling that Tom was no longer in control of those around him. Dorea had moved in on Hermione without his knowledge; Tom had lashed out at Abraxas because he was completely unaware of all the time travel occurring; Tom knew Hermione had been lying but never could have guessed the extent of it.

And as he began to map out Hermione's lies, his door burst open and the subject of his thoughts stood before him, beginning to ask questions. The burden of deciding what to say or how much was lifted from Tom, though, as the warm feeling in his chest insisted again that he act opposite to his usual instincts, and he asked the questions that had been pushed to the back of his mind even since he interrogated Malfoy. Was any of it real?, he started with as he put his hands around Hermione's heart-shaped face, searching her eyes unabashedly. Tom didn't feel the usual shame he would from being so open because the warmth continued to provide comfort and reassurance that he was doing the right thing.

And suddenly, with the assistance of that liquid, the appropriate course of action became clear to Tom. He hadn't been able to think of a way to save Hermione from his potion because there was no way. He had been correct; if he did the research for her, procured an antidote if possible, she would turn him away. She would reject him again.

And as Hermione continued to insist that anything between them was done, Tom turned around and grabbed the diary, giving it to Hermione. She protested but he insisted that she take it. It was the only way for Hermione to move on from the effects of this potion; she had to do it by herself and for the first time, Tom would have to trust her.

The following morning, Draco made a point of getting ready quickly, ignoring his roommate's smug looks as he rushed out of the room for breakfast, wanting to start his week off with a bit of space from them before inevitably suffering their presence at breakfast while he continued to be his grandfather. His anger over his imprisonment had first left him to judge his deceased grandfather for the company he kept, but Crabbe and Goyle's faces flashed and Draco had to take the indignation down a notch. If he had been born in this time, he wouldn't just be pretending to be Abraxas Malfoy. He would be Abraxas Malfoy.

At this glum thought, Lyra's words from what seemed like ages ago came back to him. You look a lot like him, but your nose is turned up a bit more, which is a bit funny because you aren't as snobby as he was. Even if it were just the bleaker circumstances of the future that had changed him, he had changed. Draco smiled to himself and looked across the room to see Lyra already sitting there. Their eyes met and Draco impulsively waved to her, not caring for a split second that he knew for a fact that it was not something his grandfather would do.

Of course, his acknowledgement of his friend did not go unnoticed. An unfamiliar voice asked from just behind him, making him jump slightly, "I didn't know you and Lovegood were friends."

Draco turned to wearily assess the source of the voice. It was a Gryffindor that he didn't recognize. Shrugging as he decided not to backtrack, Draco simply said, "Yes. We are." Still, he didn't go as far to ask the name of the Gryffindor as he didn't want to be that honest. Surely Abraxas knew the names of most in the school.

"Aren't you going to ask why I'm over here?" The lion asked again. He seemed to be internally wrestling with something, but as Draco had no idea who the person was, he couldn't even begin to guess what was plaguing him or whether it involved Draco.

Draco instead tried to look bored. "If you would like. Why are you here, then?"

A flash of anger cut across the other's face as Draco noticed the Gryffindor's fish clench and unclench quickly. "This was a bad idea," he said under his breath.

Gryffindors. Draco thought to himself. All hotheads.

"You obviously want to speak with me about something," Draco drawled. "So go on."

"I thought it would be obvious," the boy spoke, no longer trying to hide his frustration. "I know that you and Dorea have a complicated history, but I thought you might want to see her. That's all."

"Oh," Draco uttered, a bit taken aback. "Yes, then. I would." It was impulsive but thinking of the shock and grief apparent in his aunt when she had heard the news of Abraxas's death, it felt like one thing his grandfather would do that he wouldn't mind doing in his honor.

"You would?" The Gryffindor boy sounded a bit taken aback, but then nodded, his irritation dissipating quickly. "I'm going to see her Saturday if you would like to come. You would need permission from Slughorn, of course."

"Of course," Draco echoed absentmindedly. "I'll work it out. I'll be there."