Chapter 10: Framed by the reluctant hour

1st August 2002 - Mykines, Faroe Islands

The scattering of houses that comprised the village clung to the windswept coastline, stark against the verdant landscape. Hermione scowled at the back of Tom's shining raven-haired head as she followed him up the stony path towards the neat, grass-roofed house that a hiker they'd encountered on the path down from the cliff had indicated as a bed and breakfast

She had been too distracted by the odd twisting sensation in her mouth as the translation charm took hold to make much of the hiker's quizzical look as she'd made her enquiry, but the man had cast her another odd glance before he started up the path, and Hermione had frowned, thrown by his suspicious demeanour, until Tom sniffed pointedly beside her.

"Your translation charm's too good."

"I don't know what you -"

"The accent and dialect modifications. They were completely unnecessary. Now you speak like a local in a place that has a population of -" he had paused, scanning the small clutch of houses "- fifty, at most."

Hermione had winced, realising the truth of what he said and feeling a rush of humiliation. "I just -"

"You didn't think, is what you did." Tom hadn't looked at her as he spoke, concentrating on picking his way down the narrow path. "You're too eager to prove how bloody clever you are, and it makes you rash."

Hermione had bridled at the accusation, nearly losing her footing and deepening her humiliation when Tom had grabbed her by the sleeve to keep her from toppling over. "I don't -"

"I already know you're clever," he'd growled. "But you need to be smart as well. Start by watching where you put your feet, it would be a crying shame if you were to successfully apparate us 300 miles only to die falling into a puffin nest."

Tom rapped smartly on the painted door and Hermione tried to swallow her renewed apprehension as trying to summon a blithe smile as they heard heavy footsteps approaching from inside. "Let me do the talking," Tom murmured from the side of his mouth, just before the door flew open to reveal a weatherbeaten man whose face was patterned with deep lines. Beneath thick, silvery brows his eyes were startlingly pale. "May I help you?"

Hermione jumped slightly, her smile faltering as Tom placed one hand on her shoulder, holding his other hand out to the man, who took it hesitantly. "My, ah, wife and I missed the flight to Vágar this morning," he said, giving a half-shrug and a little jerk of his head in Hermione's direction that she suspected communicated nothing flattering. "We camped last night, but we were wondering if you might have a room?" He let his smile widen slightly, "We'd rather not spend another night under canvas."

He spoke with the smoothly neutral Danish accent that was the translation charm's default, wizardkind seemingly not troubling themselves to keep up with the political developments of the muggle world. The man frowned slightly, and then leaned out of the door to squint at the pearl-grey sky. "I could see why if you camped last night."

Tom gave a charming chuckle. "Indeed. Quite right. Could you help us out?"

The man ran his eyes over them once again, visibly considering them. "You don't look like you'd survive another night in the open," he remarked. Hermione was relieved that they'd had the foresight to pull on the rucksacks she kept stuffed full of clothes in her beaded bag. She saw the man's pale eyes twinkle as he looked at her again. "Your wife looks quite done-in, so I guess you'd better come inside."

"Very kind." Tom smiled as he stepped forward, though Hermione could see that it had acquired a cooler edge, and his fingers had tightened possessively on her shoulder.

"I must say," Tom went on once they had closed the door behind them, "you live in a beautiful part of the world." His eyes flicked around the picturesque interior of the bed and breakfast as he spoke, and the man nodded his agreement before he began rummaging in a pile of papers.

"Wife?" Hermione hissed as she slowly took stock of their new environs, noting the cheerful fire flickering in the grate and the proliferation of knitted blankets and cushion covers. She wasn't surprised the man had noted her tiredness; the apparition was taking its toll, and she felt almost woozy with fatigue.

"Can't be too careful," Tom murmured blithely as the man finally found the receipt book that he had apparently been looking for and turned back to them.

"It's three hundred kroner for bed and breakfast," he said. "But for three hundred and fifty you can have dinner as well?"

"Wonderful," Tom said. "If you would, darling."

Hermione hid her scowl and fished in her pocket for some banknotes, surreptitiously sliding her wand forward in her sleeve to transfigure them. The momentary headrush left her blinking dazedly, and for a moment she was almost glad of Tom's hand on her shoulder, holding her upright.

The man nodded when she placed the correct amount in his hand, and held up a finger to tell them to wait before disappearing through a low doorway.

"Remind me again why we couldn't find a wizarding hostel?" Tom asked softly. His mouth was very close to her ear, and Hermione felt her eyes flutter briefly closed before she got hold of herself and shook him off.

"Because I don't know the political relationship with Britain and I don't want to stir up any -"

"Here we are!" Hermione quieted abruptly and pasted a ridiculous smile onto her face as their host strode back into the room, a rangy sheepdog trotting at his heels. "Room is the first door on the right up those stairs there, and bathroom is the second doorway."

All of the man's initial hostility seemed to have dissipated as he held out a key with a heavy wooden tag attached. The dog perched on its haunches and cocked its head as it gazed at the pair of them. "Now," said the man, glancing between them. "I'm Mikkjal and this," he gestured to the dog at his side, who huffed good-naturedly, "is Petur. What are your names?"

"I -" started Hermione, but Tom wrapped his arm around her shoulders again in spite of her earlier protest, and pulled her tight against his side.

"I'm Tomas," he smiled his easy, confident grin. "This is Helga."

Hermione struggled to keep her smile bright as Mikkjal clapped his hands together. "Excellent. Supper will be at seven, so you have a few hours to make yourselves comfortable in your room."

Turning towards the stairs, Hermione just caught the edge of the wink that the man sent Tom's way, and resisted the impulse to growl.

Upstairs she pulled off her rucksack, dropping it to the floor and rounding on Tom as he closed the door behind them. "Helga?!"

His dark blue eyes widened guilelessly. "'Hermione' doesn't sound particularly Danish, which I assumed was what we were aiming for." She watched as the edge of his mouth pinched into the barest of upward curves. "I would have thought you'd be glad I'm good at improvisation." His eyes gleamed. "After all, it was never really your strong suit."

"Fine." Unwilling to argue after the earlier humiliation with the translation charm, Hermione blew out a breath and turned away to survey the room more closely. The wood-panelled walls shone in the light from an electric lamp, and the snug proportions made it feel cosy and blessedly warm, given that despite the fact of its being August the weather was decidedly chilly.

The bed sat under the window in the middle of the small room, deceptively innocent under its neat, quaintly patterned quilt. Hermione could feel heat rising up her neck to spread across her cheeks as she noted the small size, and the memory of Mikkjal's wink and everything it had suggested sprang to mind.

She cleared her throat and gave her head a shake before she sat down at the end of the bed and glared at Tom again. "You're sleeping on the floor."

He was silent for a moment, watching her with an impenetrable expression. "Very well," he nodded eventually, shedding his own rucksack before flopping himself carelessly onto the quilt and closing his eyes. Hermione, bounced upwards by his action, felt her heart ache as the nonchalance filled her with unexpected memories of Harry, even as she spluttered crossly.

"What did I just -"

"I will sleep wherever you bid me tonight." Tom held up a finger without opening his eyes. "But it has been a very long time since I lay on a bed, not to mention it's been rather a long day of travelling, so you will forgive me if I take a moment to enjoy this."

Hermione heard the click as she closed her mouth on a return argument, knowing that it would be petty of her. Instead she fished in her pocket for the compass, studying the dial which still pointed unerringly southwest.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been staring at it before she became aware of Tom's eyes on her, and glanced over her shoulder to meet his inexorable gaze where he had propped himself up on one arm.

"Let me look?"

He sounded so innocent, so curious, that Hermione found herself offering the compass to him before she had quite processed the action. Tom pushed himself to sit as he took it from her hand, and as though the movement were born of a reflex she found herself turning towards him, shifting so that her legs were drawn up onto the bed.

Tom rotated the compass in his palm, his face so expressionless that his pale features might have been carved from stone as he watched the unwavering line of the dial, before he turned the compass over to read the inscription on the back, and gave an abrupt huff of laughter. "Andromeda Black," he murmured, before his eyes lifted to meet Hermione's and he tossed the compass back to her.

She could taste copper on her tongue where she had chewed her lip, and somehow the flavour matched the feel of his eyes on her skin. "How did you know?"

"Cummings," Tom remarked, nodding at the compass that Hermione's fist had closed around. "She's as sentimental as her sisters."

"I wouldn't describe Bellatrix as sentimental," Hermione said, unthinking, and Tom gave a sharp bark of laughter.

"You just didn't know her that well," he said, eyes glittering as he reached for her arm, his hand sliding over her bare skin where she had pushed up the sleeve of her jumper. He made a slight humming sound as he stroked his thumb along the faint blue lines of the veins on her wrist, as gentle as Bellatrix had been harsh when she had held her down on the floor in the ballroom of Malfoy Manor.

Hermione shuddered, a shiver of what she told herself was revulsion radiating outwards from his touch. It was the first time he had touched her skin since they set out from Skaftafell in the early hours of the morning, and Hermione's breath stuttered at the sensation. She had the sudden, distinct impression that she was merely a puppet, suspended on the strings of his attention, and she snatched her arm away.

"So what if Cummings is sentimental?" she asked, struggling to regain her equilibrium. "I doubt you know any poetry at all."

"'Stars stand in images above'," Tom murmured, so quietly that Hermione was uncertain whether she had heard him properly; certainly she couldn't place the words. Abruptly he sat back, looking at her with what she could almost believe was concern. "You need rest more than I do," he said. "It's another long apparition to get to mainland Europe, though I really think we should discuss -"

"I told you, I'm not letting you apparate us," Hermione said tiredly. She could no longer deny the fact of her exhaustion, the sort of bone-tired drain that she had forgotten came with long-distance apparition. If she hadn't been so afraid of a portkey being traced she would have happily enchanted one; as it was they were going to be stuck making a piecemeal journey following the direction indicated by Andromeda's sentimental compass.

Hermione sighed and allowed herself to stretch out on the bed, careful to maintain her distance from Tom. She was so tired; all she wanted to do was rest, but it seemed that even that might be too much to ask, because how she was supposed to fall asleep in the same room as him?

The constant awareness of Tom's presence made her feel as though every nerve ending was electrified. At least now it seemed that the never-ending adrenalin buzz - fight flight fight flight - was finally giving way, though she could feel the incipient thud at her temples that promised a pounding headache would be left in its wake.

She felt the bed shift as Tom got up, and heard him rummaging in one of the rucksacks before something cool was pressed into the hand that wasn't clenched tightly around the compass.

"Headache tonic," Tom said when she opened her eyes and frowned at him. "You were doing your -" he gestured at his own face "- scrunchy thing, and I assumed you wouldn't be travelling without some."

Hermione stared at him for a moment, watching the way that his mouth tightened as he read her surprise. "I told you," he said, very quietly. "I remember."

Wordlessly she closed her hand around the tonic, trying not to notice how his fingers brushed hers.

oOo

She was running through the Forbidden Forest, the way that she had run only once before, only this time she knew that it was towards not away from, and overhead it was dark, whereas she knew before (before) it had been dawn.

The clearing was up ahead, and as she approached she saw something move; saw moonlight glance off a curve - the edge of his glasses, she thought, as she fought her way through the brambles.

"Hermione," Harry smiled, turning towards her, hands outstretched, and it was only then that she realised it wasn't his glasses that shone but an edge of bleached bone, exposed skull gleaming, and suddenly there were skulls all around her, laughing death's heads everywhere, and she was falling, falling through the flurry of cards and screaming - screaming -

oOo

There was a knock on the door, and Hermione sat bolt upright, her mouth open in a silent scream of terror as her hands scrabbled in the emptiness of the other half of the bed, reaching for - for -

"Supper!" Mikkjal's jovial voice called from the hallway, followed by a series of heavy thumps as he descended the stairs, and Hermione pushed herself upright, trying to regain her sense of reality.

"It was a dream," she whispered to herself between gulps of air. "Just a dream - just a dream - just a -"

The door opened and she sprang to her feet in alarm, wand out and pointing into Tom's shocked face.

He ran his eyes over her quickly, checking for injuries, before making a split-second survey of the room, ending on the closed window. Slowly, keeping his hands up, he stepped into the room.

"Easy," Tom said, as he nudged the door closed behind him with his hip. His voice was low and even, much as you would speak to a frightened animal. "It's alright."

Hermione heard herself give a choked sob as he gently folded his fingers around the wand, lowering their joined hands and walking her backwards until she sat on the edge of the bed. "What happened?"

"It was just a dream," she whispered. "Just a dream."

As usual, Tom said nothing. He inhabited silence with an ease that Harry never had, she realised, and at the thought of Harry, the Harry that she had seen in her sleep, she felt a sob trying to rise up from beneath her ribs.

"A nightmare," she corrected herself. "But - but not real." The quavering note of doubt in her voice was all that was needed to start her shaking again.

"It wasn't the way you dreamed of me?" Tom asked, and she shook her head.

"No. Different. Not as - as real, but still not - not -"

"Not quite not real?"

When she opened her eyes his were sharp and calculating, and Hermione felt a prickle of unease that had less to do with the dream and more to do with his proximity. His hands rested either side of her hips, one still covering her own where she gripped her wand.

"I can tell Mikkjal that you're unwell?"

His tone was solicitous but he was still giving her that same shrewd look, and Hermione blinked, unable to hold his gaze. "No," she managed, gritting her teeth. "No, I'm fine."

"Good." Tom nodded, standing fluidly and pulling down the sleeves of his jumper that Hermione hadn't noticed until then had been pushed to his elbows, exposing the unblemished skin of his forearms. "Mikkjal's made some sort of fish stew that actually smells rather delicious, and will certainly be better than another handful of raisins from that bloody purse of yours."

"Yes," Hermione answered vaguely, unthinkingly taking the hand that he extended to help her up, and feeling the shock of his strong grip as he pulled her to her feet. "I mean, no, you don't have to be so rude, you -"

"Fine," Tom said. "Are we going down, or not?"

Hermione shot him a glare that already felt as though it was becoming customary and stalked past him out of the room and down the stairs, ignoring what she was fairly sure was a faint snicker of laughter from behind her.

She didn't see the wary glance that Tom threw around the room before he followed her out.

oOo

Dinner had been, as Tom had predicted, delicious and though Hermione was loth to admit it to him fish stew with potatoes really was a significant improvement on nuts and dried fruit.

She had felt Tom's eyes on her through the meal, even as he complimented Mikkjal on his cooking and laughed heartily, glowing with charm, at a joke about bachelors having hidden talents.

Petur sat close by his master's chair as they ate, his dark eyes moving between her and Tom. His hackles weren't quite up, but it was clear that the dog was made uneasy by their presence, and Hermione realised suddenly that she had never seen any wizard with a dog.

"What's got into you, eh?" Mikkjal asked, reaching down to rub Petur's ears, and then rolling his eyes as he sat up. "He's used to having strangers for dinner, silly thing. He can probably just smell the magic on you."

Hermione froze with her spoon halfway to her mouth. Beside her she could see Tom continuing to butter a slice of dark bread, apparently unconcerned. "Magic?" she asked, her voice squeaking over the word.

"Oh yes," Mikkjal nodded. "Camping out under the lights, this time of year? I'm surprised you didn't see any elves." He nodded out towards the dark bulk of the hill, visible against the evening twilight. "They like the hills." He stared into the distance for a moment, then smiled broadly. "Either that or Petur just doesn't like whatever fancy shampoo it is you young folk are using."

Hermione forced herself to laugh along with Tom, but she could hear the nervous edge in it that wasn't made any better when he placed his hand over hers, gripping tightly as though to tell her to calm down.

Shortly after clearing the plates, Mikkjal announced that he was going to bed - "Fish are early risers!" - and they were to make themselves at home as they pleased.

"I think we'll follow your lead," Tom said, standing and stretching his arms. Mikkjal laughed and waved over his shoulder as he strode to the back door to put Petur out for the night.

"After you," Tom smiled, and Hermione tossed her head before climbing the stairs. Tom followed her, pausing slightly when they reached the bedroom door.

Hermione threw him a questioning look over her shoulder, to see that he was glancing off to the side. In the dim electric light, his cheeks might almost have been pink. "Do you want a chance to -"

"You've seen pretty much everything already," she sighed. "Just turn your back."

Tom nodded, following her through the door and then turning towards it once it was closed. Hermione stripped quickly, forgoing a shower in favour of a perfunctory freshening charm. That it tired her out again told her that her magic had still not fully recovered, and she felt unease coiling in her stomach at the thought of apparating to Shetland in the morning.

She cleared her throat once she was done, and Tom turned to face her, making a quick inventory of her practical flannel pyjamas and then raising a sardonic eyebrow. "I guess I'll just make myself comfortable on the floor then."

"No!"

The word was out before she had even thought, and Hermione saw a gratifying flash of surprise on Tom's face even as she felt herself blush scarlet. "No," she went on more quietly. "I don't - I'm - it's -"

"It wasn't just a dream, was it?"

"It was, but it was Harry." Hermione shook her head, trying to blink away tears. "He was - he was dead and I -"

Tom watched her for a long moment, and then his mouth set into a grim line. "Remember that night in the Brecons?" he asked, and Hermione blinked, startled.

"That wasn't y-"

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you: I was there," he said impatiently. "Do you remember or not?"

She'd been crying again, harsh, wrenching sobs that she tried to muffle in her pillow, but Harry had heard, and he had come across to her bed and lain on top of the quilt and wrapped his arms around her, saying nothing, just holding her until she quieted; until she fell asleep.

They had been facing one another when she woke in the morning, and she had taken a moment to examine the care that had marked his thin face, the shadow where he needed a shave. They weren't children any more, and it was as though it had taken until that moment for her to see it - to see him -

Hermione swallowed. "I remember," she nodded.

"Then get in the bed," Tom said, and she found herself moving, unquestioning, pulling the blankets over herself and burying her head in the pillow. The mattress squeaked as Tom lay down behind her, on top of the quilt just as he - as Harry - had done, all those years ago.

"Go to sleep," he murmured as his arm circled her waist, the weight of it grounding her to the bed. "You're no use to anyone if you don't."

"My god, Tom," Hermione murmured sleepily. "That was almost sentimental of you."

She didn't expect him to reply, instead feeling herself sinking under the weight of her tiredness that pressed downwards upon her with far more insistence than Tom's arm.

When she was almost asleep she felt him shift minutely behind her, and then heard the words that he spoke, so softly he must have thought that she was already unconscious. "In me nothing is extinguished or forgotten." He made a quiet humming noise, his breath tickling the back of her neck, "Give me your mouth to soften, love; ah, your hair is all in idleness."

It was as though she could feel the way his lips lifted, his mouth moving against her hair, and Hermione smiled involuntarily, slipping into sleep.

She saw it only a moment; the very cusp of a dream: grey lips peeling back from bone in an unnerving, cheshire-cat smile.

A/N: Tom quotes Rainer Maria Rilke's 'What Survives'. Thank you for reading!