Chapter 12

Hermione stared at Draco, digesting what he had just said. It couldn't be true. The Turned don't age from the moment they are bit. The only vampires that age into adulthood are the Pures, those born into vampirism. Draco had obviously aged since their fateful encounter, which means that he could not be a vampire. Her head continued to throb. Potter a vampire. No potion to turn her back. Draco a vampire. It was too much to take in all at once while going through the aftermath of the Pensivitum.

Draco sat down on the damp stairs and put his head in his hands. The air around him grew softer, no longer menacing, no longer hungry. Hermione climbed the few steps between them and sat down next to him. Her body was aching and her mind was tired. She leaned on the mossy stone wall. She knew she would regret this later when washing the moss out of her hair, but she was too weary to care. Besides, there were more pressing issues to be addressed. She didn't know where or what to start her question with. She slowly drew circles into the moss as she contemplated. Then she decided there was no best way to ask. She opened her mouth.

"How?" she whispered.
"…How what?"
"You've aged."
"Ha… The great Malfoy name doesn't allow a disgrace in their family."

Hermione turned to look at him. He had lowered his hands and was now staring down at the floor. Hermione needed elaboration, but she automatically understood that this was an issue that shouldn't be pried open. Rather, it was a piece of history that needed to be voluntarily shared. They sat in silence for a long time. Both looked as if they had lost all will to return upstairs. They were content to sit here, time seemingly stopped, no one to intrude upon them. Even the air felt like it stopped flowing, as it hung, moist and heavy around them. In the silence Hermione could hear the gentle drip-drip of water droplets hitting the ground. She guessed that the humid air collected on the stone bricks jutting out of the wall. She counted each drop, patiently waiting for the answers to her questions. At long last, Draco spoke.

"When I turned, father was furious," he said, he himself now leaning on the mossy wall. "He could not have his only child be a failure. He was banking on me becoming an elite hunter. And… obviously, you can't have a hunter who's also a vampire.

"He needed to hide this fact. He needed to hide it as long as possible. He sought out Snape—infamous back then for his radical research—and asked him to create a potion to age me. It took him several months, but he finally developed something by using Skelegro as a base. Every month I had to take it. It forced me to age."

He was still looking down at the ground, but Hermione could see that his hands were shaking slightly. He balled them up into fists to hide it. He didn't have to say anymore. Hermione knew how painful Skelegro is. A potion using that as a base and having to take that every month… It must have been a horrifying experience for a young child. Such measures forced upon him by his father… A fleeting feeling of warmth shot through Hermione's mind as she recalled her own father, showering her with love and care. She knew what a great father was like and thus understood Draco's pain. Feeling responsible, Hermione reached out and cupped his hands in hers. He didn't resist her touch.

"Then father realized I would be an even better hunter 'cause of my vampire reflexes," he continued softly. He tried to hide it but Hermione could tell that he was choking up. "When he realized that, I didn't need to be a secret anymore."

Again they sat in silence. There was so much left unspoken, but Hermione understood. The years of torture from his own family, the secrecy, and the experimentation on his own body. The intense training that he would have gone through to become a hunter. The lack of love from his own parents due to being turned. Growing up as a cog in the giant machine known as the Association of Hunters. The basis for his hatred towards her was completely understandable. The hatred wasn't about being a vampire. It was his miserable existence that she had bestowed upon him.

"I'm sorry," she said. Draco didn't say anything, so she continued.

"I'm sorry but this doesn't change anything."
"…what?"
"You still lied to me."
"I didn't lie."
"I can't turn back."
"Eventually you may be able to."
"It's not a guarantee."

Draco sighed. He realized she was still holding his hands. He removed his right hand to cup her hands instead. Hermione turned to look at him. They were eye to eye, looking at each other properly for the very first time.

"It's not a guarantee," he agreed. "But we've both had such bad lives. I've seen it. You've heard it."
"And?"
"Call it even."

Hermione laughed. Her headache was slowly ebbing away. They both knew that it was impossible to call it even. It was impossible to erase the past. Emotions—hatred—couldn't be let go of that easily. But they both knew that they needed to cooperate. She had what he wanted, a look into Riddle's past. He had the doors open for what she needed desperately: cutting off her addiction to Riddle and possibly turning back. So this wasn't calling it even. This was a mere ritual, an exchange of words to signify a mutual understanding, a contract.

"Call it even," she said and gently squeezed his hands.

.

...

.

Hermione was back in the small dusty room, sitting in the middle of the semi-circle of candles. The second session for the Pensivitum was being set up. She was ready for it this time. Draco had promised to stop the spell before she lost her mind. She sat quietly, as ease, and appearing obedient. Narcissa glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. Her lips were pursed and she rolled her eyes slightly several times.

"I expected you to be kicking and screaming," Narcissa said. "Brave little vampire, aren't you?"

Hermione didn't say anything, but merely smirked at Narcissa. She understood now why Narcissa appeared dissatisfied. The sadistic woman wanted to see Hermione beg for mercy. She must revel in those moments, when her victims are tearing up and she feels that she has all the power in the world. Hermione wasn't about to give her that satisfaction. She could pry into her head all she wanted, but she wasn't going to take Hermione's dignity away this time.

"Let us begin then," Narcissa said and the four surrounding her raised their wand arms. Hermione felt her vision go dark, coupled with the inhumane headache, and soon she was swimming in her own past. She saw the clocks rewind as they were transported back in a blur of colors, back to the time when Tom Riddle had first captured her. Slowly, a room came into focus. Hermione had almost forgotten what it was like when she first lived with Riddle. It wasn't a cell in the storages that she was placed in, but a relatively nice room in Riddle's main mansion.

"Sleep little child," Riddle whispered. "Forget what you have seen today." He waved his wand and Little Hermione's frowning face soon relaxed as she fell into a deep dreamless sleep. The ghostly form of the present day Hermione jerked again as they were now entering a subconscious memory. This was new information to Hermione as well. She battled the migraine thumping madly behind her eye sockets to keep herself focused on the memory.

Riddle placed Little Hermione on the bed and sat down next to her. He pushed the matte of brown hair away from the sleeping child's face. "My prize," he said. He waved his wand again and a small gash appeared on the child's arm. Riddle summoned a glass and artfully directed her blood into it. Then he took a slow sip. Color flushed into his pale face as he savored the taste in his mouth. "A rarity…" he muttered. He looked up through the window to the night's sky as he took another sip of her blood. His eyes were no longer brown, but there was an unmistakable hint of earthly colors sprinkled within the red.

Then suddenly, the room blurred into a mesh of colors as they were transported into another memory. This time, they were in the dining room. Young Hermione was hanging onto the edge of a long mahogany table, much like how she did back in her own home, arranging her flowers. Only this time, it wasn't flowers she was arranging but bits and pieces of various greens in her salad. Riddle sat at the other end of the table, one hand on his temple, the other holding a wine glass. The room was only bathed in moonlight and his face was hidden behind a shadow.

"Eat your vegetables," he said. Hermione pouted. She jumped off the table and raced across the room towards Riddle. Then to everyone's surprise, she jumped onto Riddle's lap. "I don't want veggies," she whined. "I want to drink red juice like you." She played with Riddle's robe as he waved his wand to summon the plate of salad. He picked a small piece and delivered it to Hermione's mouth. She turned away and instead started to trace Riddle's lips with her fingers.

"It's always so dark in here," she said. Riddle parted his lips slightly to drink. Hermione took the chance and gently poked at his fangs. Riddle grasped her hand and locked her arms down. "No," he said. "Not yet."

"Why not?"
"You're too young."
"Am not!"
"When you're an adult."
"It's so long from now!"

Hermione jumped down from Riddle's lap and hid under the table. Riddle made no motion to retrieve the girl and merely tilted his head up to take another sip from his glass. The ghostly forms of Malfoys and Snape took a sharp intake of breath as they saw that Riddle's left eye was now brown. Then again, the memory melted and they were transported to yet another location. As the colors stopped spinning, they saw that they were in the woods this time. A thick layer of snow covered the grounds and they could see Hermione, now about ten years old, lying face down in the snow. A woman stood next to her, clutching her hand. It was bleeding slightly.

"She is bad news Riddle," the woman said. "Dispose of her!"
"Give her back," Riddle said.

He was also bleeding, but his wound was much worse than the woman's. He had a huge gash across his chest and the snow around him was turning dark red. Both his eyes were brown.

"She has weakened you, can't you see?" the woman screamed. "You haven't bled for over five centuries! And here you are. Bleeding. Because of me! I injured you. I injured you. This isn't normal Tom!"

Riddle ignored her and advanced towards Hermione. The woman stepped forward and placed herself between Riddle and Hermione. "Tom you must get rid of her. You are what holds the vampire society together. You are what holds the hunters at bay." She got on her knees. "Please I beg you Tom. You are our king. Without you everything will collapse."

"She isn't the cause of my frailty," Riddle said. He lunged towards Hermione, but the woman grabbed him in midair. They fell down into the snow and laid there. Riddle was panting slightly. The woman slowly sat up and dragged Riddle upright with her. She held onto the front of his robes and the blood from his wound coated her white fingers. She looked at Riddle. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

"No she isn't," the woman said. "The cause of your frailty… is that you are in love."

(A/N: Sorry this took a while. Hope you guys enjoy. :) As always, reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome. Also, I am still looking for a beta. As for the story, I'm getting really excited to explore Tom Riddle's past!)