You all are stellar human beings:
ScarlettxTristan, Senko Ryu, Allychick1, Anna on the Horizon, Jade Ember, bluberrimuffins, nicole317, xXBlueDazeXx, Smithback, AudioIrrelevance, Goooooooood (sorry bud, not going to count the o's XD), loupyloupowell, Risottonocheese, lorix, ChildoftheLight, KeitarosKeroNeko, Libby, Merih, Taylah, f4vivian, ClaireReno, Atilia Dawn Black, WhiteTigerXOXO, AphroditeCalling, MissPixie, Kenya Darcey, RubyKally, BooklvrAnnie, JC1988, slytherintriumvirate, licious461, madluv, Magtaria, magentasouth, VampireLoverForever27, A. Ymous, Kalidescope, bingbing196, sexy-jess, MissImpossible, deator11, psalmofsummer, Lady Hoffman, physics chick, tiki500, kromoon23, MissMusa, Vinwin, Kitsune, aaaaand... ilikebluepineapples.
Mina and Godric ducked back around the end of the corridor. Hermione had just burst out of that classroom, Riddle's classroom, and started sobbing up against the wall – what had Riddle done to her?
The girl just wouldn't take their advice against Riddle, no matter how hard they tried. But this... this had to stop. Mina exchanged a glance with Godric and then snuck another look at Hermione, who had slid down the wall and was now huddled in a ball, racked with shaking sobs. "What should we do?" whispered Godric.
Mina blew her black hair out of her eyes. "I'm going to talk to Riddle. Tomorrow. He's just bad for her, and that's all there is to it."
A foul humor overcoming her, Mina grabbed Godric's hand and led him back to the common room, leaving Hermione there alone.
xXxXxXxXx
Hermione sat there and cried herself dry. Why did it hurt so much, the realization that she couldn't understand that look in his eyes? Why was she still sitting there, resolutely crying her way through the night, as if waiting for him to emerge from that classroom? Why should she care?
She sniffed and cleaned her face with her wand. There was absolute silence from the classroom, and he hadn't left yet. Hermione slowly stood, her back aching after having been pressed against the stone wall for what must have been hours, and she went back to Gryffindor House.
She woke up late. Very late. No one was in the dormitory anymore.
Hermione slowly made her way down to the Great Hall. None of her friends were sitting at the Gryffindor table. Her eyes wandered over to the Slytherin table – Tom Riddle and Abraxas were noticeably absent, too.
She frowned and walked outside, squinting from the glare of the snow. She reached for her wand, to cast the standard Impervius on her shoes, but she annoyed to find that it wasn't in her pocket. She must have left it under her pillow. That was irritating; she would have to go all the way back to the dormitory.
Hermione turned right; a nearby passage through a tall turret led to Gryffindor far faster. But as she approached the turret, she frowned. Was that a person, standing on top of the roof? Hermione's heart beat faster as she squinted up at the figure. She could dimly make out a red lining on their robe – Gryffindor. Who was it? They were standing far too near the edge, in any case.
"Hello?" Hermione called tentatively. The figure's face turned downwards to her, its hair flapping in the wind. Short, brown hair.
"Hermione!" said a dim echo of a voice, vague pleasure in it.
Hermione's breath caught. "Miranda? Why are you up there?"
"Just testing something out," called Miranda, and just like that, without any sort of warning, she rocked back on her heels and leapt out into the air. The drop must have been seventy or eighty feet.
Hermione screamed until her voice cracked. She frantically tried a wandless spell, but nothing happened. Miranda's thin body toppled through the air, wind tearing at her robes and hair, and Hermione froze to the spot, helplessly watching for what seemed like a year. She almost believed that, just before Miranda landed, there would be some sort of salvation, some sort of force field that would keep her from colliding with the hard-packed snow. But there was not.
Her friend landed face-down with the worst noise Hermione had ever heard, a crunching nauseating thud.
"Oh my God." Hermione broke into a sprint.
She knelt over Miranda. The girl's limbs were twisted out at a terrible, flailing angle. Oh my dear sweet God. Hermione turned Miranda over. She wasn't moving. She wasn't breathing. Her face was sickeningly crumpled inwards by the impact, and there was crimson everywhere, leaking from every orifice, coming out of random holes in her skin. Hermione let out a small noise, her head spinning, looking around with desperation in her eyes, and then she retched, again and again, sucking in breaths, desperately attempting to calm herself. What was there to do? What could she do?
She clenched her eyes shut, wishing she'd wake up, wishing this would all be a terrible nightmare, and she hugged Miranda to her, her head on Miranda's chest, disregarding the wet feel of blood on her cheek – but she stopped.
On Earth, that would have been an entirely fatal fall. That should have been an entirely fatal fall anywhere.
So why was Miranda's heart beating?
Hermione's eyes opened in astonishment as she looked down at her friend. There was blood all over her, and she didn't look alive, but that sluggish thud in her chest said otherwise.
Hermione looked up as something moved in her peripherals.
Slowly coming around the side of the castle was Tom Riddle. Hermione closed her eyes. After last night – why did he look so normal? But that didn't matter – nothing mattered except that Miranda was somehow still alive.
She found herself yelling, "Tom!" Her arms flailed wildly, and he walked to her with agonizing hesitancy. "Help me." Miranda was a couple inches taller than her, and Hermione wasn't exactly strong, but Miranda had to get to the Infirmary, and fast, and Hermione didn't have her wand –
A look of horror came across Riddle's face. "What -"
"She jumped off of that tower! Look, there's no time – carry her! I don't have my wand, and we have to get to the Infirmary, now." Hermione lifted Miranda's broken body with a mighty heave. She staggered, and Riddle's arms were suddenly around her friend.
They ran as fast as they could to the Infirmary, Hermione holding Miranda's head so it wouldn't bounce. How was her being alive physically possible? Her neck was sideways. She had a broken neck.
"Merlin!" yelped Jared Pippin as Hermione and Riddle rushed through the door, laying Miranda on the nearest bed. They had left a trail of blood spattered behind them on the floor, and every student they had passed in the halls had just stopped, and stared.
"Jared, she's still alive," Hermione said. "She jumped off a tower and she survived."
Mungo walked into the room and his face froze. "Dear God," he said, and then his wand was out and wandering all over Miranda's body. He slowly stretched out her limbs, and it was even more painfully obvious now how many of her bones were completely wrong, hanging at limp, dead angles, and both her shoulders were out of alignment, and there were random holes in the front of her body, like her blood had wanted to keep falling after she had hit the ground and it had just burst out – and her back was collapsed and concave, like a dented tin can—
It took nearly two hours for Mungo to find, and gingerly heal, all the breaks in Miranda's body. Every rib except two had smashed. Both arms, one in seven places and the other in five. Both legs, one in four places and the other in six. Her entire skull had crumbled inwards, which had taken Mungo rummaging around in his black book of spells to repair. Both her shoulders had popped out of their sockets, and one hip, too. Mungo had been cautious with her neck – he said that, despite the break of the bone, there was no damage to her spinal cord. He also said it was lucky she had fallen into snow and not hit stone, or her brain might not still be in decent form, which he said it somehow was.
"In fact," he said, "I don't know how her brain is still intact. Or her heart, for that matter. They both seem to be nearly perfectly in shape, although the brain stem here -" he tapped Miranda's neck with his wand – "was a little unsteady because of the break… but really, her brain should have been really damaged by that skull breakage –"
Hermione watched as her friend slowly regained her usual appearance. Why, Miranda?
Mungo frowned a little as he waved his wand over Miranda's body. "This is really strange," he said. "She's fully oxygenated. Her whole body. Even though most of her blood vessels have ruptured – it's like air is seeping in through her skin and circulating itself, or something."
Hermione was more than a little unnerved.
"That aside, though – everything in her body needs to repair. She won't be awake for at least another month," sighed Mungo. "Nervous system first, probably, which will take about a week, and then I'll start work on her lungs just as soon as Pippin's got that blood-clearing stuff – Jared? Can you find the instructions?"
Riddle had left quietly after it was apparent that Mungo had the situation relatively under control. There had been a pensive look on his face, and he had caught Hermione's eyes before walking out.
Hermione gazed at Miranda's face. She looked peaceful, calm, pristine. She had always been a little strange... but suicide? She had said she was happy to be here. Why would she want to risk moving on?
It was like a sudden jolt. By all rights, Miranda should have been stone cold dead. But that didn't happen... because it couldn't happen here, for whatever reason.
Here, no one could die.
Godric, Mina, and Albus joined her in the Infirmary an hour later, the former two looking absolutely stunned, Albus looking gently unsurprised.
"She asked me yesterday," Dumbledore said, "if I thought we could actually pass in this place." There was a long pause. Hermione turned and looked at Dumbledore. "I said no," he said quietly.
Godric let out a long breath. "I can't believe she's going to be all right," he muttered. "I can't believe she would even try a stupid stunt like that in the first place." Just testing something out...
Mina shook her head in disbelief and stayed silent, brushing Miranda's hair back from her forehead tenderly.
Hermione looked down at her knees, fighting back tears. The others hadn't seen her crying during Mungo's healing, and they didn't need to see her cry now.
Godric glanced at Hermione and then looked at Mina. Even through the absolute shock of Miranda's actions, he could tell that they couldn't stop from asking themselves, that they were thinking the same thing. If Hermione could keep herself from crying after this... then what in the bloody hell had Riddle done last night?
xXxXxXxXx
Riddle exited the Slytherin common room, his mind still unsteady in disbelief. The fact that the girl was alive meant, surely, that no one could die. What would happen if he tried to cast Avada Kedavra? No death... Then again, they weren't really alive to die...
Riddle's stomach ached in hunger. He hadn't bothered to go to breakfast, instead choosing to sit on the Astronomy Tower and think, so now he headed to the Great Hall for some food.
The pure shock of the girl's suicide attempt had worn off. Riddle analyzed the subsequent results. This would likely get Dumbledore out of his hair, which seemed like an extraordinary stroke of luck. Actually, this provided the perfect avenue for his plan for Granger – incredibly optimal. Tonight seemed like the time, the time everything would finally come together.
Riddle turned to the left. The dungeons wound around and around, which always proved mildly irritating – and now there were two Gryffindors standing in front of him, seemingly as right as rain, though one of their best friends was lying broken in the Hospital Wing.
"Hello," Riddle said, nodding his head civilly to Godric and Mina. They didn't move. The confrontational looks on their faces made Riddle want to roll his eyes. Honestly, he didn't have time for Gryffindor foolishness.
Godric shook his head, his red hair moving out of his eyes. "Listen, Riddle," Godric said cautiously, "I've wanted to speak with you about this for a while."
"We both have," interrupted Mina.
Riddle raised his eyebrows, looking politely interested. He sealed his face into its mask and waited for them to clarify.
"In essence," Mina said, "We'd like you to get the hell away from Hermione Granger."
Well, that was a bit aggressive. Riddle blinked, a little surprised by her fervor. But then, of course – this girl had been the one in the maze. He restrained a smirk with great difficulty. Of course, she'd be humiliated to be in his mere presence. "Why?" he asked, allowing a look of slight confusion to appear on his face. "I apologize; I don't understand."
"Look," said Mina fiercely, "it's been apparent for a while now that being around you really... it really messes with her, and we'd like for it to stop."
Riddle frowned. "Messes with her? She seems perfectly fine when I'm with her," he said. It was almost funny, how angry this girl was getting so quickly. No, she wouldn't last five minutes attempting to hold a conversation with him. No brains. No ability to plan. Just like a Gryffindor. Well, most Gryffindors.
"Perfectly fine?" snorted Godric. "You mean, like last night?"
Then there was a stiff silence in the air. Riddle looked straight into Godric's face, and his strong green eyes held the stare admirably. So... Granger had told them about what had happened? She was closer to them than he had thought. She couldn't keep reporting back to them; it was most unsatisfactory. Of course, there was just a slim chance that... "What do you mean?"
"Well, I mean, after we saw her bursting out of that room and proceeding to sob her eyes out, it sort of became apparent that she wasn't 'perfectly happy'," shot back Mina.
Riddle inwardly sighed with relief. So she hadn't talked to them about him. But then he nearly frowned, just barely catching himself... why would she be crying? So he had fully let down his guard for the first time... well, the first time ever, and he had told her to leave... why would that make her cry? "I'm sorry," he said, "I don't understand. When she left, she seemed fine. I didn't think I did anything to make her cry. Is... is she alright?" And now, just a touch of concern. Perfect. The fabricated concern came strangely easily, for some reason.
"She seems fine, now," muttered Godric, exchanging a glance with Mina. This was not how it was supposed to be going. Riddle seemed perfectly convinced of his innocence.
"That's good," Riddle replied earnestly, his eyes flickering over to the Mina girl. She looked brim-full of absolute rage.
"Look, just stop," Mina said, walking towards him. "I know you're not the harmless person you always pretend to be. Just stay away from Hermione, yeah?"
He raised one eyebrow. "So I should lose one of my best friends just because you ask me to?" Hmm. Maybe 'best friends' was laying it on a bit thick, though he supposed she was the closest thing he had to an actual 'friend', so it wasn't exactly a lie.
"Yes!" spat Mina. Her grey eyes were stormy. Godric walked up and put a hand on her shoulder steadily. Riddle let himself look a bit alarmed by her rage. He was tiring of the game – these people provided absolutely no intellectual challenge at all; it wasn't fun to deceive them. They were persistent, though, which just made it irritating. Yes, his patience was slowly weathering down.
Both these people already knew that he was deceptive, due to the maze incident. Wouldn't it just be easier to hex them and get it over with? That stupid Gryffindor pride would probably stop them from letting anyone know about it, if it were two on one and he bested them both, which, of course, he would. Plus, who would believe that Tom Riddle would curse someone if it weren't for a good reason? Surely, no one. "Look," Riddle said exasperatedly, "I really don't understand why I should do what you're asking. It was through no fault of mine that she was miserable last night; I don't see why I should apologize for it, and especially not just withdraw -"
"We know you cursed yourself," said Godric quietly. "We know it was you."
Oh, right. That. Back in the maze, that Mina girl had let on an inkling of knowing about that. Well, that made this either quite a bit harder or quite a bit easier. "Not to mention the maze," Mina added with a particularly venomous glare.
Then a smirk slowly made its way onto Riddle's face. "Ah, yes. Good days."
Godric was a bit disturbed. This information should have worried Riddle, but he was smirking, looking even more dangerously confident than ever. What was wrong with the boy?
"Unfortunately, that doesn't make me want to leave Hermione alone," Riddle sighed, "because she's just too... interesting." Mina's scowl darkened further. "Also, I'd like to point out that Ms. Granger herself also knows about those incidents, and hasn't seen fit to abandon my friendship, so I would wonder why you're here intervening on her behalf," he continued smoothly, scanning the Gryffindors with an idle pleasure. This was even easier than flustering Granger. Not quite as fun, though, and he really was hungry, so it would be nice just to get out of there. "So, thank you for the sentiment, but I'm afraid -"
"We're not joking around about this, Riddle," said Godric sharply. "You leave her alone, or there'll be hell to pay."
Time to draw out the fangs. "Why would I want to leave her alone, though?" Riddle said with a wicked smirk, his eyes darkening. "When she's so..." he trailed off and let his gaze wander over to Mina. "Delicious?"
He could practically see the girl's mind jumping back to that day in the maze, and a furious snarl erupted on her face. "That's it," she said, and drew her wand.
"You really don't want to do that," Riddle said.
Mina hadn't even seen him draw his wand, but there it was, in his hand, though she could've sworn it wasn't there a second ago... Oh, well. Godric Gryffindor was standing next to her. Mina reassured herself that matter how good Riddle was at dueling, there was no way he could beat Godric. She hadn't ever seen him lose a duel, not to anyone, though admittedly he'd never dueled Albus, who was pretty fantastic.
Her anger was bubbling over. She wanted to curse that smirk off Riddle's smug face. What was his problem, anyway? It was like he was obsessed. A creepy, sick obsession. Mina remembered that hot breath on her neck, that sweet smell, the feel of him pressed up against her – and her stomach lurched. She swallowed. Her wand wavered a bit as she held it out.
"You two really are beginning to bore me," Riddle mused aloud, and that was the last straw for Mina. She gritted her teeth and a red jet of light spat from the end of her wand – a Stupefy. Godric shot her an alarmed look, but come on; there were two of them and one of him, and it was Godric. Riddle didn't even seem to move his wand – he just looked at the red light and it curled in on itself and folded into nothingness. Mina's mouth dried up. What the hell was that?
Then he lazily fired spells at both of them with casual flicks of his wand. They were both relatively harmless jinxes, and Godric and Mina deflected them easily. Then Riddle waited. What looked like a black vortex hummed towards him from Godric just as Mina conjured an angry-looking falcon, which swooped down towards Riddle. Now he waved his wand, and the black vortex turned on its side, shredding the feathers off the falcon before swallowing it completely. Riddle flicked his wand and the black swirl vanished.
Godric and Mina started sending spells in earnest now, but the relaxed look never vanished from Riddle's face, and every single spell missed, vanished, collided harmlessly with the wall. Godric started pulling some interesting things out of his arsenal, conjuring complex restraints, changing air into fire, all while firing jinx after jinx – although he didn't really want to hurt Riddle, so he wasn't going full-force. Surely, after all, if he dueled with all he had, Riddle wouldn't have had a chance... Although the boy really was unnervingly relaxed...
Mina's brow was furrowed in concentration, but Riddle's wand danced lightly through the air, discarding every single attempt, and he hadn't even taken a step yet.
Riddle sighed. This was the problem with Light magic – after a while, it all got so boring and predictable. He was done. This fight was over.
They'd stopped firing spells at him, and seemed to be waiting for him to do something, which was a terrible idea, Riddle mused with a small smirk. He slowly shifted his weight into a dueling stance, and was glad to see levels of fear on the faces in front of him. A small swirl of his wand, and a violent magenta rocket of light blasted towards Godric.
Mina took a step back in terror. She could smell the hot burn of the powerful spell, and even Godric looked alarmed. He wove his wand in a pattern, frowning, and a steel webwork slowly appeared in front of him, managing to displace Riddle's spell – but before Godric had even finished making the shield, Riddle's other spell had blasted into Mina's chest.
"Mina!" roared Godric, and dropped down by her as if it had been he who had gotten hit.
Riddle tucked his wand away with a sigh and walked away. He hadn't done anything too bad to the girl – just a mild electric shock, coupled with a bit of an unpleasant buzzing in the ears which lasted for a day or two. After all his wasted time, Riddle thought, they should be grateful that that was all he had done.
He hoped they wouldn't tell Granger about it. That wasn't likely, though, if they'd gone behind her back to corner him in the dungeon.
His mind flickered back to what those two had let slip – her crying the night before. He frowned as he sat down at the Slytherin table, next to Revelend Godelot. Granger had cried over him?
Riddle hadn't ever really thought about her in that context, like a person who could feel bad because of him, who could be emotionally affected by him. She was strong; that was one of the main reasons she interested him. The only time he had seen her cry was after losing her friend, and that had hardly been hysterical sobbing. Oh, and out of pain during the Cruciatus. Why would she feel bad enough to cry after last night?
He thought back. Everything had come rushing back, as it always did, in a torrent of pure hurt, this time triggered by her asking him why she should not tell him she was sorry. He shouldn't have let that innocent question get to him, but it had set something off that he couldn't control, turning him into an utter wreck. Riddle's face hardened. She had looked at him as if she had seen the Bloody Baron. And then that soft word – "Tom."
She had asked him about himself, and he had ordered her to leave. She had held out her hand to him, and he had slapped her away. She had placed a gentle hand on his shoulder... and he had done nothing.
Could she have been upset... because he had been upset? The idea was so utterly foreign to Riddle that his face threatened to screw up into utter bafflement. It seemed like the type of thing Granger would be predisposed to do, though – get sad on behalf of someone, like that was rational. Was that something friends did, get sad for each other, like they couldn't do it perfectly well themselves?
He had stared into her eyes as anchors to the world – the fact that she had been sitting there in silence was the only reason he hadn't immediately had his fit. But then, that quietly spoken name – it had been too much. Far too much.
In her eyes – it hadn't been pity. No; pity would have enraged him. It was something close, though... something near. Something stupid. The word flooded his mind – compassion.
Someone didn't just randomly feel compassion, though. They had to care to feel compassion, which was why Riddle himself never –
They had to care.
Riddle's face drew in sudden surprise, and he stood up unsteadily, having finished his silent midday meal –
His mind trailed the sequence of events again, and again, but he was still disbelieving. How could she care about him? How could she care for him? No one had ever given a thought to genuinely caring for him – at least, not after they knew who he was. The notion was alien, foreign. Riddle did not care about anyone, so no one ever cared about him.
He found himself asking himself the question, though:
Did he care about her?
Well, he didn't even know where to start. That uncomfortable twinge he got when he thought about having made her cry, the way he sometimes caught himself thinking back on their conversations with a sort of happy satisfaction, the strange way he had adjusted to be around her, the pleasant feeling in him when they were both relaxing and speaking as equals – did that all amount to caring? Two people who cared about each other – did that mean that they had an actual, valid friendship?
Surely not. Surely there was something to be said for the fact that he'd done this only to execute a plan. That made it disingenuous, right? It couldn't be real, because legitimately caring was risky. Caring was weak, and stupid. All it meant was that you let someone get close enough to wound.
But she cared about him.
Riddle blinked and bit his lip. This was good. This was what he had been aiming for, right?
So why did he feel so utterly unseated now that it had happened?
xXxXxXxXx
Hermione ate dinner in silence. Godric and Mina were acting really strange, and she presumed it was about Miranda, so she didn't ask them to elaborate. Every so often, Mina would shake her head a little, as if trying to clear her mind. Of course, Mina would be trying to suppress her sadness.
Hermione finished her dinner. For the past week or two, she had been going to visit Riddle after dinner, but... that didn't really seem like an option, in this instance. Maybe she would just stay away tonight, give him space before she tried to pry into his life again.
She really wasn't any better than he was, Hermione thought glumly. They both wanted information, just had different ways of attempting to get it – although last night's development had been entirely unanticipated...
She trailed out of the Great Hall early, fleeing the uncomfortable silence with one glance back. She was a bit unnerved to find that all three of her friends were just watching her leave, with expressions she didn't recognize. Were they alright?
She made a right, and then stepped behind a tapestry, the way that she took to get to the common room these days so she wouldn't have to walk past the entrance to the dungeons. Then she tripped on something and fell, only to have a strong hand catch her upper arm, keeping her upright.
"Oh. Uh," she said lamely. It was Riddle.
"Sorry to trip you," he replied, letting go of her arm. "I was waiting for you."
Hermione frowned. "Why?"
Riddle sighed. "Look, Granger, I -"
"It's Hermione," she interrupted, without knowing why.
"What?"
"My name is Hermione," she said. "I don't think you've ever used it. I know you don't like your first name, but I like mine, alright?"
He nodded slowly. It was dark behind the tapestry, but the look on his face was clearer than usual. "I was going to say I'm sorry for last night," he said quietly. "I was rude."
"You're... sorry?" said Hermione, the words unfamiliar in context with the boy opposite her.
"Yes. I acted poorly," Riddle said stiffly. He felt uncomfortable, and he couldn't seem to make himself meet her eyes. She looked completely surprised, but didn't look unhappy. This apology thing was working out well, but then, as usual, she tossed a wrench in his plan for how this was supposed to proceed.
"You don't have to be sorry for being sad," she said quietly, and he stared at her like she was from another planet. Was this what it was like, when someone cared about you? This talk about feelings and that soft, gentle tone in her voice, a strangely nice tone to listen to...?
"But I am," he replied softly. "I... it was not my intention to hurt you."
She still didn't smile. He couldn't remember getting this far into a conversation with her in the past week and a half in which she hadn't smiled by this point. She looked conflicted. And there was a note of pain in her eyes, he saw with... with almost a pang in his own chest. Why should he care if she was sad, or in pain? He suddenly felt uneasy. "Walk with me?" he asked quietly. Time to get started.
Hermione nodded and walked by him in silence. She was surprised when they did not head towards the usual classroom. Then again, he was done with the potion, so that room had probably outlived its usefulness.
They stopped on the seventh floor, a few hallways away from the Room of Requirement. Riddle stopped in front of an oaken door. "Ernest Hemingway," he said. The door clicked quietly.
Hermione frowned. "Where are we?" He opened the door. "Why is the password Ernest Hemingway?"
"My room. The Head Boy and Head Girl rooms. I would have thought you'd know."
Hermione shrugged. "No, I've never been."
"You weren't Head Girl? That's a surprise," Riddle said. He held the door open for Hermione, and she walked in. "As for why the password is a Muggle author, I'm mystified," he said drily. And offended.
Hermione entered. It was a small hallway, one door on the right and one on the left.
"That one's for the Head Girl," he said, "and this one's for Head Boy."
Two letters were carved into the dark wood of the door on the left. HB.
Humongous Bighead.
Hermione suddenly felt laughter swelling in her at the thought, as Riddle tapped the doorknob on the Head Boy door with his wand. It clicked.
"What spell was that?" she asked. "Just Alohomora?"
Riddle shook his head. "No, it's a special password, so the Head Girl and Head Boy can't just get into each others' rooms. Mine's my birthday."
"When's your birthday?" Hermione asked, though she knew it was the last day of the year.
He frowned. "I suppose I shouldn't really care about you attempting to break into my room for any reason, should I?"
"No, you shouldn't."
Riddle sighed. "December thirty-first, if you must know." Then he opened the door, and the pair walked into the room.
It was irrationally spacious inside, seeing as it only should have had enough space to be half the size of a regular classroom. But it had a high, arched ceiling, a marble fireplace, and wood floors. The bed hangings were deepest green, and in front of the lit fireplace sat a black leather sofa. A cherry wood desk was on one side of the room, filled with impeccably stacked papers. The entire room was freakishly neat.
"Are you uncomfortable in here?" Riddle said. "We can leave. I just wanted to get the Butterbeers." Two bottles of Butterbeer sat on the mantle.
"No, it's fine," said Hermione. "I'm not like you old-fashioned people from the 1940s." A small smirk appeared on Riddle's face.
Hermione sighed. The warmly-lit room really was very welcoming, more welcoming than the Gryffindor common room had felt in a long time.
Riddle flicked his wand and the Butterbeers flew into his hands. He offered her one.
"Why the celebration?"
"Not a celebration. I just thought you might like one after the events of today," sighed Riddle, sitting on one end of the sofa. She perched herself at the other end. "How is your friend, by the way?"
Hermione popped the cap on the Butterbeer with a poke of her wand. "Not good. Mungo says she won't be awake for a month, and even then she'll have to take lots of potions." She gestured with her Butterbeer. Riddle was looking intently at her. "Apparently her trachea shattered, and there are holes in both her lungs. He'll have to heal all her internal organs. That's before she can even wake up."
Riddle shook his head slowly. "How is she still alive? I was wondering... that fall seemed like it should have, well, killed her."
"Yeah," agreed Hermione quietly. "I don't... well, I don't..."
"...think people can die here?" Riddle finished, nodding slowly. He was looking into the fire. "I was thinking the same. It's a bit of a bizarre thought."
Hermione gripped the cold bottle in her hands. "I know. But I guess since none of us are really alive in the first place..."
She placed the Butterbeer to her mouth and took a drink.
Riddle stood up, feeling uneasy. There it was. That was it. It should kick in right about –
He heard a small intake of breath from the sofa behind him. He almost didn't want to see this happen, very nearly didn't want to see this strong, independent girl undermined by the potion he'd put in her Butterbeer. But it was too late for that. He turned back to look at her, and she was staring wide-eyed at him. She slowly recapped her Butterbeer and placed it on the ground, her mouth slightly open.
He wished he had just been able to make Veritaserum, but each different experiment would have taken a month, then, and he didn't feel like that type of time frame would have been realistic. So he had settled for a need-specific love potion, helped along by that book, Twilight Seduction, which had had so many useful ingredients and suggestions in its pages. He hadn't wanted to use any of the generic love potions, like Amortentia, because they yielded irritating side effects, often, like temporary memory loss in exchange for longer-lasting affection, which completely defeated the purpose.
So, Riddle had created his own potion, one that didn't need an antidote, one that would fade after four hours and would make the drinker forget any memory of having taken the potion.
"No, none of us really is alive," Riddle agreed after a while, "which is always sort of irritating to have to remember."
Hermione nodded breathlessly. "I know." And her voice was throaty and eager.
Riddle walked back to the sofa and sat down. He had hoped that it wouldn't alter her personality too much, but that would have been a bit too much to ask for, he supposed.
"Listen, Hermione," he said, and the second word stuck in his throat. Hermione. She had asked him to call her that, like he was a friend. Someone to be trusted... and he was shattering that trust by doing this. An entirely unfamiliar feeling swept through his gut, and he swallowed, and then he just focused on the fact that he was finally going to know all he wanted to know.
"Yeah?" she said, her eyes just a little too open, her face just a little too transparent.
Words sprang unbidden into his mind, words that Granger had spoken that night in the Entrance Hall while half-smiling at him, and the echo of her voice resounded around his head. There are things that are more important than just getting what you want.
Riddle stared at this new Granger, and he bit back his words, and he examined those words she had said to him... There are things that are more important than just getting what you want. But, try as he might... he couldn't understand. He felt like he was so close to comprehending what she meant, so close to getting it, and he felt like that unsettled feeling in his stomach was part of the answer, but there was a thin barrier that he could not surpass. So he just went back to what he did understand: getting what he wanted. The goal. The purpose.
"I've really been wondering," he said quietly, "how you knew that name." He couldn't believe how bad his acting was at this second. All the sultry airs that usually came naturally, all the seduction that he had always been so good at – now he just felt stiff and awkward. The girl sitting in front of him was not the same one as had been there ten minutes ago.
"Which name?" she asked vaguely. He nearly chuckled. That was almost like something she would have said normally.
"You know," he said, meeting her eyes. "My name."
"Oh." And her eyes got round, and she looked away, into the fire.
Riddle was shocked. This love potion was dizzyingly strong – stronger than Amortentia, stronger than anything they had ever discussed in school. It wasn't so much love as utter infatuation. Obsession.
And still she saw fit not to tell him what he asked?
Well, not immediately. Maybe it would just take a tiny bit of time to coax it gently out of her. After all, falling so suddenly and dramatically in love couldn't be easy.
He turned to her. "Please?" he asked, and she turned back to look at him with those glimmering eyes. "Would you tell me how you knew?"
Hermione bit her lip. This striking, incredible, perfect boy was asking to know something that might hurt him. Who wanted to learn that they had been denied a normal existence, denied the application to teach at their Alma Mater, denied everything except a band of ruthless Death Eaters? How could anyone really want to hear that? How could she do that to him? She loved him, and she was surer of that than she had ever been of anything in her life, all of a sudden –
"Do you really want to know?" she whispered as his eyes gazed into hers. She convinced herself, deluded herself into believing, that he looked at her with the same absolute affection she felt... filled with perfect, golden love, down to the fingertips...
"Yes, I do," he murmured, something flickering in his dark eyes, an emotion that she couldn't take time to focus on right now. And with those three words, her fate was sealed.
She licked her lips. How could she start? "I'm a Muggle-born," she said carefully, and she was heartbroken to see a look of momentary disgust slither across his face. She displeased him. She had to change, somehow... but enough with that self-pity. He had asked her to tell him how she knew the name.
"I'm a Muggle-born, so I never grew up with Wizarding families, or knowing the things regular Wizarding kids knew," she said quietly. "I got the letter to Hogwarts, bought my books, got all my supplies... but there are things you can't learn from books, things that authors just don't want to... or, well, can't write about."
She wanted to look away, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from him, every tragically beautiful contour of that dark face. "There was one thing I kept hearing. Something I didn't really understand. And... and it was that... well, people kept saying the words "You-Know-Who"... the older people used "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" – but they always had this terrified look on their faces."
"I learned, eventually, that "You-Know-Who" and "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" were the same person – this person called Lord Voldemort."
Riddle looked down at his fingers, raising his eyebrows. You-Know-Who? Creative. "And?"
"One of my best friends, Ginny... she was a first-year when I was in Second Year, and all this weird stuff started happening. She had found this diary, see... And she would write in it, and this person called Tom Riddle would write back."
He stared at her. That was one of his horcruxes. She had known, this whole time, that he had at least one horcrux, known that he'd been lying about the way he'd gotten there. "What happened?"
"The Chamber of Secrets opened," Hermione whispered. "I got Petrified by the Basilisk... but while I was Petrified, two of my friends went down to the Chamber, because Ginny had been taken down there... And Tom Riddle was there. He told them he was sucking the life out of Ginny as she wrote in it -" Hermione swallowed uncomfortably – "and then my friend stabbed the diary with a Basilisk fang, and Riddle vanished. But not before writing his name in the air, and showing my friends – "
She drew her wand, and something caught in Riddle's throat as she shakily etched letters into the air. Fiery letters.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
I Am Lord Voldemort.
Hermione dropped her wand back into her lap, fairly satisfied with her answer to him. She hadn't had to tell him about all the terrible things he had done, hadn't had to risk saddening him... but why did he look so stricken? Hermione swallowed miserably.
Riddle's mind raced. One of his horcruxes was destroyed. One of them was ruined. That would mean... if he had succeeded in making seven horcruxes, as he had been planning, there would be only six left, no longer the most powerful magical number. He swallowed in bitter disappointment. All ruined by a second-year Hogwarts student.
"Who was your friend? The one who ruined the diary?"
Hermione glanced over at him. "Harry Potter."
There was a ring to the way she said the name, as if she expected him to know it. "Have... have I ever met him?" Riddle asked carefully, and Hermione let out a mirthless chuckle, completely surprising him.
"Oh, yes."
"How?"
Hermione really looked reluctant now. She opened her mouth, but waited for an agonizing moment before saying, "You... you killed his parents."
A muscle twitched in Riddle's jaw, and he stared into the fire. That must have been why she hated him. That must have been why she could never trust him. He had probably just picked two random people to make horcruxes from, and they had happened to be her friend's parents –
"And you tried to kill Harry, too."
He frowned, now, and looked back at Hermione. "Tried?"
"He's famous for being the only person your Avada Kedavra didn't kill." She bit her cheek and glanced away.
Riddle chewed on the words. The only person? So he had killed many, then? "Why didn't Harry Potter die?"
"It didn't work, because his mother gave her life... well, out of love. Trying to save him," Hermione whispered.
"And what happened?"
"It rebounded on you," said Hermione quietly. "He was one year old."
Riddle's mouth opened slightly. A one-year-old child? Why would he ever need to waste his time killing an infant? And how could an infant… "I tried to... but... after...?"
"No, don't worry!" she said, looking unbelievably distressed at his displeasure. "You came back to life."
Of course he had. The horcruxes. "Okay," he said. "Okay." But he must not have looked reassured, because Hermione plowed on.
"In fact, you got everything you ever wanted," she said, looking absolutely miserable as she said it.
"And that would be...?"
She looked up at him with hollow eyes, and he nearly felt like he didn't want to know what was about to come out of her mouth, but that was ridiculous; of course he did –
"Where to begin?" Her voice was small and shaky. "Your followers killed Albus Dumbledore."
It was as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head. "Oh."
"And they infiltrated the Ministry of Magic... and made all this... all these laws against..." She swallowed miserably. "Mudbloods." A miniscule, forced smile was on her face, like she was genuinely trying to convince him that she was happy that all this had happened. "You took over Hogwarts, and wouldn't let... Mudbloods... in, or they got sent to Azkaban. In fact, the only thing you never did do was kill Harry, which you tried to do pretty much his whole life... but for all I know, you've done that, too, now."
"Why do you say that?"
"The last I know is that all your followers have completely overrun Hogwarts, which was pretty much the last safe place for the resistance... but now... it's not," she said, and her voice broke on the last two words, and Riddle felt like someone had grabbed something inside him and pulled. "So... congratulations," she said, and Riddle knew that if she had been herself while she said those words, they would have been a bitter, sarcastic snarl.
"I... I see."
Riddle suddenly felt sick.
He had never regretted killing his father and grandparents – after all, they had never been worth anything; his father had only ever been some good-looking Muggle who had managed to allure a Pureblood somehow – but Albus Dumbledore? He was a genuinely brilliant wizard, and though he and Riddle had always hated each other, Riddle had never really wanted him dead. Dumbledore trained some very important witches and wizards in his time, after all – ones that had been very useful to Riddle's studies, others who were surely useful to Riddle's cause...
And he himself had tried to murder a one-year-old? A baby?That didn't even sound logical. Why not just give the child to a follower and have them raise it to be another follower?
"May I ask you a favor?" he asked softly, turning back to Hermione.
"Whatever you want." Her eyes looked glazed. Riddle swallowed revulsion.
"I just need to perform one simple spell," Riddle said gently.
Her eyes narrowed a little, to his surprise. "Which one?"
"I just want to see what I look like," replied Riddle. "Legilimency."
She raised her eyebrows. "I... if you have to," she said. But Hermione couldn't let him see that he had been the one to kill her. That would push him away from her. After all, if he knew he had killed her once in the past, he might be scared off – or worse, feel inclined to do it again.
So Hermione took those four days of hiding and three days of torture in the Room of Requirement and locked them away, locked them inside a memory of what Voldemort had looked like as he tortured her, locked them behind those red eyes.
Riddle stood up and walked over to her, kneeling in front of her, his face a mere foot and a half from hers. She kept a firm grip on the memories of her death. He could not see those. Ever.
And then the spell hit her.
Riddle saw an eleven-year-old Hermione Granger, wide-eyed in a darkening Diagon Alley, waving her vine wand at Ollivander's, the wand which looked comically large in her young hand – a flourish of white-gold sparks – and then the image changed –
A young boy with jet-black hair, a funny-shaped scar, and broken glasses, and a swiftly muttered "Oculus Reparo", and he and the redhead next to him stared at the young Hermione in awe and she gave a sort of a saintly shrug, and Riddle recognized that familiar look of restrained superiority even on her first-year face –
And now she was her usual age, and walking through a Muggle neighborhood, and at the door of a certain white house – the door opened – her wand pointed at the two smiling Muggles standing there; one of them said, "Sweetie!" and then the spell hit them and they asked her, "Can we help you?", dazed looks on their faces, and a quick flip of the memory and she was walking away from the house, biting back tears furiously –
A strange room, a man with his head stuck inside a bell-jar, his head switching from infanthood to adulthood and back again, a cabinet that kept breaking and fixing – the boy with the glasses and the scar, older and terrified, Hermione looking defiant –
"Hermione," said the eleven-year-old redhead, dressed in pajamas, "Harry's been given an Invisibility Cloak," and Hermione's face lit up with delight –
Riddle sifted through several memories in a row of her, the redhead – who was apparently called "Ron" – and the Harry Potter boy, them laughing, them sneaking around together, getting into trouble together, enjoying Christmas, eating Easter eggs, yelling good-humoredly at Peeves, until there was something interesting.
A trembling Ron and Hermione stood, stock-still in fear, as the Potter boy screamed and yelled and screamed, something about nothing all summer, something about never knowing what was going on, and then Hermione dropped a name – Dumbledore – and Potter asked, "Where are we, anyway?" and the reply was some obscure address in London...
Then, a dingy bar, and Hermione looked a little scared, talking to a crowd of over twenty, telling them about the so-called feats Harry had done – and she said, "V-Voldemort." And as she said the name, she looked absolutely terrified, like something would burst out of the walls and strike her down –
And then, Hermione was nowhere to be seen, just a heavy-lidded, black-haired woman who had a haughty look about her, and she was requesting access to a Gringotts vault –
Next, Riddle saw Dumbledore as he had never seen him before, white-haired and tired-looking and ancient, with one hand withered as if it were eighty years older than the rest of him... and Riddle's eyes opened wide in appalled shock, because God help him if that wasn't his own ring, right there on Dumbledore's finger, cracked and broken – NO –
"Harry, don't say that name," was Hermione's whisper, and Harry snapped, "I don't care," looking infuriated, and they were in the middle of some type of woods, and they both Apparated –
The next memory was so different that Riddle had to take pause. The previous few had been dark, skewed, dingy, but this was brightly-lit; glorious – she looked a little younger – and she was walking down the steps with a boy on her arm, looking absolutely breathtaking, her hair sleek and curled into an elegant knot, a stunning dress on her body. Riddle moved on, frowning –
The halls of Hogwarts, but they were poorly-lit and dark. Most of the torches were blackened and charred, and spells flew left and right. Riddle's fists clenched in alarm as a green jet of light flew by Hermione's face, and she looked like she was sobbing in terror, and she fell to her knees and scrambled to get away –
The same dismal Hogwarts, a Hogwarts of fear, of danger. Hermione banged on the doors to the Great Hall, sending spell after spell rocketing at the chains that bound them shut, but they wouldn't open, and all the windows were similarly locked shut, and Hermione turned and suddenly the wild face of that heavy-lidded woman from earlier was inches from hers, and with a crazed laugh from the woman Hermione screamed –
And the scream continued, but now they were in some sort of manor, and a dark figure stood over her, pressing a wand to her, and Hermione was writhing under the Cruciatus Curse, sobbing, crying, screaming, screaming, a tangled mess of hair and limbs –
Now, just Hermione and Ron, inside some sort of tent, and they were kissing tenderly, and that faint smile on Hermione's lips stopped Riddle for just a heartbeat before he was whirled into the next memory –
"Harry! No!" she hissed, and the next thing was that Potter had leapt out from behind a bush, the moon high in the sky, and Riddle's breath caught as he saw – it must have been a hundred Dementors, and a silvery Patronus blasted from Harry Potter's wand –
Hermione stalked towards a small, pale boy who had the exact same coloring as Abraxas, and her hand was raised – a solid fist – and she punched him right in the face. He went down like a stone, and Hermione turned back to Ron and Harry with a triumphant look –
"Is that him?" Hermione's voice whispered –
And the next memory was just an image. A blank, flat image of a hideous man, his paper-white skin milky in the moonlight, and his nose was nothing more than two snakelike slits, his eyes a furious red – something danced behind them, a reflected flicker of something, and behind him was an unidentifiable ceiling and walls... and he was holding a wand, a wand that Riddle clutched even as he recognized it, and Riddle resisted the memory's attempt to change with all his might, staring at the picture with horror.
This was what he looked like?
This was Lord Voldemort?
His head spun, but he let go his hold, and the memory reel flew by once more. And now that they had seemed to reach a pattern, a pattern of horrifying things, that was all that flew by. Decapitated heads. Torture. Screams. Cries. Hermione performing the Fidelius Charm on herself – twice. Fully grown witches and wizards killing students left and right.
Riddle closed his eyes, letting the memories fly by without him. He yanked on his wand, falling back onto the floor, scrambling away from Granger as if she were one of the torturers from her nightmares – from her past.
Her eyes were shut tight, and she was slowly shaking, tears trembling their way down her cheeks.
Riddle's breathing was labored. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to think. This girl had seen so much – all those witches and wizards with expressions of delight as they tortured, murdered... and Riddle had thought she was naïve! He'd assumed she was an innocent, unexposed student. He hadn't seen a single thing from past sixth year classes, no; past the age of seventeen it was just running through the woods, sprinting away from people who were chasing in the dark, just curses singing hair and rocketing down midnight hallways, just fear and misery and such absolute, stupid bravery.
The fire was hot at Riddle's back. He just looked at Granger, in complete shock, in desolate incredulity, and still she just shuddered and rocked back and forth, eyes shut, biting her lip in an attempt to keep from screwing up her face completely, her breaths raw and vocal.
So this was who he was. He was a wizard who made people tremble with fear at his very name, someone who was famous for being the wickedest human being ever to go bad, someone who attempted to kill babies and just ended up searing scars into their foreheads, a snakelike figurehead of death and Muggle hatred, someone who ordered his followers to attack insignificant teenagers. And two – two – of his horcruxes... broken and battered. He nearly wanted to back and search more, just to make sure the others were safe, though he supposed he wouldn't know the other five by sight. He had been planning on making them important, momentous items, but he hadn't decided on what they were to be yet – and he couldn't go back into that mind. He just... he couldn't.
Riddle felt emotionally drained, blank, as if it had been he who had undergone her past. He wondered what her death had been like, realizing he hadn't seen it. Had she been sneaking around a back hallway, trying to get away, when a green jet of light had collided with her chest, removing her from the earth with permanence?
The idea was suddenly and intensely disgusting to him, as no idea of death had ever been. How could someone kill Hermione Granger? She was golden. She was rock-solid. She was not to be meddled with. A sort of fire lit in his chest as he pictured it, Hermione being taken by surprise, that vague look of shock on her face – now he understood why she always looked so terrified when she was surprised – and Riddle discovered that he was filled with absolute rage at the notion.
He couldn't stop himself from getting a clear picture of a vivid green Avada Kedavra, right below her collarbone, spinning her off-balance, and that intelligent light dying from her hazel eyes – how could someone do that? Didn't her murderer understand how brilliant she was? One teenager who was so much more than everything else in that castle, someone who would seal herself to be a Secret-Keeper for her two closest friends but who wouldn't let them do the same in return... a girl with all the knowledge in the world packed into that mighty mind of hers, a girl with fire in her heart – that heart just... stopped? Just like it was nothing? Like it didn't matter to anyone, when it so clearly mattered to everyone who had ever known her, her two best friends, her family, that entire family of redheads, that wide-eyed blond girl, that hopeless boy in her Potions class, all her proud, expectant teachers – they had all known. They had all known that she was more than just... just there, that she needed to grow and swell and save the damn world if she felt like she had to –
That was another thing. She had always spoken to him about helping people. How could she still have any faith in mankind at all, after her life, after those miserable last weeks of her existence – or maybe they had been months? Riddle suddenly felt like he was the weakest, most idiotic person ever to live, if he couldn't understand the notion of kindness, or that of optimism, or faith, or hope, notions that had apparently managed to live on in this girl in front of him even after everything else had been ripped from her...
Riddle staggered back to his feet. Hermione's position had not changed. She sat on the sofa. Riddle didn't know how long he had been inside her mind, but it was pitch-black outside and it had been vaguely light as he had started burying himself in her life... a few hours, then, which wasn't atypical for Legilimency, but the potion didn't seem to have worn off yet.
She trembled, her masses of brown hair splayed all across her face, the back of her robes, the sofa cushion. Riddle had an exhausted arm on the mantel, still staring at her.
"Hermione," he said in a hoarse voice. She raised her reddened eyes to him, and he walked to her, certain of one thing: she had never deserved to get the life she'd gotten. Just like me.
But he had done all that to her. It had been he who had single-handedly ripped her world, the world of thousands apart. Thousands. Thousands maybe just like her.
Riddle stopped as the thought hit him, and he practically doubled over, his stomach rolling in nausea. Dear God -
"Tom, are you okay?"
Her voice was the tiniest of whispers, but it gripped at him like she was yelling into his ear.
I don't think I will ever be okay again.
"Yes, Hermione."
And she had seen fit to feel compassion for him, to care about him – had it just been last night? Her worst enemy? The one she had hated and been terrified of her whole life – she had – how was she human? How could any human manage do that? How?
And he had pushed her away, selfish, stupid, unaware, uncomprehending of how good she was to have reached out to him, of all people...
Riddle opened his eyes, feeling like he wasn't quite in his right mind, feeling like her mind had completely managed to unseat his with its contents. Hermione sat in the middle of the couch, staring straight ahead, a very blank and very dark look on her face, the firelight washing it in warm, unsteady relief, and she looked at him with pure want.
He had taken so much from her. There was only one thing he could think to do for her right then, and he took that opportunity, stood Hermione up, wrapping her in a fierce, tight embrace. But he couldn't apologize. He couldn't say he was sorry. He felt like it would be cheap, coming from his mouth. He breathed in slow the smell of her hair, that bright, burning smell, and placed his hands to her back, her small body pressed up against him in the pathetic gratitude of the infatuated, and even as he did it, he felt sick that after everything else, he had even managed to ruin this by having poisoned her with a love potion.
Riddle bit his lip and stared straight ahead. Was this utter sickness what it felt like to regret? If it was, he was glad he had never felt it before. But this couldn't be regret. No. How could he regret something he hadn't even done yet? He was eighteen, not seventy. He wasn't the same... he wasn't the same. He couldn't be the same. He would never order someone to kill Hermione Granger.
But even as he thought it, images flooded to his mind of what he had already done to his followers, over and over – people he'd had the potential to befriend, to get to know as Granger had gotten to know him. Just regular people, with regular faults and feelings, even if they weren't like him, even if they weren't as smart or couldn't do spells as well or lie as smoothly. And it flooded his mind for the first time in his life that maybe he was the one who was cursed, the one who was utterly impoverished, because he couldn't feel... couldn't feel anything for these people. He could hardly feel anything at all.
But yes. He did. He felt this burn. He felt the flames of hell inside him, consuming him from the inside out, and it hurt, and he was glad of it, glad of the pain, because he deserved it, and that was the hardest-realized thing of the entire ordeal.
Hermione froze in his arms.
She took two hesitant steps back. He looked down at her helplessly. She was back. The potion had worn off.
There was a silence that seemed to last forever. Then, "What did you do?" she whispered, her face the image of agony, her brows meeting in the middle, curved up in utter hopelessness. "Tom, what have you done?"
He didn't even start to lie to her. He was rooted to the spot.
"Why?" was her next word.
She hadn't forgotten it. She was supposed to have forgotten what had happened, but she hadn't forgotten anything.
Suddenly, an image rocketed through his mind, and he was horrified. Hermione finding him in the Quidditch stands. He had been researching that last ingredient in the book, the very last ingredient, the one he knew would cancel memory – he had even marked his page, he remembered – but that information about Vaisey, that conversation with Granger about her memories... it had completely put it from his mind, and he had bottled the potion that afternoon having utterly forgotten that last ingredient, having apparently assumed he had already put it in. How? How could he have let her distract him from the goal?
Hermione was speaking again, seeming to be reeling in utter denial. "Did you... did you just... was that..."
Hermione looked helplessly all around. Riddle's eyes were transfixed to her. He opened his mouth a little. "Hermione, I never... I didn't..."
"No!" she shrieked, and suddenly her arm was covering her face, and tears were flying from her eyes. "No! I can't... I can't believe you would do that to me! I can't believe I thought I could trust you for the tiniest second!" Her voice was high and hysterical. "You will never change!"
He was frozen stiff by the last four words. "I can't believe I trusted you," she said, her voice tearing. Her hand was hopelessly trying to cover her face. "I think I'm going to be sick –"
He whispered, "Hermione..."
"I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT!" she screamed. "GET AWAY FROM ME!"
She turned, stumbling, her feet hitting the ground with a loud slap slap slap as she sprinted her way to the door. Riddle's eyes widened as she drew her wand and blasted the door out of its frame with a colossal bang and she staggered through the smoking frame.
He almost let her go. Very nearly.
But then his feet seemingly moved of their own volition, faster than ever before. He careened out of the room. She was already out in the wide stone hallway, standing there crying helplessly.
"I told you to stay away," she sobbed, turning her face away from him, trying to hide her tears. She sucked in a whistling breath. "I told you... to stay away from me," she snarled, a steely hardness working its way back into her voice.
He moved towards her, and the next thing he knew he was on the ground, screaming in pain. Her wand was in her shaking hand. But it was over after a split second of absolute agony – the curse wouldn't hold. She waved her wand wildly, and curse after curse collided with him, and he knew exactly which curse she was using, but the pain never lasted for more than half a second, and he didn't know why. Wouldn't she have more reason to hurt him than he had ever had to hurt someone before? He should have been in inexplicable, interminable agony; she should have been enjoying it; she should have been loving it. But she hammered her wand down and it was like a hot whip against him, clutching him and then letting go instantly. He was on his side, grasping at the floor helplessly.
"There!" she sobbed desperately, and she threw her wand to the ground with a tremendous clatter. "Now I'm on your level, you evil, you disgusting, you – is that what you wanted?"
He pulled himself to his feet. He swayed gently, holding her gaze.
"ANSWER ME!" she screamed, and she strode to him and raised a fist and it collided with a smack right on his cheekbone, an unbelievably painful punch bouncing around his skull with a ringing resonation. Her other small hand beat desperately on his chest, and she kicked at his legs and shoved him until he fell backwards, unable to do anything but absorb the pain, and then he stood again, slowly, tiredly, every inch of him aching under her insane assault.
She started crying again, the tears spilling over in an insuppressible torrent. "I've been so stupid," she cried. "I've been... so... stupid!"
Something inside him was cracking as he watched her. She looked so wild, so angry, so dangerous. "Hermione," he said softly. "Hermione."
She didn't answer, just looked at the ground and sobbed. "Hermione?" he said through gritted teeth. "Please... please don't cry. Please."
Before she could do anything else, he had placed three long fingers on her chin and raised it so that she was looking him in the eye. He put away his blank expression, letting everything he was feeling surface on his face in raw emotion. There was a second where he met her eyes, and she caught her breath a bit, and swayed slightly, and Riddle felt dizzied by the color of her injured gaze. And then he was leaning forward and pressing his lips to hers, and nothing mattered but the feeling of her mouth under his, the feel of her shoulders under his hands, the gentle pressure of her moist pink lips, the softness of her tearstained cheek as his nose lightly touched it—and he moved a little closer until he could feel her pressed against his chest, drawing back only to touch his lips to hers again, hot feeling boiling deep in his traitorous stomach—and every space between them was far too much, and his hand was on the small of her back, his other on her cheek, and electricity, he could swear, jumped through him, his heart pounding, every part of him burning for her, burning for how he felt right then.
Hermione wasn't doing anything. And when he drew away from her, something on fire in his gaze, she stepped away as if he had done nothing at all, her expression wan, tired, drawn.
There was a long silence where all he could do was look at her, and all she could seem to do was look at him, although her gaze flickered once to a spot behind him as if she were a bit distracted, as if her mind weren't even there at all. And then, "No," she whispered. "Not anymore."
He watched as she picked up her wand, put it in her pocket, and walked away from him, down the long hall. She didn't look back. Not once. Not even when he yelled, "Hermione!"
Not even when he yelled, "Hermione!"
Not even when he yelled, "Hermione!"
No matter how many times he called for her, she never turned, and she never looked.
She was gone.
So I'm feelin' like in the chapter-select bar everything else should just be Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, etc., and this one should read "THE CHAPTER WHERE SHIT GOES DOWN". Hmm.