Yup so. This is chapter sixteen.
Many thanks to:
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Hermione had been to visit Mungo and Jared in the evening, around five o'clock, and they had told her they were starting some open surgery pretty soon to sort out the stomach and intestines, since the damage to those could not be fixed through blind out-of-body interference. Hermione was a bit nervous about seeing innards, so she thanked the pair hurriedly but said she had to go get ready.
"Oh, but by the way – are you two going to the Christmas Dance?" she asked with a small smile. Ever-polite. She had always been good at small talk. Mungo and Jared exchanged glances.
"Yeah," they said.
"Do you have dates?" she asked. There were a lot of people with dates this year, Albus had mused – more than usual.
"Nah," said Jared, and grinned. "Neither of us does. Well..." He paused and his mouth quirked a bit. "...not really, anyway."
"Oh, well," Hermione said, smiling. "I suppose I'll see you there?"
Mungo looked like he was restraining a scowl for some reason. "I suppose you will," his deep voice said.
Hermione left.
Mungo frowned at Jared. "Did you really just say 'Well, not really'?"
Jared waved a hand absentmindedly. "Come on, Mungo, us showing up wearing matching dress robes is hardly incriminating. We're the Healers, for God's sake; it's how everyone here knows us. We're a matching set."
Mungo sighed. "I'm just worried there will be certain people who might have a bit of an issue about us."
"Well, then, they can fix their own damn broken bones," laughed Jared. Mungo chuckled and sat down on the bed next to Miranda.
"Okay, let's get started," he said, and whipped out his wand.
xXxXxXxXx
Hermione removed herself from the Prefects' Bathroom, wrapped in a towel, and hurried back to the dormitory, ignoring some questioning looks. The Sleekeazy was working well, which was good, as she'd had to use three bottles, as usual – her hair was hanging limp and shimmering, like someone else's hair had been transplanted onto her head.
Mina wasn't in the dormitory. Hermione recalled how she'd promised to get ready with Mina and Miranda. Well, that had turned out abysmally... poor Miranda, lying in the Infirmary, getting her belly sliced open even as Hermione twirled her hair, drying it and curling it painstaking piece by piece.
She glanced over at the bed. Catalina Lightfoot had left her dress there in a brown bag. Hermione hadn't requested anything specific, and was sort of interested to see what Catalina had come up with, even though she was feeling sort of dispassionate about this entire dance. She probably wouldn't dance with anyone, anyway, would probably just sit there and be reminded terribly of the Yule Ball...
Hermione shot a Vanisher at the bag as she held her hair up, so that she could see the dress.
She had an audible intake of breath and dropped her hair. The dress was... was stunning.
Hermione could nearly understand how someone could be a famous Domestic Witch, now, if she made dresses like this for a living. The strapless dress was a pale gold, almost beige, probably ending around the knees, with a complicated twist-like knot at one hip which curled the fabric up into a gorgeous swirl as it approached the bust, and just at the top left, there was a tiny red rose embellishment. Gryffindor colors. And, though Hermione hadn't asked, Catalina had left a box with some low golden heels, too, simple shoes that had a single gold rim around them to contain the feet, and then intricate wired filigree all over the top. They were only perhaps an inch and a half tall, which, Hermione mused, was absolutely perfect. She had never liked walking in high heels.
Hermione shook her head in admiration of Catalina's handiwork. This was an absolutely phenomenal piece of work, as admirable as any spell. Hermione made a mental note not to discriminate so much against domestically talented girls. Just because they liked to cook, or clean, or make clothes, it didn't make them any less powerful – it just gave them their own interests. Hermione chided her own closed-mindedness and went back to her hair, which took a further forty-five minutes to complete.
Makeup, Hermione had always thought, was silly and rather counterintuitive – after all, why was it good to look pretty if you didn't look like yourself? – but there was something to be said for the way just a smear of lipstick and a smudge of liner around her eyes could balance out her features, how a tint of rose blush could bring out the shape of her face and make her feel just a little more poised and confident. Especially when, for the past couple of days, she had felt disgustingly weak. Nearly fragile, as if she could break if she fell, as emotionally unstable as she ever had been while she had been here.
She donned the dress.
And, yes, there it was – as she looked in the mirror, feeling completely unlike herself, allowing herself to feel attractive and slim and graceful, she felt like she was about to walk out to go meet Viktor Krum, and would see the absolute shock on Harry and Ron's faces...
She sat down gently on the bed. It hurt less than she had anticipated, probably because that was a good memory, a memory that was kind to remember, the first night she had felt beautiful in her life.
Hermione shook her head a little and stood back up, slipping her shoes onto her feet. It was time to go down to the Great Hall, which had been closed all day for the Decorating Committee to do work, resulting in everyone having to go down to the Kitchens for food. R.J. would have been in that Decorating Committee. R.J. would have been walking her into the ball. He would have been smiling kindly and somehow making everything feel okay. But no – Hermione was alone.
She let out a breath, letting all her troubles flow away with that breath. She was going to go and have a positively lovely evening. She would be happy. She would be gracious. She would be elegant.
Everyone else was already downstairs, so the common room was empty, as were the halls. Hermione heard the echo of distinguished music as she approached the Great Hall.
The doors were wide. They looked different, like they were carved out of ebony, or some darkest wood. Hermione walked into the room and drew in a sharp breath. They had completely changed the Great Hall. It looked like an old-fashioned ballroom, billowing dark curtains covering stately windows with white blinds, beautiful chandeliers fifty feet overhead, and small white covered tables dotting the outskirts. Everything was sunk twenty feet into the ground so that as one entered they would go down sweeping steps covered in red. The proportions of the room – Hermione didn't even know the spell they could have used; presumably the same type as one would use on a Wizard's tent – were completely different; it was far larger, far squarer, and at the very back there were two other huge doors that were thrown open wide to lead into a strange sort of indoor garden. Hermione was reminded intensely of Firenze's classroom.
Hermione descended the steps. The floor in the middle was already filled with dancing couples, all waltzing slowly to the music of an invisible orchestra.
She let out a half-laugh that was lost in the music as she observed the dance floor. On the poster invitations, it had said 'costumes are encouraged'. Far too much of the student population had taken that seriously. Hermione could see some outrageous costumes in the crowd; one person had donned a full-body Gryffindor lion outfit. She could spot a couple people dressed as princesses, some animals, some characters from famous Wizard fiction. She walked down the endless steps, pulling at the side of her dress awkwardly. There were about as many people on the floor as off.
Her eyes were drawn to Araminta Meliflua, who seemed to be dressed up as some sort of crystal. Her dress was almost blinding to look at, even in the dimly lit room, every facet of it reflecting with a shine the white material under it, and she looked very pretty in the soft light. Hermione grinned as she saw Barda next to Araminta – he was dressed as a large turnip. And there were the Marque twins, dressed as the sun and moon, and Catalina, a ballerina. Right at the side of the dance floor, swaying gently, were Mina and Godric. Mina's hair was pulled up into a mass, the gorgeous black ringlets cascading over her shoulders, her one-strapped dress dark teal-grey. Godric's dress robes were a dark, quiet maroon that made his hair look less like a fireball than usual, and they were gazing into each others' eyes, not even smiling or talking. Hermione swallowed and glanced away from them.
She hunted desperately for someone she might know off the dance floor. There were many people just wearing standard dress robes, of course, but one person caught her eye. He was standing off to the left, wearing a simple black tuxedo, looking like he'd known about the noir-reminiscent theme beforehand. He was facing away, but as he turned, Hermione was surprised to see that it was Tom Riddle. Why would he choose a Muggle outfit?
You do not care. You do not care. You do not care.
She swallowed and looked at the steps she was descending, making sure not to trip, suddenly feeling like she needed to hide. Of course he would be here. He had asked her to come with him, Hermione remembered with a sickening swoop. Had he known, even then, that he was going to do this to her?
She walked quickly to the opposite side of the dance floor, immensely relieved to see Jared and Mungo standing next to each other, chatting jovially.
"Hey, you two!" she hailed, injecting energy and cheer into her tone, walking up. They turned and gave her twin smiles.
"You look fantastic, Hermione," said Jared.
"Just what I was going to say," Mungo agreed.
"And you two look completely ridiculous," Hermione laughed. They were both wearing dress robes which were a ludicrous shade of brightest aqua, with Healer symbols and designs all over them.
"Why, thank you," Pippin said proudly, looking down at his outfit. "We worked hard on these."
Mungo rolled his eyes. "Quote, we, unquote, did no such thing. Melia Trueblood did all the work."
Hermione's eyes found Melia Trueblood. She was dancing with a very handsome Ravenclaw boy, looking tragically beautiful in a white hoop skirt. "She's a phenomenal event planner," Hermione commented.
"She always is," Mungo said.
Hermione cast a glance back towards the stairs and her breath caught in her throat.
Tom Riddle was walking towards her.
"I'll see you two later," Hermione said, and hurried towards the back of the room. She was nearly at the back of the dance floor when a hand shot out of nowhere and grabbed her forearm. Hermione barely restrained a yell of fright, her heart jumping embarrassingly, and she glanced back to see who it was.
"Hermione!" said a voice. Abraxas Malfoy sidled out of the crowd. "You look stunning."
"Thank you, Abraxas," said Hermione, finding it difficult to focus on Malfoy as Riddle's tall figure made itself a dim silhouette in her peripherals.
"Actually – how about a dance?" Abraxas asked with a grin, holding out a big hand. Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise.
That was a good idea – he could hardly follow her onto the dance floor. "Yeah, sure," she said.
Abraxas was wearing fairly simple dress robes, looking casual and collected as usual. "So," he said with a frown, "I haven't seen much of you lately." He placed one hand on her waist. Hermione nearly jumped – it had been so long since she had any opportunity to dance with a boy. She took his other hand hesitantly.
"Er, no," Hermione said. "I've... well, I've been sort of... preoccupied."
Abraxas raised an eyebrow. That was interesting, because Riddle hadn't called a meeting in an entire week, leaving the group to wonder what the hell was wrong with him. After the last meeting, which had been utterly horrific for every one of his followers, he hadn't come out of his room, much, either – and when Abraxas had tentatively asked him why, the boy had just quietly said he had been 'preoccupied' and gone back to watching Hermione.
"Oh?" Abraxas said. "So has Riddle. It's been really strange."
He thought he saw Hermione's face blanche, though it was not in fright. It was in some remembered emotion, gone too quickly to identify. "Do tell," she said quietly.
Abraxas studied Hermione's expression. She looked absolutely breathtaking, actually, if only because of the stark contrast between this and her usual appearance – but beneath that thin layer of makeup, her eyes were sort of reddened around the edges, and her mouth was limp, like she was tired. "He hasn't come out of his room much," said Abraxas, "and hasn't really been talking to anyone. We're all sort of worried about him – you wouldn't happen to know... anything about...?"
Then he distinctly saw her swallow, and she looked away from him. "I haven't spoken to Riddle in a week," she said.
There was silence. They danced, and as the song finished, Abraxas said, "Fancy going outdoors?"
Hermione nodded, looking quickly back over her shoulder, as if checking something.
The pair walked into the outdoor room. The quiet rush of bubbling fountains was soothing, and the people out here were relatively silent. Hermione, too, was quiet, looking up at the fabricated sky above, which was a dusky purple of falsified twilight. She didn't seem to be much like herself at all tonight, though admittedly, it had been a while since Abraxas had last spoken with her.
"Listen, Hermione," Abraxas said in a low voice, knowing very well that he could suffer torture for saying these words, "I've got to ask. I'm sorry. But – but did Riddle... do anything to you?"
Her head snapped back around to him, and Abraxas suddenly felt afraid. The look on her face was nearly ominous, completely wide-eyed, her lips slightly open. "Why would you say that?"
"I... he can be a bit... capricious, at times, and he's been acting a little... well, we just – we hoped you were okay."
A genuine smile curled Hermione's lip for the first time in a while. Abraxas really was a good sort. "Wait... 'we'?"
Abraxas cursed inwardly. The entire group had discussed at length, without Riddle there, Hermione's wellbeing. Herpo, Revelend, Vaisey, Taylor, Takahashi, and he – they had been fearful of what Riddle might have done to her, and what that might mean for them, and that fear was just worsening as Abraxas talked to the girl. She didn't seem like she was all... there. That snappy sarcasm she usually had, that serene glow, was completely absent.
"Well, Herpo, Revelend, and myself," Abraxas admitted. He didn't know if Granger knew the other three; it was safest not to mention them.
Hermione briefly considered telling Abraxas everything that had happened. Surely, he, out of everyone, would understand what she meant when she talked about Riddle?
But no, she would not risk revealing her past to Malfoy, because the more people who knew, the worse. She would smile – there, like that – and reassure him that Riddle probably had his reasons for acting strange and that she herself was just fine, just worried about her friend in the Infirmary.
There.
Easy.
"Oh. Well, that's good," sighed Malfoy, casting a furtive glance around. Hermione knew he was checking to make sure Riddle hadn't seen. Abraxas was risking a lot, asking her in the first place.
Hermione was glad – they seemed to have lost Riddle. In fact, as they walked back into the main ballroom, she saw someone leaving the Great Hall entirely... someone tall and slim, wearing a black tuxedo. She felt relieved, of course – but something twinged at her that she pushed aside.
Abraxas made his way back to his Slytherin friends, and Hermione went to sit at one of the tables, drinking some cold water. As she sat, she descended slowly back into misery, into memory, into hopeless recollection. Perhaps Firewhiskey would have been more appropriate.
xXxXxXxXx
Riddle fumed. He had lost her. She had been talking to someone – he hadn't seen the person's face – and then she had been whisked onto the dance floor and he had somehow managed to lose sight of her completely when the song ended. She had clearly been avoiding him, too.
But, Merlin, she looked... well, she looked gorgeous that night, like a dream of her rather than her actual human self. Just purely from aesthetically balanced features, of course. A scientific, subconscious reaction in the brain, nothing more. He couldn't restrain that type of acknowledgement, couldn't restrain the magnetism to every curve of her slender body –
Perhaps, if he left, she could relax, and then he would come back later and she wouldn't be thinking to avoid him. That seemed like the most... attractive option.
Riddle walked down to the Trophy Room, looking at all the dusty medals and plaques disinterestedly. Such a farce – just a collection of favorite students, nothing more.
He bounced some spells off of some of the less important plaques for a while, before deciding it had been long enough.
Riddle didn't know anything about the outfit he was wearing. A Hufflepuff witch called Dida Langley had been assigned the task of finding outfits for their dormitory, thanks to a request from Abraxas, and Riddle had donned the tuxedo without much thought. He had almost become used to Muggle-esque clothing, with the winter clothing of the last month.
But then – as she had looked at him wearing it – the first expression she had had towards him in a week. The first thing that had showed up on her face, something that was not just a blank stare. Mild surprise.
He entered the large, dark doors of the Great Hall and leaned on the banister idly, feeling a few female eyes lingering on him a little longer than necessary, but he didn't feel the desire to smirk, and he didn't even bother to marvel to himself at how similar the entire female species was, because all that came to him were Hermione's words – not every girl is exactly the same, especially me – and then his eyes found her, and Riddle's world stopped rotating for a heartbeat.
It was a slow song, a slow dance. Hermione was pressed to a boy in dress robes, her head gently tilted upwards to face him, her hands laced around his neck. And his white-blond head shone in the lights from the chandeliers, his hands on her small waist.
Something stuck in Riddle's throat. His jaw stiffened. She was dancing with Malfoy, but would not even see fit to speak to him? To look at him? Why does it matter; why does it matter – why does it matter?
He thought he might have seen her eyes find him just as he turned away and stalked out of the Great Hall again, but nothing was really making sense to him right then as it always did, especially not this new feeling inside his chest. He was losing track of all these new emotions; he really should have started keeping some sort of list or something to keep everything in line.
Granger would have thought that hysterical. And pathetic.
If she would not even speak to him, perhaps the only thing he could do would be to find a way to speak to her without speaking.
He threw open his desk in his room with a furious bang, pulled out a piece of parchment, and, with impeccable, flowing script, he wrote Hermione Granger on an envelope.
He placed the quill to parchment, swallowed, and lifted it again. What was there to say?
He started with the most simple... and then found that he could not stop writing. It took far longer than he had anticipated, actually, and was surprisingly difficult. Riddle felt, though, as if words on paper would be far more appropriate than in person, as he had never deceived her on paper, only with his voice. Perhaps this changed things a little.
He knew the Gryffindor password – actually, he knew every password to every locked door in the castle – and he climbed through the portrait hole into the tackily colored Gryffindor common room.
With a well-placed Confundus on the girls' stairs, so that they would not transform into that inconvenient slide thing, Riddle found Granger's dormitory.
He closed his eyes. This entire room smelled exactly like her, somehow, and it was a strong and obnoxious reminder. Riddle glanced over the beds. On one of the ones in the middle lay Hermione's wand, innocently. Riddle gently placed the envelope next to her wand and fled, feeling a sort of dread within him, as if he would know when she opened and read the letter, as if by leaving it there he had done something momentous, instead of just frankly explained why she was being irrational.
Well, he hadn't put it that way. And she wasn't really being irrational, after all. His deception had been grand, and probably quite startling. Obviously more than a little startling, given her reaction, given the way she had fled him and not even looked back. Never looked back.
Riddle's throat seized up again, and he turned to intellectual pursuits, striking her from his mind, or, rather, attempting to do so with relatively poor results.
xXxXxXxXx
Hermione left early. As the night wore on, she danced with several people, but they just ended up being subconsciously compared with Ron or Viktor. Or someone else. Which she supposed wasn't fair to them. Besides, the shoes were getting just a bit uncomfortable, and Hermione wouldn't call it an entirely unpleasant evening if she called it quits now. She'd spoken with Catalina Lightfoot, which had been undeniably refreshing, and found Albus in the outdoor room and joined him for a little while, and she'd danced for quite a while, too – not an unpleasant evening at all, in fact, despite the memories.
Riddle seeing her dancing with Abraxas had been terrifying. She had found herself looking at the steps, and he had just been standing there, watching, but as soon as she had seen that dark figure observing, he had turned on his heel and stormed away.
Hermione was terrified for Abraxas. It had been a risky evening for him, but she had faith that either Riddle would not curse him or that Malfoy was already used to it. She leaned towards the latter, though, with a bit of guilt and unease. It wasn't right that Abraxas should suffer because of her, suffer the worst torture of any torture in the world, his torture.
She tried to ignore her thoughts as she walked up to her dormitory, instead counting the steps. Anything was better than still dwelling on him.
But she was tugged from her count as she sat lightly on her bed and discovered something sitting innocently next to her wand. How had that gotten there? It was like magic.
Hermione scowled at herself. Like magic. Brilliant, Granger.
She was a bit disturbed at how much that voice in her head sounded like Tom Riddle.
Her eyes scanned the front of the envelope. It was in curious, curling script, and it read Hermione Granger.
She opened the letter tentatively and withdrew three sheets of parchment. Each was a full foot, and each was smothered with that beautiful calligraphic lettering, dark blue ink. Hermione's eyebrows soared.
Then her eyes found the signature at the very bottom, and her heart started to bang against her chest, and she felt disgust swell inside her, and she was so very close to just burning the letter without a further thought. So, so close.
But curiosity got the better of Hermione, and she began to read it, drawing her bed hangings shut so no one could bear witness to her weakness. It was pitch-black in there; she read by gentle wandlight, feeling like a child under the covers, hearing her breathing loud in the small space.
The letter read:
Ms. Granger,
I feel it is inappropriate to address you as Hermione, here, for two reasons: The first is that you no longer seem to respond to your first name, although that may just be when it is from my lips. The second is that I feel I have managed to betray your trust, and thus it would be largely improper to call you by the name you asked me to use in confidence.
It is with great regret that I write to you, for it signifies and exemplifies the utter defeat with which my every action has been met. Although I rarely have to try at all for things to go my way, I have found myself trying embarrassingly hard to engage you in conversation, or even to appeal to your very attention, but this has proved fruitless, for reasons with which I sympathize.
Perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration. I should not like to you to think that this letter's contents are insincere, so I shall simply express that if I have, in fact, ever felt sympathy, I feel it now for the hatred you must surely feel against me.
Although usually I am secure in my beliefs and ideals, I was met with an unprecedented and surprising barrier as I encountered the Hermione Granger under the influence of the love potion: a moral dilemma. I found that she disturbed me immensely, and I could not seem to figure out why, until I realized that it was because she seemed to be only masquerading as you, without the intellect or strong character of your person, which was highly unsettling, as I had become so very accustomed to your quick wit and our pleasant banter.
Thus, I found that I felt almost bad, looking at this not-Hermione Granger, and for that reason, I recalled the evening when you once told me: "There are things that are more important than just getting what you want." I spent several seconds mulling over the phrase, but, mulishly, I plowed through it, as the meaning was never immediately apparent to me. I pushed on towards what has been my goal for so long, Ms. Granger, and, I confess, doing so may have been a grave mistake.
I understand, now, what the words mean. I understand that there are things that indeed are more important than a tactical goal, although it may not be immediately apparent. I understand that there are things that will remain and provoke thought long after a goal has been achieved. I have also come to understand that your presence in my life has managed to make itself one of those things, despite all rational thought, despite any logical reasoning, despite every plan I sought to employ against attachment, which I generally consider to be dangerous and foolhardy.
When I used Legilimency on you, I expected simple schoolgirl memories, but I have been entirely unable to sleep because of what I saw in the recesses of your mind. I saw that I had gained great victories, but that I had suffered great defeats, and I saw that the victories may not have been worth the sacrifices.
I understand now why you so vehemently shielded yourself from me. I thought it strange, irrational, at first – what could a simple Muggle-born girl have to hide from a seemingly kind, charming, intelligent boy like myself? – but I realize now that the only irrational circumstance in the situation was my dire underestimation of a fire in you that was never extinguished with your death. Your bravery and headstrong manner, which at times are a complete disadvantage, of course, and comically easy to manipulate, are yet admirable, and your suffering – your suffering at my hands – has caused me a certain amount of distress to imagine, especially the incidence of your death, which I did not have the misfortune to see.
I cannot imagine the affliction that being in my presence while here must have been, and I cannot imagine the thoughts that are surely building in your head as you read these words. I also cannot quite understand how you managed to spend time with me, to use it on someone who has already managed to use you, to give your time here to someone who is more than slightly undeserving of anything else from you, as I have already taken much.
Upon rereading the previous paragraph, I fear my histrionics may be seeping into the realm of ludicrous. I apologize and blame it on overexposure to over-sentimental Gryffindors.
Yes; it was my goal to pretend to befriend you for the mere purpose of deceiving you as I have deceived few others. However, it was not my intention that I would actually feel a friendship form, or that I would begin to understand what a friendship entailed. It was not my goal to hurt you in any way, either; I forgot to add an ingredient to the potion that would have erased all memory of the four hours you were infatuated with me. I realize that this must be a blow to your pride, and to your dignity, and to your intelligence, but I pray that all three remain solid and intact, for if I have damaged any of them, I will be rather put off.
Curiosity and jealousy ate at me when I met you. Surely you are aware of the fact that Tom Riddle should be bested by no one, and thus, Tom Riddle must always know more than everyone around him, and absolutely nothing should be kept from him. I was jealous at the time you arrived, jealous that you and not I knew my own future, my own past. I can nearly say that I wish now to have remained ignorant, for the things that I cannot forget, the things you unwillingly uncovered, have raised many questions which I have been utterly and entirely unable to answer.
I find myself with the hope that my other self, back on earth, has not harmed your teenaged friends in any way. It seems illogical, that Lord Voldemort should stoop to the murder of teenagers. If that is what I have descended to – the mindless killing of children; such a waste of time – then I weep for my eventual death, because I hear the climate in the more distant reaches of hell is not altogether pleasant.
I still do not know exactly how much you know about me. There are things that cannot be gleaned from Legilimency, especially with limited time, as I'm sure you already know. However, I hope you realize that I do have the ability to be sincere, although doubtless one of the chief thoughts in that brilliant mind of yours at this very second is that I wrote this letter because I am too cowardly to say this in real life. Perhaps you think I wrote this down because I could not say it aloud and look sincere. You are wrong, Ms. Granger, for once in your short existence, and I know you are wrong because I could say any and every one of these words to you right now and mean them entirely; I just have had no opportunity to do so.
As for my looking sincere – well, you know that I very rarely look anything at all, besides perfectly collected, due to my impeccable self-control. Given your reaction whenever I happen to let unintended emotion surface on my face, I need not waste time describing to you how when I look at you, the way I look is not necessarily indicative of the way I feel.
I don't feel that the following is an entirely appropriate tangent for the general subject of this letter, but it must be said: kissing you was one of the finer moments of my life.
It's a bit embarrassing to admit, but, as is everything written on these sheets of parchment (I only really anticipated the use of one; I've outdone myself), it is true. It is also irrelevant, though, and if you want nothing to do with me in the manner of physical contact ever again, I will hereby fully respect your wishes; however, I must express that if you want nothing to do with me at all, I shall have to object. I have felt a severe deficiency of your presence in the last week, and I have hated to see you looking so dreadfully lackluster... no offense meant; at the ball you looked quite striking. Even the absence of your feeble sense of humor leaves an emptiness in my subconscious, which, admittedly, was unforeseen.
The fervor with which you attacked me after you came to your senses was wholly understandable. Perhaps it would comfort you to know that I have bruises all over my legs? Your Cruciatus Curse was entirely unsatisfactory and needed a great deal of refinement, but I would have been very worried if it hadn't needed work, because it is not in your character to use such spells and I would not care to see them come from your wand again, or ever to hear them from your mouth.
I would much rather prefer such amusing and unrealistic things as optimism, hope, et cetera, the things you so love to preach and the things I so love to contradict. You know, the things about which I completely lack comprehension? Surely you know – you've taught me most of what little I know about them, after all. My formative years were not entirely open to such notions, as you may have been able to guess, or as you may have known prior even to meeting me.
While writing this letter, as is so frequent when I find my thoughts on you, I have been unable to concentrate, and it is now a most unsatisfactory length, although I could continue, I'm sure, for hours, and miles, and sheet after sheet. These hopeless words – and this, perhaps, may be a tautology, for my words to you have seemed increasingly hopeless in the last week – are nothing more and nothing less than the apology which has been so long foregone, the apology which I now feel you deserved from the moment you arrived in this world, but the one I so selfishly denied in my temporary ignorance.
You once said that you had faith in me. I know that this faith has been disrespected, but I beg you to see whether you can bring yourself to be the Healer of that dying man who needs your help, whether you can bring yourself to forgive the most undeserving of brilliant and misunderstood orphans. I am accustomed to getting what I want, and it is for this reason, and for your sake, that I beg you to respond, regardless of your sure disapproval for my continued existence.
If you do not see fit to reply, with words or with correspondence, then just know that I am sorry, Hermione – sorry as I don't think I have ever been before.
Tom Riddle
Hermione read the letter seven times.
Then she read it again.
Then she cried, furious at herself for doing so.
It was so unfair, that she should walk into this dormitory and this letter should be sitting there, waiting for her to read it, waiting to suck her into its depths. Completely, utterly, totally unfair. Hermione swallowed a miserable lump in her throat and shoved the letter back into its envelope. She then stuffed the envelope under her pillow and flipped over, burying her face into the pillow, clenching her eyes shut, and wishing she weren't thinking about him – for surely that had been his intention. For her to waste more time on him. For her to spend more of her not-quite-life revolving around him.
How very like Tom Riddle the entire letter had been, from self-important commentary to a slight on Gryffindors to an unnecessarily expansive vocabulary, as if he aimed to impress her with the way he wrote. He sounded like he was from the nineteenth century. Yes, very like him indeed – was that a threat in the last paragraph? "For your sake, I beg you to respond"? Hermione felt a twist of anger pull at her.
But he had said he could say any and every word aloud to her. Did that include the apology part? Hermione had never heard any major apology from his lips, not one that really mattered much. What would that be like?
A red blush inflamed her cheeks as she thought back to what he had wrote about the kiss. One of the finer moments of my life.
This was so unfair! How could he pull this on her? How could he just expect her to run to him with open arms, saying she forgave him for being the most deceptive, manipulative bastard ever to live? She couldn't do that to herself. The way she saw it, if she went back to Tom Riddle, she was asking for this to happen again. If she went back to his presence, it was like twisting in the knife and sticking in another next to it.
He hadn't said a single word about remorse, Hermione noted with slight disappointment. If it were all true, he might be on the road to remorse, but how could she trust him while he was still just a bunch of horcruxes loosely banded together? The only regret he mentioned was that he had to write the letter, for it meant that he hadn't been able to get her attention. Not a satisfactory regret at all.
Saying sorry, Hermione knew, was a very fickle beast. He could be sorry for her hurting, but not be sorry for what he did to hurt her, and that was what this sounded like – but even if he was sorry for her pain, that was a remarkable occasion in and of itself. She could scarcely believe it was written down on paper. Perhaps it was some sort of elaborate forgery?
She sniffled and chuckled to herself. Like anyone would go to that much trouble, making it sound exactly like Tom sounded – like Riddle sounded. Not Tom at all. Not a humanized person, just a machine for deception, a Riddle, a conundrum...
Hermione felt that small twist of anger writhing its way into a sizable lump of rage. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Why was she wasting her time thinking about him? How was she crying over this – over this letter that he'd surely sent her with the absolute conviction that she'd just reappear by his side, as if displaying even the tiniest bit of regret over her injured privacy was some sort of Summoning Charm? It wasn't. It couldn't fix things, couldn't seal up that gaping hole in what had almost seemed like a non-malicious relationship. At least it had done one thing of merit: it seemed to have provided closure in Hermione's mind.
She couldn't trail back to him. Not the murderer. Not the traitor. Not now.
She couldn't do it.
xXxXxXxXx
Hermione woke in the morning, got dressed in her regular winter clothes – and she saw, at the foot of her bed, a wrapped gift.
It had "from Albus" on it. Hermione smiled – of course; it was Christmas. She unwrapped it and found a book, one with a dusty brown cover and a faded golden title: RUNIC SPELLS. Just the phrase sent shivers of delight down Hermione's spine. Runes were powerful – if she could learn spells using runes... that would be some wandwork to behold!
She gripped the book tight and went down to the Great Hall, greeting Albus with a grateful hug, most definitely not looking at the Slytherin table.
But Hermione couldn't help wondering if anyone had bothered to give Riddle a Christmas gift.
The day went by. Hermione did not say a word to him. At Christmas Dinner, she caught his eye, and bit her lip, but then she blinked and went back to her food.
Oh, hell, no, she could not be feeling guilty! No! She could not feel guilty about this. No, no, no, no! She filled with rage, instead, a most satisfactory alternative. Anger was so much more logical than guilt. There was nothing bad about staying away from the biggest potential hurt of her life. It was like refusing to swim in a pool of bloodthirsty sharks. The sharks desperately wanted company, but did that mean one should oblige them and dive in headfirst? No, Hermione Granger, it does not mean that!
Yet over the next three days, Hermione observed something quite shocking, and every time she realized it was happening, it made her eyes blink quickly in disbelief and her heart beat a little faster.
The first day after Christmas, she looked at Tom Riddle, and he looked... tired. There were bags under his eyes, light bags, but bags nonetheless.
The next day, the bags darkened, and his tie was loosely put on, and his shirt was rumpled under his black jacket.
The third day actually made Hermione stop and stare. His hair. It was tousled and messy and all over the place, like he hadn't had time to fix it.
On the whole, he looked like a complete mess, like he hadn't slept in a week. He had a glum note in his dark eyes and a foul humor about him that was visible from all the way over at the Gryffindor table. He wasn't even looking at her anymore; he didn't look at anyone. His ramrod-straight posture had turned into an inward slump, a dejected slouch, his arm resting on the table, his eyes absentmindedly staring at the untouched food on his plate like it was going to eat itself.
What was wrong with him? Hermione frowned. He had to get it together. He was Tom Riddle. It was like some sort of twisted defeat, like he had lost some sort of a war against his appearance. But he didn't seem to care.
Hermione didn't understand. They hadn't even been that close. They had been friends, yes, but tentative friends, cautious friends, on that barrier between acquaintance and friendship. And now – now he still had all his followers around him. Surely he still felt some sense of duty to order them around or something? She couldn't have mattered that much to him. This couldn't mean anything to him.
Why was he letting this one tiny thing get to him so completely? Didn't he have some sort of plan to focus on?
Hermione reread the letter that night.
She cried again.
His words could not sway her, she realized, and she should have felt triumph at that fact but she only felt miserable.
Injustice aside, vengeance aside, payback aside... If she could not find it in herself to forgive, how was she any better than he was?
xXxXxXxXx
Riddle observed himself in the mirror. He really did look terrible, but that was of little weight. Everyone knew who he was already, anyway; why did he have to keep reasserting it? As if any of his Slytherins cared how he dressed, as long as he wasn't mindlessly torturing them. He strode back into his room and slammed the door.
After he had dropped off the letter, he had been unable to sleep, and the entire proceeding day – Christmas, although Christmas was never really different from any other day for Tom – had been a torturous wait. The next night, he had had two hours of sleep. The night after had yielded one and a half.
He had called a meeting, told everyone that there was nothing new of consequence but that he had got what he needed from Hermi – from the Granger girl – like it was just that simple. But had he gotten what he really wanted? No. No, he hadn't. He hadn't gotten what he wanted, and that enraged him so much that he took it out on every single one of the other boys, wishing their faces were hers, but knowing that if he did this to her it would never help him get what he wanted. He considered Abraxas, dancing with Herm – with Granger, and found himself angrier than he had been in quite a while. Quite a while. But it was more than anger – it was anger combined with the worst feeling in the world: hopelessness. And that – well, that made him dig himself deeper into his tortures, perhaps deeper than ever before, unfortunately for those six boys.
Riddle attempted to bury those childish thoughts of want. Was he still that seven-year-old boy who wanted that ball so badly that the boy to whom it belonged found himself falling unexpectedly? He was not. But then... then again... he had gotten what he wanted, then, no matter that the boy had been hurt. Hurting him had turned up results. He'd never had to write the boy a damn three-page essay to attempt to convince him that the ball was rightfully his.
This wasn't the same, though, and Tom knew that. If he were just to walk up to H – to Granger and torture her until she broke, assuming that would ever happen – she wouldn't be the same. And he wanted her to be the same. He wanted things to be how they had been, a break from the tedium of this world, an intellectual focal point, a point of quiet interest, a point of unintentional relaxation.
Tom wondered whether he had ever really felt friendship towards her, or whether that feeling he'd used to get upon seeing her had been because of another open opportunity to deceive her. The latter seemed far more likely, but he'd had that feeling of exhilarating deception a million times before, and the feeling with He – with Granger hadn't been the same. Although it had definitely been that familiar feeling at first, after a while, it had faded into something else entirely.
He stretched out his lean body in the sofa, refusing to acknowledge to himself that he was even dedicating his thought process to this entirely unknown feeling, rather than doing anything productive. His dark eyes stared into the fire.
It had been such a damn well-written letter, too. Very formulaic in its progression, very... heartfelt in its manner.
Nothing.
Riddle halfheartedly shoved at his hair, feeling only mildly annoyed, but it wouldn't fall back into place. It was irreparably messy. He almost liked it.
Hermione.
He didn't think he would ever say the name again.