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Whatever Riddle had meant when he'd told her he'd changed, Hermione was convinced. The next few days were indescribable in their bizarre amiability, an easy feeling coming to their conversations almost naturally. In fact, whenever Hermione found herself thinking about Mina, she just started talking, and inevitability that terrible, empty feeling would be distracted away.
She and Riddle had tossed around several theories for her return to Earth, even though there was something about the idea that was unappealing to Hermione for some reason. They'd tried one idea already, which was for Hermione to create the same ward in this Hogwarts as she'd made back on Earth – but it hadn't seemed to have any effect at all.
Hermione was pleased about how the Healing was going. The potions seemed to be beating back the curse little by little, and Hermione had completely finished repairing the muscles of Riddle's abdomen, which had taken an exhausting ten hours. "At this rate, you'll be better in about a week and a half," she told him, and he scowled.
"Do you mean to imply that's a good thing?"
"Well... well, yes," she replied. "Given my original guess that I wouldn't have you out of here until late February."
He sighed. "Hermione, I don't know the date," he said tiredly. "There isn't a calendar in here." Then, she flicked her wand, and suddenly there was something over his eyes. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice sharp, but just as suddenly, the thing was gone, and a large calendar sat at the foot of his bed.
"Just proving you wrong," she said innocently. "Look. Right there. January 10th."
"Tom Riddle is never wrong," he said. And the smirk came readily to him. Yes, Tom Riddle was back to his old self, for the most part, but with more knowledge than ever, more control than ever, and more connection to this girl than ever. He was stunned by how much time she spent by his bedside. She arrived before he awoke, and oftentimes did not leave until after he had gone to sleep.
Of course, they could not speak the entire time – she needed her concentration, after all, if he wanted to get better. Which he definitely did.
"I want to try this," Hermione suddenly said, jerking Riddle from his thoughts. She was holding an unfamiliar black book.
"What's that, then?"
She turned it so he could read the title: Runic Spells. Runic Spells? "I've never heard of Runic Spells," he said in a puzzled voice.
"Maybe they discovered it after 1945," she suggested.
"Oh, well. Carry on," he said.
"So, it says in Healing Handicraft Edition Nine that Runic Spells can be phenomenally powerful during Healings," Hermione said, flipping through a big red book that she always referred to. "And I've never tried a Runic Spell before, but I got an O on my Ancient Runes O.W.L., and I feel fairly confident that I can handle whatever this book tosses at me, so I was wondering if you'd... let me try."
He eyed the black book a bit warily. "I trust you," he said uneasily. There was a bit of a pause where Hermione smiled at the words, and Riddle sort of realized the weight of what he'd said.
"Excellent!" she said, standing up. "Alright, let's see here."
Her eyes sped down the instructional pages for Healing using Runes.
After about twenty minutes of reading, Riddle asked, "So, what's the basic premise?"
Hermione shrugged. "There's apparently a basic framework for a Runic Spell, and you use Flagrate to specify in writing which runes you're using. Then you cast a spell, say the runes aloud, and voila! Doesn't seem terribly difficult; I'm surprised they didn't start teaching us how to use these at O.W.L. level."
She perused a diagram in the black book, sat on the side of the bed, and surveyed the incantation and wand movement. She practiced both by themselves a couple times. "Terinculum Efectiva," she muttered to herself. Then, the wand movement – a sliding forward motion ending in a swift flick for every rune space; fairly easy.
Hermione pulled a piece of parchment from under her chair and wrote down the runes she was planning on using, just in case, for reference. Irwaz. Unam. Zwahir. Lecte. Menha.
"I hope you know what you're doing," mumbled Riddle.
"Oh, hush," Hermione said cheerfully, and placed her wand right where his ribcage started, at the top. "Terinculum Efectiva," she said carefully, her wand gliding forward, and then a flick. A fiery red square hovered in the air right where she'd flicked. She traced her wand down and to the left, then down, to the right, and up, creating a perfect pentagonal area outlined by connected red squares. She cast Flagrate nonverbally, and then slowly etched one rune into each box. As she started each square, the one before it glowed a bright white before fading into a gentle peach color. Then, the last box was filled, and turned peach.
A vein of white light suddenly erupted in the connections between the runes, and the pentagon started to shake violently. Hermione watched with alarm. That was a lot of power struggling to get free. A little panicked, she glanced back to her list, letting her wand rest over each square as she pronounced them counterclockwise. "Irwaz! Unam! Zwahir! Lecte! Menha!" Her voice trembled a little.
As she said, "Menha," the boxes opened on the inside, and bright white light flooded into the center of the pentagon. Hermione pursed her lips – her outline wasn't looking entirely stable. What if something had gone wrong? What if she was about to ruin everything?
But even as she watched, the pentagon, which was shooting out random spikes of power like it was a piece of living static, descended downwards and placed itself onto Riddle's chest – and then it sank into his body.
Hermione watched, wide-eyed, as the torn muscles seemed to glow the very red of which they were created. Then, of their own volition, they started to weave themselves back together, every tiniest strand rippling back into a seamless whole of a perfectly intact set of pectoral muscles.
Riddle was looking positively alarmed. That had to be a very, very strange feeling.
Hermione practically leapt off the bed, almost-disbelieving in absolute victory. "Yes!" she cheered. "Merlin, I can't believe that worked!"
And suddenly she felt a staggering weakness hit her, like a blow to the stomach, and she toppled down hard onto the edge of the bed, her hands grasping for purchase on the covers.
"Hermione," said Riddle quickly. "Hermione?"
She lifted her head, the sudden debilitation scaring her. Then her mouth involuntarily stretched in an incredibly wide yawn. "I'm…I have to…"
Her self-control drained even as she said the words, turning them into a hopeless slur, and she could barely turn herself onto her back and lift her feet onto the bed before her head was dropping down onto the mattress in a dead faint.
Riddle surveyed her in surprise. He considered trying to Ennervate her, but that spell lent unnatural energy to its recipient, which wouldn't be good for her bodily systems if the Runic magic had managed to weaken them somehow.
This was a side of magic Riddle had never seen before. Usually, magic seemed to have its own source of power, didn't just suck it out of its caster like a parasite feeding from a host. For instance, Riddle could stand there and cast Stupefy for days on end, and it wouldn't tire him in the least. Magic was not supposed to be an exhaustible substance. This Runic thing was very unsettling, to say the least. "Hermione?" he said again, tentatively, though he didn't really expect a response.
Her head was only a few inches from his, looking blissfully peaceful in unconsciousness. One thick, tangled stray lock of hair wandered its way across her eye and laid itself over a cheek. Her body was clad in a soft red sweater, whose sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. Riddle looked away, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the situation, feeling more than a bit uncomfortable with the sudden urge he felt to reach out his hand and touch her forearm. He cleared his throat and turned his head the other way.
It was still unfathomable to him that she should spend so much time healing him, but he was growing to... appreciate it, more and more. Increasingly, as time wore on, Riddle realized that the only people who came to see him were Hermione, Abraxas, Revelend, and Herpo. He didn't see fit to wonder why, per se, but it made him realize that it mattered genuinely to very few people that he was hurt, which was... an odd feeling, to say the least. Although it was admittedly more odd that Araminta Meliflua wasn't barging in at every available hour.
Stranger was that he didn't feel angered that people wouldn't like to visit Tom Riddle in his frail state. He comforted himself with such excuses as that they might not know he was awake, that they probably didn't want to see him while injured, or the best, that he scared the living daylights out of them even while he lay in bed, though that wasn't logical.
But the most reassuring thing, he found, was that he just didn't even care that much. Not while the other four were still coming in day after day. Each day, Revelend and Herpo brought suggestions as to new potions to try, and Abraxas would help Hermione heal his torso somewhat. Anyone else, really, would have been a nuisance.
Riddle wrinkled his nose. Hermione's incredibly dense, voluminous hair was spreading its smell over to his head on the pillow, and it seemed to be intoxicating him slightly. Surely there was no other reason besides alcohol that he should be feeling the inclination to lightly touch the face of a sleeping—a sleeping—
That was odd. He'd stopped himself before thinking the word 'Mudblood'. The word didn't come just like any other word in his impressive vocabulary.
Granger was taking her toll, Riddle thought moodily. Wasn't he supposed to feel eager about fulfilling the purifying work of Salazar Slytherin?
Her angry words of the first day he had awoken streamed back to him. "Excuse me for trying to rip the Wizarding World back out of your clutches, back to a state where I might be able to get a job and have rights and freedoms and be out of your disgusting discrimination!"
Rights and freedoms? Riddle pondered the words. She didn't really have the natural rights, the inherent freedoms that came with being someone of noble blood. Perhaps she thought it a bit unfair that she wouldn't even be allowed social and political freedoms, which was almost reasonable, Riddle supposed... except that what were Muggle-borns but Muggles that happened to be able to work a wand? And Riddle had always thought that if Muggles were never to do anything ever again, then it would not be a shame. If every single Muggle on the face of the earth were just gone, it would not be a shame, because no one would have to deal with them, their incompetence, their mindless self-importance, their self-impressed so-called 'ingenuity'; no one would ever be hurt again by their animalistic stupidity... and the spawn of Muggles, Muggle-borns – there had to be something wrong with them. They had to get their magic from some unnatural, traitorous source, surely. How could magic just... spring out of nothingness? Spring out of Muggles, spring out of those sub-humans, spring out of that species he surely was not related to...
Riddle clenched his teeth. But how could he explain Hermione? She was an incredibly powerful witch. Very controlled, very intelligent, and of course, very mature. Magic seemed to be the only thing she cared about—she certainly didn't care about her appearance, like other girls—and she was damn good at it. In fact, when there were Muggle-borns like Granger, and many incompetent Purebloods, how could Riddle be sure of telling himself, repeatedly, Muggle-borns are inferior?
Then he got a strange feeling, because he felt like he shouldn't be thinking that thought, as he surveyed the girl who had quite literally knocked herself out to help him. There were other times for such wonderings, times when he wouldn't feel... bad for thinking about it, like when she was fully conscious, for example.
She lay there for the better part of the day. It was only when the sun had already gone down that her eyes slowly flickered open.
"Are you feeling alright?" asked Riddle from next to her, and she jumped, a bit disoriented.
"Okay," she mumbled, and looked out the window into the night with a calm eye. "Goodness, I've been out for a while."
"Quite a while," Riddle agreed. "You, too, are far more entertaining while conscious."
Hermione let out a tired chuckle. "Glad to hear that." She slid off the bed. "Wow, that really takes it out of you. I think I'm going to have to go sleep," she told him. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Sleep well," he said. Hermione smiled weakly and left, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Hermione entered the Gryffindor dormitory. It wasn't terribly late at night, so it was empty, but Hermione couldn't help staring at Mina's bed, as usual, and wishing that it weren't empty, wishing bitterly that she'd had the courage to talk to her friend one last time. Then her head hit the pillow, and she thought no more.
xXxXxXxXx
The next three days were better. Hermione did not work with any more Runic Spells, but she did manage to finish the sides of the pectoral muscles and many of the blood vessels lacing over them. Then, just when she expected it least, Riddle asked a very, very unkind question.
"Hermione?"
"Yeah?"
"I was wondering why you think Muggle-borns are equal to Purebloods."
Utter bewilderment filled her features. He was completely honest in asking, somehow. He actually wanted her opinion on the subject, which was weird in itself. "Uh, Riddle, are you sure you want to speak about this topic with me?" she asked uneasily.
"Yes," he said, frowning. "Why?"
"Well, because as the conversation wears on, I'm hesitantly predicting that I will have to restrain myself from slapping you, and violence against an invalid is hardly admirable."
Riddle smirked. "As long as you manage to restrain yourself, I don't think that should be a problem. After all, you are such fun when you're angry."
"This won't be the amusing type of angry," Hermione said seriously. "This will be the curse-you-until-I've-managed-to-unheal-you-completely type of angry."
He sighed, his serious features looking a bit bored. "Well, all right, then, but I have been dedicating quite a lot of thought to the subject lately, and I figured I would ask your opinion, since your opinions are so frequently different from those of any of my other acquaintances."
Hermione restrained a sarcastic laugh. 'Acquaintances,' as in followers, right. "Well, let's start off with the fact that magical ability is clearly unrelated to heritage," Hermione sighed. "As demonstrated with great frequency by such idiots in my year at Hogwarts as Vincent Crabbe, who was a pure-blood and absolutely abysmal at everything he put a wand to."
"As opposed to yourself. Yes, that's a bit of an issue I've been considering for a while. Continue."
Hermione restrained a bit of irritation at his casual order. It happened often, but that didn't mean she had to like it. "Second of all, the type of magic we do is exactly the same. I have the capacity to use the exact same magic as any Pureblood. Third of all, who are Purebloods but the descendants of very, very old Muggle-borns, too far back to remember? After all, you know that there was only one original witch and one original wizard, which either means their children married in with Muggle-borns, or that every Pureblood is the child of incest, which isn't a very pleasant thought either."
Riddle frowned. That was a bit of a technicality – not much substance behind that third argument, really. The fact was that now, regardless of origin, there were families that were Wizarding as far back as was recorded, and those were the Pureblooded families, and that was that.
Hermione continued. "Fourth of all, I don't even see how birth is relevant to one's being a witch or wizard. I mean, look at you."
Riddle stiffened. "What about me?" he ground out. This was not an appropriate tangent.
"Look, I know you'd love to deny your Muggle heritage," Hermione sighed, "but -"
"That man was not my father," hissed Riddle, and Hermione wasn't surprised to see utter hatred filling his face.
"I'm not trying to tell you he was any sort of decent parent," Hermione said firmly. "The point is, from that Muggle came you, a stronger wizard than has maybe ever existed." He looked only faintly mollified by her words, so she kept on determinedly. "You can say what you'd like about him being Muggle filth, dirty trash, a worthless waste of oxygen—yes, I've heard it all before—but the point is that he evidently had the capacity to create a brilliant wizard, so if that capacity exists in every Muggle, then I don't feel as if there's much to debate."
There was a silence. Riddle considered her words. She was being overtly complimentary in an obvious effort to contain his anger, and he was a bit annoyed to find that it was working. He had always liked praise a bit more than he should, for reasons that were obvious to him. But praise from the sharp tongue of Hermione Granger was not given easily, so it was not a crime to feel a bit calmed by what she'd said. That was beside the point, though – it was the argument he cared about, not a girl's compliments, of course.
"But surely you can't deny that you've been cheated of so much by being raised by Muggles," he said.
Hermione shrugged. "There are fantastic wizards of other blood that have been raised by Muggles," she said, her tone mocking his words, "and before you go getting a swelled head, I'm not just talking about you."
"The Potter boy," Riddle muttered. Hermione nodded, glancing out the window like she was subconsciously wishing for escape.
"Yes," Hermione said. "He was half-blood, sort of. His mother was Muggle-born – and she was brilliant, too, or so Sluggy said..."
Riddle let out a derisive laugh. "Horace Slughorn is hardly the most quotable source of accurate knowledge."
Didn't stop you from asking him about horcruxes. Hermione shrugged. "He's a very competent wizard, and, as I'm sure you know, he has a talent for spotting talent."
The boy opposite her let out an indifferent noise and fiddled with his wand, suddenly growing a bit tired of the conversation. He hadn't even really attempted to impress his views upon her yet, but what was the point? There was every chance that it might turn into an uncomfortable discussion of parts of his past that were definitely better left suppressed. Moreover, did he really think that she could understand? She didn't have an ounce of pure blood in her, nothing that could call at her mind to see why being a Muggle-born was just... aberrant.
"Never mind," he sighed idly.
Hermione looked a bit put off. After he'd dragged her into talking about it against her will, he supposed it had been a bit of a waste of her time and energy. "My apologies," he said, "but, upon reexamination, I don't think you'd start to see it my way."
"Neither do I," said Hermione. "But I was hoping I might have a shot at converting you."
He looked at her with a dark, amused eye. "Somehow, I find it difficult to see that happening," he said wryly. Hermione looked at him, her gaze irritatingly reproachful.
"Fine," she sighed. "I just don't understand why you're not just telling Abraxas to heal me and telling me to 'get out, Mudblood,' if you hate Muggle-borns so much."
It was a bit of a shock to hear the word from her lips, Riddle realized... and, as her memories infiltrated his awareness once more, he also realized that it was not just another word. The way she said it... there was so much context behind it, from that very first time she'd heard the name and been terribly confused to the subsequent years, with being Petrified, with being forced into being scared about who she was.
"Don't call yourself that," he said calmly, but inside, he was deeply unsettled. That word had always been nothing, had always been something he had dropped without a second care. What had changed? Why was the memory of one girl sufficient to make him never want to hear someone call her that again?
"Why?" laughed Hermione mirthlessly. "Isn't that what I am to you? Just another low-down, dirty, unfit-to-hold-a-wand Mudb-"
"I told you not to call yourself that," Riddle interrupted sharply, his eyes darkening. Hermione raised one eyebrow.
"Well, I don't see how it makes a difference, Tom," she sighed. "There will always be people who will spit at my very existence because of my birth. Which—er, doesn't that include you?"
He swallowed. "I would never spit at your existence," he said.
"Oh, but you already have," Hermione said softly, a glint in her brown eyes. "Every time you speak about inferior birth, every time the thought crosses your mind, you're stamping on the fact that I have worked exactly as hard as, if not harder than, all the Wizard-born children I know to be a more-than-competent witch. And don't try to convince yourself out of that one, because it's true."
She wondered if she'd gone too far as she noticed his torn expression. Then she just wondered why his expression was torn in the first place. What did her feelings matter to him? What did the way she was treated matter to him?
Hermione sighed. If someone had treated him as badly as she'd been treated for something he had no control over, she would care. But that was... it was different. He never let himself care about anything, and this was the most bizarre of all bizarre things to care about.
Then Hermione felt a bit guilty. So, in essence, she was thinking of herself as better than him, able to care for him though he could not for her? If she was going to attempt, however tentatively, to help him be a sort of a normal person, that was not a good tack to take. Then his words broke her out of her reverie.
"I'm sorry," he said. She stared at him. Very hard. His voice was low and sincere.
"For what?"
"For what you've been through," Riddle said.
Hermione frowned in confusion. "Well, I... so am I," she said slowly. Was this some sort of trick? Of course, he'd already said he was sorry in the letter. This was just a bit of an unexpectedly placed regurgitation. But... he was apologizing for how people had treated her for her birth. Wasn't that the biggest thing he should be agreeing with? "Wait, wait. I'm completely confused. Don't you agree with the philosophy that all those people in my past just happened to act on?"
He frowned. "Not when it pertains to you."
Her eyes narrowed. She could only stare. Those were not Tom Riddle words to say.
"I will not permit anyone to call you that again," Riddle decided. "Not ever."
Hermione laughed then, because the notion was just so utterly absurd. "Just me? What about every other Muggle-born?"
"No," he said. "Just you. I'd prefer to believe, for the sake of my sanity, that you are actually a Pureblood who just happened to be born to Muggle parents."
Hermione let out a sarcastic chuckle and said, "Actually, that's essentially the main basis for my argument – that every witch and wizard is exactly the same, just born to different families."
He scowled a bit, blowing his dark hair out of his eyes. "Fine, then. You can be right in one circumstance. Your own."
"Well, thank you, Master," Hermione said mockingly, and Riddle shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want to hear her calling him Master, like all his followers. She was worth more than that.
He sighed. "Anyway, so, what's there left to be done before I'm allowed to stand up again? I really am getting tired of just lying here."
"Even after you technically are allowed to stand up, you probably shouldn't, just because, well, it might take a while for your body to get used to being all there again." She shrugged.
Riddle scoffed. "Hermione, as soon as I am able to stand up, I will be walking out of this room and probably never returning. I've spent so much time lying down that I feel my back has melted into the damn bedsheets."
Hermione laughed, "Let's hope not, because that would be more than a bit of a setback. Anyway, we'll deal with that when we get there. We've still got a good week or so to go."
He groaned. "Whoever cursed me will pay for this," he mumbled.
"How many times do I have to tell you? No one tried to curse you. Two spells collided in the air."
"Then whose were they? Merlin, they're in for it -"
"I am not telling you," Hermione said firmly, "and you had better not try to track them down and hurt them."
Riddle shot her a weird look. "Why does it matter so much to you?"
"Why do you think?"
He looked a bit nonplussed, and he glanced down at his wand hand again. "Because... let me guess," he sighed idly, with great sarcasm, "you care about them."
"It's not that. It's that it's not your right to just go around hexing people like there's no problem."
"But there isn't a problem."
"Yes, there is!" Hermione said exasperatedly. "Honestly, Tom, when are you going to understand that other people are separate from you? They're not just there for your entertainment, or for you to do whatever you'd like with them."
He stared up at the ceiling, not wanting to listen, because this went against every philosophy he'd ever employed. "Well, then, what do you propose I do?" he said with great snark in his tone, letting his head flop over to look at her.
"Well, if they're decent people, then once you're back, they'll probably walk up to you and apologize for hitting you, even though it was an accident."
"And would that be my opportunity to agree with them about their incompetence and strike?"
"What? No! Are you serious?"
"Well, don't get mad!" he said defensively. "Honestly, I don't—then what—"
He was so ridiculous! It was like he'd just memorized a Wrong Choices how-to manual or something, Hermione thought with complete exasperation. There wasn't even a right place to start with him. "After they would apologize, you would say that although it was a great inconvenience, it was okay, because they didn't mean to hurt you."
Riddle stared at her like she had sprouted an extra head. "So someone who essentially gave me a life-ending wound would just apologize, and I would say it was nothing? That's stupid! I don't see why I can't just curse them back, and then everything will be even."
Hermione looked up at the ceiling, closing her eyes, praying for some sort of divine assistance. "There's a philosophy that says, 'My right to swing my fist ends when it collides with your face.' You'd probably do well to remember that, Tom."
"I don't appreciate you telling me what I should and should not remember," he muttered mutinously. He paused, and then said, "Well-phrased argument, though. Where'd you hear it, anyway?"
Hermione turned a bemused glance to him, her lips quivering with restrained laughter. "Muggle Studies."
"What?"
"Oh, I shouldn't have said that," she chuckled helplessly. "You should see your face." There was a comically large frown on his lips, and his dark eyes were wide and filled with utter disbelief.
"Why would you take Muggle Studies?" he asked. "Don't you... well, shouldn't you already know about Muggles?"
Hermione rolled her eyes, remembering how many other students had asked her that in the past. "There's more to Muggles than Muggle culture, you know," she said. "There was a whole semester on Muggle philosophy, and it was absolutely fascinating. There were some really excellent Muggle thinkers. And the people they have who invent things – scientists – they've got original ways to do things without magic. Interesting things to learn, in general."
Riddle rolled his eyes. "Of course."
"You don't believe me," she accused. "I'll have you know that people like Nikolai Tesla, Thomas Edison, Louis Pasteur, Marie Curie, Aristotle, Plato, Jean-Paul Sartre, Dante – they were all just as intelligent as you or I."
"But they were Muggles," said Riddle patronizingly. "That's not even the same type of … thing. Besides, what sort of names are Plato and Dante?" He snickered a bit, and Hermione shot him a level glare.
"For your information, Tom, Plato was a philosopher whose work was vital in not only ethics, but also epistemology, metaphysics, and aesthetics. He taught Aristotle, too. Greek. Very intelligent. And Dante was an Italian who, among other works, put forward a philosophy about the nine circles of Hell – and people still refer to that philosophy today, even though his work is hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years old."
"Nine circles of Hell, eh?" Riddle mused. He actually had heard of that. "So this Dante person invented that?"
"It was his theory, yes," sniffed Hermione.
"Well, then, what's in the ninth circle? That's the worst, right?" asked Riddle, and though his tone was that of boredom, Hermione could have sworn she heard a pinch of genuine curiosity.
"Traitors," she said. "It's all these miserable treacherous people, and as you get closer to the center of the circle, they're all frozen in ice to varying degrees."
"And in the center is the Devil, or Satan or something, of course."
Hermione nodded. "A three-headed demon who chews on the worst traitors of all—Brutus, Cassius, and Judas."
Riddle had only heard of Judas, and even then, only in passing. "So, what did they do that was so much worse?" he asked.
"Betrayal of their benefactors," Hermione told him idly, spinning her wand around in a hand. "Supposedly the worst sin of all. Brutus and Cassius betrayed and killed their friend, the Emperor of Rome, Julius Caesar. And Judas betrayed Jesus to be crucified, although Jesus was only ever kind."
Riddle yawned. "Well, that's interesting," he said, but he didn't follow it up with a sarcastic comment, as Hermione had been sure he would. "You're rather well-read, aren't you?" he asked instead, with a wry smile.
Hermione laughed. "Yes, I am, rather," she said, "and if it's taken you that long to figure that out, perhaps you're not as intelligent as I give you credit for." She placed a potion bottle to his lips. "Drink up."
xXxXxXxXx
"Hermione," Riddle sighed, "what do you think you'd be doing right now if you were back on Earth?"
"Well," she answered carefully, tapping a limp vein with her wand, "I do think that depends." Riddle was used to the strange feelings of her wand prodding at him by now, and was used to the golden glows that often accompanied them.
"Depends on what?" Light streamed from Hermione's wand into his chest.
"Depends on whether or not you've managed to kill Harry yet," she said glumly. Riddle winced inwardly. Of course – his other self was trying to find the Potter boy.
"What if I didn't exist?" he mused. "What if you were just a regular seventh-year student?"
Hermione sighed wistfully. She had wished for that so often, so hard. "I'd say that I'd probably be nagging Harry and Ron to get a move on with their homework." A smile curled her lip. "And I'd probably be Head Girl, and I'd be desperately worrying about N.E.W.T.s, I suppose. What were those like, anyway?"
"Easy," said Riddle. "Nothing you'd need to be worried about."
"Well," Hermione continued, "I probably wouldn't listen to everyone who was telling me I had nothing to worry about, I'd stay up half my nights studying, and then with my nonexistent free time I'd probably be helping Harry and Ron with their work."
Riddle raised his eyebrows. He hadn't ever studied a day in his life. Actually, he'd be surprised if Hermione had ever really needed to study at all, either. "Why do you study so much?"
"I have to," she said, straightening up from Riddle's chest. "It's one of my greatest fears that I fail myself academically."
"And what would that be, getting an Exceeds Expectations on an assignment?" Riddle scoffed.
She scowled and drew herself up haughtily. "Actually, I'll have you know that I got an Exceeds Expectations on my Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L., and I was extremely distraught. But no one would listen to me, because I got an Outstanding on everything else."
Riddle chuckled a little.
"Are you laughing at me? That's a very important O.W.L., you know."
"Oh, no, I'd never laugh at an insane perfectionist," yawned Riddle, peering at her out of one eye.
"Why, you...! Well, I'll bet you got Outstanding on everything," Hermione said, a recalcitrant tone seeping into her voice.
"Yes, I did, and I'll give you three guesses as to how many hours I studied a day."
Hermione thought for a second. She had usually averaged out at about nine, herself. "Nine?"
He smirked. "No."
"Seven?"
Now he just looked like he was restraining laughter. "No."
Hermione frowned. Surely, no less than five. Maybe he'd studied more than she had, back in his school days... "Ten?" There wasn't really a way to spend more than ten hours a day, except for when there weren't classes anymore.
"Wrong."
"Fine. How many?"
"Zero."
Hermione stared. "What?"
"Zero," he repeated, "and I'd daresay you could have gotten away with zero as well. All I ever did was assignments that needed turning in."
This was so unfair. Hermione had always dedicated her heart and soul to every class she'd ever had, and she'd still received that Exceeds Expectations in Defense Against the Dark Arts, like it was mocking her, and the Dark Lord had received an Outstanding on that O.W.L...
"Sickeningly ironic, isn't it?" Riddle asked with an infuriating smirk, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. "But, really, everything you needed to know for those stupid tests, you learned in class, and knowing you, you took an incredible amount of detailed and unnecessary notes, right?"
"If I weren't trying to make you better, you would be hexed right now," Hermione muttered.
"Oh, calm down, woman," he sighed. "I personally assure you that you are far better than Outstanding at Defense Against the Dark Arts, and we both know that my word is likely more accurate than any of those examiners'."
She felt a little reassured in spite of herself. "Don't call me 'woman'," she told him, as an afterthought.
"Would you prefer 'man'?"
Hermione didn't see fit to grace that with a response.
xXxXxXxXx
It was January fourteenth, and Hermione had gone the entire day without arguing with Riddle, which was a feat. Hermione was shocked to find herself as relaxed as she had ever been around any of the Gryffindors, as she had ever been even around her friends from back on Earth. She could feel that she had, once more, let down that cautious barrier around Riddle, and she should have felt unsettled because of that, but she didn't. Perhaps it was because all he could do was lie there, even if he could use his wand. Perhaps it was because they seemed to be getting along. She had become completely accustomed to being there, with him, all day—and it didn't make much sense, but she was enjoying the harmless time spent speaking with him—all the time in the world, with no goal, no ulterior motive.
She almost found herself wishing that he wouldn't get better, so he wouldn't go sneaking around, potentially doing terrible things to people. After all, she trusted him when he was with her, and Abraxas, but she didn't trust anyone else to be able to hold their own against whatever his whims felt like doing at the time. Except Dumbledore.
Hermione felt like she had completely lost a grip on Albus because she hadn't told him about Riddle, which was utterly stupid, but seemingly unavoidable. In the wake of Mina's passage, Godric had started clinging to Albus in a gesture of absolute need, so one was rarely without the other. They both sat in the Infirmary, waiting for Miranda to wake up, as Mungo and Jared had said she should within several days.
Hermione was terrified for Miranda. It would be terrible to wake up and find Mina gone, to wake up and find that Hermione had somehow managed to estrange herself, to wake up to everything having absolutely changed.
Hermione was worried that Godric might learn about her healing Riddle. This was not a good time for Godric's unstable emotions, and he and Mina had never liked Riddle. If Godric learned that Hermione, instead of spending time with Gryffindor house, was holed up all day in Riddle's room, there would likely be hell to pay, and Hermione didn't want to have to face that.
Mina.
It was a bit strange to Hermione. R.J.'s loss had been harder on her, for reasons she could only start to guess at. Maybe because Hermione had really lost Mina so long before she moved on, lost her to House-difference stupidity and childish fighting, lost her to mistrust and random abandonment, lost her to Mina's love for Godric. Maybe it was because Hermione had sort of found someone to lean on in this situation, someone who was not grieving.
"It's working," she whispered, distracted from her thoughts by what her wand was doing.
It was working. It was working!
As she attempted for the millionth time to stretch a spell over Riddle's chest that would re-grow his skin, like a thin blue screen, for the first time in a million, it did not slide right off or refuse to find purchase. The boundaries of the spell stuck to the edges of his wound perfectly, and as Hermione drew her wand back with effort, the spell dragged itself over his torso and fitted itself into the hole in his chest. "Tom! It worked!" she said breathlessly. "Merlin, I can't believe it!"
He smiled, but only a little. "Does this mean you're going to stop healing me?"
"Well, if you don't have to be healed, there's not much healing I can do," said Hermione, her huge grin fading a bit. "I mean, I can cut off your hand, or something, if you'd like me to..."
It was the second time the smile had ever appeared on his face, that broad, even smile, not a hint of malice or self-satisfaction or smirking, and Hermione felt like someone had just put ice down her back. "That might be a suitable alternative," he mused, seemingly to himself.
"To what?" she laughed. Getting one's hand cut off was not usually a suitable alternative for anything.
"To not seeing you here from sun-up until sun-down," he replied evenly, his eyes meeting hers calmly, his words understated and honest and demure. And Hermione felt like someone had poured an entire glacier down her back.
There was no response to that. Even if she'd been able to think of one, anyway, she wasn't sure she would be able to say it, given that her throat didn't seem to be letting any air through to her lungs. And, for the first time in quite a while, she was taken by the way he looked, his dark hair attractively disheveled, his lips left relaxed in the aftermath of his smile, the strong curve of his jaw just a bit unshaven as the sun was going down. But more, she was taken by the way he was looking at her, and it disconcerted her, because he was looking at her like she meant the world to him, those serious eyes riveted on their target with organic gentleness.
"Hm," he said, but his quiet voice didn't break the spell. "It's been a while since I've managed to leave you speechless, hasn't it, Ms. Granger?"
She felt a smile form on her lips. "Yes," she said. "I thought you'd lost your touch." He opened his mouth to reply, but she interrupted, "Let me guess … Tom Riddle never loses his touch."
"I'm glad we understand each other," he said, his voice quieter than ever. And was that – was that warmth in the depths of his brown eyes?
Hermione leaned forward onto the bed with both forearms, looking down at her hands, which were twisted together, wringing nervously out of habit. "I'd say that saying I understand you is a bit of a stretch," she replied quietly.
She thought her heart would burst as his hand reached over to hers, stopping her agitated movement, and right then it felt like the world was still. So still, and as quiet as its quietest moment, right there, in the foot between their eyes. "I wouldn't," he said.
Hermione wanted to glance down at his hand, which was cradling hers gently, wanted to look down and recognize that it was Voldemort's hand that was on her own, but she couldn't look away from his eyes, and those eyes were not Voldemort's but Tom Riddle's, and Tom Riddle had a different hand entirely, one that felt nice as it lightly soothed her hand, one that sent shivers rocketing up her arms into every part of her body as its thumb lightly brushed over her knuckle, one that she didn't feel the slightest inclination to disengage.
Then she said, "I should get going."
He said, "I'll see you tomorrow, Hermione."
And she felt happy that those words were true.