"Hermione!"

Hermione couldn't keep the tears from her eyes as she embraced her friend. "I'm so glad you're awake," she sniffed, shaking the tears away. "I've missed you so much." Miranda's arms felt frail and weak as they hugged Hermione close.

"I've missed... lot," Miranda said, and Hermione saw a distinctly miserable look wander over her face.

"I'm so sorry," whispered Hermione. "That's a lot to wake up to."

"Like... bad dream," admitted Miranda. "It was my own stupid fault... course... but I did have to see... for my next piece of writing, see..."

Hermione sighed. "You scared us awfully, you know."

"Talk to me, Hermione," said Miranda in a slightly slurred voice. "Not making much sense... potions and all... but I miss your voice."

Hermione brushed back her hair. "Well... Albus and Godric aren't speaking with me."

Miranda frowned. "Why? 's not like Albus."

"Well, I – I'm healing Tom Riddle," said Hermione quietly, the secret rising off her chest like a lead weight being lifted. "He should have been dead, like you, but I've helped him almost get back to normal, and Albus hates Tom, so I haven't been able to find the guts to tell him."

Miranda raised her light brown eyebrows.

Hermione nodded. "I know. But I just – I know you and Albus are so close," she sighed. "I just –please don't tell them. Albus because – well, yes, and Godric – Godric's taking Mina moving on about as well as expected, and he and Mina never liked Riddle... and I know he's not talking to me, but I think he would get really mad if he thought I was ignoring him because of a Slytherin."

Miranda nodded sagely. "'m sorry 'bout your pers'nal life, Hermione."

"I just wish my friends would like each other," replied Hermione, with a bitter smile. Then the sourness left her expression, as she said, "but I'm so, so, so glad you're back. And look what I found."

Hermione pulled out a book from inside her robes, and flipped carefully to the marked page. A picture of a tremendous owl sitting next to a man was on the left half of the page. The owl was at least three feet tall. "You were right about the Budgeon Eagles."

Miranda smiled. "I knew I was," she sighed contentedly, and with that, she gently drifted off to sleep. Hermione smiled gently and left the book on top of Miranda's bed.

"Thanks, you two," she said to Mungo and Jared. They nodded.

She, Mungo, and Jared, had never really gotten back on steady footing after she'd yelled at them about Riddle. She was stunned, however, that Jared Pippin had managed to keep his mouth shut about the entire affair, given his usual blabbermouthed affinity. Hermione secretly suspected that Mungo had helped with that.

When Hermione reached Riddle's room, Abraxas, Herpo and Revelend were already inside, marveling at the perfect skin that had grown back into place.

"Hermione," Abraxas said fiercely as she walked in the door, "you are an absolute miracle worker." He engulfed her in a tight hug and ruffled her hair.

"Unhand me, villain," said Hermione's muffled voice. Abraxas laughed and let her loose. "And I'm not a miracle worker, just a hard worker. There is a distinct difference."

Revelend held out a solemn hand, his sea-green eyes very serious. Hermione shook it, stifling a chuckle. Revelend was such a stiff, sort of stern type, except when he was messing with Herpo.

"Does this mean he can move now?" Herpo asked.

"He is sitting right here, Herpo," Riddle said from the bed, and Herpo turned around in mild alarm. "And no. Hermione told me I couldn't move yet, for some reason involving obscure anatomy that I don't entirely believe."

Hermione shrugged. "Fine, Tom, go ahead and move. Unless the mindless pain that ensues is a bit of a distraction."

He sighed, picking idly at a fingernail. "I just don't understand why it still hurts, and you've failed to provide any sort of adequate explanation."

"Oh, stop whining. It's because I don't understand it either, really," said Hermione patiently, "but it probably has something to do with your nervous system, which, I don't need to remind you, we still haven't even started on, so it'll be a few days yet. Plus, there's quite a bit of scabbing and clumps of blood in there that need to get cleared up and dissolved naturally, which is probably part of it."

"Well," said Abraxas, "I'm just happy that damned hole is gone, personally."

"That makes two of us," agreed Hermione. "So, Abraxas, want to watch Riddle take the foulest potion ever made? It's for nerve rebuilding." A wicked smile spread across her face.

"I'd love to," Abraxas said, "but we were just leaving. I've called Quidditch practice for today, since the Ravenclaws are off the field for a damn change."

Hermione nodded. "I'll see you later," she said, as the other three streamed out of the door, and they waved jovially.

"You," said Riddle, "are late."

"I am not late just because I'm not here when you wake up. And even if I did need an excuse, which I don't—Miranda's awake."

Riddle raised his eyebrows. "Really. That's news."

"I spoke with her and everything. She's a bit woozy, but that's to be expected, I suppose."

Riddle nodded. "Did she have any incredibly twisted month-long dreams?"

Hermione laughed. "You would ask that. No, she did not." She flipped open Healing Handicraft Edition Nine and turned to the section on nerves to double-check. "According to this book, nerves are mainly repaired by potion use, so I can just give you this once a day and that's all I have to do. Thus, the potion." She pointed to an unpleasantly orange potion which was bubbling slowly on the bedside table. It had the consistency of lumpy oatmeal. "I might stick around, though, to relieve you from your boredom," she said carefully.

A hint at a smile appeared on Riddle's face. "I appreciate the sentiment."

Hermione sat on the bed and placed the cold opening of the bottle to Riddle's mouth, tipping it back slowly. An expression of absolute revulsion came across his face, but he drank until she tilted it forwards. "That is the most disgusting thing that I have ever had the misfortune to taste. What did you do, combine mud with essence of dead frog or something?"

"Exactly. Glad to see your potions knowledge is so extensive." He gave her the evil eye and then returned to looking miserable. Hermione set the bottle on his table again, and said, "Don't worry; you only have to take it twice more. Once a day, two more days. At least, that's how long it should take for your nerves to get back in order, and then the pain will go away, and the clotting should be dissolved, too, so you should be able to stand up."

He stuck out his bottom lip childishly. "Fine," he said.

Hermione smiled. "Surely, Tom Riddle is not so easily defeated?"

His serious features returned to their usual state, and he tilted his head, scrutinizing her. "You know very well that Tom Riddle is never defeated by anything."

Hermione sighed. "You really have no idea how nice it is not to have to look at your chest like that for hours on end."

"Yes," Riddle said with a smirk. "I'll bet you don't mind looking at it now, though." He was right, of course, but that didn't stop Hermione from blushing at his unexpectedly predatory words.

"Your overconfidence stuns at every turn."

He sighed. "Listen. I've come up with a plan for you to get back to Earth, and it has promise."

Hermione swallowed and sat back in her armchair, leaning idly on the bed. "Do tell," she said, although she felt strangely disinclined to listen to his idea.

"Well, you were a Secret-Keeper, right?" he asked carefully. He had seen her performing the Fidelius Charm twice, though he had moved on from those snippets of memory too quickly to have been able to tell what the secrets themselves had been.

She nodded. "You don't know the secret, though, do you?" she asked, fear spreading through her.

"No. I was going to propose that you write down the secret on yourself somewhere, and then Obliviate it from your memory."

Hermione stared at him. "Wh—what?"

"Well, I thought, perhaps if you were to cast a memory charm on yourself to rid yourself of the information completely, it would ensure that the secret was better-kept, thus strengthening the bond of the Fidelius Charm," Riddle mused. Hermione realized what he was saying, and nearly kicked herself for not having thought of it.

"Of course."

Riddle nodded. "Also, if it worked – if you got taken back to earth as you are – it would be written on you, so there'd be little risk of it getting, say, lost in translation."

Hermione's heart beat hard. Her throat felt oddly tight. If there were anything relating to her specific instances that could possibly bring her back, this would be it. But she felt hesitant, for more than one reason. Even if she managed to write the secret down on herself, what if it were somehow removed? She would forget the secret of where Harry and Ron were forever – but there was another reason, a reason Hermione didn't really want to admit to herself:

She didn't want to leave.

A lot of it was probably just human survival instinct. Why would she want to leave this Hogwarts, this safe, secure Hogwarts, with all its comforts and charms, and return to the Hogwarts which was literally the place of her nightmares? A place where she had a good chance of getting tortured and killed - again? If she died again, would she get a chance to return to this median world, or would her soul, by that point, just give up hope and send her straight to death?

But there was that part of her that had no rationale to support its reasoning, that part of her that could not dare confess its viewpoint without being violently suppressed by the rest of her mind. It was the same part of her that itched and burned to feel his hand on hers again. And Hermione was very surprised to feel the sway that part of her had.

"I don't know," she sighed. "I'm... what if it somehow gets wiped off or something? No one would know the secret. And it's... it's very important."

Riddle shrugged. "You arrived here the same as when you were killed, right? I arrived in the same physical state. In fact, I still had my same robes."

"But... but if there's even the slightest chance," Hermione said determinedly, "I really don't want to risk it."

There was a bit of confusion in his dark eyes. "What's the secret about?"

Hermione bit her lip. "It's where someone's hidden. To keep them safe."

"Oh," he said, and frowned. "But surely they'd come out? If they saw that you were back?"

That was true, Hermione mused. If, somehow, she happened to stumble across Harry and Ron, they would both instantly come out of hiding to find her. They were good hiding spots, but Harry and Ron weren't stupid. They would be able to tell if it were her and not a Death Eater.

Death Eaters. Hermione had completely forgotten what it was like to live in a world where there were Death Eaters.

She buried her face in her hands as crippling memories flooded into her mind. No, NO, STOP –

"Hermione?" said Riddle sharply. That look on her face – he knew it well, for he had worn it often enough when recalling something too horrific to express. "Hermione. Look at me."

Her hands were shaking as they gripped her face, and she wasn't lifting her head to look at him. Riddle repeated, "Look at me."

Then she did, because he sounded cold and dangerous, but his voice was deceptive. When Hermione looked at him, she saw something she'd never seen before – worry. She swallowed, stared at his face, and attempted to concentrate on him, not on that scream for help, not on all those yells of pain, not on that one iron stake that had seemed to erupt from Neville's throat –

The image burst clear into her mind, and Hermione's eyes shot wide open, her mouth drifting downwards, sucking in shallow breaths. "Tom—"

His look of worry changed to alarm. "Hermione, it's okay. You're here. You're safe."

She managed to choke out, "I know I'm safe -"

It was like someone had hit her on the back of the head. She pitched forward slightly, and her breathing picked up further.

"HERMIONE!"

"GINNY, NO—NO—LET GO OF HER!" Hermione waved her wand wildly, and Avery flicked his, sending a spinning ball of chaotic darkness that whizzed by her, missing her by inches. His hand wound into Ginny's hair, dragging her alone into a classroom, a classroom with a lit fire and a glass full of Floo Powder sitting on that mantelpiece—and Hermione could not let him get in there, not with Ginny, NOT GINNY–

Then Hermione's legs were ripped out from under her in a swirl of black robe, and she was on the ground, Fenrir Greyback's slavering face inches from hers, but all Hermione could see was Ginny's pale, terrified face disappearing behind that door—"GINNY!"—"Shut up, you little bitch, Bellatrix's been looking for you," and Hermione raised her wand hand, but Fenrir's huge hand crushed it in his, and then her wand was stuffed in his pocket and she was dragged, kicking, sobbing, backwards down the hall—

And then a warm, slender hand gripped hers fiercely, jerking her back to reality. Hermione lifted her head, erupting into a nauseating sweat, her hand limp in Tom's, and he stared intently at her. "Hermione, come back."

Come back.

Don't leave—come back.

How could she leave? How could she ever return to earth if it meant this, over and over, the pain, the terror—

"I can't go back," she whispered.

"You have to," he said. "You were never meant to be here."

Hermione swallowed. His dark eyes calmed her with their readiness, their omnipresent confidence. "I'm scared."

"You're a Gryffindor," said Riddle, his voice strong, his grip stronger. "You're brave to the point of idiocy, remember?"

"But – that's not everything." Maybe he would stop pushing her to return if he knew; maybe he would stop if he knew what she was feeling, even now, cold with sweat, her head spinning, if he knew the thing that was really holding her there—

"What is it?" he asked quietly. "Unless, I suppose, it hurts to talk about -"

"No, it doesn't—it's just, I don't know if I should -"

His grip loosened slightly, and some feeling returned to her hand. She moved her thumb and squeezed back, terrified of what she was about to tell him.

"There's one more reason I can't leave," she whispered, "and it's -"

She took a breath.

"It's—"

"What?" His tone wasn't even demanding, and that was what made her say it.

"You."

There was a very, very long silence. Riddle just looked at her. He didn't look surprised. He didn't look much of anything. He didn't let go of her hand.

Then he said, "Come on, Hermione—the only thing left is for me to finish taking that disgusting potion of yours. You shouldn't be hanging around as if someone's paying you."

She bit her lip and glanced down at the bed. "No," she said quietly. "Not you being hurt. Just you."

Then there was a flicker of something on his face, too quickly gone to identify. "What?" he said.

"Do I really need to spell it out further?" Hermione said, and realized that the memories had been pushed back down in the face of this new obstacle, an obstacle she never thought she'd have to face. "I don't... I don't want to leave you."

Riddle felt like his heart had completely stopped beating in utter bewilderment. Had she really just said that? Surely this was some sort of bizarre vision. Surely those words would never come from the lips of Hermione Granger, whom he had deceived, whom he had disrespected, whose life he had ruined. He felt her slowly take her hand from his, and he didn't know why. He thought he heard a noise outside of the room, but he was too busy staring at Hermione to really register anything at all, as if she had just told him she had killed someone. There was nervous apprehension in every line of her face.

The words didn't even make sense to him. How could anyone have... that type of feeling for him once they got past the exterior? He bordered on psychosis, probably, as well as any other number of things, like paranoia, sadism – this was all simple fact. Did she even know what she was getting herself into?

"Did someone cast a Confundus Charm on you?" he asked, in all honesty.

He was practically glad to see her eyes narrow at him, but when she spoke, it was more craziness. "Look, I'm not joking around."

"Neither am I," Riddle said, raising an eyebrow. "You are far too functional for the likes of me."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You're not as different as you'd like to think."

"Yes, I am, and that was a stupid thing to say, since you know it's a lie."

She sighed and rubbed at one of her eyes with a finger, like she was tired. "I just—I like you, Tom. I really do. And that may be a difficult concept for you to wrap your head around, but it's happened, and all I'm saying is now I feel that it may be more than just simple friendship." There. Surely that would get through to him, right? Logic. Even a touch of familiar sarcasm.

But as she glanced up at him, he was still looking like he was floundering around for driftwood in an ocean storm. "This wasn't a good idea," she said softly. "I'm going to go now."

She left. He didn't object.

xXxXxXxXx

Ten Minutes Before

"Shut up about Granger; I don't want to hear another word about it," said Abraxas through gritted teeth.

Araminta shrugged. "Look, Abraxas, I just don't see how you can associate yourself with the likes of her."

"For your information, the 'likes of her' is an intelligent, pleasant person," Abraxas managed. He was just about at tipping point. This was a Quidditch practice, not a gossip session, and especially not a slandering session for Hermione Granger. Not on his watch.

"Well, she's never going to get anywhere with that so-called intelligence," Araminta muttered. "She has no sense of ambition. Not to mention the Mudblood thing."

That did it. "You know what, Meliflua," said Abraxas, his tone dangerous, "she's already got something with that intelligence. Try the respect of the boy who won't even give you a second glance." With that, Abraxas turned on his heel, seething, and grabbed his broom from the rack, no longer waiting for the second Chaser rotation to finish. "I WANT TO SEE THAT QUAFFLE BLUR WHEN YOU PASS IT!" he yelled into the air, and kicked off.

Araminta stared after him with revulsion. Tom? Tom respected the Mudblood? How on earth could she possibly merit a second glance from him, let alone respect?

She stalked off the pitch in outright mutiny. Tom hadn't been awake since the Dueling incident, supposedly, due to a nasty Sleeping Jinx, or so the rumors were saying. But maybe she could wake him up, demand to know what Abraxas had been talking about. Riddle had once kissed her, and he was always polite and kind to her – why would Abraxas say that he didn't respect her? That was mean.

Araminta, like most Slytherins, knew who to ask about passwords and locked doors – Revelend Godelot. He was snoozing lightly in the common room, until Araminta slapped him sharply on the shoulder. He jerked awake, his floppy light brown hair jerking from his alarmed eyes as he glanced up to see who had disturbed him.

"What is it?" he asked with distaste, eyeing her as if she were a particularly large spider.

"I need the password to the Head Boy quarters."

Revelend frowned. "Why?"

"You don't need to know that," Araminta said, and drew her wand. Revelend nearly snorted in laughter, but then he realized he'd left his own wand in his dormitory, and Araminta's magic suddenly seemed a lot more dangerous.

He swallowed. Riddle had a secondary password on his own door; Araminta shouldn't be able to get in if he only gave her the first one. He considered lying, but he was a terrible liar, and that wand didn't look compromising. "Fine, fine, it's Ernest Hemingway. Don't ask why it's a Muggle author; I don't know."

Araminta smirked, put away her wand, and stalked off.

She sighed. She should have done this a lot sooner; even if Tom were still unconscious, she missed seeing his face. But Abraxas had been irritating about the whole thing, saying that he couldn't be disturbed, saying that he would wake up faster if the sleep were uninterrupted, whatever. Araminta rolled her eyes. Abraxas was so blunt and uncultured, for a Malfoy...

"Ernest Hemingway," she said, and that door she'd once seen Tom enter clicked. She opened it quietly.

There was a small hallway inside, with two doors – one reading HG, one reading HB. Presumably, the latter was Head Boy, Tom's room. She raised a hand to knock on the door, but she was utterly startled when she heard voices coming from inside.

It was his voice. His smooth, cultured voice. "...shouldn't be hanging around as if someone's paying you," he said quietly.

Then, another voice. "No. Not you being hurt. Just you." Araminta couldn't recognize it from just those words—they were rather quiet, after all—but it was a girl speaking. Araminta felt herself bubbling with rage. Why was a girl visiting him before Araminta was? That just wasn't right. She lifted her hand again to knock, but he said,

"What?"

And the response brought several things crashing down upon Araminta.

"Do I really need to spell it out further?" sighed the girl's voice, and Araminta flinched as she realized whose voice that was. The Granger girl. Then, "I don't... I don't want to leave you."

Araminta actually took a step back. Her face was contorted in rage. Who the hell did she think she was? Preying on Tom while he was alone in his room, unable to get away from her? How could she be so low?

She briefly considered shouldering through the door and hexing Granger right then and there, but she thought better of it. No, she had a better idea – one that would get Granger out of his hair permanently. First those childish rumors she'd started, and now this – it had to stop.

Araminta left silently, working out the details in her mind, and she went down to the Potions classroom and began to work.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione swallowed and closed her eyes. What sort of a reaction had she expected? Surely not something mutual. But just understanding would have been okay, acknowledgment that he understood he was important to her.

The girl in the mirror was preoccupied, her eyes faraway, her feathery hair more of a poof than usual, her features seeming even less attractive than usual. Hermione didn't like looking in mirrors for any extended amount of time, but after the events of today, it was especially bad. Hermione imagined it—if she were an incredibly handsome boy who were fully aware of his physical charms, and someone who looked like her professed some sort of romantic inclination for him—of course his reaction would be utterly stunned. He was probably taken by her audacity, that she would even think she was on the same plane as him. In fact, Riddle's ideal girl was probably some sort of empress or something, a cold co-ruler, like an ancient queen, a girl like one of those ruthless English queens, gorgeous and stately and merciless, not some extremely plain Gryffindor who—

Hermione rubbed at her eyes angrily. Her mind was not settled right today. Maybe she just needed some sleep – she hadn't gotten much last night. By the looks of the day, there were a few hours before sunset, just enough time for a satisfactory nap. Hermione flopped down onto her bed and closed her eyes, willing thoughts of that utter bewilderment on his face to just go away and leave her in peace, not to prickle at her self-esteem, not to ask her questions she knew she couldn't answer.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle stared up at his canopy, changing its color with flicks of his wand, and he thought very hard.

The last week and a half, the week and a half he had been unable to plot anything, to do anything, because of his invalid status – it should have been unbearable, by all rights. It should have been constant suffering. But yesterday, when she had told him that his skin should repair itself now, he had almost felt displeased with the information, which made little to no sense. He should have rejoiced; he should have been cheered by the fact; he should have been grateful that he no longer had to sit in bed all day.

But, no. It was like he had wanted her not to say it, wanted her instead to say that she'd have to work on him a lot longer.

Yes, he enjoyed speaking with her. Yes, he enjoyed seeing her walk briskly into the room to bring him various meals. Yes, he enjoyed the contented silence in which they sat when she was working hard. He enjoyed observing that slight quirk at the left side of her mouth when she was concentrating. He enjoyed it when they were speaking about things that didn't matter, exchanging quick-witted banter like it was its own language. He enjoyed it when they spoke about things that mattered quite a lot, even through the unpleasant swoop of fear he felt when the topic was horcruxes, even through the terrible hollow feeling he got when she was talking about her life back before Hogwarts had gone bad. Even through that odd, inexplicable feeling he got when she would speak about that Ron boy and have traces of a wistful smile on her mouth.

So he enjoyed her company. He was grateful for her healing. But was that all?

Riddle didn't really know the feeling of being close to a girl in the first place. He had never bothered with attempting to get girls on his side back on earth, and then here, out of habit, he had steered clear of them. For most of his life, he had assumed that they were weak and generally not useful. Hermione was not weak, and definitely useful. That in itself made Riddle feel like she was better than any other girl he could think of, but there were things about her company that were just so dynamically separate from anything else he had ever had with another human being. The fact that she ordered him around, and didn't seem to care when he got mad about it. The fact that she seemed at ease around him... that, more than anything else, set her apart, and then she took that ease one step further, smiling, laughing, teasing as if she could actually pretend to take him lightly. He wasn't entirely sure why that was an attractive trait to him. After all, didn't he usually love people prostrating themselves before him, begging for forgiveness? There was no way Hermione would ever do that, probably even if he tortured her.

His nose wrinkled at the thought. What an unappealing option. He marveled with a certain sense of nausea that he had once actually done that. Thank Merlin it had only been for perhaps five minutes; if it had been for longer, then he would feel... he would feel bad, actually, and that was a strange new truth. He would feel angry at himself. What? How was that productive, to get angry at oneself? Especially for him, especially since he had no one other than himself to turn –

Except that part was now no longer true.

One of the chief reasons he had always restricted traitorous emotion was that he was solo, alone in absolutely everything, a one-man show, so to speak. But now there was someone else, someone who would help him carry his burdens, someone he trusted—he had said it himself—and someone he genuinely liked.

Still, even if he had found he liked her as a friend, after much introspection – how was he supposed to know if he liked Hermione Granger in a romantic sense? That was an unbelievably alien concept. How could she expect him to wrap his mind around it? That was unfair of her, to do that.

Well, where to start? Riddle had never thought Araminta Meliflua could be particularly useful, but she was constantly speaking about love and romance and drippy things like that, so he had a bit of a starting point. Supposedly, when one saw their romantic interest, they felt the irrepressible desire to smile.

Well, that was stupid. Riddle didn't just break out into a smile, like some brainwashed idiot. But he did feel a subtle sort of relief when he saw Hermione open his door. In fact, when it had been Abraxas, Herpo and Revelend instead of her, he had even sort of felt a bit put off, like he had been disappointed.

When someone touched their romantic interest in any way, supposedly there was a physical reaction. Riddle couldn't deny that that was true, because just the day before, when he had taken her hand, he had felt a strange jump in his chest to feel her soft skin under his, and he couldn't help remembering in vivid detail what it had been like to kiss her. That kiss, where there had definitely been a physical reaction, a twisting, uncontainable physical reaction, starting in the pit of his stomach and curling its way all the way down to the tips of his fingers where they had been on her shoulders... yes, that criterion was more than fulfilled; it was exemplified.

Also, one was constantly determined to be in the presence of their romantic interest. Riddle realized that this, too, was true. He would rather be around Hermione than be alone, and much rather be around her than anyone else he could think of. This could explain why he had felt a bit conflicted about the idea of being healed, by the idea of Hermione not having to come and see him anymore, not feeling like it was necessary to be around him.

Because – he wondered at the notion – he almost felt like it was necessary to be around her, and if there were to be any indicator as to his feelings towards her, Riddle felt like that was it.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione woke up as the sun was setting, refreshed. She wondered briefly if she should go and check on Tom, just to make sure the potion hadn't gone horribly wrong, but hunger made her decide not to, and she instead walked down to the Great Hall for a quick dinner.

Had it just been a couple hours ago she'd told him what she felt? Such a strange notion, such a bizarre development. Hermione wondered if he understood what that entailed, the feelings she got when his hand gripped hers, beyond all logical reasoning, beyond anything but pure emotion, emotion she didn't think she'd ever feel after Ron – that same emotion she'd stamped on when it had started to move within her with R.J...

So why had she allowed it, subconsciously, to grow roots inside her with Tom Riddle? Perhaps because she'd completely discounted the idea the very first time it had even been suggested by that part of her mind, perhaps because the entire concept was so utterly absurd. Ron had made so much sense. Ron had been so sturdy, the opposite of nonsensical—the logical proceeding step. The way she'd seen Ron grow, the way she and Ron had been through so much together—they'd been destined; they'd been meant to be. This was such an opposite. A polar opposite, like light and pitch blackness, like cool water and harsh flame, like sitting down on a warm bed and diving headfirst off a cliff. It didn't even make sense, Hermione thought angrily, that the idea would have a hold in her, let alone be realized! Let alone feeling at home when she walked into his room, let alone wanting to feel his warm skin with a hot jet of desire shooting through her—

Hermione sat down at the Gryffindor table with a sigh, pulling a plate towards her. She glanced up at the Slytherin table, up at the spot where Riddle had used to sit every day...

Then she realized Araminta Meliflua was looking at her strangely, and she stopped staring blankly at the Slytherin table and went back to eating. She glanced over – Godric and Albus weren't at dinner. She sighed. They would probably never speak to her again if she became romantically involved with Tom Riddle. Hermione had been a bit surprised, initially, when Godric had revealed his intense dislike for him, but that had faded into a bit of an understanding – to Godric, every Slytherin was a Slytherin, and little more. That must have been some fight between him and Salazar...

Hermione wondered why he was staying away from her, even after Mina had moved on – she had assumed that it was because they'd been a couple that they were ignoring her completely. It wasn't fair, Hermione thought miserably. She hadn't done anything to make him dislike her. She'd always thought that she got along very well with Godric, in fact.

She stood up and exited the Great Hall, and then things changed.

xXxXxXxXx

"Godric, I've been curious about this for a while," said Albus, still looking calmly at the sleeping Miranda.

"Yeah?"

"What other evidence do you have that Hermione Granger is romantically involved with Tom Riddle?"

At the mention of Riddle's name, Godric's face slowly turned a furious red. "I really don't want to talk about that, mate."

Albus shrugged. "I'm just wondering – you only saw one kiss. Since then, you haven't seen her doing anything of the sort?"

"Well, no," admitted Godric.

Albus nodded sagely and ran a hand through his hair. He was worried about Hermione's relationship with Riddle, but he hadn't really thought they were romantically involved. They hadn't even been seen together in public, and in fact, Albus hadn't seen much of Hermione in the last couple weeks at all. It was common knowledge that Riddle was under a Sleeping Jinx, so she wouldn't have the chance to associate with him. Albus felt like now was the best time for him and Godric to start attempting to repair their friendship with the girl.

Jared Pippin walked over, placing a potion bottle to Miranda's mouth and slowly tipping it backwards. His blue eyes watched the conversation with a bit of interest, but neither Godric nor Albus noticed him – both were too wrapped up in their own thoughts.

"I just – I can't even think about Hermione kissing someone who cast Crucio on Mina," Godric said in a low voice, "without wanting to throw up, or kill her, or both. At least she hasn't been doing it since after Mina moved on – that would be so … so disrespectful."

"But Hermione doesn't know about Riddle using the Cruciatus Curse, right?" Albus asked quietly.

"Yes, she does," interrupted Jared from the bedside. Both Godric and Albus' heads whipped around to look at him.

"What – how do you know about that?" hissed Godric, casting a paranoid glance around the Infirmary. If Jared Pippin knew, then Godric was surprised the entire castle didn't know by this point.

"Me and Mungo saw it," Pippin said.

Godric remembered. He and Mina had been on their way to the Infirmary to see Miranda at that point, before Riddle had followed them. Godric swallowed, remembering how brave Mina had been about the whole situation...

"But... how does Hermione know?" Godric asked hollowly.

Pippin shrugged. "Dunno, mate, but Mungo and I mentioned it to her, and she didn't even look surprised," he said. "By the way – Miranda will be able to leave tomorrow, as long as she comes back here or goes down to the potions room twice a day to get her Rejuvenation Boost." Then, he retreated into the back room.

Godric was very, very confused then. He hadn't actually seen Hermione associating with Riddle after that night – he had just sort of assumed she was, really, and he had been so worried for Mina's safety that he hadn't wanted to do anything to endanger her... and then, after Mina had – well, after she had... Godric had just been so mad; he was still so mad about everything... could it be that Hermione had found out about the Cruciatus and refused to associate with Riddle after that?

"Albus, I think I've made a mistake," Godric said quietly.