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Y'all rock. Here's chapter 23.

Riddle felt like something was missing from this equation.

He wasn't sure whether he had everything he wanted, or nothing at all.

Everyone in the castle knew what he was capable of, now. His nice-boy cover had been blown. That was frustrating, to be sure. On the other hand, he still had his followers to rely on. Yet Abraxas had disassociated himself from Riddle completely, and that was unexpectedly unpleasant.

But he had Hermione, and as she'd said herself – I'm yours – she was his. A perfect intellectual other half.

Riddle weighed out the situation. He felt like he was missing a component. He felt like he wasn't factoring something in.

Well, the horcruxes, of course, but thinking about those would just incite panic, and he wasn't feeling panicked, so it wasn't the horcruxes that were giving him this unsatisfied feeling. What was it?

"You seem preoccupied. More so than usual," said Hermione from the sofa.

He turned an eye on her. "I can't figure something out, and it's bothering me."

"What is it?"

"No. Something is bothering me, and I can't figure out what it is," Riddle sighed, rubbing his eye with a finger. "Which is, needless to say, incredibly annoying."

"Okay, er, is … is it Abraxas?" Hermione asked. He'd been a bit touchy about the subject lately, because Abraxas wasn't even looking at Riddle these days, and the so-called-disrespect that such an action demonstrated was probably a bit much for Riddle's delicate ego.

"No."

"Is it something about me?" was her next question.

He started to say 'no', stopped, frowned, and looked at her carefully. "Actually, yes," he replied, his clipped tone a bit surprised. "Yes, it is."

She saw satisfaction fill his eyes, and he looked back at his book, seemingly content.

"Well, aren't you going to tell me what it is?" she asked, as if it were obvious.

"No, I'm not." He didn't look up from the book. "I don't feel inclined to." But it was more than that, he mused. If he started demanding to know exactly how she'd died, the potential risks were great, and the chances at success were slim at best. Though there was something else about her history that he could use as a cover for the deeper problem, if she happened to push him. She looked like she was in the mood to do so.

"Lovely," Hermione said, crossing her arms and sitting back on the sofa. She stared at him, and she did not relent.

He pretended he didn't notice for a while, but it proved a bit distracting in the end. "I know looking at me is a favorite pastime of yours, but I'd prefer it if I could read in peace."

"No. What bothers you?"

"Besides your unfailing obduracy?"

"Yes, besides that."

He marked his page and shut his book, placing it on the end table. Then he stood, stretching with a yawn. "I wouldn't think you'd like to talk about it."

Hermione's expectant look faded into resignation. "Fine, Tom," she sighed melodramatically, standing up and snapping her own book shut. "I'll just leave, then."

She left, shutting the door with more force than was necessary. Riddle rolled his eyes. Her dramatics never ceased to amaze.

So he returned to his armchair and continued reading – to be specific, A Study of Pain and Potency: Maddened Empowerment. A choice that Hermione had most definitely not endorsed, although it was fascinating.

He couldn't believe that when he had used Legilimency, her death hadn't been one of the first events to surface. But he hadn't thought to look for any hint of her attempting to hide something, because under the influence of that potion, the idea of her concealing anything was ludicrous.

Also, he had closed his eyes at one point, unintentionally blocking some of her memories – and then he had withdrawn altogether. It wasn't entirely implausible that he had missed it, though the thought was too frustrating to entertain. He fully understood the appeal of concealing a past that needed concealment, but surely her death could be nothing compared to everything else he'd seen. Maybe he ought just to ask her.

No – she wouldn't tell him. She had refused even to broach the subject several times before, a very hollow look about her, when it came up in conversation.

But this curiosity! It was terrible. It flavored the way he looked at her, which was alarming. When he looked at her quietly reading, he would think, what are you hiding from me? and then divert his thoughts elsewhere. Not good to focus on what was not there with Hermione, especially when there was so much already out in the open.

Especially when he knew so much as opposed to her knowing so very little.

Could that possibly coax her to speak about it? If he offered to open up to her?

Riddle swallowed and reached for his wand for comfort, mulling over the idea. Hermione was hardly easy to bargain with. Her stubbornness made a reasonable negotiation seem completely unrealistic, and she was intelligent enough that she would see if he was trying to cheat her out of that memory. He couldn't offer to show her a memory of his choosing in return. Not when she didn't know his memories in their entirety… not when she didn't know which one would be a fair trade.

Then again, he had seen everything about her life. Everything ever. She would think that the only fair compromise, probably, was a full trade – everything about his life for everything about hers.

Riddle's lip curled into an unbecoming sneer, and a rush of animosity coursed through him. This was so juvenile – juvenile and unnecessary. If she belonged to him, could he not just demand that she show him the memory?

He suppressed that thought regretfully.

Riddle adjusted himself tentatively to the idea of opening his memory to Hermione. He had never done so to anyone in his life, and the notion terrified him. He knew what she would find there, of course, but she would be going in unprepared, completely unprepared. What if she returned from his memory with eyes filled with disgust, and – worse – pity? Tense anger prickled at Riddle's skin. Pity. As if she were superior.

She'd been careful of that in the past, though – she'd never looked at him with pity, because pity required surprise. If she hadn't known his true nature from the very beginning, she might have pitied him for who, and what, he was, but that hadn't been possible given that prior knowledge.

Just the idea, though – the thought of someone sifting through his mind, as if anyone was worthy to trespass on the grounds of his very brain...

He hadn't judged Hermione for what he'd seen of her. He'd observed the circumstance and seen how she'd handled it. Surely she would do the same... if he were to offer her this possibility...

The notion was slow to set in, and Riddle was surprised to find that he, ultimately, didn't find it repulsive beyond belief, which meant –

Which meant he had the ultimate bargaining tool, one that she surely could not refuse. In fact, if she refused it, Riddle would be more than shocked – he would be downright offended. As if willing, conscious access to Tom Riddle's mind were something easily obtained.

It had to be soon, before curiosity about her death consumed him.

Riddle checked the door.

She wasn't coming back in. It had been almost half an hour.

Riddle hoped he hadn't actually succeeded in angering her. That would be inconvenient.

He put down his book and made his way to her room. She had set the password on her door to Chudley Cannons, telling him that it was a Quidditch team, and that the word was her go-to pass phrase. Riddle wondered a bit about that. After all, Hermione had said she was never a great fan of Quidditch, even the non-violent version. Riddle wasn't a fan either. Especially not of the non-violent version.

He tapped the doorknob and knocked once, opening the door a crack. "Look, I -"

Then he broke off. Hermione was in her bed, her eyes closed in sleep. Squeezed closed, actually, and her mouth was slightly open. Her fists were wound into the bedsheets, grabbing on like she was being pulled at by the ankles, and even as Riddle watched, she gritted her teeth and started to murmur under her breath. It must have been some nightmare.

He walked swiftly to her side and reached out a hand, but before it touched her shoulder, he made out a word.

Ron.

His hand faltered and then dropped to his side. She said it again.

"No – anyone but Ron, please..." Her voice was strained, like she was remembering pain. Then two words, words that made Riddle's throat tighten, words that made his eyes narrow. "My Ron."

He started to lift his hand again, but let it fall once more. Then he turned and strode from the room.

Attempts to resume reading proved useless. He couldn't concentrate. Why did it matter about her moronic ex-boyfriend? The Ron character was back on earth, and Riddle was with Hermione, and that was all that mattered, right?

Except that it wasn't. If she was still thinking about Ron, dreaming about him, then surely those words, those satisfying words – I'm yours – had been false.

And that thought angered him. Immensely.

Riddle paced back and forth in front of the fire, running a hand through his hair. Was this the type of feeling that Hermione had had when she had been jealous about Araminta?

No. There was no way those feelings were comparable. Not a chance. Ron and Hermione had been together, had been torn apart by the hands of fate – had been in love. And she'd been tossed here, and had just happened to stumble across Riddle. For a second, he felt like he couldn't hold a candle to the memory of Ron Weasley – after all, absence made the heart grow fonder – but he shot down the thought. She was with him now. No matter their differences, no matter their conflicts, she was with him. Not Ron. Not anymore.

But if she had the choice between him and Ron, what would she do? Riddle was perfectly aware that he himself was different from every other boy in the world. Ron was likely an average, functional, probably nice person. Someone Hermione could relax around, who she wouldn't be afraid to make fun of, someone who didn't have to be taught everything about innocence. Riddle couldn't give her that, and he couldn't pretend he could. What if – what if she still had feelings for Ron? What if Ron happened to show up here? Then who would she choose?

Riddle, more than most anyone, knew how powerful a memory could be. And now... now the memory of this Ron boy – not even his own memory! – was tying a brick to his mood.

He tossed another log on the fire and turned to see a sleepy-looking Hermione standing just inside the door.

"What?" he demanded, not realizing how rude he sounded.

She raised one eyebrow. "Excuse you," she said acidly. "Anyway, I came to apologize for pressing you on the issue."

Riddle turned away from her and leaned his head on the mantel, heat from the fire soaking into his robes. "How about you explain what your dream was about just now?"

"What?"

"I walked in to apologize for being flippant, and I was met with the knowledge that apparently you talk in your sleep," Riddle said.

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. What had he heard? She couldn't remember a thing about her dream – it had only been a short nap, after all – but she'd thought she'd stopped talking in her sleep long ago. "Oh?" she managed.

"Yes." His voice sounded forced. He turned, and his dark features looked a bit dangerous as his tall body blocked out most of the firelight. "Come here."

"No," she said, "and don't order me around. I don't appreciate it."

Tom's eyes darkened further. He swept away from the fire. "I know you wouldn't know what you were saying, but I really am quite... unsettled." His long fingers absentmindedly twisted the sleeves of his robes.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione said, her voice low and a bit frightened. The way he was approaching her was predatory.

"I don't know if you've been lying to me, but if what you said just now is true, then I won't know what to think."

"I was asleep! Tom, stop it. You're scaring me."

The words seemed to get to him, and he blinked and stopped a few feet from her. His face pulled into a frown, and he rubbed at his temple with a long finger, as if massaging away a thought. "Sorry."

"I just want to know what it was," said Hermione. But he didn't say anything, just pressed her against the door and kissed her hard.

When he broke the kiss, she thought he was going to say something, but his dark eyes just fixed on her lips and he kissed her again. Then he trailed over to the sofa and sat down, and Hermione tentatively took the seat next to him.

"In essence, you said, 'My Ron,'" murmured Riddle, not looking at her.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't talk about Ron with him. Not without being in severe danger of crying hysterically, and that was not an appealing option. "I see."

"I don't like being second to anyone," Riddle said. "Not ever." His eyes found hers again, but they had lost their edge. He looked like he was asking for something, now, like there was a forgotten request in his face.

"I know," she replied, "and it very rarely happens, and it's not happening now."

She reached out, but he shied away from her hand. "Do you still love him?" Riddle asked.

The world seemed to stop turning. That question. That question she'd been asking herself for weeks on end, coupled with devastating guilt over who exactly was replacing him.

Hermione gave him the only honest answer she had. "I don't know."

Riddle shut his eyes and let out a breath. "Hermione," he said, his voice carefully concealing irritation, "what am I supposed to do? Just give you time to get over him or something like that? If you're still... in love with someone else, then this is a waste of my time, and of yours."

The words seemed to freeze something inside her. "This is not a waste of my time," she said. "I know that much."

He looked back to the fire, his hands slowly dropping to fold between his thighs. "I don't know what you're doing to me," he said. "Insecurity is not something I'm accustomed to feeling, and I don't enjoy it. It's not like this boy is a threat to me. Why should I care?"

"There's no conscious decision associated with caring. If you care about my history with Ron, you do, and that's all there is to it."

"This is going to eat at my patience. It's already started to. I've got all these questions." He turned to face her, eyes feverish with discomfort. "When I'm speaking with you, are you thinking of him? Are you... I don't know, subconsciously comparing my every move with every move of his? When I touch you, is it me you want or is it him? Do you think of him when I kiss you?"

Hermione sighed. "I guarantee you that I have never thought of Ron while kissing you. Never." He was staring at her, like he didn't believe her, like he didn't understand. "Do you hear me?" she whispered. "I wouldn't do that. I couldn't if I tried."

Riddle closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him, a single soothing current on a sea of burning jealousy.

She continued, "Yes, I loved Ron. I don't know what my feelings are now, but they're confused, more than anything else, and the point is that it doesn't really matter. Whatever I might feel for Ron is irrelevant. He's not here. I'm not with him."

It hurt Hermione to say, but not as much as it had in the past. The wound was healing.

Hermione swallowed. She felt like if she kept talking, she would say something that would hurt Tom, some sign of affection for Ron that would enrage him. So she just sat back, waiting for him to reply.

He didn't.

"Okay," Hermione said, standing up. "I'm going to go get some dinner. Would you like to come?"

He gave a slight jerk of his head. Hermione sighed and kissed him on the forehead. "Don't think too hard. I know that's a stretch for you, but do try."

Her walk down to the Great Hall was fretful. She hadn't known he cared about Ron so much. She'd thought that his self-esteem was so outlandishly high that he wouldn't consider her being with anyone else, wouldn't even consider her being able to think about someone else. But more – she hadn't realized how much the idea of his being jealous unsettled her. If he was jealous, would he pull away from her? Would he start to distance himself, put her at arm's length as he had always done in the past?

Actually – that wasn't true. It wasn't in the past that he was holding her away. It was still happening. She still didn't know a thing about his history, really, not besides loose facts. He knew everything about her and had sway over her mind, her emotions, even her body. How was it fair?

She tried to tell herself that he wasn't trying to make this just another manipulation, just another relationship in which he had all the power, but she found that she couldn't. He had her in the grip of emotions she hadn't felt so strongly in – well, she didn't know if they'd ever been so strong, since being with Ron had always been tempered by fear about their situation, by anger over one of their fights, by worry about his safety. And the one thing Hermione was not worried about at all was Tom Riddle's safety. He was in control of everything – it was laughable to fret about his safety. Even if... even if he had been back on earth, even if it had always been him.

Hermione had always been the strong one, when it had come to Ron. But now her partner was more than a force to contend with – he was a force that didn't worry about letting his strength surface anytime he felt like it. Back on earth, when Hermione had been in Ron's arms, she had felt scared of everything but him, and he had been her solace; now, when she was with Tom, she felt scared of nothing except him, and that... well, it exhilarated her, bizarrely. It was precarious. Most of all, it was unbelievable that she could ask him to do something and he would, that she had influence over this brilliant, dangerous mind.

She sat down at the end of the Gryffindor table, too wrapped up in her thoughts to care about the eyes on her. It wasn't fair that Tom knew so much about her when she still knew next to nothing about him. It wasn't fair at all, actually, and Hermione started to feel very indignant. Hadn't he ripped her very memories from her? Shouldn't he at least have told her something about himself in return? That curiosity that she hadn't felt in so long – that curiosity that had died after he'd tricked her – it flared back into life with passion.

Hermione frowned, chewing her pie slowly.

That one time he had let down his guard still stuck in Hermione's mind, that expression surfacing as easily as if it were always just lurking beneath the surface, waiting to be summoned. She still hadn't seen him return to that, and all because she'd said I'm sorry. But it had been an I'm sorry of sympathy, not a regular apology – and that must have been what had set it off. Riddle wouldn't want anyone to feel like they could understand him; of course not.

She had to know what that look was, had to know where it had all gone terribly wrong. Maybe that would explain why he couldn't feel remorse. He'd said he felt guilt about hurting her, even guilt about ruining lives back on earth, but that wasn't enough. He had to feel remorse. Deep, painful, soulful, unshakable remorse. It didn't matter what it was about. He just had to feel it, somehow, had to feel like hurting someone was wrong. Not just acknowledging that she'd been hurt, with a twinge of regret.

Hermione scooped some food onto a plate for him. He was just being overdramatic; he was probably hungry by this point. She sighed and stood, brushing her hair out of her eyes. How irritating, that she talked in her sleep... she couldn't let that one detail, that one very important detail, slip. She didn't know how he'd react.

After all – it seemed that she was the only person he'd ever really managed to care about, besides himself, and Hermione suddenly felt like that was a very large burden to bear. He was protective of her. He was jealous for her. Probably for the first time in his life.

How had she managed it? She couldn't remember. She had just been trying to find out about him, the whole time, and had been so taken aback when she realized he meant more to her than that...

She knocked on his door, and then tapped the knob. He was still sitting on the sofa where she'd left him. She handed him his plate, and he started to eat wordlessly, and even as she just sat down and observed him, she was stunned by a wave of affection that rushed through her, affection for his mannerisms, for his voice, for his eyes, for every part of him.

Hermione swallowed, sliding down the sofa into a slouch. She wondered how he would react if she ever used the word 'love' – in the context of the words 'I love you.' What would he say? What would he do? She'd definitely have to give him some time to think over it before he could answer, give him time just to figure out what she meant... he wouldn't know what it was, surely. Most normal people couldn't even define the word love.

But, weirdly, so bizarrely, she felt like the day when she used that word couldn't be far in the future. In a way, she did love him. She loved what they had become, loved what he had made of himself, loved that he had diverged from the path he'd taken on earth.

Another sweep of affection attacked, surging up through her toes in a crescendo, blossoming into pulsing fondness.

He placed his plate on the end table, and finally, finally looked at her. "I'm being immature," he said quietly.

"No, you're being human."

He breathed out slowly. "So… it's all right? You understand?"

"I very rarely understand you, but I'd say I have an inkling."

Their kiss was soft, almost understated. "You've done... a lot for me," Riddle said. "I feel petty pushing you away over something like this."

"It's hardly inconsequential." She rested her hand on his. His fingers curled around hers. She reached for words again, but couldn't find any. Instead, she kissed him, and they slowly stood, both her hands clasped gently in his, and he led her to his bed, drawing the curtains.

Riddle couldn't stop thinking, though, for a change. It was surely an insult to Hermione, treating her as he had all his other conquests, not stopping his thought process to lend himself fully to her – but he couldn't take his mind from her past, from all that horror leading up to her eventual death. That death, the one he didn't know yet, the one he hadn't had the courage to pursue yet…

Suddenly, she pulled away, taking her hands from his chest. "Are you all right? Tom? I can leave you alone, if you'd like."

He blinked. Of course she'd know when he wasn't all there. She wasn't like his conquests, after all. She knew him. She was there for him, as no one had ever been.

He didn't reply, just curled himself around her body, her curves fitting onto his embrace like she was a forgotten half. He slowly moved her hair back and kissed her neck. Then his low voice murmured, "This is better than being alone."

Hermione felt his warm chest pressed against her back, felt his legs tangled up in hers, and she shrank back towards him until no space separated them. His arms wrapped around her, and they just lay there, practically breathing in unison, neither daring to think for fear that the other might hear their deepest secrets.

xXxXxXxXx

Abraxas had come to apologize, sort of. He was scared of Riddle's hypothetical reaction, but part of him felt like he had wronged the other boy, which didn't make sense given all that Riddle had done to him. Oh, well – things rarely made any sense whatsoever around Tom Riddle, thoughts and feelings included. Anyway, Abraxas really did miss speaking with Hermione, and he even sort of missed Riddle, which was also completely bizarre, but Abraxas felt like if Riddle had been, well, a regular human being, then they would have been friends. It was just the circumstance of Riddle being an evil bastard that had kept that from happening, really, and who knew? Maybe that was just how he'd been born, or something.

He knocked on the door lightly and tapped the doorknob. It was past eleven o'clock; surely Riddle was awake.

But no – his hangings were still drawn, and the only sound in the room was deep breathing.

Abraxas was suddenly struck with utter curiosity. What did Riddle look like when he was asleep? When he let down his guard? When he was, above all, vulnerable?

Hardly believing his own nerve, Abraxas made his way over to the bed, his feet silent on the wood floor. He flicked his wand, shuttering the windows so that Riddle wouldn't wake from the light, and then twitched the hangings open slightly.

His breath was knocked from his chest. Riddle wasn't alone in the bed. Hermione lay there too, and the way they looked shocked Abraxas to the core. She was flush against shirtless Riddle, his arms were wrapped around her waist, and her head fit perfectly under his chin. Abraxas stared at her – on her lips was a small smile.

But what really caught his eye was Riddle's face. There was a small crease between his eyebrows, and his jaw was set. He looked protective, as if someone were coming to take the girl from his arms. There was no victorious look on his face, no expression of triumph, no success. Riddle had always seemed to assume that everything would come perfectly to him, that everything would work out exactly the way he wanted. He had certainly always taken Abraxas for granted. But the way he looked now was not a look of I-meant-for-this-to-happen. It was unassuming, modest, like Hermione had happened to fall into his arms and he was grateful for it.

What the hell?

Abraxas must have stood there for a full minute before even being able to think properly. This was not the look of a relationship full of manipulation and evil. This was how normal people looked together. This was how two people in love looked.

Abraxas swallowed. He had once had that look on his face, back before the horcrux, before he'd gotten greedy and wanted to spend eternity on earth with her. With Cassiopeia Black, the haughty, proud, beautiful, fiery girl of his dreams. And he remembered being with her. He remembered being around her just as Riddle was around Hermione right now.

His horcrux had been created, and suddenly he'd arrived here, like a bit of him had seeped out and made its way to this other world. And he had felt so tricked, so destroyed. He had wanted eternity with Cassie, not away from her.

Until he learned that he was still there, back on earth – but he was changed. He had tried to convince the Wizengamot, apparently, to draft legislation forbidding Muggle-borns from getting high-ranked jobs in the Ministry of Magic. The family prejudice had twisted itself into utter hatred. And, according to R.J. King, who'd been at school with his son, Lucius had been raised to be the biggest son-of-a-bitch prat on the face of the earth.

Abraxas closed the curtains and left, his memories spilling over painfully. He wondered if he was still alive on earth, wondered if that horcrux was still there, wondered how much longer he'd be trapped in this hellish in-between. Was his horcrux destroyed, and it was only other magic keeping him here now? That was his greatest hope, because other bonds faded quickly, and then – coupled with that deep ache in his chest, that utter pain at having killed that Muggle woman so selfishly – he would leave. Move on, like he'd been waiting to do for far too long.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione woke as he kissed her, an altogether pleasant awakening. "Good morning," she whispered as he slowly pressed his lips to her cheek.

"It is a good morning," he replied, his voice smooth and perfect even after having just woken up.

"Why?"

His mouth didn't lift from her neck to answer. Hermione restrained an unladylike noise as his teeth gently teased her.

Then he moved away, sighed, and let his arm settle comfortably around her. "Because I can do that without you attempting to curse me."

Hermione turned her head towards him and raised an eyebrow. "If I wanted to curse you, I would," she said. "No 'attempt' about it."

He smirked. "Whatever you say."

She elbowed him in the ribs, and he nudged her with his shoulder in response.

Hermione turned onto her side and placed a hand on his pale chest, her thumb gently circling over and over. She let out a small breath that tickled over his bare skin and closed her eyes, his hand comfortably on the small of her back. It was dim behind the bedcurtains, only a trace of morning sun shining through them, and in the dim light Hermione felt like she couldn't possibly be any more relaxed.

Well, relaxed silences were made to be broken.

"Hermione," Riddle said, "I have a proposition for you."

Oh hey. I wanted to take the time to thank you guys from the bottom of my heart for the outlandish 700+ reviews this story has. I never thought I'd ever write anything that'd get this many. Having such a responsive audience is really helpful and really fantastic.

With love,

Speechwriter