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Speechwriter.

"What type of proposition?" Hermione asked slowly.

"Well," said Tom, "I feel as if I've been withholding information from you."

She let out a snort of laughter. "That's such a change from usual."

He placed a finger to her lips and continued. "I propose a trade."

Hermione wasn't sure she liked the sound of this. "Go on?"

"I'll let you cast Legilimens on me," he continued, "and sort through whatever memories you may wish. It – it shall be hard, for me, but I'm willing to compromise."

"In exchange for..."

"I would like to see how you were killed."

Hermione tried to stop her heart from falling into a sprint.

She had a chance – finally – maybe her only chance – to see his life. To understand him. To understand everything. It seemed almost laughable that she might reject that choice – but then... but then for them both to see Hermione flinging herself into the Room of Requirement, huddled in that comfortable room for four days, having brought only so much food, but so scared, so terrified to leave, and then being interrupted by a nightmare... reliving it in torturous detail while Riddle pored over her last memory of Lord Voldemort – could she stand that?

Another thought flooded her mind. She was borderline-disturbed, because she had had nearly an identical thought while she'd been under the influence of that love potion – and how could I do it to him, either?

Hermione swallowed. He was looking intently at her. She moved her head a little, resting it against his chest, feeling his heart beat calmly.

Curiosity killed the cat. But was that him or her?

"Okay."

"Promise?" he asked quietly.

"Promise."

She felt him let out a slow breath, and his hand trailed its way through her hair, and he kissed her. "Thank you," he murmured. "Thank you."

Hermione hoped she knew what she'd done.

"So... when?" she said.

"Now?" he suggested.

"Might as well."

They both sat up. Hermione reached through the bedcurtains and got their wands from the bedside table. She handed him his.

She swallowed. She couldn't believe it had been this easy. After everything she'd gone through just to get an inkling – he was letting her into his mind, and all she had to tell him was just one thing. Her wand hand shook just a bit as she raised her wand. He closed his eyes, and Hermione suddenly felt a bit hesitant. He looked filled with absolute dread.

Then curiosity swept her anew. What could he be dreading reliving so much? Things that hurt too much to tell anyone...

"Legilimens," she said softly, and then the spell took hold, and she was whisked into his mind like a rowboat engulfed by a stormy sea.

He was five years old, a thin, pale, dark-eyed boy, staring out of his window, sitting on a graying bed, surrounded by graying walls, at the other children playing on the ground below. And he was reading quietly, a small dark book, but the image shifted –

It was six-year-old Tom's first day at school, and his teacher, a red-haired woman, marveled at how intelligent he was, and all the other children shot each other glances, shot him glances, looks that so clearly read you're different, gazes that so clearly read stay away, and young Tom sat up a little straighter and just focused on the praise – after all, it wasn't like this was difficult, adding, dividing, subtracting, multiplying numbers – simple stuff, elementary stuff –

A different teacher, now, a tall, blond, male teacher, and Tom was surrounded by children who looked to be a year or two older, and one of them, the one next to him, who had darkly tanned skin, black hair and brown eyes, leaned over and said, "Have you done this one? It's giving me a little trouble," and Tom shot him a bit of a puzzled glance and circled something in the other boy's answer, and the other boy said, "Thanks" –

Tom sat in that room again, in the orphanage, and a chant from a few boys echoed up from the field – "Beautiful sun, beautiful day, Tom's too strange to come out and play" – and Tom was hugging his knees to his chest miserably, staring at the dim lightbulb in his room, and then – just like that – it wobbled and exploded – and his eyes widened, and the image flipped –

And back in that classroom again, the boy next to him was saying, "You're Tom, right? You must be really smart, to be in this year – I'm Neil," and a handshake, a bit of a mistrustful handshake, and Neil said, "I'm eight, how old are you?" and Tom said, "Six," and Neil's eyes widened, and he said, "Wow, that's really great," and looked back up at that tall blond teacher who was writing something on the board, and Tom blinked in mild confusion but found himself smiling a little and the image spun –

The girl was short and had brown hair, and she was sticking her tongue out, saying rude things just as everyone always did, and Tom gritted his teeth, and suddenly her feet just fell out from under her like they were meant to do that, and Tom's eyebrows rose on his thin, pale face, and he looked around, and the girl started to cry, and the next thing Tom knew he was in his bedroom and not eating any dinner – but he realized, then, with a dawning look on his face, that he was different, but that it was good, that he could do these things just because he wanted –

The teacher, Mr. Peterson, was looking at him strangely as he passed back the papers – a perfect score for Tom, and an eighty-six for Neil – and the teacher said quietly, "Tom, could you please stay after class," and Neil shot Tom a bit of an uneasy glance and after the teacher had walked away Neil said, "Be careful, Tom, you don't want to make Mr. Peterson mad, you really don't," and Neil looked carefully back at his paper even though Tom asked, "What do you mean," and he didn't reply –

He wanted the ball, and he didn't see why the other boy just wouldn't give it to him – and he had a thunderous scowl on his face, a look that Hermione recognized, and suddenly the other boy was yelling, screaming, and the ball was on the ground, a small splash of color on the dirt, and the other boy was clutching his wrist, and Tom's eyes widened in a bit of fear and he was snatching the toy and running away – but there was nothing to eat that night, either, even as Tom bounced the ball against his wall with a half a smirk on his face – thud – thud – thud – thud –

And then everything changed.

"I don't understand what I did wrong," said the voice of Tom, and he was standing in front of a teacher's desk, but there was no one behind it, and Hermione heard the door shutting behind him, and then back to the desk walked Mr. Peterson, and he said, "Tom, I think you've been cheating on your tests, and that's not good – not at all," and Tom said, "No, honestly, I haven't, I swear," and the teacher said, "I'm going to have to tell someone about this," and Tom said, "No, don't do that – don't -"

and Peterson said, "What will you do for me not to say a word?"

But the image flipped before Hermione could grab a hold on it, and then it was Tom fixing his eyes on his bedroom door, and it swung open, and then shut again, and then open, and then shut again, the lightbulb swaying a little in the breeze, and Hermione was shocked to see that blank, dead look on his young face, and then it was Tom lying on his bed, doing nothing at all, staring at the ceiling, and then it was Tom just standing there in the yard looking utterly blank, and a voice very clearly said, "He's just weird," but Tom didn't even seem to take any notice –

Back to the classroom, and Hermione felt her heart thudding a little in fear as Tom asked, "What do you mean, what will I do? I'll do anything, please don't put me back in the first year –" for in his mind, surely nothing could be worse than returning to those barbarians –

An unbelievably clear image, the teacher's face in the dim classroom, his lips pulling into an ugly smirk, and there was a look in his eyes, one of clear, sick satisfaction, and Peterson said, "Good – well, I'll just need you to do this one little thing for me, and then this will all go away, how does that sound?"

"Thank you, Mr. Peterson," and Tom's eyes were wide with innocent relief, and Hermione watched with terrified horror as Peterson stood and made his way around the desk, the six-year-old boy in front of him staring up at him with wide eyes, and Peterson said, "Remember, this is our secret, otherwise I'll make sure everyone in first year knows about your cheating -"

Tom nodded, and Hermione could see the fear in his young face, even through the disbelief that Peterson thought he was cheating, but then there was a noise that changed everything, a noise that made Hermione clench her eyes tight shut, a noise of a zipper sliding open –

Terrible noises. Terrible sounds. Hermione kept her eyes closed, and she heard the scream of Tom's young voice and she couldn't keep herself from shaking in utter horror, hardly able to breathe –

Oh, God, oh God – oh my God –

And then the noise changed, and Hermione opened her eyes, and Tom was sitting at his desk, looking hollow, looking empty, and Neil was looking over at him and saying, "You all right?" and Tom was just looking back at him, his mouth open a little, not saying anything, and then after a second he managed to say, "Yes," and Neil looked quite relieved, until Mr. Peterson walked over and placed a paper with a big red 55 on Neil's desk and said, "Mr. Gonzalez, I'll need to be seeing you after class," and just for a heartbeat of a second there was a look on Neil's face, a look, and Tom turned his eyes back to his own desk, his face utterly devoid of anything at all, but now he understood – he understood that Neil had known all along what was going to happen because it was happening to him –

A harsh slap, and the matron spat, "You are terrible; you are filthy; I can't believe you would hurt Annabel like that – just because you're a filthy bastard child with a dead mother and a father who couldn't care less – " and another slap and Tom bit his tongue and said nothing, and Hermione knew he probably couldn't say anything even if he wanted to –

Thoughts, or fragments of them, rang out in his young voice.

mother I want my mother why did you leave me mother why did you die why

A whisper in Tom's ear, a big, low whisper, "Cheating again? See me after class," and Tom blinked but didn't let a thing show, and he said, "Okay," his voice small and defeated and broken, and Hermione felt like her heart would break as she saw the door opening on an empty classroom, and she closed her eyes tight, willing the memory to just fly by, but no – and this time there were noises of something hitting skin, and cries of pain, screams of pain, and Hermione tried to block them out but they wouldn't be blocked, and then the noise stopped and she thought it was over but she opened her eyes and there was a leather belt in the teacher's hand, one that had red stains on it, and she shut her eyes again, her heart suddenly going a million miles a second, a whimper working itself unbidden from her throat –

And the worst part of it was feeling how Tom had been so ingratiated to this man, for keeping him from those preying stares of the other children, the first years – so it had to be – it had to be okay – he should be thankful, right? – so why was it hurting? –

mother if you were here if you hadn't left me this would never have happened

And then Tom was sitting in the classroom during a lesson, but there was an empty space to his side, nothing there at all – no Neil, but where had he gone? – is he gone like father or gone like mother and nothing in Tom's face, and nothing in his eyes, and his mouth was open a little as if he were surprised by something, and then something was on his desk – a paper with a circled 88 on it, a beautifully average mark, and Tom let out a silent sigh of relief, his small body seeming to quiver a tiny bit in the thin shoulders –

Something was on fire, and the acrid smell burnt Hermione's nose, and Tom sat on his bed and looked at the rug on the stone floor even as it curled and burned in red shame –

I'm special. I'm different.

I don't need my dead mother or my father because I am special

I am different

I am special and I am different

Neil wasn't back, but there was a woman in front of the class that day, a kindly-looking old woman, and she said, "Mr. Peterson is going through a bit of... personal trouble, so he won't be returning," and Tom wouldn't let himself look relieved, even though no one was looking at him, but he wouldn't, couldn't let that look show on his face, even though there was some boy two seats over that seemed to be visibly shaking in relief –

Then, the cover of a newspaper, and Tom was standing and staring at it in the street, for it was his face, Peterson's face, on the cover –

And Tom was sitting in an office, a small office, with a woman behind a desk fixing him with a stare that was chock-full of pity, pity, pity, and she said, "Did he ever try to make you do anything you were uncomfortable with?" and Tom whispered, "He said to keep it a secret; he said it was a secret," and the woman replied, "I'll keep it a secret, no one will ever know except me and a couple of other very nice ladies," and Tom stared down at his knees and didn't say a thing –

Tom was reading that article... rape and murder... unfamiliar words, and he looked them up, but as he read the definitions, nothing came over his face, for surely they had to be normal things to happen, for if one of those words had happened to him, and both words had happened to Neil, it had to be commonplace, surely; if he was so young and something like that was happening to him it had to be normal, and he read about halfway through the article until he found a quote, a quote that burned into his mind – "I'm not sorry," said Peterson on questioning, "I will never be sorry" – and Tom tossed down the newspaper and didn't read the rest of it, but the fact was that Neil was gone, forever,

Just like everyone else always had been

Mama

and Tom threw himself onto his bed and buried his face into the pillow but tears wouldn't come and he curled up in absolute, abject terror – if it was that easy to die – if so many people could just be gone, just like that – then couldn't he? No matter how special he was, no matter how different he was –

mama I don't want to leave the world like you left me

I don't want to follow Neil I don't want to follow you

And then, so many voices. Female voices. The voice of that lady in the office who knew the secret, and the others she'd told. "Tom, I'm sorry." "Tom... I'm sorry." "Tom, I'm so, so, sorry," I'm sorry Tom, Tom I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry a wave of useless pity – and – and what would it ever do? What could it ever fix? It would never fix his dead mother and it would never fix his missing father and it would never fix his murdered friend and Tom g-r-i-t-t-e-d his t-e-e-t-h and didn't want to hear those words – never – not ever –

not

ever

again

noteveragain

"There's something wrong with you," hissed the matron, and slap, slap, slap, but he didn't even have to bite back the tears anymore because they weren't coming; nothing was coming; nothing came anymore except when – "I'm different," a mantra of comfort – he made things happen to other people, things that they could not make happen to him, and he smiled as he watched his influence come over them, and Tom Riddle grew up a few years into a boy who would never again question how absolutely normal hurting was, making others hurt, being hurt...

A line of dead rodents hanging in his wardrobe

they sway and you can pick them like apples

and he was beckoning Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop into the seaside cave, an innocent smile curling his lips, "I want to show you something," he said and the only reason he was smiling was because he should have known better and look Amy, look Dennis, this is what happens when you kill a stray cat, smash its head on the rocks, go ahead,

want a taste?

Yes, of course you do, go ahead, look in my eyes and know it's okay

Then a face Hermione knew very, very well, the face of Albus Dumbledore, and Tom surveyed the man with satisfaction, for he had always known he was different, always known it – otherwise how would he have gotten himself through the years? – and then he was whisked into a world where everything was right, where everything was perfect, and he was so quiet and meek and brilliant that everyone loved him instantly –

The strange part – the strange part, that when he did things right there was no reprehension, no punishment, and he could be as perfect as he'd always known he could be – and this stuff was brilliant and it was easy and it was so right to be holding that wand in his hand, such a powerful feeling, and finally it was he who had the power –

A spot-on Levitation Charm, simple stuff, and an excited voice exclaimed, "Ten points to Slytherin!" and Riddle didn't even smile, just blinked in recognition, but the teacher reached over and touched his shoulder in congratulations and he froze, though no one noticed –

The years flicked by quickly in Hogwarts – good memories, mostly, though there were some that Hermione was not altogether unsurprised to see, of boys cringing under the threatening tip of his wand, of boys screaming under that wandtip, of boys gathered in a circle in front of him as he asked for 'reports,' of mistrustful looks from Albus Dumbledore...

Then he was standing in a bathroom, saying – well, hissing – something, and there was a reaction from the tap in front of him, and it spun and glowed and then the memory changed –

Reading a stack of books, books that looked dangerous, and Dark, like something from the Restricted Section, but he hadn't gotten them there – he'd gotten them from the Room of Requirement, for nothing in the Hogwarts Library could satisfy him anymore, and there was one written by a very familiar name – Salazar Slytherin –

Tom Riddle grew up very quickly after fifth year, veritably shooting up, and his handsome features drew eyes from the female population, and he bedded several and dropped the exact same number, though Hermione closed her eyes quietly through those memories – and somewhere along the line Riddle had realized that it was not normal for a teacher to do those things to a student, not normal for a fully-grown man to do that to a boy of six, but he had never heard of it happening in the Wizarding World – just in that filthy world of the Muggles, that world of defilement and constant misery, that world he would never hear a good word about.

Not ever.

There was a flash of green light, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. A man fell down, dead, and Tom Riddle didn't care. This piece of trash had abandoned him to his childhood. This piece of Muggle trash had given him everything that was bad about the world – all Riddle had done was take that away, surely a boon to be removed from a Muggle world, a Muggle life –

"What do you know about horcruxes?"

Slughorn's face creased in shock, sort of – in horror, sort of – but it was a quick recovery, and then a thirsty, burning goal, with the response, seared its way into Riddle's mind, as he realized it was possible. He was already more than Muggle, obviously, but he could be more than wizard – more than human. He was destined. He could be immortal.

That word he had learned so long ago – murder – it would never be used to describe his dead body.

He would never die.

Then it was a stream of memories after he'd arrived here, all remembered in this perfect light, this beautiful light, a warmness finally streaming into his mind's eye –

Even as he gathered followers around him, even as he asked Salazar Slytherin to teach me, please, I'm your heir, but Slytherin wouldn't even give him a second glance and that enraged him, but he couldn't hurt Salazar Slytherin himself, of course not, so he just withdrew, withdrew, and tortured and hurt and manipulated – and Hermione froze as she saw him kissing Araminta Meliflua, but she couldn't think anything of it – she couldn't bring herself to think anything of anything, not after...

And then Hermione saw herself. Saw him planning for her, saw him plotting about her, saw him bewildered by her, saw him wrecked by her, saw him stunned by her and ruined by her and fulfilled by her and standing by her and she felt what he felt about her past, felt the guilt that was wracking him – and then suddenly it was a stream of images of her own face, crystal-clear, idyllic, and in his mind she looked almost lovely, somehow, and words echoed, though they were not in Riddle's voice – they were in some other male voice, a familiar one – "she's just too good for you" – and Hermione swallowed and felt her eyes watering, and still the images of her flooded by.

Hermione pulled on her wand, and the spell broke. Riddle's eyes were closed, and dry, and he was breathing in and out in a careful, controlled rhythm.

There were no words. Not in her mind. Not on her tongue. Not forming anywhere.

Or actions.

Nothing could ever fix what she'd seen.

And when his eyes opened, she was unsurprised to see that look in them – that plea.

She finally understood why that I'm sorry had been so ruinous, so devastating. It all pressed itself into place.

Hermione's breaths were shallow. She met his eyes, trying to keep every shred of pity from her, for if he saw it he'd go insane.

His body seemed to have collapsed inward. He was no longer sitting up straight – his bare shoulders were slumped forwards, his back curled, his hands limp on his knees.

Hermione reached forwards and took his hands, squeezing as if to force life back into him. "Tom," she said, "Tom," but there were no other words to say. Not when I'm sorry could hurt so much.

Then she leaned forward and wrapped him in a fierce hug, his body limp under her arms. She stroked his hair with one hand gently, swallowing her doubts, and she whispered, "You are perfect."

How could he have been anyone else? The mutation he'd undergone had already manifested itself when he was six years old; it had just been waiting to be realized. As soon as he'd gotten the idea that pain, that misery were normal, were okay... he'd not been in a right mind.

And then his body shivered under hers, and he tilted himself over to lie on the bed, stretched-out, miserable.

She kept her arms around him and kissed his nonresponsive lips, slowly, deeply, and she placed her hand on his shoulder and murmured, "It's gone."

He closed his eyes at that, and when he opened them again, that empty look had seeped away, and a glimmer of Tom had returned, his calm dark eyes meeting hers with gentleness. "Yes, I know," he murmured, as if they were the first words from an infant's lips, full of discovery and newness. Then she kissed him again, and he rolled onto his back and positioned her above him, and she felt as if she was having to give him the kiss of life, because he seemed to come alive beneath her once more, and suddenly his arms were uncomfortably tight around her.

It was a while before he brought up the subject of her death, and as he did, Hermione felt absolute panic flood her.

"So is it my turn now?" he asked softly.

Her eyes were as wide as he'd ever seen them, and she seemed like she was restraining something.

Hermione's mind raced. After that – after that – no. She couldn't let him see what he'd done, couldn't let him see that he'd personally destroyed the only person in his memory that was a bright, changing face, a normal vision – she couldn't do that to him.

"I can't," she choked out, and his face slowly changed to dismay. Dismay and confusion.

"Why?" he whispered. "Hermione, why?"

"I'm so sorry." An uncomfortable nasal buzz built in her nose, and tears came to her eyes. "I can't." She was afraid he'd snap into anger at her apology, but she hadn't meant it like that, like sympathy, like pity.

She couldn't let him see it. Not ever. Never.

Hermione took those days and sealed them away, sealed them away like she had never sealed anything before, feeling like she was her own Secret-Keeper, even as she stared at his face and her broken promise hung in the air.

She slid out of the bed, murmuring, "This was a mistake." What had she expected? She'd always thought there would be something terrible in his past, something awful – she clapped a hand over her mouth and retched –

Hearing his feet hit the floor on the other side of the bed, Hermione opened the door and walked out into the hall. Had it really been here that they had kissed for the first time, where she had yelled and screamed and sobbed her eyes out? She trailed hesitantly back into her own room, but before she could shut the door he was forcing his way in, and then his hands were grabbing her upper arms. "You promised," he hissed. "You promised me – you lied."

"I can't do it," she whispered. "You can try."

His wand pressed against her uncomfortably as he murmured the word, but her mind was as blank as it had ever been – Occlumency was her automatic response, and he could see some of her memories but they stopped right before she decided to make her way up to the Room –

Riddle let out an animal noise of rage and utter frustration. Hermione stared as his face filled with darkest anger. "How could you do this?" he growled, his eyes thunderous. He backed Hermione up against the wall. "You made me a promise."

She couldn't say anything. She couldn't find any words at all.

"Why?" he said fiercely.

Nothing.

"Why can't you tell me?" he yelled.

Hermione felt her mouth drifting open, but there were only four words coming to her mind, and she found that they were the truth.

"Because I love you."

The silence burned and twisted. The silence lasted forever and forever and forever.

Riddle looked like she'd punched him. "What?" he whispered.

"Because I love you."

Her eyes desperately sought purchase on his face as his anger drained away, leaving him unusually pale and almost frightened-looking. He backed up a little, Hermione still pressed against the wall as if it were supporting her, and then he grappled with the doorknob and fled. Hermione heard the outer door slam.

All she could do was collapse into bed, unable to remove the memory of those noises from her mind, terrible noises, and unable to remove those four words from her mind, because discovering that she loved him wasn't easy, and remembering what he'd gone through was worse.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle couldn't believe anything. His mind was a red swirl of absolute rage, a wall over which no thoughts dared venture, and everything was just disbelief as he fixated on her – she'd broken her promise. She'd made a promise and she'd broken it.

He wandered around the dungeons, and then he picked a classroom and destroyed it, rending desk after desk plank from plank with his wand in his hand. And when he was done, he fixed everything and did it again. Until he felt better.

Then, after a long hour, he sat down in the wreckage and drew in deep, angry, humiliated breaths. Because I love you.

Because I love you.

The words rang around his head, not allowing him respite, not allowing him a thing. She loved him. She loved him. She didn't know how she felt about Ron, but she loved Tom Riddle. How?

But she'd broken her promise. Did that mean that her I love you was a lie? Did it mean everything she'd ever said was, or could now be logically taken as, a lie?

Riddle felt like once that would have made sense to him, but it no longer did. Nothing did. All he could think of now was her terrified expression as he gripped her arms with strong hands, those four soft words, repeated easily, even as her eyes were scared, pained.

She knew everything about him and she loved him.

How?

How?

Riddle gritted his teeth and slammed his fist into the stone wall, flicking his wand at it to fix the popped knuckle, and the pain screamed its way up his arm but somehow his mind completely ignored it.

How was that a reason? How was that a reason not to tell him?

He shrank back against the wall, his back shrugging up against it like it was his only shelter, and the door opened.

Abraxas Malfoy walked in. "I, er, heard noise," he said quietly, looking around, taking in the broken furniture, the broken everything.

Riddle closed his eyes. He'd forgotten to cast a Silencing Charm. He said nothing.

"What's wrong?" asked Abraxas. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," choked out Riddle, but even Abraxas the Naïve could tell that the words were a complete lie.

"Don't give me that," Abraxas said fiercely, and he walked over to Riddle and stood him up. Riddle was shocked, and as he stared into the grey eyes of the other boy, he saw no animosity – just deep concern, and Abraxas' hands were tight on his shoulders, as if he were... as if he were his brother. No. As if he were his father.

"I don't know what to do," said Riddle.

"So, what, are you just going to rip up Hogwarts and sit here moping? Merlin's beard, you're Tom Riddle. Pull yourself together." The words were harsh and fevered, but not angry. "What's the problem?"

Tom straightened up a bit, slight confusion appearing on his face as Abraxas crossed his big arms expectantly.

"I thought we weren't speaking," Tom said.

Abraxas' lips tightened. "Doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the present."

The words cut straight through to Riddle's core. Nothing matters but the present. Ron didn't matter. His memories didn't matter. Everything that was, that had been – it was all gone. Nothing mattered except things that lasted, things that were still there. Riddle looked at Abraxas, and something seemed to dawn on his dark features.

"Hermione said she loved me," Riddle said.

Abraxas' eyebrows soared sky high, and then he raised a big hand and clapped Riddle on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. "That's something!" he crowed. "Jesus, what are you upset about?"

Now Riddle was veritably baffled. "But I thought you didn't -"

"I trust her. You, not so much, but I definitely trust Hermione," interrupted Abraxas, and he was relieved to see a familiar scowl make its way onto Riddle's face. The aimlessness had streamed away. "So, what's the problem?"

"I don't know what to say."

Abraxas' mouth quirked to the side. "Well, what do you think you should say?"

"I don't know!" repeated Riddle in a you-idiot tone of voice. "Do you really think anyone's ever said that to me before?"

Abraxas didn't say anything for a second. "I'm guessing that was rhetorical," he mused, and Riddle's scowl deepened, making Abraxas' merriness increase further. Then his smile relaxed a little, and he blinked, his eyes gentle. "If you love her, tell her you do, and if you don't know, then just wait until you do know," he said patiently.

Riddle blinked. That seemed deceptively simple – but Abraxas was right, of course. The broken promise could wait. There was time. There was all the time in the world for that. But there was not all the time in the world for Hermione Granger's feelings.

All of a sudden, he nearly couldn't believe he'd literally run away from her when she'd told him.

"If I were to hazard a guess," Abraxas added, "I'd say you do."

Riddle just looked at him. Abraxas' simple words were putting things into place like he hadn't thought possible. Riddle had felt every emotion in the spectrum at some point just for her – and what he felt for her overwhelmed everything else he'd ever experienced, including anger, including his fits of vicious rage.

Most of all – she'd told him she loved him.

She loves me. The thought suddenly filled Tom Riddle with what seemed to be a golden hum, right to the brim. His voice blurted in a most uncivilized manner, "Abraxas, you're the best," and he strode through the door.

Abraxas stared after Riddle. That just happened.

He raised his eyebrows, bewildered, and waved his wand in a wide sweep, casting Reparo on everything in sight. He left the classroom as it repaired itself, as if Tom Riddle had never been inside.

xXxXxXxXx

It had been nearly an hour and a half, and Hermione Granger lay in her bed, having a good cry.

What did I expect?

She'd even told herself this, just yesterday, told herself that she'd have to be prepared, if or when she told him, for something exactly like this! What the hell was her problem? She was awful, apparently, at taking her own advice.

She angrily buried her head under her pillow.

Hermione couldn't think of a worse time for her to have told him – really? Right after he'd started yelling at her? Right after she'd broken a promise? Right after she'd seen his harrowing past in its traumatic entirety? What a terrible path to opt along! What was she, stupid? She yelled into her pillow, her throat crying in protest, but she ignored it. Enough stupidity had come out of her throat that day for her to pay it any heed at all.

How far had she pushed him away? Hermione swallowed and tried to ignore the thought, but it was too overwhelming to shove to the side. After what she'd done to him, springing that I-love-you after he had been so shocked when she'd said she might possibly be starting to feel something for him...

Hermione jumped in shock as a hand laid itself between her shoulder-blades. She didn't remove her head from the pillow. No one else could have gotten in but him, and she really didn't want him to see her face just then. "Hello," she mumbled, her voice directed down into her mattress and muffled by her feather pillow.

His strong hands slowly started rubbing her back, relaxing her tense muscles. "Sorry to barge in," he murmured, "but you were screaming, so you didn't hear me knocking."

Hermione's face turned bright red – after all, there's nothing worse than being caught caring. "Mmf," she said into her mattress.

His hands left for a second, and everything darkened as Riddle closed the bedcurtains. Then they returned, slowly pressing down at the base of her neck, sweeping to the left and downwards, pressing and massaging away all the tension. His hands slowly worked their way downwards, stopping at the base of her back.

His voice was low and smooth. "You know, this would be easier if you weren't wearing anything."

She didn't think her face could get any redder. Why was he back? And why wasn't he furious?

Then his warm hands slid up the back of her sweater, and she found it hard to wonder much of anything.

He continued, "I hope you weren't crying long. Making girls cry is hardly an honorable occupation."

"Like you're interested in honorable occupations," her squashed voice said. She felt him pause and she sat up, flicking her wand at her hair and her face. The miserable redness in her nose didn't subside, but her hair combed itself out a bit and the wetness all over her face vanished.

His hands trailed out from under her sweater. Hermione was finding it difficult to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry for going insane," she said quietly. "I just – I never could have imagined."

He gave a hollow chuckle. "I would have been quite worried if you had imagined it," he replied. "Look, Hermione – I don't want to make you say anything that you don't -"

"No, I shouldn't have gone back on a promise like that," Hermione interrupted. "That was wrong."

There was a pause. He ran a hand through his hair. "But you're still not going to show me, are you?"

"I still can't," whispered Hermione, studying his face, which was downturned, examining his interlocked fingers. Then he looked up at her, his eyes calm, and he said,

"That's okay."

"It's really not."

He nodded. "Yes, it is."

"Why?" she asked in a small voice, but she somehow knew what he was going to say before she even asked, and her heart jumped into a sprint when he said the four words, the expression on his handsome face torn beyond imagining. Humiliation, worry, anticipation, disbelief – none of which seemed to fit the words, but all of which were so utterly him:

"Be – because I love you."

The kiss was long, and Hermione felt her head spinning until they broke for air. "I love you," he repeated, quieter, and kissed her softly. "I love you." And he leaned his forehead against hers, their noses touching, and he shut his eyes, and Hermione thought her heart might just quit out, might just stop, might just fall dead from her chest right there.

Tom Riddle's mind had never been quieter. There was not even a hint at a thought at the edges. There was not even any emotion, besides the one that had settled into him a while ago and taken deep root. Even his curiosity had receded. He thought nothing. He felt nothing. He was nothing except the hands that held hers. He was nothingexcept the nose that lightly touched hers. He was nothing except the heart that was, at last, hers.

xXxXxXxXx

Yet everything has its bane, and as three days passed, the joyous delirium that had seemed to accompany his confession seeped back into relative normalcy. He didn't doubt that he still loved her, but curiosity had fought its way back to the top, and Tom Riddle didn't like having to fight anything. Especially not a question inside him. Especially when he'd had an answer promised him.

This could not drop. He could not quit until he knew. And now that he knew she loved him – now that he knew, once and for all, that she was his – he figured he had some leeway. Especially since he loved her in return, and she knew that fact. She must have known it. After all, he now knew it like the back of his hand.

They never broached the subject of the promise, but it hung there, a single fault line on the surface of an earthquake, the single foam finger on the top of a tsunami. It was waiting for Tom Riddle to fall bait to its clutches, and fall he did.

After all, he never could resist a challenge, could he? No, Tom Riddle never backed down from an outright challenge. And this was more than outright. This was deep. This was personal. He had to know – but how could he get past her Occlumency? An Occlumens as achieved as she subconsciously prepared for resistance before going to sleep. But now that he had something that was so important for any good plan – trust – he was nervous about losing it. She loved him, but there was only so much one could take in the issue of trust before breaking down. And if she broke down, then he would have no chance at all.

Riddle started subconsciously tracking the times when he might be able to take her by surprise, but they were few and far between, especially since they spent so much time together. The only place she ever really went these days was the library, sometimes. Although there was rumor of a game coming up, planned by the event committee – and those always seemed to prove useful.

Riddle didn't want to hurt her. The idea was repulsive, wrong. But she'd sealed up that last bit of her life so damn well – there hadn't been a single slip in her defense. She would have to be completely surprised for him to be able to get a shot at it, utterly off her guard. It would have to be the very, very last thing on her mind, and Riddle didn't like to think it, but perhaps the only way to do that would be to hurt her.

But she'd promised him. She'd made him a promise, so that meant it was okay, right?

He wondered if that would be one of those things that Hermione looked shocked at, that he was so completely off the mark as to what was okay. It seemed like that sort of natured... thing. But he couldn't stand it, couldn't stand looking at her and having to ask himself about her, looking at her and feeling like she was denying him the one thing he asked. It wasn't fair to her that he would occupy his thoughts with such things. It would be far better just to get it over with.

So Riddle started planning it. One shock. One blow. Then it would be over with. After all – she'd never said, "I don't want to tell you." She'd said, "I can't." He would just help her be able to divulge that information, help her be able to fulfill that promise.

No matter what it took.

x

x

x

Why, yes, you're right. I hate it when everything is happy. That's why I CRUSH DREAMS MUAHHAHA.

By the way, someone suggested I change this to an angst fic. Interesting proposition. Unfortunately, I just love the connotation of 'drama'. Picturing TFL as a Spanish soap opera is just too much fun to change it from 'drama' to 'angst'.

Wizard Angst. You know you want to re-watch it, now that I've brought it up.

Speechwriter.