It seemed like years before she reached the Room of Requirement, even though she was sprinting. No one was in the halls to stare, or to care about her.

I should have listened to Abraxas.

But right then she couldn't seem to cry anymore. Every bit of feeling seemed to have deserted her body. She felt... dry. Dried-up, dried-out, sucked dry of absolutely everything. And then the door to the Room of Requirement was slamming shut, and she was in that exact room that the D.A. had used to meet in so long ago, and books lined the walls.

Yes. This was it. This was where she should have been this entire time. Not building a life here. Not meeting the people here.

I need a quill. And then there was one on top of the nearest low bookshelf, and Hermione looked up at the warm lights and sat on a brightly-colored beanbag, and she wrote on her arm, Harry Potter, back on earth, is hiding inside the chimney in the Gryffindor common room. Ron Weasley is hiding under the third flagstone in the common room as you walk in from the portrait hole. Hermione blew lightly on the ink until it dried, and then she very calmly aimed her wand at herself and said, "Obliviate."

She blinked. What exactly had she erased from her memory? She couldn't remember... But it didn't matter. She was still sitting there, in the Room of Requirement, most definitely not flying back to Earth, although she could have sworn she felt something... solidify in her, like there was something caught in her chest, something tightening... but she was here. Not on Earth. Here.

Tears of frustration came to Hermione's eyes, and she lifted her sleeve to wipe them away and caught the sight of words written on her arm.

She read the sentences, and relief flooded her. Thank God I wrote them down... and then she memorized the words, wiped them away, and curled up in her beanbag, and sobbed until her eyes were numb.

xXxXxXxXx

She didn't really know how long it had been. She never felt like she needed to eat. And every time she directed her attention away from her studies, she felt as if her heart was breaking anew, so she simply did not direct her attentions away.

She was curious about the Runic Spells book, and as soon as she wanted it, it appeared on the shelf in front of her. Hermione read her way through the thick tome in a matter of hours, and then she took out her wand. A dummy appeared opposite her, and Hermione turned to the first section of the Runic Spells book.

Offensive magicks.

The first spell she tried – a yellow triangle of runes – spun through the air and smashed into the target with a deafening bang. Hermione stared, wide-eyed, at the ruined dummy, satisfaction filling her, and then she toppled over in a dead faint.

When she woke, she eagerly worked her way through eight more offensive spells, fainting after each one, waking, continuing. It did strange things to her body, things that she felt would have hurt a lot more if she had been able to feel anything more than... anything more than she could. Two of her nails died, fading black and dropping off, and replacing them was an inconvenience. Blood vessels burst in her eyes. Her teeth yellowed and her nose bled. Her legs started feeling like they were made out of jelly, but she continued, not really caring much about the physical effects – surely all that mattered was that she could do this, was that she could master this, master everything, get everything under control –

But then – then it was strange, because after the next spell she tried, one that spun in a red line towards the target and sliced it head from shoulders – after that... she just took a staggering step back, felt woozy, but she felt... as if she could continue.

Hermione found another book on Runic Spells on the shelf, one that was all about theory, and she read it in an hour.

Apparently, like a poison, one could build up a resistance to Runic Spellcasting. By repeated use, and repeated drained energy... and Hermione felt a vicious greed invade her. She wanted this power. She wanted it desperately.

So she tried spell after spell, toppled over time after time... and she found herself slowly improving, though bits of her were actually dropping off dead... she replaced them, nail after nail, tooth after tooth. Clumps of her hair were falling out. She replaced those too. It didn't matter. Power. Strength. Resilience. Whatever it took.

Yes.

She was stronger now. Now no one would ever hurt her again. After all, she'd worked through the entire Defense section of Albus' book... there was no way anyone could ever manage to get their way through her defenses. Not anymore. There was no way. No way at all.

And even as Hermione thought the words, an image of Tom Riddle's smile thrust itself to the forefront of her brain, and she let out a strangled noise of rage and leaned her head against the bookshelf, wishing she had the willpower just to Obliviate it all from her memory... wishing she even had the desire to do so in the first place.

Hermione dug herself back into her magic. She could control magic. It was malleable. It would bend to her will. With her wand... with her wand, she had power, and she could choose what did what, and she would never be hurt by it. Not by her closest friend, the only person she could trust not to hurt her or to die or to leave her – herself.

xXxXxXxXx

To say that Abraxas Malfoy was unhappy would have been a gross understatement. No one had seen Hermione Granger in six days, but all Abraxas knew was that she hadn't moved on. That was all Riddle would tell him, or anyone.

"Are you -"

"Yes, I'm sure."

If Riddle had been quiet before, now he was practically a mute. Abraxas didn't know where Riddle went during the day, or if he slept during the night, for bags had bruised themselves in under his eyes as if someone had punched them. He showed up for meals. But he never seemed to react to anything. He would not say anything when Malfoy asked him most questions, but ones about Hermione made him stare blankly ahead and answer mechanically. Always the same thing. "All I know is that she hasn't moved on." "Yes, I'm sure." "No, I don't know where she is."

Dueling Club had started again, but Abraxas was having difficulty focusing, with Riddle so corpse-like and Hermione so noticeably absent.

But then... then there was something. Abraxas was sitting at lunch, and he turned to see two girls in Gryffindor robes standing behind him. "Er, hello," he said uneasily.

"Hi," said the one on the left, in an airy voice. Her brown hair was straight and bobbed, and she had distant blue eyes. The other girl had slightly darker, wavy hair, and her eyes flashed with fire, even though Abraxas wasn't doing anything.

"Can I help you?" he said after a second.

"You can tell us where Hermione Granger is," said the one on the right. "My name is Minerva McGonagall. This is Miranda Goshawk. We're both very concerned about Ms. Granger, her whereabouts, and the rest."

"I hope she's okay," Miranda said in a small voice. "We haven't spoken, and if she's gone, I'll feel terrible."

Abraxas swallowed and stood up. "I think you should come with me. And I think you should find anyone else who cares about Hermione, and you should bring them, too."

Fifteen minutes later, Abraxas was in a classroom with Herpo, Revelend, McGonagall, Miranda, Godric Gryffindor, Albus Dumbledore, Catalina Lightfoot, Mungo Bonham, and Jared Pippin. "Well, aren't we diverse," Abraxas murmured, looking around. "You lot, the fact is that I have no idea where on earth Hermione Granger is, and the only person who might possibly know isn't saying a word. And yes, that is Tom Riddle."

Eyes darkened at the words. "Can't we get that information out of him somehow?" protested Godric. "If the stupid git has her locked up in some dungeon somewhere, then I feel as if we should get him to tell us."

"Riddle won't say anything," sighed Abraxas. "Not unless he wants to. And he inevitably won't. In fact, he's been acting really, really odd these days."

"Is that a change?" asked Catalina, raising an eyebrow.

"Actually," replied Abraxas, meeting Catalina's brown eyes readily, "it is. He won't say a word unless it's to do with Hermione. He goes around looking like he's seen the Bloody Baron hiding in his sock drawer. And he won't bloody tell anyone what's the matter."

Albus sighed. "I, personally, can't be worried too much about Riddle when Hermione's missing. I propose we simply scour the grounds and the castle until we find her."

"Easy for you to say, after you ditched her for the past month," said Herpo, uncharacteristically antagonistic. Godric glared at him.

"Listen, you all, shut up," Abraxas said tiredly. "I'd just like to see Hermione's face again. I'd just like to know that she's not hopelessly lost in the Forbidden Forest or trapped at the bottom of the lake. Can we just... I don't know, maybe work together?"

There were general nods around the room. "Blimey," mumbled Godric, "I didn't think that she could manage to get herself lost in Hogwarts..."

"She's not lost," said Mungo quietly. "She doesn't want to be found."

Eyes turned to him. He shrugged. "Hermione's a smart girl," Jared added, glancing at Mungo. "I think it's safe to assume that whatever she's doing, it's intentional."

"Or Riddle's done something to her," Godric said, eyes dark. There was silence. No one really had anything to say that might contradict that.

"All right," said McGonagall's sharp voice. "Shall we pair up and search, then?"

xXxXxXxXx

Tom Riddle lay in bed. He hadn't done much else over the last six days, and he hadn't done much thinking, either, because thinking hurt. Thinking inevitably led back to her. Thinking inevitably led back to her words. Thinking made him realize how illogical he'd been, and then he felt himself slipping, as if on an icy slope, towards some huge pit of emotion that he had never encountered before. He didn't know what it was, but he was not inclined to find out.

So he lay there, mind blank, and stared at the canopy above him. The only thing he really allowed himself to register was that he was alone.

There was no warm body in his arms.

There was no small hand on the curve of his face.

There were no lips on his.

And those were facts. Facts were logical. Facts held no emotion. He held no emotion.

He was scared even to turn his head to the left or the right, scared he would see something that reminded him of her. Riddle could not let that happen.

And yet there was this strong, strong pull inside of him. Nearly an upward pull, as if something inside him were fighting to lift him from the ground.

But he was too broken, heart and soul, to acknowledge that in its entirety, or to analyze it, or to let it do anything for him.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione Granger panted as she flicked her wand. This was her sixth Runic Spell in a row. No weakness. No fainting. No anything.

A cold smile came across her lips as the dummy was pinned flat on the ground. Hermione knew that if it were a person, it would have been rendered completely immobile. Excellent indeed.

Then she started firing nonverbal spells at it as it lay there, helpless under jinx after hex after curse – but never Dark magic. No. Never that. She could do well enough without Dark magic, do well enough without anything that had even the faintest, slightest inclination of an influence from him. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. You-Know-Who. But she was not afraid of his name, not anymore – she just would not let it cross her mind, wouldn't let it defile her with its traitorous, despicable touch –

Hermione held the small yellow book closer to her face, like the pages would wipe away her thoughts.

She stood, holding the book in her left hand, wand in her right, and started an intricate series of containment charms. Immobility charms. Spells to control the bodies of others.

Hermione jerked her wand forward. The dummy sat up abruptly. She twisted her wand, and the dummy flew in a chaotic circle, dumped itself back on the ground, and lay there, a sad pile of discombobulated cloth limbs. She flicked her wand, and it stood itself back up again for another bout. Hermione hoped this dummy didn't have nerve endings – she'd be sentenced to life in Azkaban if it ever testified as to what she'd done to it.

xXxXxXxXx

Albus and Godric poked around the dungeons.

"Why did we even show up?" Godric murmured. "We've been furious with her for a month, just like that Herpo git said."

"We wouldn't have been mad with her if we didn't care about her," Albus replied. "You must admit, Godric, that part of you was just fearful for her safety."

"I dunno, most of me was just mad," said Godric. "But it's strange, mate – I don't really feel mad anymore."

"That's part of recovery," Albus said quietly, and placed a reassuring hand on Godric's shoulder. "I ceased to be angry a while ago, but I assumed she was just happier without us. Although I still have my suspicions about Riddle."

"Yeah, he's evil," said Godric simply. "Let's go."

xXxXxXxXx

"This place is sure different without any animals," said Miranda absentmindedly, looking around at the trees.

Revelend nodded in agreement. "There are Thestrals here, though."

"Really?" said Miranda, her eyes wide. "Wow. How does that work?"

McGonagall forged ahead, calling, "Hermione?" into the sunlit trees. Her voice echoed back at them.

"I don't really understand it," Revelend said, looking around. "Although they are sort of creepy."

"Oh, definitely," agreed Miranda, nodding. "Not half as strange as the other species in their genus, though – Skindrifts."

Revelend frowned. "I... uh, I've never heard of those."

Miranda sighed. "No one seems to do their magical creatures research properly, I swear."

McGonagall glanced back at them and said, "Any sign of anything?"

"No," said Miranda, "but there's a Thestral." McGonagall took an uneasy step back from where the Thestral was emerging from the trees.

But it wasn't a normal Thestral. Whereas the usual creatures were gaunt and skeletal, these Thestrals were glossy and well-fed. Their eyes were not white and pupil-less; they were large, dark, and disturbingly human. Their leathery wings were not ragged or worn, but smooth, as if cloaks of velvet.

"Hello, there," Miranda said absentmindedly. "I don't suppose you'd know where Hermione is?"

A snort of breath from the Thestral's nostrils, and the black creature jerked its dark head as if to indicate that they should follow. Revelend and McGonagall exchanged an uneasy glance as Miranda followed it.

"It's just leading us back out of the forest," said Revelend quietly after a moment.

McGonagall sighed. "Well, that's that, I suppose. Where shall we look next?" But the Thestral halted at the edge of the forest, fixing them with that eerie stare.

Two other Thestrals made their way to the edge of the trees, each as strangely well-groomed as the first. "I think they want us to get on," Miranda said, and now she sounded hesitant. "I don't know; I don't like heights..."

McGonagall clambered onto the nearest one. Revelend helped Miranda up onto hers, and then followed, also looking a bit uneasy. "Do you know where Ms. Granger is?" said McGonagall, and as if it were a key phrase, suddenly the Thestrals were airborne.

The flight was short and rocky. The three Thestrals flew towards the castle, jostling for place as if all three were being pulled by one strong magnet. Miranda's face was white, and her hands were wound into the Thestral's mane. She squeezed her eyes shut as they sped towards the castle wall, and then the Thestrals flapped their spectral wings, staying relatively stationary outside the window.

McGonagall reached out and unlatched the window, swinging it open, and then made a smooth transition from Thestral to windowsill. She held out her hands for Miranda, who looked paler than death, but she managed to grapple her way over. Revelend slithered quietly from his Thestral onto the windowsill, and then he ducked his way through.

McGonagall said, "Thank you," even as the Thestrals flew away. Revelend looked down the hall. Mungo and Jared were approaching.

"Oi, I thought you three said you'd take the Forest?" said Pippin.

"Thestrals took us here," said Miranda quietly, and looked around. "Very strange, how they looked. Not at all like normal Thestrals." Pippin and Mungo caught up with them.

Mungo frowned. "I wonder why they delivered you here, specifically."

McGonagall glanced around. Her eyes fell on a tapestry right across from the blank wall – the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Understanding seeped into her eyes. "Is this the seventh floor?" she asked. Pippin nodded.

McGonagall walked up to the wall, and then paced back and forth. Miranda let out an audible gasp when the door appeared, displacing the stone with no noise, a small, wooden door.

Then McGonagall rapped on it. "May we come in?" she said sharply.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione looked up slowly from her book. Someone was knocking on the door. She hadn't thought to ask for a room no one could find, because she assumed no one would really care enough to attempt to find her.

Whose voice was that? A sharp female voice, one that was very familiar...

She stood up, closing the spellbook. She wondered briefly what time it was – she hadn't bothered with a clock, and she didn't know how many days it had been, and she didn't care much, not really...

Hermione flicked her wand at the door. It swung open.

She blinked in mild surprise. There were five people there, three of whom she hadn't spoken with in a month. "Hello," she said, her voice weirdly mechanical. She hadn't said anything besides spells in a very long time.

They all knew instantly that something was off with Hermione Granger. She stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, her wand held tight in her right hand, her face emotionless, her eyes narrower than normal. Like she was getting ready to fight something. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she looked unhealthy. Brittle, almost, with hair so insanely chaotic it could have nested many a bird.

"Granger, what have you been doing?" said McGonagall sharply. "Do you have any idea how long you've been in that room?"

"No," said Hermione. Her tone of voice clearly stated that she couldn't care less.

"Six days," Miranda said quietly.

Hermione turned her eyes on Miranda, who was a bit unsettled to look into them. "Oh, are we speaking, then? I'm sorry; I didn't hear," Hermione said coolly. Miranda bit her lip.

"What's happened?" asked Mungo gently.

And then Hermione closed her eyes and rocked back a little on her heels, and her mouth got tight-lipped, and her eyebrows tilted, and she looked in pain.

But when her eyes opened again, all that vanished. "Nothing unexpected," Hermione's voice said quietly, but it was not Hermione behind the words.

Looks were exchanged. Throats were cleared. Then Revelend spoke, and they listened. His quiet, stern voice commanded attention. "Come on, let's go," he said, and he took Hermione's shoulder. She did not object, let him steer her from the room.

McGonagall closed the door. It vanished.

xXxXxXxXx

It was surreal for Hermione. She was sitting in a classroom, surrounded by everyone she'd been acquainted with in this world – except for maybe two people, and those were the people she couldn't even think of seeing without having to clear her mind completely for risk of feeling. Half of these people hadn't even been able to look at her for the last month. Half wouldn't have been caught dead in a room together with the other half for any extended period of time. Yet here they were, all assembled in one room as if they had nothing better to do with their day, all looking – Hermione seemed to have forgotten which emotions looked like what, but she felt like it might have been concern, what was on their faces.

And then Abraxas started speaking, and Hermione felt a sudden rush of remembrance, what it was like to associate with people, what it was like out of self-inflicted solitary confinement.

"Hermione, what happened? And don't you even dare tell me it was nothing, because if you do, I swear to God I'll hit something."

"And that something will probably be me," muttered Herpo. Catalina let out a small splutter of laughter and covered her mouth instantly.

Hermione opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She stared blankly around at all these faces, but she found she was terrified to say anything to any of them, terrified that she might break down completely in front of them. She'd tried to train away her weakness, but Hermione found that she'd just managed to keep it at bay, just like she'd always managed to suppress everything else about her past.

Suddenly she felt tired. Of everything.

"Can one of you go and get Araminta Meliflua, please?" she whispered.

Those were the last words Abraxas had expected to hear. Revelend stood and left, leaving everyone else still looking expectantly at Hermione, but she didn't say anything until Revelend returned ten minutes later. Araminta was walking behind him, looking like she hadn't slept in a week.

"Granger," Araminta said quietly, as the door shut.

Hermione stared at her for a very long moment. "I just... I have to know. You didn't know anything, did you? It was him?"

Araminta nodded slowly. "I'm..." She took a deep breath, and then her face got a stubborn look about it. "I'm sorry, Granger," she said determinedly. "I had no idea what I was doing."

"Don't apologize to me. Merlin knows it's not your fault," Hermione replied. And it wasn't. Everything was his fault. Everything was always his fault... Everything was always his plan.

Hermione found herself restraining tears. How? How had they come back so easily? It wasn't fair... Not at all. "It's his fault," Hermione continued, her voice trembling. "He used you. Just like he uses everyone."

Including me.

Hermione drew her knees up to her chest, thanking the Lord for Mungo, who was the only one who had the good grace to look away as tears started to stream hotly from her eyes. Miranda gently placed an arm around her, and Hermione leaned into the other girl with only slight reluctance, forgetting that most of these people had abandoned her, smelling that faintly-remembered scent of violets, rediscovering that feeling of having friends.

She opened her mouth and a whimper worked its way out. Emotion flooded its way hotly back into her chest. Feeling that had been postponed for six long, cold days. "Thank you all," she sobbed, and her helpless sniffling continued through her next words. "You don't know... how much this means."

Abraxas turned to Araminta as Miranda and Catalina huddled with Hermione, shushing her gently, holding her as they would hold a child in distress. Abraxas steered Araminta to the side and said, "What did he do?"

Araminta looked absolutely stricken. "He... he came up to me and said he missed me. I knew there was something wrong, Abraxas – I knew there was something wrong with the whole thing, but – he kissed me, and I couldn't – don't judge me, I didn't -"

"I'm not judging you," said Abraxas. "When Tom Riddle wants something, he gets it. It's not your fault." He placed a hand gently on Araminta's shoulder. "Go on?"

She swallowed. "And he took me up to the Head Boy and Head Girl rooms, but he said his room was messy so we shouldn't go in, so we went into the Head Girl room instead, and... and, and we got into the bed, and he started kissing me again, and I was so, so happy -"

Araminta broke off and put a hand to her face, sucking in a deep breath through her nose, blinking quickly to ward off that prickling feeling coming to her eyes. She would not let herself cry over this. "And then, after a while, the door opened, and Granger came in," she whispered.

Abraxas nodded, his earnest grey gaze holding hers, giving her strength to continue. "I think she just said, 'Tom', and then his face got so angry... it was scary, Abraxas – I felt so scared for her, and he said, 'Don't call me that, you filthy Mudblood,' and she looked like..." Araminta trailed off. Abraxas looked absolutely horrified. "And then right after he said that, he cast some spell on her, some spell I don't know."

Abraxas licked his lips, shaking himself from his stupor. "Can you remember the incantation?" he asked in a low voice. "Did he say it aloud?"

"It was... something like, like... it started with... the word ledge, or something like it," Araminta said. She seemed to be getting herself back together. Her eyes had a note of resolve in them. "Yes, something like that. And then Granger was on her knees, and Tom was just... lying there, and his eyes looked all funny, like he was seeing something that wasn't there, and Granger was screaming... and I ran away. That's the last I saw."

Abraxas swallowed. The word ledge? He thought for a second – and then he realized. "Legilimens?" he asked. "Was that what he said? Legilimens?"

Araminta nodded, her face clearing. "Yes, that was it. What does it do?"

"It's a mind-reading spell," Abraxas said quietly, and then rage started to fill him. "He wanted information, and that was the only way he could get it out of her." That was all Tom Riddle ever wanted, no matter for the feelings of a Gryffindor girl who had personally nursed him back to health, who had given him everything –

Everything.

Abraxas closed his eyes in disbelief. She had slept with him, too. Just to make things worse. Just to emotionally invest her even more so that when he broke her heart there was no chance she could resist.

Abraxas' eyes narrowed, and he let go of Araminta's shoulder.

"Are you mad at me?" Araminta's high voice asked tentatively. He looked back at her, and his eyes softened a little.

"No one's mad at you," he reassured. "Thank you, Araminta."

Araminta's eyes finally filled with tears. "Don't thank me," she said throatily. "I've been so stupid, just to fall back to him at the slightest little thing."

Then she left the classroom, before he could see her cry.

Abraxas looked back at Hermione, who was a veritable mess. He wondered what she'd been doing for six days, alone in the Room of Requirement, alone with a broken heart. He knew the dangers of being alone with a broken heart, had lived them out in a personal nightmare. Although he'd never had anything like this done to him. Nothing like it. Never.

It struck him again just how dead Riddle seemed, and he wondered what Hermione had said to Riddle after Araminta had left... It must have been bad. Abraxas hoped it had been the worst thing ever said. Riddle deserved nothing less. Riddle deserved to be crushed under Hermione's foot.

Abraxas walked to the sofa where Hermione was sitting, where her friends were consoling her. Godric said, "Hermione, if you'd like, we could hide a firework in his bed or something..."

And then her eyes got cold, and hard. Hermione said, "No. The only person who will ever hurt him is me."

Then Abraxas felt a bit scared. She'd changed. And it wasn't a good change, either. There was nothing good about this situation at all.

Godric raised an eyebrow, running a hand through his red hair. "Well, you know, he always shows up for Dueling, if you'd like a place and time."

"I think I might really like that," Hermione said quietly, and that same look was still on her face. No one asked her what had happened. They just understood that Hermione had had her heart broken, and they understood that revenge is sweeter than anything else, especially when it came to a broken heart.

But Abraxas was unsettled. Revenge was not... Hermione. She'd talked about a girl once who had betrayed her and her friends, and how she'd made a hex to disfigure the girl's face. Justice. But violence…

Perhaps, though, in this situation, it was the best possible avenue. Abraxas sighed.

"Shall we all go down to the Kitchens and eat together before Dueling, then?" suggested Catalina Lightfoot.

Hermione felt like she might start crying again. This was what she'd hopelessly prayed for, for so long – that everyone she liked might like each other, might set aside their so-called differences and see that they weren't different.

She wiped her eyes and smiled weakly, and the smile felt strange on her face, but she stood, her arm in the strong grip of Minerva McGonagall, Miranda's arm around her shoulder, Jared Pippin's hand gentle on her back.

The atmosphere was as jovial as if it were a post-Quidditch-victory party. Herpo and Revelend had a furious flour battle with Miranda and Catalina, although the Slytherin boys seemed to be taking it a lot more seriously than the laughing girls. Abraxas and Godric were getting along famously, as Hermione had always secretly thought they would. Mungo and Jared were being Mungo and Jared, seemingly in their own little world, and Professor McGonagall was sitting calmly with Hermione, quite content just to sit and not to talk. There was no I-told-you-so on the lips of any of her Gryffindor friends, and there was no pity in the eyes of anyone at all. Just a comfort, a hope, a reassurance that she would be all right.

Hermione felt strangely buoyed by the cheer around her. Perhaps she could be coaxed back into normalcy simply by associating with normal people? Well, not normal, really. All these people were incredibly talented and intelligent, far beyond normal. But not...

Well, not him. And as long as it wasn't him, Hermione felt like she might be all right.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle sat completely alone. He didn't know where Abraxas, Herpo or Revelend were, but they weren't at dinner. There was blank space all around him, and he didn't really find himself caring. If the space to his right had been filled, then he would have been okay. Just one person. That would've made it okay.

I killed her.

His eyes looked quietly down at his plate, which was empty, and staying that way. He hadn't eaten since lunch the day before, but he honestly didn't feel hungry. He supposed that hunger was just one more thing to tally onto the list of things he didn't seem to be able to feel anymore. Anger had faded after the third day, bitterness after the fourth, misery after the fifth. Riddle felt like he was waiting to feel something, anything at all, and then suddenly he would have some sort of epiphany. But it wasn't coming. Nothing was.

I killed her.

This wasn't like the last time – he wasn't decomposing. His hair, his clothing, and his appearance were impeccable. Perhaps the only outward physical sign that there was something different was that there were dark circles under his eyes, though Riddle doubted anyone had noticed. He hadn't been sleeping, really, but he hadn't spent his waking hours doing anything. Just warding off the nightmares. The nightmare, really, for it was the same one, over and over. Walking into the Room of Requirement... seeing Hermione jerking and screaming under his wand... realizing that the person who held the wand was his exact body double. No – he couldn't deal with the dream. He just lay there, his eyes open.

I killed her.

Riddle briefly considered making himself a Sleeping Draught, but he felt like he might get it wrong. It didn't seem important that a Sleeping Draught was third-year Potions material. He still felt as if it would go terribly awry if he tried it. There was no logic to his thoughts these days, and he fully acknowledged it, but he couldn't seem to line anything up in his head. Nothing quick-witted or malicious even dared to make itself known anymore, perhaps because he was so preoccupied with holding the descent into that pit at bay.

I killed her.

People started leaving. Riddle got up and went back to his room. There were twenty minutes before Dueling started, and though he never did anything, watching duels was about the only thing with variety about his days.

I killed her.

He sat on his bed, remembering how she had used to feed him. She'd sat there for hour after hour after hour; she'd brought him food; she'd spent herself on his ability to be a normal human being.

I killed her.

No one else had even noticed him lying dead on the ground. No one else had been willing to do anything at all.

I killed her.

Tom Riddle sat on the edge of his bed and looked down at his hands and considered doing something drastic. But in the end he just looked at his clock and watched twenty minutes pass, and then he placed his wand in his pocket gently and left again, the door a quiet click, his feet quiet taps, everything else nothing at all.

I killed her.

When he reached the Great Hall and walked in, he couldn't see Abraxas, Herpo, or Revelend anywhere. He stood a few feet from Vaisey, Taylor, and Takahashi, waiting for Godric Gryffindor to call things to order. Riddle couldn't see where Gryffindor was, either. That was sort of strange, but then it ceased to be strange, because Riddle glanced over at the door and everything seemed to be strange beyond any previous mention of the word. In through the door walked Abraxas, chatting jovially with Godric Gryffindor. To their right was Catalina Lightfoot, who was smiling brightly at Abraxas, and then Miranda Goshawk and Albus Dumbledore, speaking with Herpo and Revelend rather animatedly. And nestled right in the middle of this group were Minerva McGonagall and Hermione Granger.

I killed her.

Seeing her again, in the flesh, was more than a shock. It was like the strike of being hit with a curse. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing someone else entirely, like peering into a pool to see one's reflection and instead seeing nothing at all. It was stranger to see her than to see all these people associating with each other as if they'd been lifelong friends.

I killed her.

But she didn't seem to see him. She didn't look away from McGonagall, anyway, so all Riddle could see was her profile, the left half of her face. Certain parts of her seemed to stick out to Riddle from where he stood across the room - a tiny hint at a smile on her lips, one lock of her hair that strayed over her ear, the very last small curve of her nose, the smooth skin of her neck.

I killed her.

Godric raised his hand, and the Great Hall doors swung shut. He hopped up onto the dais.

"Do we have any volunteers for the first duel tonight?" he asked.

"Yes," said Hermione's voice, strong, determined. "Is Tom Riddle here?"

There seemed to be a great sweeping whisper across the room – Hermione Granger is back – but as Riddle looked at that odd little group that had walked in together, he saw no surprised faces there. They'd all known she was going to challenge him.

"I'm here," Riddle said, but he said it as quietly as if she were standing right next to him, and no one heard.

Vaisey, Taylor, and Takahashi seemed to have drifted away. Even if he had wanted to refuse Hermione, there was no one who would step up for him, no one to take his place.

Hermione stepped up onto the dais, her eyes still searching. Riddle made his way quietly through the crowd.

She didn't notice him until he was standing there, right in front of her, and then Hermione suddenly felt like this was a mistake.

Looking into his face, looking into those eyes, the eyes she'd come to associate with trust, with soft words, with love – she didn't want to hurt him at all. She just wanted to run to him and give him a second chance, give him a ninth chance, however many he needed –

But then he drew his wand, and looking at that wand, Hermione was jerked back to what he'd done. How he'd used a girl who was in love with him to betray another girl in love with him. How he'd burrowed into her mind. How he'd made her relive when he'd killed her.

Hermione drew her own wand. No mercy.

"Care to have the first move?" she whispered, her eyes locked with his.

He made absolutely no response.

"Fine."

She flicked her wand. Terinculum Efectiva.

And there, in the air, she drew six small boxes in a loose hexagon shape, sketching in the runes faster than her eyes could track. Ehwaz. Irwaz. Zhabra. Unam. Nevim. Qirej.

The hexagon glowed yellow, and spun, and spun, and swelled, and then stretched backwards and flung itself at Riddle.

He didn't even lift his wand to defend himself.

The stream of yellow smashed into his chest, tossing him backwards, his body going as limp as if he were a rag doll. Hermione lifted her wand and jerked it forward. His leg followed. Then, limb by limb, she brought him to his knees, and then she released his wand hand from her grip. But he didn't do anything. His wand was held loosely by his curled, unmoving fingers. "Fight back," Hermione murmured, scrutinizing his face. Hers contorted into rage, and she spat, "Fight back, dammit!"

She swung her wand, and he was prostrated on the ground again, cheek to stone, and Hermione sent a curse spinning at him. It hit him, whirling him around, sending him rolling over and over until he was face-up. His eyes were closed, his brow was creased, and his wand was still in his hand.

Hermione shut her eyes. Why was this happening? Why was he making this difficult? Why wouldn't he just try to curse her, let her hate him, let this be the only easy thing about this whole damn thing?

Seconds of silence turned into minutes.

Not a motion from him.

"Expelliarmus," she growled, and his wand flew from his hand and clattered onto the dais.

There was no victory in it. Not in the successful runic spell. Not in climbing down from the stone to a fierce pat on the back from Godric. Not in looking back at Tom Riddle as he carefully stood up, picked up his wand, and descended from the platform.

The silence was vicious. The silence was tangible. Now that Hermione had seen him, she could not tear her eyes from him.

And dear God – how could she miss him? How could that be what she was feeling? How was this possible? Why were the only memories right now the ones of him kissing her gently, the ones of him comforting her, the ones of him holding her like she was a blessing? After all she'd gone through, how could her heart be doing this to her? It wasn't right. She should have felt disgust. She should have felt – at the very least – utter hatred. She shouldn't have wanted him to tell her he was there for her, no matter what anyone else might do.

She shouldn't have wanted to feel that utter safety she'd used to have. After all, hadn't that been the biggest lie of all? That she might be safe around Tom Riddle, Jr.? That he might do something for someone other than himself?

The human heart was inexplicable.

If this was the way she had to learn it... then she thought she might need to study for a while longer.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle's eyes were locked with hers, and he could have sworn that behind her eyes was something other than the desire to rend him limb from limb. He couldn't look away from her, and she didn't seem to be able to look away from him, either.

So she'd been able to master Runic Spells, apparently, as she didn't even seem like she was weakened at all by what she'd done, which was to remove every ounce of control from his body. And during that spell, when she'd had all the control, when she'd had all the power – Riddle had felt utterly freed. Freed from the responsibility of being himself, of being anything at all besides alive.

Everything he'd ever done of his own volition had been absolutely wrong, after all. Wouldn't it be better if he had no choice in what to do with himself?

He'd never believed in God. Now, though – God was a comforting concept. Still more comforting was the notion of fate. If he'd never had a choice... that was the only way it would ever be acceptable in his mind, now. Surely that part of him that had thought it was acceptable to do that to her... surely that part of him had been sent by some sort of dark deity, had been placed in him against his will, had been sent to him for whatever reason that God had for wanting to break Hermione Granger's heart.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione yawned, walking back to the Gryffindor common room with Albus, Professor McGonagall, Miranda, and Godric. Professor McGonagall's arm was around her shoulder protectively – of course she would feel protective, Hermione mused; it was like a posthumous attempt at her safety.

How long had it been since she'd sat in that warm common room? She looked around with utter fondness at every rug, every red seat, the blazing hearth.

Then Godric gave her a strong goodnight hug, and Albus, next, and she was walking up the stairs to her dormitory, where it seemed she would always return – and the feeling that flooded her as she walked in was relief. Pure relief.

Yet when the lights turned out, and Hermione closed her eyes, she couldn't get his face out of her head. No matter what she tried. No matter which memories she tried to pick. It was his face, and he looked like a teenage boy in love.

Appearances were so deceptive.

Hermione's arms curled around her pillow, and the bed suddenly felt empty. Hermione frowned into her pillow... she couldn't take him back. She couldn't be that weak.

Could she?

She'd done it once in the past, though that had been back when they'd only just started to be able to call each other friends...

The thought of the word curled and writhed in Hermione. Friends. She had friends, but he – he had nothing. He had been standing there so utterly alone, friendless, having pushed absolutely everyone away.

She hoped he was happy with what he'd gotten. She hoped it had felt like a good trade for him. Her heart in exchange for knowing he'd murdered her. Everyone around him in exchange for the knowledge that he'd tortured and killed a teenage girl.

She hoped it'd been worth it.

Hermione fell asleep.