Oh my god. Quadruple digits. *Awe*
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Speechwriter.
She was back.
Hermione may have been tired, exhausted, utterly spent, from having revived every part of her emotional spectrum – but she was back. She could hold a conversation again. She could laugh again. She was herself.
The same didn't seem to be true for Tom Riddle. Hermione had moved back to the Gryffindor table, but Abraxas, Herpo and Revelend still sat at the Slytherin table, of course, with Riddle – although he wasn't present at lunch that day in particular – and he still didn't really seem to be... a person.
It was an odd way to put it, sure, but Hermione hadn't yet seen a single bit of anything make its way onto his face, into his eyes – nothing. He was an empty page, a blank slate. She wondered if he'd accidentally Obliviated himself. Then she wondered if he'd Obliviated himself on purpose, so that he didn't have to know the ugly truth. Then Hermione cursed inwardly for wondering about him in the first place.
She didn't understand herself. It had always been inherent curiosity which had drawn her back to Riddle – and that was gone, now. She knew everything about him, knew every last tiny evil fiber of him, had relived most of his life through his eyes. What exactly was it, now, that remained? What was it that made her want to trail back to him? What was it that refused to listen to every single logical part of her?
A weird part of Hermione felt like he wouldn't have spent that much time just to find out a simple piece of information. That same part of her screamed that he wouldn't have let her see his past if he didn't trust her.
Hermione suddenly remembered sitting on his bed, hefting Albus' Runic Spells book, looking down at his wounded body as he said, "I trust you," with only a bit of unease. The first time he'd ever said that to her. Hermione shut her eyes as she remembered trusting him, too, with every bit of herself, with every part of herself. That conversation with Abraxas. If I didn't know he loved me, I'd be scared for myself.
If I didn't know he loved me.
Uneasy doubt poured through Hermione's mind. There was no way for him to have fabricated his memories of her. She hadn't even thought about that – the memories... all of her, of her face, of them together, of her healing him – everything sitting right there at the forefront of his mind.
She's too good for you, that voice in his head had said – that familiar voice.
And he'd known it.
But if he had meant it when he'd said he loved her... how could he have hurt her like that?
Absurdly, an old Muggle adage swam through Hermione's mind – if you want to make an omelet, you're going to have to break a couple of eggs. But there had been hardly any proverbial omelet to be gained, and the proverbial eggshell would have had to be peppered with explosives. Surely his mind could have seen that the costs would far outweigh the benefits.
Hermione tried to see how it could possibly make sense in his head – and then she stopped herself with a sharp shake of her head. It was not her duty to figure out his reasoning. It was not her job to be his retrospective moral compass. She was not obliged to do anything for him. Not anymore.
Well, that was stupid. She'd never been obliged to do anything for him in the first place, and that was what had set her apart, really, wasn't it? Her desire to help him.
Not a single person with whom she'd spoken about it had suggested that she forgive him. Godric, McGonagall, and Revelend had all been a flat "No." Herpo and Miranda had both looked a bit uneasy and in essence had told her that they didn't think they could ever find it in themselves. Albus had fixed her with his blue eyes and said, "There are wrongs that cannot be righted even by the strongest of hearts."
She hadn't asked Abraxas, yet, though.
The great scraping and clattering began as students started to stream out of the Great Hall. "Hey, Abraxas," she panted, hurrying after his broad back into the snow, which, to Melia's credit, was almost done melting. "I have a question."
"Yeah?" he said, turning to face her.
"Do you think I should forgive Riddle?"
There was a pause, and Hermione was shocked to see Abraxas smile, his eyes growing warm. "Yeah," he said. "If you can't, it's entirely understandable, but I think you should try."
Hermione swallowed. She felt like she'd been waiting to hear the words from someone.
"But why?"
He shrugged, looking up into the white, wintry sky. The clouds reflected in his grey eyes. "To err is human. To forgive is divine," he said, and Hermione stared. That was a Muggle quote. How the hell did Abraxas Malfoy know a Muggle quote? Especially one like that? He continued, though. "I don't mean to say you need to tell Riddle you forgive him, or validate him somehow. You just need to find it in yourself, and whatever way you manage to do that – I think it would be good for you. No matter how impossible it seems."
That was true. It seemed to be an insurmountable barrier. To put behind her everything that went along with a broken heart? To put behind her every bit of deception he'd managed to exact upon her? Hermione didn't know if she could do that, but a part of her heart cried the truth of Abraxas' words.
She smiled. "Abraxas, you're the best," she said quietly, and she turned and walked away, leaving him looking a little shaken at the words for some reason.
Abraxas stared after her. Those same words that Riddle had said after he'd told him Hermione loved him. The unsure Riddle. The weak Riddle. The Riddle that reminded Abraxas so much of himself it was painful to consider.
Abraxas swallowed, shook his head, and started walking down to Hogsmeade. He had told Catalina he'd meet her there, after all, and he didn't want to be late.
xXxXxXxXx
Tom Riddle rolled out of bed, unsurprised to see he'd slept through lunch. Now that he'd finally started sleeping again, it seemed to be all he could do. It was far better – he felt all right, now that he was sleeping. Felt like a regular human being, or as much so as he'd let himself feel like anything. That unknown pit still gaped beneath him, praying for him to slip up, to think a little too hard about Hermione Granger. And he would not oblige it.
He glanced over to the stack of books on his desk. He had read all but the last two on the bottom, although he couldn't remember taking that bottom one out of the library, for some reason. But he'd deal with that when he got there.
That was what he kept telling himself. I'll deal with that when I get there. He went from planning everything to planning nothing at all. Nothing made its way to his mind as anything more than surface value anymore. If someone smiled, they were happy. If someone laughed, then something was funny. If someone asked someone else something, then they were looking for an answer to their question and nothing else. The world had no more ulterior motive to Tom Riddle. Nothing really seemed to, now that he himself had none.
The books weren't from the Restricted Section. He hadn't felt like it, for some reason. In fact, he'd picked the blandest of the bland.
He pulled out the second-to-last in the stack and hefted it in his hand. Magical Creatures of Great Britain and their Evolutionary Origins. Hardly light reading.
Light reading. Hermione had used to use that phrase for any reading at all, no matter what it was.
Riddle blinked and sat down on the sofa. His feet were perfectly together. His back was ramrod-straight. His hands were perfectly symmetrical on the sides of the book. He turned to page one.
xXxXxXxXx
Hermione spent a contented afternoon in the Gryffindor common room, watching Miranda soundly thrash Godric at Wizard's Chess – a barbaric game, to be sure, but watching Godric Gryffindor lose a match definitely had its comedic merits. The main effect was that he turned as red as the Hogwarts Express – and Hermione was surprised he didn't whistle, too, or have smoke come out of his ears, like the train itself.
McGonagall was giving a bit of a Transfiguration lesson to the tall blond boy who had announced her arrival. Albus napped in his favorite red chair, his chin resting on his chest peacefully. Hermione was, for the first time in a while, rereading her notes on Drew Caeziten's pages on thread theory. She'd forgotten how absolutely correct he was about everything.
She sighed as she flipped through the original source again. The words were so familiar... she'd read them enough times for them to be more than familiar, of course.
And if one should pray they might re-ascend into the realms of the living, then they may increase their hold on life by, perhaps, an augmentation of the strength of what has kept them from Death in the primary instance of their deceased nature; by perhaps a demonstration of that which is the ultimate evil; by perhaps a demonstration of that which is the ultimate good. And should they fail in a manner dire to the soul, then shall they remain caught forever in-between, in these grayed shades of the not-yet-dead and never-to-be-so.
To be caught here... forever.
What a horrible thought. To be going nowhere for eternity. Then again, that would only apply if one really deserved it, right? Like, for instance, if one ripped their soul eight times.
How could Hermione wish that on anyone, though? No one deserved an eternity of anything. The fact about existence was that it was ever-changing; that was the only reason it was tolerable, after all.
It would be especially intolerable if one didn't know anything about the joys of life, Hermione mused. If they knew nothing of peace, of friendship, of happiness, of love... If they just couldn't seem to get it, not after hours and days and weeks, not even after saying the words 'I love you', not even then? Then existence would be miserable indeed.
Especially alone.
Hermione closed her eyes and rubbed them. She wondered if there were a way she could surgically remove Tom Riddle from her mind.
She sunk down a little lower into the sofa and considered Abraxas' words. When would she know for sure if she'd forgiven him? Her rage had subsided, but the hurt hadn't gone away.
But forgiveness didn't mean feeling fine. Forgiveness meant being able to face that pain, to look it in the eye and say I blame no one for your presence in my heart.
Could she really blame him? She was the one who had first broken the promise, after all...
Well, yes, she could blame him. All that curiosity she'd had for so long – she would never have done something like that to get information out of him.
That was all he'd ever known, though. How to extort, lie, cheat, and manipulate. Could she really have expected him to change, just for her, in a matter of a couple months?
No. She couldn't have expected it, and she shouldn't have, but she had anyway. She'd thought, when he murmured I love you into her ear, that he understood what he was saying, that he understood that love meant being willing to do anything for her. That he understood love meant putting everything aside for her – meant putting himself aside for her. She'd thought he would have done anything for her, just as she would have done anything for him.
Hermione bit her tongue, bit her cheek, bit back those tears furiously. And now – even now – he hadn't apologized. Even now, he was making this all about him, retreating into this state of utter blankness that left Hermione wondering what the hell was wrong with him, what the hell he was doing.
And, yet again, I've managed to make this all about me.
That's just a part of being around you.
Even when she wasn't around him... and even when she desperately, unfairly, completely wished she were.
xXxXxXxXx
Riddle put down the book, looking out at the sunset. Dinner was probably ready. Abraxas had said something about a date with some girl, though, so perhaps he wouldn't be returning for dinner. That prospect was not good, for Revelend and Herpo would doubtless be completely silent and awkward without someone to loosen them up.
Well, then, he would bring a book.
He'd almost finished Magical Creatures, though. Riddle toiled through the last creature of all, which had merited only a brief paragraph:
The origins of Thestrals have, as of yet, remained undiscovered. It appears as if these beasts sprang from the ether, and they never return whence they came, living beyond time's constraints, perhaps not living at all. Expert Alexander Wilheim says on the subject, "The Thestral is a beast composed of mystery; searching for its evolutionary origins is as fruitless as searching for the origins of atoms, nothingness, or magic."
Riddle set it on top of the stack, leaned down, and managed to squeeze the bottom book out into his pocket, the pile teetering dangerously.
He walked down to the Great Hall, and with immense relief, he saw that Abraxas was in fact there, looking even happier than usual. Probably a side effect of whatever date he'd gone on. Riddle sat down and stuck his hand in his pocket – well, he wouldn't need this book, then, because Abraxas would likely be recounting the day with great animation during dinner. Riddle sat down and pulled the book out, just to refresh his memory as to what it was.
He dropped it. It hit the ground with a loud 'thud'. Abraxas looked up at him, surprise in his grey eyes.
There, from the ground, those three words glared up at him like an accusation. The Divine Comedy. He'd never finished reading it, like he'd said he would. He'd never even finished The Inferno, though that was likely because he hadn't wanted to read through the eighth and ninth circles because –
Riddle swallowed, and his eyes got very wide as he looked down at the book. He reached out for it with a nerveless hand and put it back in his pocket, and then he stared at his plate, a huge lump in his throat.
Betrayal of their benefactors. Supposedly the worst sin of all.
Even a Muggle had known it.
Riddle's eyes snapped shut, and felt himself completely losing control. He gripped the edge of the table with one hand, gripped the bench with his other, and his heart sped up. What did I do?
His face contorted into agony, and he swayed a little. What did I do?
His lips parted slightly, and he breathed through his mouth, and he slid into that pit – that huge pit that had been calling for weeks. A deep, soulful pain roared into existence right behind his ribcage, as if his heart would freeze up and crack in two, and Riddle gritted his teeth against it. His eyes opened again, and they were instantly drawn to her.
She was looking at him.
As his eyes stared into hers, a memory burst into his mind, crystal-clear –
He stared at his dark green bedcurtains, stared at them like some secret was hidden in their folds. "How am I supposed to know when it happens?"
Hermione bit her lip. "You'll know," she said. "If it's remorse... you'll know."
And he knew.
Riddle got to his feet, his head spinning, the ache within him not subsiding, resonating through every tiny part of him. He didn't know what he was doing, but he was walking over to her, and he was stopping in front of her.
And then he found he had nothing – and everything – to say.
xXxXxXxXx
Hermione was frozen rigid to her seat. He looked like he was hurt, as his eyes met hers. She couldn't look away. He was staring at her as he'd never stared before. Those dark eyes were unusually clear – and then he was standing.
What is he doing –
Walking to her.
What is he doing?
Stopping right next to her.
All activity within a few feet had ceased. Miranda and Catalina were wide-eyed; Godric flabbergasted. Albus looked as if he had smelled something bad. McGonagall's lips were pursed so thin they practically disappeared and she was as stiff as a board.
Hermione herself? Hermione couldn't imagine what she looked like right now. She felt like she was about to hyperventilate. She was still staring straight ahead, though he was in her peripherals, right there right there –
Then something inside of her swelled in courage. Hermione turned a little, said, "Yes?", and looked up into his face, which was a grave error, because on his handsome face was an expression as pained as any she'd ever seen. It was as if some giant gong had been struck within her, sending waves of echoing feeling through her body. He was so close. She could have reached out and touched him... touched him again... could have stood up and kissed him; it was so strange that it was physically possible for her to do that –
He opened his mouth a little, but he didn't seem to be able to make words come out. Maybe his voice had vanished from disuse.
"You told me I'd know when it happened," he worked out, his voice little more than a whisper, but Hermione heard it as clearly as if his lips were murmuring into her ear. "It's happening."
And then he fell to his knees right there, his hands clutching at his head, his eyes squeezed tight shut. Hermione made a violent, involuntary motion, as if to fall to his side, as if to comfort him and tell him everything would be fine – but her mind was stuck on his words.
When what happened?
The pieces fell together in her mind. That expression – the expression R.J. had had when he was talking about what he'd done. The hollow expression, the expression that wanted... wanted things to be different. Wanted things to have changed. Wanted something never to have happened.
"God," she whispered.
Tom Riddle felt remorse.
It wracked every inch of his body, and as he locked his eyes shut it was like an image was projecting itself harsh onto the backs of his eyelids. Like a diamond piecing itself back together, every facet glimmering in a sea of black. Like a pathetically frayed knot reweaving itself. Gold and silver and glowing with a harsh light he could not ignore, and once that shimmering, healing, painful light subsided?
He felt.
It a tidal wave. Everything he'd missed, everything he'd only shallowly managed to simulate with his soul in that state – it inundated him completely. Pain and joy side-by-side with guilt and pride and misery and care and jealousy and nostalgia and love... and above all, the driving force of the wave, the remorse remorse remorse barreling into him over and over and over with everything it had. Riddle's hands clutched his knees, his eyes still closed, his head pounding as if his skull were hammer-smashed –
When he opened his eyes again, he seemed to notice everything more than he ever had before. The light clinks of forks hitting plates. The delicate smells mixing together. The way the shimmer of the other world lent a strange, ephemeral almost-glow to everything around him.
And he cared.
Gone was the apathy. His mind was back, and it was reeling, and his eyes found Hermione again and did not let go.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, and truer words had never been spoken. "I'm so sorry for everything I've done to you."
Hermione's fingers were gripping her thighs so hard that when she let go she felt her legs might fall off.
His soul?
Was it whole again? There had been a fleeting glow, right in the center of his chest – did that mean that Tom Riddle's soul had healed itself?
He was human again. He was real.
Hermione was hardly used to letting go of grudges, to letting go of resentment. Why, then, did she suddenly feel like she was floating? Why did she feel like she was relieved that his soul was healed? Why had every drop of malice drained away?
He stood up, his eyes an anguished plea for a response. Hermione was on her feet, somehow, too, and she suddenly felt that the words weren't even a strain from her lips, and she didn't know how or why that was, but everything was gone in the moment of this revelation –
"I forgive you."
And then – a frantic tug inside her, and Hermione swore she wasn't imagining a thing. It was like – it was like something inside was fighting its way to the top of her, as if she were being tugged to the tips of her toes by this grip in the center of her chest.
Tom Riddle, Jr. felt it too. He finally acknowledged that pull, the pull that he'd felt since right after the event, although for the life of him he couldn't figure out what it was.
Her eyes were wide. "Do you feel it?" she murmured, and his dark eyes fixed on her like they wouldn't ever let her out of his sight. Quite a few people were looking, now, but Hermione found she couldn't care less. He nodded, and a lock of his hair fell from its place and settled over his eye, but he made no move to right it.
Then Tom Riddle knew what to do. "Come on."
Hermione nodded. She turned and kissed Catalina and Miranda on each of their cheeks, slowly, tenderly. Godric stood up. "What are you doing? Where are you going?"
Hermione wrapped him in a hug. "I'll miss you."
Albus leaned across the table, his blue eyes fixed on her, and Hermione pressed her arms around his thin body, closing her eyes, letting him go, finally.
Hermione looked at McGonagall and smiled a bit wistfully. Hermione said, "I'll see you soon."
Abraxas had hurried over, dragging Herpo and Revelend behind him. "Goodbye," said Hermione, looking at their familiar faces, emotion building in her. "I – goodbye." Abraxas' hug was almost desperate, and Hermione whispered, "Thank you so much for everything." Tearing her eyes from his big, familiar face was painful. She kissed Herpo and Revelend on the cheek, and they turned twin shades of crimson.
Mungo and Jared were not in the Great Hall. Hermione said to Abraxas, "Tell our healers not to be afraid of who they are." She swallowed and turned, her eyes sweeping over everyone there. "I love you all, very much."
Tom Riddle looked around at them all and gave a stiff nod. Then he walked out of the Great Hall, and Hermione followed, feeling like she was floating a few inches off the ground, the pull was so strong, and they made their way out of the doors. The sunset was deep red, and the last traces of snow were gone from the emerald grass. Hermione breathed in deep as Tom looked back. There was breathless comprehension in his face as they walked into the forest.
It was as if there had been some sort of prior understanding, for there, barely ten feet into the woods, stood two Thestrals.
Hermione took a breath, reached out a hand, and touched the head of the nearest one. Its eyes held hers as she walked to its side. "What do we do, Tom?"
He climbed atop one, she the other.
Riddle's wand pressed to the beast's temple. From the ether.
"Avada Kedavra," he whispered. Then he aimed his wand at Hermione's steed and did the same.
Hermione felt something rock her to her core. The Thestrals opened their mouths and screamed with the sound of ripping metal, the glossy hair shredding itself away, their skin tugging taut to their skeletons. Their eyes misted over in death, cloudy and white. Then the creatures spread their decaying wings and kicked off from the ground, falling simultaneously, rising and toppling and tearing through the air –
It was as if the world had died. Everything had gone dark. Everything, black, except for the gray shadows of the Thestrals and their riders, and it hurt, getting pulled up through the inky darkness – a throbbing pain in her chest –
Hermione felt the ache intensify in her chest, and she knew what was happening.
By perhaps a demonstration of that which is the ultimate evil; by perhaps a demonstration of that which is the ultimate good. And the ultimate evil had been the betrayal, and the ultimate good had been the forgiveness of that evil. All they'd needed was the catalyst.
Hermione's eyes locked with Tom's. How had he known about the Thestrals? Could he be sure? Would they be trapped in this blackness for eternity?
She swallowed, her heart beating fast, and she scrutinized the familiar contours of Riddle's face. It struck her for the first time that she wanted him there, wanted him to be across from her, wanted him to be present now that she was utterly terrified. "I'm scared," she whispered, and it echoed as if they were in a vast marble chamber.
"Don't be," he replied. "It's all right."
Hermione closed her eyes, then, and that tugging feeling inside her grew and grew until she thought she would burst from it.
And then she was falling, head over toe, and landing quite painfully on grass, and she opened her eyes, and Tom Riddle was next to her. His face was the first thing she saw, and it was different.
There were shadows on his face. Harsh shadows. She could see a hint at a wrinkle beside his left eye, and it looked like there was a faint scratch on his cheek. Everything was clear, clear as it hadn't been for months and months, clear and detailed and gritty and real – no shimmer; no shine.
Hermione looked around. The moon was a little less than half-full, clouds scudding across its milky face. The lake, right in front of them, was black and rippled in the sharp breeze. The banks were muddy. The reeds were bent. Everything was imperfect, and in being so, absolutely perfect.
Her eyes slowly made their way down the bank, slowly made their way across the lake – and there was a shimmering, crackling wall of energy on the other side. It continued all the way around the Forbidden Forest, all the way around the castle. Everything walled in.
Fear hit Hermione like the thunder that suddenly crashed above them. They were back.
She was alive again.
Hermione swallowed. She was alive. She had been hit by Lord Voldemort's curse, and because of two well-kept secrets, a ward, an Answer book, and the ability to forgive, she was alive. It seemed ludicrous.
"Are we..." Tom started, his voice low. That had changed too. No longer smooth, sweet, and perfect – but dark, rough at the edges, with the timbre of a real human being.
"We're on earth," Hermione whispered, looking back at him in the night, his pale face filled with disbelief, his eyes drinking in the surroundings.
"You're back," he replied, turning his head and staring at her. "You're back where you should be."
Hermione swallowed. "And you have a second chance."
A muscle tightened in his jaw. She realized the double meaning of her words, but she didn't rectify them, for both meanings were true. Hermione stared into his dark liquid eyes, unreadable in the darkness, and cursed herself for wanting him pressed tight to her, wanting him to be as close as he'd been before. She cursed herself for putting the state of his soul above her feelings, cursed herself for somehow not being filled with anger, or hurt, or even misery. She cursed everything about this situation, sitting in silence, just looking at him and not believing she hadn't been so close in a week.
He said, "I... can I kiss you?"
She didn't answer. She just placed her hands on his chest and pressed her lips to his, and she felt warm human blood pulsing through her living veins and her heart – well, it felt like it would rupture.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured onto her lips. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Good," she replied fiercely, and pushed him onto the ground –
Hermione didn't realize how much she'd missed rain.
It started to pour down, soaking the ground, soaking Hermione's hair, and she felt like electricity was jumping from her wet lips to his. "I still love you," he whispered. "I swear to God I do."
Hermione bit her lip, moving back from him slightly, tears fighting their way to the surface. "I love you, too," she said, and it was true. She'd never stopped loving him. In fact, her every effort to do so had been so fruitless that she'd ignored it instead, shoving her feelings under the shallow sea of anger.
The look on his face.
Riddle grabbed her shoulders and kissed her, the rain trickling down his neck, thundering into the lake. He couldn't have dared to hope for it. But then – hadn't she told him? – hope is all we have.
He'd never kissed anyone like he was kissing her now. This couldn't be real. This was... this was enlivening. This was life as he'd never lived it. The person in his arms was shivering with cold, and he cared about her. He wanted her to be warm, and happy, and he wanted her to have everything she ever wanted and if he'd had it he would have given it to her. He'd never felt this in his life, never had the opportunity to feel this in his life. By the time he'd reached Hogwarts, he had already been alone, had already been broken and healed in a twisted form.
Tom Riddle felt like he was jealous of himself, felt like there was no way he could be this lucky, felt almost resentful that she could come back to him when he'd wronged her like that – even though he was pretty sure he'd never wanted anything more than he wanted her right now.
And Tom Riddle, he thought, always gets what he wants.
That bubbling desire to smile built up in him again, and a grin broke out on his face, there, in the crashing rain, as he stood her up, as he kissed her again and again and again.
To top it all off?
He had a full life in front of him.
His horcruxes had done their work after all, for he was here again, young, new, fresh, alive. He'd been born in the 1920s. And he was eighteen, and it was the turn of the century.
Victory felt like howling its way out of him. How could this be fair? How could he have gotten everything he wanted even after everything that had happened? How could fate deal him these cards?
He opened his eyes and looked down at Hermione.
It was fair, because through his actions, she'd come back. She was where she needed to be. She was where she should have been all along. He'd taken her life, and, somehow, he'd helped her get it back.
Her arms slid around him, and he didn't think he'd ever held her tighter, or kissed her more wildly, or had more feeling thudding in his chest. Tom Riddle had never been so out of control, and never had he felt better. He stroked back her wet hair with shaking fingers, pressing his lips to her forehead, and cradled her in an embrace again. This was better than any satisfaction he'd ever gleaned from things falling into place as he planned them. He hadn't planned any of this. He hadn't even considered any of this ever being an option, hadn't considered that she might forgive him, hadn't considered that he might ever kiss her again or hold her again or get to tell her that he loved her. Let alone life. Let alone being back on earth.
She stepped back from him. "I love you," she said, her voice quieted by the rain. "And it's so unfair for me to love you, but I do."
"I know," he murmured, his voice shaking a little.
"You broke my heart."
"It'll heal. If I have to fix it myself."
"You called me a Mudblood."
His jaw set, and his eyes burned. "I swear to Salazar Slytherin that I will never. Never again. And neither will anyone else."
"You killed me."
Riddle leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, and then put his lips by her ear, where they felt like they were supposed to be, where they felt like they had always been supposed to be, where they felt like they were supposed to remain, reassuring her, telling her – "Yet here you are."
They kissed again. They kissed, and kissed, and kissed, and only when thunder crashed overhead so loudly that Hermione felt like God was angry did they stop. And then she realized.
"Everyone," she breathed.
His hands were resting on her waist, his eyes on hers. "What?" he said.
"Everyone I know is in that castle," Hermione whispered. "Oh, God. Tom – we have to get up there. We have to get up there right now."
"Wait a second," he said, and took out his wand. He Disillusioned them both.
Hermione stared at his wand.
There were two, now, in this world, that were exactly the same. Ollivander had only ever made one, yet here was one, and elsewhere, somewhere up in that dark castle, sat another. There were two Tom Riddle Juniors. There were two hypothetical Lord Voldemorts – but one loved her, and the other knew nothing of love.
His hand gripped hers, and they hurried over the grounds, fear creeping back into her body again, tense, shaking fear, like she hadn't felt in so long.
This was her worst nightmare. This was her greatest fear.
But yet – yet in there were her friends. Everyone she loved. And at that thought, such hope grew in her that she thought she might fly. Separated by stone walls, nothing more. No longer separated by life or death. No longer separated by an entire world. No more subconsciously counting the days since she'd been on earth. She was here.
And Tom Riddle's hand was warm in hers, and she felt that safe feeling settle all around her. She was safe. He would keep her safe.
They hurried around the side of the castle. One of the side doors was slightly ajar, which made Hermione intensely nervous. The only reason the door might be open would be if there was absolutely no chance someone might escape through that door – unless it had been blasted open during a battle, which didn't seem entirely unlikely, Hermione supposed. But then again, it had been impossible to open or break any of the windows – why would the doors be any different? Even if there were only about five doors out of the castle...
But then – those huge chains on the Main Entrance, similar ones on the Great Hall. Perhaps the wards that were sealing the castle shut weakened around doors, and they hadn't reinforced this one as well... Hermione felt cold dread seeping through her body as she surveyed the dark crack. Who could be hiding behind that door? Anyone...
Riddle flicked his wand, and the door swung open gently.
"The door just opened," said a sharp voice from inside, and Hermione drew in a sharp breath, pressing herself against the wall.
"Anyone there?" asked another voice, a low voice.
"Doesn't look like it. Probably the wind; it's raining hard," said a third, and Hermione shut her eyes. How many Death Eaters were inthere? How on Earth were they going to get by?
Tom's hand tightened around hers. He whispered, "Stay close to me," and then before she could do a thing he had moved in front of the gaping doorway and cast a spell inside, a spell that suddenly made the previously-torch-lit room thick with impenetrable darkness. Without a glance back, Hermione and Tom hurried inside. There was a lot of noise – there had to be at least five Death Eaters in there; this was probably their den or something. Several of them were shouting, all at once, which masked the silent pair's passage.
Spells whizzed through the air, and Hermione crouched down a little, cold fear flooding her. The darkness was broken only by Tom's back, right in front of her. He had his hand out, searching for the door, which had been directly opposite them as they'd entered –
Just as he put his hand on the wooden door, the darkness vanished. Hermione cursed inwardly. Due to the Disillusionment, the Death Eaters – there were seven of them – didn't seem to have noticed them, but that wouldn't last long on such very close quarters. They hadn't opened the door yet, either, of all the foul luck –
An idea streamed through Hermione's mind. There was a runic spell, a very simple one, that would probably give them about ten seconds.
"When they move, get the door," she breathed to Riddle, so quiet she could hardly hear it herself. He gave a tiny nod, and Hermione traced two boxes into the air – Terinculum Efectiva – and used Flagrate to scratch in the runes just as one of the Death Eaters turned and seemed to realize that there was fiery blue writing hovering in midair – Cewaz Sizhu.
The two boxes spun around and around, forming a blue-white disk in mid-air, and then vanished completely. Immediately, blue pinpricks of light appeared above every Death Eater, and they were all thrown head-over-heel into ungraceful piles on the ground. Riddle yanked on the door, and they sprinted through, slamming the door shut with a resounding bang behind them.
They sprinted around the first corner, and emerged into a long hallway, empty, lit only by the moon and occasional bursts of lightning. "Keep close to the wall and the ground," Hermione breathed, afraid to make any noise at all, even though she was sure every Death Eater within a mile would be able to hear her heart banging in her chest, sure all those Death Eaters back in that room were chasing them right now. Adrenaline pumped viciously through her veins, making her shake, and she crouched down by the wall and started to crawl. Riddle followed her.
"Where do we go?" he whispered.
"Gryffindor common room," she murmured back. Harry. If Harry was safe, then there was hope. Harry was hope.
She felt like she should be questioning Riddle right now, felt like she should be questioning why she felt like she would trust him with her life – why she already had trusted him with her life. Then again, right at that second, Tom Riddle was the only thing that was sure in the world, and somehow she knew – she knew that he loved her.