As usual, thanks for all your feedback – journey's almost over *overdramatic sniff*.
Anyway.
Bloombright, Afros's are invading Mars, GRRRRRizzly Worm, WitchAmongMuggles, Riddleee3, MrsMargeryLovett, sweetgal3, Adrenaline Junkie In Da House, xXsmanthaXx (MOCKINGJAY YESS), MizDisguise, xXBlueDazeXx, Magtaria, Maximum Wings Cullen, Galavantian (BAhahaha I'm pretty sure I meant to write "magnificent", not "magnanimous. Massive fail), Jen, OfCakeAndIceCream, looksponge, november21, sweet-tang-honney, alianne, Nerys, AudioIrrelevance, lekass, xPaintedxRedx, Bellas Decathexis, iamweasleyfred, The-Konoha-Shadow, Jessi, VeniVidiVici92, RisottonoCheese, Rose With Love, ScarlettxTristan, Ona Ralgold, and anonymous –
Thank you so much for your advice, comments, questions, etc.
After three days, seven more people had been found. One was Professor McGonagall, to Hermione's immense relief. She was found with Professor Flitwick, and McGonagall was completely unharmed, but the same couldn't be said for Flitwick. His left foot was severed just above the ankle, and though he'd managed to heal it relatively quickly, he hadn't known any sort of spell to fashion himself a magical prosthetic, so he had just been hobbling around with a cane as quickly as he could – which, after some practice, was relatively fast.
Percy Weasley had been found in the library, and with him, Ernie Macmillan. Luckily, Percy and Ernie had both survived unscathed. Hermione didn't know how the blustery, conspicuous Ernie had managed to stay under the radar, but it became clear that he and Percy had been on the run, not staying in any particular place for long. Another person they had found was Hannah Abbott, and that discovery had been awful, for the girl had been driven out of her mind. She spoke to herself, wide-eyed, and she made no response when others talked to her. Hermione didn't know what to do, or how to feel. It was a sort of utter disbelief that this could actually happen to a student from Hogwarts, mixed with horror and sick rage. Hermione wondered how many others had met this same fate.
It was perhaps the last two discoveries that had brought the most tears – that of Luna, and then that of Hagrid. They had been together in the dungeons, quite near the potions classroom, and according to Luna, their escape had mainly been due to Bellatrix stalking off to try and handle everything herself, leaving Hagrid and Luna alone with Antonin Dolohov.
Hagrid was being gruff and very quiet about how much he'd undergone, but Hermione knew about a lot of it, and she was so glad that Hagrid had stayed himself. Luna, though, had gotten off almost easy, because she had held her breath until she fell unconscious every time that Death Eaters attempted to interrogate her. Eventually, they just assumed she was too weak to withstand their cursing, and left her dangling from the ceiling, easily revived by Hagrid after he'd put Dolohov out of commission perhaps permanently.
The band of fifteen people was quickly gaining confidence. At least one small group was always roaming the hallways, searching for anyone they might be able to discover, but Tom Riddle found himself with several problems, all with varying degrees of irritation.
First, nearly every single person mistrusted Riddle to the point of not even looking at him. Exceptions were Hermione, Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, and, strangely, Ron Weasley. Riddle assumed it was because Weasley trusted Hermione, and for that Riddle was almost grateful, for the stares and silence did tend to grate on his nerves.
Second, Harry Potter was attempting to take control of the situation, but Potter's frequent incompetence made Riddle wish that he could just do it himself.
Third, with every new person that arrived, he and Hermione had less and less opportunity to be with each other, especially alone. This was unacceptable. He felt as if he were floundering around in this sea of people, unable to get anywhere, unable to gain any sort of approval, although it had been he who had managed to uncover Luna and Hagrid. They'd created a false wall behind which they'd been hiding, and Riddle had dissembled it.
The Lovegood girl was an interesting character. Not untalented with a wand – and she had never been unpleasant to him, which was refreshing. Hagrid, on the other hand, had nearly snapped a table in half during one of his and Harry Potter's discussions, and the dubious glares that Riddle received in the same minute definitely indicated that he was the reason.
Unfortunately, they'd had visits from hungry Death Eaters, who were most curious as to why their attempts to open the portrait were met with magical repulsion. The first visitor, who was Amycus Carrow, was currently lying unconscious next to the storeroom, his wand safely clutched in Molly Weasley's hand. Apparently, though, he knew nothing about anything important, because Professor McGonagall had taken it upon herself to use Legilimency on him, and the most they were able to glean from it was that Mr. Weasley was alive as of several days ago. There was not even a whisper of where Voldemort was, or, really, where anyone was, at that moment. A couple other Death Eaters had tried to get through the portrait hole, cursed loudly, and just summoned the food outside, perhaps thinking that Hogwarts had managed to put up magical protection against them – which, Hermione thought, was stupid, for if they'd ever bothered to read Hogwarts: A History, they'd know that the magical protections of the castle were unchanging.
Hermione found herself less fearful as time went on. It was hardly a good thing – fear made one suitably cautious – but it was nice not to feel the painful constriction of terror whenever she left the Kitchens. She was so proud of Harry – he was organizing everything, sending out search parties night and day, and, not so wonderfully, refusing to let Ginny leave without him there. Hermione felt like she was in Ginny's shoes – the younger girl would always tell Harry not to worry, but he would staunchly refuse to listen, and it was exactly the same with Tom.
Hermione refused to admit how frustrating it was not to be able to do the smallest thing, like holding his hand. He hadn't brought up his own views on the subject, but she could tell he was having to restrain himself from being as jealous and possessive as usual.
With everyone as on edge as they were, though, Hermione felt as though she had no choice but to keep it secret. A majority of the group were all blatantly mistrustful of Tom. It was not a pleasant feeling for Hermione, seeing the people she loved shun the boy she loved, and with so many people now keeping residence in the Kitchens, she and Tom had hardly had a moment to themselves in three days.
Hermione had not spoken with Ron again. He seemed to be accustoming himself to the idea of not being with Hermione, but part of him seemed almost subdued, like every single second he was around her he had to restrain himself from raising the subject. The last thing Hermione wanted to do in this careful peace was to anger Ron.
The House-elf quarters were through a door on the right wall of the Kitchens, and past those were bathrooms. The group had put a multitude of beds in the House-elf quarters, whose ceiling was obnoxiously low and whose walls were peeling, but the fact that the House-elves had their own quarters at all cut down a little on the injustice, Hermione supposed. In any case, the space was large and comfortable, and the Kitchens became practically cheerful at the best of times. Optimism was high. Professor McGonagall had written a list of people known to be in the castle on a chalkboard near the storerooms, and though the list was disturbingly long, Hermione realized that they already numbered fifteen, and there were only a few over forty more. That, surely, was not a terrible amount?
Hermione marveled at how many people were still alive. In the first part of the huge battle, there had been so many losses, so many people hit by the Killing Curse, but it seemed now that the Death Eaters were more interested in torture and getting information about Harry out of them, and for that Hermione was almost grateful. Better to be in excruciating pain and come out alive than to be killed, after all, even though it might not feel like it during the Cruciatus Curse...
She swallowed and rolled over in her bed. Now that they had a larger group, Harry had assigned people regular watch hours at night. Hermione was on second watch – with Tom. Hermione had been glad at the news because of Tom, of course, but second watch was the worst. It meant going to sleep for an hour and a half, only to wake up again and stay up for two hours. Hermione couldn't seem to make herself fall asleep, and the hour and a half was almost up, anyway.
Sighing, Hermione rolled out of bed quietly, looking around at her sleeping companions. A warm rush filled her, one of utter gladness. All survivors.
She tiptoed from the House-elf quarters back into the main Kitchens. Luna and Neville were sitting at the tables on first watch. "You don't have to be up for another ten minutes," Neville said quickly as he saw Hermione.
"I couldn't sleep. How are you?"
Luna stared off into the distance and said, dreamily, "I've been feeling very glad lately."
Hermione chuckled, sitting at the table. "Why's that?"
Luna's wide eyes were calm. "Things are always better if we stay together," she said.
Hermione couldn't keep the smile from curling her lips. "I think so too."
Then Luna frowned slightly, and said, "Hermione, I've been wondering about Tom Riddle."
"What about him?"
"He's not very happy, is he?" Luna asked vaguely, her finger toying with her one remaining radish earring. Hermione mused that it made her look a bit like some sort of bizarre pirate, especially with the deep scar above the girl's left eye.
"No," Hermione admitted, "he's not." Hermione hadn't thought that Tom had come off as melancholy or glum, just reserved. Then again, Luna always had been rather observant, hadn't she?
"Well, he's got good reason," said Neville. "You should hear Harry talking about him."
Hermione sighed. Tom could care less what Harry thought about him, but the real reason he was frustrated was also the reason Hermione felt almost constantly exhausted. "Shame," Luna said. "It was nice of him to find me and Hagrid like that."
"Luna," Neville said earnestly, "he's... he's You-Know-Who. I don't think I could call him nice." Then he looked at Hermione, and said hurriedly, "Sorry, Hermione."
"Oh, no – you're right," Hermione said. "Nice isn't the word." She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "But Harry is being... he won't even ignore him, which would be easier for everyone involved. He thinks Tom's a threat." They'd had a lengthy discussion about that, actually, and Harry had said he was point-blank refusing to let down his guard as long as a young Lord Voldemort was staying with them. It would have seemed reasonable, of course, if Hermione didn't know Tom.
Luna shrugged. "If he's saved me and Hagrid, and if he's stayed here and hasn't tried to kill Harry, I don't see what's not to trust."
Neville let out a huge yawn, covering it with his hand. "Should I go and wake him up?"
Hermione shook her head and stood up. "I'll go do it."
He was sprawled out on one of the beds, his face peaceful. Hermione looked around hurriedly, and then kissed him softly. As she pulled away, his eyes opened. He blinked a few times.
"It's time for our watch," Hermione whispered.
He nodded and stood, stretching. They slipped through the door again. Luna smiled and waved absentmindedly at Tom, who glanced down at Hermione questioningly. Hermione's lips quivered in almost-laughter. She'd have to explain some things about Luna Lovegood to Riddle, evidently.
Her arm brushed his, and Hermione restrained herself, even though she was so close to him again. Creeping through Hogwarts that day had been so much harder without his hand in hers, especially when he had been just feet away – it had hardly been bearable. Hermione had never thought that physical contact was so incredibly important, but being close to Tom just seemed to require being physically interlocked in some way. Going an entire two days without kissing him, especially when he was right there, seemed ridiculous when she thought about it. Ridiculous and unnecessary, in theory – but as Hermione looked back up at Luna and Neville, she remembered why exactly it was necessary.
"How did you sleep?" Neville asked, a hint at carefulness in his voice.
"Well, thank you," replied Tom, his tone demure and polite as ever.
Neville nodded. "Great – well, um, if that's... if that's it, I guess we'd better go sleep, then? Come on, Luna." He hurried into the House-elf quarters, Luna strolling along calmly behind him, and as soon as the door was shut, Riddle was kissing Hermione fiercely.
Hermione leaned into the kiss, wishing they didn't have to restrain it every single time they wanted to do this, and she grabbed handfuls of his robes, pulling him tight to her. His lips bruised hers angrily, and their faces seemed to melt into each other, as if there could be no space between them that was not too much. When they broke apart, Hermione looked up into his eyes, brushing back his hair, and murmured, "Merlin, I miss you."
The corners of Riddle's lips turned up slightly. "Say it again."
"I miss you," Hermione said, her voice throaty all of a sudden with emotion. Then, to her surprise, she found that Tom wasn't the only thing she'd been missing. She missed the other world. She'd never dreamed that would happen, but it had. She missed that unreal shimmer, missed the perfect weather, missed Melia's snowfalls, missed Dueling Club – and most of all, her friends. Catalina, Godric, Herpo, Revelend, Jared and Mungo, Miranda... Mina and R.J... but more than anyone else, Abraxas. She missed his blustery humor, his reassurances, the arrogant way he would flick his hair back, the cheerful grins – she missed everything about Abraxas. It was almost like leaving earth again, losing this entirely new set of people, and Hermione discovered that there was a significant gap in her heart where they were.
But she missed, too, being in a place where she and Riddle could be alone, where they could just be in each other's company without worrying about who was watching or listening or judging. There had been so much peace in the other world, peace that was never present here. There was always chaos in the Kitchens, always something to do or somewhere to go or something that needed planning or theorizing.
One of their bigger problems was that none of them knew where on earth Lord Voldemort was. He was inside the castle – the types of wards he had set up dictated that he had to be within their bounds – but that hardly narrowed it down. Hogwarts was huge, and there were any number of possible locations to hide a Dark Lord. Hermione had imagined it would be somewhere central, like the Great Hall, to stroke his ego – but according to Percy, the huge chains on the doors had vanished, and there was nothing inside anymore.
Hermione looked up into Riddle's inscrutable expression and sighed. He slowly moved around behind her and slid his arms around her waist. The feeling of his body finally returning to where it should have been was exquisite.
His lips pressed softly against her neck, and he pulled back her hair so that he could find her ear, laying kisses down the sensitive skin, his teeth finding light purchase on her lobe. Hermione slid her hands into his. "I wish they'd understand."
"I more than you," whispered Riddle, his arms tightening around her. "If there were a way I could force them to understand, that would be delightful."
Hermione flicked his hand lightly with her nail. "No," she said reproachfully. "I do hope you haven't attempted to force anyone into anything here."
She hadn't really been worried about that, because Tom seemed to be on Head-Boy-mode the entire time – but it wasn't impossible, she supposed.
"You have so little faith in me," came his voice lightly, and he withdrew his arms. "I have an objective: to garner the trust of your friends and acquaintances. Manipulation would hardly befit that."
Tom sighed. Actually, hardly anything could befit that motive, for it seemed impossible. Hermione probably didn't understand how awful it was. She was always busy with Harry, Ron, Ginny; constantly referring to people Riddle didn't know. In fact, the only name Tom consistently recognized was "You-Know-Who", and he usually received dark looks or strange glances then.
He almost couldn't believe his restraint thus far. The lack of subtlety endowed on these people was more than astounding; it was preposterous. Riddle had already imagined himself doing at least fifty various terrible things to Potter alone, but Potter was just the center of a circle of intense mistrust in the group. Everyone seemed to be abiding by Neville's rule, though – that they had worse things to worry about – otherwise Riddle assumed that they would have held some sort of meeting to discuss his presence in general.
The feeling was not entirely unlike the one he'd once had about Hermione – that he'd somehow estranged her even before he'd known her. It was a feeling of injustice, and one of mildly-apathetic irritation. It was conducive to a lot of hard thinking, though, especially without Hermione to help distract him from his thoughts, and Tom had been wondering what he would do with his second life. His return had been so improbable – the ties he'd had to earth had been unstable in the first place. Probably the only reason he had been able to return at all had been the remorse he'd felt, which still hadn't receded.
Tom turned Hermione gently, appraising her. She looked content, if a bit tired, and that was satisfactory.
They kissed for a while, spoke for a while. But the time was far too fluid for Riddle's taste. He didn't want the other people to come out of the House-elf quarters. He didn't really want them to exist. They were, for the most part, inconsiderate nuisances, and Riddle could do without them. If it weren't for Hermione, Riddle wondered if he'd be helping the others at all. They needed help, that was for sure – not a one had his magical skill, though Minerva McGonagall was admittedly formidable. Riddle saw why Hermione had been so distraught thinking that McGonagall had died – she was the invincible type.
Hermione froze, stiffening in his arms suddenly, and Riddle jerked away from his thoughts. "Something wrong?" he said quietly.
"I heard something," she whispered, her sharp eyes staring in the direction of the portrait. She separated from him slowly and approached the portrait hole, turning her ear towards it. As her small hand reached into her pocket for her wand, she whispered to Riddle, "Stand by the House-elf quarters. Be ready to wake everyone up."
Riddle backed up to the door, drawing his wand, his dark eyes trained on her hazel ones. Letting her walk towards the source of possible danger felt wrong. Wrong and stupid. Riddle's hand tightened on his wand handle as Hermione swallowed and tore her eyes from him, creeping up until she was right against the portrait.
Then the world erupted.
It seemed as if it were happening in slow motion, for some reason. Tom didn't know who the hell had cast the spell, but it broke through his ward, which in itself was hard to believe. Those wards were strong – not completely unconquerable, of course, because people needed to come inside and outside easily – but strong enough to thwart most efforts.
But this curse tore through the wards, and through the portrait, like they were cheap paper. A colossal fireball swelled from the portrait, a hideous tongue of flame, ballooning outwards and tossing Hermione backwards as if she were nothing more than a doll. Riddle's face contorted in instant rage, his lip curling in a snarl as he lunged forward and slashed his wand through the air. A tremendous whistle erupted from the air, and a stream of white light punctured the center of the inferno, sucking it away as if it had never been there.
Riddle grappled with the doorknob with his left hand, not taking his eyes from the dark smoke that slowly clouded the portrait. He stuck his head into the House-elf quarters and yelled, "GET UP!"
Just like that, there was chaos. Dark figures poured through the ruined portrait, and Riddle vaulted over the nearest table in an all-out sprint towards Hermione's fallen body. A big, burly Death Eater approached her, wand raised, and Riddle slashed his wand downward. The Death Eater was jerked backwards by the ankles, throwing him flat onto his stomach. Riddle glanced back at the House-elf quarters. The door burst open, the dozen others flooded out with wands in hands, and then spells started shooting around.
"POTTER!" yelled one of the Death Eaters, and Riddle nearly cursed. Why hadn't the Potter boy Disillusioned himself? What was he, an idiot? Now the Death Eaters would flock after him with disregard to the lives of everyone else in the room. Riddle thought his heart would stop as a jet of green light whizzed right in front of his face. He ducked and let out a shaky breath, finally reaching Hermione.
And then nothing mattered except that she wasn't moving. Riddle looked around frantically, but none of the Death Eaters was focused on him or Hermione – not with Potter in the room. He picked up Hermione and sprinted the short way into the storerooms, and, shutting the door behind him, he finally looked at her.
The entire left half of her face was blistering with a hideous red burn. Riddle sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth. The left sleeve of her robe was tattered and charred, and her left hand was as burned as her face. The only lucky thing was that her clothes had managed not to catch fire. There was a faint smell of something burnt – some of her bushy hair, on the left side of her head, seemed to have fused together. Riddle bit his tongue so hard it hurt, collapsing to his knees in desperation. He didn't know healing magic. Why the hell would he ever have needed to learn healing magic? And – and now – everyone else would be fighting those Death Eaters, too preoccupied with the safety of the Potter boy to do anything for Hermione – what could he do?
Looking at the reddened skin of her face was painful. At least the skin was intact, but it was shiny and hot to the touch. Riddle slowly waved his wand over it, cooling the skin, and then ran water over it – that was what one usually did when they were burned, right? Put cool water on it?
He knew that the Infirmary had burn salve – it was fairly standard – but perhaps not in this Hogwarts, and there wasn't a way to get up there.
Riddle took her small hand gingerly. The back of it was glossy with burns; the palm was soft and pale. He closed his eyes. She'd probably been knocked unconscious from hitting the ground – from the looks of the swelling bruise on her right temple, she'd knocked her head quite hard on the stone floor. Well, even Tom knew that spell – Episkey. The swollen bruise receded.
Riddle swallowed. Hermione herself would know so much more about healing than anyone, but waking her up would hurt.
The noise from outside was insanely loud – explosions, screaming, the hissing and whizzing of spells, Hagrid's lumbering steps. There wasn't much time. If he wanted to help those people get out of this battle, he had to do something quickly – but, for God's sake, Tom Riddle wasn't one just to make a snap decision. That was the job for stupid, rash Gryffindors, not for someone who was supposed to have everything under control. This never should have happened in the first place, and a wave of anger rolled through Riddle. Whoever had done this to her – whoever had dared to blast through that portrait hole – would be more than sorry. They would be penitent.
With that, Riddle placed his wand gently to Hermione's chest and thought, Ennervate.
She woke up screaming. Riddle's dark eyes widened, and he shushed her furiously, glancing over at the door. "You've been burned," he said quickly, "and I don't know what to do. Do you know spells for burns?" She was silent, putting her hand to the left side of her face, her breathing ragged. "Hermione?" he pressed.
Her mouth was slightly open, and tears were dripping from her eyes. As a tear dragged itself over her burn, her agonized expression seemed to contort even more. "I... I know a couple," she gasped out. Hand grappling for her wand, Hermione rolled herself onto her side. Riddle's hand clasped her right shoulder, steadying her. "They're here," she moaned. "The Death Eaters – they're outside – Harry -"
"I don't care about Harry!" hissed Riddle. "I care about you! Look at you!"
Hermione swallowed. "It hurts. Oh, God, it hurts, Tom –"
His grip on her shoulder tightened. "Do the spells. Do them – go on –"
Her wand shook a little as she waved it over her face and hand. The redness seemed to dull a little, and with her next hurried spell, Hermione let out a low groan. The burn didn't fade. "What did you do?" Tom demanded.
"I just... I just cleaned it and numbed the... the hurting, a bit," she said, voice thick with receding agony, "so it won't scar. I can't do anything more than that, it needs paste – we've got to get out there, Tom -"
"No!" Riddle said instantly. "You're not going."
Hermione's face contorted into something close to anger, and then she winced as the tender red skin twisted up. "And I suppose you're not going either, if I'm staying here? No! I'm going to help my friends, and you can't stop me!"
"Then you're not getting out of my sight," Riddle said, and his hand slid into her numbed left hand, his fingers light on the burned skin. Hermione nodded and threw the door open, and then she let out a squeak of horror.
Every table was already ruined. Two were splintered completely; one was on fire; one had been flipped upside-down and there was someone hanging unconscious off of one of its legs, which was stuck up hopelessly into the air like the leg of a dead insect. Peruvian Darkness Powder clouded around the portrait, but smoke still billowed from the twisted frame, vanishing into the patch of blackness and then emerging on the other side. It looked as if there were ten or so Death Eaters, maybe a few more, and spells cracked and crunched into the walls in every direction.
Hermione cast her eyes around frantically for Harry. There he was – fighting alongside Ron, Ginny, and Professor McGonagall, right near the fireplace. They were facing three Death Eaters.
Harry ducked a brilliant blue hex, and Hermione could hear his voice yell, "Stupefy!" over the clamor. The spell narrowly missed its target and flew into that patch of darkness by the portrait.
Tom's hand gripped hers tight as they sprinted towards the battle. Hermione raised her wand, her heart pounding hard, her face feeling like it was drooping where she'd numbed it. She flicked her wand, and chains flew from the end, flinging themselves haphazardly towards a Death Eater who had managed to corner Neville and Luna. The Death Eater whirled and Vanished the chains, sending a jet of green light at Hermione. She dove to the side, shoving Tom out of the way of the light – even if it weren't a Killing Curse, one could never be too safe.
Hermione rolled back to her feet and fired a hex at the Death Eater. It connected, sending the dark figure spinning into a whirl of black robes. When he rose again, his mask had been cast off. It was Amycus Carrow – the torturer of Fleur Delacour, no longer unconscious and unarmed. Hermione frantically wondered where Fleur was – she still didn't have a wand – but Amycus looked insane, and he sent a jet of red light at Hermione, which she only narrowly managed to dodge. Where the hell had Tom gone?
Then a figure collided with her side, driving her out of the way of a jet of green light that she hadn't seen at all. Her heart hammered – she had been that close to dying again, saved only by Tom's body knocking her back to the floor. He staggered to his knees in front of her, moving his wand as if it were a sword, parrying every spell and sending others whizzing towards the Death Eaters like insanely accurate missiles. One of his spells, which looked like a dark blue stream, connected with a crunch right in the center of Amycus' chest, and the Death Eater toppled to the ground with a piercing cry of pain. Neville and Luna wheeled around in uneasy awe, and Hermione screamed, "LUNA!"
The blonde dropped flat to the ground out of instinct, and the green spell flew over her, colliding harmlessly with the wall.
Hermione stood, her wand shaking in her hand, and she started firing off spells, just as she had practiced so many times. Most missed or were deflected, but she was proud to see that one particularly strong Impedimenta hit the shoulder of one of the Death Eaters that Harry was fighting, spinning the Death Eater off balance and knocking him to the ground.
The Peruvian Darkness Powder wore off, and the rest of the room became visible. Hermione realized that Amycus Carrow was no longer where he'd fallen – he must have dragged himself off towards the portrait hole – but that wasn't really an issue any longer, not when Avery and Bellatrix Lestrange forged their way to the front of the pack, both their eyes fixed on Hermione, their faces filled with glowing hate.
"I hope you scream loudly, Mudblood," hissed Bellatrix, and her voice seemed to carry over the explosion that suddenly occurred to the left, a blossom of fire in Hermione's peripheral vision. She felt fear flooding her – the attentions of Bellatrix Lestrange were not good ones to have.
Avery and Bellatrix lifted their wands simultaneously and attacked. Hermione shielded the Cutting Curse from Avery's wand and leapt away from the jet of red light from Bellatrix's, firing a Petrificus Totalus back helplessly. Her mind went blank – she couldn't think of any spells, none at all – this wasn't a classroom – this wasn't Dueling Club – she could die –
But then Tom raised his wand, and Hermione's fear seemed to drop away. Avery's right arm gave a sickening crunch as it twisted violently. Hermione, disturbed, spared a glance at Tom – the side of his lip was lifted in an unnerving smirk. Bellatrix's features filled with even more rage, and she sent another Killing Curse in their direction. Hermione sidestepped it and shot a Freezing Charm at Bellatrix, but it was waved away by the crazed witch's wand.
"The Dark Lord does not take belligerence kindly, Mudblood," Bellatrix sneered, her thin lips twisting around the words with vicious pleasure, her eyes gleaming, her feet moving unsteadily as her wand fired spell after spell. "All he needs is Harry Potter... and after he's dead, then what will you do with yourself? You disposable filth?"
Riddle's face darkened, and he flicked his wand. Tendrils of stone from the Kitchen floor slid up Bellatrix's legs before she could stop them, encasing her in a webwork of fine rock. Then, as Bellatrix glanced down towards her feet, waving her wand fruitlessly over the bindings, Hermione flicked her wand, and her Stupefy blasted Bellatrix right out of the stone, sending her backwards into the fray. McGonagall spied Bellatrix stumbling ungracefully and shot a well-placed Depulso into her stomach, and Bellatrix flew backwards –
Right into a jet of green light, fired by a still-masked Death Eater.
Things seemed to freeze piece by piece. First, the Death Eater who had fired the Killing Curse, Hermione and Tom, and McGonagall. Then, the people who could immediately see Bellatrix's body thudding to the ground. Lastly, everyone else. There was silence. There was stillness. Bellatrix Lestrange was dead.
Bellatrix Lestrange is dead.
How was it possible? How could she be dead, just like that, just because she'd been repulsed into one of her own comrades' curses? How could Bellatrix Lestrange just die?
No one seemed to be able to move, and the silence was almost... almost awkward, as if no one knew what to say, or to think, as if everyone had suddenly lost the ability to duel.
"Get out," said Harry's voice defiantly, ringing clear in the silence. "Take her and get out."
But they did not. The other Death Eaters slowly turned from Bellatrix's body, and each of them started dueling ferociously again, as if they had been given renewed vigor by Bellatrix's death.
Neville suddenly let out a scream as a spell hit him, and he staggered backwards, sitting down hard on the ground. Blood started dripping from his mouth and he turned pasty with pain. Almost simultaneously, Flitwick was sent spinning through the air. His back collided with the stone wall, he fell to the ground with a thud, and he did not rise.
McGonagall looked positively murderous, and she seemed to gain back some of her energy, but everyone else was exhausted. Two Death Eaters had managed to knock out Hagrid near the beginning of the battle, George Weasley was lying unconscious slung over the leg of that upside-down table, and Neville, Fleur, and Flitwick were all unable to duel. The numbers did not look good, and as Hermione ducked another Killing Curse, she wondered how long it would be before the Death Eaters started sending Avada Kedavra at every one of their unconscious comrades.
Hermione swallowed, gritted her teeth, and threw Incendio at the Death Eater who had cursed Neville, but she was not prepared for the curse which spun across the room at her. She felt it slice across her chest, as quick and painful as a hot brand, and then she sank to her knees. It dimly registered that in this world, if you were supposed to die, you just did. There would be no jumping from parapets and surviving. If you lost enough blood, you were dead, and there was no healing for the dead.
But she wasn't dying, she didn't think – there was just suddenly an immense amount of dark, hot blood soaking into her robes. The cut didn't seem to be deep. Just long, and just deep enough to draw blood from everywhere it had cut, and Hermione felt very faint as she reeled back and collapsed onto the floor.
Dim images swum through her vision, graying images. A face suddenly loomed in her eyesight. Tom. His muffled voice blared in her eardrums, a terse, loud word, but she couldn't understand him. She couldn't answer, either, because her mouth didn't seem to comprehend what her brain was telling it to do anymore. She was going to black out, Hermione realized with slow panic, but suddenly Tom's face was retreating, and his hazy figure was holding out an arm, and his wand was firing unbelievably bright blasts of color everywhere, anywhere, all over...
Hermione gripped onto consciousness as much as she could. It felt like hours that she lay there, Tom standing over her bleeding body like he was guarding her last breaths, and then other lights streamed across her vision from her immediate left – that had been Mrs. Weasley, Hermione remembered... and then Professor McGonagall, across the way... and figures streamed away through the portrait hole, and Hermione saw Tom's face turn back towards her, several faces towards her, but Tom was kneeling down beside her and the last thing she saw was his face, clear, only a few inches from hers, and then she was closing her eyes and she felt the numbed sensation of him holding her and kissing her, hard, and then she was out, swimming through ink, forging through velvet night.
xXxXxXxXxXx
Tom gritted his teeth, pressed his head to Hermione's chest, and let out an animal noise of pure rage. Her heartbeat was faint – but it was present, and that was what mattered, even with the front of her robes sopping wet and a big slash right under her collarbones...
He looked up, wiped the blood from his face, looked around for someone who could help – surely that McGonagall lady, or the Weasley woman, would know something – but instead he saw only blank stares. Something slid into place in his mind – they had seen him kissing her, seen him frantically brushing back her hair from her burned face. The secret was out. "Someone help!" he hissed, his eyes thunderous, glancing from face to face, and it was as if they'd been jerked out of a trance. Molly Weasley bustled over, and Harry, Ron, and Ginny hurried to Hermione's side.
"Burn paste," said Potter, as if it weren't completely obvious. Then he turned to the two Weasleys and Luna. "Is there anything left in the Infirmary?"
Luna frowned. "I was in the dungeons, so I couldn't say," she sighed, gazing at Hermione's massive burn.
Ginny said, "I went up there once, and everything's all messed up. There was a big fight there a while back. I don't think the Death Eaters actually took any of it out of the room, though – it's just that there's lots of stuff that's smashed and thrown all over the place."
"Does that make it unusable?" Ron wondered aloud, and Riddle shot him a scathing glance.
"If it touches something that's not its container, it changes the magical properties," Riddle said. Had these people ever even read Elementary Defensive Magicks? He looked back at Molly, who was pulling down the front of Hermione's robes a little to reveal a long, shallow cut. The skin around it was pasty and bloodstained.
The Weasley woman's wand trailed along the cut gently, and the blood around it slowly vanished. Riddle let out a long, slow breath, attempting to calm himself. She'd be fine. That cut was nothing life-threatening – it had just been... a shock, yes. And he'd gotten a bit out of control, afterwards, with the magic he'd been using... Fighting off the Death Eaters practically single-handed, while McGonagall and Weasley defended the fallen bodies of others.
Hermione's cut shriveled back, scabbed over, and then the scabs melted into pale new skin. Riddle sat down on the ground, glancing over at the portrait.
"If you were interested to see where their headquarters is, I presume the Dark Lord would be informed as soon as possible of the Lestrange woman's death," murmured Riddle to no one in particular.
Harry sprang to his feet. "Let's follow them," he said to Ron, who nodded. There was suddenly a deluge of volunteers to come along, but Harry shook his head. "We have people that need healing," he said, "and we're not going confront the Death Eaters. Me and Ron'll go."
Ron clapped Potter on the back and looked down at Hermione, and then sent one glance to Riddle, and Tom was surprised by how vengeful his blue eyes could get. Then the two boys climbed through the still-smoking hole in the portrait.
Riddle cast a glance around the room. Professor Flitwick seemed to have revived, and was fixing the gash on his cheek. McGonagall was putting out the table, which still smoldered halfheartedly. Luna helped Neville to his feet – the boy's mouth was still dripping blood. Riddle recognized the curse, and called, "Ms. Lovegood?"
Luna looked over at him in vague surprise. "Yes?"
"Let me fix that," sighed Riddle, getting to his feet. The countercurse was painfully basic; hadn't these people even attended a Defense Against the Dark Arts class? What were they doing at Hogwarts these days? He flicked his wand, and Neville's two front teeth, which had split in half, sealed back together with a strange hissing noise.
Riddle looked down at Hermione. He couldn't understand why she was so terrible at remaining intact. The Weasley woman cast several spells at her burns, each of which lessened the reddening and healed the skin slightly. "Would she be all right if there were no salve available?" Riddle asked quietly, and the Weasley woman glanced back up at him in surprise.
"Er... I would... I would guess so," she said, swallowing and nodding as she surveyed his face. A muscle in Riddle's jaw tightened.
"And what does that entail?" he said. Usually, the mild fear and disturbance in the woman's face would at least amuse him mildly, but it irritated him now. It was possibly the first time that instilling fear in someone wasn't amusing in the slightest. "Any scarring?"
"There shouldn't be scarring," she said, and she looked back down to Hermione. "Not with the correct spells, although it'll take a few days to heal it as opposed to a few hours."
Riddle nodded. "When will she be awake?"
Mrs. Weasley replied with an "Ennervate," pointing her wand at Hermione.
Hermione's eyes opened tiredly, as if she were reluctant to wake from her dead faint. "Mrs. Weasley," she said in a small voice, and struggled weakly to sit up.
Hermione looked around. Tom stood just beyond Mrs. Weasley, holding his wand in his hand, his arms crossed, and Hermione blinked, cold dread filling her as she remembered that he had kissed her. In front of everyone in this room.
And there was a displeased note in Mrs. Weasley's eyes that was very telling.
xXxXxXxXxXx
It was a tense hour before Harry and Ron returned, and when they did, they were breathless from running. "We heard them talking," Ron said. "I guess they didn't expect that we'd try to follow them right after this, but they said something about a hidden room in the Astronomy Tower."
"That's great," George said, clapping Ron on the shoulder. "Good thing to know, mate."
"I don't know what we can do to break in there, though," muttered Harry. "I don't want to make any of you come with me when I face him again. I'm ready."
Hermione was aware of the fact that neither Ron nor Harry was looking at her. In fact, both their gazes were very carefully trained away from her, Ron's eyes on his siblings, Harry's eyes on Hagrid, who was being healed by Mrs. Weasley. There was a nasty-looking color to Hagrid's skin that Hermione assumed was the effect of some sort of dark curse.
She didn't want to speak up, didn't want to risk Harry's eyes turning on her only to be filled with fury. Hermione hated seeing Harry angry, and it scared her.
"I can't believe Bellatrix is dead," Neville said quietly. Hermione turned to look at him instead, but he wouldn't meet her eyes either.
"Strange to think about," agreed Harry.
Hermione nodded, looking at the floor determinedly.
"Hermione, could I talk to you?" said Ron softly. Hermione's eyes flicked up to meet his, but they were shielded. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, and the room suddenly seemed far too silent for her taste, so to cut the silence, she said,
"Of… of course."
They hurried back into the storeroom as Harry cleared his throat and attempted to instigate conversation. Hermione's eyes stuck to Tom's, and his gaze reassured her, even as her heart pounded hard in fear. How could she and Ron just talk about this like two civilized people? This wasn't something that could be rationalized, something that could be taken head-on.
The door shutting felt like prison bars were sliding shut behind her.
"So," Ron's voice said, low, hurt.
"Um," Hermione said.
There was an unbearable silence, punctuated only by small noises from outside. Hermione stared at the flagstones, Ron at the wall. She wondered if he had any idea what he even wanted to say. "You're angry," she whispered.
"Yes," Ron said. He swallowed, and repeated, "Yes." Then he seemed to find his voice, and the words poured out in an embittered tumult. "I don't understand. I don't get what you're thinking, Hermione. He's dangerous. I was thinking we'd be all right if we just kept a safe distance from him, and maybe we could ask someone what to do with him once everything... once everything was all right again. I thought we were holding him at arm's length, for Merlin's sake." Ron let out a breath and dug his hand into his hair. "What the hell are you doing, snogging Lord Voldemort?" he said, his voice strained and shaking. "We're supposed to be together, Hermione. We've always been supposed to be together. He – he's – he's evil. He's not right. He's just a murdering -"
"No, he's not!" burst out Hermione, unable to keep herself from doing so. She slowly met his eyes, and she said, "He's more than you know about him, Ron. I don't – I'm not trying to – I just don't... don't think you should... say things like that, without even -"
"He's killed people!" hissed Ron. "He's killed them, Hermione! He killed Myrtle when he was fifteen years old! He killed his dad and his grandparents before he even got out of Hogwarts! What more evidence do you need that he's just evil?" His voice was rising angrily, and Hermione shrank back, hating the part of her that told her Ron was right.
"Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future," Hermione quoted, her voice tiny.
"Don't quote at me! You know I hate that!" Ron said loudly. "Don't act like I don't know what I'm talking about. He's demented! He's not normal! What if he hurts you? What do you expect me to do, just sit back and let him? If you're tangled up with him like this, he's only going to hurt you."
Hermione's fists curled up. She glared at the wall behind him. His words had so much more truth than he knew, had so much more history than he knew. Tom had hurt her terribly. But she'd healed, and he wouldn't do it again... he'd said he wouldn't...
She swallowed. She couldn't have doubts in Tom, not now. This was not the time or the place for doubts. "And you said things changed," growled Ron. "You said... you said things changed, like something happened to you – I thought something happened to you that you couldn't – I didn't think -" He broke off, scratching his nose, taking a step back and looking around hopelessly. "I can't believe you would let me go for You-Know-Who," murmured Ron. "I... this doesn't even..."
"It wasn't a choice, Ron. It wasn't a decision. I can't control everything." Her words were bitter with truth. She couldn't control her own feelings, she couldn't control her own life, or her death – she couldn't even control whether Tom could hurt her or not. And she couldn't control how much Ron was hurting right then, not with anything she said or did, because she knew that nothing could make it better.
"How long have you two been at it?" Ron whispered.
Hermione shook her head. That other world was so far away, time dead and antiquated. "Maybe six weeks."
"And what all have you done? You know, physically?" Ron asked her, like he was masochistic. "I'm not telling you that! It's... it's not for me to talk about with y – with anyone!" What would she say if this were Ron in her situation, if this were her with a broken heart? She'd already be crying. He looked blank, but at her words, a spark of anger flared up in his face.
"It's not for you to talk about with me?" he said, his voice low and quaking. "Yes, it is, Hermione, since I'm the one you tossed away like any old piece of trash – you owe me enough, you should... if you still even care about me at all, of course -"
"Ron!" Hermione said shrilly, and she was shocked to feel tears coming to her eyes. She put the back of her hand to her nose, breathing in through her mouth to calm herself. "Stop it," she managed after a second. "I haven't done anything wrong!"
"Oh, 'cept for fooling around with the same bloke that murdered you, and Harry's parents, and half the people we know?" spat Ron.
"I'm not fooling around!" Hermione said wildly, and she felt a panic attack coming. Her heart constricted, her breaths came short, and her palms sweated as she clutched onto a shelf behind her. She battled against an impending breakdown, one of the more fruitless fights she'd had.
"Well, then, what the hell are you doing?" Ron asked. His voice swelled. Louder by the second. "I don't know what you're doing, so unless you'd care to let me in on the secret as to why this isn't completely wrong in every way, I'm – I'm lost! How about you tell me, huh? Tell me!" And then he was yelling, and Hermione couldn't look at his face, his ears as red as she'd ever seen them, the cool air suffocating. "I WAITED FOR MONTHS FOR YOU!" he yelled, and Hermione quailed backwards, her jaw set, her eyes unable to shut. "What did you do? Just forget about me like this was nothing? BECAUSE IT WASN'T NOTHING TO ME, HERMIONE!"
Her tears were running in earnest, now, and Hermione's legs betrayed her as she sagged against the shelf. She had no support whatsoever, and that look on Ron's face wasn't going away. "AND OUT OF EVERYONE – OUT OF ANYONE – IT'S HIM! HE'S TRYING TO KILL HARRY! DON'T YOU GET IT? HE'S TRYING TO KILL MY BEST FRIEND! HE KILLED MY BROTHER! HE KILLED SIRIUS AND DUMBLEDORE!"
Ron's teeth were practically bared, and he sucked in deep breaths through his mouth, shutting his eyes tight as if trying to get rid of a memory. "I'm going," he seethed. "I never thought I'd be able to call you stupid, Hermione."
The door slammed.
Hermione sank down to the floor, letting her sobs out more audibly. Her shoulder dug into a sack of potatoes.
It was a while before the door opened, and when Tom slipped inside and shut the door, Hermione's distress doubled. "Did – did he say – anything to you?" she sobbed. He sat next to her and pulled her tight to him.
"Doesn't matter," he murmured. "He doesn't know what he's saying. Idiot." The words sounded vindictive, but they somehow soothed Hermione. If Ron really didn't know what he was saying, maybe... maybe he just needed time to cool off, to rationalize. Maybe everything would be okay.
But that was, as Ron had said, stupid. Nothing was okay. Mrs. Weasley would never forgive her. Would Harry ever forgive her? What about Ginny?
Hermione dug her face deeper into Tom's shoulder, his familiar smell engulfing her. He hushed her, holding her almost lightly, like he was afraid she'd burst open. "This is why I don't get close to people," he said quietly.
Hermione hiccupped miserably. "Sure," she whispered, her voice defeated. "Fine, Tom. You win. It's easier not to care at all. You're right."
"I know. But if it would mean you were happy again, I think I might rather be wrong."
She let out a strangled sob, putting her arms around his waist, hugging his solid body as if there were nothing else. There were no more words in her. She almost couldn't believe it had just happened. Everything she'd been afraid of, all the hate, all the fear, all the loathing, directed at Tom – and now... and now at her?
xXxXxXxXxXx
The next two days was a mad scramble to reorganize thoughts, to reorganize actions. The day after the battle, five people were found around Hogwarts, and the day after, eight. Most were injured, delirious, or starving, but made a good start on recovery with the help of the original fifteen.
As for Tom and Hermione – no one said anything to her directly, which was both a relief and incredibly frustrating. The reason, though, was that everyone in the Kitchens was aware that other issues took precedence. Harry was practicing his wandwork day and night, and Hermione had offered to help him, but it had been clear who was first on Harry's priorities list, because Harry didn't even look at her – just gave a terse shake of his head to answer. Hermione refused to let herself feel hurt by Harry's brusqueness – after all, they were planning the last attack on the most terrible Dark Wizard of all time. It was not the time for wrenched feelings and relationships that could never be the same.
They planned the attack for the laziest hours of the afternoon, when the Death Eaters would least be expecting it.
The torrents of worry that barraged Hermione had many sources and many reasons, but one of the ones which unnerved her the most was her unresolved hypothesis on what would happen to Tom when – or if – Voldemort was killed. It was a large concept to wrap her mind around, that was for sure. Tom was seven of eight parts of the original Tom Riddle's soul, whereas Voldemort was only one – when he died, surely Tom would be about as affected as if Voldemort had been a horcrux or something? Did it work that way, though, since Voldemort was the original source of Tom's existence? Did Tom's reappearance on earth mean that technically Voldemort still had a horcrux, and couldn't die?
Hermione took a deep breath and tried to tell herself not to worry, but really, what else could she do? If – and the thought destroyed something in her – Tom was going to be killed in the pursuit of Voldemort's death, how could she spend her last – her last eighteen hours with him? For it was eight in the evening, and the next day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, things would be over, one way or another.
The dread was a stone in the pit of her stomach.
Harry waved his arms from the hearth, and everyone gathered around, silence falling slowly.
"Everyone," Harry said, "this... this is it. I'm going to go through what we're going to do one last time, but before I do, I just want to tell you all exactly how proud I am to... to have shared my life with you, if things don't -"
He broke off, swallowing. Ginny's hand found his shoulder, and he glanced at her with gratitude. "If things don't work out the way I've got them planned," Harry finished.
Harry stepped back, revealing the board that McGonagall had conjured. It had a few small diagrams drawn on it, which Harry referred to as he spoke. "All right. It's pretty simple, I think," he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "The thirty of us will leave here tomorrow well-rested, well-fed, and as well-prepared as we can be. The Astronomy Tower isn't a terribly large area to search, even though I'm pretty sure Voldemort's not just going to be sitting around in some classroom. He probably has a secret chamber somewhere, but we're not going to split up to search for it. If we see any stray Death Eaters, we'll knock them out, tie them up, and break their wands – I don't want us to have to take any chances, especially when so much is at risk anyway."
He cleared his throat and flexed his fingers, looking around at the group. "So – so we have something – someone – Voldemort doesn't know about. Actually, two people, and that's Hermione, and..." Harry swallowed. "And Riddle. So our plan is to use that surprise as an initial distraction against Voldemort."
Hermione nodded. Harry had roughly outlined this idea with her and Tom. It had been a brief and uncomfortable discussion.
"So once we find the place, Riddle is going to walk in. Voldemort will probably order no one to attack him, but if he does get attacked, then the rest of us will … will stream in and stop any Death Eaters from hurting Riddle, if they try to. We just about match them in numbers, I think, since only Voldemort's closest are still here."
Harry paused again, and his green eyes were filled with reluctance. "If I had it my way, you all would just stay here, and I would go. But that's not... not realistic, so – so, anyway, I'll do what I have to do, and that'll be it."
There was a ringing silence. Hermione looked around at the silent, stoic, harrowed faces of the Order, and felt a pang inside her. She bit her lip as Harry said, "Any questions?" His voice was a murmur, now. Hermione's throat tightened as her eyes fixed on Harry's face. Courage.
"Think about it," Harry murmured, turning his head. "This time tomorrow, we could finish this. We can finish this. This time tomorrow, Lord Voldemort could be dead, forever."
He was most determinedly not looking at the young Lord Voldemort who was standing at the back of the group.
Tom sighed. The idea of the other Voldemort being gone brought him so much relief. It would be so much unnecessary stress just gone. There would be a foreseeable future again, and he could get back to his usual anticipatory mindset once more.
Tom didn't know what to think about this plan. Potter seemed determined to be self-sacrificial, which was reasonable, to a certain extent, given the history between himself and the Dark Lord. On the other hand, though, there wasn't any reason for Potter to go and kill himself, really. Riddle had watched him practice his spellwork, and it wasn't bad. Not bad at all, actually, especially the more offensive magics – Potter was a powerful spellcaster. He just didn't have the catalogue of magical knowledge that he would need to face Lord Voldemort with any sort of adequacy.
Riddle sighed moodily as the group dissipated. It had nearly doubled in size in the last two days thanks to redoubled search efforts – Potter had supposed that it would be better to hit soon after Bellatrix Lestrange's death, for maximum shock value. They had needed more people, though, and those people had seemingly been tugged out of the very cracks of the school walls. Another Weasley, for a start – one with terrible scars on his face, the husband of that Delacour girl. It made nearly the entire family; the only one missing was the father, about whom everyone seemed extremely concerned. Some other brother, named Charlie, had apparently not been trapped in the castle after the initial fray, sent to send some message to part of the Order elsewhere.
A very reassuring arrival had been a tall black wizard named Kingsley Shacklebolt. Everyone seemed to gravitate towards him for reassurance – another capable spellcaster.
Riddle longed for privacy. He detested this hectic mess, detested everything about this situation, detested that Hermione couldn't look at Ron without flinching, detested the nervous terror hanging in the air. He almost wished he could just go, kill the other Voldemort, and get it over with, but Riddle knew that it was dangerous to underestimate his other self. Especially when he was really the only person who knew what he was capable of.
"Tom," said Hermione's voice from behind him. He turned to face her, and was puzzled to find a nearly stricken expression on her face. She hadn't really looked happy in a while, of course, but she was looking like – she was looking like she knew something terrible was going to happen.
"Hermione," he replied. They walked to a corner away from the hubbub, a relatively secluded corner. "What is it?" Riddle asked.
"I'm scared about tomorrow," she said.
"What about it?"
Hermione shook her head hopelessly and leaned against the wall. "Everything," she said. "I'm scared Harry might die. I'm scared I might die. I'm scared everyone here might die. I'm... I'm scared that if Harry... if Harry does kill Voldemort, you'll die too."
Riddle's jaw tightened. It wasn't... it wasn't impossible. His nimble mind flicked through the possibilities, weighing the likelihood, and he decided not to say anything after a quick conclusion. "Well, you don't have to worry about you being killed, at least," he said instead. "If I were Voldemort, which I am, I would prefer to question you about how you came back from the dead rather than just killing you. If, in hypothesis, Voldemort doesn't die in this attack."
Riddle toyed with the handle of his wand with his left hand, his right hand loosely interlocked with Hermione's. She didn't look reassured at all.
"If this is the last time I have with everyone here," she said, "I wouldn't even know where to begin. I don't want to say any goodbyes, of course, because I do believe we can make this – I really think it's possible. Especially... especially if we have you."
"You have me," said Riddle calmly, not quite sure how to address everything else she'd said. He thought for a few seconds, and then said, "Perhaps, just in case, you should tell them how you feel."
Hermione closed her eyes and exhaled. "Yes," she said. "Just in case." Then her eyes opened, and they were filled with a wary strength, an embittered resignation. "Shall I start with you?" And her voice had a quiet burn behind it.
Riddle raised one eyebrow. "It would be a pleasure," he said.
Suddenly, Hermione froze, and then she seemed to be fumbling for words. "I... it's just..." She cleared her throat, took a breath, and started again. "I don't think I could possibly say everything I need to, not even if we had all the time in the world." Her fingers tightened around his. "I wish we had all the time in the world. You're the most... the most fascinating person I've ever met."
Her earnest expression cut to Riddle's core for some reason. The words were so starkly honest, a final letter, an epitaph. "I have loved you for... I don't know how long," she said. "It feels like it's been forever, and also like it hasn't been any time at all, and like it could go on forever."
She paused, then, and a bit of a smile made its way onto her face. "It's strange," she whispered, looking down at the floor. "You'd think more would come to mind than just 'I love you'. Something more substantive. Something as to address the fact that you're Tom Marvolo Riddle, and I'm Hermione Granger. But I can't think of anything." Something that may have been a nervous laugh worked its way from her lungs, and then she looked up and she met his eyes and she said, "I love you."
Riddle's mouth dried up, a strange reaction. He drew Hermione close and tight, leaning his back against the wall, holding her like she was trying to get away.
"I'm not going to say goodbye to you," Hermione said, and her voice was close against his ear. "I don't think I could if I tried."
"We were meant to find each other," Riddle murmured, "so we weren't meant to leave each other. No need to say goodbye." He felt like the words were coming from someone else's lips. They sounded so sentimental that he felt like he should have been saying them to pander or to wile, to deceive, but they were devoid of malcontent.
Tom Riddle closed his eyes, swallowing. He knew this couldn't be goodbye. He wasn't letting it be goodbye.
Why, then, did it already feel like part of him was mourning?
xXxXxXxXxXx
Hermione's hand felt shaky as she placed it on Harry's shoulder. As his head turned, his green eyes met hers with a shock. Hermione bit her lip, a reel of images streaming through her head. Harry winning his first Quidditch match. Harry showing her a blank diary. Harry fighting off a hundred Dementors. Harry in the tent before the First Task. Harry stalking down the hall in the Department of Mysteries. Harry frustrated with his attempts at Occlumency. Harry standing at his parents' grave in Godric's Hollow. She'd grown up with this boy, and he with her – how could he die? Surely that just wasn't... possible?
He was sitting at a table, Ron next to him. "Can I sit down?" said Hermione, her voice small. Her eyes flickered over to Ron, who was staring at the table. There was no malice in his face, though. He looked drained, hopeless, sick.
"Sure," Harry said quietly.
"I just wanted to say thank you," said Hermione, feeling tears burn at her eyes. She forced them back. "Thank you for being my friends."
Ron looked up, and this time he held her gaze. His mouth quirked to the side, and he shook his head blankly.
Harry said, "Don't thank us, Hermione."
She swallowed misery. "Okay. I... we've been through... so much, I just wanted to – just in case."
Ron's mouth opened, but it was a long pause before he managed to form words. "Yeah," he said shortly. Then, "I'm glad we've had each other," he muttered. "Through everything."
Hermione sniffed, and she wiped her eyes as quickly as she could, nodding fervently. "You're the best friends I could ever have had."
"And you two're mine," said Harry.
Hermione couldn't restrain herself, examining the faces of the boys. She let out a hopeless sob. "Oh, God," she said, "I'm – I'm sorry – it's just -"
A hand found her shoulder, a warm, reassuring hand. Ron's hand.
"Listen," he said. "It – that – that doesn't matter right now." He took a shaky breath, removing his hand from her shoulder and running it through his flaming red hair, a painfully familiar gesture. "If everything turns out how it should tomorrow, I'll probably go back to caring and all – but for now, I'm just glad we've been together." Another pause. Hermione couldn't make herself fill the silence with words. She was finding it hard to breathe, and Ron's next words all but broke her heart. "I'm glad I met you two, and I'd be proud to die for either of you."
Hermione didn't think she'd ever heard more mature – or more terrifying – words from his lips.
Harry's expression hardened into resolve. "I won't let that happen. I swear to God you'll make it through this." His green eyes shut, and he looked for a second like he was praying. "I swear," he murmured, pursing his lips tight together, if only to keep them from quivering.
The hug was quiet acceptance, an embrace of forgiveness and of preemptive heartbreak.