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Gah all those familiar names. One more chapter after this. Just one... *tears up*
With love, as always,
Speechwriter.
Hermione almost expected not to wake up that morning. It was almost like the day couldn't come, the day when Harry James Potter would fight Tom Marvolo Riddle.
She did, though, and she found herself held in Tom's arms, and for a second she couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. But of course – after staying up until after everyone else had trickled away to bed, they'd walked hand-in-hand into the house-elf quarters. Then Hermione had slowly lain down in bed, and Tom had placed a possessive hand on her shoulder and leaned his head into the crook of her neck and kissed her until she was too exhausted to remain awake.
All that was icy and surreal now, though. Everything was a shade of the past, and what was alive just then was a flaming scene, everything alight with vivacity. Every breath of Tom's that slowly landed on her cheek was a slap; every corner of light inching its way around that door was a searing brand.
And Harry Potter, very soon, would be a killer or would be dead.
Hermione closed her eyes, her hand moving to rest on Tom's. It was warm, dry, relaxed.
"You're awake," he murmured.
"Yeah," she whispered, not even surprised by his low voice in her ear. She just felt a rip, a tear at the inside of her, as that idea swam through her mind again. Suddenly, against her will, she was picturing it. Voldemort was falling to the ground, and then the person two feet from her, standing in that darkened stone room, was just fading away, his eyes meeting hers, his face still too unused to emotion to show her – to tell her – even as they would never see each other again –
Hermione found that her hand was gripping Tom's very, very tightly. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Everything."
"This isn't."
He fastened his arms tighter around her, and her hand slid up his forearm, feeling the shape of his creation. Hermione's brain couldn't ignore the images it was sending her, images of things that had happened. His cold eyes as he'd said, "Legilimens;" that day when he'd cursed himself in the dungeons; all those days she'd idled over him and knitted him back together – and then images of things that had never happened, and those were worse. She and Tom, sitting in some nondescript room, older, lines on their eyes and creases in their faces, aged sparkles in eyes – she and him, rings on their fingers and never looking back – she and him, in each other's arms back in front of her parents' house, and worst – she and Tom, smiling. That smile she'd seen maybe three times in her life. She and Tom, smiling, surrounded by her friends – Harry and Ron, with those familiar grins on their lips. Ginny's mouth spread wide in a smile. Mrs. Weasley smiling kindly at her, which Hermione didn't think would ever happen again.
Then things that could happen, and Hermione trembled slightly and focused on his chest against her back, focused on the fact that this might be the very last time he could hold her like this. Quiescent inescapability rocked her to the core. Fate surely wanted her dead, or miserable. She'd come back to life, and so had he – but that hadn't been meant to happen, then, had it? Death was not something to be mastered, and surely there were consequences, and Hermione felt hollow thinking about what those might be.
She closed her eyes tightly and her jaw tightened. She could make it through this. She and Tom could make it through this. Surely Voldemort wouldn't dare kill someone who'd managed to come back to life, not without questioning them extensively. Surely Voldemort wouldn't kill himself.
The morning ticked by, and people bustled in and out of the room. The entire place was filled with more than nervous energy. It was barely-contained panic, bursting at the seams, crying for release, sobbing, screaming, pounding at every one of them until they were beaten into a helpless daze – and that daze, the daze of pure fear, was mighty.
Eventually Hermione felt hunger fill her, but she couldn't bring herself to move from his arms. The feel of him against her felt like it had only arrived just then, with no prior instance. When it was gone, could that feeling ever be recreated?
Tom's voice shook her out of that state of mind. "Let's get breakfast, Hermione," he said quietly, and he lifted her and set her on her feet. His pale fingers ran their way through her coarse hair, while his other hand rested lightly on her cheek. Hermione felt that familiar sensation of breathlessness, but it, too, was missing something. Everything was missing something. Nausea replaced it.
She couldn't seem to make herself look away from him. It was hardly new, that, but it was more pronounced than it had ever been. Her eyes were stuck to his face, to every line of him, every defining boundary of Tom Marvolo Riddle. The face that had undergone such evolution in her psyche that it was hardly recognizable as a face anymore – it was a definition, now, its own self. Tom Riddle, a concept that had burned its way into her forever.
Hermione swallowed and followed Tom into the quiet, tense atmosphere of the Kitchens. It was brighter in there, a shaded gray as opposed to black, and faces, pale and drawn, swam all around like phantasms waiting to realize themselves. Hermione wondered if she looked like that. She wondered if there were any reason she shouldn't look like that, like she was on the brink of hysteria, like she was about to lose everyone and everything.
Hermione's eyes gazed in wonderment as she and Tom took seats alone at a table. Ginny's hands were clasped tightly around Harry's, her face reassuring. Harry himself looked almost murderous. Ron looked ill. Luna looked sad, and Neville looked like he was about to keel over in a faint.
There were so many faces around her. So many associations, so many memories, so many words she'd shared with them, but now that she sat there, feeling as if it was the end, Hermione felt as if she'd never really said anything that mattered enough.
xXxXxXxXx
It was hard to be quiet when there were almost thirty people walking down the hallways. None of them spoke, but the quiet shuffle of each of their robes and shoes turned into an amplified shh on the stone. Wands were in hands. The herd, the mass, the crowd was Disillusioned, and Hermione and Tom were buried in the middle, hands in unity, waiting for his entrance to be made.
Harry was buried in the middle of the group, to his anger.
They encountered two Death Eaters, Mulciber and Alecto, and they left them hidden in a locked classroom, suspended in mid-air behind a false wall without wands and unable to move. In short, extremely disabled.
Tom felt very... very mortal. It was strange, being inside a united force, not leading it. He flexed his wand a couple of times, mentally steeling himself to encounter Lord Voldemort.
I am Lord Voldemort.
Passionate anger flowed through him, anger at Voldemort. Everyone, Riddle mused, had probably felt anger against the Dark Lord at some point. He was just joining in, Hermione linked to him on the left, a shaking shoulder brushing his on the right – he didn't know who that was.
Tom glanced over at Hermione. Suddenly, amid the noise of robes, there was a quiet whisper. The words were indistinguishable, but Ron had appeared next to Hermione. Riddle wondered why he needed to speak to Hermione – she'd said they'd sort-of reconciled the night before – but she seemed too happy for words that he'd approached her, and Riddle was genuinely surprised to realize that he didn't care a bit about Ron Weasley. Not when he knew that Hermione would turn to him first, choose him, love him.
That realization was as rational as any he'd ever had, but it felt new. There was no jealousy, and in that second he realized he had everything he wanted. Ability. Potential. Her.
Now he just had to keep a hold of it.
The walk to the Astronomy Tower was hardly a long one, but it felt like hours, with breath strung tight as an executioner's drum skin. They entered, and before long, quiet spells were flying around, anti-concealment spells, and it was probably about two o'clock in the afternoon when a large, iron door appeared in the wall, a wall that had a window looking out over the grounds, a wall that logically could not have held a room at all, and yet there was the door.
The crowd moved aside as Tom walked to the front, removing his Disillusionment. He felt something strange – a quiver just below his knees. Irked, he straightened up and shook out the sleeves to his robes with a familiarly, reassuringly arrogant sigh.
His eyes met Hermione's.
He wondered if he should tell her he loved her. He wondered if this were the time or the place. He wondered why he was about to put his life on the line for all these people, but then he didn't really wonder at all, because he knew it was for her.
A pale hand on the doorknob. It wasn't locked, because who would be idiotic enough to enter?
Tom Riddle walked into the room.
It was dark and very long. There was a fireplace halfway down the wall, in front of which stood a tall, spindly chair with a tall, spindly man sitting in it. A man with such a face that Riddle stopped breathing for a heartbeat. The flesh of Hermione's nightmares, of her memories.
The room wasn't very full. There were perhaps a dozen people lurking in its depths, and each seemed absolutely stunned by the audacity of some child walking in as if he had every right to be there.
But Voldemort knew that Tom Riddle had every right to be there.
Voldemort knew.
He rose to his feet, and lifted a hand. Many wands flickered down to face the ground from their antagonistic positions. Riddle found himself silently appreciative of the absolute control Lord Voldemort had over these people. Whoever they were.
Voldemort did not seem to have words.
"A clever trick, creating you," he finally said, and watching that lipless mouth move was like watching an old man chew. Chewing on those words. Spitting them out with cold, high-pitched distaste. "I'd suppose they want me to shoot spells at you, although I can't be bothered to lower myself to such a level."
Riddle shrugged. "You might want to consider it," he said frostily. "You appear to be under the impression that I'm some sort of incantation. I'm not."
Lord Voldemort seemed almost amused. He swept around with magnificence, around the room and then back to his chair, commanding every inch of attention, though the young, lean, dark boy feet from him was contending for that attention with mighty effort just standing there. "Of course, you speak, as well," Voldemort said casually, sitting back down gently in his spindly chair, his long fingers wrapped around the arms like they were throats.
Riddle viewed his older self impassively, with curiosity. "I always wondered how I'd end up grown-up."
Voldemort blinked, his red eyes piercing. "And how do you feel, after all that wondering?" he said. "You should tell whoever conjured you that I am rather impressed by their spellwork." Voldemort drew his wand and tapped it lightly on the chair arm. "I wonder if it would hurt them if I were to cast a simple little curse on you," he said. His voice was dry and creeping, and Tom Riddle found himself watching his older self's wand very, very carefully. This was dangerous. If Voldemort thought that Riddle was only an illusion, he could be inclined to attempt to curse him. And though Riddle, with his decades of uninterrupted study, was completely confident in his ability to defeat anything and anyone, facing himself did send a mild shiver of apprehension up his back.
Watching the lithe movements of the older Voldemort was mesmerizing. The way he spoke. The way he even breathed and blinked, like everything was calculated. One could tell from looking at this man that he had everything figured out.
Tom Riddle drew his wand slowly. "Tell me," he said softly, "the fourth of Quinbred's Principles."
Voldemort said, "No spell may cast spells of its own without outside control."
Riddle flicked his wand, and an intricate webwork of flame sliced its way through the dark air, highlighting stones in red and washed-out orange, making the rough pitted and the pale spectral. There was a pregnant pause, and then, "I don't suppose you believe that no one's lending me control," Riddle said quietly.
"No," said Voldemort.
"In that case, I wonder how I could possibly convince you of my existence. I wonder how I could possibly convince you that I am you."
At Riddle's words, strangled breaths were breathed from many a Death Eater. This was how Voldemort had once looked? It was not common knowledge.
Tom's heart had slowed back to its regular pace. This conversation was almost civilized. Controlled, at the very least – no spells flying everywhere without cause.
Voldemort surveyed his younger self almost greedily in the dark of the room. "If you are, in fact, me, I'd be curious to understand the possibility of your being here."
"I believe I can convince you," Riddle said, realizing how. "With one name." And he suppressed the memory with all his might, and he wondered if the Voldemort opposite him was doing the same, after all these years.
"You may try," said Voldemort. His voice was definitely amused now. Riddle wondered what Voldemort did all day. Surely, if he had anything better to do, he would have long since attempted to dispose of Riddle.
Riddle raised his wand and cast Flagrate. He didn't feel as if he could say that name aloud, ever – but it was appearing now, in cold green flame.
P-e-t-e-
That gash of a mouth opened itself slightly, like cracking clay.
Peters
Lord Voldemort rose and lifted his wand, still staring.
Peterso
His face twisted into the most vindictive snarl Riddle had ever seen.
Peterson
Voldemort slashed his wand downwards, and the letters dissipated with a quiet hiss. His face was hideous with rage, but he did not cast anything further on Riddle. "So you are Tom Riddle," he said, so very softly that it raised hairs.
Riddle said, "Yes."
"Tell me. How are you here?"
"I am every horcrux you've made that's been destroyed," said Riddle. Voldemort's red eyes never left Tom's; his spidery fingers never let go that familiar wand.
Riddle had not shut the door, but there was so much attention on the young Voldemort that no one – not even Voldemort himself, now that he was completely riveted – noticed the quiet outlines of figures slipping into the dark room, so slowly, Disillusioned, flat against the wall. Riddle continued talking, not daring to turn, wondering if they had started to come in yet, as planned. "I've been wondering," he said casually, inserting every ounce of calm strength he had into his voice. There was a war between their eyes, and Tom would not lose. "Have you forgotten what Hogwarts once was to you?"
An ugly sneer curled the edge of Voldemort's mouth, his papery skin seeming to glow red in the torchlight. Tom surveyed his older counterpart and slowly felt disgust seeping through him. This creature would be willing to slaughter every person within the castle just on the principle that they might harbor Harry Potter. There was nothing special about Harry Potter – he was just another teenage boy. And Voldemort was sitting there, so willing to tear down this castle stone from stone to get at that boy. "You dishonor the name of Salazar Slytherin," said Riddle carelessly. "You've forgotten what I know."
The rage that had only just started to precipitate from Voldemort's contorted features returned tenfold. "And what might that be, you ignorant little child?" he hissed.
"There are things that you put your respect in," Riddle said, and his voice was dark and mesmerizing. "There are things that are worth fighting for, and if fighting for them is no longer worth anything, then fighting for yourself is useless. You may as well stop until you manage to recreate some semblance of self-worth, my Lord." The last two words were as icily mocking as Riddle could make them. He even added a sarcastic little bow, the contemptuous look never leaving his eyes.
A hideous smile worked its way onto Voldemort's mouth, and he said, "Well, then. If you think you're 'worth fighting for', why don't you join me?" He leaned backwards, his red eyes unblinking. "We would be unstoppable." The high, dry voice was silky, mesmerizing, like the sinuous coils of Parseltongue, but Riddle just found his throat tight with revulsion at the idea of ever joining this person. Tom Riddle would never lower himself to rule a world ruined by fear-driven stupidity.
And in that second, Riddle realized that he wasn't afraid of dying.
It shocked him, and his eyes widened. Why? Why had the fear chosen to vanish just then?
That deep-rooted terror... it just wasn't there anymore, and replacing it was blissfully temporary worry for his current wellbeing. As if he had anything to worry about.
Then, with a sudden, hot surge, he felt unstoppable. He didn't need this... this thing in front of him, the creature that may once have resembled Tom Marvolo Riddle.
So a calm smile slid onto his mouth, and he said, "I don't believe I see the point."
Voldemort's face had resumed its impassive stare. "Really?"
"There's no use for you anymore," Riddle said calmly. "You're redundant. You're every part of me that was never worth anything. You're... refuse."
He stepped calmly out of the way of the Killing Curse, and Voldemort was on his feet. "I never anticipated you'd be the one I would fight," Voldemort said. "I hope, with all your schoolboy idiocy, you don't underestimate me."
"You don't merit underestimation," sneered Tom, and now the blood was pumping hot in his veins. This was satisfaction. Hermione's murderer, so close. This man, this bald-headed, seventy-year-old man, had caused Riddle so much irritation, so much woe. Tom drew himself up, disdain seated deep in every inch of his face. And then he saw how very alone this Voldemort was, and he felt a very strange emotion indeed – pity, for that thing standing there. Tom shook his head. Pity – the one thing that enraged him beyond all other, and it looked like Voldemort had recognized it in the face of his own self.
The duel started. Tom knew it would be something that everyone would remember for the rest of their lives, so he reveled in it. In every blistering, heart-stopping spell bursting from the end of his wand. In every failed attempt of his adversary, in every disregarded endeavor he himself made.
The room was lit bright with sparks, with Voldemort's bared teeth, with Tom's dark and glistening eyes. Shields flew up and were shattered. Unforgivables were ignored, ducked and avoided like they were child's hexes. Not a single jinx collided with its target, choosing instead the walls, the ceiling, the floor, and the noise was terrific. The very room trembled at their presence. The bones of the earth shuddered at their battle. It went on, on, on – maybe for a hundred years, maybe for ten minutes, but it felt like eternity.
Tom wondered if Voldemort had studied for as long as he had as he waved his wand. Blue waves thrummed tight from the tip, soaring out and engulfing Voldemort, who directed them at the chair behind him. It splintered into itself, leaving a forlorn pile of twigs on the ground, and Tom siphoned Voldemort's fiery hex out of the air. Nothing was unidentifiable.
The spells came so fast now that the air seemed sucked from the room. Tom had to remind himself to breathe, although he would not allow Voldemort the satisfaction of seeing him fazed by any attacks. Voldemort, though, had a snarl on his face, seemingly shameless about that sort of thing. That thing called dignity.
Then the door slammed shut.
Riddle did not falter, but for just a half a second, Voldemort did, and then there was a huge slice down his upper arm, cutting right through his black robes into white skin.
Blood dripped down to the floor, but both duelists had stopped moving.
"This is my fight," said the voice by the door.
Harry Potter showed himself.
"Harry Potter," said Voldemort softly, and an almost-exquisite expression of delicate anguish creased its way onto his face. "After months of cowardice, you surface. I would not suppose you would dare to come alone." At those words, as if on cue, two dozen other people faded into sight, and Voldemort's eyes narrowed in surprise. "I welcome the entourage," he sneered. "Or, rather, my Death Eaters should extend a warm welcome."
That was a cue. Riddle blinked once, and then the spells were flying, and everything was deafening.
Yells from all sides, but Potter's group was scattering, now, threading themselves within the Death Eaters – and the Death Eaters were outnumbered by at least ten. Voldemort was dueling three, but Riddle was not one of them, as he was distracted for just a second as he scoured the room for Hermione.
There was an anguished cry. Her cry. And Riddle's heart stopped for a split second, but then he realized that if she'd been killed, she wouldn't have screamed.
The air, though – it was thick with green. Incapacitation meant death in this room. Tom contorted out of the way of a Killing Curse and found himself hurrying towards the direction of her yell.
She had her back against the wall. Smart girl. Her wandtip was trembling as it spat curse after curse, and next to her there was a body, and Hermione was crying openly, as if she was in pain.
"Neville," she sobbed, and dropped to the ground. A green spell knocked into the wall and extinguished itself, and Riddle couldn't keep his eyes off the huddled figure on the ground, disbelief trickling its way into him.
Neville Longbottom. Such a very long line of ancestry. A huge number of great wizards up that family tree, all those years, all those witches and wizards, funneled into this sad dead little heap on the floor –
Riddle snarled in rage, and he raised his wand again, but the movement sent a jolt of pain from his arm up to his brain, and he staggered back against the wall.
No.
Riddle clutched at his upper arm. His fingers came away dark and wet with blood. There was a large cut there. A cut that hadn't been inflicted by another's wand.
He realized what it meant and didn't say a word. He just grabbed Hermione's hand tight, swallowed the immense lump in his throat, and started, again, to duel.
Everything that happened to Voldemort happened to him. This was the end.
It ended in stalemate. There were five dead on their side, two dead Death Eaters. Voldemort held up a hand, and like his followers were mechanical, they lowered their hands. "Harry Potter," the Dark Lord said quietly. "Harry Potter, and the rest of you live."
Harry stepped forward before anyone could say anything, but Hermione cried out, "Harry, no!"
Riddle clapped his hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Lord Voldemort had cast his eyes over and seen her, and his red eyes widened in utter shock, his gash of a mouth sagging open slightly. "How?" he breathed, and there was greed on his face. Disgusting, sick greed. Riddle felt revulsion swirl inside him, and dark anger surfaced on his face. Voldemort would never get at Hermione again.
But Voldemort's attention slowly turned back to Harry Potter, who stood, tall and strong, in front of him. Riddle found himself filled with terror. Icy terror. That cut on Voldemort's arm, the one that mirrored his – Voldemort stroked it with his wand, and it vanished. So did Tom's. The remaining blood ran warm down his arm, pooling in his hand, and trickled to the ground, but he could not hear it. Bits of him were leaving, and if Harry Potter finally killed Lord Voldemort, everything would leave. Voldemort's soul would drag him down to hell. Forever.
Riddle felt himself quaking all of a sudden, and he leaned backwards and gripped onto the stone wall with his bloody hand, the other firmly holding Hermione's. If I leave her...
Nausea. Riddle closed his eyes for half a second and composed himself, his heart in his throat. Ron Weasley was to his left, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his mother. The Weasley girl was closest to Potter, and Voldemort was raising his wand.
Riddle gripped Hermione's hand even tighter. This was what was supposed to happen. Voldemort would be so selfishly arrogant, so disbelieving that he could be defeated, that Harry Potter, ferociously righteous and loving, would kill him.
And he, Tom Riddle, would die too, a memory made and then frozen in time.
He resigned himself to it. Hermione would survive. That was what mattered.
He pocketed his wand, and his arm slid around Hermione's waist, holding her tight. Relishing it. He would be gone, and she would heal eventually, without... without him. He kissed the top of her head, his eyes never leaving the scene unfolding before them.
"What are you doing?" she whispered. Voldemort was talking. He was postulating something or other. How stereotypical.
"I need you here, my love," Riddle murmured. His voice held weight it had never held – the acceptance of the inevitable.
Voldemort said to Harry, "So, finally, boy, you come to me, holding back all these people who are willing to sacrifice themselves for you."
Harry Potter said, "All your people would die for you just the same."
"I do not deny it," Voldemort replied silkily. "I stop them from doing so out of confidence, though, not stupidity, and that is what separates us."
"No," Harry said.
The word took root in Riddle and swelled into a triumphant chorus. Tell him, Harry Potter. He doesn't know the truth.
"What separates us is that the world would have been better if you were never born," said Harry Potter.
They raised their wands. This was the end, and Riddle's hand shook on Hermione's waist. She trembled and gripped him close, and he wondered if he could have chosen a way to die... he wondered what it would have been like. Would it have compared to this?
Tom Riddle closed his eyes.
xXxXxXxXx
Hermione was panicking. The way Tom was holding her was like a last farewell. Harry was staring down Lord Voldemort. She couldn't seem to breathe as the mouths of the duelists opened.
It happened so quickly.
"Avada Kedavra," said the Dark Lord Voldemort.
"Expelliarmus," roared the voice of the Boy Who Lived.
The spells barely missed each other. The green slid by the red, and both hit their targets, and then – and then Hermione's throat unlocked and she screamed and screamed and screamed for it seemed to have happened in a single second, and just like that Harry Potter was no longer the Boy Who Lived. He was dead.
Ginny was screaming and then with a flash of green from a Death Eater's wand and Ginny diving out of the way it became apparent that Lord Voldemort had had no intention of keeping anyone else alive even after Harry – even after Harry –
Hermione couldn't seem to do anything else besides scream, a raw throaty painful tear – screaming as she had never heard herself scream before, and then there was a sharp yank on her waist and she was cut short. She looked over at Tom, and he was shoving Ron and Mrs. Weasley ahead of him, through the door. There was a frantic scramble, a mass exodus.
Hermione retched over and over as she stumbled out of the doorway. It was sick, leaving Harry and Neville behind, leaving Ernie Macmillan and Pomona Sprout, leaving Padma Patil and that young Gryffindor boy, Euan Abercrombie – Hermione had never known him but he was dead and she'd never know him now and she could never know Harry ever again –
Her feet pounded the stone. Over and over and over. She heard a shriek from inside the room. "Bring me that girl!"
Hermione's throat tightened in fear and she stumbled – but Tom's hand dragged her forward. They skidded around the corner, Ron and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny hot on their heels – and Tom stopped and closed his eyes. He looked sick for a second, and then he aimed his wand at his own leg and flicked it.
There was a disgusting crack, but Tom was not the one screaming. It was a high, angry scream back from the room, and Hermione's mind swam with unanswered questions and the hot acidic burn of fear. "What are you doing?" she hissed, her voice raw and sharp. She dropped by his shin and tapped the break, and it sealed up – "Come on" – and they were sprinting again, after Ron and Ginny and Mrs. Weasley, sprinting until they could not anymore and they were inside the Kitchens.
There was nothing left for the Death Eaters to do now but exterminate them. There would be no more interrogation about the whereabouts of Harry Potter, for there was no more Harry Potter.
Hermione felt disbelief numbing her coolly, and she welcomed it. Maybe she could just live in denial forever, forever and ever and just believe that Harry was somehow still alive, for there was no way Voldemort could have just torn him from her that fast... that damned fast, surely not.
It should not have happened this way.
Ginny was wailing.
There were a few figures trailing through the portrait hole – Kingsley, McGonagall, Hagrid. Percy and George. Fleur. They'd all managed to stay together. "We should have stayed there," Hermione whispered, and she wasn't sure who she was whispering to exactly. "We should have stayed and we should have killed him."
She sank down, exhausted, to the stone floor, and Riddle followed her carefully, holding her from behind. "I can't believe it," Riddle said quietly, and the words sank into her like tight hot bullets of realism. Hermione closed her eyes and felt the stone cold on her legs, and how strange that Harry could never again feel a stone like she was feeling this one, not with nerve endings that had no life behind them...
Hermione Granger closed her eyes and turned her head to press her face to Tom's chest. Harry wouldn't be in that median world. He had no secrets to keep. Harry Potter was dead.
It wouldn't stop washing up against her, a huge ailing tsunami about to burst on itself and crash down.
Tears started to leak under her eyelids, and she shook, her face spreading itself out into hideous misery, sobs eking themselves from her open mouth. Oh, God, Harry – Harry why would you – how could you – no –
How could we have just stood there?
And now Voldemort was out to find her, and her alone, for she had returned from the dead. Hermione made herself as small as possible, her arms around her knees, Tom as wrapped around her as he could possibly be. He was making small shushing noises, and that just amplified her sobs, her misery.
Hermione lifted her head, removing her fingernails from her shaking palms. They were bloody. Ginny appeared to have torn out some of her own hair, and was lying, screaming, convulsing on the floor as if she'd been stabbed. The adults were quiet. Hagrid had golf-ball tears rolling down his cheeks. McGonagall appeared to be praying. Mrs. Weasley was staring blankly at the wall, and Ron had conjured a set of what seemed to be china plates and was throwing them at the ground, his mouth opened wide in a silent yell, his blue eyes squinted shut and crying. He drew in a screaming breath and threw a plate at the ground. It shattered, and the noise made Hermione stop breathing for a second, because she could almost picture her heart breaking with the sound.
Tom looked weary. He looked hollow, as if this had been the last thing he'd ever anticipated.
Hermione drew in a deep breath through her nose, wiping her eyes, wiping her face. We can still win. Even without Harry. We can kill Voldemort. We can avenge Harry James Potter.
Her eyes were sore already from crying.
She enfolded herself in Tom's arms, rocking back and forth in inexpressible misery, and she wondered why this could happen, why this was a possibility, why there had been no one there to stop it from happening.
Was there a God?
xXxXxXxXx
The next day was spent, for those who found themselves able, putting up every single imaginable ward around the Kitchens. Every survivor in their band had managed to trail back to the Kitchens – all but those five dead, and... and Harry.
It was no longer an option to send out searches for other people, for they were under siege. Attacks barraged the wards day and night. McGonagall had managed to put a Fortinbras' Membrane up, and that seemed to shield the brunt of the attacks all on its own. It was the same bubble-like type of shield that Voldemort had created around the entire school.
Hermione had felt like the entire situation wasn't happening, like it was an alternate universe in which everything had just happened to veer away from its intended course. But a sluggish sense of reality started to seep in after the initial 24 hours, after Ginny stopped speaking, after everything started to seem purposeless to Hermione.
"It'll be all right," Tom said that evening, and it was all Hermione found herself torn between protesting hotly and bursting into fresh tears. They were alone in the House-elf quarters. The torches were lit, and it was bright. "We can get rid of him."
"How?" Tom did not answer, but it was not a mystified silence. It was the silence of withheld truths, and Hermione slowly turned to look at him. "What is it?"
Tom turned his eyes to the table. "I broke my leg while we were running, and it broke his, too. Whatever I do to myself happens to him. When I cut his arm, it cut mine."
His voice was quiet and factual, but Hermione's eyes blazed suddenly. "You knew about this?"
He looked at her, his cool stare matching her burning gaze. "Since right before Potter stepped up."
"You would have died," Hermione whispered, disbelieving, looking at him in horror. "If Harry had killed him. If... if Harry had killed him, you would also have... you would be dead."
Tom nodded, and his dark eyes were serious. "I was willing to overlook that, in the moment," he murmured.
Then she was kissing him passionately, right there in the miserable atmosphere, and she pulled away with a sharp intake of breath and suddenly she was crying again. "If he gets killed," she said, her voice thick, "you'll die."
Hermione couldn't believe it. Whatever happened to Voldemort happened to Tom. Everything she had feared most was realizing itself – what was there to do?
For them to leave the grounds, Voldemort needed to be dead.
For Voldemort to be dead, Tom needed to die.
Hermione felt, in that second, that just killing herself was possibly the most realistic option, but as she looked at Tom, she knew she couldn't ever actually do it. Not while he still clutched her hands, telling her that he needed her. Not while there were so many people out there who needed their help. Not while Ron and Ginny and Luna and everyone else was still alive, for God knew they needed each other to lean on.
Tom couldn't seem to speak. That tiny crease had appeared in-between his straight eyebrows, and the tiny aperture between his lips spoke volumes by itself, spoke words he couldn't seem to form. "Hermione, you know what needs to happen," he said at last.
"No," she said. "No." And she sucked back her hopeless tears. "I won't let you do that. I can't. You can't... you can't die."
A muscle tightened in his jaw at the word. "If I do, the entire Wizarding World is saved. Hermione, if I do, your life is saved. He's –" he pointed at the door – "looking for you, now. And I will never let him do... what he did – again. No."
The words had to be the choppiest, the hardest-spoken, that Hermione had ever heard from his lips. He was writing his own death sentence, and Hermione pressed herself tight against him. "No," she said, and it seemed to be all she could think of, bizarrely. How could he take himself from her? Willingly? All the time in the world had turned into none at all.
"With every passing moment," Tom murmured, "Voldemort is probably getting closer to killing someone, whoever it is. And the only person, really, who shouldn't be here -"
"Don't say that, don't say it -"
"Is me."
Hermione stood up violently, and Tom followed slowly. "No," she whispered fiercely. "You're who Tom Riddle was supposed to be. You're the one who should be here, not Voldemort – this was supposed to happen; you were supposed to come back -"
He slowly put his hand to her face. "Hermione," he whispered, and his eyes were bright suddenly with unshed tears, "this is harder for me than anything has ever been. Please – please don't make it worse. I'm not supposed to be here. The only reason I am is for you."
Her embrace was crushing, and Tom turned his face up to the ceiling, feeling a deep, hollow ache inside him. As he held her small body, he wondered how he could do it to himself, to her. He wondered how he could remove himself from her arms, let alone from her world. He'd had a taste of what it was like to live, to truly live, with love, whole, unbroken – and he wasn't sure what it would be like to go back to being alone. Torturous, at the very least. Indescribable.
Tom gritted his teeth and fought back humiliating tears. He turned his face back downwards and buried his nose in her thick hair. She didn't smell like herself. She smelled like sweat, like dirt, like blood.
The Heir of Slytherin pondered why exactly he was preparing himself for something that was so utterly Gryffindor. He wanted to live. He wanted to live with Hermione by his side. Why should he even consider sending himself away?
Then again, that was the way love worked, wasn't it? You did things you never wanted to do. Just for them. And realizing that he understood that filled him with gratitude, for she had finally managed to make him understand.
Tom held her for – he didn't even know how long.
"When?" Hermione whispered, her voice low in his ear. When would he rip himself from her? When would he leave her utterly alone? What would happen to his soul? It had been through so much; surely after being healed, it was still shaky – still riddled with remorse-sized gaps, just waiting for him to die and then what if he flew apart and was trapped in limbo forever –
She sucked in a breath, pressing her cheek into the fabric of his sweater, and she wished for things to have been different. "You said you'd never break my heart again."
"I'm sorry." His voice was a broken whisper. "Hermione Granger, you've changed me. You've saved the unsalvageable, and I love you desperately for it. But everything and everyone has its time. You know that. I know that –" His voice cracked. Moisture glistened in his eyes.
Hermione wiped her face, and then she kissed him furiously, a clumsy, shattering kiss, her fingers holding his face tight, his hands wound tight into her hair. She moved against him until he was pressed against the wall, and she started crying even as they kissed, as his hands made their familiar path up and down her body – and she couldn't imagine those hands immobile, no longer able to hold that wand and do such brilliant magic – and she cried –
"Tom," she sobbed. "Tom, I love you." Was there anything else to say? Was there anything else to do? How could they move away from each other; how could he pull out his wand and end everything she could once have hoped for?
"I love you," he murmured fiercely. "I love you. I..." His voice trailed off, and he looked at the wall over her shoulder and tilted his face upwards, his hand flying to his face as if to contain himself, and he heaved a tremendous, ungraceful sniff, his mouth open slightly, and then he held his breath and shut his eyes. Shut those dark eyes, and from under his tangled lashes spilled unhindered drops, and he bit out a curse.
Hermione wiped his eyes softly and kissed him, both their faces sticky with tears and mucus and misery. Their hands twisted up in each other, gripping too hard.
"Just know," Tom said, his low voice filled with utter longing, "that I am so sorry for what I've done."
"No," she whispered, but Tom felt the remorse bubbling up through the loosely held cracks in his soul. Maybe this was for the better. Maybe... maybe this would fix it. Maybe this would make those cracks disappear, those cracks dividing his soul up into seven pieces, cracks bridged only by gelatinous fearful remorse and missing only that fragment inside Voldemort.
He kissed her. "Please, let your friends know it was me," he murmured. He kissed her. Her lips were soft and cool and wet. "Let them know I loved you more than I loved myself." He kissed her again. Her hazel eyes were shot with passion, and he felt his hands shaking like they'd never shaken.
Tom reached into his pocket and took out his wand. They lowered themselves to the floor, and Hermione sat behind Tom and held him and he leaned back in her arms and felt his soul just about to burst in shameful remorse, and in anticipation –
Hermione leaned down and kissed him. He placed his wandtip to his chest.
"I love you, Tom Marvolo Riddle," Hermione whispered.
"And I will always love you," Tom whispered back, reaching his hand up to touch the curve of her face. She pressed her lips to his fingertips, holding his hand tight in hers.
No, he realized.
He would not have dreamed dying any other way.
"Avada Kedavra," he whispered, and the green light hit him, and some massive explosion took place inside him, and then the world went black. Black and dark and colder than rain.
xXxXxXxXx
"Avery?" said Nott quietly. "What's happened?"
Voldemort had suddenly keeled forward in his chair, and Nott didn't know what to do. Was he ill? Was there any reason for the Dark Lord just to pass out, without any seeming source? They didn't dare speak to him, of course, so they just stood, staring at him for what must have been minutes before Avery managed, "My Lord?"
There was no response. Voldemort remained hunched over. Nott and Avery exchanged glances with Amycus, the only other Death Eater who wasn't barraging the Kitchen in an attempt to get at that girl who'd come back from the dead.
"My Lord?" Avery said again, louder, and mentally steeled himself to be cursed. But nothing happened. The dark figure in the chair did not move, did not fold himself back into a sitting position.
The Dark Lord had just been awake. There was no way he could have fallen asleep like that. "My Lord, wake up," Amycus said urgently. But there was no reaction. None at all.
And through the lone window set in that wall, Avery saw something.
The huge screen, that tremendous bubble, was peeling away bit by bit. Sizzling away into nothingness.
Avery's eyes widened. "Look," he said, and the other two men glanced up and out of the window.
Nott slowly walked over and placed a finger on the Dark Lord's shoulder, preparing to jump away.
He did not have to. Lord Voldemort was dead.
Nott slowly leaned the tall man back into a sitting position. His head lolled. His mouth drooped open. The red eyes did not open. Nott placed a hand on Voldemort's chest and swallowed. There was no heartbeat. There was nothing.
Amycus' eyes fixed on that tiny remaining patch of Fortinbras' Membrane as it slowly folded in on itself – and then – bang.
A rush of cold air rocketed outwards from the boundaries and there was a tremendous, heart-stopping smash as every single window in the castle was shattered. "We need to get out of here," said Avery, his voice hoarse.
They fled, and they left the door open, and anyone who might have cared could have walked in and seen Lord Voldemort sitting dead in front of a lonely fire.
But no one cared.
xXxXxXxXx
There was utter confusion in the Kitchens. Every single one of the high windows had burst inwards.
Had Lord Voldemort decided to take down the constraints?
"No," Professor McGonagall said. "The only reason it would have explosive force would be if its source... was destroyed."
Shocked silence descended. "How?" managed Ron, his face white as a sheet. "Is this some sort of bloody joke?"
But the noises of explosions at the portrait were streaming away, too. McGonagall approached the portrait and opened it slightly. There were yells from outside. "Run!" said a deep male voice. "The Dark Lord has fallen!"
Cool air, cool outside air, was streaming in through the windows. It was mid-spring, and the breeze smelled like newness, smelled like fresh rain.
And then there were joyful tears. Tears and disbelief. And no one heard, from the House-elf quarters, the sobs.
xXxXxXxXx
It had just been a brief flash of green. It had slid onto him, and then his hand had fallen to his chest, like he'd just been laying it there, ready for the next spell.
He lay on the ground, and Hermione felt something strange inside her as she looked at him. She shook him gently, as if expecting him to stir.
After all that time, he and Lord Voldemort had been so inexorably tied to each other. She should not have anticipated anything different.
Hermione bit her lip. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. She bit her lip so hard she could feel her teeth digging into it. But there was nothing, right then, except his body on the floor. There was nothing except the intelligence that had died from his dark eyes, which were open, as if he were just about to turn his head and look at her. There was nothing except some defilement which had settled itself into her heart, rooting as if nothing else could ever be there.
She leaned down and pressed her lips to his, and for a moment she could almost believe that he would sit up and respond. For a moment she could almost believe that this body was still a human being with beliefs and talents and – and emotions.
Her tears fell onto his face, and for a second she had no voice to cry her sobs. It came, though. Everything came to her with the hammer's smash of realization, and Hermione Granger curled herself up next to Tom Riddle's warm body and put her arms around him and cried and screamed for he'd left her alone.
For neither could live while the other survived.
"Tom," she said, and she wasn't sure how many times she said the word but he didn't answer. Those lips never parted. Those lips would never make another wry comment, would never say another spell. Those lips would never be warm and firm against her own again.
Hermione, through her haze, heard voices outside. Heard the joyous triumphant shaky relieved voices. But she could not emerge. She didn't think she would ever emerge. After all they'd been through, after all they'd promised, the boy lying in front of her was gone, and that seemed to be all that she could try to manage right now. "I love you," she said. "I love you."