Chapter 8: Life is a Gamble Between Time and Passion

I do not own the time

I do not own the place

What I do own is the words, the passion, the agony

The cold, meandering pace.

What did she need from Harry James Potter?

She needed him to leave her alone. She needed him to stop bothering her about her...change in personality. Fundamentally, she loved her silence in class and her quiet knowing that Tom had taught her was the true way to gain the respect of professors. Because she measured her words carefully, they actually listened to what she said instead of the eye-rolling and half-hearted "Miss Granger?" she had become so accustomed to.

She scrubbed her leg and noticed some bruises on her knees. They didn't hurt, but then again, she had been so distracted over the past few months living in her own head that the physical didn't seem to matter as much. She hardly ate, preferring coffee to keep her head clear.

She needed him to stop bothering her about that. If she could convince Harry tonight that it her disheveled state was merely a manifestation of her...worry for her mother, then Ron would follow. But, you love them. They are your friends. You shouldn't be viewing them as pawns, following the command of the players. You are the player, Hermione? Since when did you find this necessary? This constant game of Wizards' chess? Barbaric and cruel.

She noticed a long cut on her arm. Where did that come from? She had hardly been sleeping, and sometimes she woke up so tired that the small amount she got felt like it was spent sleepwalking. Maybe she was?

"You have a boyfriend, Hermione. You simply can't hide love from me. Why are you gone all night? Is he cute?" Parvati had asked cattily with narrowed eyes a few days prior. You are not in love with Tom, she felt it necessary to tell herself. Essentially, Parvati had no proof. Besides her mandatory presence at Quidditch practice (which she spent scribbling), she associated with no one. If Parvati wanted to make the assumption that she had a boyfriend who spent no time with Hermione in public, even the queen of gossip couldn't support that. There could be no, "Well you know she spends so much time with X" or "She bats her eyes at Y." She made her own destiny. With Tom's help.

She dried herself and dressed in black muggle clothing, perfect for sneaking around the castle at midnight. The mirror hummed approvingly at her more-human state. Half the battle with Harry would be appearance. If she made an effort, it would be easier for him to understand that she was, indeed, in control.

Harry would respond to emotion. He always had. With his past, it would be a wonder if he didn't have empathy. She slipped the planner...no, diary...into her robes. Suddenly, she saw the answer. Tom said he would help her speak to Harry. She just needed to learn from him, to see what he said and advised, and then she would go from there. What would she do without the diary? It was really precious. She shook her head. Since when did she start sounding like Gollum? Next thing she knew, she would be in an underground cave somewhere only writing to Tom. You rely on him so much. Why? Are you truly in contr-

The diary warmed and Hermione took that as a sign to get moving. She climbed out of the portrait hole and quietly padded to the tapestry. It was ten past midnight, and Harry materialized from under the invisibility cloak. She grabbed his hand because it seemed like the right thing to do, and paced with him three times in front of the gruesome tapestry. The door opened. And she let Tom into her mind.

The room became hazy and she felt a presence in her mind unlike anything she had ever experienced. Leave it to me. A giddy glaze floated over her eyes not unlike the sensation of the Imperius curse. She could see herself in the mirror of the faux-Gryffindor common room she had wished for, and Harry peered curiously at her.

"Harry, thank you so much for coming," the words spilled out in a voice that was unmistakably hers, but lower and more intense. Like Tom's voice.

"Hermione, you know how much we care about you," Harry said in an awkward questioning tone.

"I care about you too. I am so sorry for how I've been lately. But, I knew that you would understand. Ron is so hard sometimes, but you actually, know what it's like to feel alone."

Harry's eyes softened and it looked as if he were about to cry. "But you know, Hermione, friends are really good for that. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you and Ron. Hogwarts feels like my home because of you guys. You can tell me what's, er...you know, bothering you."

Hermione, trust me. Tom's voice reverberated in her head, and despite a part of her that desperately mistrusted Tom, she acquiesced.

"I need space, Harry. It is painful for me to be happy, to put on a smile or strive for grades when my world has become so meaningless. I feel like I have been abandoned by my mother, and I know that's not true, but I need time to cope," Tom said, working Herm-Granger's mouth with ease now. For all of her desire to embody the identity he projected, she was a horrible liar. He gave a hesitant smile and felt the creases of her face rebel. She really hadn't smiled in a long time. He smirked-now that felt more natural.

Potter wasn't looking at him anymore. He was looking at Granger's feet so he didn't see the flash of Tom's experiment. Why was he looking there? He scoffed inwardly at the weakness of this boy. It fascinated him, disgusted him, that such a miserable boy could have ever killed Lord Voldemort. He could barely look his best friend in the eye. That's why you don't have friends. They expose weakness, compromise you. That's right. But now he needed information.

"Have I really been that bad?" he asked.

"You barely speak to us. You just write in that planner all the time, but I don't know what you're writing since you obviously don't need notes in class anymore. You just, er, seem to know things."

Tom gave an involuntary gasp. He hadn't realized the extent of her isolation. She did write in the diary an absurd amount, but time really didn't seem to pass in the same ways within the confines of the Horcrux. This was excellent. He thought that he still had a long way to go in completely separating Granger from Potter and Weasley as friendship seemed to be the annoying counterspell to possession.

"How are you doing?" he made himself ask. Like he cared about Potter's feelings, but years of manipulation taught him that this was the golden question.

"Well, it's been, hard. And now with the voices that I heard before Justin was...found," he trailed off.

It took all of Tom's self-control to stop himself from screaming, "Voices?"

"Tell me more about the voices, Harry."

"I haven't heard them since, but, er...just the ripping and tearing and killing parts.."

Potter was a Parseltongue. Tom wasn't one for profanity, but several choice curse words crossed his mind. He couldn't possibly be related to Slytherin. In his extensive research, Potter definitely didn't appear in the genealogy in any meaningful way besides the interrelated nature of all Pureblooded wizards. He dredged up the memory of his tutelage of Hermione when he taught her the basics of putting a part of a soul into a vessel. Of course, like all close-minded people, she had squirmed at the idea of Horcruxes, but she still found it fascinating

"But Tom, then, would the object be like the person?"

"Oh no. It is simply held there, or so I've heard. It's a very obscure branch of magic that obviously hasn't been used. As far as I know, there's no transfer of sentience and the object doesn't start looking like the owner. Just theory really. I thought it be useful as the runes you're studying are also used for that."

He couldn't possibly have her making the connection. But he just had in this fateful moment. Potter was a Horcrux. Well, this complicated the situation. A million different plans ran through his head. He'd need to extract it. That wouldn't be so difficult-the potion had a number of nasty ingredients, but he could easily have Granger ask that Lockhart buffoon to purchase them for her. A brilliant idea dawned upon him.

"Hermione, are you okay?"

"Oh, yes. I promise that I'll talk to you when...the wound has healed a bit. I just need to be alone for a while, Harry," he said distractedly. It seemed to be good enough for the emotional powerhouse that was Potter who looked as though he had just found out his parents were alive or something.

He let Granger back into control and they both watched Harry Potter leave the Room of Hidden Things. As the door shut, Tom materialized in corporeal form on one of the couches.

"Hermione, your friend is being possessed."

She blinked, bleary from the ironic possession. "What? Harry isn't possessed. A bit clueless sometimes, but certainly not possessed!"

"The scar-the jagged lightning bolt. I've come across it in my studies. He told me about some voices-that's probably where they're coming from."

He could see the gears moving behind her eyes. This was the gambit. If she could be convinced that the potion was to...exorcise...Potter then she would be more easily persuaded to not only take some of Potter's blood for the resurrection but also to administer the potion to remove the Horcrux. Two birds. One stone. As the Muggles would say, that is.

"Oh God. I didn't even think about that. But, I mean, Professor Dumbledore would have told Harry if the scar was bad..."

"Dumbledore wouldn't know a possession if it happened right under his nose."

Granger stared at him. Mistake. He was not on his best game this evening. Despite his presence in Granger's life, he still could not convince her that Dumbledore was a meddling, woefully ignorant sod. She surprisingly let it go and sat down next to him on the couch.

"What do we do?"

Part two of the move.

"I know that we can help him, Hermione. It's going to be hard, but with some research and work I think that we can help Harry."

"But what about Justin and the monster?"

"Sadly, we can't do a thing until the next attack. If Harry's being possessed... he might even be, unknowingly of course, behind the attacks." The perfect explanation to get her more focused on him instead of an imaginary threat. As if he were going to kill the girl with the Basilisk when she was going to be the primary instrument in his return.

She seemed to be remembering something, her eyes flitting to the left corner as she did when she recalled books and spells. He could feel her gaze while he was in the diary-it was...strange to view it from outside.

"Someone tried to possess Harry's broomstick last year. Do you think that it could be V-Voldemort?"

"It very may well be, from what you've told me."

"Oh God."

"Indeed."

The fire crackled and the air of the room changed. A strange prickling sensation crawled up Tom's arm and landed in his stomach. Th-thum. His heart. It was beating. He looked at Granger whose face was crumpled in an expression of deep sadness. Sooner than he thought—what must it feel like to wear one's emotions so easily. But then, for the first time since he had been a very, very young child, he felt not the hot propellant of manic ambition but the muted mask of sadness.

She reached out to grab Tom's robe, and to his great surprise, he felt it. His arm slowly became opaque, a wave of solid color and he could feel his face warm. He did not just hear the fire crackle. He felt its warmth, the hotness of fire mixed with a light fall breeze sifting through the window. Life. Fifty years trapped in a book, smelling only parchment and ink and now the overpowering scent of rose filled his mind. She did this. She finally trusted him enough.

"Tom? Why do you look so real?"

He couldn't even be bothered to lie.

"You, apparently."

"Ha-that's nice, Tom. I bet this is just a dream," she trailed off blearily, and she laid her head upon his shoulder. All of the stimulants of life were hurtling toward him. The breeze combining with the fall and rising of her breath mixed with that powerful, heady scent and his own smell of parchment. He could feel her cheek pressed lightly against his shoulder, the sound of his own heart again. Why was this so bright? Even when his soul was whole, he had never been so alive. It felt like the Dark Arts.

She looked up at him with eyes that betrayed adoration.

It seemed like the right thing to do. For, the plan, that is.

He kissed her.

A/N

Firstly, I'm terribly sorry for the long delay between chapters. Secondly, thank you so much for the kind and constructive reviews. Seriously. It might seem that I am ungrateful or something-but no, just the insane life of university and a...wait for it...writing job! I actually get paid to write now! Imagine my shock. However, I'm finding that nothing is more fulfilling than writing something like Willing Descent. So, as much as I have promised updates in the past on a more frequent timetable, this time, it is indeed true. I suppose I'll just have to prove it.

As for this end-of-chapter bombshell, after about six months of contemplation, I now have the perfect arc to this story. One that will not compromise my TMR/HJG philosophy, but will hopefully be satisfying in its originality and believability. It shall still be slow, but a different kind of slow.

As always, I absolutely adore reading your reviews on writing style and your opinions about the story. Even if it's a "keep writing." I know it sounds incredibly silly, but it can be disheartening to be lost in the fabric of the Internet even for the most secure of writers.