Chapter 18: A Twisted Kind of Fairy Tale
Thursday, December 2, 1944
2:59 P.M.
Hermione had forgotten Dark Arts Curses, A Description of on the bookshelf in her room. Ravenclaw had booked the Quidditch pitch that afternoon, so Harry, Ginny, Lavender, Ron, and Draco (who had fully recovered from his broken arm with the aid of Madam L, whom he had dubbed 'Bloody Mary') had agreed to help her search for more information on the elusive Anima spell. It might have been nothing, but, then again, it might have everything to do with the discrepancies that had begun popping up all over the given timeline.
Muttering "Stuffed Pepperjacks", to Sir Cadogan, she didn't bother to waste time chitchatting with the knight or to look for Tom Riddle, as the latter had missed every day of classes since Monday. Once again, Hermione couldn't understand his absence. When Riddle had opened her gift on Sunday night, he had seemed to be fully recovered.
She had mentally run through every hypothetical curse that Riddle could have, given the additional information Dumbledore had let her read before she had come back in time, and she had crossed each one off with an obnoxious X, as they all appeared to be blatantly incorrect.
Yeah, right, who am I trying to fool? she mused as she energetically took the stairs up to her room two at a time. Nothing here was ever simple. She wasn't that lucky. Everything, every appearance was continually turning out to be completely deceiving. Deftly weaving her way through her bedroom, past her professionally organised desk, her Ravenclaw spread, double bed, and all the way to the farthest, floor-to-ceiling bookcase, Hermione grabbed the aged book off the shelf exactly where she had left it— And saw, unmistakably placed in the dead centre of her coffee table, a small piece of yellowed parchment. Parchment that looked remarkably familiar.
This time, though, she picked up the paper without any fear of hexes, or any suspicion, for that matter. Curiously, she flipped it over, shocked to see more than one line of writing. As she read the elegantly scripted words, her surprised eyes widened, and her curiosity turned to absolute astonishment.
'Ne' (here the beginning of an 'f' was written, but the ink only made it a third of the way down the line before its author scratched it out and changed directions)
'Hermione-
Sometimes I do do formalities.
Thank you.
Tom'
Hermione blinked and quickly re-read the writing to make sure she hadn't made some kind of mistake. And re-read it again. And again. She needed about two minutes to fully absorb the true nature of Riddle's words. It was a Thank You card, she thought in numbed disbelief. Granted, the simplest kind imaginable, but a Thank You card nonetheless.
Tom Marvolo Riddle, the Heir of Slytherin and quite possibly the future Dark Lord... had written her a Thank You card. Hermione's hand dropped to her side, limply holding the scrap of parchment, and her eyes darted around her bright, sunny bedroom, wondering when Riddle had brought the note; if he was still there, even... Somewhere...
And, with a start, she realised that she and Tom Riddle were on a completely different level than they had been when they had first met so many months ago.
3:10 P.M.
"We're nearly halfway through the year, and we haven't got anything to work with yet?" Harry was asking impatiently, parked on his usual Slytherin sofa with a sleeping Ginny as Hermione briskly strolled into the Room of Requirement. Harry nodded at her, smiling his greeting, as she placed the retrieved Dark Arts book on the coffee table between the sofas.
"I wouldn't say that, exactly," Hermione responded thoughtfully, immediately jumping into the conversation. She sat down on the edge of the Ravenclaw couch, unzipped her bulging book bag, and unloaded at least six more dusty, leather bound books. "I think we have a lot to work with, but we just haven't figured out how to work with it yet."
"Hey, Hermione, enjoying your time without Voldy?" Lavender greeted cheerfully. Hermione nearly winced at the harsh grate of the name. Oblivious, Lavender promptly picked up An Ancient Dark Arts Summary and began leafing through it. "Where'd you dig these oldies up from? Under the dungeons?"
"Erm, from the other half of the Dumbledore Ancestral Library bookcases, I finally got the chance to un-shrink them last night..." Hermione passed Ron, Harry, Ginny, and Draco some rather dodgy books on the Dark Arts before scooching farther back on the couch and reclining against a large, fluffy blue and bronze pillow. "Anyway, a lot of things are happening that definitely weren't supposed to happen. I mean, I don't get it. I don't. Tom Riddle's 'curse'— which is in no way mentioned in any of Dumbledore's notes, by the way — left him in the Hospital Wing for almost a week.
"That's seven days", she intoned forcefully to drive her point. "All the professors, including this Dumbledore, seem to know about the curse, but they're being very hush-hush about it, if you know what I mean. Everyone, this is a big deal. Even Madam L was concerned. Had this happened to Riddle the first time around, Dumbledore would have definitely told us," she finished, a note of certainly ringing in the termination of her speech.
"So Voldy had the curse in him the entire time he was Lord Voldemort, but, for some reason, it never took effect?" Ron asked. A second later, he frowned and shook his head, as if answering his own question, and muttered, "Bugger."
"Ron," Hermione said out of the blue, vaguely wondering how to phrase what she wanted to say next. "Hmmmm?" Ron asked distantly, breaking out of his deep, meditative thoughts. He yawned, wrapped his arm amicably around Lavender, and glanced at Hermione.
"It seems to me that it'd be far less confusing if we all called the 1940s version of Lord Voldemort Tom Riddle", she said carefully, disinterestedly pretending to be completely engrossed with the random book page she had opened to.
"Yeah, that little inconsistency has left me scratching my head a few times", Ginny piped in, cracking her sleeping eyes open an inch from her perch on Harry's lap. "Let me tell you, it's shaken me up quite a bit, too. There were times when you said it, and I thought old Snake Eyes himself had somehow followed us back. We need some kind of uniform name system, like we should stick to Tom Riddle for this 1944 version of Voldemort and Voldemort for our version of Voldemort."
"Errrm... All right". It was difficult to see the befuddlement in Ron's expression, but Hermione knew it was there, heard the confusion in his voice as if he couldn't imagine why the name would even matter when they were so obviously the same person. So obviously, her mind echoed with the slightest tinge of doubt.
"That's not all," Harry broke in arbitrarily, his voice disturbingly sombre, an unusually wary gleam in his green eyes. She had learned to dread the words that always inevitably followed that tone of voice. Hermione inquisitively looked across the gulf between sofas at the Boy-Who-Lived, the Amulet of Eras beginning to feel hot, scratchy, and sticky under her robes. The unconcealed, guilty expression on Harry's face did nothing to ease her fears. "Harry... What is it?" she asked warily.
"Hermione." He shifted uncomfortably, meeting her apprehensive gaze, and carefully, picking over his every word, slowly began, "Remember when, back at the beginning of school, I told you how Abraxas Malfoy approached me with an invitation to come to some Dark meetings?"
When she nodded warily, Harry continued, a bit more confidently, "Well, about a month and a half ago, right before Halloween, he talked to me again. He said the same Dark followers were going to have their first official meeting, and that they had come up with a name for themselves... Death Eaters." Before she could interrupt, as she seemed ready to, he quickly finished, "And... I took him up on his original offer."
Hermione's blood chilled, and her back stiffened rigidly. She had figured that one of their number might be subjected to spy work, but, even so, she had never expected it to happen so... suddenly. Bizarrely, she didn't feel fear, or even anger, at Harry's revelation, but rather... disappointment. So it had begun. Right here, right under her nose, Tom Riddle had already taken the first steps on his journey to the Dark. He had to do it sometime, she knew, but she had thought, she had hoped that...
Well, what she had hoped didn't matter much anymore. It had been foolish thinking, anyway. Closing her eyes briefly, she tiredly rubbed her temples with her fingertips. "And Riddle led it, I assume."
"Well, that's the thing," Harry said, visibly sighing in relief at her relatively receptive reaction. Throwing aside all padding, he dove right in to the juicier section of his report. "When Malfoy said 'secret meetings', he meant it. Twenty-five people come, counting me, and we're all required to wear hooded cloaks. I can't tell girls from boys, Hermione," he said frankly, shaking his head, and continuing.
"Malfoy was clearly second in command, I could recognise his voice anywhere, and I thought I heard Lestrange's voice somewhere in the crowd at more than a few meetings, but I have no concrete evidence on the leader's identity." He paused, raking a hand through his wild hair. "I could identify Riddle's accent in a heartbeat, but this guy, Riddle or not, put a Muffler charm on his voice."
For some reason, though she had no idea what it was, this information sent a small whisper of reassurance through her, and she felt herself relaxing considerably... until she realised her motivation, and snorted. Oh, come on, Hermione, of course the leader has to be Riddle! Who else would it be? "Isn't there some other way you can find out?" she asked keenly.
Harry's dark brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Not that I can see. Well, not yet, anyway. The only things I can tell you for sure are that he's a real Muggle-hater, he's extremely well-spoken and charismatic, and he knows his stuff. Plus, we haven't had any meetings since Riddle's been in the Hospital Wing. Four undeniable facts which point directly toward Riddle, Hermione. Directly."
Bugger, he's right- No, of course he's right. Had she really thought that they would be able to go through with their mission without a fight? Sighing heavily, she glanced around the room, curious at her friends' reaction to Harry's analysis. To her astonishment, none of them —not even Lavender— appeared surprised, disturbed, or more informed.
Ron was yawning again, twisting around in his seat to see the hands on the clock and whispering to Lavender how he was going to pass out of starvation if he didn't get food soon; Lavender, filing her nails, was repeatedly nodding in a way that said she wasn't really paying attention to her moaning boyfriend; Ginny had once again fallen asleep against Harry's left arm; and Draco was with interest nosing through Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms.
"Wait a second", Hermione said slowly, snapping a sharp gaze back on Harry. "Am I the only one here who doesn't know about this?" Harry uneasily shifted under her piercing stare. "Hermione, we... we all felt that... Well, since you were the one mostly dealing with Riddle, we thought it might be best if you didn't know about this—"
They all know, and they've been deliberately keeping it from me! "Best for whom, Harry?" she demanded hotly. "You? Me? Riddle?" She stopped abruptly and sucked in an explosive breath, holding it, trying her damnedest to sort out this new revelation while Harry cringed at her reaction. At his swift recoil, she felt some of her anger ebb slightly. Harry had heroically fought Voldemort, Death Eaters, and Dementors, but he couldn't take it when his friends were upset. More specifically, he couldn't take it when his friends were upset with him.
Taking in a much calmer breath, she subsequently blew out the lungful of air. "Listen... Harry, I'm sorry for snapping at you, but we can't keep secrets from each other," she said apologetically, shaking her head. "Not now. If we want to survive this thing and successfully finish what we came here to finish, we can't afford to hold anything back - Nothing. You should know more than anyone how secret-keeping can backfire on you."
Harry's green eyes darkened, undoubtedly recalling every vital piece of information Dumbledore had kept from him during his years at Hogwarts, and how that had ultimately culminated in Sirius' death. Careful not to disturb Ginny, he reached up, removed his glasses, and rubbed his tired eyes, his expression apologetic. "Hermione... I'm sorry, too. It... It was stupid of me, but I'll admit it seemed like a good idea at the time."
"It's okay". She smiled weakly and absently set Dark Arts Curses, A Description of, on the coffee table. She picked up another book but hardly glanced at the cover. "I know now, and that's all that matters."
To her right, she heard Draco sighing, and he held up his particular book and showcased it in example. "That's so sweet, you two, it really is, but now that we're one big, happy family again, can we continue the vital discussion at hand?"
Hermione snorted and dropped the dusty book to her lap, crossing her arms. "And what about you, Draco? I'd have thought you'd have been good at blending in at the original Death Eater conventions."
Faster than she had ever seen him react, his features suddenly darkened. "Nef, that one was low," he snapped in a soft, uncharacteristically irate voice. "No, I didn't go. You know I worked too hard to pull out of that sort of thing three years ago."
Hermione was completely taken aback by his defensive reaction... had he somehow thought that she had gone back to categorising him under 'No Good' simply because he was a Death Eater's son? "I'm not accusing you," she said quietly.
Draco didn't reply for several seconds, and then he glanced down at Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms. "Let's just keep going, Nef, all ri—All right", he abruptly purred, his tone changing instantly. He did a double-take at the page and then tapped his book triumphantly, a smile breaking out onto his face. "All right!"
"What? You found it?" she demanded disbelievingly, vaguely relieved that whatever had temporarily come between them had passed as she lunged across the length of the sofa in a flash, swiftly leaning over Draco's shoulder. He, however, deviously snatched the book from her line of sight. "Wait... wait... Let me revel..."
"Good Merlin, Draco, stop it and come on!" Hermione exclaimed, on the verge of screaming in anticipation. She had been searching for the Anima spell for weeks, weeks, and now, here were all the answers, so close... yet so far away, she thought forlornly as she stared balefully at the ancient, yellowed pages of parchment less than six feet away from her, held out in Draco's outstretched arm.
It killed her to beg, but... "Please?" she bleated piteously, nudging her right cheek up against Draco's left one and fluttering her long lashes, all the while wrapping her right arm around his shoulder and reaching for the book, her muscles screaming in protest. Nope, her arm just wasn't that long. "And all of a sudden, she loves me," he muttered, pulling the book back to his lap before Hermione could smash him into the couch. "All right, Nef, let me breathe... Okay."
He flipped Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms open to the marked page and started to read aloud. "Anima Adflictatio, literally, soul pain, is one of the most archaic and advanced of the forty-three fatal Dark Arts curses. Over time, the Anima curse has become increasingly obsolete, in part because the power to administer and remove the curse is only possible by the magic of a member of one of the ancient magical bloodlines. As Muggle and Magical interaction increases, less and less witches and wizards will have the inherent ability to perform the dying art of Dark Magick."
"Well, that explains how dear mummy put it on him in the first place; she was a Slytherin—literally", Ron commented offhandedly. He permanently abandoned his research book - which had somehow turned into a Quidditch handbook - and rubbed his hands together expectantly. "What does it say? Can it kill him?"
For some reason, a knot was beginning to take form in the pit of Hermione's stomach. "Obviously it can't, Ron, because Riddle had to have had it the last time, and Lord Voldemort was still going strong when we left our time..."
"No, no, wait..." Draco held up a finger, his eyes scanning the page. "The Anima curse is performed... blah blah blah... Here it is: only becoming physically hindering, and, in most cases, fatal, when the Afflicted..." Draco trailed off, squinting at the writing. "When the Afflicted..."
Hermione glanced sharply at him, but he was staring at the page in what could have passed as semi-shock, a slow, incredulous but sly smile spreading across his face. "When the Afflicted what?" she warily asked, her voice guardedly tight.
The smile having already grown to a full-fledged smirk, Draco held up the book and continued arrogantly, "The curse will remain dormant, only becoming physically hindering, and, in most cases, fatal, when the Afflicted's feelings for another deepen beyond the superficial." Still smirking, he snapped the book shut, his finger marking his place. "Translate that one into English."
"So, in other words, when he begins to care... about... someone else", Hermione mused slowly, composedly. Her mind, however, was whirling with a thousand confused thoughts, each swirling like a whirlwind of different colours in her head. "I suppose that explains why Riddle distances himself — that way, he doesn't even run the risk of getting close to anyone", she noted after a beat, pausing. She decided to ask the question that had plagued her mind for weeks. "But why is the curse taking effect this time? What's so different? Why didn't it happen the last time?"
Ginny and Lavender stealthily exchanged shrewd glances.
"Let's go through this, shall we?" Draco drawled out in the unhurried, teasing manner of one who knows something his neighbour clearly doesn't but would love to find out. He opened the book back to the Anima Curse's page and folded his hands thoughtfully, his slightly amused blue eyes making contact with her perplexed brown ones. "Of the times Riddle's gotten... hit with this curse, I suppose you could say, have you noticed anything... Odd? Similar, even?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, absently staring into the flickering orange and gold fire. "The first time I saw it happen was at the Friday Night Dance that he found out about—where you two saw him," she added, nodding at Ron and Harry. Her mind easily flew back the three weeks.
"I... I ran into him—literally—and, you know, said hello. Of, course, I wasn't going to stick around and make small talk, and I was about to leave when he just... doubled over. Doubled over. I mean, whatever it was, it was really bad, but it only lasted a few minutes."
"Well, since you actually decided to show up, I honestly do hope you have a good time."
The haughty expression of superiority slightly faded from Riddle's face. "What?"
...."Do you need me to get Madam Lamberdeau?" she asked tightly.
Riddle's grey eyes burned into hers, but in the darkness, they were even more impossible to read than usual. Hermione could only watch helplessly, completely clueless, as he began to shake his head in a No, but abruptly sucked in another sharp breath, his face contorting into a mask of pain as he yanked his arm more tightly around his waist...
..."Are you going to tell me what just happened to you?" Hermione demanded, crossing her arms expectantly.
"No", he said shortly.
"Erm... the second time was on the day of your glorious Quidditch match, Draco. We had a prefect meeting that afternoon, and Riddle seemed completely fine..." She frowned. "When we had finished the meeting, I said... oh, I don't remember exactly, but it caused him to tell me that he was going to lunch, and, you know, we never see him in the Great Hall. I thought it'd be a good opportunity to find out where he goes, so... I told him I was hungry, too, and asked if I could come—and I did... He's got this whole little corner in the kitchens..."
"This must go over well", Hermione noted wryly, studying the chequered tablecloth spread over the square, compact table tucked away in a small nook near the massive kitchen fireplace. Hardly perceptible unless you knew where to look, the space seemed big enough for two people, tops.
Riddle indifferently glanced over at her. "Go over well with who?"
Two plates, glasses, and silverware magically appeared before them, and Hermione shrugged. "With whoever you bring down here."
Riddle gave her that piercing, unreadable stormy grey stare, and he said in an equally unreadable voice that was enough to send chills down her spine, "I never bring anyone down here."
"...but the next day, you know the story, he was in the Hospital Wing. That night, he seemed ready to escape out the window, but the next morning, Madam L told me that he had suffered a relapse."
"Hermione", Harry interrupted, raising an eyebrow at Draco. He seemed to be following Draco's line of thought, but whatever line of thought that might have been was currently, tauntingly floating just out of Hermione's grasp. "You might not know this, but did Madam L mention if anything out of the ordinary happened, anything that could have set off Riddle's relapse?" Hermione frowned. "Well, no". She hesitated, then said a bit more quickly, "I did send him a card and an old book that I didn't really need anymore, but I don't see how—"
"You what?" Lavender demanded incredulously, dropping her nail file, her blue eyes staring at Hermione, lashes wide open, as if the latter had just confessed to committing a mortal sin. "It seemed like the nice thing to do!" Hermione replied defensively, defiantly crossing her arms.
"Nef, Nef, Nef," Draco rudely interjected, waving Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms above his head importantly. "Do you realise what this means?" Hermione suspiciously eyed her, not exactly wanting to hear whatever he was about to say. "No, but I'm sure you'll enlighten me", she said dryly.
"Nef," he whispered, that completely delighted smile spreading across his face again, coming off like the Grinch who had just been told that Christmas had been cancelled, "All you have to do is make Riddle fall in love with you, and all of our problems in this blasted world will be completely, absolutely solved!"
"Draco!" she gasped. Her heart stopped, and her mouth fell open for about the fiftieth time that week, her left hand reaching out and clutching the object nearest her — the puffy Ravenclaw pillow. "You... you don't think that it's - it's me who he... You're not serious!"
"He's the bloody Head Boy, and you're the bleedin' Head Girl!" Draco exclaimed with a knowing flourish of his hands. "Those are the classic get-together posts! Open up your eyes! You share a common room with just him, for Merlin's sake! You always have Head business together, and you were always the last or one of the last people he was thinking of in some way before the curse jumped up and bit him in the arse. Please, if there's a better candidate for someone he would care about enough for the curse to take effect, feel free to point them out."
"And that would explain why it never happened the last time", Lavender piped in with a knowing nod, calculatingly waving her finger at Hermione. "Yeah". Ron, like his girlfriend beside him, was nodding at Hermione, too. "The last time around, he never had you!" A sudden chill trickled down Hermione's spine, and Dumbledore's parting words seconds before she left, moments after she had discovered that no change had occurred in Harry, Ginny, Ron, Lavender, and Draco's absence, echoed hauntingly in her mind:
"Headmaster", Hermione began, her voice excited, "if Harry, Ron, Draco, Ginny, and Lavender have technically been in the past for fifty years now, wouldn't things here be different already? Wouldn't Voldemort and all the Dark Forces have been erased by now? Turned to dust?"
Dumbledore nudged his head toward the small corner window. "Nothing looks different, does it, Miss Nefertari?"
"You mean, it didn't work?" After all this insanity, this extreme preparation, and it didn't work? That's it. Hope had died.
Dumbledore smiled tiredly and slowly rose to his feet. "Perhaps they just need you, Miss Nefertari."
Dear Merlin, did the fate of the future of the entire magical world —or at least one life— lie completely in her hands? "Wait a minute, all of you," she said loudly, quickly. She held up her hands, her rational side desperately trying to rein in the situation before it spiralled dangerously out of control. "Let's not jump to conclusions. We don't know if the Anima Curse is what Riddle really has."
"Hermione, when you touched him, you had an actual, honest-to-goodness vision, and it only involved two words", Draco drawled knowingly. "Do you really think you would have a vision, the ultimate Anti-Divinationess, unless that vision had to do with everything?"
Hermione rolled her eyes and retorted witheringly, "And how do you suggest I go about 'making him fall in love with me,' if your positively mad idea is actually true, as you seem to think it is—No, I take it back, don't answer that," she quickly amended as crafty grins immediately spread across the faces of both Draco and Ron.
"Bugger, you sick blokes," Ginny groaned, surreptitiously examining Harry's sober face to make sure that her boyfriend wasn't sharing the same line of thought as her brother and Draco. Sufficiently satisfied, the he turned to Hermione seriously. "What do you think, Hermione?"
By now, Hermione's irritation with Draco had caused her to tumble off the edge of her seat. From her new spot on the ground, wedged between the Ravenclaw sofa and the coffee table, Hermione shrugged helplessly, the frustration of her mind emerging in her voice. "Well, I don't know, Ginny; I just found out that the boy who would become one of the most evil Dark Lords in the last five hundred years fancies me enough to make him physically ill! What would you think?" The moment the words left her mouth, the insanity of the entire situation finally sank in. After all of her and Riddle's explosive arguments, the utter lack of love in their relationship—
No. No, this was wrong, this was all wrong. This couldn't be right. Tom Riddle didn't have emotions. He didn't feel. He didn't care about anything or anyone but himself, that fact was plainly obvious in everything he did, in every word he said. He didn't. He couldn't. This was ridiculous.
"I would think", Ginny said slowly, and Hermione was absolutely floored at the abrupt change in the Ron's tone — now so brutal, so dark, so full of utter hate. Had Ginny always had all of those emotions bottled up inside her, waiting to explode? The afternoon was quickly plummeting out of control. "I would think, 'Thank you Merlin, thank you for finally giving us a way of successfully... successfully executing what we came here to execute" —Hermione almost flinched at Ginny's ruthless choice of wording— "without ending up in Azkaban.' I would be grateful that the gods gave us such a simple way to save our family, our friends, and our future."
'A simple way.' For who, Ginny? Ginny paused and licked her cherry-red lips. "And then, I would jump on this chance before it gets away."
"Gin, let's not discuss this as if we're actually thinking of doing it!" Harry suddenly cut in, his voice low, urgent, his dark eyes resolute. Inexplicably, a surge of relief, cool and peaceful, swept through Hermione's body so strongly, she could almost feel her hair blowing in its breeze. She did have a choice, after all. She didn't have to participate in this cockamamie plan.
"Hermione has to spend enough time with Riddle as it is," Harry continued, jabbing a finger at Hermione, his Quidditch-swept dark hair even more unruly than usual, giving him a peculiarly Einstein-like appearance. "You can't — Hermione, I won't let you try to get any closer to him than you already are. You know what Riddle's capable of; you know what he could do to you if he ever found out you were playing him—"
"Cool it, wonder boy;" Draco abruptly snapped, entering the fray for the first time since he had discovered the Anima Curse information. His gazed pointedly shifted to Hermione. "Why don't you let her decide?" Harry's features instantly darkened, and Hermione could actually see the fire of the old enmity he had always held toward Draco again rising in his dangerously narrowed eyes. Without hesitation, without fear, The Boy Who Lived sharply turned his gaze on Draco. "What did you say to me?"
This sudden show of animosity didn't deter Draco in the least; rather, it seemed to encourage him. Unconcerned, leaning forward in his seat, Draco tilted his head at Harry, unceremoniously but pointedly drawing his supple mahogany wand from his side pocket and laying it on the sofa next to him.
"Harry, I may not be going undercover at the original Death Eater meetings, but I've seen my share of Riddle, I've seen my share of good and bad, and I've seen that rock around Hermione's neck. I think she is perfectly capable of protecting herself. Anyway," he continued, the smirk vanishing from his face, "if this opportunity hadn't arisen, who would have taken the fall and gone to Azkaban for murdering Riddle— because it would have eventually come to that, I can assure you. You, Harry?"
Her mouth slightly agape, Hermione's gaze travelled back and forth between Harry and Draco as the squabble bounced between the two boys like a ping pong ball, unsure of whether to treat Draco's words as a compliment or not. As if to block out Draco, Harry turned his gaze to her. "Hermione, you don't have to do this", he repeated urgently.
"Harry, I understand that you've fought the Dark Lord on numerous planes, but let's be realistic", Draco returned just as forcefully before Hermione could put in a word edgewise. "This is a different world. If this is our best chance of taking out Riddle, we need to pursue it." After eying Hermione for a split second, a torn, indecisive expression on his face, Harry twisted out edgily, "Whatever you say, Draco. After all, it looks like you're the hero now—"
Hermione snapped. Snatching up a book, she slammed it back down on the coffee table. "STOP it, both of you!" she shouted breathlessly. From the Slytherin couch, Harry's mouth snapped shut; Draco shut up; Ginny, now fully awake, gaped at Hermione, wide-eyed; Lavender had leapt into Ron's lap, her arms around his neck.
I have a choice.
The silence in the room, save the occasional crackling of the fireplace, was smothering. Suffocating. Hermione fought to breathe. Vaguely surprised the book hadn't disintegrated into dust when it had hit the table, her hand released the age-old manuscript and fell limply to her side.
Somebody say something!
Draco did. "Hermione," he began seriously, his voice quieter, more reassuring than it had been moments before. "If you do this... You don't have to be afraid about it, you know. All of us —every single one of us in this room— would gladly kill that bastard before he ever touched you." The chill down her spine spread like a wildfire throughout her entire body at the lethal matter-of-factness in his voice.
All six of the time travellers had seen war. None of them —including her, she had to admit guiltily— would hesitate to kill, if killing was the ultimate option, the last and only resort. But how many more needed to die before peace could finally be achieved?
"Hermione, as much as I hate to say it, Draco is right," Ron said cautiously, as serious yet hopeful as Hermione had ever seen him. Ron steadily avoided Harry's piercing glare and persisted, "If Vold—Riddle really does fancy you... Hermione, all you have to do is keep doing whatever you're doing and—" Ron gave a thumbs-down and blew a raspberry, the obnoxious sound causing Hermione to jump and Lavender to draw back from her boyfriend and slap him upside the head. "Lav, ow — This'll all be over. None of the medics, the officials, no one could ever pin the blame on you. The fault would lie solely with the curse; Riddle and Lord Voldemort, however you want to look at it, would be gone, and we'd all be able to just get on with our lives."
I still have a choice.
Hermione stared blankly into the fireplace, not thinking at all, not knowing what to think. Her mind, the mind that she had always taken so much pride in, now felt like it had turned to pure mush. She still couldn't believe that this afternoon had been real. Finally, without twisting around, she reached up over her shoulder and moved her hand in a giant pincer-like motion. "Let me see what else it says."
Draco wordlessly handed her Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms, and she carefully lowered it to the floor. Her eyes snapped on the page before her with a clear, precise focus that assured her she still had some amount of her wits about her, and she vigilantly went over each word Draco had previously read. She had to clarify, for herself, that it was true. Coming to a new sentence, she skimmed the verbose terminology and paraphrased it. "All right, there's a bit more; here it is: 'The duration of a typical Anima Curse until death is inflicted depends on the reception of the Secondary'... 'The Secondary,' um, the person he cared about... That means..." The bottom fell out of her stomach. "That means, how I took it."
"So pretend to like him, but really keep on hating him", Ron added helpfully.
I have a choice, I have a choice, I have a choice—
"Thank you, Ronald", she snapped, unable to keep a trace of sarcasm from her voice. Her eyes further scanned the page. "The curse has two stages, Reversible and Irreversible... erm... Basically, whenever the Afflicted — so, whenever Riddle— has feelings of... care, I suppose you could say, for a particular person — and I mean, deep caring, not just the 'Oh, I think she's sort of cute' thing— the curse first causes some form of preliminary, sharp inner pain. The source of the pain isn't clear, but, apparently, the stronger the feelings, the more it hurts... At this point, though, the curse is still benign. It won't kill him."
"Bugger", Ron muttered again. Opting to ignore Ron's comment, Hermione flipped the tattered, worn page, her voice progressively growing softer with each sentence. "The moment the Afflicted's feelings of affection turn to those of pure, sincere, true love, the curse moves into the second stage. The Irreversible stage. The preliminary pain stops, and the curse instead turns to the Afflicted's energy supply, gradually leaving him weaker and weaker..."
Hermione's voice trailed off, and but her eyes continued to move across the lines, her mind somehow absorbing this load of rubbish. The greater the strength of the Secondary's concern for the Afflicted, the longer the Afflicted will survive. And, although the curse steadily drains the Afflicted's energy, the secondary can restore a portion of that energy by simply making physical contact with the Afflicted—
Hermione tore her eyes from the page, her head pounding, throbbing, her heart racing, her mind muddled, her hands cold. She felt ill. She felt like she, not Riddle, needed to spend a night in the Hospital Wing. Shaking her head stubbornly, trying to clear the cobwebs from her brain, Hermione's gaze returned to the place in the middle of the page where she had left off. "Erm, like I said, it... it gradually leaves him weaker and weaker, until, eventually..." Hermione hesitated, blinking at the antiquated script in disbelief. "The Afflicted dies."
A pregnant pause filled the Room of Requirement. Finally, Ron said cheerfully, "Well, everyone always says that love hurts... Guess Riddle'll just have to find that out the hard way..."
Hermione turned her head toward him so quickly, her ponytail whipped around and smacked her left cheek. Ron trailed off, the smirk fading from his face, as she stared at him. "Ronald, he's going to die", she said sharply, vaguely wondering why she was speaking in Tom Riddle's defence. "At least try to respect that."
"He's going to die?" Lavender asked, curling onto her knees and rocking back and forth with interest. "For sure?" Hermione shrugged. Her arms felt leaden, like dead-weights attached to her shoulders. She wondered why she wasn't as comfortable with this idea as she thought she'd be. "Well, the book doesn't mention a counter curse, Madam L did say it was difficult to treat, and..." Hermione held up the crucial Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms. "It does say, once 'like' has evolved into 'love,' the curse has passed the point of no return. The only other way it can then progress is forward, and that means, the only thing left is..." Her voice caught before the word death could pass her lips.
"And you think he loves you?" Ron asked, hardly able to keep the delight from his voice.
"Oh, no." That afternoon had been one of completely wild revelations, but Hermione flat-out refused to believe that. "The only stage I imagine he could be at is 'like,' at best". Talking about this so objectively was not an experience she cared to repeat anytime soon. Yes, she knew this was Tom-Lord-Voldemort-Who-Killed-My-Parents-Riddle that they were dealing with, but...
He was still human. And he might very well be about to die a slow and painful death. And it might be all because of her. That was an emotion, a guilt, a completely eerie sensation that none of her friends could even begin to comprehend... and Hermione understood that. She really did. But, still... Here they were, sitting and casually planning the demise of Tom Riddle... And we're supposed to be the good guys?
I do have a choice.
"I want his mother in my next life," Lavender said sarcastically, grinning impishly. "Hermione, it's a bit like a fairy tale, you know? The only difference is, instead of Riddle falling in love with you and living happily ever after, he dies." Once again, leave it to Lavender to sum the entire day up fantastically.
Hermione smiled half-heartedly, again staring out at the fireplace's dancing flames, and considered her options. She didn't have many, that was for sure. She felt like she was a spectator sitting in someone else's body. Yes, here she was, Hermione-Free-The-House-Elves-Granger, contemplating on how to most quickly kill a person who had gone on to murder her family, her friends, her friends' families... and with whom she had oddly spent a fair amount of time during the past few months.
The image of Riddle furiously staring at her the night of their massive fight, his eyes filled with anger, pre-eminence—and pain, now that she thought about it—entered her mind, and his scathing words rang in her ears.
'Have you ever really been hated, Nefertari? Have you? Have you ever been disowned by your own bloody father? Have you ever been cursed by the woman who called herself your mother before you could hardly even read?'
The memory was soon replaced with one of Riddle's confused but evident joy at her present, and the words of today's note that he had left on her coffee table floated through her mind. Maybe, just maybe, Tom Riddle did feel, after all.
...and Hermione made her choice.
"All right, listen up, because I'm only going to say this once," Hermione barked abruptly, jumping to her feet, Fatal Curses and Their Symptoms still in hand. She pointed, in turn, at Draco, Ron, Lavender, Harry, and Ginny. "I need all of you to listen to me."
Ron tilted his head in Harry's direction and muttered, "Uh-oh, we must have said something right. The Drill Sergeant's back."
Hermione smiled impassively before her eyes grew serious, and she stared straight into the brilliant green eyes of her best friend. "If I go ahead with this, I'm going to do it my way. I don't want any of you, at any time, questioning my actions or my motives, nor do I want you interfering in any way without my permission ahead of time." She paused, slightly breathless, wondering if she had missed anything. She didn't think she had.
As she spoke her last three words, her voice was filled with the Head Girl authority she was completely used to exerting. "Are we clear?" Lavender giggled, smiled saucily, tossed her sleek hair over her shoulder, and crisply saluted Hermione. "Crystal!"
Hermione nodded at Harry expectantly, and, for a good minute, his 'Hermione, don't you do this' eyes bore into hers, 'This is our only real chance, Harry' ones, neither of them blinking, neither of them giving an inch... until he sighed in acquiescence, raising his hands resignedly. "I know, I know. You can handle it. But Hermione, I'll put it out on the table right now: I'm not happy about this."
"I know, Harry. I do. I'm not exactly dancing in the aisles about it either". She sighed heavily and ran a hand through her curly tresses, taking deep, slow breaths in a futile attempt to even her racing heartbeat. Her eyes absently stared ahead at nothing at all. "Well, let's do this, then."