Chapter 19: Down in History

Thursday, December 2, 1944

10:03 P.M.

Hermione yawned contentedly and stretched out, half-asleep, on her favourite leather sofa in the Head's common room. Half-asleep, she glanced again at the small, ticking grandfather clock on the wall, wondering where exactly Riddle could be so late at night on the day he had been released from the Hospital Wing.

Still, she was physically and emotionally exhausted from the past day's events, exhausted. As if pulled down by an unseen force, her eyelids drooped and closed... A low, jarring scrape, and Hermione heard the portrait hole slide open. The subsequent, entering footsteps were a notch slower than their usual, brisk pace. Riddle was back.

Unable to believe that she was actually going ahead with the day's madness, Hermione cautiously opened one bleary eye. From her half-obscured roost on the couch, she watched Tom Riddle tread into the common room. A stack of books were tucked under his left arm, and his shoulders were slumped slightly, rather than their normal rigidness, his face a tint more ashen.

Not even glancing toward the couch, Riddle headed toward the staircase to his room, completely oblivious to her presence. Hermione's stomach beginning to flip nervously, and she prayed something stupid wouldn't pop out of her mouth and give her away. Say something now, Hermione! Go!

"Hey!" The word tumbled from her mouth before she could completely lose her nerve.

Immediately, Riddle stiffened; his feet glued to the floor, his long, dark robes swished to an abrupt stop around his feet. His free hand jumped halfway to his stomach, but he seemed to catch himself before it could make it, and he slowly lowered the hand back to his side, casually sticking it into his pocket.

"How are you?" she continued quickly before Riddle had a chance to say anything. She turned around on the couch and sat up fully, trying not to smirk at how expertly well Riddle had covered up his hand slip.

He stared at her expressionlessly, but shifted the few books out from under his left arm and balanced them in front of him. Hermione noticed that The Most Thorough and Complete History of the Founders was among them. "I'm doing all right", he said in a low, slightly hoarse voice.

Steadily meeting his gaze, Hermione hoped that her resolute stare gave away nothing of the apprehension she was feeling inside. "You didn't look all right", she pointed out with a frown. Riddle seemed to realise that she was referring to that Sunday in the Hospital Wing... the day he knew she had to have seen him there, in order to have given him the gift. "I wasn't all right then."

Hermione nodded to herself, accepting his response for the moment. "Does Madam L know what's wrong with you?" she inquired innocently, wanting to at least sound half-interested, but not wanting to come off like she knew exactly what was going on with him. Which, for the most part, she did.

"Madam Lamberdeau is searching for a treatment as we speak," Riddle said monotonously. He heaved an enormous sigh, the faint glow from the fireplace and the moonbeams shining through the west window only further illuminating the deep, dark circles under his eyes, leaving him more tired-looking than usual. Rather than being neatly brushed, his thick dark hair seemed to have been haphazardly thrown to one side, yet another testimony to the argument that he was being affected by something. Something like a curse, for example.

Riddle transferred his books back to their place nestled under his arm, and an awkward silence, broken only by the random crackling of the fireplace, filled the common room. Hermione had not stopped staring thoughtfully at Riddle, still unsure of how she should approach the situation, and Riddle, for his part, had not stopped staring at Hermione... until he shook his head slightly and took another step toward his staircase. "I really should go."

Yes, you should, Hermione thought wryly, an insane idea taking shape in her head. But, then again, this entire day had been absolutely mad. The entire situation in which she and her friends were so hopelessly stuck in was mad! Go now, before I do something I'm going to regret! Oh, what the hell.

Hermione's tired brown eyes cleared and snapped back on Tom Riddle, completely focused. "Hey, Tom!" she called after him quickly. Riddle paused, his hand poised over the staircase's wooden railing, but his grey eyes snapped back to questioningly probe her face. "Yes?"

Although her mind was arguing, screaming in protest that this was still not the best idea, Hermione swung her legs off the tan leather sofa and placed them on the floor so she was facing the Slytherin, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. Taking a breath to reassure herself, she said in as careless, indifferent a voice as she could muster, "Do you want to go to Hogsmeade this weekend?"

The Most Thorough and Complete History of the Founders took a nosedive off the top of Riddle's pile of books. With truly Quidditch-worthy reflexes, his hand shot out to grab it, and he unflappably returned the wayward book under his arm, but his ashen face had flushed to a very faint but discernible pink. Already having fumbled more in the past three minutes than in the entire three months Hermione had known him, Riddle replied guardedly, "I... I can't." Seven years at Hogwarts and you have not been to Hogsmeade. That is truly sad.

"I didn't ask if you could go," Hermione countered, trying to come off as unconcerned as possible. She unhurriedly straightened the sleeves of her dark uniform robes, rolling them once so they reached to the middle of her palms rather than the tips of her fingers. Somehow, she knew she would have the upper hand in this conversation. She glanced back up at him. "I asked if you wanted to go."

Riddle's handsomely etched face had regained its pale colouring, and, even from her place across the common room, Hermione could see him close his eyes, swallow hard, and glance, almost longingly, up toward his bedroom door. "It doesn't matter if I want to or not, I don't have parental permission." He bit out the last two words bitterly, his mouth twisting into a caustic little smile. "Apparently, the rule makers didn't take into account what would happen if you had no guardians to sign the bloody form to begin with."

Unlike the Hogwarts of her time, 1944 law stated that all students, not just the underclassmen, needed legal permission to attend Hogsmeade. Which would explain Riddle's predicament.

Reluctantly, Hermione felt her sharp gaze soften, her most dangerous emotion, pity, creeping into her mentality. "But if you could go," she pressed gently, "Would you?"

Again, Riddle sighed exhaustedly. He leaned against the mutely tapestried wall beside the staircase, facing her Ravenclaw robed form, the pastels and lightly weaved colours of the drapery serving to distinctly outline his dark silhouette. "I'm tired, Nefertari," he said honestly, his usual light, velvety tone now gravelly and heavy with sleep. Surprisingly, Hermione couldn't detect a trace of irritation or scorn in his voice... just frankness and fatigue. "What sort of game are you playing at?"

Hermione's dark, thin eyebrows shot up, and she fought to hold back a trill of disbelieving laughter. "I don't know why you're being so difficult; it's a simple question. Would you go? Yes or no?" Another small smirk crossed Riddle's face. "Doesn't everything come down to a simple yes or no, Nefertari?"

"I sup— " Hermione began, then paused in the mist of her automatic, agreed response. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and she actually began to turn Riddle's statement over in her mind. Did everything really come down to a simple yes or no? Was life that easy? Her swiftly running thoughts took an abrupt turn toward Tom before her, still awaiting her answer. Could Tom Riddle only be simply Dark, end of story? Or was there more to him than that?

"I don't necessarily... agree with that," she said slowly, feeling out each word as it left her mouth. She tried to carefully, compose what she would say next, hoping that Riddle might catch her drift, might open up a bit more... if she conveyed her meaning in exactly the right way.

Hermione leaned forward in her seat, brushing some curls away from her face, her eyes genuinely earnest. "Sometimes, things are so much more than just black and white, good and evil, do you know what I mean? Sometimes, there's a little grey area in between that no one may know about, that everyone may think doesn't exist." She raised an eyebrow at him pointedly. "But that doesn't mean it's not there."

Riddle remained silent, but he seemed to be carefully studying Hermione's face. By now, Riddle's extended stares no longer affected Hermione, no longer made her feel like she was under a scan, and she patiently waited for him to collect his thoughts. Instead of responding, though, he picked up The History of the Founders, gazing blankly down at its cover for several seconds.

"Yes." His reply came out of nowhere. Hermione fought to keep a straight face, uncertain of why she was so shocked at his response. After what she had learned about the circumstances surrounding the Anima curse, she should have expected him to say yes, yet stunned she was... though she was probably more surprised when her heart began to beat just a tad bit faster after he had answered.

"Really?" she asked disbelievingly. As soon as the question passed her numb lips, Hermione mentally kicked herself. Smart, Hermione, way to win an intelligence award with that one.

That same, detached smirk reappeared on Riddle's face, one that momentarily reminded Hermione of Draco, and he slid the book back on top of the pile. "Really."

Hermione calmly said, "Good," returning his challenging smirk with a smile. Reaching into her right pocket, she felt her fingertips brush a smooth, neatly folded sheet of parchment, and she pulled it out. Being grateful for that her extensive persuasive abilities hadn't been summoned for nothing and that part of her night hadn't been wasted for nothing, she waved the parchment around like a little flag. "Because I got Dippet to sign as your guardian."

With a bang, Riddle placed the bottom of his foot back up against the wall and pushed himself off it, taking a few steps forward, his head cocked to one side, his grey eyes doubtful. Leaning toward her as if he couldn't have possibly heard her correctly, he asked incredulously, "What did you do?"

"I persuaded our dear headmaster to sign your permission," Hermione repeated patiently, unfolding the official document and holding it up so Riddle could just make out the silver and green seal of approval stamped in the upper right hand corner. Riddle squinted in the faint light... Suddenly, like a storm boiling up out of the calmest day, his face contorted into a mask of pain, his left arm shooting up and curling tightly around his stomach, his right hand blindly reaching out to clutch the stairway railing. As he doubled over, the five books he was carrying tumbled, in slow motion, it seemed, from under his arm, hitting the ground with five individual slaps.

Horrified, Hermione's hand jumped to cover her mouth, and she watched Riddle slowly, gingerly sink down onto the second step, his breath coming in rapid gasps, audible even from across the room. Uncertainly, she climbed to her feet and took a few steps toward him, smoothing her skirt, unsure of what to do—or say—next.

The moment Riddle had gone into his Anima attack—what Hermione had come to call his bouts—she had, in spite of herself, felt something stir deep within her. The entire discussion she had had with her time travelling companions earlier that day, the entire reason the curse worked as it did, came flooding back to her, and she walked forward another couple of steps, another couple of steps closer to him. It was extremely awkward, for lack of a better word, knowing that Riddle was in pain—and he was in pain—on her account.

The deadly, impassive reality of the entire situation suddenly struck Hermione like a ton of bricks. Tom Riddle fancied her. He really did. The Anima Adflictatio curse could not be lied to. And, just beyond any progression of that caring, lay his certain death. Had the weight of the world's future and Lord Voldemort's fate just shifted from Harry's shoulders to hers?

Hermione inhaled deeply and, just as slowly, released the breath, willing her pounding temples to relax. She stood uncomfortably, having already made it across the room. She finally occupied herself with bending down and quickly, neatly stacking Riddle's fallen books in a pile at the bottom of the stairs. Riddle, for his part, seemed to be so busy concentrating on controlling the effects of the curse that Hermione wasn't sure if he saw her or not.

She critically eyed the remaining space on the second step of Riddle's staircase. Deeming it sufficiently wide enough for her, she picked her way over the small stack of books and sat down beside Riddle. Getting comfortable, she leaned the left side of her face on the soft material of her left forearm so she was looking up at Riddle's bowed head sideways. "Are you all right?" she finally asked softly.

Riddle started, his head jerking up in surprise as if he had just realised that Hermione was in such close proximity. Warily, he glanced down at her, confusion and exhaustion filling his eyes, his chest still heaving. "I..." Wincing, he carefully removed his arm from his stomach and slowly straightened his back to its full height. "I will be."

Smiling hesitantly, not especially wanting to inadvertently do anything to set off another Anima attack, Hermione wordlessly passed him the parchment that had brought on his initial bout. Silently, Riddle accepted it, his grey eyes nimbly flickering over the elegantly scripted words, and, lastly, over the coveted signature. "How long did it take you to convince Dippet to do this?" he hoarsely asked after a few seconds of silence, broken only by his heavy, struggling breaths. Hermione shrugged imperturbably. "Forty-five minutes."

Riddle choked and covered his mouth, coughing violently and again clutching his stomach. Hermione froze, not moving, not even breathing. Only her eyes widened, stunned, as she finally identified the emotion that had been bubbling just beneath the surface ever since Tom Riddle had entered the common room.

Hermione felt... guilty. There was no other word for it. Even though it wasn't technically her fault that the curse was doing what it was to him. Wake up, Hermione! she scolded herself viciously. This is Tom Riddle! He killed Harry's parents! He killed your parents! He killed your friends! He's at fault for destroying everything you've held dear!

But he hasn't yet, That little yogic voice of virtue purred in her other ear, serving as the devil on her left shoulder versus the angel of reason on her right. He hasn't done any of that yet... But he has killed his father, he has opened the Chamber of Secrets, and he has already started the Death Eater meetings! the angel of reason argued stubbornly.

"But you know Dippet," Hermione continued hastily, rattling on just to drown out the voices in her head. "The man couldn't stay on topic for ten minutes if he wanted to. He kept flying away..." She trailed off, remembering her less-than-stimulating experience in the Headmaster's office earlier that night. "I had to pull him back on several occasions. Yank him, once." She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. "I don't really think he liked that." For a single second, Hermione almost thought she saw Riddle smile slightly from the corner of her eye, but she dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come when he continued to passively stare down at the parchment.

Finally, he shifted his stormy gaze over to her. "Nefertari, I—" He hesitated, his breath catching, quickening once again before returning to its normal, steady pace. "Nobody's ever... I've not..." As he continued to speak, the words resonated unnaturally on his lips, as if he was sounding them out for the first time in his life... and he didn't know exactly how to put it. "Well... Thank you."

This time, Hermione couldn't stop her mouth from falling open in pure astonishment, but she expertly covered it up with an easy-to-fake yawn. Tom Riddle had just honestly... sincerely... thanked her. Again. That was twice in one day; once on paper, once by mouth. Hermione felt like she had broken some kind of world record, felt like today, December 2, 1944, was going to go down in history as one of the most shocking days of her life.

First there had been the note from Riddle, then hearing that the first of the Death Eater meetings had already begun, with Riddle the likely leader, then finding out that Harry, not Draco, had secretly been attending those first Death Eater meetings as a spy, then discovering the true meaning of the Anima curse, then actually agreeing to helping encourage the development of said curse, then arguing with the Headmaster of Hogwarts for nearly an hour on Tom Riddle's behalf, then Riddle actually admitting that he would go to Hogsmeade with her, and then Tom Riddle, the Heir of Slytherin, the possible future Dark Lord... thanking her.

Hermione smiled lightly. "Honestly, don't worry about it. Engaging Dippet in full debate was quite amusing, actually. I think the moment he had no other choice but to agree with me —which nearly killed him, mind you— may have been one of the highlights of the year." She paused, now almost certain that she had seen Riddle smile. Closing her eyes, she burrowed the left side of her face even deeper into the crook of her left arm, and, yawning, asked, "Do you need a tour guide for Hogsmeade on Saturday?"

Pleased with how innocent her question had turned out to sound—the yawn had definitely added to it— Hermione felt Riddle shift—more like jerk—beside her. A beat passed, though, and her stomach tightened nervously. Lovely... had she pushed too far? Another beat. Oh yes, the building silence in the room was doing absolutely nothing to alleviate her jumping nerves; her heart thudding at unnatural speed; would he take the bait or would she be caught—?

"You know, Nefertari," Riddle finally said quietly, his voice sounding strangely strangled, "I just might." Yes! Hermione grinned sleepily, every facial muscle screaming in protest as she forced her droopy eyes open once more. She had pushed once. She might as well go all the way. "I'll meet you at the Great Hall staircase at eleven?" she casually suggested.

Riddle's stormy eyes calculatingly stared into hers. From her extremely, almost unnervingly close range, Hermione was blown away when, rather than them being a solid sheath of foggy grey, she noticed several small but noticeable specks of clear, sapphire blue scattered throughout the twin pools of colour.

Yes, this day was most definitely going down in history.

Riddle still seemed to be thinking to himself as he slowly nodded his agreement. "All right." Cautiously, he reached out, grabbed the railing, and lethargically pulled himself to his feet. "All right," he repeated, this time with conviction. "Eleven o'clock." A cool, blissful sense of relief surged through Hermione, and she felt her maniac heartbeat slowly begin to level itself out to a natural pace. She had done it. Thank Merlin, she had made it undetected through Round One with Tom Riddle.

With the first step having been successfully accomplished, Hermione's eyes began to wander. They landed on Riddle's books, still where she had neatly left them at the foot of the stairs. "Hey, wait a second!" she exclaimed automatically. Quickly reaching down, she hefted the five books up over her shoulder, precariously balancing them in her hands. "Don't forget these."

Riddle's gaze speedily travelled between his stack of books and Hermione's warm brown eyes. Without a sound, he took a few stumbling steps back down the stairs, and, bending down, the bottom of his robes accidentally brushing against Hermione's cheek, he took the stack from her hands. "Thanks."

Good Merlin, once you get him started, he doesn't stop. Hermione smiled again, tiredly burying her entire head in her arm, and her voice, now muffled, said, "Night, Tom." She could sense Riddle hovering there for a good minute, not saying a word, just... being there. "Goodnight," he eventually murmured, his voice low and uncharacteristically raw. She heard him begin to ascend the staircase, his heavy, weary steps making him sound more like he was seventy years old rather than seventeen.

As soon as his bedroom door closed with a soft snap, Hermione shut her eyes resignedly and took a deep, shuddery breath. She had just extended Tom Riddle a hand in friendship. She had absolutely no idea how it was going to turn out.