Have You Ever by Lady Moonglow REVISED EDITION

by Kanttarelli

This is a rewrite of the epic story. It takes place in AU but it is true-ish to canon. I liked the basic idea and how the story gradually grows. I wanted to make it even better and so I beta-read / edited it, rewrote some bits and added an epilogue. Enjoy!

32. Dying to Love, The Only Option Left

Chapter 32: Dying to Love - The Only Option Left

Saturday, January 8, 1945

8:10 A.M.

There is a cure. The words repeated like a mantra in Hermione's throbbing, overwhelmed mind. There is a cure!

And then she wanted to absolutely scream in frustration, But it's too late!

All right, calm down and think logically, Hermione, you're not going to be of any help to anyone if you just sit here and panic. Almost shouting the words in her mind to calm herself down, she clenched her hands, which had, she vaguely realised, begun to shake from sheer nerves. With a sudden surge of energy, she leapt to her feet and began to rapidly pace back and forth in front of the fading flames.

Think. Think! All right, you have a book with a possible cure. The only problem is that said book is currently burned to a crisp. You know that Tom is in the Chamber of Secrets. The only problem there is that you can assume he died when you received the letter. At the thought, she fought back a sickening wave of nausea and forced herself to continue the analysis. What options does that leave you?

Silence built in the deserted Slytherin common room until the point of suffocation, the fire having died down to such an extent that even the hot coals no longer crackled, although at one point Hermione thought she heard some scuffling movement and loud, muffled chatter from within the walls, where she supposed the dormitories were—

Roughly shaking her head, she impatiently piled her wild morning hair into a messy bun and resumed her frantic pacing, her momentarily relieved heart speeding up again to match the pace.

What she wouldn't give for a normal life, if only for a day — a life where she could take a long walk without any worries and simply think about nothing at all, go sit off the lake and watch the waves lap at the shore without a care on earth, kick back and enjoy an old Muggle film with her friends, or —dare she even wish it?— be able to talk with Tom, hug Tom, kiss Tom in front of everyone in a world where nobody would think twice, where he would just be Tom, and she would just be Hermione, and they would just be together, just like two completely normal people who liked each other very, very much.

But she didn't have a normal life; in fact, she probably had one of the farthest things from it— a life with more accountability, responsibility than any eighteen year old should have. Utter despair began to creep like a shadow into her mind again, morosely repeating everything it had already: Tom had already died —at least a half hour ago— and not a single spell existed that could bring something back from the dead; there had been a cure all along, but she had been too preoccupied, too stubborn, too stupid to take Lavender seriously; the only option she had come up with thus far, a time turner, was no longer an opt— Wait.

A beat passed, and Hermione's pace lessened to a mere crawl, and then she stopped walking altogether. Absently resting her chin on her fisted hand, she gazed decisively into the shimmering red and black coals, unhurriedly tapping a foot on the ground. Maybe she did have another option.

Go back. The brilliant idea slammed into Hermione like a ton of bricks. She abruptly froze in place, overwhelming excitement and desperate hope instantly rising inside her like an elated bubble. Go back and catch the book before it begins to burn!

It didn't occur to her that catching the book before it started to burn would most likely involve running dead into the person who initially had burned it. All she could think of was that she was not going to let Tom die just like that, without a fight. That was exactly how her parents had left her, and she would be damned if she was going to let him go out in the same way. The only way she would be able to save his life, though, was if she changed time, that much was obvious, and change it in a major way. But wasn't she changing time already just by being here, in 1944?

Still, she didn't have a time turner, she realised miserably, and she had no idea where they were kept in this time period. The bubble burst and her heart sunk in bitter disappointment.

She did not consider the other option before because the only time she'd ever seen the spell performed, it had looked like it had taken practically everything out of Dumbledore to complete, and Dumbledore was, well, Dumbledore: the most incredible, powerful wizard she had ever met and probably would ever meet. And if the spell had drained him like it had, then how could she even hope to finish it?

The negative attitude quickly swooped in again with a vengeance, and it spat out, almost scornfully, Hermione, have you gone completely mad? Think logically! This isn't some little professional party decoration charm you'll be playing with, this is highly, highly advanced and highly volatile magic; Dumbledore himself had said it was nearly impossible; that's why hardly anyone's dared to even attempt it! Do you honestly think you can do any bett—

Damn it, no! She was far past the point of thinking logically, and lifting her chin, straightening her shoulders, she obstinately whipped out her wand. Love can make you do crazy things, sweetheart. With her father's words of wisdom ringing in deaf ears, she furiously shoved the overpowering waves of negativity from her mind.

And Hermione did the only thing that her stubborn, numbed mind was at the moment capable of doing. She made a forced, spontaneous decision, even though she was well aware of how horribly awry her forced, spontaneous decisions usually went. This was the only other option she had, and she was bloody well going to take it, even if it killed her, and, if it didn't, even if her friends killed her for what she was about to attempt.

Without even pausing to consider that fewer than fifteen witches and wizards had been able to complete the enchantment in a thousand years, or how many ways the spell could go terribly wrong if performed even slightly incorrectly, or the very, very low likelihood that she would even be able to pin the enchantment to take her exactly as far back as she wanted, she began to work through the hand motions Dumbledore had performed so many months ago, when he wasn't yet her uncle, but simply her headmaster, reciting the spell like a chant in her determined mind.

She suddenly recalled Tom's smooth, patient voice, as he had instructed her in the healing spell last night, 'Concentrate on the spell and nothing else... Don't focus on what you think you can or can't do...'

Hermione could have burst into tears at the overwhelming wave of comfort that simply remembering his voice could provide, with its calming undertones and mild Irish intonations. Somehow she was going to get to that book before it burst into flames. She flat-out refused to lose another person she loved if there was some possibility, no matter how remote or insane it seemed, that he could still be saved.

'Now close your eyes... take a breath...'

Hermione stood rigidly, inhaling slowly, rhythmically, attempting to at least slow her pounding heart and clear her mind, completely clear her mind except for one thing. I can do this.

'Feel the magic in you...'

All her senses seemed to be amplified until her entire body was on electrified edge. She could feel the Amulet of Eras pulsing against her neck, except this time it was she who was releasing the increasingly intensifying emotions;

'Picture exactly what it's going to do...'

Hermione thought about nothing save catching that little black book before it started to burn... And she realised that if she wasn't ready now, she was certainly never going to much more ready again. Letting out her breath in a sudden, jumbly rush, her chest tightening in involuntarily dread, she smoothly turned her wand on herself so that it pointed directly at her heart and clearly bellowed, "IMPARTUS INFINITIVUM!"

With a rumbling noise akin to a small roar, Hermione imploded into a tiny, shimmering speck of light and vanished into thin air.

Saturday, January 8, 1945

7:10 A.M.

"So do you want to grab breakfast now, or afterward?" Ginny called as a raucous group of seventh years loudly exited the Slytherin common room. She was attempting to shove a large cloak into a small book bag that she had set upon a waist-high, sturdy ebony study table poised across from the exit foyer.

Draco yawned hugely as he strolled over to the redhead from across the common room, a brightly crackling fire vibrantly illuminated behind him. "Now", he answered easily. "I'm starving". Distractedly, he ruffled a hand through his platinum hair and shifted his own stuffed book bag, slung over one shoulder. "More than that, I might lose my impassioned inspiration halfway through if I don't".

She snorted. "Right, 'impassioned inspiration' my foot, just wait... one... second!" With a final push, she managed to push the cloak into the dark bag, and she snapped it shut, tossing a cascade of flaming auburn tresses behind her. "There. All right, I second the breakfast proposal."

"I saw that one coming a Quiddich pitch away. Everyone knows you can't resist free food, Weaslette."

"I simply know how to find the best deals, ferret", Ginny retorted with a charming smile, though fought fire with fire by grinding out the last word for the age-old insult it was. Draco gave her a dirty look as she tossed the strap of the bag over her head so it was slung across her chest, and she rolled her eyes. "Oh, grow up, will you?"

Draco smirked, as if he had been waiting for her to say that all along. "Well, my darling Ginevra, in the apt words of your witty brother dearest — and I quote— 'I don't grow up, I shut up, and when I look at you—'"

"'—you throw up'; yes, I know". Impatiently, Ginny tossed a glance at the wall clock and swore. "Damn, we have to run, and we're already going to be late as it is, which won't exactly look good on your part". She swatted at him to get his full attention and abruptly took off for the passage out, asking over her shoulder, "Did you do it?"

"Why would I not?" Draco countered, mirroring her roll of the eyes and jogging to catch up with her at the niche-like wall that incidentally was also the entrance and exit to the common room. Tossing some loosely hanging hair from his eyes, he now began to sound a bit irritated as he gestured with his head back toward the central common room. "Anyway, what did you think I was doing over there, West, running laps— ? "

Suddenly, from the other side of the common room and with the sound of a tiny Pop, a flash of dark hair, grey skirt and white blouse Hogwarts uniform, and lean legs streaked through the air before his surprised eyes.

Draco squinted, blinked, and glanced over at Ginny. "Is it just my starving, delusional mind having anther 'it's raining beautiful women' fantasy, or did you see the Head Girl just pop out of absolutely nowhere and crash into the middle of the Slytherin common room, too?"

Saturday, January 8, 1945

7:13 A.M.

With a searing jolt, Hermione's shoulder slammed hard into something cold and rock-solid. "Ughhhh..." She groaned, and would have laid there, wherever there was, for a good ten minutes had her eyes now flown open of their own accord. To her immense relief and utter amazement, she found herself still in the Slytherin Common Room, sprawled on the marble floor beside the fireplace.

Hermione didn't pause for a moment to congratulate herself on surviving a self-implosion and a jet back in time, however, nor did the aching pain in her shoulder even enter her mind. All she could think of was one thing: She was going to get to that bloody book before it burned up.

The book! Adrenaline pumping through her body as if she were actually ablaze, her heart thudding so fast it might very well burst out of her chest, her mind focused on one objective with determination, and one objective only, Hermione pushed herself to her knees. Instantly, her eyes widened as she saw the considerable size of the fire beside her, as opposed to the nothing it had been a minute before now (or an hour after now, depending on how you looked at it), and she peered into the bright flames - there it was!

The unmistakable black book had been tossed to the far edge of the blistering, crackling hearth, thus sparing it from the actual blazing inferno, but it was obvious that the hot coals had already begun to burn through the bottom pages of the book, and Hermione gasped in horror as the edges of the book's pages swiftly curled up and burst into flames—

Lunging the few inches or so across the floor to the edge of the fireplace, Hermione frantically shouted, "ACCIO BOOK EXSTINGUO DEFLAGRO!" without even pausing between incantations.

With a shower of sparks, the book instantly shot out of the hearth, the fire extinguishing and the leather cooling at the same time. Hermione snatched the book out of midair with one hand while still numbly holding her trembling wand toward the fireplace with the other, breathing hard, an almost wild gleam in her eyes that subsided considerably after she reassured herself that the blessed book was no longer burning and, for the most part, still whole.

"Erm, Hermione... why are you still in your uniform? Hermione instantly let out a muffled shriek of surprise and almost dropped the book back into the fire, fumbling with it in her hands until she safely caught it again, nearly having a heart attack at the familiar feminine voice from behind her in what she had been assuming was still an empty common room.

Swiftly, she jerked her head up while her suddenly acute gaze shot beyond the topmost edge of the couch, and she sagged in relief as it fell upon Ginny and the Magic Kissing Plant Twit as his familiar voice, deep and drawling, said, "Westlette, it might have been a better idea to start off asking her what she's even doing falling out of thin air in the first place".

Hermione hadn't been on civil terms with him since the now-unspoken post-Christmas Dinner charade, which had to have been at least two weeks ago, but now wasn't the time for some petty little grudge to take precedence.

"Where's Harry?" she demanded sharply — as this situation certainly called for more than merely polite inquisitions — and she used the nearby couch to pull herself to her feet with a little grunt. "I need him NOW!"

Ginny crossed her arms, furrowing her brow in confusion, and surveyed Hermione blankly, as if the Head Girl had sprouted bright orange scales and morphed into a blast-ended skrewt. And Hermione would have gladly explained the situation, but there just wasn't any time!

Draco the prat, however, frowned at her chidingly and spread out his arms, palms up, in a gesture of the utmost innocence, although his voice was dripping with the utmost sarcasm. "What, and here I thought you'd be leaping for joy at the very sight of us!"

"Don't flatter yourself, Draco. Contrary to popular opinion, the world does not revolve around you", Hermione snapped, her head still pounding as she chose to ignore his sour expression. She straightened her rumpled uniform skirt and blouse impatiently, but then another rather more pressing question that had previously been lurking below the depths of her mind surfaced, and she hurriedly asked, "Was anyone by this fireplace just now? Recently?"

Draco gave a disinterested shrug of his shoulders and heaved what appeared to be a bored yawn, although his eyes briefly flicked from her face to the mildly charred book in her hands. "We just came down about five minutes ago", he said idly, and proceeded to mutter something under his breath about taking back what he'd said about beautiful women. Right, I didn't expect you to be much of a help. Hermione expectantly shifted her keen gaze to Ginny.

Ginny wrinkled her nose in her typical thinking mode. "Erm... there was a rather large group leaving for breakfast when we did, though", she said slowly, and quickly added, "Come down, I mean. I saw Calugala Malfoy, Lestrange, Avery, the works, so any of them could have easily been around the fire before we came out. Why?" She frowned at Hermione, her hazel eyes now reflecting both concern and at least a tinge of suspicion. "Hermione, is everything all right?"

Hermione simply nodded vaguely, the latter question not particularly registering in her mind as she processed the former, new information.

All Death Eaters. Figures. But why would they want to destroy their leader's only hope of recovery? Given that Tom Riddle even was their leader, a theory which no argument that she had received from Harry thus far, no matter how strong, had actually been able to prove without a doubt that he was—

Oh, no, not this again! Exasperated, shoving aside the debate of the year, Hermione's eyes were instinctively drawn to the silver and green hands of the carved wooden clock set above the hearth. When she saw to which numbers they were pointing, she briefly closed her eyes and breathed a shuddery sigh of relief.

Seventeen minutes past seven o'clock. Tom's note had appeared in her room at 7:44. So if what he had said about his death in the letter was actually true, as she feared it was... that meant she still had time.

Granted, that only gave her exactly twenty-seven minutes to find the Anima Curse's cure somewhere in Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques, figure out how to cast it (and that was if she even could cast it— she hoped that it didn't involve some simmer-for-six-months potion), locate Harry, convince him to help her save the one person he had been up against for nearly eight years, get him to the Defence Against the Dark Arts door, figure out what Tom had hissed in Parseltongue to summon the stairs, make it all the way down to the Chamber of Secrets, and perform what was most likely going to be an extremely complicated enchantment before Tom's time ran out.

Oh No, Hermione thought numbly as the list went on and on, there is no humanly possible way I'm going to be able to make it.

Without answering Ginny's question —actually, the fact that Ginny'd even asked one had again completely flown in one ear and out of the other— she quickly reopened her eyes, locked them on the curious-looking Draco and the worried-looking Ginny, and, the pitch of her voice desperately rising another notch or two, repeated urgently, "Where's Harry?"

"Calm down, Nef, calm down", the be-cursed blond Slytherin drawled pacifyingly. A calculating, perceptive look was spreading across his face that reminded Hermione far too much of his grandfather Calugala, and it was therefore a look that she didn't entirely trust. "What's the problem?"

"Draco, there isn't time for this!" she exclaimed, her voice emerging hollow and strangled. She wouldn't be surprised if her face was steadily turning a deep shade of frustrated red, and, without warning, hot tears of desperation started to burn at her eyes. She had not energy to hold them back, and she simply locked a pleading gaze on Ginny, who was turning out to be the more reputable source. "Please, Ginny, he must have said something to you about where the meetings normally take place!"

Ginny's questioning eyes shrewdly assessed her, twisting a long lock of fiery hair tightly around one finger. It was clear to her that Ginny was thinking hard, but Hermione had absolutely no idea what was so difficult about to tell her where Harry was. After only another moment's pause, though, Hermione sagged in enormous relief as Ginny bit her lip and answered quickly, "As far as I know, he should be heading toward the passage to Hogsmeade at the witch's hump relatively soon. He and Ron were meeting up for breakfast first, I think. Do you need us to go with—"

But Hermione's ears had heard no further than 'the witch's hump'; barely remembering to throw some garbled words of thanks over her shoulder to Draco and Ginny, she was already weaving her way around the slim forest green couches and plump armchairs, past the sleek wall barrier between corridor and common room. She shot out into the dark lower level corridor, and a rush of cold castle air slamming into her served as enough of an impetus to jolt some of her enervated senses back to life, but after only a few awkward meters of running, she was clearly getting absolutely nowhere very quickly.

Undoubtedly, the uniform had been invented for women by men, and not for the ease of moving around, either. Sodding skirt! Mid-run, Hermione pointed her wand at her bare legs in impatient aggravation and easily transfigured the flapping skirt into what she distantly hoped would resemble time-period acceptable trousers, although at this point worrying about fitting in with the latest clothing styles was the farthest thing from her mind.

In a heartbeat, she was able to quicken her speed, the dark trousers providing her with so much more releasing freedom of motion that she was soon flying, running faster and praying harder than she ever had in her life. Were she not on such a deadly seriously mission she would have been exhilarated from the pure rush of it all, but her mind whizzed past even more quickly, whirring, racing at a pace that seemed on the brink of the speed of sound.

But the precious seconds were steadily slipping away.

She couldn't perform the Impartus Infinitivum again to give herself more time, that much she knew. The simple task of sending herself almost an hour backward had drained her, so much so that, were it not for the adrenaline and some deeper force that must surely have been driving her on, she would have willingly collapsed to the ground and succumbed to darkness way back in the Slytherin common room rather than sprinting up staircases, around bends, down relatively deserted halls like a madwoman.

Of course, the basis Hermione's entire plan depended on if —and this being a very, very large 'if'— if Tom was, in fact, in the Chamber of Secrets, which she had merely inferred from his letter that he was. She couldn't be sure, and he certainly hadn't come out and told her.

Oh, please, she pleaded again, taking a sharp right and racing up a flight of stairs, the gap between her and the witch's hump closing painfully slowly. A part of her wasn't even sure how she would manage to find the energy to perform the magic for the cure — if there indeed was one.

She could only trust that when the time came, she would be able to gather the strength from somewhere. I am not going to lose him! she again thought fiercely. Not when... now when... Not when I'm in love with him.

It was the first time she'd consciously admitted it to herself since her father had asked her if she had on Christmas, but she realised it was just as true now as it was then. She really loved him, more deeply, more wholeheartedly and unconditionally than she had ever romantically loved any other guy.

This comprehension burst forth within her with a such powerful emotional wave and twist at her insides that she wasn't sure whether to break out into hysterical tears or happy laughter. She didn't care, then, who he'd been, who he might have become, what another side of him had gone on to do to her and her family and the modern world that she valued so dearly. She didn't allow herself to dwell on the fact one of the reasons few wizards dared to mess with time was because it was nearly impossible to change so drastically.

Nothing more mattered to her except the precious knowledge that she loved Tom Riddle and he loved her back just as much, and damn all reason to hell if she was going to let that love be lost in less than a dozen minutes! Not when she could do something about it!

Most of the important things in this world have been accomplished by people who kept on trying when there seemed to be no hope at all. Hermione clung to this last thought like a lifeline as she raced down the dimly lit halls of Hogwarts. In the earliest hours of the Saturday morning, they were relatively quiet, the faint glow of a crisp, clear winter morning only beginning to shine through intermittent windows, vibrant portraits and tapestries blending together and blurring by in a bleeding mural of colour as she passed.

The peacefulness of her surroundings was proving to act as a direct foil to the turmoil churning within her. She could feel herself shaking, her heart so stressfully tight that she honestly did begin to fear she might have a heart attack, and she hurriedly flipped open to the first few pages of the singed Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques. The pages flapped up and down with each bounding stride she took, but she desperately tried to read, translate, and run at the same time.

She spotted a Table of Contents right off. Thank Merlin! At this point, she needed some kind of a break—any kind of break!— and this would save her a lot of time. Her alert eyes nimbly scanned the yellowed page, and she tried to decipher the over-flourished cursive. Disinagous... Sinistria... Come on, where is it?... Lenium... Dominius Alieum... Anima. Yes.

She was going on basic instinct now and nothing else, and as she swiftly flipped to 'La Malédiction de l'Anima ... page 45', she blindly made the last wild turn between her and the witch's hump at top speed— "Oof!"

Hermione squeaked in surprise as she unexpectedly collided with something solid which it wasn't a wall, and all the air burst from her lungs as she distantly heard a deep, muttered curse from the other half of the crash, and she instinctively, firmly gripped the French book as if it was made of homespun gold, lest whoever she had run into try to grab it or it attempt to fly out of her hands.

"Hermione?"

Hermione blinked rapidly, gasping for breath, and tilting her head back, a hulking body with a familiar face and a mop of thick red hair completely filled her vision. Ron! For a moment, she blankly wondered if he was a Death Eater, too... but no, that didn't matter at the moment, because wherever Ron was, that meant... "Harry", she panted, still frantically attempting to catch her breath, her chest heaving, burning painfully. "Ron... need... Harry!"

An unopened bottle of butterbeer was waved below her nose as if Ron was wagging a finger at her, and he crossed his arms, a childishly indignant expression demoting his freckled, mature face. "What, no hello for me as well?" "Ron, now is not the time!" Hermione said sharply, finally regaining some of her breath, though she had to sharply reach out and clutch the wall for support, briefly closing her eyes and bending double to clear her tiredly clouding mind.

"Hermione? What's going on? What's wrong?" At the baritone voice of reason that usually never failed to soothe her in a tense situation, Hermione quickly straightened, still a bit winded, as the tall figure of the Boy-Who-Lived emerged from behind the equally tall Ron, similarly dressed in a dark pair of trousers and shirt. And she was counting on that baritone voice of reason to come to her rescue.

All concern with Ron's presence flew from her mind, and she reached out with one hand and caught Harry's sleeve, unknowingly gripping it so hard she practically dragged him closer. "Harry..." she gasped, still breathing hard, "Harry, listen to me. I... need... to get into the Chamber of Secrets!"

Harry blinked, the surprise instantly spreading across his face revealing that that was obviously the last thing he had ever expected to come out of her mouth. His jaw tightened he stared at her uncomprehendingly. "What?"

All right, so maybe that was just a tad bit too much too-the-point. But she didn't have time to beat around the bush!

The instant tensing of the jaw was not a good sign, yet Hermione plunged ahead anyway. "Tom Riddle's going to die from the Anima Curse today —soon, very soon— and he's gone to the Chamber of Secrets. I need you to help me get to him", she explained quickly. She suddenly became distinctly aware that Lavender's seared book had begun to shake uncontrollably in her trembling hand. Harry was her only chance. Sweet Merlin, if he didn't understand, if he didn't help her...

"Harry?" she probed keenly after a tense moment, hating to be rude, but at this point, she really didn't give a damn about how she came off to anyone.

Harry let out a soft sigh and tiredly raked a hand through dark hair, more flat than usual as if it was still damp after a shower. "Hermione, I have a Death Eater Meeting in ten minutes. Malfoy confirmed it himself this morning", he said carefully, fingering a dark robe hanging over his arm before shrugging on what Hermione assumed to be the simple requirement for Death Eater uniform. "Riddle can't be dying, and he's not in the Chamber of Secrets."

"That's impossible", Hermione instantly disagreed flatly, and at Harry's you're-not-making-sense expression, she adamantly added, "I don't care what Malfoy told you about the meeting, Harry, I know he's down there!"

She continued rapidly before she either lost his attention or his concern, her uptight voice again becoming more strangled and garbled the longer she spoke, "There's another entrance to the Chamber at the Defence Against the Dark Arts door but I need to say something in Parseltongue to get it to work and since I obviously don't speak Parseltongue I need you to do it for me and I'm sorry that I can't tell you what I know but I've only got a few minutes until it'll be too late and he'll die and oh Harry I don't want him to—"

"Hang on", Harry interrupted suddenly, holding up his hand. Hermione gratefully used the pause to suck in a much-needed breath of air as he studied her pensively. "You're saying that Riddle's going to die soon, and he knew he's going to die soon, so he's gone off to the Chamber of Secrets to... what? Die there?" His brow furrowed deeply, and his emerald eyes thoughtfully narrowed. "And you can get into the Chamber though the Defence door?"

"Exactly!" Hermione nodded vigorously, desperate for him to understand. "But the thing is, I've just found a cure for the Curse! He doesn't know about it, no one does, so if I can get to him before it's too late—"

In a familiar practice, Ron crossed his arms, rolled his head back toward the ceiling, and noisily blew out a very irritated breath. "Hermione, what—"

Literally a millimetre away from screaming that one out loud and firing off the worst hex she knew into the nearest inanimate statue, she somehow resisted the very tempting urge and instead snapped edgily, "Shut up, Ronald!". She shot him a fuming glare, to which Ron narrowed his own eyes, honestly appearing to be at a complete loss at the reason for her frenzied, worried actions. Had the clock not been ticking down, Hermione would not have hesitated to reach over and throttle some compassion into him.

Emotion burst past some unseen dam and flooded her eyes, and while she choked back a muffled sob, she was somehow able to hold back the tears. Even though the memory was only from the night before, it seemed as if she hadn't seen Tom for ages, like the words had travelled past some great, gulfing abyss, emerging blotchy and unclear.

As terrible as it was to imagine, that someone could die and no one would take notice or even want to be with him at the end, Tom had been right. He was dying, and no one cared. No one but me.

Horrified realisation settled around Hermione like a thick fog then, as well as an overwhelming, sobering sense of responsibility. She really was the only hope he had left. It wasn't just her future happiness resting on the line here, it was his life. She couldn't give up now! With renewed vigour, Hermione flicked some fallen strands of wavy hair from her eyes and re-tightened her grip on Harry's arm, searching his completely unreadable face. "Please, at least let me show you", she pleaded, taking yet another step backward. Hermione's gaze instantly hardened, and she added in a low, deadly serious voice, "You owe me that much."

Playing the last card she had, she promptly dropped Harry's arm, spun around, and started off in the direction of the Defence Against the Dark Arts door. She squeezed her eyes shut as she walked, her heart thudding, fingers crossed, Please, Harry, come on...

Her shoulders slumped slightly in relief as she heard at least one pair of footsteps slapping against the ground behind her. Without looking back, she continued to walk briskly, feeling that she had already explained the situation at hand well enough for the moment. She —and the footsteps— soon reached the end of the witch's hump hallway in surprising silence and, thankfully, turned down the stretch of the one that housed the Defence classroom.

Hermione clutched Un Amour Mortel et D'autres Sortilèges Tragiques in a death grip. She was too preoccupied with figuring out how she was going to convince Harry to speak in Parseltongue to be concerned with the actual counter curse. She was going by minutes, seconds now - as was Tom's life, to her knowledge - and scaling one obstacle at the time was the sole component of her modus operandi.

Suddenly, she felt a distinct presence to her right. Turning her head quickly, she saw the Boy-Who-Lived finally draw up alongside her silently, his tall, sturdy form easily keeping up with her rapid steps. A strangely brooding, meditative gleam shimmered in his eyes, however, and it was one that Hermione honestly feared would choose to not help her save Riddle in the end.

After all, the other Riddle, as she was beginning to think of the Tom Riddle who had turned into Voldemort, had killed Harry's parents as well, and this was what really concerned Hermione. Harry most likely felt that he owed nothing to this Tom Riddle except, probably, retribution, as horrible as that was, and she could only hope that the Harry she knew would not stoop so far as to let a boy - a boy who had chosen a different, better path from his infamous alternate universe double - die out of pure revenge.

But she could actually feel Ron's piercing, blatantly angry gaze burning into her skull as she heard his loping footsteps grudgingly trailing along behind them, muttering muffled profanities under his breath. She was quickly becoming exasperated with him; no, scratch that, extremely angry— I would never do this to you if you asked me for help, Ron, and you bloody well know it!

"I know what you're thinking, Ron, and I don't care", she said suddenly, not turning around to face him as she spoke as she skidded to a stop outside the ancient, beautifully made Defence door. She kept her tone even and indifferent for fear that she would break down if she said it, shouted it with the passion that she really wanted to use, to make him —to make everyone!— understand not only how much she honestly cared about Tom Riddle, but that Tom Riddle was someone who was worth caring about. "I can save him, I really can, and I really want to!"

Before she could even blink, Ron had come up out of nowhere, and she actually jumped as he violently slammed his hand on the wall, her heart momentarily failing to beat. "Hermione, have you gone absolutely nutters?" he hissed like an angry goose, his eyes furtively darting up and down the empty classroom-lined hallway as if he expected Lord Voldemort in all his red-eyed glory to leap out at them at any minute.

Hermione gaped at him in horror, shocked into silence by his aggressive act. Sure, she had seen Ron angry many times —it was practically built into his temperamental redhead nature— but he had never— He was completely overreacting and being absolutely ridiculous! "Have you?" she countered coldly.

She didn't care when Ron's certain-she-would-fall-at-his-feet-and-agree-wholeheartedly expression faltered slightly at her tone's abrupt chill. She had no idea of how much time she had left, but she knew it wasn't much, maybe ten or eleven minutes at best, so she found it far less strenuous to simply ignore him—after all, he wasn't the person she needed to open the door to the Chamber of Secrets. Whirling, she grabbed Harry's dark robes and clutched the dark material in her hands. "Harry."

"Harry, wait, hear me out, please", she said before he could flat-out turn her down. Softly, she swiftly spoke to him in urgent undertones. "You know what it's like to lose someone, and you know I would never ask anything like this of you unless it meant the world to me—" Her voice cracked, and, biting her lip, she added hoarsely, "I can't do this alone". "Please help me", she whispered.

Harry's acute gaze probed into hers more intensely than she remembered him ever have doing, so much so that she was certain he could probably pierce though her body and read her soul, if he really tried. Months of living with Tom Riddle, however, had conditioned her, and she steadily met his stare head-on.

But even a confident facade couldn't stop a fresh wave of despair from flooding her mind like a crushing, dark deluge. He's not going to do it, she thought miserably. He's not going to help me.