A/N: Thanks for the reviews and follows, and I have a big apology to make for this being quite so late. There have been a few issues but I hope it's all back on track now. Comments are always really appreciated.

~oOo~

As it transpired, Hermione was spared from trying to find a way to confront Death – Zorion – about his total disregard for her privacy. They had spent Christmas together in the hospital wing, both trying to pretend that the house elves' brilliant food was enough to lift the inherent melancholy of the occasion, but on Boxing Day he was gone. The room felt empty; smaller, somehow, and more cage-like. It was less than an hour after returning from her walk with Tiggy that she felt the urge to use the cat pendant, but somehow it didn't seem right.

The days passed in silence except for the elf's visits. Even Nurse Jeffries had gone home for the holidays, the rush of the office floo announcing her brief visit each morning at nine. Hermione practiced her wandless magic – since it was the only part of her plan she could currently action – until she was too exhausted to do anything but lie down and try to ignore the cacophony of thoughts inside her head.

In September, the pain of everything had been unbearably raw. No choice but to shut down; shut it out, use the routine of school to suppress the feelings that were so terrifyingly out of control. After Halloween, the illness had taken the place of school in distracting her mind – then Tiggy, then Death. It was only now, after four months of diversion and distance, that the emotion was beginning to surface again.

Hermione was a logical person in general. She had noticed that four months spent in the past was an almost-significant portion of her overall time in the Wizarding world. She could determine that the hurt was less fresh than it had been. She had somehow accepted Death's apology, or at least the sincerity of the sentiment, and understood that she had the chance to shape a better future.

None of that changed the fact that she now had to try extremely hard, closing her eyes, to remember the way Harry's hair stuck out or the way Ron's eyes looked when he smiled. The feel of Crookshanks' fur or her mother's arms or the sound of her father's voice.

The thought that these precious memories were never to freshen, but instead could only fade, reduced her to tears every time it crossed her mind. She could imagine a future where Voldemort did not gain power; where James and Lily lived and Sirius was not imprisoned. But she could not imagine a future where she could be happy without Ron and Harry, and so she told herself that the task was all that mattered; that her industrious misery was, perhaps, noble, and that would have to be enough.

"Expecto Patronum."

It was as useless as ever – a wispy silver mist instead of the darting otter. Not once had she managed it in this era, even after a thousand attempts. Little chance of meeting a dementor, indeed, but the real motivation was just to see the shimmering creature as proof of her ability to feel the emotion. The memory of Ron and Harry laughing was now stained with a sadness she couldn't shake off, no longer strong enough to power the spell.

New Year came and went, and soon the mass of voices could be heard through the open window again. The castle, so dead for a fortnight, reanimated and perhaps even became a little warmer. Her cough had by now much improved, and eventually she dared to ask the obvious question.

"How much longer will I have to be here?"

Nurse Jeffries looked up from where she had been recording Hermione's weight on a chart. Her demeanour had become a little less abrupt recently – perhaps an effect of the holiday, or maybe she had eventually warmed to her long term patient. There was a bit of a pause, which was recognisable as the kind where an adult is deciding how much of the truth a child really needs to know.

"Look," she said, eventually, and the tone was far gentler than it had been a month ago. "You're doing very well, and I know you've been bored. Anyone would be." She tapped the pencil absently on the clipboard. "I re-tested you a week ago. Now – you must understand – the infection can come back, so I was waiting a while to be safe… but you're clear."

The statement was accompanied by a frown where Hermione thought a smile ought to have been.

"Erm, that's… good, isn't it? Can I go then?" Although she was less than keen to see her classmates again, two months of staring at the same walls was getting old. Never mind the fact that she couldn't visit the library. The nurse was still frowning.

"I'm afraid not. I've been to see the Headmaster – told him you're better – but he's just so worried. We've got to try and understand… he himself was at school during an outbreak of dragon pox. Between that and the governors, there's so much paranoia…"

"So how long will it take? Am I going to be sent away?"

"No, not sent away. But… I don't know. I suppose until the Headmaster thinks the governors will accept it. If you ask me, it's going to be September."

Despite her best efforts, the surprise must have shown on her face.

"Oh, dear, I know," sympathised Nurse Jeffries, who was evidently trying her very best to be comforting. It didn't particularly suit her. "There was one other thing I discussed with the Headmaster, though." The sentence ended on a rather hopeful high, so Hermione forced herself to say, "Yes?" as politely as she could manage.

"Your friend Tom. He's still been stopping by every few days, so I asked if he could start visiting."

After a beat of silence as the words sank in, Hermione was caught between tears and hysterical laughter. She almost felt bad for the nurse, whose expression was so earnest. Desperately she scrabbled around for some sort of excuse.

"But… I might make him sick…" was all she could manage.

"Oh, there was never a very big chance of that, really. Certainly not now. But I'll leave it up to him." The sound of voices at the other end of the ward prompted the nurse to smile reassuringly and bustle out of the room, preventing her from offering another rebuttal.

Why had Tom been visiting for so many weeks? Try as she might, she could not come up with a positive motive. Maybe it was for show – presumably for the teachers' benefit, since their friendship wouldn't go down well with his housemates. Or maybe he was hoping for some sort of gossip on her condition. Probably there was no need to think on it; he would simply claim to be worried about being infected and not stop by again. Probably.

~oOo~

Philippus von Hohenheim (1493-1541) was an alchemist and physician. Persecuted by muggles for his methods, which were perceived as sacrilegious, he was forced into hiding. His writings were published under the pseudonym 'Paracelsus', by which he is better known today.

" 'A rose, by any other name…' "

"Pardon?" Older Death was jolted out of his contemplation, not having realised that his younger self had entered the room. He motioned with his left hand to the frog card that was still clutched in his right.

"Paracelsus – got me thinking. If only a name could really change anything." Younger Death poured himself a drink and sat down before speaking.

"Has something happened?"

Older Death choked back a sarcastic retort about the quantity of things that frequently happen. Instead, he finally settled on, "I told her – a name."

He waited for the full implications of the statement to sink in, but the seconds kept passing and still no anger was visible on his counterpart's face.

"Oh," he said, eventually, "that's where you were going all those days. I did wonder. Did you really think the house elves wouldn't tell me? I hope you were careful."

Since it wasn't the kind of answer he had expected, Older Death didn't know how to respond.

"I had to speak to her. I was never seen. I have not summoned anyone. I won't go again, unless she calls."

Younger Death raised his eyebrows, and Older Death felt that he was being thoroughly catalogued. It was odd how his own expressions could make him feel so uncomfortable.

"Ah, I see… You're feeling sorry for her. You've been sharing sob stories, I suppose, wanting someone to listen. That's a bit pathetic, even for you, isn't it?"

"Have you entirely forgotten that you're talking about yourself?" Bit out Older Death, angrily. "Yes, I made a mistake coming here, I was desperate. Desperate the same way you are. At least I've tried to do something about it. And there's nothing wrong with making a friend."

"Oh, yes, we've always been remarkable at friendship, haven't we?" Older Death refused to dignify the jibe with a response, and the passing empty seconds dissipated the atmosphere in the room somewhat.

"So… what name did you tell her?" Older Death recognised the slight change of subject was a bit of an olive branch, so he was reluctant to answer and expose himself to further ridicule. When he could think of no plausible lie, he said, rather quietly,

"Zorion."

There was a sharp bark of laughter which became a choked sort of hoot and eventually a rolling chuckle, bouncing off the walls until Older Death thought the insides of his ears had been bleached raw by it. He gritted his teeth, determined to bear it, and took a long swig of firewhisky.

"Zorion, oh, Odin's beard, man, that is priceless. Mister happiness. Us! Death! Oh!" Another wave of laughter, almost as long as the first. Older Death sighed.

"I wonder that you can manage to make such fun. As if you wouldn't take a fresh start if you could."

"True, true. But honestly. You can't say it isn't funny. Naming yourself out of one of mother's fairytales? The boy who brings happiness? Isn't that a bit too tragic and grandiose even for us?"

"Oh, sod off. It's done now. She'll probably never think twice about it anyway. Probably."

~oOo~

They still weren't speaking to him. He thought he could ride it out – that it would pass – but as the week barrelled on with no sign of change, he began to grow annoyed. Several times he heard them talking about some sort of Christmas party at Malfoy Manor, and usually the conversation ended abruptly when he was caught listening. On Saturday, however, Abraxas looked up and began to speak even more loudly.

"Well, after the Minister finished telling us about Cassandra's injuries, Father reminded us not to associate with anyone… beneath us." The last two words were delivered straight at him.

He could hear the blood rushing in his ears as his heartbeat raced with rage. How dare they! He was the descendant of Slytherin himself; beneath nobody! Not by birth and certainly not by power. The magic was snapping and zinging down his fingers – barely controlled – it would be the easiest thing in the world to… to…

If four months at Hogwarts had shown him anything, it was the difference in outcomes depending on who got hurt. Twice he had deliberately attacked Granger and got away with it completely. Once he had hurt Fawley – not even on purpose, not even with magic – and everyone had turned on him, despite his own injury being far worse. He was not stupid. He might have got away with cursing Malfoy once, but this was different to that time on the train. They would tell on him and it was five against one. Before he could do something reckless, he swept out of the room.

The hallways were busy, it being a rainy afternoon. He was at the library before he realised where he was going; the anger must have been taking his feet on the most common route. It was crowded and the mass of overlapping whispers seemed to bore into his agitated mind, making it impossible to calm down and contemplate reading. He hesitated on the threshold, turned, and had to avoid a group of older students bustling in. When his gaze fell on the infirmary corridor, he moved forward as much to slink out of the way as anything else. Before he knew what he was doing, he was slipping through the door to the ward.

Inside, the rows of beds were empty and the atmosphere peaceful enough for his mind to begin to quiet. No sound came from behind the partition wall.

"Ah! Tom."

The nurse's voice made him jump about a foot in the air, and he scowled, disgusted with his lack of awareness. Quickly he rearranged his face into a more polite expression and turned around.

"Good afternoon, Nurse Jeffries, I was–"

"Yes, yes, you've come to see Miss Granger. As it happens, I was just about to send someone to tell you the good news! Professor Dippet has granted you permission to visit her." Briefly, his displeasure at being interrupted prevented her words from sinking in. Then he did something of a double take.

"P-pardon?"

"She's better! Isn't that good news? I'm sure she'll be over the moon to have a visitor." The nurse was already ushering him down the ward, so she completely missed his gaping expression as he scrabbled about for some sort of excuse. Perhaps on any other day he might have managed, but his brain was still echoing with the words beneath us and the idea that two months of social climbing had been wasted.

Nurse Jeffries rapped once on the door before swinging it open to reveal Granger sat at a desk in front of the large end window. A book was open in front of her but her sheet of parchment was blank and the quill in her hand was dry. He wondered what she had been doing before their footsteps approached.

"Hermione, dear, it's Tom come to visit!" It was only a slight movement, but he noticed with some satisfaction the tension enter her shoulders. There was a subtle pause before she turned around, but there was still a trace of shock in her expression. She hastily replaced it with a smile.

"Tom!" He hadn't had much time to prepare for this moment, never having imagined it on any of his previous visits.

"Hermione, it's good to see you. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes – much better, thank you." The nurse gave him an awkward pat as she retreated from the room.

"I'll leave you two to it. Hermione – you're welcome to ask Tiggy to bring dinner for Tom, too, when the time comes."

Luckily the door closed before either of them could respond. It was two-thirty. How long am I going to have to stay here?! Granger's face was a picture of shocked horror, and suddenly the idea of staying for dinner seemed more appealing. He sat down on the bed – partly to annoy her and partly since there was nowhere else.

"Riddle," she hissed, "what do you want?" This was a surprisingly difficult question to answer since he hadn't meant to come at all. He recovered smoothly.

"Just to see how you were, of course."

"Oh, drop the act, it's pathetic. I'd have been dead months ago if you'd had your way." He chose to ignore her, smoothing imaginary creases out of his robe and straightening his tie though it was already perfectly central.

"Fine, be like that. Though I wonder how your friends are going to react when I tell them you've been visiting a – a – mudblood." Her face contorted around the word as she spat it out. He recoiled ever so slightly before he could catch himself.

"I don't have any friends," he threw back coldly. Her surprise alerted him to the fact that he had given away too much. Coming here in this mixed up state had been a terrible mistake, but it was done now, and that gnawing unease did nothing to help his control.

"No friends? Interesting. Why would that – oh – this wouldn't have anything to do with… poor Cassandra, would it?" She was baiting him, and he had no idea how to turn the tables. Again he chose the strategy of silence, picking up a quill from the bedside table and twirling it between his fingers. Her penetrating gaze was like a weight against his skin, but he refused to acknowledge it, and eventually the pages of her book began to turn. He concentrated on the quill, making it hover and then spin above his open palm.

"I bet they were all really impressed with that stuff," she said nonchalantly, gesturing to him without bothering to look up. "Like I said, they don't feel magic like we do." He thought of how many evenings he'd spent trying to teach Abraxas the torture spell and was inclined to agree, though he'd rather torture himself than tell her. Instead, he said,

"Show me," rather smugly. That was bound to shut her up – he'd seen her in classes, she was barely average. The cherry tree, all those months ago, must have been some kind of trick. She turned around from the desk and fixed him with a smirk, making his confidence falter slightly. The feather drifted lazily from his hand to hers, and he tried to remember if he had seen her cast without a wand before.

"Well, I suppose that's better than the others, but I –"

He forgot what he was going to say, mouth stuck open, as the feather erupted in a roar of blue flames above her palm. They were gone as abruptly as they had arrived, leaving nothing but a pile of ash drifting down. Withdrawing her hand, she made a twisting motion and the particles flew together, fusing and morphing until it was not a cloud of dust but a single flower floating in front of her. In another instant the quill was back exactly as before, returning to his hand. He noticed his mouth was still open and rapidly closed it.

"You could do with friends who value intelligence above money, you know." She spoke in a tone that was gratingly bossy, jarring him out of his surprise.

"Like you, you mean?" She laughed and turned around.

"You wish, Riddle."

~oOo~