A/N: Thanks for the reviews :)
~oOo~
Albus Dumbledore had received a letter from Mrs Cole whilst spreading marmalade onto his morning toast, and he was still polishing off the remains of it when he arrived at the orphanage about sixty seconds later. No more than a minute after that, he was standing in a thicket of trees at the bottom of Glastonbury Tor, which was barely a mile from his own breakfast table. Thank heavens he hadn't had to travel like a muggle, or that little excursion would have taken half the day.
He could easily find Home Farm, but it seemed remarkably unlikely that Tom would have made it there yet. He drew his wand; pictured the boy in his mind. Point me.
The wand spun rapidly, pulling strongly as it did when the target was near. Excellent – he would probably be home before his second slice of toast was cold. He began to climb the slope he had scaled so many times as a younger man, and lamented the way it now made his knees protest and his breath come quickly. Was it coincidence that the boy had ended up in such a magical spot?
Tom had his back to him, leaning against the tower wall, gazing down over the fields below. Albus observed him for a moment while his heart rate returned to normal, but before he could announce himself something utterly remarkable happened.
The ground below the boy's feet opened up. In nearly sixty years he had never seen anything like it. Tom was staring, wide-eyed, indicating that he was just as surprised – presumably had not meant to cause it, if indeed it was caused by him.
A trapdoor had appeared in the floor, and his head was spinning with every myth and legend he had ever heard about this ancient place. Every reason he had visited so often, even choosing to live nearby. There was magic in the air now, strong and unfamiliar. Dark, perhaps, and he was beguiled; intrigued against the warning of his rational mind.
Tom's hand reaching for the handle snapped him out of his trance. Professor Dumbledore was required, so Albus – and his second slice of toast – would have to wait.
"Good morning, Tom." The boy looked up, startled, and scrambled to his feet.
"P-professor Dumbledore," he said, in the polite manner he adopted with all the teachers at Hogwarts. The manner that had everyone saying, Oh, that lovely boy Tom. Such talent. As if they didn't remember that he was capable of slashing several of his housemates half to death. Albus remembered.
"What a lovely morning it is. I, myself, was just out for a stroll – how curious that we should bump into each other." Tom was not the only one who could fake a conversation to foster a public image. Like him, Tom didn't fall for it, though he made a good attempt to hide his irritation.
"Yes, Professor. Curious indeed... How is Mrs Cole this morning?" He chuckled, and thought of how in some respects he quite liked this strange child, and of the terrifying ways in which he resembled someone else he had once known.
"Mrs Cole? Oh, quite well, I hope. Though I should think the idea of one of her young charges so very far from home would give her cause for concern."
"I don't have a home." He regarded the boy for some time.
"I understand, of course, that you don't like to go back there. But I'm afraid that, until you're older, there's no choice."
"You understand? You understand what it's like to grow up abandoned in that horrid place? You understand what it's like to be beaten and tormented by people jealous because you're better than them, because you have magic? You understand what it's like when everyone else has a family, and money, and that's apparently the only thing that matters even though they can't tell one end of their wand from the other? You understand." His voice rose and rose until the last two words, which were spat out with a cold venom one would not generally expect from one so young. And Albus could not find the right reply – the reply suitable for a teacher to make – because all he could think was yes, yes I do. And that was something he was never going to share with anyone, let alone a thirteen year old. So he looked away, feigning nonchalance, and changed the subject.
"Why did you come here?" When Tom spoke again, it was back to the polite boy, as if the previous outburst had never happened.
"I need to find my friend, Professor." That was the only obvious explanation, of course, and the one that Mrs Cole had volunteered. There was no lie on Tom's face, though he was sometimes uneasy that he might not be able to discern one.
"A noble venture, I'm sure. But your place is in London, and hers is here, for the moment at least. I must insist that you return." Tom's eyes flicked to the ground and back again; he seemed to assess his options.
"I'm not going."
"I'm –" but he didn't get to finish his sentence, because the boy had wrenched open the trapdoor with surprising strength, and with the agility of youth disappeared rapidly from sight.
He was caught off-guard, too slow to use magic to stop him, and thereafter could not decide the appropriate course of action without knowing the destination of the tunnel. The place was oozing magic quite ominously; it would be foolish to rush straight in without casting hundreds of diagnostic spells.
And yet he was an adult – a teacher – and there was a child who could be in danger, and put like that there was no obvious alternative but to follow, and he wished that he could say that Tom's safety was his major draw for going, but it really wasn't.
He hated the small space, and the way the light from above receded into damp darkness, and he hated the fact that he was going into the unknown without a plan and he hated that he was still nothing more than the boy he had once been, who would chase knowledge to the point of apathy for his safety or the safety of others. And he hated that he was getting a bit old for this sort of adventure – especially before breakfast.
After what felt like a small age, low light began to filter into his vision again, and then the ladder was leading him down into a sort of cave where Tom Riddle was stood, staring. Thankfully alone, and visibly unharmed.
Against the opposite wall, a great stone sarcophagus dominated the space. Indeed, the only other object in the room was a wide basin of water embedded in the floor – an odd thing to find in a tomb, perhaps, but then nothing about this was normal. They both advanced on the grave, their previous conversation temporarily forgotten.
There was no plaque or decoration; merely one line of text hewn roughly into the lid.
novissima autem inimica destruetur Mors
~oOo~
When Hermione awoke the morning light was already filtering in strongly around the heavy curtains, and it took her several seconds to remember where she was. Then she smiled to herself, and finally noticed that she was not feeling sad or anxious. It was strange – perhaps even a touch unsettling. Behind her, Zorion's breathing was slow and even. She decided to take the opportunity to clean up and slipped out to the adjoining bathroom.
He was awake when she returned, looking worried, though that expression dissipated upon seeing her. She was still naked and expected to feel exposed under his gaze, but didn't.
"I thought you'd gone," he said, and it was the kind of thing he usually said as a joke – maybe he had meant to say it as a joke – but it came across more like don't leave me, and what she wanted to say was I won't ever, but it came out as, "I'm right here."
She climbed back into bed, and it was so novel and yet so nice to have someone there to hold her and kiss her – the kind of thing she had only read about or seen in films. After some time, she decided to ask something she'd been a bit preoccupied to ask last night.
"Did you grow up speaking Norse? Only, Zorion doesn't seem like a very Norse name." There was an almighty pause, and she might have thought he had dozed off if it were not for the absolute rigidity of his arms around her. Perhaps this was one of those topics she was not supposed to have asked about, but it seemed harmless to her.
"At home we spoke in English, though it was quite different back then. My father was English. But they spoke Norse in the village."
"Which village?"
"Here. Kelling. It was controlled by the Vikings at the time. As was everything between Yorkshire and London." She wondered idly why that piece of history had mostly passed her by.
"Of course… That doesn't explain the name, though." There was another long pause, and she got the disconcerting feeling that he was trying to decide how much of the truth to tell.
"My mother named me," he said eventually. "She was Basque."
"Oh – I wouldn't have guessed that. You're full of surprises." The train of thought was brought to a sudden halt by the movement of his fingertips over her breasts; she gasped in unexpected pleasure and arched against him.
"Mmm… Do that again…" He chuckled, and complied, and she moaned and felt him hardening against her lower back. Then she was rolling to face him and their kisses were hungry and she stroked him eagerly.
She had touched Viktor once, like this, but that was a lifetime ago, and last night was a bit of a blur. Here in the morning, it seemed awkward, and she didn't much like the idea of being bad at this of all things.
"Show me," she said, and then his much larger hand was closing around hers and guiding her movements and she would have never imagined how that would feel so intimate; just like she wouldn't have imagined enjoying watching him touch himself yesterday. She had thought that sharing a tent with two boys for several months was enough to ruin that particular act forever.
"Yes… yes, like that, oh… darling, that's too good…" And then he pushed her hand away, breathing heavily, and held her tightly. When he spoke again it was quiet, muffled by her shoulder.
"Do you want me?" Somehow she got the feeling that the question was not intended purely with reference to this particular morning, and she wondered if she would ever understand the way he would go from confident to insecure in so few seconds. Instead of answering, she guided him to her entrance.
This time there was no discomfort, though perhaps she was going to be a bit sore later. But for now there was no need to think about anything except his desperate kisses, such a contrast to the languid rhythm of his cock stroking in and out of her, and the way that when he broke the kiss and pulled back slightly he was looking at her as if she were the most perfect thing in the world.
It wasn't long before she was close, and his thrusts sped up, and then someone was saying Zorion and yes and oh several times in no particular order – and it must have been her, but she couldn't really tell, because the orgasm had taken over her brain. It took him a few more thrusts to join her, giving her the chance to watch his face contort with pleasure as he gripped her hips tightly, and there was no talking this time, but just the tiniest sound that was almost a whimper. And then he collapsed down onto her and buried his face in her neck and she wrapped her arms around him and felt their heartbeats hammering together.
Not being at the peak of her mental capacity, it took her some while to notice that her shoulder was getting damp.
"Zorion?" Nothing. "Zorion? Are you okay?... I wasn't that bad, was I?" There was a choked sort of sound that might have been an attempt at a laugh, and she was so confused, because hadn't they been having a good time? Hadn't she woken up, not an hour ago, thinking that for the first time in years she was content? He was standing up, now, with his face turned away, and striding to the bathroom. Halfway through the door he stopped and, without turning around, said simply,
"I'm… sorry." And then the door was closing behind him and the room felt cold and empty and much too quiet.
"Zorion? I…" she trailed off, because he probably couldn't even hear through the door. And then, after several minutes had passed, and the silence and the sadness was too much,
"I don't understand. Please. I don't understand."
~oOo~
He closed the door; slid down it, shaking, and felt the hysteria overcome him even as he tried to calm down. This was ridiculous – weak – stupid – terrifying. This was not like him! He didn't cry, he didn't have breakdowns, and especially not at such an embarrassingly inappropriate time as right after sex. Good sex, too. Great sex. In a way, that was part of the problem.
He was in love.
Oh, it was undeniable, and it had smashed into him like a bludger. He had probably been in love for some time. Time in which he had told himself he was still loyal to another (he wasn't) or that it was just about her body (it wasn't) or that she was not right for him (she really was).
He was utterly in love with her, and she didn't even know his name.
She looked at him so tenderly. At him, but not at him, as it were; at an effigy he had created for a set of reasons he could barely remember but now he was stuck with it, stuck with a name and a face not his own.
He knew he had been lonely. His younger self wasn't – or rather, hadn't much noticed – but he was. Lonely enough that he had turned to Hermione the way a plant turns to the sunlight, but he was sure – so sure – that these feelings were more than could be attributed to that. Sure that this love was built on a foundation of respect, and fondness, and his appreciation of hundreds of her wonderful qualities. He had seen her face, and her body, and they were beautiful – but he had also held her very soul in his hands. Before he had even known her. Held it and wondered at it and known it was special.
He had never been one for introspection, but now the floodgate had opened it was dredging up things that had been buried far longer than the usual human being had cause to keep things bottled up, and he was sobbing – pitifully – childlike.
"I don't understand. Please. I don't understand."
Her voice, anguished, filtered through the gaps around the edges of the door, into his ears and then down deep inside him until he was consumed not only by his own misery but hers too. A lead weight had settled in his chest; though he wished to comfort her, he had no idea how, or how to fix himself. He just needed to think – there must be a way out of this nightmare, must be a way for him to pull himself together and make her happy, but the pressure was crushing.
There on the cold, tiled floor, he finally felt the suffocating regret of a hundred terrible decisions – ancient though they now were – and he wept for them.
He wept for the hurt he had caused, to friends and enemies alike – to lovers – to others unknown.
He wept for the legacy he had created, and for the fact that it was fated to be the thing that would destroy him.
He wept for the child he had once been, left to roam, naïve and wild and powerful; he wept for the man he had become, too absorbed in his own plans and achievements to care about others; he wept for himself, here and now, and the cruelty of a universe that had provided a millennium for solitary repentance only to deal a final punishment in place of absolution.
He wept for the cast-iron knowledge that everything was his fault and his alone, and for Hermione who was conversely blameless.
That brought him back to the start of the cycle of grief, and it began again on horrendous repeat. He saw in his mind her beautiful face, smiling and sincere as he took her innocence – please, fuck me – and thought of everything she believed about him and everything that was actually true, and saw her expression turn to shock and horror and her eyes grow cold, and even though that part was merely in his imagination the pain it caused in his chest was entirely real.
It was unclear how long he might have been stuck in that loop of misery, because at that moment there was a sort of siren sound in the house. He struggled to his feet; if the alarm wards were ringing then there must be a very good reason.
Hermione had already gone when he swept out of the bathroom a minute later, and the adrenaline sent round his body by the crying and the alarm still ringing did nothing to diminish the sense of abandonment. It felt like a rejection; like the beginning of the end.
He grabbed some clothes quickly, dislodging a card that had been resting on the nightstand.
Rowena Ravenclaw (d. 999) was one of the four founders of Hogwarts School. Members of her House display wit and intelligence, which she was known to prize most highly. She is credited with the design of many aspects of Hogwarts castle, including the moving staircases.
The drawing of his old love glanced up at him, annoyed by the disturbance, and shuffled out of the frame.
~oOo~