Notes: If there is any doubt, this chapter should make it clear that I'm not writing nice!heroic!Tom in this story. Things are going to turn fairly dark in a few chapters as the main plotlines take shape. To commenter sara: You have not seen the last of Grindelwald, but his next appearance won't be for a number of chapters.

Warning for torture and violence in this chapter.

Chapter Eight: The Talk

November 1944.

Over the past month, Tom Riddle had experienced something new.

It's just a variation of what I already know, he reassured himself. I'm very protective of my possessions. But I've never been possessive of another person. As a rule, I have regarded people with contempt. They are unworthy to be mine. But Hermione's different.

She was different. She was special, as he was. As he had rightly pointed out to her the month before, how often did a time-traveler appear? And she was not just any fool who happened to get a Time-Turner in her hands. No, she was like him, that rarity who actually deserved the special circumstances that had been bestowed upon her. She was highly intelligent, the first person at Hogwarts in his entire school career with whom he could truly talk. She was fierce. And… she was somehow dark.

Yes, she was dark. She owned that collection of Dark Magic books, for one—a fact for which he was still determined to figure out the reason, though it was no longer at the top of his priority list—but her darkness went deeper than that. The future she had come from had not been kind to her. She seemed older than everyone else, for one, as if she had seen and done things that no one else in Slytherin House—no one else in the school—could viscerally understand.

He could understand. It was hard to define, but there was a certain magical mark, or aura, about someone who had cast an Unforgivable Curse, and Hermione Green had it. He, having done so himself, could recognize it in her. It… attracted him, in a way. She probably had not wanted to, but had done so as a necessity (and why it had been a necessity was one thing Tom was determined to find out). Well, sometimes it was necessary—for self-defense, for defense of one's possessions (inanimate and otherwise), to pre-emptively remove a threat, as vengeance… or as a required means to an end.

He wondered who she was—really was. Of course she was not related to Albus Dumbledore, but he wondered who her real family was. He wondered how far from the future she had traveled. He wondered how she had known him—or known of him—in the future.

It was time to get some real answers out of her. He had stopped trying to bully and force the truth out of her some time ago. Initially it was because he could tell that she had the strength to block it, but now that he considered her special and his… well, he did not want to ruin that. He didn't want to harm her or lose her. People were different from objects. She had free will to turn away from him if he offended her too much, and while he certainly could take that free will away, it would be magically difficult, and it would also destroy what made her special to him. There was nothing special about an Imperiused puppet. He valued her because of what made her a person, so he would not take that away even if he were capable of it.

And possibly, though it was a bit difficult for him to openly think the word, possibly he respected her too much to do that to her.

Hermione seemed inclined to do as he asked and avoid the Knights. It was gratifying that she was not so much of a Gryffindor that she thought she could take them all on at once by herself. One or two, probably, but it was best not to let her get the idea that he was all right with her putting herself unnecessarily at risk at all. He had them firmly under his thumb, and it was safest and most sensible for her to just take advantage of that.

Still, as much as he preferred to have what belonged to him nearby all the time, it was not possible. Not even with objects, and certainly not with a person. It was not possible even when he shared all his classes with her. Sometimes she had the inclination to go to the library for private reading. Tom did not want to tell her she wasn't supposed to go there without him; it was obvious that books were extremely important to her, and she would take it personally if he tried to restrict her favorite hobby. And, after all, she wasn't seeking out the Knights, but simply going to the library.

It's not exactly a place where they are likely to be, anyway, he thought with disdain one evening in November when she was there.

However, she had been in there for quite a while, and dinner was about to be served. He should escort her to the table. He got up from his desk, put his books away, and headed down through the common room.

His Knights acknowledged him with the usual deferential grunts and mutters. Did they ever do anything but play cards in front of the fire when he wasn't directing them? Probably not. Utterly pathetic, the lot of them. He glanced briefly at them, doing a quick head count. Yes, there they all were—no wait, where was Lestrange? If he was stalking Hermione, he would be taught a lesson he wouldn't soon forget. That disobedient bastard. Of course he would be the problematic one.

Tom hurried out of the common room, reaching for his wand.

His fears were not wrong. As he approached the library, he heard magical explosions, muttered curses, insults, and the occasional slap of flesh on stone. He quickened his pace and moved into a deserted corridor near the library.

Hermione and Lestrange were dueling ferociously. She had a bruise on her arm, and her hair was wild, but otherwise she was unharmed. Lestrange bared a feral, ugly grin at her as he sent spells back at her. Tom remained in the shadows. She was actually performing quite well, much better than he would have guessed after their very first DADA class. It was probably his tutelage that could be credited for this….

"Crucio!" Lestrange suddenly hissed.

The Unforgivable caught Hermione. Her eyes popped and she crumpled to the floor, wincing, her muscles twitching. It must not have been cast very well, because she was still able to lift her wand and point it at Lestrange, but this had gone on too long. It was too long after the first spell the bastard cast, Tom thought.

He stepped out and waved his wand at Lestrange, casting a Dark curse silently. The other boy screamed as his eardrums shattered. Blood poured from his ears, and he clapsed his hands to them futilely. Tom then summoned and caught Lestrange's wand. He gazed down at the bleeding boy with disdain.

"I told you not to interfere," he said in cold tones, pointing his own wand at him.

Hermione heaved a breath and stood back up. "Tom," she said.

He gazed at her. "He came here to harass you, and he had you in the throes of an Unforgivable Curse. This is the least of what he deserves." He turned again to Lestrange. "I could have you expelled and thrown in Azkaban for that, you know. Give me one reason why I shouldn't do it."

Lestrange was weeping in pain from his damaged ears. He couldn't speak; the pain of any sound was too intense.

Tom sighed and cast a healing spell. "You can clean up your own blood," he sneered. "Now answer me. Why shouldn't I report you to Dippet and see you into Azkaban?"

Lestrange looked up weakly. "I… don't know. It won't happen again."

"My business is my own, is it not, Lestrange?"

"Yes, of course. I apologize."

"See that it doesn't happen again," Tom said coolly. He turned to Hermione. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. Her eyes were still wide, either from the Cruciatus aftermath or the Dark magic that Tom had just performed on a classmate.

"It's dinnertime. Food will be good for you." He offered her his arm.

She stared at him in astonishment. "Tom, how can you just—"

"Just what?"

"Just watch that, and use a spell like that, and then act as if it had no effect on you?"

They began to walk out of the hallway. "It obviously did have an effect on me," he growled. "I was not going to let him do that to you. I asked you to avoid them, and you have done so, but it seems that I did not make my message to them clear enough that they are also to stay away from you."

"That's not exactly what I meant," she mumbled.

He raised an eyebrow. "I see. We'll talk later."

"Hermione, sometimes it's necessary to use damaging spells to get a person to stop. I don't think that the Jelly-Legs Jinx was really an option."

They were sitting in the Room of Requirement in its small alcove iteration, discussing the incident with Lestrange. Hermione wrung her hands. "I know, but… Tom, I can't explain why things like that bother me without telling you—"

He came over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Telling me what, Hermione? Something about the future?"

She looked away.

"Actually, I think it's time you did tell me more. All I know is that you came from the future and that you somehow know of a couple of things that I did. I have no idea how far you came from or how you know of me or… why you had to use Unforgivable Curses. And you did. It's written on you."

She grimaced. "Yes. I've had to kill in battle. That was the only one of the Unforgivables I've used… though my best friend used the others…."

"In battle? Why were you fighting?"

"Tom, this is not a good idea."

"Why not?"

She would not meet his eyes. "You would never think the same way of me again."

He chuckled darkly. "Hermione, do you really think I would judge you for using the Killing Curse in battle? I'm not Dumbledore."

"That is not what I mean."

"Then explain. I want to know."

Hermione sighed. She paused, going silent for a minute. Tom was extremely impatient, but he had a feeling that if he waited, she would open up.

"Tom, I need to know something first. When you opened the Chamber of Secrets…."

"Yes?"

She took a deep breath. "What do you think about blood purity? I mean, really think?"

He sat down on the nearest chair. That was one question he had not been anticipating, and it seemed apropos of nothing to him. But apparently it was important to her, so he was willing to tell the truth if he could get the information out of her that he wanted.

"There's something you need to understand, Hermione. When I learned that I was a wizard, it was the most important day of my life. I had known all along that I was different and special, but to find out that there was a whole world for people like me, in which I could thrive—well, it was amazing. And then I was Sorted into Slytherin," he said with a dark chuckle. "In a house where family is everything, I had none that I knew of. I had a Muggle surname. For that first year, it was the same bloody thing that I had known all my life: I was an outsider and I had to gain respect through fear. And now the people I had to intimidate could fight back with magic." He tilted his head proudly. "Fortunately, my magic was always more powerful."

Hermione felt ill. That was so familiar, so very familiar.

"Then I began to research my family, and I learned that I was descended from Salazar Slytherin himself. I can't even describe what it meant to me to discover that I was right, I belonged just as much as any of them did—more, in fact. It was my House. That was fifth year. At that time… I subscribed to blood purity. I had been swept up in the discovery of my ancestry and what it meant. It was part of finally discovering I did truly belong in Slytherin. I tried to be the best Slytherin I could be, and that was the only way I knew how. And I've always despised Muggles," he added in a dark tone.

Hermione looked down unhappily. "I suppose knowing that your father abandoned you—"

"Don't bring him up," Tom said sharply. "I don't care about him anymore."

Hermione raised an eyebrow for a second, but quickly snapped her features back into place. "And now?" she asked quietly.

Tom hesitated. "Well… it went wrong. The Chamber. And after that, I myself…. People grow up, you know. The mania passed. I realized it wasn't viable. After that, it was a means to an end. I'm a half-blood, Hermione. I hate it, and I hate that my mother was an ignorant inbred rapist and my father was a Muggle who didn't want his own son if his son was a wizard… but it's a fact. I'm also not stupid. It would be stupid to actually hold views against my own self-interest. But in terms of making a bid for power, it was either throw my lot in with Dumbledore and his band, or try for the support of the Pureblood Isolationists. I would cast them off as soon as I no longer needed them… and that may be sooner than I hoped," he added in an undertone. He glanced up at her. "Why is this important?"

Hermione took a deep breath, mustering her courage. "It's important because I am actually a Muggle-born, and in the future I came from, you… well, you don't discard your allies. You adopt their views completely."

His mouth opened in astonishment. "What? I—revert back to what I was at fifteen? I advocate, really advocate, for that, despite—" He broke off. "Will I be Minister for Magic? I probably had to say it in order to keep my supporters with me. How far in the future did you come from?" He looked eager. "Slughorn thinks I'll be Minister in ten years. That's quite young, so I would need alliances. Was I—"

"No, Tom, you weren't Minister."

"Then what—"

Hermione put up a hand. "I can't tell you about it. I just can't. But I will show you some of my memories if you promise me something."

Next to her, a Pensieve appeared by the Room's magic, along with ten small flasks.

"Promise what?"

She looked at him with wide, pleading eyes. "Promise me you won't hurt me over anything that you see in them," she said quietly.

"Hermione, what the hell am I in your future that you would need to ask that?"

She smiled a faint, dark smile. "Would you like to find out?"

Two hours later, Tom sat slumped in the chair. The ten flasks, smoky with memories, glittered next to the Pensieve. A bespectacled boy talking about a diary and a basilisk, a tournament and a dead body, a battle in a hall filled with globes, the same boy telling about meetings with Dumbledore, altering her parents' memories and going on the run, an aged house-elf and a raid on the Ministry, a snake attack in a creepy house, a raid on Gringotts, torture at Malfoy Manor, and finally, the Battle of Hogwarts.

"How could that have happened to me?" he muttered.

Hermione did not respond. He did not seem to be actually expecting an answer.

"How could I have been so bloody stupid?" he mumbled again. He looked at her. "God, Hermione, it didn't even look like me! What happened to me? It was the seven Horcruxes, wasn't it," he answered at once. "I went too far, and it affected my mind. I thought seven was a powerfully magical number, but clearly it wasn't in that context, since it didn't work out for me. I guess"—his mouth twisted in a rictus of disappointment—"I guess the book was right that you should stop with one Horcrux."

Hermione grimaced. "Tom, please."

"That's why you have the book, isn't it," he said dully. "Because you needed to learn about them. To destroy me. The version of me in your old timeline."

Hermione could not answer. She did not have to.

"I had no ambition anymore," he continued muttering. "No viable goals. Just a desire to destroy. Because it was fun. Reverting to the mindset of being fifteen? I reverted to being two. And I surrounded myself with those fools for too damn long."

Hermione still could not reply.

"Those boys who were in your memories so often," he said abruptly.

"They died in the battle. They were my best friends," she said quietly.

"Not your boyfriends?" It was almost a sneer.

Hermione felt a pang for both of them, for what, on occasion—the Yule Ball, the Slug Club party, the long nights in the tent with Harry—she had hoped might happen with each. "No. They weren't."

He had a very sour look on his face. "I suppose I—other I—Voldemort made your world such a war-torn hellhole that you never had the opportunity."

She shook her head. "Actually, when I was in fourth year… sort of. The closest I had to one, anyway." She felt weary, emotionally overwhelmed, and could not put together why Tom was asking her this. "Is this relevant to anything?"

"No," he said sharply. She glanced up, but he had already changed the subject. "Hermione, that woman who cut your arm—"

Hermione involuntarily clutched her arm. "I'd really rather not discuss that."

He leaned over. "Bellatrix Lestrange was her name? Is she Roland Lestrange's daughter?" His eyes gleamed. "I could fix that for you this very evening—"

Hermione leapt up. "Tom, I did not show you those memories so you could go on a killing spree against everyone—no, the parents of everyone—no, in her case, she wasn't even a Lestrange. She was married to one."

"Oh, right, she was the cousin of that one man—she was a Black. Orion's daughter?" he asked shrewdly. Orion Black was a fourth year who was not part of Tom's clique.

Hermione shook her head.

"Cygnus's," he said.

Hermione shook her head again, but Tom could still read the truth.

"Cygnus and Druella's. I see. That makes sense. Druella's a shrew too."

Hermione sighed. She put her hand into her robes and withdrew something from her pocket. "This was her wand, Tom. It's mine now. My best friend took it right after that happened. We escaped. We won, as you saw. And if you really don't want that timeline to happen, then look in a mirror before you start casting Killing Curses at everyone."

He drew back, stung. "I told you, it's idiotic, it's disgraceful, it's unworthy of me, it's a bloody embarrassment—"

"How about 'it's wrong'?" Hermione snapped.

"Fine! It's wrong! Those views are stupid! They could not sustain wizarding society, and I don't support them anymore! Everyone goes through a ridiculous political phase as a kid. Look at you, Hermione. I saw your crusade about freeing house-elves—"

"Watch it," she warned.

"The point is, now that I know how things could go wrong for me, I'll know what not to do," Tom continued. "I've already got an alternate plan, in fact."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I don't need to be beholden to these parasites to obtain power, especially not if it means I turn into one of them—into that. There are other ways."

"Are you going to explain—"

"Not at the moment," he said with a smirk. "All in good time. But it'll work, and it will leave me able to set my own agenda."

"My parents are Muggles," Hermione said icily. "Will be, I should say. Somehow that isn't particularly comforting to me, since you admitted that you hate Muggles."

"I do hate most Muggles. I don't particularly like most people, in case you haven't noticed," he drawled. "But your parents are Muggles who accepted magic and kept their damn mouths shut. They're not the problem."

"What exactly do you propose doing to Muggles who are 'the problem,' then?"

"Depends on the situation," he said. "Perhaps in some circumstances, the answer would be a well-placed Memory Charm, wouldn't you agree?"

Hermione blinked. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Anger was flooding her body—and betrayal. Weeks of being treated to gentlemanly behavior, then this? A wave of hot rage filled her.

Tom merely stood by, grinning smugly. It was the spark to the fuel.

"That's it," she announced. "I'm not going to listen to any more of this. I just trusted you with invaluable information, paying you an enormous compliment that you do not deserve, but clearly, now that you've learned 'what not to do,' you see no reason to show any respect to me anymore. I show you my memories, and your only reaction is bemoaning how stupid you would be to do those things—and how you could kill the parents of people who don't even exist yet, to prove what, I don't know. It won't change my memories. And then you mock me! Over something I did because of your future self! So the past weeks have all been a sham that you don't need to maintain now. Fine. But I warn you, Tom, since you know that I am proficient with Memory Charms—"

"Hermione—"

"Don't bother. You told me that other time, didn't you, that I was valuable to you because I was from the future. I understand, and you got what you wanted. Good night."

Without another word, she stalked out of the Room of Requirement. He gaped at her for a moment before hurrying after her. They walked all the way to the Slytherin dormitories, but she still would not say another word.

Walburga Black and Druella Rosier were lurking in the common room, huddled in a corner, when she came in with Riddle. Druella looked up, and a flash of hatred passed over her face.

"Where have you been, Green?" she asked.

Hermione did not deign to respond. She was not in the mood for this. She never was, but especially not now. She had just emptied herself. Over the past couple of days, she had been subjected to the Cruciatus Curse—a weak one, yes, but still the curse—and then watched Tom torture a classmate with Dark magic. Now she had to listen to cattiness from this horrible girl who reminded her far too much of Pansy Parkinson?

"Have you been alone with him? You know what I think?"

"I'm frankly surprised that you think anything at all," snapped Hermione.

"I think that since you're just a poor relation of Dumbledore, you have no other options than to use your body to try to get a wizard for yourself," Druella said, smirking.

Anger flared inside Hermione, but she was too tired to engage in this—and, if she were honest with herself, too far above it now. She had just relived the worst times of her life. Schoolroom stupidity was beneath her now.

However, Tom noticed. "Five points from Slytherin," he said, giving Druella a ferocious glare.

She shrank back. "Riddle, from your own House?"

"Yes, for telling malicious, juvenile lies about a fellow Slytherin because you're jealous of her," he said harshly.

"Sorry," she said, flushing. The apology was not directed at Hermione.

Hermione stood up and glared contemptuously at her, continuing to the girls' dormitories in a swish of robes.

Once in the room, she collapsed on her bed and heaved a sigh. This was completely out of control now. What had she done to the future? Perhaps Tom would not be quite so evil, but his objections to what he had seen were based more on how irrational and—what was the word?—disgraceful it had seemed to him. And his first reaction, after the narcissistic angst, had been to want to take it out on everyone who was closely related to someone who had hurt her—except, of course, himself. It was hard to see that as much of an improvement.

She did not want to eat dinner. Afterward, a house-elf appeared in the dorm room bearing a plate of leftovers and a glass of juice.

"Master Tom, the handsome Head Boy, told Lucky to give Miss her dinner," the elf said.

Hermione managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Lucky."

She eventually ate some of the food.

The next morning, the Slytherin common room was abuzz with disturbing news. Druella Rosier had been taken ill late the night before. Hermione had not known about it because she had stayed in her room the whole time and was asleep by the time it happened.

She looked around the common room. Tom was not around. The Knights were clustered together near the hearth, except—wait, two people were missing. Vincent Rosier wasn't there, she noticed. All right, that made sense; he was presumably visiting his sister in the infirmary. Roland Lestrange was also not around. That… did not make as much sense.

"Where's Lestrange?" she asked.

Avery glared. "What's it to you, Green? Tired of Riddle already?"

"Did he have something to do with the incident?" she asked, ignoring the second comment.

Lucretia Black walked up. "Let's talk about this in the corner." She took Hermione's arm and pulled her away from the group of boys.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Lucretia.

"It was a Dark Arts curse," Lucretia said in quiet tones. "Osteo Debilita."

Hermione gasped. "That's awful! But there's no permanent damage, I hope?"

She knew that curse. It was a nasty, insidious one, weakening the bones throughout the body and making them ache and hurt from the strain. They often would break, and the usual bone-repair potions and spells would not work, because the curse would still be active. Even the Muggle way of mending fractures would fail. The curse could be fatal if left indefinitely, but its main purpose was to make its victim suffer.

"Healer Smythe was able to break it and has given her the necessary potions. She'll probably have to rest for several days, though. It's hard on the body." Lucretia winced.

"And Lestrange did it to her?" Hermione's voice was very low. That was odd. Her first thought—fear—was that it had been Tom, in retaliation. If Lestrange had done it, something else was apparently up.

Lucretia lowered her voice as well. "Lestrange was acting very funny. The professors think he was under the Imperius Curse."

Hermione's eyes widened. "I assume, then, that he—"

"Oh, he confessed, but he wasn't himself. He also acted Confunded. Someone mucked up his head very well. He has no memory of who cursed him… though it can be done without one's knowledge anyway, of course." Lucretia peered at Hermione and lowered her voice to a whisper. "The rumor is that Grindelwald's agents were involved."

Hermione nodded slowly. A creeping feeling was seeping down her gut. This did not make sense. Didn't Tom have quite a history of framing other people for his own actions? This, she had to admit, was a bit more subtle—if Tom had done this, then rather than framing Lestrange himself as the perpetrator, he had made it look as if others were involved. And he had taken points from Druella the night before, in full view of most of the seventh years, so it would appear that he had already punished her.

Tom soon emerged from the boys' dormitory. When he saw Hermione, he got up and walked over to her.

"We'll have this talk elsewhere," he said with a false smile. He took her arm and led her out of the common room, into the dungeon hall, and through the door of one of the unused classrooms.

"Muffliato," Hermione cast at once.

Tom raised his eyebrows. "That's useful," he said, impressed.

"Rosier and Lestrange. What do you know?"

"More specific, Hermione."

She took out her wand and fingered it threateningly. "Lucretia Black told me that Lestrange confessed to cursing Druella and appeared to be Confunded and Imperiused. True or false?"

"Definitely true." His eyes were not lying.

"The rumor is that it had to do with Grindelwald's agents. The spy at Hogwarts—"

"Possible spy," Tom said silkily.

She gave him a sideways look. "All right, the possible spy Imperiused Lestrange in order to—I guess send a message to Rosier Senior. Or more likely Pollux Black, DMLE Head, who will be Druella's father-in-law. But it doesn't make sense to me."

Tom chuckled. "You're right. It doesn't. Grindelwald has better things to do than plot the cursing of some insipid, catty bitch at Hogwarts. But these fools all think they're incredibly important, so…." He smiled.

Hermione glared at him. "You. You did it. I knew it. You Imperiused Lestrange—it was payback at him for attacking me, and at her for that stupid comment she made about me—" She rubbed her eyes.

Tom was smirking. "Whyever do you say that, Hermione?"

She pointed her wand at him. "Don't even pretend. It was you."

The smirk vanished from his face. "Don't point your wand at me. I didn't have Lestrange use a lethal curse on the twat. Not a quickly lethal one, at least. I could have, you know. I considered it. That way her foul offspring would never even be born."

Hermione gasped. "This is because of—her? Of the memories?"

"That and Druella's pathetic, jealous comments, yes."

"You would curse her with something like that because she insulted me?"

Tom shrugged. "You know that those idiots, Lestrange and Vincent Rosier, think you are spying for Grindelwald. I can't let them continue to spread that rumor when I know otherwise. I can punish them when I hear them doing it, but I also have to try to stop the rumor. Everyone knows you haven't been alone with Lestrange, because you've been with me or in your room all night. If 'Grindelwald's spy' did it, that means the spy can't be you."

Hermione shook her head. "But cursing her with a spell like that, really Tom? You could have permanently injured her—or worse."

"But I didn't. I've only killed one person by accident, Hermione. Never again. What happens is what I want to happen. The future Mrs. Cygnus Black will recover nicely. Though why would it bother you if I had? She's a vile person, a waste of magic… and from what your memories indicate, she produces offspring even more degenerate."

"Not all of her children turn out evil," Hermione said quietly. "Her second daughter is a fine person. Will be."

"Then it sounds as if you should be grateful that I didn't kill her," he said arrogantly.

Hermione's jaw dropped. "I don't see that it was necessary to curse her at all!"

"I never said it was necessary, Hermione. Surely you of all people understand wanting to do more than is necessary."

Hermione threw up her hands. "Tom, I understand—I think—what you are trying to convey. You want to defend me, to show me that you are not that person in my memories, and won't be this time. I understand. But… this is not how it's done."

He glared. "It is how I do it," he said in a snarl. "These feeble, pathetic 'defenses' that most people make don't deter the behavior in the future at all. However, I assure you that she won't say such things about you again."

"Did you tell her that you did it?" she gasped.

Tom smirked. "I didn't have to be so blunt as that. There are ways of making sure one person knows without being able to prove a damn thing. And she won't talk, because the rest of the House thinks it is linked to Grindelwald. She'll second-guess her own interpretations when she hears the talk."

Hermione sighed. "Tom, I hope you realize, I should turn this in."

"You won't, though," he said smugly. "Now, shall we have breakfast?"

As she headed up to the Great Hall with him, she realized with a sinking feeling that he was right. She wouldn't. And she was not ready to face what that meant.