Notes: All Tom/Hermione in this rather long chapter! There is another scene of BDSM smut, and this one's rather harder than the one in chapter 13. (If the consensus is that it's questionable for this website, please let me know so I can edit it. The fic is crossposted at AO3, so if I do have to edit, the full version will remain there.) It is also not the healthy sort of BDSM (but then, the sexual aspect of this Tom is heavily based on Christian Grey, so 'nuff said). After that they finally have a long overdue discussion, and then there is the scene that might be a little creepy, but I like it and I hope you do too.

Thank you so much to everyone who commented. I didn't mean to attack anybody with that end note, but I do feel like I've made it as clear as I can what this story is and what it is not, and I'm through defending it. There are plenty of fully redemptive fics out there, so if that is what someone wants to read, they should have no trouble finding it. This one, however, is not that, and I have never claimed otherwise.

To reviewer Oblivion: I'm so glad you enjoyed that. It really is odd, but I've never seen it in the text of a story either. (Not saying no one has written it, just that it's so rare I've never come across it myself. He usually either has one or two already, or he has none and it stays that way.) The description of the ritual was my own imagining, based on the two bits of information we have: the extremely rapid clip in the HBP movie that appears to be of him creating the ring, and JKR's statement that it's multi-step and something is involved that made her editor queasy. I don't much like over-the-top yuck for its own sake, so I thought about something that would make some people feel faint and would also serve a logical purpose.

Chapter Twenty: Possessive Forms

Tom bustled Hermione up the many flights of stairs to the Room of Requirement. By the time she reached the room, she was panting from the exercise. He turned around from the door, hearing her heavy breathing, and smirked knowingly at her, certain that it was from something else.

He tossed his school bag on the second armchair, the one that the Room still conjured when Hermione entered this room. The one that it had conjured throughout their breakup, much to her melancholy and dismay. He smirked again at the sight of the chair.

"The diary," she began, trying futilely to stave off what her palpitating heart told her was coming.

"Will be fine where it is for now," he finished. He raised an eyebrow and leered at her. "Though your desire to have it back is duly noted."

"It's not that," she said at once. "It's just as we said—it's safer here."

Tom ignored this and began to advance on her, smiling in a seemingly benign way while his eyes flashed intimidatingly. "I presume this means I'll receive an apology for that night."

She scowled. "You presume a great deal."

He flashed a white smile as he reached her. "But my presumptions are correct, aren't they, dear?"

Hermione stood her ground, staring up at him. "You don't have the right to call me that."

He tapped her nose, still smiling. "First of all, darling," he said pointedly, "I do as I like. But more to the point, I think after what happened downstairs, I do have the right."

She had opened her mouth to protest and argue, even knowing that she would not win—or because she knew she would not win, a little voice whispered in her head—when he grabbed her face, pulled her in, and seized her mouth with his own.

It was like the kiss that had taken place a few minutes ago except somehow even more possessive and powerful. He was almost engulfing her, perfect teeth biting at her lips and tongue, his own tongue flitting out between nips to lick and tease the inside of her mouth. Hermione took this for a few seconds. Then—

I don't think so. It won't be all his own way. She reached for his head and dug fingernails into his hair and scalp, eliciting a growl from him. His eyes briefly fluttered open. The light in his pupils flashed scarlet for a fraction of a second—and then he shoved her hard against the wall next to her bed. He bit her lip harder, then pulled away almost violently.

They stared at each other. She licked her lips, which were red and throbbing from the aftermath of his bites. His hair was wild, and his eyes were even more feral.

"Well, aren't you a minx," he growled. He fumbled in his robes and smirked as he withdrew the Elder Wand. "You've had it coming for a while now, ever since that one night. Lie down and I might go easy on you."

Hermione stared back at him defiantly. "I've never taken orders from you, Tom, and I don't intend to start now." She reached for her own pocket.

He smirked and raised his wand. "Oh, but you have. We did this before, remember," he said insolently. "And you'll like it even more this time." He brought the wand down with a dramatic movement.

She had dueled with him in class for months now, however, and she had learned his tricks and his style. She put up a shield too fast for his hex, which would have flung her to the mattress. Tom looked surprised for a moment but reacted quickly, casting a spell that broke apart her shield and then physically shoving her down on the bed. He mounted it himself and straddled her triumphantly.

"That's more like it," he said. He ran the tip of the wand down the side of her face and neck to the sensitive area over her collarbone.

She reached for his wand, aware that seemingly challenging him for it—for this wand—would get a reaction, and she was not mistaken. He flicked it swiftly, almost elegantly, and her arms were flung away from him by an unseen force. He flicked it again, and the ropes he liked so much flew from the wand and bound them to her bedpost.

"You know I can't let you have this," he remarked casually, smiling at her. "And for trying to take it from me…." The smile turned into that smirk again. He waved the wand once more.

A sensation of electrical charge, mild burning, and—implausibly—intense tactile pleasure spread across her body. A gasp escaped her mouth against her will as it reached her navel and pelvic area. He did not fail to notice. The corners of his mouth remained up as he raised one eyebrow minutely—but very obviously to her.

"You are so full of yourself," she hissed, feeling the flush of heat fill her face.

"And you are so… unruly." His tone was amused.

She sucked in her breath. "If you want to take me, then why not just do it?"

He put his hands on her hips and held her down while leaning over her, so their faces were mere centimeters apart. "Because that's not all that I want to do." He paused, relishing the impatience in her face. "You really have not been very nice to me lately, and I'm sure I haven't done anything to deserve such ill-treatment."

"Why, you—"

"So," Tom continued as if she had not spoken at all, "I have to… punish you for that first." He bared a white, feral grin at her.

"You've done all sorts of things!" she protested, trying to ignore the growing thrum in her lower body. "You told huge lies, to me and to everyone else, you stalked me, you did very Dark magic—"

With a single fluid movement, he lifted himself off her and whirled her over on her stomach. She gasped. He pushed her face down into a pillow, covering her mouth. "And if you hated me so much for any of those things, we wouldn't be in your bed, would we?" He did not wait for an answer, and her words were muffled anyway. "You rejected me. And then you told me that you were only speaking to me again—'allying' with me, as you put it—for pragmatic reasons." He chuckled derisively. "I'm not the only liar in this room."

He lifted the pressure off the back of her head and slipped his hands under her body, going to work immediately on her jacket and blouse buttons. It did not take long to undo all of them. He pulled the clothing back, eased it up her bound arms, and wrapped it loosely around her wrists. She turned her head sideways to try to see him.

He bent his head and met her eyes with a grin. "I don't think you'll be going anywhere," he purred. He ran his hands lightly across her sides and bare back, smirking as she jerked involuntarily under him. He slipped his index fingers into her waistband and quickly unzipped her skirt, then pulled it down and off.

Hermione's heart was thumping, and she could tell that her panties were soaked. Her body definitely missed and wanted him, and she knew very well that she would be sated soon. What about her mind? Did she still want him for reasons other than physical?

Yes, her thoughts whispered. I do. Despite all of the deceit and—the Dark magic—I'm still in—

She didn't want to complete that thought or think too hard about this right now. He was tracing her hips lightly with his fingers, and she felt his weight and warmth. "Do more of that," she urged.

Suddenly, to her dismay, the caressing stopped. She felt him lean over her again, close to her head, and heard a dark laugh next to her right ear. "Hermione, dearest, you aren't giving the orders."

He leaned all the way down and bit her ear.

She twisted on the mattress, arms straining against the bonds, legs thrashing in all directions. Involuntarily, she rose sharply off the bed and slammed against his crotch. He gasped in surprise and drew back abruptly, pulling on her ear for a moment with his teeth before releasing it. He reached for the wand.

"I couldn't help it—" she began to protest.

"Oh, that's not why I'm doing this," he growled. Hermione craned her neck to see him slash the wand through the air. He conjured a leather object with many small strips. Smirking, he thrashed it in an arc above her thighs and backside. A slap filled the air, and at the same time, a surge of mild pain spread over her from her right thigh outward.

"You just want to dominate me," she snarled, feeling her skin tingle.

"Obviously. You are mine, after all." Glee filled his words. "And as I said… you haven't been very nice to me in a while. Being so hostile to me on my special night—"

"Your special night?" she exclaimed in disbelief.

"I'm not doing it five more times, dearest," he said smugly. "Or six. So yes, special. And now you want the diary here, so you should apologize to me for that absurd reaction."

"You have to be joking."

He brought the cat o' nine tails down in an arc again, this time on her backside, bringing a renewed throb of pain. "Not in the least. Say it."

"I am not doing any such thing. You didn't want me to lie, after all," she ground out, trying to ignore the tingling. He really wasn't doing this very hard….

As if on cue, he lashed her rather harder. This one stung. She gritted her teeth. "I'll apologize for… hurting you in the duel later," she decided. "That is, if you'll say it too."

Another lash, which made her twitch beneath him. "Not good enough."

"Is this a game, or are you actually still angry with me?"

He leaned over next to her ear. "You should ask yourself, does it matter?" he hissed. He pulled back and lashed her on the thigh again, hard.

She winced. Her skin was heated and stinging where he had whipped her. It burned, but at the same time… it wasn't entirely unpleasant. The heat and nerve tingling were just at the right level to stimulate other types of sensations—or the desire for them—and she knew that any more of this would actually hurt. She didn't want that.

"It doesn't," she gasped. "I'm… sorry."

He paused, smirking in triumph. "For?"

"For… rejecting you."

"You appreciate me, don't you?"

She could not see his face, but she could tell he was smirking. "Of course I do."

He tossed the whip aside, leaving it right next to her head, close enough for her to notice and recognize that he could easily pick it up again if he wanted. He repositioned himself on her, centering himself just over her thighs. He slipped his fingers into her underwear again.

"Should I remove these?" he said, sliding them down slightly, just off her hips.

"Yes," she said at once.

"Wrong answer." Before she could react, his fingers were gone from the waistband of her knickers. One hand pressed hard on her back, preventing her from moving. The other reached again for the wand.

"What do you—oh!" Waves of painful pleasure passed over her body, focused as intense heat in her nether regions. She did not know what this spell was, or for that matter, why he had learned it—or how to conjure whips—though she realized at once, through the haze, that it was probably for just these occasions.

He lifted the spell. "You don't deserve it just yet," he remarked in casual tones.

"What do you want me to do?" she exclaimed, her core throbbing with want. She turned her head to try to see him.

He smirked and raised a single eyebrow. "I want you to make me a promise. When I give it to you again, you'll write in it. In my presence."

"Are you serious—"

He brought the wand down in an arc again, sending a sharp sting across her backside.

"All right," she gasped.

"If I insist?"

"If you insist."

"You'll do what I tell you to, won't you?" His tone was insufferably arrogant.

She hesitated. "I—"

He was suddenly next to her ear again. "Won't you?" he growled, taking her earlobe between his teeth once more.

She sucked in her breath. "Yes." It's just a game, she told herself. Just a game.

He released her ear and drew back. "Of course you will, darling." He paused for a moment, then quickly divested himself of robes and suit jacket. He loosened his tie and slipped it around his shirt collar. "Shall I use this again, I wonder?" he mused, setting it down and unbuttoning his shirt. "I don't think so," he answered himself. "I think I want you to see me." He ran a single finger over her shoulder blades. "And you want to see me, don't you?"

"Of course," she said at once.

He removed his trousers and shirt, then grabbed his wizard robe again and threw it on loosely, leaving it completely open down the middle. He picked up the Elder Wand and regarded it for a moment with a smirk, then trailed its tip over her neck, shoulders, and back, making small circles with it.

He really gets off on using it, she realized, shivering from the sensation. It was light, but isolated and therefore somehow intense.

As if reading her mind, he spoke up. "You know, the last time we did this, I was just the Head Boy. I'm much more… accomplished now, and we both have lots of power. You should enjoy this."

You arrogant—she began to think, but her thoughts changed direction on their own as he reached, once more, for her knickers. This time, at long last, he removed them. The small mint green satin object sailed to the foot of the huge bed.

He laughed as he observed how wet she was. "You have missed me, I see."

She gasped and heaved her breath when he slid two fingers into her. He laughed again. "I'm sure you've missed me just as much," she shot back in a last gesture of pride.

"It's not my fault that you haven't let me fuck you in nearly two weeks." He withdrew his fingers.

She opened her mouth to object that it most certainly was his fault, but she shut it at once. He would only demand more abasement from her if she did, and that would delay… things. He smirked knowingly as she closed her lips, perfectly aware of what she had opted not to say and why.

Tom grabbed her hips, forced her legs apart, and thrust into her all the way. Instantly she felt relief at—at being filled again, she thought, faintly flushing at the realization. Filled by him. She had missed this, she thought vaguely as he began to move—and then her thoughts were flung back to the present.

"Wanted this," he murmured. He leaned down, changing his angle, and nipped her left ear. "Meant to be just like this, aren't we?"

To the extent that she could think coherently about anything, Hermione could not help but agree. It felt like he should be inside her. They fit together, physically and otherwise. There had not been a learning curve for them to discover how to best please each other; it had been somehow instinctive—or, perhaps, anything he had done had pleased her, and vice versa.

"Yeah," she managed to gasp.

He ran a single finger over the nape of her neck. "You're mine, aren't you?"

"Mm-hmm," she murmured without hesitation.

The acknowledgment almost sent him into a frenzy. He began to move fast and hard, very aggressively, bringing her sharply closer to her peak. She gasped and tugged at the bonds on her wrists.

Suddenly he withdrew. She was about to call out in protest when he grabbed her hips, flipped her over on her back, and filled her again. The pressure on her wrists lessened slightly.

"Had to look at you," he gasped, leaning down. He licked the shell of her ear and slipped a hand between her legs. He ran his tongue over her ear and pressed her clit hard.

She let out a gasp. Close.

He nipped her ear and pressed harder with his fingers.

"Want to watch you…." He pulled back, staring at her intensely. "Come for me." He moved his hand slightly.

That did it. Hermione wrapped her legs around his waist, squeezing, straining against the bedpost with her arms, as waves poured over her shaking body. "You're mine too," she gasped out as soon as her voice would work again.

He paused for a second as if unsure whether to accept the statement. Then—

"Yes." It was abrupt, jerky. It was all he could get out.

He pushed forward and released, squeezing her shoulders so hard it would leave marks, digging neatly trimmed nails into her skin.

It felt perfect.

They stayed like that for a while, feeling lazy and satisfied. Tom removed the bonds from Hermione's wrists, and she immediately draped them comfortably around his neck. He stretched, making a point of running his fingers through Hermione's hair as he did. He placed lazy kisses on the side of her neck.

"I'm glad you've changed your mind," he remarked.

He seemed a little pale. When had that started? Hermione was reasonably sure that he had never regained all his color since—that night. Perhaps his body would never replenish all the blood he had sacrificed, any more than he would regrow the part of his soul that he had torn off.

She pushed the idea out of her mind. "I suppose… it would take a lot, now, to make me want to give you up. More than I would have thought," she admitted.

He looked smugly triumphant. "I think I may know your limit better than you do, dearest."

She felt discomfited at that thought, though she could not rule it out. Did he know her mind better than she herself did—or was he just aware that her "limit" might be malleable?

"Can I ask you something?" she said abruptly, changing the subject.

"You can. I may not answer."

She scowled at that but continued. "When you use terms of endearment… do you mean them? Or is it just something you do because it's expected, or because you want me to respond in a certain way?"

He looked startled at the question. "Does it really bother you?" he said hesitantly.

"I just want to know."

He hesitated, thinking. Finally he said, "It's some of one and some of three."

Her face turned sour.

"But do you really think it's different for anyone else?"

That made her pause. "Probably not," she admitted in a low voice.

"I have a reason to use them. You are important to me," he said. "Not just that. You're the only person who has ever been important to me for this reason. I've wanted things before, but never a person. You said it would take a lot for you to truly be done with me. It's the same for me, obviously, since I wasn't done with you after our… dispute."

Oh yes, that had occurred to her. Voldemort would try to slay a whole room of people for merely hearing about a golden cup. Tom would force her to watch the entire process itself and then merely observe her whereabouts with a tracking spell after she lashed out at him. She knew that, somehow, the "rules" were different for her—that he valued her too much to cast her off in anger.

She met his gaze and managed a smile. "I know. I understand what I mean to you, I think. I want you to know, and never doubt, that it's reciprocated."

He supported her with one arm around her waist. "I would kill to protect you," he remarked casually. "I already have and I would do it again without a moment's hesitation."

Hermione felt as if cold water had been thrown over her. Why did he instantly decide that the way to express his feelings was by mentioning this? "I'm aware," she said tartly, extracting herself from his embrace. "You would take revenge on anyone who harmed, or threatened to harm, 'something of yours.' I understand that perfectly well."

Tom looked stung. "Do you really understand? I wonder," he sneered. "This is different from anything else. I would do that, I admit it, but… my Knights, for instance, I wouldn't give a damn about unless someone did it to send a message to me. But if someone hurt you… well, it would actually be worse if they did it strictly to make you suffer, rather than me. I just don't feel that about other people. Only you." He stared at her. "When I killed Black, I did it for you."

"Tom, don't lie to me. You said you wouldn't."

"That wasn't a lie." He scowled.

"You admitted freely that you did it to create a Horcrux. I'm quite sure you did that for yourself." The words tasted bitter on her tongue.

"Well, yes, I did that for myself, but I did take revenge for you. And you know what—let's discuss it, finally. Civilly. You didn't want to see me do it at the time, but I hope you understand now what I meant. I wanted you to see it. I didn't intend to let anyone know when I created one, but then you came, and—I had to. It was important, and you have to share in the things that are important to me."

Hermione grimaced at this declaration, as if it were a win in some scholastic or athletic competition that he had wanted her to witness.

"I really thought you would understand," he said agitatedly. "I saw in your memories the disdain that people had for your interests. Those horrid girls in your old dormitory, that redheaded boy… I saw how they regarded you because you were superior." He looked deeply into her eyes. "It really was a compliment, Hermione."

Hermione winced and closed her eyes. This was a crossroads of sorts, and she had to make a decision. She had originally fallen for a person who was already responsible for four deaths, and who tortured and cursed his classmates whenever they displeased him—but she was able to ignore his past because it did not have any bearing on what was going on in the immediate present. She had told herself that the abuse of his schoolmates was mild in comparison with what Voldemort had done and that it was not that different from what went on at Hogwarts all the time. That might have been true, but she had still had a false ideal of him. The real Tom was this person, an accomplished Dark wizard who had orchestrated the basis for his political rise by espionage, deceit, and murder. He wasn't Voldemort, but he wasn't her almost-perfect gentleman either. Could she continue to care for this person, the real person?

Her rose-colored conception of him was gone, ripped to pieces with a single dark curse whose purpose was, fittingly, to tear apart. Since then she had supported his plans and chosen to keep his secrets out of pragmatism—at least partially—but now she had to decide whether to choose him personally, and that was very different.

He would fall prey to his own darkness if she pushed him away, she realized. It was probably especially risky now that he had the Elder Wand. She was keenly aware that she was the only person other than himself that he truly cared anything about, or whose approval he desired for unselfish reasons—at least, reasons no more selfish than wanting to keep her with him. She couldn't stop everything that he might do, but she could stop him from some things. She already had. That meant there was still something worth saving.

"I understand that now, Tom," she finally said. "I had built up a form of you in my own mind that wasn't real, and that was a harsh awakening to reality. I also had spent months in my old life tracking them down in a hellish nightmare world, and that influenced me. But that doesn't mean I now think it's fine that you did it. I think Horcruxes are unnatural. I just… don't want to hound you about it anymore."

"But you still wanted to have the last word, I notice," he said scathingly. "Hermione, we are magical! Think about it! The purpose of magic is to contravene nature, to rise above it! You overcame time; that's pretty damned unnatural, isn't it? Why is overcoming death so evil? Even the bloody, blasted Muggles exercise dominance over nature when they can. We have the power to overcome nature in a way that they can never do."

"But it's your soul. You shouldn't do that to it… and I don't understand why you would. You have the Resurrection Stone. You see ghosts every day. I just—don't get this. You know we go on. What are you afraid of?"

"I…." He trailed off, uncertainly. He frowned thoughtfully and bit his lip, trying to come to a decision about something. "It's just this. Ghosts can't enjoy food or drink… they can't make things; they pass through things; they can't do magic. And the Resurrection Stone… well, we might not be wizards if we 'go on' either. I can't give that up. It matters too much to me. Or… everyone might have magic. That's almost as bad, if magic were no longer special." He closed up, scowling deeply. "I'm done trying to justify this to you, Hermione. You either understand or you don't. And you said you wouldn't hound me."

Hermione sighed. She didn't know what to tell him. What could she tell him? She was hardly an expert on the mysteries of death, after all. It seemed, though, that this was actually just fear of the unknown, the unfamiliar—of a situation in which Tom might not have control. Everything came back to that with him, she realized.

She didn't know what to say, and suddenly she realized that there was no point in continuing the argument. She didn't agree with his motives, let alone his actions, but she actually did see his perspective. It was yet another thing that in her old life had seemed so clear, straightforward, only possible to see from one perspective, but now suddenly… wasn't.

She draped her arms around his neck again and curled against him. "I won't," she said. "I can't agree, but I do follow your reasoning." She sighed again. "I'm glad we talked."

Tom squeezed her, but it was halfhearted. He seemed distracted. She glanced up at him. "Tom…?"

He swung his legs off the bed, stood up, and gathered his robes around himself. He picked up his wand off the side table and flicked it. The diary slid out of his school bag in the armchair and flew across the room. He caught it and turned to her.

"You said you'd do this," he remarked, holding the book out to her.

She gasped. "You were serious!"

His eyebrows met in a peak. "Well, yes. It's just me, Hermione. I told you when I first gave it to you that it wouldn't possess you."

She took the book gingerly. At once the same feeling she had felt before, before they went to Grindelwald's manor, passed over her: the sensation of powerful, familiar, friendly magic. She breathed heavily and set it down on her desk.

"Tom, you know that in my timeline, a piece of—the other you—that was sealed into a diary possessed one of my closest friends and got her to open the Chamber of Secrets."

"Nothing like that is going to happen." He regarded the Elder Wand for a moment before deciding on something, then flicked it. His yew wand sailed across the room and into his hand. To Hermione's surprise, he put the Elder Wand back in his pocket and pointed his original wand directly at the diary.

"I used this wand to create it, so I think there's more resonance between the diary and this wand, and I don't want to do anything that the Elder Wand might interpret as 'defeating' me."

She sat down and opened the book to the middle as hesitantly as if it were a Muggle bomb to be defused. Hello, I'm Hermione, she wrote nervously, her right arm resting on the blank page about halfway to her elbow.

Hermione, the book wrote back in a neat script. It's actually you.

Instantly something grabbed her right arm, pinning it in place. A strange, almost indescribable sensation covered her skin. It felt like tendrils of air twisting gently up her arm, though much more… personal… than air. It was something like the feeling of contact with a ghost, except that it was not cold and unpleasant, but rather, mildly warm and highly magical, almost like an electrical charge.

Hermione was appalled—and terrified. She tried her wrench her arm away, but it was as if it had been glued to the diary, and the diary to the desk. The ethereal tendrils enclosed her arm tighter.

"It is trying to possess me!" she yelled at Tom furiously, fear shooting from her eyes. "It has my arm! Get it off!"

Tom reacted at once, but he did not hex the diary. Instead he darted forward, placing one hand on the diary and another on Hermione's right arm.

"What are you—"

"It's not possessing you," he interrupted. "It's not 'in' you at all. You know what Legilimency and Imperius are like. There's nothing like that, is there?"

Hermione paused. No, there was no sense of her mind being invaded. It really was just on the surface of her arm. "Then what is it trying to do?" she demanded.

"I think it's caressing you." He looked amused.

Hermione stared at him in horrified amazement. "You're seriously telling me that your Horcrux is groping me?"

"I wouldn't use that word." He was trying hard not to laugh. "Write to it."

"I'm having difficulty with that," she said, a massive wave of irritation flooding her now that the immediate fear had passed.

"I don't want to curse it," he said. "There's no malicious intent. Just try to write."

Hermione sucked in her breath. This was absurd, disturbing—but it seemed that it had to be done. Can't move my hand, she wrote in tiny, stilted lettering.

Instantly the magical confinement ceased, though the ethereal tactile sensation on her arm remained. My apologies, the diary wrote back.

Hermione could tell, somehow, that it—he—was more amused and happy than truly apologetic. She scowled, wondering if the soul bit would detect this change in her emotional state.

I didn't mean to alarm you, Hermione, it wrote at once. You must understand, though. He—the rest of me—gives me new memories, including those of you, but I was unsure if I would get to touch you again. The last memories I experienced corporeally are of you being, shall I say, rather judgmental. And then you shoved this vessel away. I was not at all sure.

Hermione's eyes widened in shock and dismay. This piece of Tom's soul—of him—was cut off from sensory input unless someone was writing in the diary or it—he—was exploring some of the memories. It must have sensed the change in her emotions, for immediately she felt the ghostly caress over her arm, apparently trying to comfort her.

Are you… all right? she wrote. Existing like this?

That's my girl, always concerned for my well-being. There was another airy stroke over her skin, this one closer to her collarbone. She shivered.

My, our, however you choose to see it. Language is insufficient to describe me, of course. The tone was cocky and sardonic now, Hermione could tell.

I'm sorry about your situation, she wrote.

There was a pause. Then—

I'm not a victim, Hermione. I was connected—united—with the whole when we made the choice.

That was true, she realized. This was Tom too. But—

It's still a hard fate, she wrote.

We knew that this would happen to some part of us. Granted, I didn't have any idea what it would feel like, but I'm keeping us alive. It's quite a distinction. Besides, "he" continues to add new memories to the vessel, and if you write regularly, then I'm not deprived. It's not like "he" put me into a metal object with no way of interacting except getting in people's minds—and then shut the vessel in the dark for decades, or made it share living space with a lethal curse, or tried to drown it in vile potion. It's no wonder the bit you dealt with was so hostile and immediately got into every mind available. I wouldn't do that to you—unless, of course, you'd like to converse with "him" in Parseltongue. Hmm, there's a thought…. There was a strong current of amusement throughout the words.

This really isn't very funny to me, Hermione wrote.

Oh, try to enjoy a little dark humor, dear.

Must everything be dark with you?

Well, yes, naturally. Now, on the subject of dark humor, I've never had a pen pal, so I'm not entirely sure of the proper form for correspondence. Though I suppose I'm rather more than that to you, of course. What should I say? "Write back soon"? Insipid, but it gets the idea across well enough. Write back soon, Hermione, and do make sure that "he" continues to add memories.

The tactile sensations on her arm suddenly vanished.

Until later, Hermione.

Hermione hesitated for a second before replying.

Later, Tom.

The diary closed itself.

She turned to him, breathing deeply. "That… wasn't so bad after all."

"No hostility, then?" His voice was confident and assured of the answer.

"No," she admitted. "Just profound arrogance, a sense of humor rather lacking in empathy, and the idea that I can be 'caressed' without asking permission. But then, it is quite literally you."

He smirked. "You know, I rather think you want me to do again what I did a couple of hours ago, the way you're speaking to me. Of course," he continued casually, "I would let the balance accumulate first."

"Of course you would."

He went over to her bedside table, opened the drawer, placed the diary in it, and locked it with a strong spell. "I'll try to come here every day," he said in a suddenly more serious tone. "Not only to keep our relationship, ah, active, but I'll want to put new memories into it—and will probably do most of the writing. I'm the one who's used to keeping a journal, and I realize it would get awkward for you."

"You could say that," Hermione muttered, remembering the strange ethereal sensation on her arm and the bizarre experience of carrying on a written conversation with a bit of Tom—which had his personality—while he was standing in the room.

He did not respond to that. "We should probably head back to the Great Hall, though. It's a Hogsmeade weekend, and although I would prefer to stay here all day—and I am sure you would too—" He raised an eyebrow at her.

She blushed. It was all the reply he needed.

"Thought so," he said smugly. "Unfortunately, we should probably put in an appearance somewhere in the village. But I'm thinking a few shots of firewhisky might be quite good enough for an encore."