Tom is not accustomed to the feeling of guilt that follows him all the way to his bed. He thinks at first it is simply the exhaustion of dealing with the basilisk, as that usually excites him to the point of depletion. He tries to sleep it off as he normally does. However, when he wakes up having missed breakfast and Divinations, he has to admit to himself that it is not fatigue that plagues him, and forces himself to the infirmary.

Matron Consanos fusses over him, and Tom feels badly enough to think it feels nice. She gives him a pain reliever potion, and instructs him to lie down in one of the sterile white cots that line the infirmary walls. Tom chooses one behind a thick screen, preferring to shield himself from the inquisitive eyes of the other ill children, or those simply wishing to get out of class. He lays on his back and turns his face toward the dingy four pane window that does almost nothing to let in the daylight. He stares at the faded blue October sky, counting the occasional whisps of white cotton-candy clouds that pass.

He lays there until he misses Ancient Runes and Transfiguration, too. When Matron Consanos checks on him, he pretends to sleep so she will not make him answer any more questions. He listens as she tuts over him, tucking his blanket more firmly under his chin. Tom feels weak to the point of gratitude. He hears her shush a crying first year to not disturb the sleeping Head Boy, although he is secretly awake. He feels more awake than he ever has been.

He knows he has done bad things in the past, things that are considered wrong by moral, upstanding people like Albus Dumbledore. But he has never felt remorse over those things. He simply hides that part of himself away from self-righteous eyes to avoid judgement.

When a large group of loud students filter in later that morning, Tom sees an opportunity to escape to his dorm without having to give any explanations to the matron. Normally, he relishes in his ability to charm and lie convincingly, but today he really just wants to be alone. Someone set off a dung bomb in a second year DADA class, and a host of Gryffindors crowd around the matron, vomiting and gagging. Tom slips by easily, as she is too busy now to notice the handsome Head Boy who knows how to take care of himself.

Tom manages to get to the dungeons without being stopped by anyone. He keeps his head down and face drawn to deter any unwelcome chatter. There aren't many people in the halls anyway, as most students are still in lessons. The common room is blessedly empty.

Tom crawls under his covers and pulls out the drawer of his nightstand, whispering in parseltongue for it to open. He puts on the ring of his ancestors, and feels its heartbeat against his index finger, thumping steadily, comforting. He takes the diary and cradles it against his chest.

He wants to feel whole again.

He sleeps.

xxxxxx

Tom sleeps through all his classes that day, and because he is Head Boy and so generally well-liked, he doesn't even have to lie that he is sick. Matron Consanos does that for him, and he receives warm well wishes and concerned questions from his professors on his way to the grounds later in the afternoon.

He smiles politely and assures them of his well-being. He just needs some fresh air, he thinks. He promises to complete the homework on time. The professors shoe him off, telling him to eat well at dinner and rest. Professor Slughorn promises to speak to the house elves in the kitchens personally so they prepare him a special hearty broth to abate illness.

When Tom is finally able to get away, he finds her by the lake, leaning against the knobby trunk of a willow tree. Its drooping branches sway over her as she stares out into the distance, the wind gently blowing her curls with the vines around her.

Tom sits down next to her, but his bravery runs out after that. He picks at the blades of grass by his feet. He wonders what to say. He recoils at the thought of her censure.

Tom knows he crossed an invisible line in their game of tug of war. He finds himself hoping she will forgive him, but she doesn't say anything. It does not occur to him that he is supposed to say "I'm sorry," so he can hear "it's okay."

Near the horizon, the giant squid whips its tentacle at a flying heron, who narrowly dodges the attack. Instead of flying away, the bird swoops back like a boomerang at the outstretched arm, teasing the giant squid until it extends more tentacles into the sky.

They watch silently. Tom wishes she would smile at him, or even just look at his face.

He asks her, "Do you want to see a pretty piece of magic?"

She doesn't turn, but she does say, "Okay."

Tom fidgets with his wand, trying to decide what to do. He came here without a plan, hoping to find her. Somehow, again, he knew where to go when he took a second to think about it. Well, he didn't technically think about it—he just knew. Another person would say they had a feeling, or perhaps their heart was speaking to them, but Tom doesn't know about such things. He knows how to analyze, to reason, to plot, to scheme. He does not understand the tugging sensation in his chest when he looks at her.

Tom casts a charm that lifts a transparent sphere of water from the lake, trapping within it small critters, minnows and algae. They swim around in circles while algae float up and down like a loose reinterpretation of a snow globe. The sphere flies into Tom's outstretched hand, and Tom runs his wand over it once more, transfiguring the silvery translucent minnows into bright reds, purples, yellows, and blues, and turning the smaller critters orange.

Tom extends the liquid orb to her, carefully placing it into her palm. His fingers graze her skin briefly, and the tug of his chest intensifies until he is desperate to hold her hand, as if anchoring himself to her will protect him from being pulled apart.

She looks into the aquatic terrarium, her eyes tracing the movements of the colorful minnows.

Tom tells her, "You can keep it, if you want."

"It doesn't need a tank of some sort?" she asks, turning the liquid globe in her hands, wondering at how something shapeless can take such a perfect form.

"No." Tom tells her, feeling proud that he can impress her.

"How do I feed them?"

He waves his wand and summons a dead prawn from the bottom of the lake. It lands wetly in his palm, and Tom slides it into the sphere. The water's surface briefly ripples before accepting the offering, and the vibrant creatures flock to the source of food, feeding happily at a meal that required no effort.

"You're supposed to say you're sorry, you know." She says, never taking her eyes off the fish.

"I've never said it before."

And he knows she understands his meaning. He's apologized loads of times, but this feels different somehow. He's never meant it before.

"Perhaps you need practice," she turns to him now, crossing her legs so that her knees bump his as they sit facing each other.

"Teach me," he asks, folding his hands under his chin, watching her contemplatively. She has her hair pulled back in a thin braid around her crown today. It makes her look like she is wearing a small tiara. Some of the shorter curls around her face have escaped the bind. They frame her face so beautifully. She looks like a painting, an impression and a vision both at once.

"Say: I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs obediently.

"Then you're meant to summarize what you did wrong."

"Do I have to?" Tom blushes.

"That's the standard procedure, yes."

"I'm sorry I followed you into the bath."

"You're allowed to provide some type of excuse," she supplies helpfully, the corners of her mouth beginning to pull into a smile.

"I wanted to find out your blood status. I never meant to… look at you. Like that." Tom forces himself to meet her eyes so she knows he is telling the truth.

"And the verdict?" she asks this lightly, playfully, but Tom doesn't need to enter her mind to see the almost invisible anxious creases at the corners of her eyes.

"Half-blood," Tom lies. "Like me."

She seems to ponder this untruth for a moment, looking down again at the wonderous piece of magic in her hands. She stares for so long, Tom thinks she may have forgotten about him, or is ending their conversation.

Finally, she speaks.

"Is blood status so important?" she asks, sticking her finger into the liquid sphere so that the minnows kiss its tip.

"Yes," he answers unthinkingly, "It is the most important thing in our house."

"To you, I mean."

Tom considers her question. Hermione is by far the most interesting person he's ever met. She makes him feel things, which can be a miserable annoyance, but it's new, and new experiences are always welcome to a teenage boy. She is clever, and she's not so self-righteous that she's mean like Dumbledore, or the children at the orphanage, or his father.

He has the distinct feeling that she can see him, really see him, and that it just is. He isn't questioned under her gaze. He doesn't have to pretend. He can just be.

"Yes." he answers finally. Because it is important. Although it isn't when it comes to her, not really.

"Okay, then."

She doesn't say she forgives him, but she extends her hand to shake his. Tom takes it, and he doesn't let go. He pulls her with him as he scoots so that his back is pressed against the tree trunk she was originally leaning against.

Hermione tries to withdraw her hand lightly from his, but he ignores it, and she gives up. She sits with her arm slung across her body awkwardly so her hand can stay in his. Tom thinks that maybe her heart is tugging right now too, because she seems to know he is starved for human touch. His hand goes numb with the static, but he finds he doesn't care.

They stare at the lake once more. Eventually, the giant squid catches the heron.

She lets him hold her hand until dinner.

xxxxxx

After a dinner of a thick beef stew, Tom feels much more like himself. He reminds himself to thank Slughorn in writing; it wouldn't do to neglect his personal ticket into the restricted section of the library.

Thanks to Slughorn, he's performed magic beyond most wizards' wildest dreams.

Tom peeks over at Hermione, who sits with her assorted group of friends at their usual spot in the middle of the table. Derrick Astor, the irritating prick, is sitting next to her. Tom decides to ignore this, since he and Hermione are on good terms again.

After he first noticed Astor hanging around Hermione, Tom made some inquiries. He's a fifth-year and a pureblood. Avery says he's from a 'comfortable' family. Not too rich, nor too powerful, but generally respected. He's huge, almost as built as Mulciber, but he doesn't play quidditch and he's not particularly good-looking. He does well in his classes; he's one of the best in his year. It's a poorly kept secret that he has a crush on Hermione Birch, seventh year Slytherin transfer. No one thinks he stands a chance with her, but apparently, according to Davies, Astor insists the feeling is mutual.

Tom's revery is disturbed by Mulciber, who is loudly slurping at the chicken leg in his hands as if he's trying to practice how to snog. Tom isn't the only one who is irritated by this.

"Oi! Maxwell. For God's sake, didn't your mother teach you any table manners?" Nott whinges from across the table.

"Can't," Mulciber mutters through a mouthful of chicken, "she's dead."

Nott scoffs, cutting his meat into dainty pieces as if to prove a point. Malfoy chimes in.

"Honestly, mate, the way you eat that chicken is reminding me of Roslyn Schneider, that Ravenclaw sixth year I told you about? She's not much to look at, but can she slurp some knob!" He pauses suddenly, and shoots a quick look at Tom, face seizing in panic.

Tom says nothing and turns away, his expression impassive. He doesn't give a damn about Rosie Schindler, or whatever her name is. He sneaks another look at Hermione.

Tom watches with envy as she throws her head back, laughing at something someone says. He wishes he could make her laugh like that. He's never seen so much of her teeth. Her eyes light up in a way Tom recognizes; she's thought of something clever to say. She leans forward, and her curls bounce as her lips move, resulting in another burst of laughter from her part of the Slytherin table. She enjoys the effect; her wide grin resting easily on her pretty face, cheeks flushed with warm food and pleasure.

Then Astor slings his left arm over her shoulders, pulling her into him affectionately. Tom can only look on in horror. Hermione's grin freezes, the corners of her mouth seemingly hooked to her earlobes to keep it in place. She shrinks in on herself.

Tom wants to shout. He wants to rage. She can remove his arm with a simple flick of her wand; he's seen her magic enough to believe her capable of it. She can put him in his place. She should put him in his place. She should make an example of him. But she doesn't for some reason. She fakes the rest of her laughs, and stuffs the rest of her plate into her mouth quickly so she has a reason to leave.

He wonders why she feels the need to ingratiate herself with these morons when she already has his attention. It bothers Tom that she might do it out of a sense of kindness. It is unfathomable, completely impossible that she actually wants that arse to keep his arm there.

When she starts swinging her legs over the bench, much to the protests of her mixed group of friends—purebloods and half-bloods, second and third and fourth and fifth years—Astor doesn't do the commonsense thing. He doesn't let go. He weighs down her slim shoulders with his heavy arm, curling his beefy fingers into her shirt, wrinkling the fine pressed cotton. He tries to force her to stay seated, tries to pull her in closer. She stumbles briefly before righting herself. Tom sees red.

He decides to break that arm.

But not here, not yet.

xxxxxx

It happens while Tom is talking to Ignatius Prewett.

They're standing together in the entrance outside of the Great Hall when there is an ear-piercing shriek from the staircases above. Tom turns his head in time with Prewett, even though he already knows what causes it. Derrick Astor is dangling from the ceiling, suspended by his left arm. He kicks and squeals and claws at the invisible force holding him there. His left arm is stretched painfully to accommodate his weight, the wiry muscles bulging and contracting to maintain him while he swings like a bizarre mobile hung over the students below.

Teachers rush to him to help, but already there are too many students gathered underneath to watch the spectacle, causing traffic and congestion for those still trying to enter the Great Hall, and those attempting to leave breakfast.

The more the professors try counter-curses, charms, and spells to get him down, the tighter the curse winds around Astor's wrist. The fine bones that make up that joint are likely pulverized by now. They'll need to be completely regrown, Tom thinks clinically.

Finally, Astor's arm snaps under the extended pressure, liberating itself from its socket. It cracks with a satisfying snap.

Tears stream down Astor's face as he struggles violently to pull himself up to relieve the pressure on his left shoulder. Tom thinks it is the perfect moment to enter his mind.

He lets his voice reverberate in his brain, and Astor instinctively begins to look for him in the crowd, his eyes wild with terror. Tom doesn't want to just hurt Astor.

He wants Astor to know why.

Don't touch Hermione again.

xxxxxx

Nobody suspects Tom; he was standing in front of the most beloved pureblood in Gryffindor house the entire time. His wand wasn't even on his person. Nobody knows that Tom can lay a spell like a trap, marking it with a name so it doesn't go off until the right person passes through. Even Malfoy, Mulciber, and Nott, who Tom ordered to ask Astor to walk with them to breakfast through the lower grand staircase rather than the usual one, did not know it was going to happen. They do what Tom says though, because they know what is good for them.

This is why it is so unusual when Hermione Birch stops him on the way to Ancient Runes later that day, tugging on his bag to get his attention. She opens her mouth to say something but then slams it shut, seeming to think better of it when she notices some of their classmates watching them with interest.

She walks away quickly.

She tries again before DADA, but this time she's wiser. She pulls him by the sleeve into an alcove behind a statue of a one-eyed witch where they are sheltered away from prying eyes. She looks agitated. Tom feels regretful that she lets go of him once they are hidden.

"Hello, Hermione," he smiles politely. He wants to tell her she looks very pretty today. He likes her hair; she's wearing a French braid.

"Why did you do it?" She demands bluntly.

"Do what?"

"Don't play stupid, Tom!" she snaps, "I know it was you."

"He needed to be taught a lesson." Tom says, dropping all pretense immediately.

"For what? Having a crush on me?" She's staying quiet but she looks almost hysterical.

"For touching you."

"That is not your place!" she hisses, and Tom is very confused.

"I'm confused."

"Clearly!"

"You're the one who said nice boys ask for permission."

"That doesn't mean we should snap their arms in three places if they don't!"

"Matron Consanos will patch him up fine; it's not like it was permanent." Tom reasons.

She folds her head into her hands, and Tom is worried he said the wrong thing again.

"I truly am confused," he repeats bravely, reaching out to pull her hands away from her face. His skin prickles pleasantly again, as it always does when he touches her.

She tries immediately to pull away, but it's a half-hearted attempt and Tom doesn't let go. She won't face him though, her body turned at an awkward angle toward the wall next to her.

"Don't you feel any guilt?"

"No."

"Tom, you're supposed to feel at least a little guilty." She sounds exasperated, like she doesn't know what to do with him.

"I don't."

She doesn't say anything, but she's working her jaw like she's chewing back what she really wants to say.

"Did you feel guilty when you cursed Carrow? He's still walking around with a strawberry on his forehead." Tom challenges. He doesn't understand why he's meant to feel bad when she doesn't.

"I do, a little." She admits, turning crimson. Maybe she didn't know that he knew about that.

"Then reverse the curse!" Tom argues.

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

Her eyes flash. "I don't think you're in a position to judge my moral compass, Tom! Derrick could have died!"

Tom looks down quickly, licking his lips. He doesn't like that she uses Astor's first name. He feels his displeasure ride up his spine and settle like a vice around his neck.

"Derrick wouldn't have died. I wasn't trying to kill him."

They're still holding each others hands, like some kind of twisted marriage ceremony. The one-eyed witch can be their officiant, Tom thinks blithely, as a steady current travels up the entire length of his arms. It's both pleasurable and painful.

"He could have fell… there could have been some terrible accident—"

"Are you trying to give me ideas?"

"It's not funny! It's cruel and wrong!"

"I don't care." Tom lies, but anxiety bubbles inside his gut with self-doubt. Is he in the wrong? He doesn't think he is, but he cannot be sure. Ever since he split his soul, it's become very cumbersome to work out such emotions.

"You should! You went too far this time."

"You have no idea how far I'm willing to go."

"I think I'm getting a pretty decent impression."

"Can I kiss you?"

"What—? No!"

"Okay," Tom answers easily, not expecting her to accept, but wanting to ask anyway. She looks extremely flustered, and that alone seems worth the rejection. They're still holding hands, although Tom's are starting to feel painfully numb.

"I'm going to go." She says, more to herself than him.

"We're going to the same class."

"Don't sit next to me, then," she counters.

"But we're dueling today and I need a competent partner."

She blushes at his compliment, but attempts to brush him off.

"May I suggest Mulciber? He is extremely competent."

Tom snorts at the obvious attempt at evasion.

"Don't partner with Lucretia," he warns.

"She has it out for me, I know."

"Do you now?" Tom asks, wondering if she knows why.

"She stole my hair cream last night," Hermione explains, motioning to her hair, "Hence the braid."

"I like the braid," Tom supplies helpfully.

They pause in front of the classroom door. The bell is about to ring and the hallway is empty. Tom tries to think of something to say, but all he can think about is the way her hips move when he walks behind her. He wonders what they would feel like under his hands.

"You're a hypocrite, you know," he says lightly as he pulls open the door for her.

"I know." She agrees, stepping inside.

There is only one empty desk left in the room, with two unoccupied chairs meant for one more dueling pair. Tom's smile spreads over his face with gleeful satisfaction.

"Looks like we'll be partners after all."

A/N: thank you so much to Annie Onymous, Fabulousshiper, and Guest for your reviews! I really appreciate your feedback and support : )