Hey guys! Thanks for being patient. My plot bunnies have been running all over the place. I want to continue this story, but if you check out my other fanfic stories you'll see that I'm either bad at finishing, or I'm a oneshot kinda girl. I plan on ending here unless more ideas come to me! I really want to write a scene where she and Dumbledore talk, but I have no idea how she would get there! lol! So, we'll put a pause on the story after this chapter until I can come up with more ideas. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me. I'm just imagining on the backs of other imagineers!
Hermione's memories were transported momentarily back to the dark hotel room, the raging of the storm outside, and the helplessness of being trapped in a small room with a dangerous predator. It was just like the night before, but now she was seeing him with her waking eyes. Her throat tightened and burned, and she tried to back away, whimpering.
Alexa's hand shot out and clasped her wrist tightly, and Hermione tore her eyes away from the intruder long enough to shoot an incredulous look at the woman beside her.
"It is a sending," Alexa said, her voice small and tense as she fought to control her own knee-jerk panic. "Just a sending."
"A what?" Hermione asked, her voice high and tight.
"An image. Like… like… a type of patronus or… like a hologram, from that Star Trek show. You can speak to him, and he will speak back, but he's not really here."
Hermione swallowed and looked back at Voldemort, and couldn't quite believe it. He looked entirely real, entirely here. It was clear that Alexa, like her, was well-versed in muggle life or she couldn't have known what Star Trek even was.
Alexa reached blindly behind herself and grasped one of the pillows on the couch. With a level of courage worthy of her Faerie ancestors, she threw it at Tom. Hermione let out a shuddering breath as it passed directly through his chest and tumbled to the ground behind him. Like a ghost, Hermione thought, then squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment.
He was still there when she opened them again.
"Not real," she murmured, dizzied by the adrenaline racing through her veins.
"Real enough," Tom replied smoothly, a mocking smirk lighting his face. He didn't look anything like how he had at the battle of Hogwarts. He looked younger. Rejuvinated.
Hermione was proud that she didn't shriek at the sound of his voice.
"If you can see me, it means you're trying to unwork my magic," he continued, raising his chin and cocking his eyebrow at her in a chiding manner, as though daring her to deny it. "A word to the wise, love," he caught her eye and held it hard for a heartbeat. "Don't."
"Are you kidding?" she snapped, the words out of her mouth before she could think about them, her voice shaking, but full of more bravado than she could make herself believe she felt. "There's a glowing blue mark carved onto my head by a ruddy ancient quill! Nothing's going to stop me from getting rid of it!"
"I can, if I must," he told her coolly. "I think you know that."
Hermione blanched at the frighteningly vague threat. She didn't quite know what he meant, but she had no doubt whatsoever that the Lord of Darkness had a number of tricks he had yet to reveal, and a great deal of doubt that she would like any of them.
"You wouldn't dare." She said anyway.
Tom smirked at her.
"You have no idea what I would dare," he warned her. "Not yet."
Hermione felt her throat try to close with fear. She cleared it quietly, trying to gather herself. She had come here for her answers; she couldn't let fear keep her from asking questions.
"Then what is it, at least?" she demanded in the steadiest, most commanding voice she could manage. "What did you do to me? Did you…" she shook her head, and made herself say the words. "Is it like what you did to Harry's forehead? Are you trying to control me?"
"Of course not," Tom replied, shaking his head, his eyes growing serious, his tone indisputable. "You are not made to be ruled, Hermione. You deserve to rule others. You are meant to be a queen."
Hermione clenched her jaw, trying to focus on the question at hand and ignore his unsolicited and unnerving opinions.
"So then what is it?"
"Something you were never meant to know about. Something complicated. Something I am… ashamed of." He shook his head, glancing away from her, as though he truly were embarrassed. "It is my failure," he looked back at her, "and my vow." His blue eyes were piercing and as sincere as she'd ever seen them.
"Stop talking in riddles," Hermione cried, working hard to keep from stamping her foot in frustration. She inwardly cringed as she remembered, with irony, that his last name WAS 'riddle'. She hated that look in his eyes; it made it impossible to write him off as a villain. "This isn't a game! Stop being mysterious and just answer the question!"
"Stop being mysterious? But you love mysteries," Tom replied, a teasing smile curving one side of his mouth. "You love the search for knowledge, don't you? The puzzles and the riddles and the secret realities that elude you and lead you ever on?" His voice dropped to almost a seductive purr as he described her cool, clinical, scientific curiosity in a manner that made it seem almost decadent in its pleasures – described it in a way that said he understood the temptation personally. "Come, tell me the truth, Hermione. You would grow bored if the answers lay placidly at your feet to be plucked like berries from the vine. It is the hunt for knowledge that drives you, not the answers themselves. You enjoy the middle of the book, not the end. Don't forget Hermione; I know you."
He grinned wolfishly at her. Hermione felt suddenly breathless under his scrutiny. Under the weight of how right he was. She loved the pursuit of knowledge, not merely the possession of it. The thrill of discovery after a long search. The triumph of wresting a new secret from the jaws of the unknown.
To be seen with such naked clarity jarred her all the way down to her bones. No one, except maybe Harry and Ron... (or her father, Mr. Granger) had ever understood her. Not like this.
"As long as I am a mystery," Tom finished, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, "you will be certain think of me. So why would I want to be anything else?"
The barb shook hermione from the fugue his exposition had left her in. His amusement slackened as he glanced down to where her hands balled up into fists, then back up to the quiet fear and resentment burning in her eyes. He pursed his lips and sighed, a measure of his teasing demeanor melting away to reveal a shade of practical honesty underneath. He gave her a level look.
"Suffice it to say, I cannot have you walking around unprotected while I cannot be by your side," he said plainly. "I need to know you are safe. This magic will ensure it."
"I don't need your protection, or anyone else's."
"Yes, you do." Tom shook his head ruefully. "You don't understand the appeal of your own nature. You shine so brightly, Hermione. Too brightly. Dark things cannot help but be drawn to your light. I will not see you dimmed by their touch, so long as I can prevent it."
Hermione wanted to argue, but couldn't. She'd attracted his attention, after all.
"Okay, well, I appreciate the sentiment, but whatever happens, Ron will protect me," she replied. "And Harry. My friends. And the only thing I need protection from is from you! So this mark is redundant, and you can get rid of it. Now."
Tom laughed at that; the sound was startling. Filled with real amusement, genuine mirth. And unexpectedly warm, coming from him. Hermione had expected anger at the mention of her boyfriend and best friend.
"That boy is off hauling rubble with day laborers, while a villainous war criminal infiltrates his lady's chambers by night." He shook his head, still chuckling. "No, him I will trust least of all to keep you safe."
Hermione opened her mouth, a retort about Ron's capability ready on the tip of her tongue, but she snapped it shut and fought not to jump when he suddenly moved, stepping forward and walking right through the far sofa, coming to a stop directly in front of her, his lower legs still half inside the coffee table.
"I told you, Hermione," he said, his voice and presence all the realer for his closeness. His eyes studied her face, familiar yet fascinated, as though she too had become more real to him with her nearness and the perhaps the fact that she was now awake, "My devotion, is whole and focused. Now that I have the means, I will trust your safety to no one else. Besides," he smirked dangerously, "there isn't much you can do to stop me. My skill is not so slight that my magic can be brushed away by such a meager might as your Fae sorcerer can produce. I should think after last night that would be apparent. The only reason he is still breathing after touching my mark is that his power was too weak to pose a true threat."
His eyes brushed away from hers scanning the room without focusing on anything. They passed right over Alexa, who was standing, pale and wide-eyed, not three feet in front of him. He scowled into the middle distance.
"I know you are there, magician," he said. His voice was completely different than when he spoke to Hermione; all the softness and warmth leached out of it, infusing his insidiously alluring tones with hard, icy ruthlessness. The alteration was jarring. THIS was Lord Voldemort. "Try again to step between me and what is mine and I don't care how weak you are, I will shred you atom by atom."
"He can't see you?" Hermione muttered out of the side of her mouth to Alexa, unable to tear her gaze away from the image of the wizard before her. Hermione thought she saw a nervous shake of the head from the corner of her eye, but Alexa didn't seem to be capable of speaking, after being threatened by someone she considered a deity.
"Alas," he said ruefully, turning his attention back to Hermione, his manner softening again almost instantly – she was struck again by the transformation, "I stand here exposed for all to see, but, as has long been the case, my eyes are for you alone, Hermione. In this form, nothing else in all the worlds is real. Only you"
Hermione pursed her lips, shaking off the flowery words. They were getting harder and harder to ignore.
"I'm not 'yours'. You don't get to claim ownership of me."
His brow furrowed, and he glanced down, his expression almost shy. "A man can dream," he murmured quietly.
He looked back up at her with a smile so charming she almost caught herself blushing. She narrowed her eyes instead. This would not happen. He was evil. Not to mention he was a 70 year old man!
"You know what?" she said as coldly as possible. "I don't buy this whole lover act for an instant." It was only partly a lie. "You think you can distract me with it, but that's all it is. Misdirection so I won't dig deeper and figure out what you're really up to."
Tom Riddle's eyes burned into her as he let the words hang in the air between them. Hermione worked hard not to fidget. How could anyone stare at someone else so hard? After a moment, he apparently couldn't bear it any longer either, because his eyes lowered, his expression growing thoughtful. He smirked ruefully.
"Such is the danger of using lies to tell the truth," he murmured, half to himself. "When you do at last tell the plain, honest truth, everyone calls you a liar." He turned his eyes on her again, all trace of his ever-mocking smile long gone, and his eyes were dead serious. "If you would allow it, I would spend the rest of your life proving you wrong."
Hermione tried to find some biting retort, but the intensity of his expression and the tone of his voice were too much for her to answer. For a famed manipulative dark wizard, the man was being waaay too honest. She swallowed hard, meeting his eyes as best she could, and tried to accept what he was saying. It was the only way she was going to be able to counter him.
With that acceptance came a kind of release. The weight of everything she had learned and experienced in the past two days – or maybe in the past 7 years – seemed to fall on her all at once, leaving her feeling too exhausted for anxiety. A measure of tension leeched out of her, for no other reason than she couldn't hold on to it any longer. She sighed, and looked up at him almost pleadingly.
"Just tell me what you want." And then leave me alone.
Tom lifted his eyebrows almost playfully.
"You."
Hermione fought not to roll her eyes.
"Yeah? What else?"
Tom smiled. Slow, sly and secretive. Obviously. And therefore challengingly. Against her will, it sparked her curiosity. Like a predator scenting its prey, charged by the instinct to chase it down. Even knowing he was doing it on purpose couldn't kill that innate desire to know.
"I want what you want," he replied, intentionally unhelpful, his whole air projecting a mocking feigned innocence. "And I want you to want what I want. Have I not said so again and again?"
Her eyes narrowed at him again, and he cocked an eyebrow in return.
"Do not look at me so, dearest Hermione. You wound me." He pressed his hand to his chest with an air of hurt that she thought was only partly facetious. An echo of that accusation he'd directed at her the night before had returned. "I would have spared you the burden of this knowledge, these confusing questions and the hard decisions to come. But you, not I, chose to change the rules. I have merely acted within the bounds of your decisions." A kind of frustrated longing, edged with pain and something like wonder, softened in the lines of his face. "I can never predict you as I can others. You are as much a mystery to me as I am to you. And I too love a mystery."
His expression grew introspective. "How to make you understand... The truth is, I am glad you forced my hand. It was... such a relief to finally speak openly to someone." He refocused on her. "And to reveal my true feelings and motives to you. Worth the risk in every way. To think now that you might never have known how I love you…" He closed his eyes briefly, as though the idea were too terrible to consider. When he opened them again, his eyes were so clear and calm and sure that Hermione felt herself arrested by them. "You saved me from that fate. You have saved me over and over again. And perhaps, Hermione… perhaps you can save me once more. And save many more with me. That is what I want. If you will do it. The future is in your hands now. My gift to you. Everything turns upon your desire."
A sweeping statement, Hermione acknowledged, turning it over in her mind. An all encompassing answer. Moving, frightening, alluring. But ultimately meaningless. He wasn't going to tell her anything of value about the Quill of power he had used to write on her forehead. Not like this. He was going to make her hunt him, and he would do everything in his power to elude her, even as he drew her on. It frustrated her. And, in the secret recesses of her mind, she allowed herself to acknowledge that it kind of thrilled her.
But as thrilling as that chase sounded, she knew that it was what he wanted as well. And she didnt want what a killer wanted.
"Is that so?" she said, trying to lace her words with as much spite as she could muster. "Well if its up to me, I guess you won't mind when I tell Harry and the world all about your miraculous return from the grave."
Tom's smile became cautious, but remained intent. He cocked his head, weighing and measuring her mettle.
"That is one choice," he said slowly. "And there is another: don't look for me." He smirked more broadly at the return of Hermione's incredulous expression. "Don't have Harry look for me either. Or any of your friends from Hogwarts or the Ministry of Magic."
"What could possibly delude you into thinking I would keep your secrets for you?" Hermione asked incredulously, reaching up without really meaning to, to run a careful hand over the black and blue swelling on her throat. It still hurt a little as she touched the dark bruises.
Tom's expression stiffened and his eyes flicked away. A subtle display of discomfort, and Hermione felt a little stab of satisfaction. Yeah! You should feel guilty, you jerk!
His pained expression was gone quickly though, almost immediately replaced by another challenging smirk.
"You want to make right what was wrong. Heal what's been broken. I know you do. If keeping my secrets would accomplish that, wouldn't it be worth it?"
He eyed her thoughtfully, penetratingly, and again she felt like she was standing naked in front of him, and he could see all of her, while himself remained fully clothed in secrets and half-truths. Her mouth ran dry as it occurred to her that she wanted to strip them away, make his mind as naked as hers was, see all of him, learn him, know him inside and out…
Stop it. STOP it.
"Besides," he went on blithely, "I have no desire to be found. So you will not find me. All a search would produce is frustration and uncertainty and trouble. There is no need for that. For anyone. For now, I want you to have peace, Hermione. I want ALL the world to have peace." His smile turned teasing, a wicked light entering his eyes. "After all, who knows how much longer I will allow it to last."
Anger bubbled up inside her, frothing higher with embarrassment and anxiety, consuming fear and giving back fury. This wasn't a game! The faces of loved ones who had died filled her mind again, fueling her rage. It burst through the veneer of weariness as she felt the weight of the destroyed city of London settle on her shoulders once more, compounded by the pain in her throat, and her broken peace of mind. She found herself taking a step forward, advancing on him, and reveling in a little thrill as he took a reflexive half step backwards in response. She wasn't a helpless little witch.
"We stopped you once," she snapped. "We can do it again. Whatever you have planned, you won't succeed."
Her confidence flagged an instant later as he chuckled quietly, delighted amusement sparking in his expression. His eyes danced over her face, avid, as though devouring her defiant expression, where before they had only rested intently on her expressions of anxiety and weariness. Enjoying the fight in her far more than he had enjoyed her fear, she realized.
She felt her cheeks heat.
His expression remained engaged, his lips quirked in a kind of lopsided smile that might have almost been enchanting if she didn't know what a complete bastard he was, and his eyes narrowed with knowing as he registered her embarrassment. But when he spoke his voice was calm, steady and entirely matter-of-fact.
Which made his words all the more frightening.
"My only plans for the foreseeable future involve remaining undetected and staying out of trouble. No...killing. At present, my situation is a stable one. I have no immediate desire to alter it. If I am forced into the open, however…" he hummed in mock thoughtfulness under his breath, "…who knows what could happen?" He took a step closer and leaned in so that they were nearly nose to nose. "Are you so eager to burn the world again with me, Hermione?"
The city seemed to loom around her like a corporeal threat, glaring accusations straight through the brick walls.
"I thought you wanted to make things right," she countered weakly.
"We don't always get what we want," he replied matter-of-factly. Like the unspoken possibility of death, destruction and fear were merely a reality that had to be accepted. "Sometimes it must be enough to settle for the privilege of choosing what we will keep and what we will lose. And there are very few things in this universe I am unwilling to cast into the flames in order to keep safe the few things I value above all else. If I must."
He shook his head, and she was surprised – and suspicious – to see a shade of pleading in his own expression. His voice was threaded with an earnest gravity, something she would almost be tempted to call a desperation. Begging her to understand, even though he refused to tell her what she wanted to know.
"But there is an excellent chance that no one has to lose anything else," he told her. "A chance that something can be salvaged. A chance that good can grow out of these evil days." He took a deep breath, leaning back slightly, as though casting off his impassioned heat, his face smoothing and cooling. "Yet, I say again, that is all up to you, my Hermione. You are the key. I know it."
How am I the key? her mind raged. Tell me what you mean by that! Tell me what you are trying to make me to do!
"I'm not afraid of you," she hissed between clenched teeth. It wasn't exactly a lie. It wasn't exactly the truth either. But it felt important that she make him believe it.
Tom smiled broadly at her, eyes dancing with delight, as though she'd said something incredibly witty.
"Good," he said lightly, laughter invading his voice.
There was a pressure at the back of her eyes, a restless, frustrated energy that made her want to pace and bite her nails and do something. For some reason, she was acutely aware of the cold weight of the pendant around her neck. The rune that abhorred secrets and forced you onto new paths.
She glared up at the smug expression that was growing on his face at her conflict. He was enjoying this way too much.
"Tom…" she growled warningly.
Something flashed in his eyes. In an instant the amusement on his face gave way to something dangerous, hungry and straining at the bars of its cage.
"What?" he replied softly, his voice suddenly darkening with desire. He took a half step closer, all but eradicating the space between them. "What would you say to me, Hermione, with my name on your lips?"
Hermione felt the weight of his gaze burning along every nerve ending in her body and wanted to look away, but she refused to give him the satisfaction.
"I…"
She never found out what she would have said, because he reached up and traced the back of one finger along the line of her cheek bone, stealing her voice. Hermione shivered, unconsciously turning her head into the touch, her protest dying on her lips. There was no spark of purple lightning, no magical bite as punishment for the caress. She shouldn't have been able to feel it, because he wasn't really there. But warmth radiated from the point of contact, and she felt it again, that she was water, and his slightest touch had created ripples that spread over her entire body. Her lips tingled traitorously and she pressed them together into a hard line. He was too close. She knew she should step back, even if it meant retreat, but she felt like her feet had grown roots, like maybe she was just as caught and helpless as she had been the night before.
His eyes flicked down to the tight line of her mouth. Her heart hammered in her chest, but it didn't feel like fear. His gaze was like a physical touch, and a tremor ran through her when he swallowed hard and unconsciously darted the tip of his tongue to wet his lips. He leaned in closer, tilting his head slightly, almost thoughtfully. Hermione, her senses buzzing and her mind inauspiciously blank, couldn't seem to find enough air in the space between their mouths. His eyes traveled down the line of her face and he brought his inexorably towards hers. Then his eyes looked down the line of her neck. To where her bruises were.
He froze, bare millimeters away from her. Hermione, her mind lost in a haze, had to arrest herself with a will of iron to stop herself from swaying forward to close the distance. Blinking, he raised his face away from her, looking suddenly uncertain. It sat strangely on his features.
With an abruptness that left her feeling hollow and cold, he turned and walked a few steps away.
"Endearing as your obstinacy can be," he said quietly after a moment, "just this once, don't be stubborn. Use my gift. I'm not fool enough to believe your taking it will mean anything. I just can't bear to see you hurt."
His gift? Shaking her head, Hermione reached up and ran a hand over her neck and the bruises that had stopped him from advancing further. The bruises he had put there. The pain of her light touch on them brought her back to reality. What am I doing? She clenched her jaw against her guilt. But she didn't know how or if she should acknowledge the strange feelings he brought up inside of her. It was too messy. Too complicated. What is he doing to me?
"Oh really?" she asked snidely – or tried to, but there wasn't nearly as much venom in her voice as she had intended. Her voice sounded breathy and faint to her own ears. She barely knew what he was talking about, since she had no idea what the 'gift' was for, but letting him know it felt like it would tip the balance of power in his favor, and that was unacceptable when it was already so far out of balance. It was achingly apparent that he already had too much influence over her. "Even if you're the one that did it?"
He smiled sadly at her over his shoulder, his eyes full of craving and something like hopelessness. "Especially then."
He stepped back further still, and the invisible, shadowy fog, which had seemed to form a bubble around them as they spoke face to face, flowed into the gulf between them, obscuring him. The smile that animated his face as the darkness swallowed him was clear to her eyes nevertheless, because it was always clear in her memory. That same frustrating, irreverent, self-assured smile. The same smile as the first smile he'd ever given her. But his eyes, bright with cynical amusement, were tinged with a knowing sadness that made Hermione's throat tighten with something that wasn't fear or anger or guilt.
"Remember, Hermione. You are my rain. And I am counting on you."
Without further fanfare, the image of him disintegrated in a sizzle of green serpent-like energy. The fog of shadows evaporated like morning mist, letting the weak sunlight pour back in through the windows. The ringing, which had reached so high a pitch that Hermione had ceased to notice it, went suddenly still. A moment of thick silence reigned before both women sank onto the couch, gasping and trying to collect themselves. Alexa caught Hermione's eye; hers were wide with fear and wonder.
"I am sorry, Hermione," Alexa breathed. "But I will not try that again."
"No problem," Hermione replied, rubbing a hand over her face; she noticed she could no longer feel the presence of the mark. Snatching up the mirror from the coffee table, she examined herself to see that it was no longer visible. But there was no doubt in her mind that it was still there. "I don't think I'd like to try that again either." At least not until I can better study out how to get rid of it without him knowing.
After a long moment, apparently at a loss for what more to do, Alexa poured them each another cup of tea.
"It seems Grandmother may have been right… "
"I'll say."
They sat quietly, sipping their tea.
"But he loves you, I think."⁰
Hermione looked at Alexa incredulously. Of all she could have said, that was possibly the last thing she'd expected to hear. It certainly wasn't the most important thing. It was immaterial, in fact.
Apparently Alexa didn't think so. She was watching Hermione thoughtfully, expectantly.
"That's… not love," Hermione muttered into her teacup after a moment, her cheeks going annoyingly pink. "That's obsession. It's not healthy. He must have accidentally taken Amortentia or something. A man like him couldn't possibly know what love is."
"Love may drive a man to extreme lengths," Alexa commented philosophically, holding her own teacup close to her face and closing her eyes as she let the steam waft under her nose. "Who knows how far it might drive a god?"
"Tom Riddle is not a god," Hermione retorted for the umpteenth time, even though it seemed that Tom really had indeed gone beyond the influence of life and death. "And whatever you think, both you and your grandma said it: he's dangerous."
"Sometimes the reward is worth the danger; sometimes it is not. As I said, all my intention was to give you that choice."
Hermione just shook her head and sipped her tea. What reward? Tom Riddle had nothing she wanted. Nothing, she repeated sternly, stalwartly refusing to acknowledge the pull of her curiosity, or the tiny seed of disappointment she'd felt when his image had failed to kiss her. He was a complete wild card, and he wasn't just alive, or free, or nearby. He was literally under her skin, and she didn't know anything that could be done about it except to stay as far from him as possible.
What's more, is that she was no closer to finding the answers to her questions, especially where it concerned this puzzling story about her "death", "rebirth", and where Dumbledore was concerned. Was it really true?
Hermione reached up to finger the pendant hanging around her neck, the only thing standing between the two of them. Sighing in resignation, moved to pull it off.
"Keep it," Alexa said with a shake of her head.
"I… are you sure?" Hermione asked, almost pathetically grateful. "He said…"
"The god said not to stand between you again. I cannot defy him. But just as the rune cannot undo the mark that was already upon you, that protection has already been given. I break no command by allowing you to keep what is already yours." She looked seriously at Hermione. "Besides, I suspect you will need it."
Hermione grimaced. "I don't understand any of this. Voldemort is supposed to be dead. I can't even imagine how he survived, much less…" She shook her head, at a loss to put into words the surreality of her situation.
"When the Dark Lord is nearby, nothing can ever be quite what it seems," Alexa said with quiet surety. Her face was still so pale it bordered on ashen, but her eyes were thoughtful. "You would do well to remember that, I think."
Hermione swallowed hard, rubbing her free hand over her thigh to wipe the sweat from her palms. Her fingers moved over a bulge in one pocket, and she suddenly remembered the golden disc. Eager for some distraction to occupy her mind, she pulled it from her pocket.
"I don't suppose you could tell me what this is?"
Alexa's eyes narrowed critically as they lit on the disc.
"This… is the gift he spoke of?"
Hermione nodded. "It was on my dresser this morning. These symbols are Fae runes, right? I wonder why we don't study Fae runes in school..." She thought out loud, brows furrowing.
"Same reason the Americans study feet and inches instead of the metric system like they should," Alexa rolled her eyes. Then she hmmmed and bent her head close, studying the box thoughtfully.
"The runes that you wizards study are derivatives of Fae runes. It's like...simplified Chinese verses ancient traditional Chinese."
Hermione wondered briefly where Tom could have possibly studied ancient Fae runes. "Do they say what this thing is for?"
Frowning, Alexa set aside her teacup.
"May I?"
Hermione nodded again and put the disc in her outstretched hand. Alexa examined it closely.
"Here in the middle is Asowulo," she said, pointing to the largest symbol in the center of the disc. "For the sun. It means energy, movement, rejuvenation. But in this case, I think it means healing."
"Makes sense," Hermione murmured, recalling Tom's entreaty for her to use his gift on her wound.
"I suspect…"
Alexa turned the disc sideways, examining it critically, then gripped it in both hands and twisted. There was a small sucking sound, and the disc split in half lengthwise. Inside, a thick, whitish ointment was caked in larger half. Not a disc then; a jar. Alexa sniffed it and blinked, looking down at the ointment wonderingly.
"I suspect this will heal you quite quickly if you apply it to your throat," she said, her voice hushed with awe. "I believe it is the potion of Iduniala." Hermione shot her a questioning look. "Legend tells us that the apples that grow in the garden of Idunn in the Fae realm are what give the gods their strength and long life."
Hermione cocked a skeptical eyebrow, but took the jar from Alexa's hand. The aroma of apples did indeed waft up from the ointment. It reminded her, suddenly and jarringly, of the scent of Riddle's hair. A frisson of electricity shot through her and she quickly set it on the coffee table. Smell is the sense most powerfully associated with memory, she reminded herself logically. That didn't explain why she was remembering the sense of touch so vividly as well, but it didn't bear thinking about right now. Thoughts of the symbolism of snakes and apples filled her mind briefly.
Taking up the hand mirror, she carefully dabbed a small amount of the potion onto her little finger and dabbed the mystery substance onto a section of the bruise. She sucked in a sharp breath as a tingling burn started in the skin there, and drew the mirror up quickly to see what kind of reaction it had caused. She watched the skin under the potion seem to bubble and suck in the salve. Before her eyes, the area lightened, flushed red, and then paled back to her normal skin tone, leaving a patch of healthy, unmarked skin in the center of the dark bruise.
"That's… that's…" She couldn't find a word to sufficiently describe what it was. She refused to even think the word 'miraculous', but it was hard not to. She'd never learned of any potion in Professor Snape's class that healed so quickly! Her mind started going into overdrive wondering about the ingredients, spells, and technique that went into making this and began making notes in her head. She went through a list of different books that might contain SOMETHING about fae potions.
Barely able to make herself care that she was giving in to Tom's request and possibly giving him some completely undeserved peace of mind, she sparingly covered the rest of the bruise, gritting her teeth against the prickling burn. It wasn't for his sake, she told herself, staring in unblinking wonder as her skin roiled and cleared, like storm clouds rolling back to give way to clear skies; it was for her own comfort. Besides, she wanted any evidence of his violence and domination gone from her skin. It was already imprinted uncomfortably deep on her memory.
She made sure to use the least amount of the potion possible. The rest, she had already decided, was destined for a series of cauldron tests. As well as a muggle microscope currently gathering dust in her house. She began mentally listing the various tests she wanted to perform on her sample, mostly so she didn't have to think any more about the wound it had healed, or the man that had given it to her, when she over heard Alexa hum thoughtfully to herself.
"Strange…" Alexa muttered. She was still examining the lid of the jar.
"What?"
"Look here," she pointed to a repeating pattern that moved in a ring around the central symbol. "Taudiz and Dragebo. The two runes interlock and alternate."
"Okay…" Hermione nodded. Then she shook her head. "Sorry, that means nothing to me. Explain. Please," she added belatedly.
Alexa glanced up at her and smiled wryly before looking back at the golden disc of the lid. She pointed to a symbol that looked like a crooked cross.
"Taudiz is 'necessity'. A lack or dissatisfaction, an emptiness that needs to be filled. An imbalance between means and desire."
Her finger shifted to the next symbol, which resembled an 'x', linked on each end to the first symbol.
"Dragebo is 'gift'. Its purpose is creating connections." She held up her index fingers side by side. "Two who were separate," she crossed her index fingers to form an 'x', "are joined where they meet in common purpose. They are bound together by the exchange of gifts, creating a debt that solidifies loyalty. Dragebo balances opposing forces with bonds of fidelity, converting enmity to allegiance. It is the seal placed upon oaths, treaties…" Alexa glanced up at Hermione. "… marriages..." she looked away again. "Anything that formalizes a union of opposites."
Hermione stared at where the two fingers crossed for a long moment before Alexa dropped her hands. It irritated her to realize she was blushing again, flustered without knowing why.
"Use my gift. I'm not fool enough to believe your taking it will mean anything. I just can't bear to see you hurt."
So he said. But Alexa was right. Nothing was ever quite what it seemed where the Dark Lord was concerned.
"The two runes are nearly opposites," Alexa continued, turning her attention back to the lid, "yet they compliment each other in unexpected ways. So unlike one another, yet juxtaposed like this, they fulfill each other. Dragebo fills the emptiness of Taudiz; while Taudiz opens wide to receive and embrace the fullness of Dragebo. Balance and imbalance, balancing one another. The way they circle Asowulo gives the central rune for healing a much broader double meaning." She shrugged. "It is rather poetically crafted. It is simply a strange statement to be engraved upon a jar of medicine."
Hermione stared at the knotted symbols as they took on weighty new significance. Trying to work through their possible implications. Analyzing what she knew with what she was learning. Letting new pieces of the puzzle slide into place.
He had tried to tie her to his crimes with declarations of love. Now he wanted to bind her with a gift of medicine to heal a wound he had made. Creating a 'debt', the runes said. Trying to create loyalty out of necessity.
Is that it, Tom? she mused critically, her internal voice quiet and analytical. You want to force me into an alliance?
She pursed her lips, tracing the thin thread of his logic, and losing the frayed end of it again and again.
Why? she wondered. To what purpose? What necessity? Do you think dragging me down with you will somehow heal the damage you've done?
Or do you expect me to somehow lift you up?
Impossible.
Memories from Malfoy Manor slid in sideways again, complicating the comfortably black and white picture forming in her mind glittering facets of gray. Of a man who was more than just a faceless monster… of someone she couldn't just write off as 'better off dead'… someone who had saved her, protected her, impressed her… someone whose path Dumbledore had mourned, in spite of all the evil he'd done…Someone who Harry pitied even though he had tried to kill him multiple times.
"You are my rain…"
Impossible! But even so, there was no question in her mind that that was the answer to the riddle written in the runes. She was left only to wonder whether it was a request, or a warning.
Half an hour later, the golden disc of medicinal potion was back in Hermione's pocket as Alexa walked her down to the street. The two had exchanged phone numbers – "just in case," they had agreed – but the tension between them had grown too intense to brook further delay of Hermione's departure. There were just too many unknowns, and they remained virtual strangers. Time and distance were necessary now. Alexa looked tired and sad as she opened the door for Hermione to step out.
"Uruz," she said suddenly, glancing up at Hermione's forehead as they faced each other across the threshold of the doorway. "Its meaning has become quite clear, yes?"
Hermione gave her a weary, sidelong look.
"No," she contradicted morosely. She had a few new answers, yes, but about a million more questions. Add the curiosity, the confusion, fascination and revulsion distracting her from what little logic she could find to analyzed, the vague threats and even vaguer hopes... There was absolutely nothing clear about this at all. "I still don't know what any of this means." She shrugged dejectedly. "Care to enlighten me?"
Alexa's eyebrows lifted quizzically, surprised. "You don't see it?" When Hermione shook her head, Alexa cocked hers to the side, as though puzzled. Her eyes were worried. "How little we see ourselves," she murmured.
She reached out towards Hermione, paused, then laid her hand gently on Hermione's arm. Her touch was delicate, but Hermione could feel her hand through her sleeve as though the fabric was not there, and her skin tingled with a weight in the touch that wasn't physically there. Hermione looked up at her questioningly; the contact was simple, but somehow it was fraught with more meaning than Hermione could grasp. When Alexa spoke, her accent was thicker, and her eyes were distant and filled with some heavy emotion that said perhaps she felt it too.
"The god… Riddle… is driven by uruz." She shook her head, and squeezed Hermione's arm, little prickles of sensation radiating from her fingers up towards her shoulder. "He has marked you as uruz, Hermione. Because… it is you. You are his inspiration. His sickness. And his cure. You will be the rain that cools his fury. Or…" a shadow of fear flitted through her eyes. "Or you will be the fire that inflames him to incinerate everything."
The sky overhead rumbled ominously; the clouds were beginning to thicken again for another storm.
"What am I supposed to do?" Hermione hated how small her voice sounded in the space between them.
"Seek the wise one; the wizard who knows your past. He has the answers you search for."
Alexa lifted her hand off of Hermione's shoulder. Hermione blinked rapidly, and took a deep breath, as though she had forgotten the need before. She felt momentarily light-headed. What 'wise one' was she talking about?
"I wish I could guide you." Alexa shook her head apologetically. "But I suspect you must choose your own way from here. Good luck, Hermione Granger," she moved to close the door, then paused, casting her eyes up at the shells of the buildings and back down to ne. "Yes, Grandmother was right. He is dangerous. But…" she bit her lip, eyes narrowing in thought. "…he may also be more than that." She looked back at Hermione, hard in the eye. "And… so might you. Consider carefully. There are many ways up the mountain."
Then she smiled goodbye, and closed the door. Hermione stood there staring at it for a long time, tracing the painted wood grain with her eyes as though she could read some kind of sense or answer in the pattern.
Was Alexa right? To Voldemort, she was uruz? The beast. The rain. The sickness and the cure.
The beast… or the rain… One or the other. Hermione's brow furrowed.
"Everything depends on you," he had said.
"Why did you tell me all of that last night?" she asked the empty air.
Not just because she had changed the rules. Not just because he wanted confession or absolution.
Why say so much, why ask if I understood, then choke me unconscious before I could respond?
Why leave medicine rather than applying it himself, if the sight of the wound was so unbearable to him?
Why taunt me by refusing to answer my questions, but leave me clues, tempt me with a mystery, and tell me to search for the answers myself?
Why leave me here, free to tell his secrets, but deliver an ultimatum and ask me not to?
Understanding struck like lightening out of a clear sky.
"So that I have to choose."
Not to give her a choice, as Alexa had done. To force her to choose.
The beast. Or the rain.
To oppose him. Or to cooperate with him.
He didn't want to force her into an alliance. He wanted her to choose an alliance with him of her own free will.
Runic symbols seemed to flash and dance around her head in a whirlwind as her analytical mind snapped them up and dissected the past hours along their esoteric edges.
To create a shared guilt. A debt of loyalty. To fill his 'need' with a 'gift'. Or to fill mine… Not just to make an alliance in word, but to have me to share his guilt, of my own free will, so that we are equally complicit, share an equal stake in success or failure… A true union of opposites, just as Alexa had said.
The mark of uruz tingled on her forehead again.
"His calming rain, or his all-consuming fire? That's the choice?"
There was no response, of course.
There was no possible way! A madman was asking her to make herself his willing hostage! To hand herself over into blackmail. To betray Harry and Ron and all the people she cared about! To risk more than she could even begin to imagine, and for something he had barely even begun to qualify to her. Asking her to trust him without giving her any reason to do so. And for what?
Healing.
The mystery of Asuwolo, the healing sun, tempted and troubled her, left like some juicy bait under a sign that read "this is a trap" in flashing neon letters. Only a fool would take it.
But Hermione wanted to know, needed to understand, could not help but wonder: how did Tom imagine that her choices or her help could heal what he had broken? The war was over. Wouldn't things begin to heal on their own with time?
It didn't seem possible, or fathomable, or sane. Hermione glanced around herself. The broken city of London towered above her. What could she do to balance this kind of pain?
But if she really could…
"Sometimes the reward is worth the danger..." Alexa's words rang in her ears.
Hermione was suddenly brought up short. Something Alexa had said…
"I wish you well, Hermione Granger"
"I never told you my name…"
Even Voldemort had only said 'Hermione'. How did Alexa know her surname?
"Taldur was far-seeing."
The length of the encounter raced through her mind, and it suddenly occurred to Hermione to wonder what other attributes Alexa had inherited from her fae ancestors.
Far-seeing?
"Or…" Hermione drew in a breath, no longer bothering to feel embarrassed over her divining thoughts. "...precognizant?" What Professor Trelawney would give to see her know, she mused.
"She is wise."
Hermione gasped and turned to the deep, thickly accented voice behind her. The burly man with the unibrow had locked up the cart, closing its shutters and securing it to a nearby lamp post with a heavy chain. Hermione saw a number of runic symbols etched into the metal frame, and had no doubt whatsoever that the locks were mere formality next to the other forms of theft protection the Solbergs had put in place around their property. The man moved past her to the door.
"If she tell you something, you are fool if not to listen." He looked up at her forehead, and Hermione knew he was another who could see her mark. "She knows much." He looked back into her eyes. "She knows."
Then he moved past her and pushed through the door, closing it behind him. She heard a lock slide into place somewhere beyond.
Hermione craned her neck to stare up at the grimy row of second story windows, her eyes wide, unable to quite believe the ideas she was entertaining and willing the truth to present itself.
When nothing more was forthcoming, Hermione bit her lip, at war with herself.
Alexa seemed to believe she should give Tom a chance. How much faith should she put in this stranger's advice? Even if she was… Hermione shook her head.
Every instinct and rational thought urged her against it. But something more, something deeper than thought or fear, whispered to her that maybe, just maybe…
She pulled the gold disc from her pocket, tracing the runes with her eyes. Need, gift and healing stared back at her, taunting her with their blatant double meanings, and stalwartly guarding their maker's secrets.
"Healing… Are you asking, Tom?" she murmured. "Or offering? Which is it?"
Again, no answer. She sighed, nodding slowly. That was alright. Tom was right about one thing. Frustrating as it could sometimes be, Hermione was a brilliant seeker; she knew that answers didn't always offer themselves up. Sometimes they had to be hunted down. And despite the ramifications of the chase, in her heart of hearts, she wouldn't have it any other way.
Even so, she shivered to think how deep in the dark she remained. Her path forward to find new answers was lost to her, and she was standing at the edge of deep, lightless waters, about to leap into them without knowing how far she would have to swim to reach the other side. Or what monsters lurked beneath.
She turned her face up the street, in the direction of the Ministry of Magic. Towards help and protection. That was the right way. The safe way. The sane way. She stared down that path for a long time. Harry, at least, deserved to know...
"…are you so eager to burn the world again with me, Hermione?"
She turned around and set off in the opposite direction, preparing herself to try to argue away the fee she'd no doubt accrued for missing checkout time at the hotel. She would tell him eventually, she reasoned.
The burned out windows seemed to watch her from above like the hollow sockets of fleshless skulls, the broken buildings thrusting up into the sky like jagged teeth of a cadaver's leer. The wind swept down around her, like icy breath from death's head, howling and mocking her ignorance. Accusing her of treachery. Crowing at her daring. Cackling at her squeamishness as she kept her eyes firmly on the pavement in front of her.
I didn't do this. He chose to do this. It doesn't matter why. It doesn't.
But she still couldn't look up at the city. She squeezed the gold disc, the rune for the healing sun pressing into her palm, and prayed to whoever was listening that she wasn't making a terrible mistake.
"…you and I burned this world together. We two alone in all the realms share this guilt. And the part of you that is broken by that truth will always belong to me…"
The sky rumbled again. The first cool drop of the next storm splashed against her forehead, and Hermione sped up her steps, hoping to avoid the rain. If she could.
The End! (For now...)
I'll hope you liked it! Lots of feedback is welcome!