REMORSE II - INTO THE CHAMBER
By now, Hermione has accepted that her presence in 1944 is important. She has managed to get close to Tom Riddle, closer than she ever thought she would. Her relationship with him becomes increasingly complicated, as it is no longer hatred and dislike alone that determine her feelings for him. He skilfully excavates deeply hidden emotions within her to manipulate her in his favour. As the darkness threatens to engulf Hermione, however, Tom also realises that not everything in life goes as planned ...
Welcome, dearest readers. This is part 2 of my Remorse trilogy. If you have not yet read Remorse I in full, please go there first, otherwise this story won't make much sense to you.
As before, I again warn you that this fanfiction is dark, twisted, and probably disturbing. Tom Riddle is warning in and of himself, please take it serious. While you have already witnessed his deplorable actions in part 1, it will not get better here - and you will meet increasingly more characters with varying morality.
I - NEW POWER
~O~
The power is vicious and insatiable -
First it dulls us
to the suffering of other people
and then it makes us addicted to it,
because only the suffering of others gives us the certainty
that our power over them is unbroken.
- Sun Tzu.
~O~
Tom was still sitting on the edge of her bed, but there was no sign of the fearsome man who had begrudged Hermione her success in the duel. He sat transfixed, eyes closed, obviously intoxicated by the pure magic that still swirled around them. Hermione could not help but smile. She felt the pulsing too, an energy that charged the air around her. For the first time since she had learned so many years ago that she was a witch, she felt truly powerful. Superior. Better.
Without thinking about it, she reached out to take Tom's hand. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked down at her almost in wonder. Her tender gesture seemed to throw him off his stride. But his astonishment did not last long.
Hard, his hand closed around her wrist. "What is it?"
Frowning, Hermione looked down at her bare arm. And then the realisation hit her full force.
Her arm was uncovered. The unleashing of her magic robbed her of control of an important spell she had been constantly maintaining since her time travel.
Clearly visible carved on her arm was the word "Mudblood".
Pale, she simply stared at the word. She remembered too well how Bellatrix Lestrange had carved it into her arm. She had never felt so much fear in her life as when she had been held captive in the Malfoy mansion. The pain alone had been bad enough, but the whole time she had wondered if this insane woman would simply leave her to the werewolf afterwards. Goosebumps spread over her body.
"Hermione," Tom's voice cut relentlessly through the room, "I won't ask again. What is that?"
What was she supposed to tell him? What could she tell him? He already reacted with enough contempt when he found out that one of her parents was not of magical blood. Now, of all times, she had come closer to him than ever before.
"It's an old scar. Someone carved the word Mudblood into my arm," she said slowly. She knew herself that this was not the kind of answer he wanted to hear, but what could she do? Hurriedly, her eyes fell to the door – would not the nurse have to come back very soon? If she could stall him long enough ...
No, that was no solution. She had to face the problem now, lay her cards openly on the table. If she wanted to keep even a shred of trust, she had to come clean with Tom. What did she know about his past? Could she come up with any story that he would not only believe, but that might even make him go easy on her? She could not lose the progress she had just made.
"Thank you for stating the obvious." Tom's face held a contemptuous sneer, still clutching her arm tightly. Icy coldness was in his voice, but his eyes blazed with anger. With precisely articulated words, he hammered on, "Why would anyone carve that word on a half-blood's arm? What sense does that make, dearest Hermione? Do you understand my confusion about this? Would you be so free to enlighten me as to how I am supposed to understand this?"
With a well calculated gesture, Hermione placed her free hand on top of his, clutching her wrist. "I'm a mudblood, Tom. Both my parents were muggles."
As if he had been burned, Tom let go of her and jumped up from the bed. In the same second he drew his wand and pointed it at her. "A mudblood? How can that be when Aberforth Dumbledore, who is supposed to be your father, works here in the village and is obviously a wizard?"
Slowly Hermione became aware that her lie brought so many consequences with it that she could hardly keep track of them now. If she was not Hermione Dumbledore, then who was she? She could hardly tell him her real name or he would immediately start to wonder in the future when he found out about Harry Potter's friend. Exasperated, she ran a hand through her hair. "Of course, he's not my father."
"Another lie then," Tom hissed, "What else is wrong? Have you ever even spoken a word that was true? WHO are you?"
Shuddering, she wrapped her arms around herself. Her own magic had long since ceased to be felt, instead the whole room seemed gripped by Tom's powerful energy. Hermione wondered anxiously if he was really able to control that amount of magic, or if they were not very close to a magical catastrophe.
"I'm ... Hermione," she whispered haltingly, "Hermione ... Brown. And it's not all lies. My mother ... she had a brief relationship with Aberforth Dumbledore once, but ... it didn't work out. She actually emigrated to America and married a muggle. The fact that I'm a witch is pure coincidence. She kept in touch with Dumbledore even after they split up and when it turned out that I was a witch, he opened up to her that he was a wizard. But ... mudbloods are not welcome in America. A group of students from my school there, from ... Ilvermorny ... they haunted me during the school holidays. Killed my parents and gave me... this scar. So that forever everyone will know what I am."
"Why are you here?"
She rolled her eyes. How much more did she have to come up with off the top of her head to shut Tom up? Hastily she rummaged in her memory for all the things she had said before about her supposed father. "I could hardly stay in America, eh? So, I wrote to Aberforth Dumbledore and told him I was indeed his daughter. I told him about the incident. It was not difficult for him to believe that I was his daughter. After all, how often does it happen that two Muggles give birth to a witch or a wizard? The rest ... is true. Neither he nor Professor Dumbledore really know about me."
Still Tom did not lower his wand, and the expression in his eyes was full of suspicion and hatred. "You mean to tell me that Dumbledore just swallowed that? I don't know your supposed father that well, but there's no way Albus Dumbledore would buy a lie like that from just anyone."
Hermione snorted. Of course. Dumbledore had never bought Tom's lie that he was a striving, well-behaved student who cared about his classmates, and therefore it was generally impossible to lie to Dumbledore. Of course. She made a disdainful sound. "You think? There's a girl who's just lost her parents, witnessed a gruesome murder, marked with a Mumblood scar, asking for sanctuary. Do you think someone like Dumbledore would have ulterior motives and doubt the sincerity of that at first? He's a bloody Gryffindor, Tom. If he can do good, he does it without asking, without thinking."
She could see his eyes widen briefly at her snide words. She could always get to Tom via his dislike of Dumbledore. Another thought rose in her, a thought that almost instantly formulated itself into words. She shuddered to herself.
"You know, Tom," she said slowly, tilting her head to the side as if he was not standing in front of her with a wand, not threatening her life, "I was hoping to start over at Hogwarts. As a pure-blood witch. Or at least as a half-blood. It's probably unimaginable to someone like you, but I hate muggles. I despise my mother for abandoning a wizard to take this other man. It was pathetic how helpless they were at the mercy of my classmates' magic. Muggles are weak. But I am strong, stronger than most wizards. I was stronger than anyone at Ilvermorny, my teachers saw that. But they all knew I had muggle parents. So, I could never have good grades. A mudblood can't be better than the scion of a large, pure-blooded family."
Inwardly, Hermione gathered every bit of hatred she had felt whenever someone belittled her for her blood, and turned it into insults dripping with contempt that she did not believe herself. She felt it blaze inside her as she continued, "I was almost glad to be rid of my parents at last. A new life, no one knows I'm a mudblood. I can finally show that I am a powerful witch. I no longer have to be the good, striving witch who says yes and amen to everything in order to get even a smile from a teacher. Here at Hogwarts, I am treated as I have always been entitled to be treated: As a witch with unimaginable power. Here, I no longer have to hide just because I had the misfortune of having muggle parents."
Confidently, she looked Tom straight in the eye. "And I won't let anyone take that away from me. Not even you, Tom."
Slowly he lowered his wand without taking his eyes off her. He stood his ground, just as she stood her ground. It was as if he was searching for the lie in her words, but the honest anger that blazed within her, the years of humiliation she had experienced simply because she was a muggleborn witch, gave her enough credibility to withstand his probing gaze. Or at least she hoped so. It was nonsense that muggleborn witches or wizards were weaker than purebloods. She knew she was the best proof of that, and her parents were the best proof that muggles, just like wizards, were kind-hearted, important, loving people who could walk this world as proudly as anyone else. But especially during these times, in England in the forties, she stood alone with this view. It was good to get all her hatred of those who discriminated against her off her chest, even if she dressed it up in a different garb.
The suspicion faded from Tom's eyes to give way instead to a smile that played around the corners of his mouth. He stepped closer to her again and placed a hand on her cheek. "I'm beginning to understand why you're a Slytherin. I always thought you wore your heart on your sleeve like a Gryffindor. But in reality ... in reality ... you're just like me."
Holding her breath, Hermione looked up at him. Had it worked? Had she actually won Tom Riddle over? Her heart leapt as she felt his warm thumb gently caress her lips. "So, you're a muggleborn. A witch without any magical roots. Fascinating."
She leaned into his touch. "I don't know. Maybe ancestors of mine were wizards. I've never been able to investigate."
He leaned down to her until his eyes were level with hers. "You should. Look, when I first came to Hogwarts and saw that I could compete with all those pureblood wizards without a problem, I realised that I couldn't just be a half-blood. I just knew that somewhere in my family there had to be strong, magical blood. And I didn't give up until I found my ancestors. The Heir of Slytherin. No matter how much muggle blood is mixed in, his blood is always stronger than anything else, no one can sully that. My blood is purer and more powerful than anyone else's here, no matter how much they pretend to be purebloods. And I am sure the same is the case with you."
She would have liked to roll her eyes. Of course. She could only be strong because in reality she had powerful ancestors somewhere. But she realised she had to play this game. "I'm tired of everyone looking down on me. When I didn't know I was a witch, everyone treated me like an outsider because I had just so much easier a time to learn and was so ... different. They hated me, just because I was different. And then when I came to Hog... to Ilvermorny, when I thought everything was finally getting better, everyone just ostracised me again too."
That part was actually true. She had indeed not had it easy in her pre-Hogwarts days, and Ron in particular had given her a hard time at the beginning of her school days as a witch. Not that he had been a bad person. She just knew too well how to irritate him, she realised later.
She almost did not notice that Tom moved even closer to her. His lips almost touched hers as he whispered softly, "Never make yourself smaller than you are just because others might like you more. If the others can't handle your power, that's their problem. They are jealous of you. Don't let that drag you down, but bathe in the knowledge that you have something they can never have."
He had all but breathed his last words before bridging the last minimal distance and brushing his lips tenderly over hers. A nervous flutter took possession of her stomach. Against her will, Hermione had to admit that his words were a great enticement. She was tired of others having inferiority complexes just because she could learn more easily and could do more with her magic. Ron in particular always seemed to suffer from this. She had always been considerate of it and tried not to rub her superiority in her two best friends' faces quite so badly. The idea of simply not caring, but just being herself, she, Hermione, the powerful witch, had never occurred to her. Her good heart never allowed it.
But here, in Tom's arms, with his lips running so sensuously over hers, his warm hand still on her cheek while the other tenderly caressed her thighs through the blanket, here in 1944 those concerns suddenly seemed small and nonsensical.
What was actually stopping her from just being open about the fact that she was powerful? That she was more powerful than pretty much everyone else. And above all: that she had recently been able to access much more magical energy than usual!
Sighing, she closed her eyes to give herself completely to the kiss.