Jagged

Tore My Shirt to Stop You Bleeding

She leaves him alone. Not because he asked, but because she's above begging. She didn't beg Draco, and she wouldn't beg Tom. She wouldn't beg anyone. Not ever.
After leaving the library that evening, she locks herself in her dorm. Closes her bed hangings and silences them.
She doesn't cry. Gods, she wants to so desperately, but it seems like whenever she needs the release, the tears won't come.
So she sits and meditates for the first time in months. She tears down her Occlumency walls just to reconstruct them with better reinforcement. Putting Tom behind them doesn't seem possible, and as frustrating as that is, she just hopes the same is true for him. That Hermione will haunt his memory just as much as he does hers.
The next morning she wakes and dresses mechanically. She puts on the same shortened skirt and knee socks, because she doesn't want him to think she ever did it for him.
But she did. She did a lot for him.
Nothing feels real anymore. Colors seem more dull, and conversations aren't as exciting. She gets up and goes on daily runs with Myla. She completes her homework and gossips with Lorriane. Her routine doesn't change outside of Tom. She fears if she stops-- if she lets herself rest, or think about it too hard, the grief of it all will weigh her down and she won't be able to get back up.
She goes down and tends to the wolfsbane, same as she had every other morning before this. Part of her wants to pour it down a drain, but resources had been so sparse during the war, and it seems like such a waste to just get rid of it out of spite. She decides to keep it until she has a better idea.
At breakfast, Tom sits between Abraxas and Nott, just as he had every other morning. Like nothing has changed. Like he might glance up at any moment and give her that same knowing smirk.
He doesn't look up at her. Not even once.
It stings and it burns and she feels the magic buzz beneath her skin uncomfortably, searching for an outlet. She presses down on it and refuses to give in. She leaves breakfast early and sits in the same spot she does every arithmancy class. Right next to Tom's intended seat.
Still, she underestimates his own stubbornness because he plops down right next to her as if nothing had ever happened between them. Hermione is normally the one to speak first, so when she says nothing, they sit in silence. Uncomfortable, awkward silence that makes her skin crawl even more than the unreleased magic.
It's like they're strangers. She feels just as alone as she did during her first few days in the 1940's.
There should be some sort of fall out from this, she thinks. There must be some form of consequence or negative outcome from purposefully staying away from one's mate.
Abraxas doesn't approach her. She hadn't been able to talk to him since he'd seen Tom and her in the library, but now it feels like a wall has been shoved up between them.
There doesn't need to be any clarification. She knows which side he has picked.
It's not hers. But she never expected that out of him.
It doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt. To see she was never meant to be permanent in their lives.
Time continues on, and Tom never approaches her. A week goes by, and then a few more days.
Hermione watches him closely, because if there ever were ever a time for him to come back, it would be when the full moon rears its ugly head.
And the signs are there. His eyes land on her for the first time four days before the full moon. She's taking notes in Ancient Runes, but the weight of his gaze lands heavily, and she knows immediately. It lasts for only a few seconds before he pulls away, but it's unmistakable.
It happens more often after that. She pays close enough attention to keep track of what he's looking at. The way his eyes stop at her lips a moment too long everytime. How his fingers twitch whenever his gaze sees the bare skin of her thighs.
She does nothing to tempt him. Not because she doesn't want to, but because she thinks doing it might be exactly what he wants. An excuse for him to give in.
And even if it kills her, she will not be an out. If Tom comes to her, it will be entirely his decision.
---
The day before the full moon, she's sitting in the dungeons classroom, staring at the completed wolfsbane potion with pursed lips.
It should just go in the trash. There's no reason for her to give it to Tom.
But everytime she brings the cauldron over the drain, she sees Remus' face in the early days of the war, before she ever learned to brew it. How stressed he'd been-- how much pain was caused by something that had a solution.
And-- and it feels like a waste. It sounds like an excuse, but she swears it isn't. Wasting anything after the war has been an internal battle. Seeing all the excess food in the Great Hall is distressing in its own way.
Besides, Hermione has been holding onto her tiny shrivels of humanity left within her with a tight fist. She will not feel bad for wanting to help someone. Even if they don't deserve it.
So she brings Tom down to the basement. There's a bit of resistance on his part, and she can't really blame him. This close to the full moon, she knows he must be feeling anxious and out of control. Anytime they've ever been in a room alone, she's had nefarious intentions in mind.
But she lets him keep the door open, even if she can't help but roll her eyes. He stands by the entrance and she makes no comment on it. Even as her rage feels like it might bubble over.
She ladles the potion into a vial and shakes it at him.
He tilts his head. "That doesn't look like healing draught."
"No," she says, tone clipped. "And I won't be brewing healing draught for you any longer. This is something else."
"What is it?"
"It'll help with the transformations."
He says nothing. Doesn't move. Just stares at it. Hermione sighs.
"It takes a while to brew. I began working on it after the last full moon."
"You could have disposed of it."
"Yes," Hermione says between clenched teeth. "But instead this is the decision I made." She walks over to him and shoves the vial in his hand. "So here, take it. I won't even ask for a thank you."
He brings it to his line of sight and studies it. Less than thirty seconds have passed before he slams it down on the nearest table with the shake of his head.
"I don't know what that is, but I'm not taking anything I didn't see you brew."
She runs her tongue over her teeth. "I'm not trying to poison you, Tom. I'm not the type to participate in pointless murder." It's a jab, even if he doesn't know it.
"Either way, I don't want it."
And that-- that does something to Hermione. Something she can't exactly explain. It's like the floodgates of rage she's been containing behind her Occlumency walls finally releases and she doesn't think. Her magic does the work for her.
Her wand is raised and pointed at Tom before she can even make sense of it.
It's just a harmless stunner-- and Tom is quick enough on his feet to dodge to the left. It hits the wall behind him with a loud crack.
He retaliates before Hermione even has a chance to explain herself.
A flash of red, aimed straight for her chest. Hermione sticks up a shield and fires back.
She hasn't fought in a battle in months. Any other habit would have been long gone. She'd have to relearn proper form for anything else, but--
But dueling comes back to her like it's nothing.
Part of her is excited, because she'd worked so hard to become good at this. It had not come naturally. Lots of blood and sweat had been put into this, and she's glad to see it's something that stuck with her.
But the other part-- the logical part, that understands psychology a bit more-- understands that this is a bit more complicated than a skill just coming back to her.
Her heart pounds, and everything around them seems to fade away. It feels like a life or death situation. And it is. She has no doubts that if Tom gets the chance, he'll kill her. Without question.
So she treats it like she does anything else. She fires a slicing hex at his chest just as he dodges an acid curse. It hits him, and she watches as his robes begin to soak through with red. His head drops as he looks at the wound in disbelief.
Tom has always been the best dueler, and Hermione had seen no reason to challenge that in Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. The wound brings her joy and the shock makes her feel unstoppable.
Unlike Tom, she's not aiming to kill. If she was, he'd be down in five seconds. She'd call the earth magic up and tie it around his neck. Watch the life drain from his eyes, bested by the type of magic he always tried to control.
But she won't do it. She won't. Out of all the awful things she has done in her life, she thinks this is the decision she wouldn't be able to live with. The last straw, no matter how ironic it is.
A purple spell catches her bicep by less than an inch, and pain radiates all the way down, followed quickly by numbness. It's a spell that they never taught in school, but Hermione became very familiar with it. She loses all feeling and her wand slips from her useless fingers. Tom sees an opening and begins shooting an onslaught of dark spells.
"If you'd used proper dueling form, you might have done some actual damage, Riddle."
Hermione reaches down with her left hand and grabs her wand, sliding underneath the nearest table as the chairs around her go flying. She knows little about werewolf magic, except that rage seems to be the key in unlocking it. The air is sticky and charged with their different magical signatures.
Blood slides down her forehead and into her eye. She's not sure when she got hit-- whether Riddle got her with a hex or if she banged her head while dodging.
"You think I'll spare you?" He walks closer, and she peaks under to see his wand at the ready and aimed right at her.
Hermione lifts her own wand at the table and heaves it over at Tom. It lands with a crash, but Tom is quick, and he drops to the floor and slides beneath it, leaving streaks of red behind on the floor. His shirt is almost completely soaked through with blood, forehead wet with sweat. His shoulders heave with heavy breaths. Hermione is poised and ready, knowing his next move before he even does. But then--
His eyes.
They meet hers, and the pure, unadulterated rage catches her off guard.
She knows what Tom is capable of. Yes, she's seen it first hand. She knows the horrid path he takes to get what he thinks he's entitled to.
But Voldemort and Tom-- her Tom-- they are not the same. She's convinced herself of this over and over again. She has made constant justifications for his actions to make it seem like he's a better man than the one from her future.
And maybe he is. But who is she to decide that? To excuse him from his awful ideals even in this timeline?
Her wand drops to her side just as he drags her to her feet. He shoves her up against a wall as if she weighs nothing. Her head slams back against it and for a moment there is nothing but black and a sharp whistle sound. When her vision clears, she sees him once more. Features twisted into fury, holding nothing back. She can feel the hatred coming off him. It burrows deep under her skin, weighs down her muscles. Drains all the fight out of her.
Her wand is on the ground by the table, but she has never needed the wand. She didn't want it to come to this, but Old Magic is a last resort, and she's already shown all her other cards.
She raises her hands and opens her mouth to command, but Tom throws his forearm over her throat and takes both her wrists in one of his hands.
Hermione is more connected with magic than Tom. She is a better dueler, with more real life experience. She is quicker and more clever and has much more respect for the magic she pulls from.
But she is not stronger than Tom.
And she truly cannot think of a way out of this.
"I like you like this. Blood spilling. At my mercy. No freedom in sight."
In his eyes she can see the monster he turns out to be. That does nothing but hate and yearn for power he does not deserve. It is an empty pit of despair and he will drown whatever humanity he has left in it. This Tom Riddle will not take over the wizarding world. He will annihilate it.
And there will be no Hermione Granger to stop him.
All that she had survived, led up to this very moment. Her vision goes fuzzy as he presses harder against her throat. She gasps, but there's no oxygen left. She can feel herself fading.
He's speaking, but Hermione cannot hear.
She should have killed him. She should have been stronger. This is all her fault.
Just as she accepts her fate, the pressure around her wrists fades. Just barely, not enough for her to break away, but it awakens something in her. She opens her eyes to see Tom staring at her, wand pointed at her chest, but shaking. He looks confused. Maybe even scared.
He's not killing her.
He's not killing her.
And that will be his downfall.
Fleur's hand to hand training comes back to her all at once. She kicks out at him, and the pain and shock causes him to loosen his grip further. It takes little more effort for Hermione to free herself.
This time, she lets the war facade completely take over. She raises her arms and feels the earth rumble beneath their feet. It trembles so violently that Tom falls to the ground. Right where he lands, the floor splits open and he slips onto dirt. Hundreds of small roots shoot up to wrap around his arms and legs. He fights against them, but its pointless. The more he moves, the tighter the restraints become. His fingers turn blue before he catches on.
She feels the rage bubbling in her. It urges her on.
A root around the throat. Tighter than he squeezed you. Watch the light die from his eyes. He hesitated, but you won't.
No, she won't. But she also won't sink to his level.
She summons the vial from the table in the back and walks over to him. He stares up at her like he doesn't recognize her.
She hopes he doesn't.
Her shoe presses down into the middle of his chest with enough force to jerk the breath out of him. Hermione brings the vial up to the light and inspects it. Her hand is steady, even as the rage rolls through her.
"This isn't poison," she says, popping the cork out. "It wasn't a plan of sabotage, either. It was just a girl in love, trying to help."
Below her he's struggling for breath, and she presses harder, unwilling to feel guilty. His eyes are glazed over and he's moments from passing out. She's not even sure he can hear her.
"But you don't deserve my help."
She turns the vial upside down. Watches as the liquid hits his chest, slides over his ritual mark and soaks into the dirt below him.
His eyes widen, and he looks pitiful. Staring up at her desperately, gasping wildly.
When it's empty she throws it down by his head and watches it shatter. There are hundreds of broken pieces around him and it still doesn't feel like enough.
"Do not expect anything else from me again."
She leaves him there like that, letting the Earth Magic decide when to release him.