Sunday, December 5, 1944
7:02 A.M.
Hermione yawned. Slowly uncurling herself from her original, curled-up position in a Slytherin green armchair, she stretched luxuriously, reaching her arms toward the ceiling until it seemed they would be able to move no further. Somehow, she had managed to catch as many sporadic ZZZZs as she could while posted beside Tom Riddle's king-sized, Head Boy bed.
Were she any younger, spending this much time in a fully-adorned, hard-core Slytherin bedroom would have definitely been disturbing. Fortunately, though, Draco's stint as Head Boy the past year had, in an outlandish sort of way, prepared her for this year's extensive dealings with the very heir of the Snake House itself.
Hermione's gaze flitted down to Riddle's sleeping face. In the still nothingness around her, her mind floated back to the night when she had first heard of Anima Adflictatio - the night that she had lost all consciousness after her giant row with Riddle in the common room - and she was struck with an inevitable sense of role-reversal déjà vu.
Her thoughts were interrupted when the object of her musings heaved a cavernous sigh—the first sign of life beside breathing that she had gotten from him since Hogsmeade— and leisurely rolled onto his side. His eyes flickered open placidly, then snapped open as he realized exactly where he was.
Back in his own bedroom.
"I didn't think you'd want to go back to the hospital wing," Hermione remarked offhandedly, thoroughly enjoying the shock in Riddle's expression as he rapidly swung his head in the direction of her distinctive, articulate voice. She became even more amused when the Heir of Slytherin swiftly composed himself into one large ball of coolness.
"You're right, I wouldn't have." Delicately, Riddle touched his right temple and winced. "I passed out, I presume."
At the quite obvious deduction, Hermione couldn't help but respond with a very Draco-like smirk, "Five points to Slytherin." She crossed her arms and smugly leaned back in the armchair, drumming her fingers on a knitted rib of her sweater.
Riddle shot her a foul look, weakly propped himself up, and tested his balance with his left arm. He must have deemed himself still unstable, though, because he carefully sank back down into the bed and peered at her, the sunlight giving his tired face a slightly washed-out appearance. "Do draw those godforsaken curtains, Nefertari; do you want me to end up blind as well as bedridden?" he snapped wearily.
Holding back another smirk, Hermione arched an eyebrow in mock-consideration. After momentarily observing her mischievous, laughing eyes, Riddle shook his head impassively and muttered, "Don't answer that, actually."
The smirk broke its way onto Hermione's face anyway, and she casually raised her wand. Without even bothering to turn around and face the open curtains directly behind her, she pointed the supple wood over her head in the general direction of the windows. With an expert flick of her wrist, the thick curtains on each of Riddle's three floor-to-ceiling windows magically swished shut. Immediately the room plunged into the positively dreary, cold atmosphere of nearly pitch darkness.
Never losing sight of Riddle's face, Hermione arched one thin, dark eyebrow at him. "Happy?"
"Quite." Riddle's acute eyes studied her once more, and she lifted her chin, challengingly returning his piecing gaze. She was mildly impressed with his ability to appear imposing and completely in command of the situation, even while lying flat in bed. "I'm sure you realize, Nefertari," he began slowly, his eyes probing hers for a reaction, "that it takes a lot of rather advanced magic, performing simultaneous nonverbal Transmutus spells."
"I'm not Head Girl for nothing," Hermione retorted smartly, her hand absently wandering up to the Amulet of Eras.
Riddle nodded to himself, glanced back at her, and smirked. "Yes, I suppose Hogwarts did charge you quite a bit for it, didn't they?"
Rolling her eyes, Hermione re-crossed her arms and casually stretched back out in the armchair, pulling from behind her back a tiny forest green cushion emblazoned with a silver snake. "Didn't take you long to recover, I see," she said acidly, tossing it back and forth from one hand to the other.
Riddle stared at her, his smug look fading. "Not long enough." Carefully, but with no additional facial expression whatsoever, Riddle gingerly eased himself upward to a sitting position and leaned back against the headboard, his head tilted upward, slightly toward the ceiling, his breath an increment or two harder from the effort.
"Why do you wear that all the time?" Hermione asked suddenly, unable to contain herself. When she and he had rolled into his room the night before, she had taken the liberty of removing his snow-damp robes, shoes, and tie before dumping him in his bed, but she had neither dared nor wanted to go any further. He was otherwise still fully clothed in the Hogwarts dark trousers and white oxford shirt, slightly unbuttoned so he could breathe.
Riddle swallowed, his head still tipped back against the headboard. His grey eyes were all that moved as he shifted his line of sight from the ceiling toward her silhouette. "Wear what?"
"Your uniform," she said, a thin, wry smile tugging at her lips. "Don't get me wrong, I'm a big believer in school spirit, too, but don't tell me that that thing is so comfortable that you can't ever take it off, because I won't believe you."
He closed his eyes and resumed his leaning position. "You seem to be an expert on the subject, Nefertari," he retorted in a suddenly stiff, toneless voice. "Why don't you tell me?"
As if an electric shock had run though her body, Hermione agitatedly realized that she was losing him, losing him far too quickly to his apathetic counterpart. If she didn't want what little headway they had gained at Hogsmeade yesterday, whatever it was, to be all for naught... she was going to have to hit him again, hard. And soon.
Refocusing slightly, Hermione's eyes lingered on his dark hair. Usually perfectly combed to one side, the brownish-black mass was now mussed and messy. Several of the longer locks curled into the side of his face, while more still flew outwards like Harry's typically did on a good day. Messy but neat, if that was possible.
And Hermione found herself thinking, He needs to wear it like that more often—
The brunette mentally slapped herself.
Taking a deep breath - suddenly more than a little disturbed at her obviously perverse mind - Hermione lowered her unyielding, pale brown stare at Riddle. It would be risky; she had absolutely no idea of how he would take it, none at all, and with his strong tendency to mood swing, he could go either way, but...
Before she lost her nerve, and with her rational mind mentally pounding one side of her brain with a broomstick, yelling 'STUPID! STUPID,' Hermione burst out, "I know what you did."
Immediately, Riddle stiffened, more than he already was, if that was possible, his back quickly resembling the headboard that he was resting against. His stormy eyes flashed open, and he swung his head to face her completely, his pale left cheek still leaning, a stark contrast, against the dark, polished mahogany wood surface. His grey eyes flickered a dark red. The subtle contours of his face told her what he was feeling.
Alarm. Confusion. Dread. Anger. Panic.
"And... what, exactly... did I do?" Riddle finally asked, his initially worn-out voice suddenly fully alert, guarded. His eyes had darkened in red.
Feeling surprisingly fearless, Hermione stared straight into Riddle's changed eyes, trying to decide which part of his life to hit him with, something that her "seerish eye" could have realistically "seen." The full story behind the Chamber of Secrets? The Diary? Or... maybe how...
"You killed him," Hermione said simply, figuring Riddle would know full well who 'he' was.
As expected, she wasn't wrong.
All the color drained from Riddle's already-ashen face, and, in his right hand, he balled the Slytherin green sheets so tightly that Hermione could actually see his knuckles turn white. To her immense relief, however, the anger also faded from his features. Now, he merely came off as exhausted, more exhausted than he had appeared in the carriage, even. His eyes had gone back to grey.
He stared at a point just a heartbeat to the left of her face, somewhere on the eerily still, mountainously lofty drapes. "You know about that?" he eventually murmured in a low, incredulous voice.
Hermione almost smiled. She had hit a home run. "Yeah," she said softly.
Riddle eyes flickered unsteadily. Abruptly, he turned his head away from her, a sharp, jagged cough ripping through his chest. For a moment, he inhaled deeply, steadying his breath. Sounding more dead and impassive than she had ever heard him, he said flatly, "Well, you've been wondering about me for months, Nefertari, and there you have it. I'm a cold-blooded killer." His tone twisted bitterly. "Spread the word."
Silently, Hermione gazed at his rigid form, not quite knowing what to say. This reaction to her statement about his dead father was not what she had been expecting. From the stories Dumbledore and Harry had told her, she had always been under the impression that Riddle had been proud of his ability to kill and the number of people that he already had, but... this Riddle in front of her didn't seem to be that way at all.
With a jolt, she recognized that the feeling pulsing through her at that moment wasn't anger, anger at all the people Lord Voldemort had murdered—would murder in cold blood. No, but rather... the tiniest speck of pity for a seventeen-year-old boy named Tom Riddle flittered into her soul.
Wait! What am I thinking? Why was she becoming concerned for him when she should, in all reality and in all fairness, really, be relishing the fact that he was suffering?
But, in a neutral, non-accusatory tone, Hermione set the Slytherin pillow back on her lap and said softly, "Actually, I was rather hoping I could hear your side of the story before I made any assumptions about it."
A beat passed... and then another, and Hermione began to wonder if Riddle had even heard her at all.
She was about to ask him if he had even been listening to her when he said dully, "All right." Again, almost gritting out the words, he repeated, "All right." Sharply, Riddle swivelled his head back toward Hermione, his stormy eyes clouded, his voice suddenly toxic. "But remember, you asked for it, Nefertari. Not me."
The Slytherin turned completely forward again, determinedly staring straight ahead rather than meeting Hermione's quizzical, rapt gaze. This was the first time Hermione had ever encountered a Tom Riddle who was unable to look her in the face.
"My mother was a witch; my father, a Muggle," Riddle began unenthusiastically, rolling the word Muggle off his tongue as if it were dirty. He swallowed hard. "He didn't know about it. About the magical world, I mean — at least, not until just before I was born. After he found out... he wanted absolutely nothing to do with her... or me."
Hermione suddenly wondered what Draco, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Lavender would say if they knew she was sitting in Tom Riddle's bedroom, listening to the Heir of Slytherin intently like she was his own, personal psychiatrist.
"My mother died... shortly after I was born, from a curse that has voluntarily plagued our family for centuries," Riddle continued in a flat, lifeless voice, absently rolling and unrolling the top of the sheet. "It was the curse that killed her directly, but indirectly, it was my father's fault." He shot Hermione another intense look. "I... I can't explain it to you any more thoroughly than that, but it was."
Hermione didn't press him for details; she didn't feel she needed to. Once again, her stomach plummeted; it was so strange, knowing exactly what Riddle was talking about, even though he himself had no idea she knew. What had happened to Riddle's parents was clear to Hermione:
His mother had loved his father. That, alone, had sealed her fate.
His father had not returned the love. That had only had it worse.
And then the curse had killed his mother.
"My father knew I was alive; the Muggle orphanage where I had been born had contacted him about it." Still staring off into space, more bitterness filling his normally apathetic voice, Riddle angrily ground out, "And he was perfectly content to leave me there." He paused briefly, then glanced back at Hermione. "Have you ever been to a Muggle orphanage, Nefertari? Do you even have the slightest idea of what it's like?"
Hermione only met his burning stare for a moment before she dropped her eyes to her lap, twisting her blue and bronze scarf around her left hand thoughtlessly. For once, she had no solid, assured response for his question, but she knew her history well enough to be aware that old-time orphanages were not the best places to live. "I imagine it's awful," she said quietly.
"Very eloquently put, Nefertari, twenty points to Ravenclaw," Riddle carried on so quickly that he nearly cut her off, his voice laden with sarcasm. "It is awful; it's more than awful, and, worse still, the other orphans there would ask—they would always ask—'What happened to your father?' even though they knew the answer. Can you imagine what it felt like, being constantly reminded that your own father was still living but didn't give one bloody damn about you?"
Figuring that she wasn't really supposed to answer that, Hermione gazed steadily back at Riddle, at the shadows from the dreary bedroom's lack of light that partially obscured his face. Slowly, but rather confidently, she began to understand, to see why he became who he had become. Quietly, delicately, she asked, "What did they do to you, Tom?"
Sharply, in an instant, Riddle's eyes were on her again. "What did who do to me?"
Almost knowingly, Hermione continued to study him intently, the rest of the room almost fading into a blur until only she and he remained. "Everyone."
Riddle shrugged, but the movement was far less nonchalant than usual. Her eyes narrowing shrewdly, Hermione peered at him more scrupulously... and noticed—but just barely—that in his grey eyes were a rollercoaster of emotion that he had skilfully, extensively trained his face to conceal.
As if he knew the intentions behind her gaze, the Heir of Slytherin abruptly broke eye contact and tilted his head downward, suddenly finding his elegantly ornate silver and green comforter to be extremely fascinating. "I thought you were supposed to be able to see these things, Nefertari."
A raging ocean of sentiment was battling it out inside Hermione's eyes and was almost on the verge of spilling over... pity being in the lead and steadily winning control over the rational side of her mind. Gently, quietly, she said, "There are some things no one can see unless you allow them to." Uncrossing her arms, Hermione actually leaned forward, closer toward his bed, and repeated, "No one."
Listlessly, Riddle abandoned the comforter and doubtfully met her swirling, swimming eyes as she added softly, "Not even me."
Tom Riddle's face didn't change, it seemed; rather, he remained perfectly stoic...
Until his chin quivered, just a bit— but it was just enough.
Immediately, Riddle set his jaw stubbornly and blinked rapidly, ripping his gaze from hers. A jagged, hacking cough ripped through him, sending his shoulders careening forward. Clutching his stomach, he squeezed his eyes shut, the brutal cough relentlessly carrying on; the scene very similar to the one at the Friday Night Dance... and on the staircase outside the Head Boy room... and at Hogsmeade the day before.
Her heart pounding, her head spinning, Hermione jumped up, instinctively backing away from his bed, as if he—or she—was contaminated. "Listen," she began uncertainly, very correctly deducing that this conversation had drained Riddle completely—and not just physically, but emotionally, as he had nearly lost control over both areas in the past minute, "We... we don't need to talk about this now." Raising her voice so that he could hear it over his violent coughing, she added lamely, "Maybe some other time, okay?"
Riddle barely inclined his dark head. Instead, he crumpled flat onto his bed and slowly curled up into a painful-looking ball under the comforter, right hand held up to his mouth as a sort of buffer, still fighting another, more severe bout.
Hastily, Hermione took another rough, wobbly step backward, her breathing nearly as coarse and rapid as his. She figured that a speedy exit on her part might stop some of the hindering effects of the Anima curse. Maybe, if she hurried, she could make it to the Hospital Wing, bring back Madam L... Maybe she should have just taken him there in the first place—
Wait a second.
... Since when did she care so much?
... Since when had she even cared at all?
Torn, Hermione shoved all thought from her mind, and she tilted her curly head down at Tom Riddle. It was one of the few times she didn't have to tilt her head backward to see him fully. And, although she was trying not to think, a part of her couldn't help but scream: My God, he's only seventeen years old! No one, no one should have to go through this kind of pain!
Then again, he was Tom Lord Voldemort Marvolo Riddle, but... In spite of that, in spite of everything that she was fighting for or against, Hermione hesitated only another moment before she crossed back to his bedside as quickly as she had left it, extended her left arm, reached down, and lightly placed her hand on Riddle's clenched one.
Almost simultaneously, Riddle sucked in an agonized gasp, his entire body stiffening. Her heart skipping a beat, Hermione closed her eyes, unable to even begin to describe the surge, the flood of overwhelming emotions she felt at being the source of all this pain... even pain at a young Lord Voldemort's expense.
Gently, determinedly, Hermione slipped her fingers all the way around his icy hand and soothingly, rhythmically stroked her thumb over his damp skin, the most peculiar sensation slipping over her. She felt almost like she was standing outside of herself; a mere spectator, watching as someone else named Hermione Nefertari walked about Tom Riddle's room and held Tom Riddle's hand.
Her motor systems were obviously on auto pilot, there was no other explanation for it, she thought frenetically as she murmured, "Sssssh," carefully shifting his arm closer to his body and sitting lightly on the edge of the immense bed. "Breathe, Tom. Breathe. It'll be all right, it's almost over... Just breathe..."
Dear God, what was she doing? She most definitely was not thinking straight, that much was clear... It had been a late night: sneaking Riddle back into the castle and giving him as much of a magical energy check-up as she knew how to do in order to ensure he wasn't somehow on the verge of death, so that must have been the reason why her thoughts and actions had taken... taken such a strange turn...
Slowly but surely, the minutes passing at their own excruciatingly, mockingly unhurried rate, Riddle's coughing lessened and ceased, his heaving gasps becoming less jagged. With the rise and fall of his chest stabilizing, Hermione could actually feel, through the Slytherin's hand, his muscles begin to relax and loosen.
Her chest about to burst, Hermione released a lungful of air that she had been holding for so long, she couldn't even remember taking it in. It whoooooshed out, and she gasped in another as Riddle weakly uncurled himself, his eyes still closed tightly, and stretched back down the length of the bed. He buried his head into one silver pillow, looking exhausted, any hope of preserving his neat hair all but flown out the window... but his left hand remained tense, unmoving in hers.
"Tom," Hermione said softly, her breath also returning to normal. She knew Riddle would respond to her when she said his given name. He always did, somehow.
A moment passed, but then Riddle vaguely cracked open his eyes, raising stormy grey pools to meet hers in silent question.
And Hermione had no idea—no bloody idea!— of what possessed her to do what she did next.
At first, she just assumed that she had completely lost her mind, but she later figured that she was subconsciously acting on Draco's earlier piece of advice: 'All you have to do is make Riddle fall in love with you, and all of our problems in this blasted world will be completely, absolutely solved!'
In any case, Hermione gave Riddle a small, encouraging smile. "Hey, the Holiday Soiree is in two weeks, right?" she asked brightly, her voice a bit too cheerful to sound entirely normal. Without wasting a second, Rational Angel whipped the broomstick back out and began to beat the walls of Hermione's mind again.
When Riddle warily nodded, though, a slightly perplexed expression on his face, Hermione determinedly continued in a kind of self-defiance, "You know, don't you think it would make sense for us, as the two Heads, to go together?"
Riddle's eyes, the only part of him to respond, widened just a little, but he seemed to be concentrating more on keeping his breathing even and controlled. Finally, he replied, his voice emerging as only a hoarse, pained whisper interrupted by several winces as his hand occasionally re-jerked around his stomach, "What would... du Lac say to... to that, Nefertari?"
Completely caught off guard by his question, Hermione's eyebrows shot up, and, before she could stop it, an actual, genuine laugh passed her lips. "Good Merlin, Riddle, how many times do I have to tell you? Draco and I are not, were not, and never will be anything more than friends! He'll understand why I'm going with you. He also has a girlfrie—"
"And why are you going with me?" Riddle interrupted penetratingly, the curse in no way inhibiting his ability to calculate situations. "Because it comes with the job?"
"Hey." Hermione evenly returned his burning gaze despite how thoroughly fatigued the rest of Riddle's body appeared to be, there was a steely, unbending strength in the iron grey of his eyes. "That's not fair, and you know it!"
Riddle didn't reply; rather, he stared straight ahead at the top of the canopy, as if the answer to his problems lay somewhere between the silver and green tassels a metre above him. Eventually, his line of sight travelled down to take in her, Hermione, still sitting on his bed, and her fingers, still entwined with his, still gently massaging the top of his hand. Glancing back upward, he choked out, "Whatever... you say... Nefertari..."
Suddenly, that same hand tightly squeezed hers, nearly cutting off her circulation, and Hermione saw him bite his lip hard, eyes closed, rapidly gasping in a sharp lungful of air. Her own breath hitched, and she let him hang on, her eyes saddening as he actually fought off another Anima attack. But when his grip loosened and his eyes flickered open, Riddle seemed more resolute and unwavering than she had ever seen him.
"All right," he said, sucking in a breath and swallowing hard. He nodded at her. "All right, let's... do it. Together."
What? Hermione's tired mind caused her to stare at him in blank incredulousness, and his eyebrows shot up. "As in go together, Nefertari, good Merlin!" he exclaimed in scornful clarification, but a slight flush rose around the edges of his face as he muttered tiredly, "You are the Head Girl, Nefertari, please don't tell me you were thinking I meant anything other than that..."
"Erm.. No. Right. I have a legitimate excuse, you see; my mind isn't working properly because I stayed up all night taking care of you," Hermione countered in haughty reminder, her desperate attempt to cover up the fact that she really had been taken his words for their other meaning. All joking aside, though, she was stunned, stunned that Tom Riddle would actually agree to spend more time than he absolutely had to with her... since he had to know full well that it could eventually cost him his life.
Unexpectedly, she was struck with the overpowering urge to rip her hand away and flee the bedroom.
"I—" Riddle winced, and he glanced at her. Hermione's astonishment only amplified when she saw a hint of uncertainty written across his ashen face. "Nefertari, I... I've never spoken to anyone else of what I have to you. Ever."
"I know," Hermione said softly, understandingly. "I won't tell, I promise."
She watched her hand reach out as if it had a life of its own, her mind undoubtedly still on some kind of perverse autopilot. Her fingers gently brushed some stray locks of sweaty, dark hair from his pale face, smoothing it back the way he usually wore it as best she could, her the back of her palm lingering lightly on his unmistakably feverish forehead.
His breathing had become less laboured the moment she laid her other hand on him, and she waited patiently as his eyelids drooped and closed. "I'll tell Madam L if you don't feel up for classes tomorrow, alright?" she whispered.
"Thanks," Tom murmured faintly, already in the shrouds of sleep.
Tom fell asleep.
Just Tom, not Voldemort, Riddle...
Just Tom.
Slowly, carefully, she uncurled her fingers from around his and carefully eased herself off his bed. Treading silently across his floor to his door, she quietly pulled it open and shut, her exit as quick as she had earlier wanted it to be.
As soon as the latch clicked into place, Hermione turned around and leaned back against the door. Wearily, she closed her eyes. She realized, now more than ever, that Tom was dangerously close to the curse's point of no return, so to speak.
The moment he fell, totally and completely, fell for her like he had never fallen for anyone else in his entire past, present, and future, all their problems would be, as Draco had put it, completely and absolutely solved.
No, with Tom Riddle's death date guaranteed that Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Draco, Ron, Lavender, and Celene would save the future and everyone in it.
Hermione wondered why she wasn't as happy about that as she thought she would be.
Hi everyone, thank you for reading this very important chapte_
OMG, I GOT INTO YALE. IM SHAKING. IM DECEASED. IM DEAD. IM CRYING.
I want to thank everybody for supporting Thai book and MAKING MY F-ING DREAMS OF GOING TO YALE A REALITY. I AM SO HAPPY AND I AM SHAKING SO BADLY.
THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU