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Aug. 16th, 2007 10:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vivienAuthor: Vivien
Title: Down the Rabbit Hole, Part 1
Pairing: Hermione/Tom
Rating: R
Spoiler Warnings: This is DH compliant up to a point. It is, however, very much an AU.
Summary: Four years after the defeat of Voldemort, Hermione finds she has a chance to defeat him again. This time, however, she faces a much different enemy than the monster.
Author's notes: Originally written in ficlet form for freetheelves2 as part of the Riddle Gifts challenge. Then it grew. Much thanks to Georgia for the thorough beta-ing, and to Kate and Lynette for their insight and feedback. This is the first time I’ve written in this pairing, and it was a huge challenge to make everything plausible. I hope you enjoy reading it!
~~~
This isn't safe, Hermione, Tonks said, as she set the wooden cask down on Hermione's desk. It was glowing slightly from the numerous protective charms and wards set upon it. "I wish you didn't have to muck about with this kind of thing."
Hermione did not receive many visitors to her office. Even her colleagues stayed away as much as possible. The name 'Voldemort' never ceased to bring a shudder to those hearing it, even now. Tonks was on duty. Just doing her job.
Hermione tapped her wand on the cask, removing the first of the charms. "Someone has to, Tonks. Might as well be me. Besides, you’d never back away from danger on the job."
“Yeah, I know," Tonks replied, stepping back from the desk and folding her arms across her chest. "You're the expert and all."
Her limp was more noticeable today, Hermione noted. They all carried scars from the last battles. Some were simply more visible than others.
"That's me, the resident Voldemort expert. You needn't stay, Tonks. I set up my own protective wards when Donaphin sent me word they'd detected something."
She had to be the specialist. There was no one else left who could be.
“You sure? It's not like I've a great deal to do." She smiled as she said it, but it was a sad smile. Tonks was one of the few survivors of the Order of the Phoenix. Since her injuries in the last month of Voldemort's reign, she'd ridden a desk more than a broom.
Hermione stopped what she was doing and walked around to place a hand on Tonks' arm. "Thank you for the offer, but it's something I need to do alone. Likely there's no real danger, since this Horcrux was broken long ago, but there's no sense endangering you."
Tonks was one of the few people from her distant past with whom she still spoke, and Hermione liked her as far as she liked anyone these days. She kept to herself much of the time. Work kept her busy. It helped her not to think about the losses she still mourned.
It had been four years since Ron had died in the final confrontation with Voldemort.
A little over four years ago, her parents, freed from her memory modifications, looked at her for the first time with wary eyes. They lived in Australia still, and although they assured her they understood she was protecting them, the final ties between them had unraveled. She’d stopped turning up for visits unless they invited her, and invitations were only issued on holidays and birthdays.
Three-and-a-half years ago, Harry had died suddenly, the victim of a slow-acting, hidden curse released when he broke the final Horcrux.
Three years ago, Ginny Weasley married Neville and they moved to Paris. They owled Hermione every Christmas, but that was about as much contact as they maintained.
It had been two-and-a-half years since she'd spoken to any of the remaining Weasleys.
Two years ago, Hermione had been promoted to Director of Special Projects in the curse-breaking division of the Department of Mysteries.
"Right-o, Hermione. Look, why don't you come round to dinner this Sunday? Remus would love to see you, and it's been far too long since I saw you out of work."
"I'll see if I can, Tonks," she lied. "You're right; it has been too long." Hermione couldn't face the idea of stepping into the house at Grimmauld Place. It simply would hurt too much.
Hermione lived for her work. It was all she had left.
As soon as Tonks closed the door behind her, Hermione returned to the task at hand. Within the cask was Voldemort's diary. The Horcrux within had been destroyed in their second year, of course, but all relics related to Voldemort were systematically examined, especially after Harry’s death. Some lingering magical energy had been detected within it, and so it ended up in her office for any curse breaking or research work she deemed necessary.
She found it highly unusual that she knew more about Voldemort and his magic than she did about any of her old friends who’d survived. She couldn’t remember the name of the village where Ginny and Neville lived, but she knew minute facts about the Dark wizard.
He really had been a brilliant wizard. That she could never deny. She conquered him again every time she broke a curse or unraveled one of his more complex works.
The last of the protection charms over the cask disintegrated with a tap. No magic flared out at her; there was no ominous humming. Doniphan overreacted, as usual. She opened the lid and reached in carefully. Just because the diary hadn't required such elaborate protections during transport didn't mean it was safe.
She'd been waiting to get her hands on it for a long time, and as her fingertips traced the cracked leather cover, she flashed on Harry and Ron faces. She remembered the smell of the infirmary, the feel of crisp bed sheets as she listened to Harry tell the story of what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets.
Merlin, she missed them. They'd been her dearest friends, through thick and thin, and the ache that wrenched her when she thought of them hurt as badly as it had right after she'd lost them. She squeezed her eyes closed and took a deep breath, banishing their memories. She needed to concentrate.
Picking up the diary, she lifted it out of the cask and laid it upon her desk. She had something upon which to focus, a problem to solve. She would overcome the evil that had stolen so much from her once more.
Hours passed. Hermione easily lost track of time, even with the real-time magical window installed expressly for her by her superiors. She'd sifted layer-by-layer through the diary, searching for hidden curses within the brittle, stained pages. The enchanted moon shone down through the window and Hermione pressed on.
~~~
By Saturday afternoon, Hermione was thoroughly frustrated. Nothing had worked. The spark within the ruined diary remained elusive. She threw down her wand in disgust and took up a quill instead. She doubted this would work, but she had to try.
Dear Lord Voldemort, you bloody wanker, she wrote. The ink glistened on the old paper, but did nothing else. Hermione rolled her eyes and put her head in her hands.
When she looked up the ink had vanished.
She rubbed her eyes and looked again. As she did so, a spidery, barely visible scrawl faded into existence.
I beg your pardon? it read.
Hermione pushed away from the desk with a screech of chair legs against wood. How in Merlin’s name could this be? The Horcrux had been destroyed. This was- well, it was remarkable. And frightening. And thrilling. She picked up her quill again.
Who are you? she wrote.
It took a longer time for the ink to sink into the paper, and even longer for a jagged, barely decipherable response.
I’m afraid I don’t recall.
Hermione stared at the words, trying to puzzle out whether this was a trick or a malfunction.
What is your purpose? she wrote.
I don’t remember. I’ve been in here a very long time, but I can’t remember why.
Hermione took a deep breath. What she planned to do was risky, perhaps even foolish. However, there might be no other way to get to the bottom of this mystery.
Can you show me who you are? she asked.
Several moments passed before a reply appeared.
I shall try.
The pages ruffled weakly, and a sickly white glow emanated from the diary. It pulsed outward, enveloping Hermione. It pulled her, but it wasn’t nearly strong enough to bring her through. She jabbed her wand at the center of the diary, boosting the power of the charm as she did so. There was a bright flash of light, and she fell through the portal, as if into a Pensieve.
When she opened her eyes again, she stood in a dimly lit room lined with shelves from floor to ceiling filled with books. In the center of the room was a large wooden desk with candles providing the only light. A young man sat behind the desk.
It was Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort himself.
Hermione remembered what Harry had told her of his encounter with this particular memory made real. The curious expression on Riddle’s face, and the fact that he stood when he saw her and gave her a small bow, did not quite jibe with any of the accounts Harry had shared with her.
“Welcome, Miss,” he said, and his voice was polite, if rather vague. “I would- I’m supposed to show you something. Or tell you something.” His brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m afraid to say I’ve no idea what, and the door disappeared some several years ago, so I couldn’t find it if I tried.”
He made no move from his place behind the desk, but Hermione kept her wand out and at the ready anyway. She watched him a moment. She’d seen pictures of him at this age, before the creation of the Horcruxes warped his physical appearance as much as his soul. His skin was pale, almost ghostly, but he was a handsome figure. Too handsome by half.
“Tell me who you are,” she demanded. This was curious. It seemed this version of Voldemort suffered from amnesia. Or pretended to, at any rate.
“I’m sorry I cannot. I- I don’t remember, you see. I’ve been here ever so long, but all I can recall are the words of the books within this room. Though some of them are losing their words, and I’m afraid I shall lose the memory of them, as well.”
“You’ve no idea who you are or what you’re doing here?” He didn’t seem to be faking his consternation, but Tom Riddle was a charmer and a liar.
Tom shrugged. “I wish I could say I did, but I can’t. It’s rather disconcerting, believe me.”
“And when you say your books are losing their words, what exactly do you mean?”
He picked up a book from the floor. It was ancient, the leather bindings shredding with age. He opened it and revealed parchment pages devoid of words. “That’s what I mean. The room’s become smaller, as well. There used to be a window, a long time ago. And a door, of course.”
The spell, whatever it is, must be degrading after all this time and damage, Hermione thought. So here she was, in a room full of knowledge with a young, memory-less version of Voldemort. She could find out a great deal, if she played her cards right. She intended to do so.
“Pardon me,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “But who are you? Are you a professor?”
“A professor? So you remember something, after all?” she said, raising an eyebrow and pointing her wand in his direction.
“No, Miss. I- I’m in school? I think?” He looked baffled, and then he frowned. “It vexes me that I can’t recall clearly, but I do know I was in school. So are you a professor or not? You’re older than I, so you can’t be a student.” That demanding tone was more like the Voldemort she studied.
“I’m Professor Granger,” she said, and then she took a gamble. “And you’re called Tom. Tom Riddle.”
“Tom? Am I, really?” He sneered slightly and then his face smoothed out again. “That’s such a- common name. How do you know?”
“I’m a Professor,” she said with authority. She could muster up a great deal of authority when necessary. “I can help you, Riddle. With the books, I mean.”
She didn’t mean to help him one bit, of course. If he were harmless, she could learn a great deal from him before the magic leeched out of the diary completely.
“I would like the words back.” He glanced at the shelves, and for a moment, he looked lost. “They’re all I’ve left, Professor. I should like to keep them, if I’m to stay here.”
“Of course. I shall do what I can. Find all the books without words. When I return, we’ll examine them. I’ll take stock of what’s left intact.”
“Then you’ll be coming back?” He looked eager, and not at all in an evil way. “I should like that. It’s been- I know I’ve seen people here, but it’s been such a very long time.”
“I’ll be back.” Hermione brandished her wand before her, willing the spell that brought her here to reverse. She needed to get out of here, to regroup and strategize about the steps to take next. “Good afternoon.”
He sat back down, and Hermione could have sworn he looked forlorn. “Good afternoon, Professor.”
The light of the spell pulled her away once more. She stared at the diary lying open on her own familiar desk. How long had this fragment of magic been trapped in that room, with the words hemorrhaging from his books? She shuddered at the thought, and then rubbed her temples. Her head ached, but what could she expect after no sleep, little food, and an encounter with her mortal enemy?
She stood, stretched, and headed for the door. She needed a break, but she would be visiting Mr. Riddle again. Oh, yes. She would capture all the information she could from him. She would find out what he knew and how he knew it, and she would discern how his mind worked. Then she’d destroy the diary, and kill him again, with a great deal of pleasure.
She smiled, and it wasn’t a pleasant smile. She had Voldemort – even if this vestige of magic was a pale reflection of the monster she’d fought – at her mercy. If her head would stop hurting, she’d be in a fine mood indeed.
~~~
Hermione wanted a proper weekend. Or, at least, a proper Sunday, since she’d spent all of Friday night and well into Saturday within her office. She was determined. She’d even considered taking up Tonks on her offer.
But in the end, she returned to the Ministry, and the diary, on Sunday afternoon. The quicker she could drain all the information out of this magical anomaly, the quicker she could document it and then destroy it for good.
It’s Professor Granger, she wrote. Let me in. The light bloomed from the damaged pages which rustled like dead leaves. She was amused to note he hadn’t bothered to write a response.
“That eager to entrap me, Riddle?” she muttered as she closed her eyes against the vortex which pulled her into the diary.
Riddle stood as she entered the room, and he looked for all the world pleased to see her. She frowned slightly in return. It was all too easy to be lulled into a false sense of complacency with this handsome fellow smiling at her.
She made a note to herself to retrieve as many of the Pensieve memory vials that contained recollections of the monster who’d begun as Tom Riddle. She needed to know more about his outward behavior to watch for signs of manipulation and entrapment wrapped in such a charming presentation. There were accounts from students who attended Hogwarts with him, Ginny’s memories of her possession, and McGonagall’s accounts, as well. She’d need to study everything, lest she be tricked by the fragment of memory somehow.
“You came back,” he said, smiling.
“I said I would,” she sniffed and conjured a chair beside the desk. “Have you collected the books?”
He grinned again. “You sound like someone I knew once, I think,” he said, and then his face fell again. “I’ve remembered bits and pieces – wisps of things – since you visited. Was it a few days ago? Time is strange here.”
“It was yesterday,” she said brusquely. She set out her ink bottle and parchment on the desk and took up her quill. “What do you remember?”
“Some things about school. I was at school, wasn’t I? Hogwarts. I recall the name now.” His voice became more animated, and Hermione imagined she saw the slightest hint of pink color in his pale cheeks, though she knew that couldn’t be possible. “It was- I think I liked it there very much.”
Hermione nodded and made notes. Was her presence here aiding in the return of his memory? She’d have to be especially careful, if so. “Shall we begin our inventory?”
“Certainly, Professor,” he said, indicating three stacks of books on the floor behind the desk. “There were more than I thought there were.”
He picked up a book and set it on the desk, his long fingers leafing through the empty pages. “I liked this one, especially. A History of Ancient Hexes.”
“Tell me what you used it for; tell me the hexes and the content you remember best.”
“Why?”
“It will help focus on what needs to be restored, of course,” she said in a placating tone. Just bloody well talk, Riddle.
“Oh. Very well. Er. Professor? I suppose you should know. I have an- an interest in the Dark Arts. Only to better defend against it, though.”
“As do I,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “As do I. Tell me about the book.”
He did, in great detail, and she wrote her notes.
This continued for two weeks. Once they’d gone through the stack of empty books, they’d moved on to the rest of the shelves. There were books here that she’d never heard of them, and they were not all Dark. Many were tomes on experimental transfiguration and advanced charm theory. It was disconcerting, she found, to discover herself debating magical theories with this, her greatest enemy – and enjoying it. Sometimes she even forgot he wasn’t a person.
~~~
“The Protean charm,” Tom said, his eyes lit up with fervor, “could be used for so many purposes aside from simple reminder charms.”
“Oh,” said Hermione, one eyebrow rising. “Do tell.” She knew perfectly well what a Protean charm could be used for, both in her own history and in his.
She wanted to hear his twisted logic and reasoning, though. It would prove useful to understand any other Dark wizards who fancied taking his place She positioned her quill over her growing collection of notes and began writing as he spoke.
~~~
“That combination of runes means ‘to glorify’ not ‘to indemnify’.”
“Ah, Professor, you rely on translation charms too closely,” Tom said, challenging her gleefully. “If you did the actual translation of the phrase here-”
She crossed her arms and scowled. “I did do the translation, Mr. Riddle. Ancient runes are a specialty of mine.”
“Perhaps,” he said, smiling, “but even if you did, you might not know that these runes,”
he pointed to the runic phrase listed on a crumbling parchment, “were written in Iceland in the 8th century-”
“When the Icelandic wizards were under siege by the Viking sorcerers,” Hermione mumbled, studying the page, “and so using the opposite meanings of many words. I should have known that.”
Tom simply grinned smugly in response.
~~~
“I dealt with an Acromantula once.”
“Did you really?” She was surprised he remembered such a detail. And wary. Incredibly wary. Would he remember how to lie soon, as well?
“Yes. Beastly creature.” His eyes widened. “Oh. I didn’t know- I only just remembered that.”
Hermione nodded. “I shouldn’t be surprised you’d remember more things in the context of your magical knowledge.”
She turned the page of Magical Creatures and their Portents to that of a basilisk.
Tom stared at it blankly. Some memories, it would seem, would stay hidden.
~~~
“You needn’t sulk just because I proved you wrong,” she said, closing the book titled Arithmancy Applications. She’d run rings round his logic, which pleased her to no end.
“I’m not sulking,” he said with a pout.
Hermione grinned despite herself. He was more handsome than ever when he pouted.
“It’s not fair. You’re a professor and older than I. Plus, you have your memories intact, and I daresay that gives you an advantage.”
“How old are you, Mr. Riddle? Do you recall?”
He tilted his head a moment, frowning. “I think I must have been sixteen when I woke up here. It- it’s been- I’ve no idea how old I am now. Or if I’ve aged at all. Perhaps 19? 20?”
“Well, there you are, then. I’m only 22, so I haven’t that much of an age advantage on you.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying anything else. If this diary had been enchanted near his 16th birthday, then the magic that animated him was sixty years old, or close to it.
“I do know more than you do, most times,” he said with a teasing tone and he gave her a shy smile. She returned it without thinking.
Tom Riddle was a brilliant wizard, and if he’d lost his memories of his life, he’d not lost his wealth of knowledge of magic, not even as this soulless reflection of himself.
~~~
Hermione spent much of her time immersed within the diary, and whenever she left, she felt slightly disoriented. She put this down to fatigue, stress, and the irregularities of the disintegrating spell. When she wasn’t picking Tom’s brain, she researched the Pensieve records. Little of what she observed in the real Tom Riddle matched the one within the diary, aside from surface mannerisms. The real Voldemort’s eyes glinted in a malicious way even when he was playing at being charming and innocuous.
With this reassurance, Hermione continued her research.
One day – it was Tuesday or Wednesday, Hermione had lost track that week – as they examined another medieval transcript regarding Dark spells, Tom asked her a question she’d not been expecting.
“Professor? Might I ask you- when you leave here, you go back to Hogwarts proper, yes? Will you- Can you take me with you? I should very much like to be back in school again.”
“I don’t think that will be possible. I’m sorry.” She added the last softly, in response to the stricken look on his face.
“Am I- I mean to say, have I done something wrong? Is that why I’m trapped here?”
“Do you feel trapped?” While he evidenced the trappings of emotions, she wasn’t sure he really felt them. The look on his face was leading her to believe otherwise.
“Quite. Especially since you’ve been visiting me.” He glanced down, and then back up avoiding her gaze. “I want to remember. I want to learn and see and do things again.”
Hermione paused, not quite sure how to proceed. If he did indeed have this much self-realization, perhaps there was more to his construct than she thought. This spell was remarkable.
“Mr. Riddle. Tom. I should tell you more of your condition. You’re not at Hogwarts. In fact, I’m not a Professor. I’m called Hermione Granger, and I’m a head researcher at the Ministry. Your situation is an unusual one, but I assure you, I’m doing what I can.” That was enough of the truth to not be the whole truth, and yet still be palliative.
“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh. I see.” He went silent a moment. “I suppose it’s better than being at St. Mungo’s?” He looked round him, as if noticing his environs for the first time. If Hermione didn’t know better, she’d have said he looked frightened.
But did she know better? Without thinking, she patted his hand where it rested on the desk. “It’s all right, Tom.”
His skin was cold. So very cold. He gazed at her hand and then met her eyes. The surprise shining in them was obvious.
She only just managed to not jerk her hand away. He was solid. This disturbed her more than anything so far.
He wasn’t just a figment, a ghost of an immensely complex spell. There was color in his cheeks; she hadn’t been imaging things. Merlin help her, his chest rose and fell. She hadn’t looked closely enough before to see. But there was no soul here; the Horcrux had been destroyed ages ago. What was he?
If he were real, if he breathed and thought and felt, how could she blithely destroy him as if he were merely a Dark artifact, a thing? She thought she knew exactly how Harry had felt those last two years, knowing his fate must end in the taking of a life.
Fixing a smile upon her face, she rose, straightening her parchment and making ready to flee. This was too much to take in while in his strange presence. “I do hate to rush off, Tom, but I’ve an appointment soon. I shall be back.” She hoped he wouldn’t suspect something was wrong.
He was, indeed, watching her curiously, but his demeanor was more sad than suspicious. “As you say, Pro- er, I mean, Miss Granger.”
“Hermione will do.” Why had she said that? She must be out of her mind. She had to get out of here. His pleased smile only confused her more.
“Good afternoon, then, Hermione,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Tom.” She activated the portal and stepped through. She collapsed in her desk chair and sat in stunned silence for several moments. Her head began to throb, much worse than usual.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered. “What is going on?” She tried to focus long enough to write down her usual meticulous notes, but she soon gave up. Rubbing her eyes – she was exhausted of a sudden – she tidied her desk, secured the diary, and left the office early. She figured she owed it to herself.
~~~
Hermione felt awful when she woke up the next morning. Must be flu, she thought as she pulled the covers over her head. She never owled in ill, but today was a day for it.
She stayed home the next day as well, steam pouring out of her ears from Pepper Up Potion. When she returned to her office, she avoided the cask containing the diary for as long as she could. There were other matters to attend to; any number of small things would keep her occupied, even if the cask caught her eye every few moments.
Three days later, the insatiable curiosity, the need to ruddy well figure this mess out, compelled her to remove the diary from the cask once more.
She’d made the connection that the spell animating Tom was very likely tapping into her life energy, even if she wasn’t possessed by him. The same form of vampirism had nearly cost Ginny her life.
It was terribly risky, but Hermione had to know more. Besides, she wasn’t an eleven-year-old girl enthralled against her will. Her eyes were open, and she possessed formidable power herself. She could do this. She picked up her quill.
It's Hermione.
Tom's response, the flare of light, usually occurred right away. Now there was a delay, and she found with great surprise that this hesitation distressed her.
I need to get this finished. Whatever he is, he’s not truly human. That's all that’s bothering me, she reassured herself as she slipped through the portal. As she emerged, she felt like Alice down the rabbit hole. She reached for the nearest bookshelf as vertigo threatened to overwhelm her.
He was pacing up and down the length of the room, his arms folded tightly across his chest.
“I remember,” he said dully, his back to her as he paced. “I know how I came to be here.”
“Oh, bugger,” she whispered, tightening her grip on her wand. If he remembered, then she was in trouble. She tried to open her eyes, but the vertigo kept her from doing so. She couldn’t recall the proper spell to aid this condition; she tended to rely on potions.
“He must have used Polyjuice Potion. He looked like me. He took over my life, didn’t he?” He turned to begin pacing back towards her, and when he did so, he stopped suddenly. “I say, are you quite all right?”
She forced her eyes open, ignoring the swimming of the room around her. “Oh yes, fine. Fine. Just getting over a touch of flu is all.” The top of her head began to prickle and heat washed over her skin. Before she knew it, she felt a hand grabbing her arm under the elbow, and then everything went black.
“-vate.” Hermione heard as her eyelids flew open. She was sitting on the floor, an arm behind her back propping her up. She gasped as she realized to whom the arm belonged.
“Shh, it’s all right. You fainted.” Tom’s face was much too close to hers. He knelt beside her, holding her closely. “I borrowed your wand; I hope you don’t mind. That bastard must have taken mine. Pardon my language. Aguamenti,” he said, casting water into a glass he must have conjured. “Here, drink this.”
He held the glass to her lips, and she drank, cursing herself a moment later for being so careless. The vertigo, at least, had abated. In fact, she felt much better. He was not cold to the touch now; in fact he was quite comfortable to lean against. Sweet Circe, this was a dangerous mistake, allowing him to be so close to her. She didn’t move, though. She wasn’t sure she could. Besides, he still had her wand.
“Better?” he asked, a soft smile on his face. He took the glass from her, and handed her back her wand. “I can’t imagine why I never realized my own wand was missing. He must have Obliviated me, as well. That would explain my memory loss. Do you mind?”
He raised the glass with an inquiring look. “I can’t remember when I last had a drink of anything. Or food to eat.”
She nodded her head, and he drank the rest of the water. Hermione breathed a small sigh of relief; the water wasn’t cursed or poisoned. She also noted that he didn’t seem to be eager to move either. “What do you remember of this- this person?”
“Not much,” he said after a moment. “Only that he was malicious. He wanted me trapped here, and he wanted me to do- horrible things, I think. His name was V-” He frowned. “Vol- something. An odd name…”
“Voldemort,” Hermione said.
“I think that was the name, yes,” said Tom. “How do you- well, of course. You’re a Ministry Defense against the Dark Arts expert, aren’t you?”
“That, and-” she hesitated. It might not be wise to play this hand. “I was one of those who helped vanquished him in the end.”
His lips thinned and he nodded. “Then he’s dead. Good.”
Hermione nodded back, her mouth hanging open in surprise a moment before she closed it. Neither of them had moved. Tom looked away then and shifted as if to help her rise. His arm was still around her shoulders, and without thinking, she placed a hand on his free arm. He met her eyes.
He had blue eyes. Dark blue. She’d never cared to notice before.
Moments stretched past and Hermione relaxed. He’d used her wand and given it back. He was a lost fellow called Tom right now. He might not be the next time she came, but for right now, he was not Voldemort. It had been so long since she’d been close to someone, even if it was her not-quite enemy.
When he bent his head to press his lips to hers, she let him. It was a chaste kiss, but the frisson it evoked within her was anything but gentle. The vertigo was gone, but she was quite muddled, nevertheless.
He pulled away from her suddenly. “I’m- please, I do apologize for that. I- you’re-”
She stopped his apology with another kiss. This was wrong. This was dangerous. But when he tentatively caressed her face, she sighed and gave in to the luxury of being held and kissed. It had been far too long since anyone had embraced her.
Tom was the one who stopped, after several minutes of slow, leisurely kisses. “Are you quite sure you’re well? I should hate to think I was taking advantage of you. But you’re lovely, you see.”
“You’re not taking advantage of me,” she smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Believe me, I’d tell you if you were.” She nestled her head against his shoulder.
“I’d well believe it. That’s what I like most about you; you’re not afraid to tell me things, to set me right. Might I ask you something, Hermione?”
She paused a moment before answering. “Of course.”
“I’ve been in here a long time, haven’t I?”
She nodded.
“But you’ll help me get out, won’t you? Now that he’s dead? It’s just a matter of figuring out the spell. I could research it, now that I know. There must be something in one of these books that could help.”
Hermione bit her lip. For a fleeting moment, she’d considered this as an option. “Perhaps we can find something. In the meantime, I could bring you something from out there, something to cheer you. What did you like to drink and eat best? Can you recall?” She had an idea that involved a subtle dosing of Veriteserum.
He chuckled, and he slid his free arm around her waist. “I’ve no idea. Surprise me? No, wait – I think I like lemon cake.”
“Then I’ll bring you some lemon cake,” she said. “Tell me more of what you remember, anything, Tom. It might help.”
They sat together on the floor in conversation, quite contentedly.
When Hermione wrenched herself free and finally left the diary (but not before a few more kisses), she found herself on a much less comfortable floor. She’d lost consciousness upon entering her office again, and the world was swimming once again. There was no doubt in her mind; the enchantment in the diary was damaging her.
The question was if Tom was a part of it. She meant to find out. If he’d been lying to her all along, she’d destroy the diary. If not…
If not, then she wasn’t sure what she’d do.
An ever-growing crowd of paper plane memos hovered over her desk, proof of her dereliction of all other duties. Their rustling reminded her of dead leaves on a cold winter day. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh at the thought, and she jabbed her wand at them. They fell into a heap on the desk, where she left them without another care.
Title: Down the Rabbit Hole, Part 1
Pairing: Hermione/Tom
Rating: R
Spoiler Warnings: This is DH compliant up to a point. It is, however, very much an AU.
Summary: Four years after the defeat of Voldemort, Hermione finds she has a chance to defeat him again. This time, however, she faces a much different enemy than the monster.
Author's notes: Originally written in ficlet form for freetheelves2 as part of the Riddle Gifts challenge. Then it grew. Much thanks to Georgia for the thorough beta-ing, and to Kate and Lynette for their insight and feedback. This is the first time I’ve written in this pairing, and it was a huge challenge to make everything plausible. I hope you enjoy reading it!
~~~
This isn't safe, Hermione, Tonks said, as she set the wooden cask down on Hermione's desk. It was glowing slightly from the numerous protective charms and wards set upon it. "I wish you didn't have to muck about with this kind of thing."
Hermione did not receive many visitors to her office. Even her colleagues stayed away as much as possible. The name 'Voldemort' never ceased to bring a shudder to those hearing it, even now. Tonks was on duty. Just doing her job.
Hermione tapped her wand on the cask, removing the first of the charms. "Someone has to, Tonks. Might as well be me. Besides, you’d never back away from danger on the job."
“Yeah, I know," Tonks replied, stepping back from the desk and folding her arms across her chest. "You're the expert and all."
Her limp was more noticeable today, Hermione noted. They all carried scars from the last battles. Some were simply more visible than others.
"That's me, the resident Voldemort expert. You needn't stay, Tonks. I set up my own protective wards when Donaphin sent me word they'd detected something."
She had to be the specialist. There was no one else left who could be.
“You sure? It's not like I've a great deal to do." She smiled as she said it, but it was a sad smile. Tonks was one of the few survivors of the Order of the Phoenix. Since her injuries in the last month of Voldemort's reign, she'd ridden a desk more than a broom.
Hermione stopped what she was doing and walked around to place a hand on Tonks' arm. "Thank you for the offer, but it's something I need to do alone. Likely there's no real danger, since this Horcrux was broken long ago, but there's no sense endangering you."
Tonks was one of the few people from her distant past with whom she still spoke, and Hermione liked her as far as she liked anyone these days. She kept to herself much of the time. Work kept her busy. It helped her not to think about the losses she still mourned.
It had been four years since Ron had died in the final confrontation with Voldemort.
A little over four years ago, her parents, freed from her memory modifications, looked at her for the first time with wary eyes. They lived in Australia still, and although they assured her they understood she was protecting them, the final ties between them had unraveled. She’d stopped turning up for visits unless they invited her, and invitations were only issued on holidays and birthdays.
Three-and-a-half years ago, Harry had died suddenly, the victim of a slow-acting, hidden curse released when he broke the final Horcrux.
Three years ago, Ginny Weasley married Neville and they moved to Paris. They owled Hermione every Christmas, but that was about as much contact as they maintained.
It had been two-and-a-half years since she'd spoken to any of the remaining Weasleys.
Two years ago, Hermione had been promoted to Director of Special Projects in the curse-breaking division of the Department of Mysteries.
"Right-o, Hermione. Look, why don't you come round to dinner this Sunday? Remus would love to see you, and it's been far too long since I saw you out of work."
"I'll see if I can, Tonks," she lied. "You're right; it has been too long." Hermione couldn't face the idea of stepping into the house at Grimmauld Place. It simply would hurt too much.
Hermione lived for her work. It was all she had left.
As soon as Tonks closed the door behind her, Hermione returned to the task at hand. Within the cask was Voldemort's diary. The Horcrux within had been destroyed in their second year, of course, but all relics related to Voldemort were systematically examined, especially after Harry’s death. Some lingering magical energy had been detected within it, and so it ended up in her office for any curse breaking or research work she deemed necessary.
She found it highly unusual that she knew more about Voldemort and his magic than she did about any of her old friends who’d survived. She couldn’t remember the name of the village where Ginny and Neville lived, but she knew minute facts about the Dark wizard.
He really had been a brilliant wizard. That she could never deny. She conquered him again every time she broke a curse or unraveled one of his more complex works.
The last of the protection charms over the cask disintegrated with a tap. No magic flared out at her; there was no ominous humming. Doniphan overreacted, as usual. She opened the lid and reached in carefully. Just because the diary hadn't required such elaborate protections during transport didn't mean it was safe.
She'd been waiting to get her hands on it for a long time, and as her fingertips traced the cracked leather cover, she flashed on Harry and Ron faces. She remembered the smell of the infirmary, the feel of crisp bed sheets as she listened to Harry tell the story of what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets.
Merlin, she missed them. They'd been her dearest friends, through thick and thin, and the ache that wrenched her when she thought of them hurt as badly as it had right after she'd lost them. She squeezed her eyes closed and took a deep breath, banishing their memories. She needed to concentrate.
Picking up the diary, she lifted it out of the cask and laid it upon her desk. She had something upon which to focus, a problem to solve. She would overcome the evil that had stolen so much from her once more.
Hours passed. Hermione easily lost track of time, even with the real-time magical window installed expressly for her by her superiors. She'd sifted layer-by-layer through the diary, searching for hidden curses within the brittle, stained pages. The enchanted moon shone down through the window and Hermione pressed on.
~~~
By Saturday afternoon, Hermione was thoroughly frustrated. Nothing had worked. The spark within the ruined diary remained elusive. She threw down her wand in disgust and took up a quill instead. She doubted this would work, but she had to try.
Dear Lord Voldemort, you bloody wanker, she wrote. The ink glistened on the old paper, but did nothing else. Hermione rolled her eyes and put her head in her hands.
When she looked up the ink had vanished.
She rubbed her eyes and looked again. As she did so, a spidery, barely visible scrawl faded into existence.
I beg your pardon? it read.
Hermione pushed away from the desk with a screech of chair legs against wood. How in Merlin’s name could this be? The Horcrux had been destroyed. This was- well, it was remarkable. And frightening. And thrilling. She picked up her quill again.
Who are you? she wrote.
It took a longer time for the ink to sink into the paper, and even longer for a jagged, barely decipherable response.
I’m afraid I don’t recall.
Hermione stared at the words, trying to puzzle out whether this was a trick or a malfunction.
What is your purpose? she wrote.
I don’t remember. I’ve been in here a very long time, but I can’t remember why.
Hermione took a deep breath. What she planned to do was risky, perhaps even foolish. However, there might be no other way to get to the bottom of this mystery.
Can you show me who you are? she asked.
Several moments passed before a reply appeared.
I shall try.
The pages ruffled weakly, and a sickly white glow emanated from the diary. It pulsed outward, enveloping Hermione. It pulled her, but it wasn’t nearly strong enough to bring her through. She jabbed her wand at the center of the diary, boosting the power of the charm as she did so. There was a bright flash of light, and she fell through the portal, as if into a Pensieve.
When she opened her eyes again, she stood in a dimly lit room lined with shelves from floor to ceiling filled with books. In the center of the room was a large wooden desk with candles providing the only light. A young man sat behind the desk.
It was Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort himself.
Hermione remembered what Harry had told her of his encounter with this particular memory made real. The curious expression on Riddle’s face, and the fact that he stood when he saw her and gave her a small bow, did not quite jibe with any of the accounts Harry had shared with her.
“Welcome, Miss,” he said, and his voice was polite, if rather vague. “I would- I’m supposed to show you something. Or tell you something.” His brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m afraid to say I’ve no idea what, and the door disappeared some several years ago, so I couldn’t find it if I tried.”
He made no move from his place behind the desk, but Hermione kept her wand out and at the ready anyway. She watched him a moment. She’d seen pictures of him at this age, before the creation of the Horcruxes warped his physical appearance as much as his soul. His skin was pale, almost ghostly, but he was a handsome figure. Too handsome by half.
“Tell me who you are,” she demanded. This was curious. It seemed this version of Voldemort suffered from amnesia. Or pretended to, at any rate.
“I’m sorry I cannot. I- I don’t remember, you see. I’ve been here ever so long, but all I can recall are the words of the books within this room. Though some of them are losing their words, and I’m afraid I shall lose the memory of them, as well.”
“You’ve no idea who you are or what you’re doing here?” He didn’t seem to be faking his consternation, but Tom Riddle was a charmer and a liar.
Tom shrugged. “I wish I could say I did, but I can’t. It’s rather disconcerting, believe me.”
“And when you say your books are losing their words, what exactly do you mean?”
He picked up a book from the floor. It was ancient, the leather bindings shredding with age. He opened it and revealed parchment pages devoid of words. “That’s what I mean. The room’s become smaller, as well. There used to be a window, a long time ago. And a door, of course.”
The spell, whatever it is, must be degrading after all this time and damage, Hermione thought. So here she was, in a room full of knowledge with a young, memory-less version of Voldemort. She could find out a great deal, if she played her cards right. She intended to do so.
“Pardon me,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “But who are you? Are you a professor?”
“A professor? So you remember something, after all?” she said, raising an eyebrow and pointing her wand in his direction.
“No, Miss. I- I’m in school? I think?” He looked baffled, and then he frowned. “It vexes me that I can’t recall clearly, but I do know I was in school. So are you a professor or not? You’re older than I, so you can’t be a student.” That demanding tone was more like the Voldemort she studied.
“I’m Professor Granger,” she said, and then she took a gamble. “And you’re called Tom. Tom Riddle.”
“Tom? Am I, really?” He sneered slightly and then his face smoothed out again. “That’s such a- common name. How do you know?”
“I’m a Professor,” she said with authority. She could muster up a great deal of authority when necessary. “I can help you, Riddle. With the books, I mean.”
She didn’t mean to help him one bit, of course. If he were harmless, she could learn a great deal from him before the magic leeched out of the diary completely.
“I would like the words back.” He glanced at the shelves, and for a moment, he looked lost. “They’re all I’ve left, Professor. I should like to keep them, if I’m to stay here.”
“Of course. I shall do what I can. Find all the books without words. When I return, we’ll examine them. I’ll take stock of what’s left intact.”
“Then you’ll be coming back?” He looked eager, and not at all in an evil way. “I should like that. It’s been- I know I’ve seen people here, but it’s been such a very long time.”
“I’ll be back.” Hermione brandished her wand before her, willing the spell that brought her here to reverse. She needed to get out of here, to regroup and strategize about the steps to take next. “Good afternoon.”
He sat back down, and Hermione could have sworn he looked forlorn. “Good afternoon, Professor.”
The light of the spell pulled her away once more. She stared at the diary lying open on her own familiar desk. How long had this fragment of magic been trapped in that room, with the words hemorrhaging from his books? She shuddered at the thought, and then rubbed her temples. Her head ached, but what could she expect after no sleep, little food, and an encounter with her mortal enemy?
She stood, stretched, and headed for the door. She needed a break, but she would be visiting Mr. Riddle again. Oh, yes. She would capture all the information she could from him. She would find out what he knew and how he knew it, and she would discern how his mind worked. Then she’d destroy the diary, and kill him again, with a great deal of pleasure.
She smiled, and it wasn’t a pleasant smile. She had Voldemort – even if this vestige of magic was a pale reflection of the monster she’d fought – at her mercy. If her head would stop hurting, she’d be in a fine mood indeed.
~~~
Hermione wanted a proper weekend. Or, at least, a proper Sunday, since she’d spent all of Friday night and well into Saturday within her office. She was determined. She’d even considered taking up Tonks on her offer.
But in the end, she returned to the Ministry, and the diary, on Sunday afternoon. The quicker she could drain all the information out of this magical anomaly, the quicker she could document it and then destroy it for good.
It’s Professor Granger, she wrote. Let me in. The light bloomed from the damaged pages which rustled like dead leaves. She was amused to note he hadn’t bothered to write a response.
“That eager to entrap me, Riddle?” she muttered as she closed her eyes against the vortex which pulled her into the diary.
Riddle stood as she entered the room, and he looked for all the world pleased to see her. She frowned slightly in return. It was all too easy to be lulled into a false sense of complacency with this handsome fellow smiling at her.
She made a note to herself to retrieve as many of the Pensieve memory vials that contained recollections of the monster who’d begun as Tom Riddle. She needed to know more about his outward behavior to watch for signs of manipulation and entrapment wrapped in such a charming presentation. There were accounts from students who attended Hogwarts with him, Ginny’s memories of her possession, and McGonagall’s accounts, as well. She’d need to study everything, lest she be tricked by the fragment of memory somehow.
“You came back,” he said, smiling.
“I said I would,” she sniffed and conjured a chair beside the desk. “Have you collected the books?”
He grinned again. “You sound like someone I knew once, I think,” he said, and then his face fell again. “I’ve remembered bits and pieces – wisps of things – since you visited. Was it a few days ago? Time is strange here.”
“It was yesterday,” she said brusquely. She set out her ink bottle and parchment on the desk and took up her quill. “What do you remember?”
“Some things about school. I was at school, wasn’t I? Hogwarts. I recall the name now.” His voice became more animated, and Hermione imagined she saw the slightest hint of pink color in his pale cheeks, though she knew that couldn’t be possible. “It was- I think I liked it there very much.”
Hermione nodded and made notes. Was her presence here aiding in the return of his memory? She’d have to be especially careful, if so. “Shall we begin our inventory?”
“Certainly, Professor,” he said, indicating three stacks of books on the floor behind the desk. “There were more than I thought there were.”
He picked up a book and set it on the desk, his long fingers leafing through the empty pages. “I liked this one, especially. A History of Ancient Hexes.”
“Tell me what you used it for; tell me the hexes and the content you remember best.”
“Why?”
“It will help focus on what needs to be restored, of course,” she said in a placating tone. Just bloody well talk, Riddle.
“Oh. Very well. Er. Professor? I suppose you should know. I have an- an interest in the Dark Arts. Only to better defend against it, though.”
“As do I,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “As do I. Tell me about the book.”
He did, in great detail, and she wrote her notes.
This continued for two weeks. Once they’d gone through the stack of empty books, they’d moved on to the rest of the shelves. There were books here that she’d never heard of them, and they were not all Dark. Many were tomes on experimental transfiguration and advanced charm theory. It was disconcerting, she found, to discover herself debating magical theories with this, her greatest enemy – and enjoying it. Sometimes she even forgot he wasn’t a person.
~~~
“The Protean charm,” Tom said, his eyes lit up with fervor, “could be used for so many purposes aside from simple reminder charms.”
“Oh,” said Hermione, one eyebrow rising. “Do tell.” She knew perfectly well what a Protean charm could be used for, both in her own history and in his.
She wanted to hear his twisted logic and reasoning, though. It would prove useful to understand any other Dark wizards who fancied taking his place She positioned her quill over her growing collection of notes and began writing as he spoke.
~~~
“That combination of runes means ‘to glorify’ not ‘to indemnify’.”
“Ah, Professor, you rely on translation charms too closely,” Tom said, challenging her gleefully. “If you did the actual translation of the phrase here-”
She crossed her arms and scowled. “I did do the translation, Mr. Riddle. Ancient runes are a specialty of mine.”
“Perhaps,” he said, smiling, “but even if you did, you might not know that these runes,”
he pointed to the runic phrase listed on a crumbling parchment, “were written in Iceland in the 8th century-”
“When the Icelandic wizards were under siege by the Viking sorcerers,” Hermione mumbled, studying the page, “and so using the opposite meanings of many words. I should have known that.”
Tom simply grinned smugly in response.
~~~
“I dealt with an Acromantula once.”
“Did you really?” She was surprised he remembered such a detail. And wary. Incredibly wary. Would he remember how to lie soon, as well?
“Yes. Beastly creature.” His eyes widened. “Oh. I didn’t know- I only just remembered that.”
Hermione nodded. “I shouldn’t be surprised you’d remember more things in the context of your magical knowledge.”
She turned the page of Magical Creatures and their Portents to that of a basilisk.
Tom stared at it blankly. Some memories, it would seem, would stay hidden.
~~~
“You needn’t sulk just because I proved you wrong,” she said, closing the book titled Arithmancy Applications. She’d run rings round his logic, which pleased her to no end.
“I’m not sulking,” he said with a pout.
Hermione grinned despite herself. He was more handsome than ever when he pouted.
“It’s not fair. You’re a professor and older than I. Plus, you have your memories intact, and I daresay that gives you an advantage.”
“How old are you, Mr. Riddle? Do you recall?”
He tilted his head a moment, frowning. “I think I must have been sixteen when I woke up here. It- it’s been- I’ve no idea how old I am now. Or if I’ve aged at all. Perhaps 19? 20?”
“Well, there you are, then. I’m only 22, so I haven’t that much of an age advantage on you.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying anything else. If this diary had been enchanted near his 16th birthday, then the magic that animated him was sixty years old, or close to it.
“I do know more than you do, most times,” he said with a teasing tone and he gave her a shy smile. She returned it without thinking.
Tom Riddle was a brilliant wizard, and if he’d lost his memories of his life, he’d not lost his wealth of knowledge of magic, not even as this soulless reflection of himself.
~~~
Hermione spent much of her time immersed within the diary, and whenever she left, she felt slightly disoriented. She put this down to fatigue, stress, and the irregularities of the disintegrating spell. When she wasn’t picking Tom’s brain, she researched the Pensieve records. Little of what she observed in the real Tom Riddle matched the one within the diary, aside from surface mannerisms. The real Voldemort’s eyes glinted in a malicious way even when he was playing at being charming and innocuous.
With this reassurance, Hermione continued her research.
One day – it was Tuesday or Wednesday, Hermione had lost track that week – as they examined another medieval transcript regarding Dark spells, Tom asked her a question she’d not been expecting.
“Professor? Might I ask you- when you leave here, you go back to Hogwarts proper, yes? Will you- Can you take me with you? I should very much like to be back in school again.”
“I don’t think that will be possible. I’m sorry.” She added the last softly, in response to the stricken look on his face.
“Am I- I mean to say, have I done something wrong? Is that why I’m trapped here?”
“Do you feel trapped?” While he evidenced the trappings of emotions, she wasn’t sure he really felt them. The look on his face was leading her to believe otherwise.
“Quite. Especially since you’ve been visiting me.” He glanced down, and then back up avoiding her gaze. “I want to remember. I want to learn and see and do things again.”
Hermione paused, not quite sure how to proceed. If he did indeed have this much self-realization, perhaps there was more to his construct than she thought. This spell was remarkable.
“Mr. Riddle. Tom. I should tell you more of your condition. You’re not at Hogwarts. In fact, I’m not a Professor. I’m called Hermione Granger, and I’m a head researcher at the Ministry. Your situation is an unusual one, but I assure you, I’m doing what I can.” That was enough of the truth to not be the whole truth, and yet still be palliative.
“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh. I see.” He went silent a moment. “I suppose it’s better than being at St. Mungo’s?” He looked round him, as if noticing his environs for the first time. If Hermione didn’t know better, she’d have said he looked frightened.
But did she know better? Without thinking, she patted his hand where it rested on the desk. “It’s all right, Tom.”
His skin was cold. So very cold. He gazed at her hand and then met her eyes. The surprise shining in them was obvious.
She only just managed to not jerk her hand away. He was solid. This disturbed her more than anything so far.
He wasn’t just a figment, a ghost of an immensely complex spell. There was color in his cheeks; she hadn’t been imaging things. Merlin help her, his chest rose and fell. She hadn’t looked closely enough before to see. But there was no soul here; the Horcrux had been destroyed ages ago. What was he?
If he were real, if he breathed and thought and felt, how could she blithely destroy him as if he were merely a Dark artifact, a thing? She thought she knew exactly how Harry had felt those last two years, knowing his fate must end in the taking of a life.
Fixing a smile upon her face, she rose, straightening her parchment and making ready to flee. This was too much to take in while in his strange presence. “I do hate to rush off, Tom, but I’ve an appointment soon. I shall be back.” She hoped he wouldn’t suspect something was wrong.
He was, indeed, watching her curiously, but his demeanor was more sad than suspicious. “As you say, Pro- er, I mean, Miss Granger.”
“Hermione will do.” Why had she said that? She must be out of her mind. She had to get out of here. His pleased smile only confused her more.
“Good afternoon, then, Hermione,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Tom.” She activated the portal and stepped through. She collapsed in her desk chair and sat in stunned silence for several moments. Her head began to throb, much worse than usual.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered. “What is going on?” She tried to focus long enough to write down her usual meticulous notes, but she soon gave up. Rubbing her eyes – she was exhausted of a sudden – she tidied her desk, secured the diary, and left the office early. She figured she owed it to herself.
~~~
Hermione felt awful when she woke up the next morning. Must be flu, she thought as she pulled the covers over her head. She never owled in ill, but today was a day for it.
She stayed home the next day as well, steam pouring out of her ears from Pepper Up Potion. When she returned to her office, she avoided the cask containing the diary for as long as she could. There were other matters to attend to; any number of small things would keep her occupied, even if the cask caught her eye every few moments.
Three days later, the insatiable curiosity, the need to ruddy well figure this mess out, compelled her to remove the diary from the cask once more.
She’d made the connection that the spell animating Tom was very likely tapping into her life energy, even if she wasn’t possessed by him. The same form of vampirism had nearly cost Ginny her life.
It was terribly risky, but Hermione had to know more. Besides, she wasn’t an eleven-year-old girl enthralled against her will. Her eyes were open, and she possessed formidable power herself. She could do this. She picked up her quill.
It's Hermione.
Tom's response, the flare of light, usually occurred right away. Now there was a delay, and she found with great surprise that this hesitation distressed her.
I need to get this finished. Whatever he is, he’s not truly human. That's all that’s bothering me, she reassured herself as she slipped through the portal. As she emerged, she felt like Alice down the rabbit hole. She reached for the nearest bookshelf as vertigo threatened to overwhelm her.
He was pacing up and down the length of the room, his arms folded tightly across his chest.
“I remember,” he said dully, his back to her as he paced. “I know how I came to be here.”
“Oh, bugger,” she whispered, tightening her grip on her wand. If he remembered, then she was in trouble. She tried to open her eyes, but the vertigo kept her from doing so. She couldn’t recall the proper spell to aid this condition; she tended to rely on potions.
“He must have used Polyjuice Potion. He looked like me. He took over my life, didn’t he?” He turned to begin pacing back towards her, and when he did so, he stopped suddenly. “I say, are you quite all right?”
She forced her eyes open, ignoring the swimming of the room around her. “Oh yes, fine. Fine. Just getting over a touch of flu is all.” The top of her head began to prickle and heat washed over her skin. Before she knew it, she felt a hand grabbing her arm under the elbow, and then everything went black.
“-vate.” Hermione heard as her eyelids flew open. She was sitting on the floor, an arm behind her back propping her up. She gasped as she realized to whom the arm belonged.
“Shh, it’s all right. You fainted.” Tom’s face was much too close to hers. He knelt beside her, holding her closely. “I borrowed your wand; I hope you don’t mind. That bastard must have taken mine. Pardon my language. Aguamenti,” he said, casting water into a glass he must have conjured. “Here, drink this.”
He held the glass to her lips, and she drank, cursing herself a moment later for being so careless. The vertigo, at least, had abated. In fact, she felt much better. He was not cold to the touch now; in fact he was quite comfortable to lean against. Sweet Circe, this was a dangerous mistake, allowing him to be so close to her. She didn’t move, though. She wasn’t sure she could. Besides, he still had her wand.
“Better?” he asked, a soft smile on his face. He took the glass from her, and handed her back her wand. “I can’t imagine why I never realized my own wand was missing. He must have Obliviated me, as well. That would explain my memory loss. Do you mind?”
He raised the glass with an inquiring look. “I can’t remember when I last had a drink of anything. Or food to eat.”
She nodded her head, and he drank the rest of the water. Hermione breathed a small sigh of relief; the water wasn’t cursed or poisoned. She also noted that he didn’t seem to be eager to move either. “What do you remember of this- this person?”
“Not much,” he said after a moment. “Only that he was malicious. He wanted me trapped here, and he wanted me to do- horrible things, I think. His name was V-” He frowned. “Vol- something. An odd name…”
“Voldemort,” Hermione said.
“I think that was the name, yes,” said Tom. “How do you- well, of course. You’re a Ministry Defense against the Dark Arts expert, aren’t you?”
“That, and-” she hesitated. It might not be wise to play this hand. “I was one of those who helped vanquished him in the end.”
His lips thinned and he nodded. “Then he’s dead. Good.”
Hermione nodded back, her mouth hanging open in surprise a moment before she closed it. Neither of them had moved. Tom looked away then and shifted as if to help her rise. His arm was still around her shoulders, and without thinking, she placed a hand on his free arm. He met her eyes.
He had blue eyes. Dark blue. She’d never cared to notice before.
Moments stretched past and Hermione relaxed. He’d used her wand and given it back. He was a lost fellow called Tom right now. He might not be the next time she came, but for right now, he was not Voldemort. It had been so long since she’d been close to someone, even if it was her not-quite enemy.
When he bent his head to press his lips to hers, she let him. It was a chaste kiss, but the frisson it evoked within her was anything but gentle. The vertigo was gone, but she was quite muddled, nevertheless.
He pulled away from her suddenly. “I’m- please, I do apologize for that. I- you’re-”
She stopped his apology with another kiss. This was wrong. This was dangerous. But when he tentatively caressed her face, she sighed and gave in to the luxury of being held and kissed. It had been far too long since anyone had embraced her.
Tom was the one who stopped, after several minutes of slow, leisurely kisses. “Are you quite sure you’re well? I should hate to think I was taking advantage of you. But you’re lovely, you see.”
“You’re not taking advantage of me,” she smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Believe me, I’d tell you if you were.” She nestled her head against his shoulder.
“I’d well believe it. That’s what I like most about you; you’re not afraid to tell me things, to set me right. Might I ask you something, Hermione?”
She paused a moment before answering. “Of course.”
“I’ve been in here a long time, haven’t I?”
She nodded.
“But you’ll help me get out, won’t you? Now that he’s dead? It’s just a matter of figuring out the spell. I could research it, now that I know. There must be something in one of these books that could help.”
Hermione bit her lip. For a fleeting moment, she’d considered this as an option. “Perhaps we can find something. In the meantime, I could bring you something from out there, something to cheer you. What did you like to drink and eat best? Can you recall?” She had an idea that involved a subtle dosing of Veriteserum.
He chuckled, and he slid his free arm around her waist. “I’ve no idea. Surprise me? No, wait – I think I like lemon cake.”
“Then I’ll bring you some lemon cake,” she said. “Tell me more of what you remember, anything, Tom. It might help.”
They sat together on the floor in conversation, quite contentedly.
When Hermione wrenched herself free and finally left the diary (but not before a few more kisses), she found herself on a much less comfortable floor. She’d lost consciousness upon entering her office again, and the world was swimming once again. There was no doubt in her mind; the enchantment in the diary was damaging her.
The question was if Tom was a part of it. She meant to find out. If he’d been lying to her all along, she’d destroy the diary. If not…
If not, then she wasn’t sure what she’d do.
An ever-growing crowd of paper plane memos hovered over her desk, proof of her dereliction of all other duties. Their rustling reminded her of dead leaves on a cold winter day. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh at the thought, and she jabbed her wand at them. They fell into a heap on the desk, where she left them without another care.
