Förgätmigej

Lavender slides in the seat next to Hermione.

“Where were you last night?” She demands in a sharp, hushed voice.

Unyielding, Hermione continues to scribble down the lecture notes. With Riddle’s blood flowing through her, she could feel herself return to the normal routine. She grips her pen with force, sharp divots poking through the parchment from the force of her writing. Her knuckles shine white and her fingers twitch.

“When I woke up, you weren’t in the room.” Lavender nudges Hermione with her shoulder.

Hermione sways slightly from the force of Lavender’s shove, causing her pen-wielding hand to slip. A blob of ink smudges. Black clouds spread on her parchment. Hermione glares at Lavender, who only blinks back innocently.

“I fell asleep in the bath,” Hermione responds curtly, wiping the excess ink with the edge of her robe sleeve.

Lavender looks apprehensive.

“Don’t tell anyone. They might revoke my Prefect rights,” Hermione grumbles back. The lie slips out effortlessly.

That seems to convince Lavender, because she settles into her seat, crossing her arms. “You look… better.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you sleep well?”

Hermione freezes.

“I’m feeling a lot better,” Hermione responds, returning back to her lecture notes. 

She supposed that was the truth.

Truthfully, Hermione’s daily life had not changed at all. It was as if last night’s event impacted her life so minutely it could be considered negligible. Hermione still went to class, took notes, completed her school work, showered, brushed her teeth, ate lunch, and attended her Prefect meetings. 

It felt surreal. Like nothing significant had occurred. 

The day passes, classes proceeding in a blur, and finally, during lunch, Harry and Ron slump into the bench seats next to Hermione, silver plates jostling. 

Hermione doesn’t bother to look up from her scripts. She knows it’s them just from the sound of their breathing: Harry’s silent exhales but sharp, contemplating inhales, Ron’s gruff breathing from running through the halls. Their footsteps differ too, she can feel Harry’s sturdy trust-fund leather dress shoes clicking on the floor—but sliding, because Harry drags his feet as he walks. While the vibrations of Ron’s worn out hand-me-down loafers have a peculiar reverb, like the elder Weasley twins had done something to it. Ron’s shoes had an incessant squeak to them, something that seemed to bother only Hermione. She suspects she was the only one able to hear it.

Ron stares at her and Harry pretends to cut up his potatoes. She turns to greet them, her movements raw.

The muscles of her neck are like dry engine cogs, rubbing stiffly without grease or oil.

“I thought you were leaving,” Ron blurts.

Lavender, who Hermione momentarily forgot was sitting in the adjacent seat, averts her gaze. 

“I thought so too,” Hermione mumbles. Her words are lost in the thrum of the chattering Great Hall. No one seems to have heard her. No one usually does, though she can hear everybody.

“Before you left.” Harry clears his throat. “We were going to see you off.” 

Hermione's lips twitch. “Right.”

“Really,” Ron adds.

Hermione looks to Lavender, who only looks to Ron.

“I can’t leave now.” The words tumble from Hermione’s lips. Her voice sounds unfamiliar, weak and resigned.

“Why?” Harry asks.

She can’t help herself. Compelled, her pupils trail into the distance, fixating on a singular figure who enters the Great Hall. 

Dark hair. Bleak, empty eyes. Deathly bright skin.

It’s as natural as gravity, hunger, thirst. As sleep and wake. She notices him. She’s drawn towards him. The pull—the attraction, is incredible. Terrifying in its inevitable nature. He commands her attention. Her instincts to survive.

Hermione pushes herself to her feet, sliding off the Great Hall benches and stalking off. She couldn’t hear the protests of Harry and Ron behind her, mind clouded by the singular thought to escape.

Her footsteps quicken.

She’s running. 

Why was she running?

Through the corridors, up the stairs, across the courtyard, into the east wing. Her breaths are haggard, rough against her throat. With no certain goal or direction, she paces aimlessly, panic hindering her cognitive processes. She was not in control.

A hand shoots out from a door, latching onto her elbow and pulling with such a force that Hermione was sure she might fall.

She’s dragged through a door, head spinning. Her back collides with a hard surface, her feet skidding from the polished floors of the hallways to the squeaky bathroom floors. 

Riddle is staring at her from beneath the flickering second-floor girls lavatory lights.

She squeezes her eyes shut.

He waits for her to catch her breath.

“Did you have a good lunch?” Riddle asks conversationally, still gripping her elbow with enough pressure to wince.

Hermione yanks her arm away. Red hand marks quickly fade into a peach pink. She’s quickly comforted by the reminder that his marks are more severe. Her eyes narrow and she takes a defensive step back. In respite, she briefly leans her body weight against the wall, shoulder blades hitting the marble surface.

“Did you forget our promise?” He asks with a knowing, teasing lilt.

“How could I forget?” Hermione responds curtly.

“You can’t.” Riddle smiles.

Hermione ignores the shiver forming in waves across her skin.

“What do you need,” she demands.

Riddle expression stiffens. “Mind your tone, Granger.”

Frustration flares in her. Hermione bares her teeth, about to spit a remark.

“When is your next feed due?” Riddle interrupts.

Hermione pauses.

“Once a week, depending on exertion,” she promptly responds. Her tone is clinical, like she had been reporting to a mediwizard. 

Riddle’s eyes are predatory, scanning her body and face. She felt vulnerable.

“If that’s all you had to ask me, I’ll enjoy the rest of my lunch.” Hermione swallows thickly and makes for the doors.

Riddle doesn’t need to grab her again in order to grab her attention.

“Do you remember our agreement?”

Hermione halts.

“Forget about me so soon?” Riddle asks, voice light and curious. Not sounding like Riddle, not at all. The Head Boy tone was absent. He was excited, off-putting.

She couldn’t tell whether Riddle was making a joke.

“I hope you remember our promise” he says again, blankly.

Back turned towards him, she can’t witness the stoic expression Riddle most likely exhibited.

“I’m sure you’ll do your part.” His tone is casual, knowing. Prematurely assuming Hermione’s role before she had a chance to respond. He was deciding for her.

As if a rope was coiled tightly around her, Hermione was tense. Riddle pulled this imaginary rope, teasingly. Hermione never found herself winning this game of tug-of-war. She relents.

“What is my role?” Hermione snaps, turning on her heel to flash a cold glare at Riddle.

Meeting her with a calm smile, Riddle’s eyes glitter.

“Vampire,” he responds cooly.

Hermione steels herself. Very clearly, that premise had already been established.

Riddle correctly surmises her silence as confusion, and strangely, a vexed expression is painted on his face, as if he couldn’t comprehend why Hermione hadn’t understood his cryptic words immediately.

“I’m sure you’re well aware that vampires are immortal.”

Her mouth goes dry as her lips part.

Immortality.

“What?” Hermione asks breathily, screwing her eyes shut and pressing a palm to her chest.

“Of course, immortality has its own conditions,” Riddle begins, advancing towards her. 

Hermione’s legs lock, and her feet refuse to listen. Her entire body froze over, and she was suddenly brought back to her memory of spotting possums playing dead in front of her. Only this time, Hermione isn’t on the advantageous side.

“Immortality could mean forever aging, but succumbing to fatal wounds.” Riddle’s wand materializes. 

Hermione doesn’t have the luxury to be astounded at his seamless non-verbal magic, or why his wand wasn’t on him in the first place, because her hands reach for her wand as well. It was a dueling instinct.

“No one’s truly immortal,” and at the last word, Riddle’s eyes of black tar seem to glow. 

He lunges towards her.

Pinned against the bathroom sink, Hermione’s head crashes into the cracked mirror. Her hands clutch onto the porcelain basin behind her, feet struggling to find footing. She can’t move, not with Riddle’s body pressed against hers. Despite the panic fueling every nerve with stinging needle-like pains, there's a dull edge against her throat. 

Riddle’s wand.

Magic bursts from the channel like miniature fireworks, fizzing against her skin like bubbles. The flow of magic was unconstrained. Frenzied. She hadn’t met a single wand-wielder with magic that practically overflowed from their wand. His other hand remains on the base of her neck, slender fingers lacing around her throat, comfortable in its position. A gentle pressure is applied, coupled with the wand sinking into her skin. He was warning her both physically and magically. Her entire body convulses with energy, ready to attack Riddle. 

As if he could sense this, Riddle nudged his wand, not enough to hurt, but to remind her.

“Should we find out?” Riddle whispers breathily into the shell of her ear, his pale cheek cold against hers. She can feel him smirk against her chin. Her stomach twists. 

Immortality.

“Will Avada Kedavra do?” Riddle sneers, drawing back until their faces are only centimeters apart. Hermione flails momentarily, before catching her reflection in the black of his pupils. 

The Killing Curse. He was going to kill her. Just like he killed Myrtle.

Tunnel-visioning on the miniature Hermione painted in Riddle’s eyes, Hermione steadies herself.

The same electrifying sensation when Hermione tasted blood returns, spreading from head to toe. Riddle’s eyes widen, noticing the shift. His pupils dilate, spreading even over the whites of his eyes. As if possessed, he seemed to lose all focus. The pressure of magic was constricting, taut like a bow. But his body reacts, even if his mind couldn’t.

His hand tightens around her throat, choking her. Hermione gasps for air. She loosens her grip on her wand and drops it in a struggle to knock Riddle away. The weapon clatters and rolls away.

It was as though Riddle stared right through her. 

Her entire body jitters, as if electrically charged. Her eyes remain fixed on Riddle, although in her periphery, she spotted her target.

“BOMBARDA!” Hermione shrieks, voice garbling at the pressure of Riddle’s wand obstructing her larynx. 

The bathroom stall door behind Riddle combusts. Wood and plaster fling forward, arranging themselves into shrapnels. The sound blasts Hermione’s eardrums, leaving a dull ringing in its wake.

Firmly, she maintains eye contact. And it seems Riddle is compelled to do the same. Favorably, Riddle’s broad back shields Hermione from the assault of debris. 

Dust fades quickly, as the reaction itself was small.

Riddle was shocked, tucking his head to limit the barrage’s damage. She had caught him off-guard.

Hermione shoves Riddle off, finally breaking their eye contact. The magic snaps like a thread, leaving Hermione with surprising clarity. She quickly gathers herself. Her wand flies towards her hand with a nonverbal spell and she assumes a defensive stance, wand stabbed in Riddle’s direction.

He stumbles footsteps away from her, shoulders slumped.

“Petrification?” Riddle asks hollowly. And for the first time, he’s at a loss.

“I don’t know anything about immortality.” She ignores his question. “Information about vampires is close to nonexistent. I can’t understand myself if I’m not even given a starting point. It’s almost as though vampirism is less researched than the Dark Arts itself.”

Riddle’s head hangs low, refusing to meet Hermione’s eyes. As if he wasn’t doing a fine job moments earlier.

Hermione refuses to consider why. Refuses to acknowledge the trance Riddle had been under mere seconds ago. Thoughts multiply and regenerate in her head, overwhelming her like a swarm of cicadas. She couldn’t think clearly. 

“You might have more hope of extracting immortality through the Dark Arts than from me.” Hermione tugs her uniform back into place, yanking her robe’s collar, which had sunk to her lower chest, back to her neck. “Have you heard of horcruxes?”

She felt responsibility in deferring his attention to another forbidden topic. Suggesting the idea of horcruxes itself felt heinous, dangerous. Hermione was well aware of the culture surrounding it. Just long as Riddle turned his attention anywhere but her.

“And you have heard of horcruxes?” Riddle asks accusingly, eyes angled at the wall. Away from hers. “I didn’t take you as a Dark Arts enthusiast, given following rules and playing dumb seems to suit your strategy.”

Riddle wasn’t completely off the mark.

“Considering the topic of vampirism is as taboo as the Dark Arts, I don’t think I’m too far away from the subject,” she responds bitterly.

“Petrification,” he mumbles. “Non-lethal,” he notes, seemingly to himself, quiet enough to whisper under his breath. She cannot help but hear it. 

He was referring to her. 

“Have you heard of Darwin’s theory of evolution?” Riddle asks.

“I’m quite familiar with the concept, yes.” Fear begins to wash away, resurfacing as anger. Clearly, Riddle egged her on with the intent of digging out information, to break her. He had never meant to kill her.

He was toying with her.

Riddle smoothly reassembles himself, the reserved, blank look assuming control of his features. His eyes harden and he stares at her, renewed with purpose. Hermione’s blood rushes in her ears. She hates that she is more affected than him. Paralyzed at times only to fight back, all the while Riddle resumed his upper hand.

“Are you capable of more than just elaborate spell work?”

“Heightened senses. That’s all,” Hermione answers vaguely.

Riddle stares at her for a moment longer, before advancing one step forward. Hermione holds herself still. His gaze is greedy, shoulders squared and his wand grip flexing.

Restrained, Hermione averts her eyes.

He knows there must be more.

Riddle knew.

Hermione must have been shaking. Shoving her hands into the robe pockets, she conceals her trembling grip beneath the dark fabric. It does little to guard her against Riddle’s probing eyes, but she feels braver, having covered the obvious signs of fright. 

“Is vampirism an affliction or a birth defect?” His voice is low, strumming Hermione’s tendons and vibrating endlessly in her skull.

Mouth sewn shut, she remains silent. He’s asking how she came to be.

‘Birth defect.’

Hermione wavers, recalling her father’s stricken face—

Riddle was entering her mind. A Legilimens. At her moment of rumination, he skilfully inserts himself into her thoughts, pummeling and barreling. She senses him the way her body cannot, in the impression that he was already aware of what she was thinking. Every perspective was filled with him.

Goosebumps prick at her skin. 

She felt him. She felt him everywhere. 

Her mind goes blank and her face slackens. Quickly, before another thought can slip away from her, Hermione detaches.

Numb, she drowns her memories, stuffing their lungs full of enough water to sink them.

“You’re an Occlumens,” Riddle acquiesces, ceasing his attack.  She thinks she detects surprise in Riddle’s tone. The connection between them fades, releasing the tight pressure on Hermione’s thoughts.

Memories refuse to come afloat. Riddle’s spearheaded attack had disturbed an equilibrium. She felt thoroughly disturbed. Traces of Riddle linger on her every thought. Hermione winces, pain radiating from behind her closed eyes. Something still remained. 

“I don’t recall having learned Occlumency,” Hermione mutters, regaining balance. 

Her eyes burn, a dull ache pounding in her skull. A memory begging to break free. 

“Perhaps it’s a natural affinity for restraining my emotions,” she says out loud, vocalizing her realization.

Riddle’s expression is unreadable. While Hermione could easily summon her mental walls against legilimency, Riddle had a penchant for guarding his outer presentation, controlling every mannerism. Her heart rate begins to pick up once more, already starting to accelerate into the sensation of vertigo due to Riddle’s constant attacks, both physical and mental.

She couldn’t relax.

Riddle wouldn’t let her.

“Did you enjoy that?” Hermione snaps, gritting her teeth. “Attempting to take information by force?”

Calmly, he raises a single brow. “In the end, I got nothing. There’s nothing to complain about in a fruitless endeavor.” 

He was lying. Riddle seemed elsewhere, his thoughts straying from his current situation. He was brewing with preparation. Conspiring. Hermione is mute, staring up at him in disbelief. He meets her gaze with low-lidded eyes. 

From all his attempts, he has gained something of value. Information. A glimpse into Hermione. She begins to panic.

“Riddle, I’m of no help. I know little of what you need.” Her tone is pleading, desperate to back out of their bargain, a deal with their lives. 

She was stripped bare before a Legilimens who knew her every handicap. This time, it’s Riddle’s turn to be withdrawn. His gaze is petrifying, sealing her in amber like a helpless, prehistoric ant. There is a danger in his awareness, the acute deliberation with which he acts. 

“I’ll find out,” Riddle says coldly. 

Then, a slight smile slants his lips, striking dread within her.

He steps past her, shoulder barely grazing against hers.