Peremo

Hermione spent the night in the infirmary.

It wasn't secure and it didn't feel safe—what if he came back?—but she couldn't bring herself to leave Edward on his own.

Do you really think I'd miss twice in a row?

That meant, that Edward's injury was his own doing. And while Tom mightn't have been the one to physically shove him down the stairs, she was sure then it must've been one of his Slytherins, one of the little posse she'd seen loitering around the castle grounds.

Is that how he trained them, she wondered? His new recruits? Had them prove their worth by injuring the muggleborn and half-blood students who couldn't defend themselves?

Or had it simply been a means to get to her? An elaborate, but sure-fire way he was able to corner her completely alone, and pin her down and—

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. She'd spelled herself clean several times, had brushed her teeth three times over, but it didn't feel like enough. She could still feel the warm sensation of his come on her face, could still taste him.

Like a mantra, she told herself she only did what she had to, but the more she simmered, the more she replayed it, the more the shame continued to build. She should've said no. She should've fought him off. She should've stood her ground and done something, anything else, but she hadn't, and—

There was a sudden sound, and Hermione straightened, wiping at the tears that were starting to well up in her eyes.

Pushing off the infirmary bed she'd chosen for herself, she tiptoed over to Edward. He was finally stirring.

She reached out and clasped his twitching hand. "Edward?" she whispered.

He groaned groggily, his eyes cracking open just a bit.

"Wha—ah... goo... good mornin', Miss," he slurred, blinking heavily. "Wha... what happened? Where...?"

"You're in the infirmary, Edward. We think you had a fall, broke your leg. It was quite a bad injury."

Edward sat up quicker than he should've, and pulled back his blanket, exposing his leg to inspect it. It looked remarkably clean.

"You're all mended now," Hermione explained when he frowned. "It'll be extra tender for a few days, and you'll have to go easy for a few weeks, but you'll be right as rain soon enough."

"Oh." Edward wiggled his toes testingly.

"Do you... do you remember what happened?" she asked, not wanting to pry too soon, but unable to help herself. "How you fell?"

Edward frowned and pressed his lips together thoughtfully. "No. I was in the entry hall, and Selwyn was... he had some... um, opinions on my jumper. I remember speaking with him, and then it's a bit blurry, and then... here I am."

Hermione nodded. Hmm. "Oh well, I wouldn't worry too much. It might come back to you in the coming days. Or it might not, and that's perfectly normal too. The brain will often shut out incredibly painful or stressful events as a manner of self-protection."

Edward nodded. "How... how long do I have to be here?"

Her features softened. "Madam Spindle would like you stay for a week."

"A week?! But that's...!"

"I know. I'm sorry. The mended bone needs time to rest to ensure it sets strongly. But we'll be sure that the house elves bring the feasts to you, and we'll bring your gifts right to your bed. We can move the tree a bit closer if you like, too," she offered. "We'll make sure you still have a wonderful Christmas."

Edward rolled his eyes and fell back down onto the bed. He covered his eyes with his arm. "This is the worst year of my life," he announced.

Hermione patted him on the shoulder. "Is there anything I can get you?" she asked. "Some tea? Some toast?" Edward didn't answer, so she added, "...some sweets?"

He was quiet for another moment, until—

"...Do you have any chocolate frogs?" he mumbled.

"Coming right up."

While Edward was relatively contented by his chocolate, Hermione resisted the painful rumbling of her own stomach for as long as she could. But by dinner time, more than a full day since she'd last eaten, at the thought of the pudding waiting in the Great Hall, she was ready to call it quits.

Leaving Spindle on infirmary duty, she hesitantly made her way down.

A tightness lingered in her belly, one that steadily grew stronger the closer she got to the hall—it had nothing to do with her hunger.

She didn't want to see Tom again. If she never did, it would be too soon. Just the thought of him had her flooding with embarrassment, shame and fresh fury all over again. But the worst of it, she thought, was the anger she had at herself for feeling those things to begin with, for letting him get to her like that, for letting him have his way.

While the idea of devoting herself wholly to the task of getting his horcruxes hadn't been unbearable in theory, in practice... she didn't know that she had what it took. Using her body to manipulate others wasn't something she had experience with, wasn't something she could learn from a book. It was the sort of thing that’d better suited to Lavender, or Ginny, or Fleur—they were all beautiful and they knew it.

But her? Bookish, bossy, and buck-toothed?

The pressure was overwhelming and he urge to throw in the towel, to curl up and hide, was strong. Stronger that it'd ever been, but...

Despite it all, despite how sick he made her feel... she couldn't let herself back down. The Voldemort she'd known had been responsible for the deaths of thousands and thousands of innocents. Had ripped the wizarding community to tatters, had torn her family and friends apart.

She couldn't be so selfish as to think she was more important than stopping him. To save her friends, she would do whatever she had to. She would.

Coming off of the grand staircase, she noticed Dumbledore heading toward her from the direction of the transfiguration classroom. It was a relief to see him. It didn't matter that she didn't know the Dumbledore of this time—just the sight of someone who also wanted Tom stopped was enough to provide a small piece of comfort.

She nodded politely, expecting him to merely be heading in for dinner too, but he slowed as he approached.

"Good evening, Miss Granger."

"Evening, sir," she said politely. "Are you coming in for dinner?"

"Yes," he said, and together, they started to veer toward the Great Hall. “I was, however, hoping for a word with you, and as fate would have it, here we are."

"Oh. Um—of course."

Realistically, she knew there was nothing to worry about. She wasn't a student, he couldn't very well scold her. But it was instinctive. When a professor wanted to speak with her—particularly Dumbledore—she couldn't help but assume she was in trouble.

"Mr. Wilkins..." Dumbledore eventually said.

That made more sense. "Ah."

"His incident yesterday... Madam Spindle informed me that it was Professor Riddle and yourself who brought him in."

"Yes. It was," she answered a little unsurely. "I, um, ran into them on their way to the infirmary. The incident was quite loud, you see, so I came to see what had happened..."

"Of course," said Dumbledore. "And if you don't mind my asking, what did happen?"

"Well... all witness accounts—including Edward's—suggests it was a fall down the dungeon stairs."

Dumbledore paused then, and now that they'd reached the doors of the Great Hall, Dumbledore stopped.

"Might I ask a favour of you, Miss Granger?" he suddenly asked.

"…Certainly, sir."

Dumbledore frowned as if considering his words carefully. "I am becoming increasingly aware that... a group, of sorts, seems to have formed, consisting of students in Slytherin house who are here for the break," he said softly. "Now, out of an abundance of caution, likely driven by the incident that you may be aware of, of nineteen forty-three, I think it might be best to keep a bit of an eye on that particular group. If you take my meaning.”

Ah. Now she understood. Dumbledore had put it together the same way she had.

The increased number of Slytherin's staying for the break. Their loitering in clusters. The injury of a muggleborn on their staircase, following Riddle's return to the school.

He was still sniffing around Tom. Not thoroughly enough—but still. It was comforting to know.

"I see," she said quietly. "I will most certainly keep an eye out."

"Thank you, my dear." Dumbledore gave her a tight smile and gestured toward the hall. "My office is open anytime. Enjoy your dinner."

"Thank you, sir."

Hermione led the way into the hall. It was, thankfully, rather empty. Reaching the dinner table, Hermione sighed. The staff table was halfway vacated; while some of the staff, like Spindle, were still in their offices, others had gone home to their families for the break. It made for a nice table. Spacious.

Her usual spot had empty seats on either side, and Hermione smiled as she took her place. It was exactly what she needed. She helped herself to a shameless amount of roast chicken and potatoes and filled a generous glass of wine.

Ahh.

With the crackle of the fireplace, the sparkling Christmas decorations, and the white noise of the hall, it made for a relaxing atmosphere. She'd needed this.

Hermione was halfway through her meal when there was a loud laugh from the Great Hall entrance, and she glanced up in time to see Professors Shrew and Poppyworth laughing with—oh. It was Tom.

She stiffened and pretended not to notice them, forcing herself to continue on with her dinner. Her cheeks heated treacherously.

She peeked up when they approached the staff table, just in time to see Shrew and Poppyworth waving to Tom, heading toward the left of the staff table, while—oh no. Instead of joining them, Tom headed to the right. Towards her.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no, no—

"Evening," he greeted when he reached her, lowering himself into the seat that was normally reserved for Madam Spindle.

Hermione didn't want to so much as look at him. If she did, she thought she'd have a hard time resisting the urge to tell him to fuck right off.

Not wanting to cause a scene, she settled for greeting him with a mere clearing of her throat.

Despite her snub, Tom asked conversationally, "how is young Mr. Wilkins doing today?"

"He's well," she mumbled, focusing down on her dinner. She didn't let herself add, no thanks to you.

"Glad to hear it," said Tom. She could feel his eyes burning into her cheek. Her skin crawled. "And how are you?"

"Fine."

Tom was quiet for an all too short moment.

"Oh," he sounded with interest. "Is that Italian?"

She glanced over just far enough to see him gesturing at the wine.

"That’s how I would interpret 'made in Italy'."

There was another pause as he poured himself a glass—

"You're a bit short today, aren't you?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "What do you want?" she said irritably, glancing over to him at last.

He looked incredibly amused at her snap, and with one look at him, his alight eyes and misleading grin, she felt her skin flushing. Damn it.

"That's not very polite of you."

Hermione scowled at him.

Tom barked a laugh and plucked a small slice of chicken off of her plate, popping it into his mouth. "What are you doing New Year's Eve?" he asked abruptly.

"Excuse you, pot," she snapped, her glare deepening. "...Why?" she asked suspiciously.

He took his time chewing her chicken. "Slughorn has offered to host a... celebration, of sorts."

"For your birth—" Hermione stopped herself midway through, but it was too late. The damage was done.

Oh, for goodness' sake.

"...Pardon?" Tom asked slowly, his brows raising.

"Um." Hermione shook her head and picked up her fork, poking at her food. She felt rather jealous of it. The thought of being swallowed whole suddenly seemed rather appealing. "Nothing."

There was a long pause, and Hermione kept her eyes trained on her plate. Why did she have to go and say that? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

In her peripheral vision, she noticed Tom move, a long arm reaching out to pick up a napkin. He wiped at the corner of his mouth.

"This gravy's a bit much, don't you think?" she murmured. "Could do with a bit less salt—"

Tom moved suddenly, his hand gripping her forearm. His fingers were tight, the pressure enough that it felt as if she might bruise.

"What were you saying?"

"Let me—ow." She pried his hand off with her free one, looking him in the eye defiantly. Intimidation might be his favourite ammunition, but she knew that he wasn't very well going to fight her in the middle of the Great Hall. "Calm down, would you? I was just going ask, whether he's hosting it for your birthday."

Tom was usually incredibly hard to read, but in that moment, he was plainly furious.

Bloody hell, what was wrong with her? She was slipping up with him more often than not. At this rate she might as well get up onto the table, jump up and down, and sing, I'm from the future, I'm from the future.

But—unlike her murdering children comment—this one, she thought, was fixable. She couldn't take the words back, but as long as she ignored the urge to shrink up into a ball and just kept calm, stayed smooth, she could recover the situation.

"How do you know that?" Tom uttered.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," she said as casually as she could. "It's not remotely as sinister as I can see you're thinking. Avery told me."

She desperately hoped Tom's birthday was common knowledge amongst his knights. She wasn't sure that it would be, but then—

Tom glanced away. He took up his wine glass, proceeding to take two consecutive mouthfuls. "Did he?" he said.

"Sorry," she said. She didn't mean it, but when someone was visibly bothered, it was just habit. "He... also said you don't like to talk about it. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

Tom didn't reply. He snatched up a bread roll and started to pick at it.

"So, were you... going to ask me to come? To Slughorn's gathering?" she went on to ask meekly. "Is that why you brought it up?"

She didn't want to go. Another evening in the Slytherin dungeons with Tom wasn't anywhere close to her list of things she'd like to do, and while she didn't want a repeat of the previous night... if there was any chance of getting to his chambers, to getting to the diary, then she had to take it.

No matter what it entailed.

Tom chewed his bread slowly. "I don't know if I want to anymore."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, it's a birthday," she uttered, and despite herself, she felt a little bit guilty.

Merlin, how did he do that? He tried to kill her, forced himself on her, and broke the leg of one of her few friends at Hogwarts—how in all of hell was she was the bad guy?

"It's not even a big birthday. I'd understand if you were upset about turning thirty, but you've got a few years until then, don't you?"

Tom rolled his eyes and busied himself with his dinner.

Ugh. He was right a piece of work.

But, with the previous night in mind, she supposed he'd brought it up to... smooth the tension between them, to further solidify their truce.

…Or to give that impression. So, maybe a different angle would work better...

"Hmm. That's a shame. Had you invited me, I would've suggested that maybe..." she cooed, doing her best to sound suggestive, "afterward, we could meet up, and I could give you... a gift. For your birthday."

She bit into her lip, batted her eyelashes. She felt ridiculous. How did women do this?

"But—oh well. If you don't want it, then that's too bad. Maybe Avery will want to spend the evening with me instead."

Tom glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. Bit by bit, he started to smile, as if he'd been trying to fight it, but the smile won out.

"Don't you dare," he murmured.

She shrugged innocently. "Why ever not? It'll be New Year's. I could go for some fun."

Tom glanced away, and now he looked like he was having a hard time trying not to laugh.

And—oh hell. Her cheeks grew hot. She wasn't doing that bad a job at selling it, was she?

But then Tom leaned in and whispered, "have you ever seen a man beg for his life? And I mean, shamelessly? Pleading, crying, pissing his own pants?"

Yes, actually, more than once, Hermione wanted to say. But that wouldn't do, would it?

"No," she said instead.

Tom ran his fingers along the tablecloth until he reached her, then gently brushed the top of her hand with the tip of his ring finger.

It gave her chills.

They weren't entirely unpleasant, but she tried not to think about it.

"Spend your night with Avery, and you will."

Hermione's mouth suddenly felt rather dry. She pulled her hand away and reached for her glass, taking a large mouthful of her wine.

"Does that mean I'm invited, then?" she asked, doing her best to ignore the constricting sensation in her stomach.

Tom tilted his head toward her, staring. He was again his unreadable self... until he glanced down at her lips. She crossed her legs, pressing her thighs together.

"I'll come and get you," he finally murmured. "Same place as last time?"

"Ugh." She scowled. "Charming."

Tom just laughed and went back to his dinner, and Hermione found that rather abruptly, she was no longer hungry.

Two days later, on the day of Christmas Eve, Hermione again left the infirmary in Spindle's capable hands.

She'd been meaning to head down to Hogsmeade for several days now to go and pick up a couple of Christmas gifts, and now, she'd reached her last opportunity.

But there was also another thing she was hoping to find while she was there, and it had become urgent that she did.

She wasn't so foolish as to believe that Tom had invited her to Slughorn's New Year's party because he wanted to spend time with her. After her recent two run-ins with Tom, she was well aware she was on paper thin ice.

Do you murder children often? God, what a stupid thing to say. And the look he'd given her... he wasn't stupid, he knew precisely why she said it, precisely what she'd been insinuating. She didn't have a doubt that he knew that she knew about Myrtle.

And her birthday comment on top of that... well. It was a wonder she was still in one piece, and knowing Tom, if he were going to try to strike again, then New Year's would be the time.

Some birthday present, indeed.

She only hoped the prospect of sex was enough to delay him. As long as she got to his chambers before he tried to kill her again, then she had a chance.

Jesus. What had she become?

Unlike Harry and Ron, Hermione liked to be prepared. She didn't like to wing anything, not if she could help it, and the way she saw it, was that if everything went to plan, if she managed to get into his chambers, get to his diary, and get out before Tom tried again at killing her, then there would only be a short window of opportunity. Once he became aware that she was after his horcruxes, then she would be playing with an entirely different monster than the one she'd seen thus far. That meant, that as soon as she had the diary, she needed to get straight out of Hogwarts.

And the only thing that was therefore left in the equation, the only thing that might stop her from leaving, was her need for a way to destroy the horcruxes.

But luckily, she thought she had just the thing.