Peremo

Early Christmas morning, before the sun had risen, the main walks of the castle were deserted. The lanterns burned low, the occupants of the portraits had long drifted to sleep. Even the ghosts weren't anywhere to be found.

It was then, roaming the quiet corridors with a calm, white rage, that Hermione decided that if there was one silver lining of Tom having tried to murder her, it was the window of opportunity she had whilst he thought her dead. Without needing to worry about running into the basilisk, reaching the seventh-floor corridor without being spotted was easy. She hadn't even needed to disillusion herself.

The Room of Hidden Things was just as she left it, dusty and cluttered, and once inside, she sought out a quiet corner. Ducking between two aisles of treasured rubbish, Hermione followed it down to the end.

She set up base on an open patch of floor and fished through her bag to find the knife she'd bought. She pulled it out and— God, she thought, staring down at it. What had she been thinking? It wasn't even sharp. She should've kept looking, but... ah. Oh well. Beggars couldn't be choosers, and so, she dug around in her bag for the phial of poisoned tea. It wouldn’t hurt to try.

Holding the phial up to the light, she saw the tea inside had formed a thick, black skin on the top. She bet it smelled foul.

Wrinkling her nose, she uncorked the phial, and with a steady hand, keeping her skin safely out of contact with the liquid, she poured one, two, three drops onto the blade of the knife.

She watched it closely, but was quickly disheartened by the fact that nothing seemed to be happening. It was just a knife with some brown drops on it.

Hmm. What if there hadn't been enough venom in the tea for it to impregnate the silver? Or what if it had been sitting too long, and the venom had precipitated out? Did basilisk venom have a half-life once removed from the tooth?

But then again—maybe nothing would happen. Maybe the venom seeping into the metal wouldn't give any visible sign at all.

Deciding her safest bet was the middle ground, Hermione left the knife to stew with the tea on it for a moment while she went to find Tom’s ring.

And there, right where she'd left it, nestled in amongst the old quidditch things, was the ring's protective container. She brought it back over to the knife, and spelled the container open, carefully tipping it upside down. Tom's ring fell to the stone with a soft metallic echo.

Her eyes starting to sting with tiredness, she stared down at it. She had a strong urge to spit on it.

How would it defend itself, she wondered? The locket played on one's insecurities, while the diary formed a personal connection with whomever came into contact with it. The ring's defence... Hermione suspected it was in its appeal. It would lure one into putting the ring on, try it on for size, and at which point, the curse Tom had given it would seal their fate.

But Hermione was not to be fooled. She was far too furious to be. Tom had forced himself on her, tried to kill her, again, and the monster he would become would tear her entire life from her.

Destroying his ring would be the least she could do to repay him.

Deciding that staring at it wasn't a good idea—she'd given it long enough to have an attempt, surely—Hermione scooped up the knife by the handle, and angled it back so that the droplets of tea dropped back into her phial, just in case.

One never knew when basilisk venom might come in handy.

Then, squeezed the hilt of the knife and crouched by the ring.

She thought she could feel it, then; a pulse brushing against her skin that wasn't hers, steadily picking up. Did it know it had reached the end of its life, the portion of his soul trapped within the ring? Like the rest of him, did it fear death over all else?

She hoped so.

Hermione took a deep breath, and with rage quickening her blood, she brought the knife down, stabbing into the ring.

Light filled the room as the metal hit metal, a loud crack filling the space, and at the impact, she was thrown backwards.

She had the distinct sensation of falling, and then all went black.

There was a soft, indistinct echo.

...truly made a sound?

Hermione had that odd inkling you sometimes get, you know, the one that happens when you're not alone? That pressing, unnerving, skin-tightening sensation that comes when you're being watched?

It was an obscure thing for her to be feeling, partly because she didn't believe in a sixth sense, and partly because she couldn't see anyone—couldn't see anything, for that matter. There didn't seem to be anyone in the space she was in, not even herself, but despite that, she could've sworn that somehow, she heard someone.

How do you find meaning in a life that's forgotten?

Oh. There it was again. She was sure of it this time; a voice, blurred at its edges, just on the brink of being tangible.

"Where are you?" she asked into the space, with a mouth she didn't have.

There was a low thrum, almost as it were in response—

If you're not remembered... have you ever truly existed at all?

Now that she was listening for it, she could make out what it was saying.

Nonsense, of course you would have, she thought back at it, a bit irritated it was asking such a philosophical question when there were clearly more important questions at hand. Such as, where was she? Why had her body gone?

Ah, but Hermione, to be, is to be perceived.

She'd heard that saying before. But, wait— can you hear what I'm thinking?

If one can never die, one can never be forgotten.

Oh. There was something familiar about the voice now, a surety, a confidence, a smoothness she recognised—

"...Tom?"

Hermione woke suddenly, and when she did, the first thing she became aware of was that she was uncomfortably cold. Then, she noticed an ache in her neck, the sort that came from sleeping in an uncomfortable position for too long.

She slowly pushed herself up, muscles protesting, finding herself on the ground of the room of requirement where she'd been pressed awkwardly into an overflowing cupboard. She rubbed at her tender muscles, stretching them out.

There was light streaming in through the windows. She must’ve been knocked out. How long had she been unconscious for? She had a vague sensation that she’d been dreaming, but couldn’t quite remember it. And—

Oh. The ring.

Hermione forced herself up and hobbled back to the centre of the room, over to the spot where she'd stabbed the ring. There were scorch marks charring the middle of the open stone, presumably in the spot she'd stabbed the horcrux and nearby— several gold shards of metal were scattered, pieces of Tom's ring.

It had worked.

Merlin, it had worked.

Sheer, beautiful relief washed over her, and despite her aching muscles, she laughed out loud and jumped on the spot. It worked.

Her pathetic little knife did the trick, and now, with the ring gone at her hand instead of Dumbledore's, he would never be cursed. Dumbledore would never lose his hand, would never arrange with Snape to be killed. She'd saved him.

She swelled with pride. If Tom succeeded and managed to kill her, then now at least, she could die happy. One horcrux down would make a world of difference, in the end.

Hermione lowered to a crouch, closing in to examine the broken ring. Had the curse been broken along with its vessel? She suspected so, but erring on the side of caution, she collected the pieces with her wand, levitating them back into the rings protective case.

She was about to stand up when her eyes caught onto a small, black stone.

She blinked. The resurrection stone. One of the Hallows, the one Tom hadn't known he'd had when he'd turned the ring into a vessel for his soul.

Hermione didn't think about it. Before she could register what she was doing, she plucked up the smooth stone and considered it in her palm.

It didn't feel like anything special. Just a sleek black stone, subtle geometric markings on its surface. It wasn't surprising that Tom, raised with muggles, hadn't identified it for what it was—it just seemed a nice rock.

But now, with it in her hand, the sight of its markings had her pondering again on the marking Dumbledore had left in the Tales of Beedle the Bard—the marking he had left for her. At the time, when she'd found the drawing in the book, she'd assumed the marking had been a hint for that time, for stopping Voldemort in the nineties.

But he hadn't left the book to Harry. He'd left it for her, just as he'd left this entire doomed mission for her should Harry fail. Maybe... maybe Dumbledore had thought the Hallows could help her now?

Hermione rolled the stone in her palm, considering it.

No, she decided. While she had the stone, the wand belonged to Dumbledore, and the cloak must've been with Harry's ancestors. She didn't think thieving the cloak from them would help, nor did she think Dumbledore had planned for her to nick his wand.

And the stone... how was that supposed to help her? It was surely the most useless, flawed Hallow of the lot, and she was grateful that she had it now, in the past. To her, it was just a rock, and the temptation of it couldn't possibly pose a risk; everyone she knew who had died, wouldn't have been born yet.

Mad-Eye, Dobby, Lavender, Tonks, Remus, Fred, Harry.

Whenever thoughts of Harry popped up, Hermione tended to try to repress them. But now the stone was in her hand, the same one that Harry had been so convinced of, the thoughts barrelled their way in.

And so, with a morbid sort of curiosity driven by the empty ache in her chest, Hermione turned the stone over three times.

She didn't hold her breath, didn't expect anything to happen, but—

From the ring, light materialised, forming an intricate apparition. The light strung itself together, weaving into the shape of a figure, and then, Harry was standing before her, his hair scruffed and his shirt untucked, just the way she remembered him.

Hermione froze.

"I...impossible," she muttered to herself, transfixed by how real he seemed. She must've been dreaming.

She blinked, expecting him to be gone when she opened her eyes.

But he wasn’t. Harry just smiled crookedly, gave a bit of a shrug. "That's magic for you."

Hermione flinched and had to cover her mouth to smother a sob at the sound of his voice. He wasn't real, wasn't really there, she knew that, but he sounded like he was, looked like he was. And she could— she could hear him.

"H-how... how are you here?" she whispered aloud, a spoken thought as she glanced between him and the stone.

It was impossible. He wasn't dead yet— he hadn't even been born yet.

Harry smiled like he could hear her thoughts. "We're always here," said Harry, pointing toward the centre of his chest.

Hermione thought she understood.

She frowned. What a terrible, stunning piece of magic.

"I'm sorry," he went on to say. "I never meant for all of this to be left to you. But I'm so proud of you. You've come so far."

Hermione shook her head. She told herself he wasn't real, none of what he was saying was real, it was all an elaborate trick—but he was all she was longing to hear. "I wish you were here. You always knew exactly what to..." she whispered. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what to do."

The apparition of Harry gave a sad smile, and reached out for her hand. She offered it, and while she couldn't feel his touch, the sight of his hand over hers felt warming all the same.

"Yes, you do," said Harry. "Remember. There is one thing he covets above all else."

Hermione just about rolled her eyes. How did that help? "Power," she scoffed.

Harry nodded.

"But that's— that's completely impractical, I can't use that, I—"

Hermione broke off.

Harry's smile widened as if he could see the cogs turning, and he nodded again as if to say, 'go on'.

Oh.

Oh.

He was right. That was it.

And it was so annoying because she'd been right from the beginning. Her original approach was the best way forward, it had to be, but... she'd gone about it from the wrong angle.

The only way to truly hold Tom off, the only way to get to his diary, was to be recruited, was to be valuable, was to be seen as a means to add to his power.

She'd been silly to think her use of the Imperius curse would be enough to sway him, sloppy to think knowledge of the founders objects would tempt him, but now...

What had happened to Felix had been a horrible accident... but Tom didn't have to know that.

And what better way to show that she wasn't working with Dumbledore than to claim a gruesome killing of a past student. Dumbledore would have never supported that, no matter what, and Tom would know it.

To claim Felix's death as an intentional, brutal act, would prove her strength, her value, and her independence from Dumbledore all in one fell swoop.

And then, if even that wasn't enough to sway him... She'd been fighting tooth and nail to keep her secret, to withhold her time travel from him, when the whole time... maybe it should have been her way forward. A last resort to save herself from being killed. Tom knowing of her time travel would make her far more precious to him than any prophecy, far more useful than any Seer. And if she manipulated it well enough, she could even withhold why she'd been sent back...

It would make her so valuable, he'd practically have to recruit her, have to keep her around. He'd be stupid not to.

"That's... that's it," she said wondrously. "Oh, that's it! I could kiss you, Harry!"

Harry grinned.

"Thank you," she gushed. "I won't let you down. I promise."

"Good," said Harry. "Now go and finish this."

Ah, Christmas dinner. Possibly the cosiest night of the Hogwarts year.

It had taken some effort to psych herself up, but Hermione decided that if she were to rip off the band-aid that was seeing Tom again, she might as well do it at the busiest possible time.

Edging into the Great Hall that evening, she found the tables warmly filled, and the few students and professors who had remained for the break were scattered around the hall, lines between staff and students more blurred than they would usually be. The fireplaces were crackling, a set of instruments were playing themselves by the back wall, strumming together classic carols, and the white noise of laughter and chatter filled the air.

It was a beautiful set up, but in all honesty, Hermione was terrified. By joining the dinner, by showing her face, she felt as though she would be lining up a nail into her coffin.

But she couldn't stop, couldn't cower and hide, and so, whilst picturing Harry by her side, she forced herself forward.

She didn't immediately spot him. His usual place at the staff table was empty, but— ah. There. Over on the Slytherin table, she made out Tom's tall form, wedged between the students. He had a Christmas scarf around his neck, and he was laughing at something one of the students had said. He... hadn't noticed her. He seemed relaxed, at ease. He had none of his usual vigilance about him.

Hermione swelled with smugness. He must've had such a wonderful Christmas in a peaceful, happy bubble, thinking her dead.

And now, she was going to go and pop it.

Had he been able to feel it, she wondered, when she’d destroyed his ring? In the past, it had been apparent Voldemort hadn’t been able to feel the pieces of his soul being destroyed, but that had been when he’d split it into eight. In this time, Tom had split it twice, and the ring had presumably been the first one. It almost seemed hard to fathom that he might not have felt half of his soul being destroyed, but… he seemed entirely relaxed.

He must’ve been none the wiser.

That thought steadied her a bit, and in that setting—at the students table, with the bright, knitted scarf on—he didn't seem half as threatening as he usually did. It was another enormous help, and with her shoulders back, hands steady, she went over there.

He didn't notice her approaching—of course he didn't—and as she came up behind him, she gently slid a hand up and along his spine, resting it between his shoulder blades, and leaned in, her head by his shoulder.

"Good evening, Tom," she cooed, and his muscles tensed beneath her hand at the unexpected touch. "Happy Christmas."

One look at her, and the slight smile he'd been wearing fell from his lips.

It only made Hermione's widen. "Sorry for not catching you earlier. I was a bit preoccupied this morning, you see. The gift you left me was very thoughtful, but a bit of a handful, to be entirely honest," she said with a light laugh. "But we'll have to catch up later so I can thank you properly."

Tom didn’t react. Aside from a bob of his Adam's apple, he gave her nothing at all.

"I'll see you around, then," she said, and quickly leaned in to place a light peck on his cheek.

While the students at the Slytherin table made a chorus of whoops, Hermione left, trailing her fingertips along his back as she went, in the exact way that he had once done.

Hermione continued on down the hall, up to the staff table toward her usual spot, biting down hard onto her tongue to hold her nerve.

She felt the eyes of the hall's occupants on her the entire way, but it was a good thing, she reminded herself. She needed anything she could get to help ensure her survival, and while she hated to do it, she reasoned that stroking the rumours of her and Tom would ensure that if something happened to her, eyes would naturally turn to him.

As Hermione reached her place and sat down, Kettleburn raised his glass to her, his eyebrows raising suggestively.

"What did you do to that poor boy?" he said.

She gave him a light pat on the arm, and though she wasn't really hungry, she reached out for some bread all the same.

"Never you mind, Slivanus."

Now that she was seating up on higher ground, and the whooping of the students had settled down, she dared a glance back down at Tom.

He was staring and there wasn't an inch of subtlety about it.

Hermione met his eyes defiantly, leaning her chin languidly onto her hand. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but by the blank look on his face and the stillness of his posture, she knew it couldn’t have been good. She was grateful for the long, festive tablecloth on the staff table; with it, he couldn’t see the treacherous, anxious bouncing of her foot.

She took a measured breath to steady herself, and with a strict amount of focus, she let her occlumency up, just a little bit, just enough to create a small, inviting cavity of thought for Tom to slip into.

Into it, she pictured Mulciber. Laying down with unseeing eyes, throat slit, the snow beneath him stained with blood.

She held Tom’s eye contact. She needed to know that he saw it. And then she thought loudly, is that the best you've got?

Tom's fork slipped from his fingers.

He was the one to look away first. Without any attention on the students around him, she watched as he found a napkin and wiped at his mouth, and without another glance in her direction, he simply got up and left.

Seeing his back to her, seeing him leave the hall, and the students quietly laughing in his wake, Hermione had to fight off a smile.

And—Merlin—she knew it was a dangerous game she was playing. She knew what had just transpired would either be her making or undoing, and she knew the burden of what she'd done, of what had happened to Mulciber was not one to be taken lightly.

But despite the screeching of her nerves, despite the sickness in her stomach, Hermione wasn't sure if she'd ever felt more smug in all of her life.