Peremo

Arm tucked tightly against her chest, Hermione rushed into the infirmary, eyes watering at the pain. The sting of the curse was on the cusp of being overwhelming, driving a deep urge to just tear her arm right off. When it had been Bellatrix who'd assaulted her and Bill and Fleur had helped her back to health at Shell Cottage, numbing her arm had been the only thing to do to manage it while the curse had settled.

So, her first priority was to get some her hands on some balm and numb the hell out of it.

And—oh, God. Reaching the infirmary medicine cupboard, she pulled her sleeve to expose the angry scars.

LV.

It was disgusting. He'd branded her, like the lambs he'd spoken of slaughtering.

She fumbled at the cupboard with her good arm, swearing as she knocked a dose of pepperup potion, its phial smashing by her feet. Finally finding the numbing balm, she grappled with its lid.

"...Are you all right, Miss?"

Hermione whined through her teeth as she lathered it on, a deep burn setting in down her bones.

"Ah—yes," she hissed. "Yes, fine."

"What's happened?" Edward asked, sitting up in his bed.

Fuck, it felt like her skin was ripping open, millimetre by millimetre. "N-never you mind."

"You look... really sick, Miss—"

"Not now, Edward!" she snapped.

Edward's eyes became wide, but she barely noticed, because it felt like she was being flayed alive.

And when the balm finally, finally started to settle into her arm, the tense muscles in her back relaxed one by one. The pain started to subside, and she sighed in relief, briefly resting her head against the cupboard door.

She closed her eyes, taking a series of deep breaths in through her mouth. But now that the pain was subsiding, panic started to seep back in. How long would she have before he again found that she wasn't dead? The snow kept most of the castle's occupants indoors, but Hagrid, Kettleburn and the occasional students would be out in the grounds.

If one of them found a body, one that was seemingly a result of suicide, word would spread about the school in no time at all. Tom was surely waiting innocently in plain sight, a perfect alibi for when he thought her body would be found. How long would he wait?

Half an hour?

An hour?

Two?

He wouldn't wait too long, and there was a good chance she'd wasted most of her time already.

If he came looking for her—which she assumed he would—then, one of the first places he'd check would be the infirmary. Which meant...

Hermione sighed and despite the tired ache that had reached her bones, she forced herself onward and approached Edward's bed.

"...Edward? I-I'm sorry that I snapped at you just now. I had a bit of an incident upstairs and hurt my arm, and not that it excuses it, but I was in a lot of pain."

"It's all right, Miss," he said meekly.

"I'm really sorry."

He sniffed. "Don't worry about it."

Ugh. Edward's mouth was saying one thing, but his eyes were saying another. Bloody hell, but... oh well. She didn't have time for it now. He could be as upset with her as he wanted, as long as he didn't get stuck in the crossfire between her and Tom. That was all that mattered.

"Now, I know that Madam Spindle insisted you remain here another day, but I have decided that I think it would be a good idea to discharge you now," she said.

Ah. That perked him up. "Really, Miss?!"

"Yes," she said, "on the condition, that you spend your time in the Hufflepuff common room. You still must take it easy, all right? No running, no jumping, no strenuous activity whatsoever."

Edward was already clambering out of his bed. "Yes, Miss," he said excitedly, starting to gather up his belongings.

"Go straight there. Don't wander. And you can be sure that I'll have Nispy check up on you, so I'll find out if you don't take it easy enough."

"Sure thing, Miss!"

She frowned at his dismissiveness, but then again, she didn't blame him. He'd been cooped up all alone for the better half of a week, and over Christmas no less. In his place, she'd be running on out of there, too.

Edward finished shoving his gifts into his bag, and with a slight limp, circled the bed. "Thanks for everything, Miss. I'll come visit."

"No, you won't, because you'll be down in the Hufflepuff basement, where you'll be resting."

"Oh—yeah. Right. That's what I meant." He grinned sheepishly.

She frowned at him, but shooed him off all the same. "Go on then."

He gave her a small wave, and then he hobbled off.

Ahh. Hermione stared at the now empty infirmary. There. That was good. Spindle would be annoyed, but she could deal with her. At least Edward would be safe.

But now she was alone again, her stomach started to twist with unease, her hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention. How far away was Tom? Would he be looking for her already?

Hermione began pacing, unable to keep herself still. Flexing her numbed fingers, she couldn't help but consider that perhaps Avery had been right. She couldn't stay in the castle. Not if she'd enraged Tom enough for him to be as bold as to imperio her in plain sight... but—fuck—she just couldn't leave without his diary, couldn't—

Hermione paused her pacing.

A sudden idea sprouted to life, an impulsive, stupid one, the sort of idea that Harry would've suggested...

Tom might start looking for her as soon as he realised she wasn't dead, but... there was one place he wouldn't think to check.

...his own rooms.

Now that she knew where his chambers were, and she was all but certain he'd be scouring the castle for her... it could make for the perfect opportunity to snatch the diary.

But—ah, how to get in there?

His portrait's bishop wouldn't just let anyone in. But then again, he'd seen her come in with Tom, only about an hour ago... maybe she could convince him to let her in again?

Or...

Or...

Could she confund a painting? She supposed she could try it—

Oh. Oh, oh!

Nevermind confunding. Hermione had an even better idea.

"Nispy?!" she called out to the empty room without pause.

Seconds later, a crack sounded from the door way.

"Miss called?" Nispy squeaked.

"Nispy!" Hermione greeted excitedly, lowering to a crouch to level their heights a bit. "I am in urgent need of a favour. A... discreet one."

At the prospect of another task, Nispy's ears pricked up. "Nispy would be most happy to help, Miss!"

"Wonderful, it's... it's a delicate matter, you see. Um... Professor Riddle and I, well... we've been... seeing each other, I suppose you could say," she said, the lie easily leaving her lips. "And please don't tell anyone this, Nispy, but his birthday is coming up, in just a couple of days. He doesn't like to make a fuss, so I thought that I might surprise him by leaving him a gift in his room."

"Of course, Miss! Nispy can place your gift anywhere you is needing," she declared brightly.

"No, that's not quite... I need to be in his room myself, you see. It's not... a physical gift, per se..."

Nispy blinked blankly.

"Well, we've... we've been seeing each other," Hermione repeated. Nispy continued to stare blankly. Oh, for goodness' sake. "I would be the gift, if you catch my meaning."

"Nispy... Nispy thinks you is saying that you need to be in Professor Riddle's personal quarters?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "Yes, that's exactly it, but, you see, I can't have his portrait seeing me, because that will ruin the surprise."

"Nispy thinks Nispy understands now, Miss! Would Miss be liking Nispy to take Miss into his room?"

"Precisely! Do you think you could apparate us in there? I don't know whether the exemption for elven magic would permit side-along apparition with a human, but do you think we could give it a try?"

Nispy's ears lowered slightly as she considered it. "Nispy can try, but cannot make any promises. When would Miss be liking to go?"

"Um..." Hermione glanced around. She didn't think she needed anything. "Now?"

Nispy nodded, and looked down at herself, seemingly in thought. "Nispy thinks... that Miss will have to take Nispy's hand," Nispy said apologetically.

"That's all right," Hermione said, offering her hand to Nispy.

Nispy looked uncomfortable, but still, reached up and put her hand in Hermione's. Though her hand was small and bony, it was surprisingly warm, skin surprisingly soft,

"Hold your breath, Miss."

Hermione took a deep breath, and with a crack, was squeezed into darkness.

The dark pressure around her released as fast as it had set in, her lungs eagerly welcoming in a fresh breath. One look at the bed they'd appeared in front of was enough to tell her—

It had worked. They were in Tom's room.

Hermione's heart raced.

"You did it, Nispy! This is perfect!" Hermione exclaimed, just about having to ground her teeth together to stop herself from thanking her.

"Of course, Miss," Nispy said brightly. "And if Miss is needing anything else, Nispy is only a call away!"

There was another crack, and then Nispy was gone.

As the room fell back into silence, Hermione properly took in the space. Now that she was there whilst properly conscious, she was struck by the scent of the room. It smelled... like boy. Like Tom. Not that that was surprising, of course, but it was jarringly... normal.

She swept her eyes over the room, giving it a surface level search for the diary. Aside from some assorted parchments on the desk, the room was pristinely clean, not so much as a speck of dust to be seen.

There was minimal furniture; a desk, a tall boy, beside cabinets and an old-looking, mahogany trunk. And his bed—it was a king, surely—looked freshly made, fabric straight and pillows fluffed. It looked so comfortable, and she wanted to roll in it, wanted to burn it, rip it to shreds all at the same time. She wondered where he slept. On the left, or the right? Or was he a middle sleeper? Would he—

Hermione tried to stop herself. But, oh, now she was looking at the bed, she couldn't help but think of the way he'd kissed her, the way he'd touched her. Her memory of being under the Imperius curse wasn't perfect, but still, she remembered the brush of his tongue, the gentle stroking of his hand... Why had he—

No. She closed her eyes and took a breath, reminding herself that he was vile, and that to try to find reason in any of his actions would be a futile effort. No, she had to focus.

She forced her attention from the bed, starting her search at his bedside table. There were some history books piled up, a blank sheet of parchment, a quill; no diary. In its drawer, she found assorted bookmarks and— hmm. A potion for dreamless sleep.

What could Tom be dreaming about that was so awful that he would resort to stopping it with a potion?

But though she burned with curiosity, Hermione tucked the potion back into his drawer and forced herself to move onto his desk. Sitting right on top of it, was the knife he'd cut her with, and underneath it, the desk was littered with hand-written notes.

She scowled. His hand was beautiful, and on the parchments, she scanned over his notes of the curse, theorising how it had been woven together. Huh. Figuring it out, how to curse a knife in such a way, really must've taken him a while.

She pondered whether if in her time, it had been him who'd taught Bellatrix.

Next, Hermione went on to nose through the top drawers, finding spare quills, parchments, ink pots, envelopes, wax—but no diary. In the lower drawers— oh. Wow.

They were filled with notebooks. She picked one up and sifted through its pages, finding it full of more of his handwritten notes. Jesus. There must've been twenty, thirty? Year's worth of notes.

Now that she'd found them, the temptation to sit down and sort through them all, find out everything he'd been preoccupied by over the years, was strong. Would he have documented the process of making his horcruxes? Trails to Slytherin's chamber, Slytherin's locket? What other precious artefacts and obscure branches of magic that had occupied Tom's youth were waiting for her in these notes? The Voldemort of her time had taught himself to fly; had Tom started on that yet?

But— argh, no time for that, either.

Grudgingly putting the notebook back with the others, Hermione next went and tried Tom's dresser. His clothes were all folded crisply, organised from top to bottom the way one would wear them—accessories on top, shirts in the middle, trousers on the bottom. There was no diary amongst them.

Bloody hell, where was it?

She tried his trunk, but it was entirely empty. She ducked down to check under the bed, only to find it spotless. She checked behind the tall boy, behind his bedside tables— nothing.

Where was it, where was it, where the bloody fuck was it?!

The diary had to be somewhere. If it wasn't here, then where the hell else would he keep it?!

Hermione squeezed her eyes closed, tried to keep calm, but it was difficult. Like his ring, he might've stashed the diary in the walls, or behind a concealing charm. Unless she ripped up every panel, how would she know? And she couldn't feel any lingering magic in the room, nothing that would suggest a concealment charm...

Fuck.

She rubbed her temples. She could hear her heart beating in her ears.

Fuck.

She'd been so sure it would be in his room, so certain.

But— Dumbledore had told Harry that once he'd turned the ring into a horcrux, he'd stored it. He hadn't wanted it near him anymore.

Maybe it was the same case for his diary. Of course, she'd never split her soul, never stored a portion of it outside of her body, but... maybe to one who had, being near it would be... uncomfortable. Voldemort hadn't kept close to any of them, after all, aside from Nagini...

Hmm.

Hermione didn't know how long she'd been in his room. It might've been five minutes, might've been twenty. Either way, she was on borrowed time. Damn it. She had to leave before he came back.

She scurried over to the short entrance hall of his room, wincing as she reached out for the portrait handle. But her reservations were for naught; the handle turned easily, and the portrait swung open. Hermione wasn't exactly surprised. Tom would've protected from others entering his room, but of course, he didn't have anything in place to stop anyone leaving. He never would've expected anyone to make it that far.

Typical, arrogant Tom.

Hermione disillusioned herself and hurried off down the corridor in the opposite direction than the one the portrait opened in. With any luck, she'd be fast enough that the portrait wouldn't notice the sound of her footsteps, and her search would go entirely unnoticed.

She crept back through the castle corridors, choosing to take the dimly lit route back down to her own quarters that avoided the main staircase. Though she couldn't risk bumping into anyone, she couldn't help but drag her feet a little bit. If Tom's diary wasn't in his room... where else would it be? In her own time, Lucius had been entrusted with it... but in this time, he was only a child. In all likelihood, Tom wouldn't have even met the boy yet. Had he even been born? But... maybe Tom had passed it onto his father, and it was destined to be passed down?

Oh, she hoped not. Sneaking around the castle was one thing, but sneaking around after the Malfoys would be an entirely different challenge. Hmm. Maybe she could go back to Tom's rooms another time and copy his notebooks? Surely he'd have something in them about his horcruxes? Maybe even something about the diary's hiding place? It was wishful thinking at best, but she couldn't think of anything else.

A sigh slipped past her lips. Well, fuck.

It was supposed to have been in his room.

She pulled at her hair as she walked, finding the bizarre sensation of tugging with her numbed hand to be oddly soothing. For once, her brain was running fresh out of ideas. Maybe a sleep would help.

Finally reaching her own quarters, Hermione sighed deeply as she ducked in behind her own portrait, removing her disillusionment charm in the way one would remove their shoes after a long day.

Thank God, she thought, closing the portrait behind her. She was exhausted. She never wanted to step a foot out of her room again—

As Hermione reached the end of her hall, she stiffened.

Because Tom was there, leaning lazily against her cluttered desk. His eyes were on his wand, watching it as he twisted it between his long fingers.

"A fucking cat, aren't you?" Tom glanced up at her, his cool eyes meeting hers, his body completely still.

Though her blood frosted over, Hermione didn't hesitate. She turned and ran.

She made it to the door, but fumbled at its handle, and although she'd been fast, Tom caught her by her hair before she managed to get the portrait door open, pulling her back by a fistful.

She swung out wildly.

"Ah— get— get off me—!"

Despite her efforts, Tom dragged her back into the bedroom by her hair, her scalp burning, and she screeched as he threw her down onto the bed.

She landed backwards, and he came down on top of her, his knees on either side of her waist, pinning her down.

“Begging becomes you.” Tom grinned down at her as though he were enjoying what he was doing, gripping her wrists, forcing her struggles to a halt.

Hermione shoved at him, lashing out as hard as she could, but his legs made a vice around hers, and he— wait, what was...? Oh God, she tasted bile realising what it was that was pressing against her. He was hard.

A whole new variety of panic set in, and Hermione thrashed as violently as she could. "You won't— you'll never get away with this!" she screeched.

"Hmm," Tom sounded mockingly, releasing her wrists quickly to wrap his hands around her neck, "actually, I think I'll manage."

She pulled at his arms, trying to pry him off, but it wasn't easy with one good arm, and he started to squeeze.

"How many times must we do this before I'm rid of you?" he murmured as he strangled her, and in that moment, with frustration and hunger and want written on his features, he was monstrous.

How had she ever thought him unremarkable? How had she ever not known him for what he was?

Unlike the last time his hands had been wrapped around her neck, this time, he didn't let up. He squeezed hard enough that she saw stars.

Hermione clawed at him, sheer, animalistic desperation. "Only— only once," she wheezed, "if you do it right."

She stopped fighting at his grip and instead placed her hand on his chest, and then, she cast a wandless knock back jinx.

It did the trick, and Tom was thrown off. Hermione gasped for air. Sweet, sweet air.

The spots in her vision didn't immediately fade, and as she got back on her feet, she stumbled a bit. By the time she straightened, Tom was pushing himself up from where he'd been thrown into her bookcase, and Hermione raised her wand at him.

"Get - out," she growled.

Tom bared his teeth, eying her wand. "Or what?"

"Take one more step and you'll find out."

Tom scoffed, stalking toward her, and although he was smiling, he was plainly livid, but—oh.

So was she.

"Crucio."

Though the red curse left her wand and met her target, there wasn't an immediate change in Tom's demeanour, and so, there was still a split second where she wasn't sure if she cast it right.

But then, Tom's advance slowed, he seemed to stiffen. His muscles seemed to contract, and the tendons in his neck became prominent. He squeezed his eyes closed, tilted his head.

"You have to—" he broke off, a soft, drawn-out groan interrupting his words, "you have to mean it, Hermione."

He opened his eyes, and stiffly stepped forward, advancing on her even despite her curse, and Hermione—

She thought on all he'd done, all he would do. The Battle of Hogwarts from her own time, all who would die because of him— Fred, Lavender, Tonks, Remus, Harry. He'd murdered Myrtle, murdered his own family. She thought on all he'd done to her now. He'd tried to kill her not once, not even twice, he'd forced himself on her, touched her—

Tom had just about reached her when his legs gave out.

He dropped to his knees, buckling forward, and his hands squeezed closed around her rug. The sounds he made were strangled, as though he were trying to hold them in— until they broke, and he started to yell.

She'd been under the cruciatus curse herself, had witnessed its effects during the battle of Hogwarts, but this—seeing it now from the other side, from the side of the caster—was an entirely different experience.

The muscles in Tom's forearms were tight, his veins prominent, and as the moments passed and his entire body constricted, his yells morphed into bloodcurdling screams.

He deserved it. He had it coming, and in that moment, with the control back in her hands, she wanted nothing more for him to suffer, to pay for what he'd done... but this...

Hermione stopped.

At the cessation of her curse, Tom's screams broke off and became ragged groans as his form slumped on her floor. His movements were slow and jittery, and his groans were ragged as he started to push himself up on quivering arms. Halfway up, he was panting to catch his breath and there was the trail of a tear on his cheek.

She almost pitied him. Seeing him there, muscles twitching and struggling to move, she even had the most ridiculous urge to apologise. But before she could get a word out, Tom—

Tom laughed. It was high, unhinged and wild, spaced between his groans of pain.

"Who—" he paused, bowing his head as he laughed entirely without restraint, "who are you?"

He pushed himself forward, reached out for her leg.

"Don't you," Hermione harshly kicked him off, "dare touch me!"

"Where did you—" Tom's hands were twitching, and he shifted to put a foot underneath himself, "where did you come from?"

Hermione scowled at him. "Maybe you would've found out, had you stayed your hand," she spat. "But instead, you chose this, and now, I'm going to be the one who kills you."

Crouched on his hands and feet, Tom gave a viscous smile. His eyes were alight, and he was stunning. "You—"

But Hermione didn't want to hear it. She was done hearing him. Another flash of red left her wand, and her stunning jinx did its job.

Lowering her wand arm, she backed up to lean against her wall and breathed a deep sigh of relief, her heart pounding.

Now, staring down at Tom unconscious on her floor, she was sure— Avery had absolutely been right. Clearly, Tom would stop at nothing, and so, she absolutely couldn't stay in the castle long term, not if he could get into the one place she truly thought she'd be safe.

She stood there for a moment, watching his body slowly moving as he breathed, and bit into her lip, toying with the idea— should she do it now? Kill him? He was unconscious, couldn't fight back. Would she ever get another opportunity like this? She could do it, Mulciber had taught her so.

But—no, she decided. The diary was still out there. A spirited version of him that could come back at any time would be a patch job, not a practical solution. She needed to end him properly while she could.

So, leaving Tom where he was, Hermione stepped sideways, keeping her eyes trained on him. She glanced away only for long enough for her to scoop up her valuables from her beside cabinet, dumping them haphazardly into her beaded bag. How long had he been waiting for her? How many of her belongings had he sifted through, the way she’d sifted through his?

But—oh, that didn’t matter, as long as he didn’t find—

She went over to her bed, fished her hand under her pillow, her fingers closing around the resurrection stone.

She sighed in relief. Thank Merlin Tom hadn't found it.

Satisfied that she would be fine parting from the rest of her belongings, Hermione scrunched her nose and tiptoed past Tom carefully, watching cautiously for even the slightest sign of movement.

She left her room and sealed her portrait closed behind her, sealing him in. It wouldn’t hold him up for long, she knew, but that didn’t matter. Every minute would count.

Hermione's muscles protested as she started back down the castle corridor, one thought in mind. What she needed now, was somewhere she'd absolutely be safe, somewhere she knew he couldn't get to her, somewhere she could sleep and tend to her arm, to the bruises that would surely be forming around her neck.

There was only one place left that fit the description.

The Room of Requirement greeted her like an old friend, welcoming her into the perfect room for her situation.

The room it presented was small and cosy, and by the wide bed in the corner, there was another door, presumably leading to a bathroom. The bed was neatly made with an extraordinary number of pillows and fleece blankets, providing a perfect spot to cocoon herself safely away.

The far wall was lined with glass cabinets, stocked full of medical supplies. It looked like it might've been stocked just as well as the infirmary was, and Hermione easily spied the numbing balm she would be needing to reapply in a few hours. She silently thanked the Hogwarts founders for installing such a room.

Sighing with exhaustion, Hermione flopped herself down onto the bed.

"Ahh," she moaned as she relaxed into it, its softness greeting her like an old friend. She shimmied herself up and along the mattress, and tucked herself away beneath the blankets, curling herself up into the foetal position.

Tom would, with any luck, be unconscious for hours. He'd be irate when he woke—she’d escaped him yet again—but she decided that it didn't matter. She'd leave the castle in the morning when she was rested and could panic about the diary once she was safe.

I thought I'd just slit his throat—an eye for an eye, and all of that, Tom had said. Which meant, that once she was safely off the grounds, her first priority would be getting to Avery.

Hermione sighed into her pillow.

She just hoped Tom didn't get to him first.