He Is Seen
Chapter Fourteen: He Is Seen
Hogwarts, 1938
Tom had taken to haunting the Slytherin common room out of spite. His housemates might make a grand show of ignoring him, but he would make damned sure they never forgot he was there. It was tempting to seek refuge in the Library, to find a temporary reprieve from the sneering incredulity of his peers, but he refused to show them that sort of weakness. Stubbornness had led him to claim a prominent spot near the fireplace, something that the portrait of the Milky-Yellow Python found about as endearing as his housemates. It hissed obscenities down at him but he ignored it, just as he ignored the way the nearby seating always became conspicuously empty once he'd arrived. One day, he vowed, they'd be begging to fill those chairs around him. So, understandably, it was something of a shock when someone did sit beside him.
True to his word, Andrus Lestrange had kept his distance. However, unlike the rest of Slytherin, he'd watched Tom from afar with interest. The unspoken promise, of course, had been that he could be a ready made "friend" as soon as Tom found a way of elevating his station. Only, as far as he was aware, he had yet to do that so why, then, was Lestrange taking this sudden risk?
"Ah, you again," Tom greeted offhandedly. He didn't wish to appear too keen, but he was curious what had prompted this visit. "I thought we had decided this was not yet a mutually beneficial relationship."
Andrus snorted. "You've bought yourself a couple of minutes, I'd say."
Tom narrowed his eyes. So Slughorn had been right, there was something that he'd failed to take into account, some way to ease the nasty opinions of him. "What do you mean?" What had he overlooked?
"You've earned us more House points than any other First Year," the other boy replied with an easy shrug. "If you keep that pace up, we're guaranteed to come out on top. It's been a long time since Slytherin won the House Cup."
"Long enough to forgive an unclear lineage?" Tom asked interestedly. However, in the privacy of his own thoughts, he was cursing at himself. He had tuned out Dumbledore's speech about House points, had failed to appreciate what sort of leverage a merit system could provide him.
"No," Lestrange interrupted his thoughts with a biting laugh, "but certainly enough to make you somewhat less of a social pariah."
He shoved that hope to a back burner, letting his face fall blank as he murmured dryly, "Your warm regard is touching, Andrus, really."
"And of course it's been noted that Slughorn has taken an interest in you."
That statement rang between them like an odd non sequitur. Tom couldn't even begin to guess how Slughorn's attention was at all useful, and didn't mind saying so. "Why should that matter? The man is easy to please."
"Not as much as you'd think," Lestrange replied, offering him a conspirator's smile. "You see, the old boy is something of a social climber. Don't let that doddering exterior fool you—he can smell marketable talent a mile off. Every single one of his favourites has gone on to achieve some level of fame."
For a very brief moment, Tom considered the possibility that the other boy was making fun of him, trying to feed him a lie. He thought Slughorn was nothing if not benign, but what if there was more to the man than he'd guessed? He'd made a lot of bad assumptions lately, it would be a shame to make another. Still, he wasn't entirely sure he was reading the older boy correctly and so his reply was a stoney, disbelieving, "Really."
"Didn't you wonder why a softy like him was Head of Slytherin?" Andrus seemed delighted by his lapse in judgement. "He's as conniving as the rest of us, he just hides it better."
He could feel a red flush creeping up the back of his neck and he attempted to offset it by acting nonchalant. "Could have fooled me."
Lestrange's grin spread wider. "Did fool you."
Tom went very quiet and considered his next words carefully. He knew that the potential friendship offered by the older boy was more about practicality than respect, but he found the oversight rude nonetheless. "My good humour is a terrible thing to squander, Lestrange," he warned quietly. "Just because I am disadvantaged does not mean I am powerless." There were so many corridors that went unpatrolled, so many empty classrooms to stage an accident in; he'd been on his best behaviour so far, but he could go back to being his old-self in a heartbeat. "Tread carefully."
"Ah," Andrus clapped, not at all perturbed by the threat, though he did seem to understand that it was genuine, "so the orphan has some venom after all! I was beginning to worry you were a Ravenclaw mis-sort; we get those from time to time, you know. And you have been rather chummy with the Ravenclaws."
"What exactly was my alternative?" he returned bitterly. Even now, even next to one of their precious Purebloods, the rest of the common room regarded him with poorly concealed contempt. "You're the only person in Slytherin who's not actively trying to pretend I don't exist."
Lestrange looked around and conceded, "Fair enough. Flawed logic, though—they know you exist, they're just not sure what you're about yet, but they are starting to get curious. You chose your Ravenclaws well." A slanted, sideways look crept over him—abruptly, it seemed as though he were fishing for something. "On purpose, I assume?"
Regardless of whatever the boy wanted, Tom saw no reason not to be honest. What did he care if Andrus knew how perfunctory his relationships were? "It seemed advantageous," he admitted breezily, "though it has yet to really pay off."
"Bit of advice?" Tom had spent enough time in the company of charlatans to know when someone was angling to sell him snake-oil. Lestrange's voice had gone soft and friendly, raising red flags as he explained, "Eunice Macmillan is an only child; to compensate for this, her cousins have become like surrogate siblings. She is particularly close to Alphard Black; in fact, I daresay he's wrapped around her little finger."
If that was true then it was very useful information, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Andrus was attempting to hook him for some reason. What could the older boy possibly want from someone in such an untenable position? The only way for him to find out for sure was to play along. Striving for indifference, Tom dug a little, "Indeed? And has he much influence with the rest of his family?"
Lestrange did not appear to sense the shifted mood. "He's the eldest of his siblings, but not the eldest Black at school." Another shrug and then he explained, "Still, it's an in among some other First Years," as if Tom could not have connected those dots on his own.
The orphan's temper was beginning to stray dangerously close to the surface; something wasn't right about this conversation, but he could not pinpoint why. Calmly, in his own charlatan's voice, he asked, "And what about you?"
Andrus attempted to deflect, "Get yourself into Alphard's circle and no one will bat an eye at our acquaintance."
A soft smile bloomed across Tom's lips and, using the same silky tone he'd once heard a particularly convincing con artist use, pressed, "Why do I feel as if I'm being tested?"
The older boy was gently lulled, his facade dropping by inches. "No one expected you to make it this far. Other First Years in your position have usually broken down by now. Instead, you're acing all your classes; it's raised a couple of brows, and the older students don't mind taking pleasure in the idea that there's a Slytherin who can beat the Ravenclaws at their own game." The pleasant facade slipped further, greed shining in those dark eyes. "You're in a unique position right now—you have the opportunity to change some opinions—so don't mess this up, Riddle. It would be a shame to see such potential squandered."
"Duly noted," Tom hummed. Then, cruelly as he could, allowed his voice to sharpen when he snapped, "It is worth mentioning, however, that while the going has been slow, I've been doing just fine without you."
The tonal whiplash made Lestrange flinch, and he seemed to realise for the first time that Tom was on to whatever game he was playing. Defensive now, he hid behind a laugh, "Well, excuse me, Your Lordship! Just trying to help."
"And why is that?" he bit out, wanting to get to the point of all this maneuvering.
"You're different. There's no point in sugarcoating it: you're not the usual sort that gets put into Slytherin." The greed was back, hidden behind a strange measure of flattery, but still certainly there. "You're sharp-eyed, quick witted, and if you're given to breaking rules no one has caught you yet. For decades now, maybe even centuries, this House has been flooded with short-sighted bullies that only made it in because they didn't fit into any of the other Houses, but you…" He paused, glancing slyly at the younger boy. "You're almost everything a Slytherin should be. If you'd had a proper name, you could have already had this place wrapped around your fist." More red flags. This was unwarranted flattery—Lestrange hadn't been around him enough to make these sort of judgements. It was clear the older boy was building up to something, feeding Tom's ego so that he would be more agreeable. For what purpose, though?
"Why would you help me to realise that?" Tom asked in a scrupulously blank tone. "Why not wrap the House around your own fist, Andrus?"
"I want to see this place changed, brought back to its former glory, and I see in you the ability to do that." The Second Year smiled winningly, doing a very good impression of sheepish admiration. "You have a steel-set resolve and the appropriate capabilities to see your ambitions through to the end."
But Tom had heard enough; he suddenly felt that he knew what shape this conversation was taking, and it was all he could do just to keep playing along. "And you don't? Even with all your cunning and foresight?"
"I lack the drive—"
The trap was finally visible to him and his temper snapped, "I will not be made your puppet, Lestrange!" He could see the cunning fish hook now: ingratiate the poor, clever orphan squarely into his debt for such kind guidance and the boy would have a useful toady to do whatever work Lestrange deemed too dirty for his own hands. He was sorely mistaken if he thought Tom Riddle would ever be obedient. Letting loose some of the malice he had kept so tightly under wraps since leaving London, he continued, "Your advice has been appreciated, but don't think to manipulate me! You haven't the vaguest idea what I have planned—Hogwarts is just the beginning."
Something in his bearing finally made the older boy wary. "You're the most intriguing boy I've ever met," he said carefully. "Or the most infuriating, I haven't decided yet." He paused for a moment, a question clearly bothering him, before he asked, "Am I really so transparent?"
"The sole advantage to an unsavory childhood, I assure you," Tom sneered. "I can read you like a book."
Tactics laid bare, Lestrange made a last ditch effort to flatter him, "Perhaps, I seek to help you because I don't wish to end up on your bad side."
"You're doing a spectacularly poor job of it," Tom replied bluntly. He was quickly growing weary of this farce, and though Andrus was the closest thing to an ally he had in Slytherin he didn't mind letting the older boy know that his patience was swiftly coming to an end.
"You have quite the temper, don't you?" Andrus laughed, finally letting the act fall completely. "I wouldn't have guessed it after two months of near silence."
"Don't patronise me, Lestrange," he warned, surreptitiously gripping his wand under his sleeve. "I will create some pull eventually, and when I do you could find yourself suddenly disadvantaged." Never mind that they were both underclassmen, Tom would find the means to his ends even if it drove him mad. "Right now I'm on my best behaviour because I'm still learning your rules, but once I have those down I'll be bringing my own to the table—you might not like the consequences of your flippant attitude then."
"I almost want to see you fail now," the Second Year admitted morbidly, "but I think that if you did, you'd take us all down with you out of sheer spite." He blinked a few time, finally appearing to really take Tom's measure. "We're damned either way, though, aren't we? Whatever you have planned will be devastating for anyone who's not standing beside you." He cocked his head. "Lofty dreams for someone so young."
Tom allowed the worst of his anger to slip away—after all, Lestrange had only wanted to do to him what he himself wished to do to everyone else. His resentment would linger, but even that did not diminish how potentially useful the older boy could still prove to be. "It's going to be a very long game, Andrus," he spoke quietly. "I could use your help—but I don't need it."
Lestrange stared at him as if he were something completely new—a mixture of dawning awe and trepidation—and replied equally soft, "Understood." Two paths laid before this boy, and Tom fancied he saw the very moment a decision was reached. Standing carefully, almost fully turned away, Lestrange tentatively offered his allegiance, "Alphard is among my cousins; we're not close, but I can soften him up a bit for you. It would still be best to get your introduction through the Macmillan chit, though—he really would move mountains for her. Getting into Alphard's good graces may take a little time, but it will be quicker than waiting for anything to pay off with Fawley."
Hogwarts, 1990
Hermione grit her teeth and attempted to smother a coughing sob. Hot, angry tears were rolling down her face and she resented each salty drop. She was stronger than this, she knew that and yet she couldn't stem the tide of her hurt feelings. If she were being perfectly honest though, she had to admit that these private theatrics had been a long time coming. It had been a gruelling two months with very few reprieves. Her classmates had only continued to grow colder and more vindictive as she maintained top marks in their increasingly difficult lessons. Lavender Brown had rallied the other Gryffindor girls against her, whispering cruel things when they could be sure she would overhear them. Their insults weren't original—she'd been treated to variations of them for years now—but it still wore her down. In fact, if it hadn't been for Lavender's weeks-long campaign against her, Hermione probably wouldn't have been flustered enough to even register Ron's callus words that afternoon.
It was really his fault she was crying in a bathroom, that she'd been reduced to this pointless silliness. Even after their midnight adventure, over a month ago, Ron had still refused to open up to her. She couldn't figure out what she had done wrong and had even gone so far as to ask Harry about an uncomfortable suspicion. "Is it because I'm a muggleborn?"
"What?" He had appeared stunned by the thought, green eyes blinking at her owlishly.
His surprise hadn't stopped Hermione from seeking a straight answer though, so she'd clarified, "He hates me, and I was just wondering if it's because I'm a muggleborn and earning higher marks than he is." It wasn't a terribly generous thing to think about her housemate, but she wasn't sure what else the problem could be.
Harry had simply shaken his head, looking uncomfortable when he'd answered, "I think you remind him of his brother Percy."
"I like Percy," she'd replied immediately. The elder Weasley was one of the very few at Hogwarts who seemed to enjoy her company. True, he had a bit of an ego, but that didn't make his intellect any less engaging.
As if he'd been able to hear her thoughts, Harry had given her a sad smile and pointed out, "Yeah, well, I don't think Ron does as much."
"What can I do, then? I'm not changing for him," she'd groused stubbornly. "He'll take me as I am, or not at all."
And she'd remained true to that sentiment for many days, doing her best to entice Ron's company without compromising her own sense of self. It was difficult though, the redhead always seemed to have just the comment to make her spitting mad, and after several unrelenting weeks she had to admit that she was getting a bit tired of trying. Her campaign for his friendship was beginning to feel like a lost cause.
The whole mess had finally come to a head that afternoon. She'd been paired up with Weasley during Charms and had spent the better part of the lesson making a valiant effort not to snap at him. Just as when they'd been practicing curses together, he seemed to go out of his way to ignore her advice even though it was exactly what Professor Flitwick had already been telling them for days now. At first, she'd attempted to ignore it, but the sheer wrongness of his methods had finally broken her resolve. If she'd thought his mood had been sour before, it was nothing compared to how he acted after she'd corrected him. The minute class had let out, he'd gone stomping through the corridor complaining loudly to Harry about how much of a pain she was. She could have forgiven that, could have even ignored it outright, but his next words had pierced straight through her weary heart.
"It's no wonder she hasn't got any friends!"
Hermione had nearly bitten clean through her lip just to keep from bursting into tears on the spot. Because in the end he was right, wasn't he? The girls all hated her, the boys thought she was completely irritating, and while both Neville and Harry had proven sympathetic she wasn't sure she could really consider them friends yet. So she'd taken refuge in one of the girls' bathrooms, letting her tears fall as they may, because what else could she do at this point? A brief image of Harry came to her—he'd appeared apologetic as she'd dashed past them in the corridor—and she thought perhaps, if she could ever get him alone, she might be able to achieve some level of comfort with him. Yet, she found it was an entirely different dark-haired boy she wished to take solace in.
Tom had never been gone from her for so long since their very first argument, and she missed his presence deeply. He would have scoffed at her classmates' antics, deflected their insults or made them seem less important. At the very least, he would have bolstered her spirits between confrontations. While he was not often effusive, Hermione had always found that Tom inspired a certain confidence in her; she could always be herself around him. He didn't care that she wasn't girlish or popular or demure; didn't even care when she was rude, to be honest. In fact, he was drawn to a lot of the qualities others found so repulsive in her—he loved her bookishness and matched it, step for step, with his own. Without him, she felt keenly alone. She'd been around him for so long that she'd taken for granted what his extended absence might feel like. It hadn't really bothered her at first, but as the weeks had crawled past she'd begun to feel more and more isolated, so different from how she'd first pictured her time at Hogwarts would be.
She'd had such hope when Professor McGonagall had given her her Letter. Cosy, endearing fantasies had sprung across her dreams so easily. Her and Tom together at last, no more sneaking around or hiding what they could do! It sounded silly and mundane, but she had really looked forward to being able to do their homework or study for exams together, to keep up their silent magical competition even as they helped one another along. It was painful to have those simple desires so thoroughly dashed. No one understood her quite the way he did, no one made her feel as comfortable about who she was. Even though she had, in part, driven him away—and would do so again, if he ever put her in such a terrible position—she finally admitted that Hogwarts felt empty without him. It was not at all the haven she'd imagined it would be.
And so Hermione allowed herself to cry—because of Lavender and Ron and stupid, stupid Tom—letting out two months of pent up anger and confusion, not knowing that the rest of the school was about to be sent into a spiral of panic.
Hogwarts, 1938
Tom wandered the corridors restlessly, wanting to be alone with his thoughts. His conversation with Lestrange had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. What if he hadn't been quick enough, clever enough to realise what the older boy had been attempting to do? It might have opened doors amongst his fellow Slytherins, but the idea of being Lestrange's lackey was ignoble at best. And he couldn't help wondering how many others would try to do the same in the coming years. Would every conversation be fraught with traps, laced with poison? The prospect of being constantly on guard sounded simultaneously tedious and dangerous. How was he meant to have a single meaningful exchange when every word could be baited to hook him into social servitude? The only answer, of course, was to hook them first. Perhaps it wasn't enough simply to have influence—maybe he had to own them outright, for his own peace of mind. It was a fitting enough thought; if he was to achieve the level of notoriety he envisioned, it would take a massive powerbase. He would need supporters, and the Slytherins were nothing if not connected. Through them, he would be able to control most of the wealth and political power in all of Great Britain.
In that light, his conversation with Lestrange had ultimately been a success then. The boy had seemed rather taken with his ambitions, though he hadn't pressed for any sort of explanation of what those were yet. Tom doubted that Andrus would give pause at the idea of dominion—the common room was thick with souls craving after the idea of power. And through Lestrange, Tom could finally reach the rest of them; his path was blessedly clear of roadblocks for once.
It was a long road though, twisted and extending before him for years to come. There was so much hard work to be done and no immediate satisfaction in sight. It left him weary just to understand the massive shape of everything he had yet to do. And with that weariness came a dull ache: a desire for simplicity and comfort, for temporary solace from these exhausting machinations. An undeniable desire for Hermione.
For eight weeks he had ignored the siren call of the future, but that singular girl had never been far from his thoughts. In all his life, Tom had never met anyone that only desired from him his company—excepting her. The orphans of London had wanted his absence or protection, the bluebloods of Hogwarts wanted to control him, but Hermione had never asked for anything, save his presence. It was such a simple desire, one his pride had denied her—and for what? In her own way, she had provided for him: given him food, temporary shelter, and above all stimulation. What had he given her in return? Magic, certainly, or at least what he'd understood of it at the time, and perhaps a measure of safety from her more aggressive peers, but by and large what he'd given her the most of was his temper and dishonesty. Even to him that seemed unfair. Their relationship had been a constant balancing act and, though he'd tried not to, he knew he'd shown her some of his worst—in retrospect, the idea that she still wished to be friends after all that was miraculous. Why deny her that? Why deny himself that? Allowing his pride to stand in the way ensured only that they both lost. And without her his best alternative was the pair of Ravenclaws, who had long since proven to him that they lacked any sort of vision. There was no sense in trying to replace what was clearly superior; Hermione was different from everyone in a way that worked well with his own sense of being different. Like two halves of a whole, they simply fit and he knew, somehow, that he would never find her equal.
That thought made him curse anew at the decades between them. He couldn't help imagining how much more interesting his lessons might have been with her there; how they could have been pushing past the limits of those simple exercises while his classmates were still struggling just to understand the concepts. The simple fact of the matter was that without Hermione, Tom wasn't feeling challenged. He completed his lessons easily enough, and what he didn't already know only took a small amount of studying to learn; he was more consumed with busywork than actual magic. Her presence in 1938 not only would have alleviated the worst of his boredom, it would have added a level of excitement that his life currently lacked.
He could not bring her back. After several years of trying, the truth was inescapable: something about his power made it impossible to carry other living creatures with him, and at eleven years old he lacked the understanding and strength to change that fact. His only recourse, then, was to continue visiting the future. Could he swallow his pride and return to her? After two months would she be glad to see him?
There was only one way to find out.
It hardly took any concentration at all to make the jump these days, though the growing blankness of the Void continued to plague him. Belatedly, it occurred to Tom that the Halloween feast had already begun, that he might end up appearing from nowhere in front of the entire school, but that fear was thankfully unfounded. However, ending up in a girls' bathroom did inspire a certain amount of embarrassment all the same.
The thought was abruptly pushed from his mind when he caught sight of his friend. Hermione was hunched in front of a mirror, choking on ragged exhalations. When she looked up, it was clear from her reflection that she'd been crying for quite some time—her cheeks were flushed, eyes rimmed with red, and she looked exhausted from expending so much energy.
Tom felt a whisper of panic knot his stomach. He was no stranger to tears, certainly having caused more than his fair share—in fact, on occasion he even found the sight pleasantly amusing—but he had never before seen her cry. Her eyes had welled in the midst of arguments or that one time she'd badly skinned her knees, but she had always managed to hold the tears back. Part of him had just assumed that she was too practical to allow it, that she wouldn't see any logical use in the act and would therefore simply refuse to breakdown. What on earth had happened to crack her iron resolve?
"Hermione?" he asked, taking several steps closer. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Mind whirling through terrible scenarios, he reached out and turned her around. Gentleness was foreign to him, but he did his best to keep his hands light and steady as he searched her for injury. "Why are you crying?"
She looked up at him, her obvious surprise at his presence stemming the flow of tears. In a husky and somewhat confused voice, she hiccuped, "St-stupid Ron Weasley."
Tom felt himself grow cold. "What happened?" There was a small cut on her lip, dried blood flaking off when he carefully ran his thumb over the closed wound. "Did he hit you?" The very idea made him see red. Some boy had dared to raise a hand against Hermione? He knew her stance on revenge and violence was unfavorable, but this was unacceptable—so much worse than anything that Smythe brat had ever done. Ron Weasley was about to find out that she was irrefutably off limits. "I'll wring his neck!" But he'd hardly taken more than a step away before her hand shot out to bring him back.
Hermione stomped angrily and gave him a shake. "This is all your fault!" She glared at him accusingly.
"My fault?" he asked, dumbfounded and a little lost. "How is this my fault?" She had refused his protection in the past, so it didn't seem likely that she would hold him accountable for her wellbeing now. A small, guilty part of him did feel as if he'd failed her, though. A girl like her wasn't made to endure violence; she was soft in a way that people from the his own time were not. If he'd been there he might have been able to spare her the experience. Instead of proving himself useful, he'd been moping through the halls like an idiot, and in his absence she'd been hurt. The idea made him furious—partly because he knew she was more than capable of defending herself, but wouldn't for absolutely nonsensical reasons—and it made his magic swirl around him in a way it had not done since his visit to the seaside cave.
"You abandoned me, Tom," she snapped, interrupting his thoughts. Her tears began to fall freely again, more angry now but still just as potent. "You didn't think that would hurt my feelings in the long run?"
It took a moment for her meaning to sink in, and once it did all he managed was a stupid sounding, "Oh." She wasn't hurt, not physically at least. Whatever Ron Weasley had done was apparently only a small part of the reason she was in tears. The main cause was Tom himself. He felt the knot in his stomach twist tighter and he shifted nervously from foot to foot. He'd been the unforgiving cause of a lot of tears, but he'd always enjoyed inspiring those; watching Hermione cry and knowing it was his fault made him distinctly uncomfortable. This is what his pride had wrought: taken a bright, resilient girl and reduced her to an emotional mess. The price of his stubbornness was proving to be brutally high. Two months he'd spent in growing isolation and suffering—he'd known exactly how difficult their time apart was—and she was still a girl, after all, so of course the separation would have been harder on her. Was his ego really so great that he'd needed to invoke this senseless grief?
Tom swallowed, his throat suddenly tight as he watched the wet tracks soak into the collar of her shirt. Familiar as he was with sorrow, it had never been his business to soothe it. There had been no kind words at Wool's, no tender displays, and what little physical contact existed had always been rough and abrupt. He had never given nor received any kind of comfort, had no experience to draw upon—this sort of gentle consoling had always seemed like an intrinsic part of the mystery that was family. But Hermione was the closest thing he'd ever had to family, so was it not his place to at least try for her?
"No, no, don't cry," he murmured, drawing her close into the sort of embrace he imagined a parent or a sibling might offer. Despite how angry she clearly was, Hermione slipped into the hug gratefully, albeit briefly. She was so much shorter than him that she could practically tuck her head under his chin, and she did so for a few seconds before pulling slightly back. But she was still more or less in his arms, which he took as a good sign, so he continued, "Tell me what to do, and I swear to you I'll make this better. Just, please, stop crying."
She did not respond, save for a soft hiccuping. Doubt was plainly etched across her features, holding her tongue silent.
Tom held back a sigh, struggling with himself for a moment. He knew what had to be said, and he knew he had to mean it. "I'm sorry," he told her seriously, dabbing at her tears with the edge of his sleeve. "I don't know if that helps at all, but I know I need to apologize. I am sorry, Hermione, a thousand times over." It was an effort to get the words out at first, but once he'd started he found that he couldn't stop. "I'm sorry that I lied to you; I'm sorry that I let my temper get the better of me; I'm sorry that I stopped visiting; and I'm sorry that you had to face all of this alone. I've been a rotten friend to you, I realise that now."
She stilled his hand and peered up at him. "Do you really mean it this time?"
"With every ounce of my being," he replied. The words were as alien to him as the sentiment and he could only hope that he sounded earnest enough.
But Hermione was not quite sold. "Three years of lies," she bit out, pushing him away, "two months of agony, and you had me so confused… I missed you so much, but I don't know if I can ever trust you again."
"I missed you, too," he reached for her, but did not take hold, "more than I ever thought I could miss someone. Is there nothing I can do to make this up to you?" His hand hung between them, a silent plea for connection. "I can't bear the thought of another day apart. Hogwarts is miserable without someone who understands—I'm miserable without you."
She bit her lip, reopening the small cut he'd spied there, and appeared to weigh his words. Her own hand twitched, as if desirous for what he offered, but when she spoke, her tone was heavy with resignation, "You've always had a way with words; that makes it very difficult to believe you just now."
How many times had he played at sympathy? How many empty apologies had she accepted in good faith? It was bitterly unjust that the one time he honestly meant every word, he could not convince her of that fact. He could not even begrudge her her cynicism; he'd earned every moment of her suspicion, payed for each second with his careless platitudes. Had he been in her position, he didn't think he'd ever be capable of trust again. There had to be some way to get through to her, though; some way to impress upon her how badly he wanted to repair their relationship. There were no pretty gifts to give her this time, no insidious words to lull her. He had only one thing to offer—that self-same quality that had driven them so far apart. His damnable pride.
In eleven years, Tom had kneeled to no one, accepted no on as deserving of his respect, but over the past two months it had become clear that Hermione filled an emptiness in his life no one else seemed capable of even touching. She was important to him in ways that could not be fully verbalised, utterly irreplaceable. He couldn't comprehend the thought of living without her—and wasn't that itself a form of respect? She was superior to anyone else he'd met, and it was long past time to acknowledge that.
Swallowing thickly, gritting his teeth against the impulse to stay still, he slid smoothly down to the floor. "I was wrong in every conceivable way, and I am down on my knees begging you to forgive me." Embarrassment and discomfort kept his head bowed, a move he knew would look like deference, but a part of him simply couldn't face her from such a debasing position. "You know I don't make this gesture lightly, but I will do whatever must be done for you, Hermione." She remained eerily silent above him, so he braced himself and added, "Hold it over my head for years if you have to, but please tell me that we can fix this."
Her hand threaded through his hair in a brief caress as she replied, "It really must be lonely in the past." Her voice was tart, but not necessarily accusing anymore; in fact, she almost sounded playful.
Tom's head snapped up. "You figured it out," he smiled. He'd known she would, of course, but he had assumed she would need more contact, more clues, to do so.
Hermione's tears had finally dried, her doe-like eyes rounded in wonder at the sight of him below her. She did not take advantage of the situation as he might have, instead drily replying, "Took me a week or two. It was your uniform that tipped me off; it's a bit old-fashioned."
His knees were beginning to ache against the cold stone floor and his ego smarted terribly, but he wasn't sure if it was safe to move yet. Hiding his uncertainty in a jokingly light tone, he asked, "Can I stand now, or am I still groveling?"
"Oh, get up," she smiled at him, an alluring sight that inspired hope. Even her next words were not enough to dampen his newfound relief, "You're not precisely forgiven, you understand. Consider this probation—lie to me again and there will be trouble."
He rose to his feet as gracefully as possible and mulled her warning over. Not precisely forgiven was not the same unforgiven. So long as he behaved himself, they were basically back to where they'd been before their fight. Not ideal, but not unfavourable either. Her terms were fair enough, so he acquiesced, "As you wish, My Lady," with a joking bow, reminiscent of the last time he'd called her by that title.
"Stop that," she snapped, but the fondness in her eyes far outweighed her irritation.
Tom straightened his uniform, dusting imaginary debris from his robes. When he finally straightened back up, he offered her a raised brow and asked, "Not a good first two months then, I take it?"
Hermione snorted, an indelicate sound from someone so small. "About as enjoyable as yours, apparently."
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Blood purity?" Had she been made to endure the same hardships he'd faced?
She shook her head and replied, "Know-it-all." Then, recalling his words from so long ago, made as if to hit him and continued, "And if you say, 'I told you so,' I shall slap you."
He dodged her empty threat with ease, laughing, "There's the Hermione that I missed!" This was the most comfortable, the most lighthearted he'd felt since boarding the train from London. The steady ache that had plagued him was finally easing.
"So," she drew the word out, businesslike even as she bumped shoulders with him playfully, "are we just not going to talk at all about the fact that you're a time-traveler?"
Tom smothered the urge to flinch—he genuinely did not wish to speak about it, because there were still a few things he just wasn't willing to share with her. His real name, for example. Could he risk lying to her after just having promised not to? It seemed ill advised, but then again so did lying through omission which he was already doing. He couldn't refuse to talk about it though, because that would seem suspicious, and the last thing he wanted right now was to reignite her temper. "We can," he finally hummed with an offhandedness he did not really feel, "if you like."
Hermione seemed positively giddy at the prospect. Not that he blamed her, but it was still the last conceivable conversation he wanted to take part in. Her happiness—such a long lost sight—almost made the danger worth it. "Honesty makes you surprisingly polite," she smiled at him wickedly, perhaps aware of her advantage in that moment. "I could get used to that."
And, despite how easily he knew they could both erupt back into an argument, he returned that smile, "I wouldn't recommend it."
"Tease," she accused and made a brief show of pouting. The act fell quickly though, her curiosity getting the better of her. "When are you from, exactly?" Her sharp mind was whirling, trying to connect facts that she couldn't fully see—he might have felt uncomfortably pinned down if not for how genuinely refreshing the sight was. "I narrowed it down to somewhere between 1920 and 1950, but I obviously couldn't pinpoint a specific date."
He couldn't lie to her, but that didn't mean he had to tell her the truth, so instead he deflected, "Do you think it's wise to get specific? So little is understood about the nature of time-travel."
Her excitement dimmed, an unforgiving look hardening her eyes. "That's not fair," she pointed out in a low, dangerous tone. "You've had every opportunity to learn about the future, which is a lot more potentially dangerous than me learning about the past."
Tom opened his mouth a few times, struggling to explain his hesitations. It went beyond a simple desire to control her perception of him. When he'd first understood that he was traveling through time he'd been overwhelmed by the possibilities, but as he had gotten older the philosophical implications had begun to dawn on him. "I haven't gone looking for information explicitly about myself though, have I? Knowing my own future would be a terrible burden, and if I told you when I'm from I know you would do everything in your power to find out about me. Let it remain a mystery."
Hermione frowned at him and cocked her head. "Why?" Her confusion could not have been more obvious—it was simply in her nature to want every possible explanation.
Just as it was plainly in his nature to want control, an attribute that could be dangerously undercut by foreknowledge. "I don't want to wake up every morning wondering if I'm doing something because I want to or because I know that it's already happened that way," he explained. "Let me live my life on my own terms. Please." He had to believe that he was the master of his own actions, otherwise there was no such thing as free will. Knowing his own future would surely drive him to change it out of spite—just to prove that he could—an endless series of perverse reactions that would no doubt deliver him to the brink of madness. "We're both better off not knowing."
She weighed his sentiment, and though she clearly did not agree she allowed the matter to drop. "Can you at least tell me how you do it?"
"I'm not entirely sure, actually," he replied easily, relieved that she hadn't pressed the issue, hadn't forced him to lie at such a fragile stage in their reconciliation. "The first two times were an accident, but after that I found that I could control it if I focused on you."
"Really?" Her great intellect was engaged once more, likely running through every book she'd no doubt read on the subject. "I wonder why?"
In some ways it was a relief to have at least part of the truth out in the open, to be able to speak freely about this power that he still barely understood. "I have a theory that it's not time-travel at all," he admitted, "that's just a side effect. It's you, specifically, that I'm traveling to; I can't make it work any other way. For some reason, you and I are connected."
If Hermione found that idea hard to believe, she never got the opportunity to say so. They were abruptly interrupted by what appeared to be a mountain troll. How such a famously stupid creature had managed to get so deep into the castle in the first place was a mystery that paled in comparison to the ample danger it troll was massive, at least twelve feet tall, and unhelpfully blocking the only exit. Within moments, the beast began wreaking havoc, smashing sinks and breaking mirrors, closing the distance between them all the while.
Tom did not precisely push Hermione behind him—he didn't think she'd appreciate the protective gesture no matter how dire the situation—but he did step in front of her ever-so-slightly. Not that she needed his help; in the time he'd wasted repositioning himself, she had summoned a burst of blue flames to distract the creature. He wasn't sure if fire was really the best way to drive it off, but after only a few weeks of formal education they didn't really have a lot of spells at their disposal. They began herding the creature back in tandem and they nearly had it all the way to the exit when two boys came bursting through the door.
A gangly redhead and a short, black-haired boy stood just inside the girls' bathroom, looking out of breath and worried. They were both likely First Years and would therefore prove little assistance, but they quickly threw themselves into the fight anyhow. Tom spared them each a quick glance—who were they and why had they appeared so quickly on the heels of this troll?—but he found his eyes drifting time and again to the dark-haired boy. There was something strangely familiar about him, even though Tom was sure they had never met.
The next several minutes passed in a tense blur of action and shouting. Possibly-Harry-Potter helped Tom and Hermione distract the troll, while Probably-Ron-Weasley managed to use the creature's own club to knock it out. Introductions were hardly forthcoming once the troll was down, however. An awkward moment of silence stretched between the four students, the stillness only broken by the sound of approaching feet.
Tom had never meant to be seen by anyone from Hermione's time, but the idea of other eleven year olds catching sight of him didn't seem so bad now that it had already happened. However, being caught by a professor, a staff member that could be searching for him at Dumbledore's behest, was another thing entirely. He would have to leave, even though it meant betraying himself in front of these two boys and despite the fact that there was still so much left unsaid between him and Hermione.
A young man came into the room then—clearly a professor, regardless of his insignificant age—and even with his faint trembling and giant turban Tom might have considered him unremarkable. There was something else there though, a darkness surrounding the man that seemed to whisper death and danger, yet it had that same familiar edge to it that he'd sensed from the dark-haired boy. What was this invisible shadow hiding in plain sight? It set his teeth on edge, made his skin feel tight and uncomfortable; it made him want to grab Hermione and throw the both of them back to a decade where this thing could never find them.
Before the man turned to see him, Tom attempted to do just that, already knowing the futility of the gesture. True to form, no matter how tightly he gripped her, he could not pull Hermione from her own time. In the isolation of the Void, he contemplated the threat she'd just been potentially left with. What was that darkness, and why had he seemed to be the only one that could sense it? Was she safe from it? How could she be safe at all with that sort of decay infesting Hogwarts?
The Void gave way to an empty corridor, but he hardly took pleasure in the sight, too worried for his friend to feel much relief at his own safety. There was little he could do though, as returning so soon would surely get him caught. He would simply have to bide his time, and when he was able to return to her they were going to have a very long talk about this mysterious professor of hers.
In the meantime, Tom would visit the Library. Some studying was in order; he'd never needed to understand the magical nature of time-travel more.