Chapter Text
The man’s screams linger in the dark boiler room. With every outburst of pain, his screams harmonize until it’s as if there are many of him.
An echoing one-man chorus; a curtain of torsos chained to the ceiling.
Charlie Weasley shuffles on his feet, trying to stand as his knees give out, chains rattling. “I’ll f*cking kill you,” he groans.
Blood coats Tom’s hands like gloves, red as the man’s stringy hair. Despite the season, it’s cold and dank underground, the smell of moldy dirt clouded by the overwhelming metallic stench.
In response, Tom slices another piece of Charlie’s chest open. (He spelled the tip of his wand to imitate the slicing spell he’d once seen Hermione use, concentrated into a fine point.)
More blood splatters on the dirty cement floor. Not to be outdone, water drips in the corners of the room, trickling faster now. It must be storming outside.
“Stop!” Charlie cries out, his voice gravelly and desperate. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Tom sighs. Torture never used to make him this weary; what’s been wrong with him lately? “Consider it an education on the real world.”
That’s more or less what Weasley said to Hermione in the memory Tom glimpsed. Not this man, per se, but rather his potential, a past or future self.
The hypocrisy of stringing Charlie up for his crimes isn’t lost on Tom. But, while he has been Hermione’s greatest tormentor, he’s also her only protector—the only one who realizes the catharsis she needs.
“Who the Hell even are you?” the dangling man spits.
Weasley had been an easy catch, meandering down the street with his hands in his pockets. And thankfully, this place is just as abandoned as Tom remembers: the perfect hideout.
During his childhood, Tom would frequent this dank boiler room, as it was close to the orphanage and no one ever bothered him here. Whenever something upset him, he’d run off and take cover in this basem*nt—a place with no eyes to penetrate him.
Back then he’d had nothing better to do than make sculptures from abandoned materials with his bare hands, like a street magician or Jesus, when he wasn’t pouring over stolen books in contraband candlelight.
All these years later and the basem*nt has yet to be touched.
Tom was glad to find it so when he burst through the door earlier tonight, dragging a burly redhead into its depths, the unconscious man’s head lolling against each stair. The next step was transfiguring chains from some rusty pipes and sticking them to the ceiling.
Now, about an hour into the session, Tom replies, “A friend of a friend, it makes no difference to you.”
The captive’s stare flickers wildly.
“What do you want, man?” Charlie’s doing well to hide the pain, acting tougher than he truly is, but the quiver in his chin gives him away.
Tom resists the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s been a long week, so forgive me if I feel like indulging myself and dragging this out a bit.” Upon saying it, he discovers the statement to be a lie.
There’s no euphoria, no heady rush like he’s experienced in the past, with his father or Dumbledore. But he wants to find pleasure in this again: regain his sense of power.
Charlie’s breathing quickens, blood oozing out a little slower. Men like him have felt invincible their whole lives; they never realize they’re dying until the very last second.
“You were at Harry’s party,” Weasley mutters, recognition rising in his bloodshot eyes. “Yeah…with that tattooed woman with the curly hair.” He must see Tom tense because he follows with, “Does she know you’re here?”
Not a bad attempt at appealing to Tom’s mercy, bringing up his girlfriend and the prospect of disappointing her. “No,” he admits, “I suppose she wouldn’t approve. But she doesn’t care what happens to her, what has happened.”
“Why…?” The broad muscles in Charlie’s face ripple—terror, confusion, and rage warring beneath. “I’ve done nothing, to either of you!”
Tom goes to rub his eyes before remembering the blood. “I know you believe that. But take it from me, mate, we don’t remember the majority of the suffering we cause. Not even under normal circ*mstances.”
Most people only remember the times they were hurt. He learned from Hermione, seeing through her eyes, how her brain stored memories and analyzed them with a detached, clinical gaze, that the human psyche is biased to protect itself. It’s an old African proverb: the ax forgets, the tree remembers.
Charlie grits through his teeth, “You’re mad.”
Thinning his lips in distaste, Tom cuts the man’s face straight down the middle.
“Gah! I’m sorry! Sorry!” A guttural sob wretches from Charlie’s stomach. “P-please just stop!”
This one talks too much. “It’s almost over,” Tom assures, more to soothe himself than the chained man, but the fist squeezing his ribs makes it hard to speak.
Suddenly, Tom remembers Hermione huddled on the floor of the Forbidden Forest, how small she looked then, blood rushing down her face as it boiled; the limp body of a kitten laid to rest in Wool’s back garden; passed-down memories of his mother’s swollen belly, the life ripped from her as he was.
Guilt, a faint voice diagnoses in his head.
Tom needs to finish this up quickly, go find Hermione before she can do anything reckless.
At the Potter’s house, she’d been in a fragile state of mind. In fact, he had a front-row seat as her brain attempted to shield itself, her thoughts dispersing like dandelion fuzz in the wind—until she threw him out, leaving him clueless to her inner workings at the worst moment possible.
Tom takes a deep breath, planting his feet.
Then he digs the tip of his wand into the ginger’s gut.
He carves downward until organs tumble from his taut, freckled skin.
Charlie’s eyes are waiting when Tom looks up, protruding from their sockets, searing a path as they fall to his ravaged torso. His shock is contagious.
Tom’s nerves feel fried, even worse than when Hermione subjected him to her driving.
And as Weasley takes his last shuddering breath, Tom lights up a cigarette he bummed from a fellow at the party. Blood rapidly soaks through its filter. He huffs before finally casting a cleaning charm on himself, unsure what to do next.
There are no books on how to deal with murder. How, after the first time, it becomes a distraction like everything else and just as tedious. No one tells you how the bodies stay with you long after they’re gone, waiting just outside your peripheral vision, shells of their former selves intruding on your consciousness late at night.
Tom stares at the chained man—the body.
Its jaw is sunken, eyes staring blankly down at its exposed intestines. The chains dissolve from lack of focus and the body flops to the ground like a heavy sack of meat.
Tom breathes in a plume of smoke, then breathes it out, trying to quell his anxiety.
Misty shapes dance in the darkness of the room.
The glint of metal catches his eye.
Frowning curiously, Tom thinks the blob is a tremendous rodent at first, but then he takes a step closer.
He only identifies the object by its bottle cap shield and sword, the kind of caps he’d find on the sidewalk outside pubs. Sitting there, shadowed by the wall, is a roughly-hewn statuette of the goddess Athena.
A starkly familiar statuette with his fingerprints molded into the mud-made clay.
Tom’s gut churns.
When this place was his secret hideout, he crafted figurines like this for many of the stories he read. If it weren’t for the bottle caps and the shape of his palm imprinted on her head, sinking from age, Tom might not have paid the lump any mind. But this must be one of his, from way back then.
How did it get here? Did it remain here or materialize out of thin air?
Smoke crawls up Tom’s throat as it contracts, burning a trail to his brain.
God—
It burns!
His kneecaps crack against the cement.
Screams ring out like a stricken gong.
Lightning races up his spine as his nose lands in a pool of blood, eyes threatening to explode.
For the first time in his life, Tom wishes he were dead so the pain would stop.
Pain: scraping, hollowing—
Unlike anything he’s ever known.
And for a minute, he is dead. Dead as poor Charlie slumped beside him.
His lungs shrivel from screaming, begging for air. Only one coherent thought emerges from the blackness:
Hermione.
She’s trying to kill me.
━━━
Sometime earlier, in a posh hotel room on the other side of London, Hermione frets over the bedding.
Wet hair clings to her tee shirt as she shivers in the air conditioning. Even though they’ll be changed by tomorrow, she smooths and smooths the sheets until her fingers are raw.
Soon both of their hotel rooms are spotless; she even scrubbed the bathroom grout with her toothbrush. Cleaning has always been Hermione’s best stress reliever, a way to limit her thoughts through constant motion. But it didn’t work this time.
The cracked window calls to her and, yet again, she surveys the damage beyond.
It’s almost unnerving how quickly London has recovered from the flood. Perhaps it hadn’t been as widespread as she imagined while standing in the eye. Only a few buildings were severely damaged or tilted, all clustered near the Thames. Her hotel still has running water and electricity for Christ’s sake!
She knows that, before long, the city will rebuild and forget.
The Ministry will make sure of that.
The wave’s formation was certainly unnatural enough for the Ministry to involve themselves. Manipulating social atmospheres and the collective mind is finicky, delicate magic, but with the right crew and a few well-crafted enchantments, the Muggle world may chalk this up to a rare weather event. She can see the headline now:
Global Warming: Record Heat and Unprecedented Swell in the Thames!
Hermione wonders if Theo will tell them about her.
In a rare surge of optimism, she doesn’t think he will. They had a connection tonight, right? Sort of? He had to have seen her love for him if nothing else.
Even if Theo were to expose her, it wouldn’t matter. By then, it would be too late.
When Hermione steps away from the window, a warm liquid soaks through her stockings. She throws her head back and groans.
Apparently, before she claimed Hermione’s bed as her own, the stray cat left a nice puddle of pee for her to step in. “Mhm, you make yourself comfortable over there.” She points at the cat who squirms all over the formerly fluffed pillows. “I’m just happy I spelled the fleas off your bedraggled hide first.”
Rather than exerting any magical energy, Hermione cleans the spot with a rag and hand soap. She’ll need every shred of power for what she has to do.
“It’s alright,” Hermione tiredly relents, trudging over to sit on the bed. “The world is your litter box, yeah?”
Despite the wild girl’s hissing, Hermione scoops her up and cuddles her close.
The cat meows in response.
“Now, if I don’t come back soon, the window by the fire escape is open. I’ll order you some room service to hold you over in the meantime.” How she’ll pay the bill is beyond her, but if all goes well, that won’t be her problem. “Got it?”
No meow this time, but the cat’s used to taking care of herself, so Hermione’s sure she’s got it.
She looks down to realize the cat’s fallen asleep in her arms; this radical show of trust warms Hermione’s insides, steeling her nerves. The cat’s pristine white fur rustles with each slow breath.
After ordering some pâté, a turkey breast, and a bowl of water to the confused acceptance of the attendant, Hermione lowers the feline to the duvet and carefully stands.
She takes a minute to smile at the adorableness of the scene, thinking about Crookshank’s grumpy face all the while.
Then, out of instinct and muscle memory, Hermione pens a letter on a piece of complimentary stationery.
It feels like there’s nothing left to say. Besides, this letter will probably never be read. Even if he’s alive to find it, he would burn it or eat it whole before giving her the satisfaction of reading it. But still, her hand moves down the lines, spilling her heart out one last time.
Hermione has always been a fool when it comes to these things. So bloody sentimental, her parents used to mutter when she refused to let go of outgrown clothes, any trash her grandma touched, or the shriveled black bodies of dead bugs.
When she’s done writing, the paper folds itself into a tear-speckled dove.
Room service arrives and Hermione spreads the food on the floor for when the cat wakes.
Then she readies herself.
It used to be an almost ritualistic process, getting ready: strapping herself with daggers, putting her hair up, and tying on her tattered work boots. Now in jeans and one of her dad’s faded shirts, rather than dueling robes, she feels ridiculous—disgusted with herself.
When did murder become her solution for everything? Why is he any different from the rest?
It’s not like she has a choice, just like she didn’t then. Tom has to be destroyed no matter how… complicated it’s become. How else can this timeline remain a reality?
They simply don’t belong here. That much is painfully obvious.
Hermione did all of this—broke the universe—just to kill him, but now as she’s gearing up to finally seal the deal, it feels utterly pyrrhic. All of it.
She thinks of all the men she’s let dictate her life, the drastic choices she felt compelled to make. Her friends found a way to balance the light and dark, to kill without losing themselves in it and save with that same sure-headedness. But Hermione had to be consumed by the darkness to stand any chance of fighting it; she had to find the source of evil within herself to understand how it could be destroyed.
She holsters a revolver in her waistband after assuring it’s fully loaded. (One of the men she killed in Germany pulled it on her and she figured it would come in handy down the road.)
Then, very quietly, so as to not wake the cat, Hermione shuts the door behind her and tries to fall back into that old headspace.
━━━
One taxi ride and a modest hike later, Hermione grits her teeth in the deepest part of the wood. The ride through the city had been wet and chaotic, but the walk through the park and into the wilderness had been worse: too much room for thought.
She stands in a clearing with a slight hill at its center. Empty Elixir bottles and all three Horcruxes are scattered around her feet, the buzz of the former throbbing steadily in her veins.
As a child, Hermione never made it this far past the treeline. Once her parents noticed her missing from the nearby park, it took them no more than ten minutes to catch her. Long enough for these dogwood trees to be familiar regardless of their depth.
There’s only the slightest tremble in her hands as she grips her wand.
Hermione could be one second away from starting the most catastrophic forest fire known to man, but she takes aim at her target nonetheless.
Meticulously, she pronounces: “Pestis Incendium!”
A jet of fire erupts from her wand. Her arms jolt from the kickback before she makes herself rigid.
She must keep absolutely still.
Not even a twitch or the fire will fracture and risk becoming sentient.
As planned, the raging inferno consumes the diary in its path.
It screeches like a little girl. Black tar erupts from the leather cover, ink shooting out in tendrils—Tom’s sixteen-year-old self shrivels to ashes.
His soul reeks of rotten fruit and petrol.
The fire whips back into the tip of her wand, light retreating until all that remains is a small crater where the Horcrux had been.
Hermione’s head pounds. Sweat drips down her sides, the fine hairs along her arms seared from the blast.
Controlling the fire hadn’t been as difficult as she expected, at least not in small doses and while drowned in Elixir. Fiendfyre is a curse she always swore never to use, (it would’ve been reckless when other, less risky fire spells work just fine,) but desperate times call for desperate measures. Basilisk teeth don’t grow on trees.
Besides, she performs best under immense pressure.
Go slow and steady, one at a time. The tortoise wins the race.
Hermione casts the spell again, concentrating on the precise movement of her wand.
But her aim is off.
The stream of fire barrels into the dirt, missing the Gaunt ring entirely.
She curses under her breath. Her assessing eyes are the only part of her that moves.
Ever so slowly, Hermione commands her shoulders to rotate, inching her wand towards the second Horcrux.
“Hermione!” a deep voice bellows.
Hermione flinches.
Flames roar to life, cleaving apart.
Before she can retract the curse, a beaming red reptile unfurls into the night. It shoots overhead with wings of fanning heat—unleashed from all natural law.
Horrified, she turns to see Tom stalking past the treeline.
Not yet!
How did he find her so fast?
Rage vibrating from his silhouette, Tom attacks the space between them as he emerges from the dark. His pale skin catches the moonlight.
“What are you doing?”
The accusation is ripped hoarsely from his lips.
Tom shakes from the aftershocks of dying, this betrayal made all the more excruciating by the sight of her.
Up on the hill, Hermione’s face is illuminated red, her eyes unfathomable pockets of shadow. The red glow is cast from what looks to be a dragon circling the sky above.
What fresh Hell has she brought down upon them now?
Is this what she used to destroy his Horcrux? The page of a dark magic tome waves in his memory; vaguely, Tom recalls a fire curse that can escape its conjuror, mutate, and shapeshift at will, rumored to be able to incinerate any material.
“How did you find me?” Hermione counters, her voice distant and shivery.
Subtly, she puts her wand away. She’s no match for him magically and attempting Fiendfyre again is out of the question.
Tom swallows down his vitriol. For now, he needs to keep things civil, try to get her guard down. “Those days when you were sleeping, I plucked a few of your hairs for a tracking potion—and thank Salazar I did! How long have you been conspiring against me?”
“Uh…since the beginning, I thought you were aware of that.” As Hermione stares up at the fire beast, her throat bobs. “Did you think I was collecting Horcruxes to display in my sitting room or…?
“What sitting room?” Tom hisses. “We’re homeless because of you—me penniless and you on the verge of insanity.”
As if to prove his point, she laughs. “Sweetheart, we are so far past the verge, it’s no better than a speck to us.” Hermione holds out a beckoning hand. “Come here.”
He takes a threatening step forward, stopping on the gentle slant of the hill.
She drops her hand.
Overhead, the Fiendfyre dragon seems content to huff smoke, patiently waiting for its moment to strike. If only Tom hadn’t interrupted her! The beast reeks of dark magic and is one errant twirl away from disaster.
“Enough with your mind games,” Tom demands. If she were anyone else, he would’ve torn her apart piece by piece until nothing remained but his ire. “Return the rest of my Horcruxes, and I’ll consider forgiving you for this little outburst.” But she is not just anyone. He has to be delicate, handle her with care.
Almost leisurely, Hermione takes a step closer. “I don’t need you to forgive me.” Tom stiffens. “I’m sorry. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
But the reasons why it does boom like a thunderhead: Myrtle writhing on the bathroom floor, crusted with her dirty blood, Madam Bell’s lovely peppermint smile rotting in an unmarked tomb, and the end of the world, grey and bleak as fallen ash.
“It doesn’t.” His lips peel back, an ugly expression taking over. “If you’d stop being so pigheaded, we cou—”
“Whose blood is that?”
Hermione’s eyes are wide and locked on his shoes.
Hesitantly, Tom dips his chin.
And sure enough, the hem of his pants and the leather of his shoes are drenched in dark red.
His heart slams to a start, jerking like a faulty ignition as he grinds his teeth.
What an utter numbskull.
In his haste and agony, Tom hadn’t been thorough enough with his cleaning charms—a terrible foolish mistake. He’d planned to tell Hermione about Charlie only after testing the waters and assuring that she’d appreciate the gesture first.
Certainly not at a moment like this.
And yet, Tom can’t bring himself to feel sorry. Not when he can still feel her skin being pulled from the muscle, the sick sense of loyalty between her and her captor directing all the blame inward.
“He tried to kill you,” Tom states, his anger flaring over the fit of self-hatred. “Worse than that. What he did to you…”
Hermione’s face is as expressive as a child’s as the thoughts race across it. It’s such a change, Tom thinks, to the austere mask of bones she wore when they first met; the girl who gave nothing away.
Then it hits her.
“Ch—” Hermione hiccups and presses a hand over her mouth.
Charlie?
“No, no, why would you—”
The beat of her heart fails. The dragon burns brighter, feeding off her anguish.
When it suddenly swoops for their heads, they duck. Fizzling, squealing like a bottle rocket it shoots back into the sky.
Tom is left fingering the singed pieces of his hair.
Across from him, Hermione pants and teeters on her feet.
Why did he do it?
After a beat of deliberation, Tom answers, “Because I promised to take care of you, remember? I know I’ve mucked it up more times than I’ve gotten it right…” a gross understatement. “But all I need is a second chance to prove—”
“A second chance?” Hermione interjects, shaking her head with a humorless laugh.
More unwanted tears burst from her eyes.
How has she not run out of them yet? Why does her body insist on betraying her at every turn?
And, more importantly: “Why do you always have to make someone pay?” The image of Charlie, joyful and surrounded by family, scalds her vision. “I swear, it’s the source of all our suffering.”
Tom scoffs, giving her a look of disbelief. “I walked up on you killing me just now.” The impulse to hurt her overrides the newer one to please. “You’re the source of the universe’s suffering, let alone my own.”
“Hmm. I suppose that’s true.” Hermione wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. “But you’re the one who made me this way. If you never existed, my life would’ve been…”
Not perfect but, for the most part, happy. Normal. She’s never needed much, just a friend or two, or a little time to read.
“Boring,” Tom fills in. “Without me, who would’ve challenged you?”
“People I respected, who loved me back.” Hermione wets her chalk-dry lips. “Believe it or not but you’re not the smartest person I’ve ever known. Emotional intelligence is rather important, and you happen to lack it entirely.”
Her words hit him like a brick. He has never felt so worthless, so defective as a human being.
Tom’s face twitches, and his irises sting before he blinks the sensation away. “So this—me—it’s all meant nothing to you? All this time?”
“I didn’t say that.”
And yet his diary simmers at their feet. Fire glints off the whites of her eyes.
“Then what are you saying?”
I’m saying our murder-suicide is the only way to stop a space-time-themed Armageddon.
“I have to kill you,” Hermione finally states. She takes no pleasure in watching him flinch, his face falling as his shoulders slump protectively inward. “But you aren’t going to die alone, so there’s a silver lining.”
Even if his soul only dies part way, it’ll be enough to destroy this version of him—the one who’s seen the future. Sending him to limbo will have to suffice; of course, if she survives, the rest of him will be easy enough to get rid of.
Tom’s heart sinks at the determined set of her jaw.
Is there truly no getting through to her?
“Well, lucky me,” he tries to deadpan, but his pitch wavers. The desperation inside him mounts. “Stop this madness, my dear. I’m begging you.”
If she so requires, Tom is ready to get on his knees and grovel for their future. He’s long since given up the pipedream of being infallible when it comes to Hermione.
She only lowers her head. “I’m sorry.”
Her litany of reasons to kill him will expand endlessly with the universe. There’s only one way this can end.
“Please,” he begs again.
After silently commanding the dragon to consume Tom, it careens carelessly into the trees, and she concludes that it’ll be no help. She’s running out of time.
Without hesitation, Hermione draws her revolver and pulls the trigger.
Bang!
A deep groan.
A blur of movement.
Then the fog settles.
And Tom is still standing there—very much upright.
“Urgh! You f*cking bitch!”
One hand covers a shoulder wound. The other raises his wand.
He’d flung himself aside at the last second, just as the bullet meant for his heart found an arm instead. Firearms are a cowardly Muggle’s weapon; so are blades for that matter.
Hermione scrambles to co*ck the gun.
But before she can, the barrel suddenly crunches and bends until she’s forced to release it. She curses under her breath.
There goes that plan.
Quickly unsheathing a dagger, Hermione lunges before he can shoot off another spell.
She aims for his heart.
Tom jerks his hand up in defense and the blade digs into his palm, slicing down to the bone.
He lets out a wounded animal sound as she pulls back. Fingers drip blood at his side, exposed nerves convulsing.
Hermione arcs the next blow for his throat.
But Tom is prepared this time. He catches her wrist in midair, twisting until the bones pop, till the knife drops.
Hermione gasps as she watches her hand spasm, her wrist possibly fractured.
Then she knees him hard between the legs.
Tom doubles over and moans.
Not letting him recover, Hermione smashes her elbow into the side of his head.
His back meets the ground with a thud. Blood sloshes, brain ricocheting off the walls as the wind is knocked from his lungs.
A boot pins Tom’s arm to the dirt.
The next thing he registers is a sickening snap.
Now freed from her hold, he heedfully props himself up, afraid she’s broken his wrist, but she hasn’t.
Hermione looms over him.
He furrows his brow.
In her hands, she holds two pieces of pale wood.
Tom freezes, then clenches an empty fist. The fist that had just held his wand.
She’s broken it like a twig over her knee.
“No!” he tries to shout, but he’s all out of air.
Hatred rapidly fills the hollow space in his chest.
In a split second, she’s turned the only unfailing, loyal thing in his life to splinters.
‘The truest and most fearsome match I have ever witnessed,’ old Ollivander muttered, watching his shop erupt into chaos as an eleven-year-old Tom held his new toy up to the light. ‘The phoenix who gave this feather will never die.’
Tom kicks Hermione’s kneecap out from under her.
She collapses with a yelp, landing roughly on her side. Well, at least she managed to even the playing field before falling on her arse.
Arms grapple to restrain her but Hermione rolls out of his reach, launching herself on top of him again.
She yanks a new dagger from her boot and blindly slams it down.
The tip grazes Tom’s throat before he shouts: “Crucio!”
And Hermione’s weight suddenly disappears.
Blood trickles down his collarbones, heart pounding through his whole body. He mutters his constant prayer of healing charms louder now, unable to tell if they’ve been effective.
Tom’s Unforgivable, however, landed with perfect accuracy
Hermione seizes in the tall wet grass.
Around them, the trees have caught fire. The dragon roars out another cloud of flame, growing more and more restless by the minute.
Tom grunts as he peels himself off the ground—hot, itchy, and in pain everywhere.
Bleary-eyed, he watches as Hermione roils in agony.
The flayed skin of his palm pokes out like shattered glass. His wounds throb.
A feeling so terrible that it can’t be named threatens to burst from his chest.
He can’t—can’t see her suffer.
Can’t inflict one more second of pain.
In an instant, Tom lifts the curse and rushes to kneel by her side.
Hermione sobs weakly, her body trembling from the aftermath of torture as he cradles her head in his lap.
Softly, Tom strokes her face.
“Hermione,” he whispers, urgent and tense, “please, please let this go. It’s late and I know you're tired. We both are. So why don’t we head home, take a bath, and just go to sleep? Alright? I’ll do whatever you want from now on—you have my word. Whatever you want.”
Hermione desperately wants to say yes: go limp in his arms and let him carry her back to the hotel.
Tom’s face drains the bloodlust out of her, so troubled and vulnerable, like a little boy as he mumbles sweet nothings in her ear.
“All I want is to make you happy,” he confesses. “Let me, let me.”
His words wrap her skull like newspaper, as if her mind were a fragile Christmas ornament, softly packing her in. An incredible tenderness swells in Hermione’s breast.
Yes, yes, yes.
And when Tom leans over to kiss her, she sinks her teeth into his ear.
Hermione locks her jaw shut.
Blood bursts on her tongue—thick spurts of copper.
The flesh rips from his head as Tom struggles to get free.
When he does, he’s too shocked to wail.
Shoving away from her with all his strength, he’s blinded by blood in one eye. It dribbles into Tom’s mouth and chokes down a whimper.
A pair of hands shove him onto his back.
And, once more, she is poised above him like a guillotine blade.
Hermione’s eyes well with sorrow, sweat and tears shining on her skin, cheeks rouged with blood.
She reaches back into her tangled mass of hair and removes the pin keeping it up. Flick, a thin blade shoots from the hilt.
How many bloody weapons is she made of?
Then, so quiet that his one ear shudders, Hermione sighs, “I think I love you anyways, Tom...”
So deathly quiet that her words could be a trick of the wind, a flap of the dragon wings soaring too close to her head.
“How silly is that?”
Red leaks from her mouth, staining her teeth.
Tom wheezes out a strangled noise, trying to find the words—any words. All he can hear is the blood rushing from where his ear used to be, watering the dirt below.
Speak, Tom demands of himself, say something you cold-hearted bastard.
But the pain from the street corner blares over the din of his injuries. Had she asked it to humiliate him?
There’s always a shape that he’s expected to fill; Tom always comes up woefully short. Why is he limited in this way—where the common word ‘love’ makes him shrink?
He will never, never measure up.
Cool metal slides up his chest, headed for his throat.
The movement sets a fire under him.
In one swift motion, Tom heaves Hermione from his waist and drives his weight down on top of her.
She lets out an ‘oof.’
His will to live climaxes as he pries the pin dagger from her fingers.
Faint from the blood loss, healing charms scratching at his wounds, Tom now has the edge. He holds the blade over her heart with both hands.
Hermione wraps both of hers around his wrist.
Blood patters down on her petrified face.
“This what you wanted?” Tom pants, forcing an apathetic tone. “A failure of a martyr and for what?”
Hermione tightens her grip on him. “You don’t understand.”
The Fiendfyre dragon hovers in eerie stasis, enveloping them completely in its glare; Hell has come early and met them halfway.
“No, I don’t,” he agrees, confliction twisting his features. “We have everything—what the ballads and epics are always on about.” We have love, he wants to say.
Hermione’s lips quirk.
Her sweet, delusional Tom, with an innocent man’s blood not an hour old on his shoes. He’s still waiting for his glorious hero’s welcome, his Odyssey of teen angst and deception laureled by the gods.
There’s no way to wrestle the dagger from him. His fists are too large and steady. The dragon is siphoning away all her energy.
Hermione can’t go on like this: waiting to kill him, living for an opportunity that may never come. He won’t let her, one way or another. For all his promises of forgiveness, or repentance, she knows that if she were to relent and let him carry her home, he would make her a prisoner for life.
Tom wouldn’t forgive an attempt on his life. He’d make her suffer, one way or another.
After everything, Hermione is not strong enough to finish what she started.
But revenge isn’t out of the question.
Tom will get what he’s always wanted. He’ll have eternity to watch the world go to sh*t, bound to his body and spoiling mind, unable to forget the smallest detail.
He’ll have an eternity without her. For whatever that’s worth.
“Listen,” Hermione tells him, bordering on delirium, “there’s a cat in my room. If you kill her…hurt her…forget to feed her even…then I will haunt you forever.”
Confused, Tom scrunches his face.
She grits her teeth.
And then she wrenches his arm downward.
Hermione arches up into their clasped hands.
Gasping soundlessly, her features contort in shock.
Tom mirrors her expression above.
They look down at the same time to see—the blade buried between her ribs.
He flinches, jerking his hands away. His eyes bulge from his skull.
“Oh no…no,” Tom croaks, bloody hands rising to clutch his hair. “I-I didn’t mean—”
Hermione’s eyes are just as wide as she stares into his.
Anticipation did nothing to ease the pain of her heart being pierced, the shock of being on this side of the knife.
Above the waves of pain, firelight gilds Tom’s skin gold.
His face is all sharp lines and shadowed planes, and some sort of moisture leaks from his eyes.
Is it raining?
In pure dismay, Tom stutters out a healing spell, moving his shaking hands across her chest.
No…
He’s crying.
Yes…his lips are quivering, sobs wracking his lungs as he tries to form words. Tears rush down his cheeks by the liter, glistening as they bead off his chin and the tip of his nose.
How baffling.
How insanely beautiful.
She should die in his arms more often.
Hermione doesn’t notice, numb as Tom firmly cups her wound.
He pants, applying pressure—anything to stop the blood. Her face is turning a grotesque shade of blue.
“Damn you, Hermione!” Tom’s voice cracks. “You idiot, why would you…”
Hermione’s eyes begin to flutter.
“Hey, hey, stay with me. Don’t close your eyes.” He presses down harder, fighting the urge to pull out the blade.
Hermione doesn’t hear him, a rushing sound garbling his pleas and incantations.
The sky opens over Tom’s shoulder. Her body pulses slowly as an aurora of color spills out from the stars to greet her, colors that didn’t exist before.
Hermione hears the voice of her mother—the ring of her laughter.
‘I can see your light on under the door, Hermione Jean! Go to sleep…it’s like Daddy said: time travel to breakfast, and tomorrow I’m making your favorite!’
She can taste the strawberry pancakes on her tongue.
Then, like sinking to the bottom of a warm black ocean, a sense of overwhelming peace washes over her.
Surrender to sleep at last…you’ll soon come up from under all your troubles.
All light funnels into one bright sun.
And in the blink of an eye, Hermione goes heavy in Tom’s arms.
The world holds still and silent.
“Hermione?” he rasps in a stranger’s voice. “Hermione, wake up now. This isn’t funny.”
But she doesn’t stir.
Her golden eyes stare up at the sky without seeing. Her jaw sinks like sand, all her tightly wound muscles going limp.
This can’t be happening. This isn’t real.
This must be a vision from his Horcrux shattering, shoving his worst fears down his throat.
Powerless and shaking, Tom cries, “Rennervate, Rennervate, Rennervate!” until he can’t speak, white spots dotting his vision.
His spells slide uselessly off her and into the dirt.
Wildflowers shoot up from the earth, their buds kissing her sallow cheeks. The soul teems with life, mocking his efforts, but Hermione’s still not breathing.
“Oh God, Hermione. Why—”
Fire beats down on his scalp, rapidly burning closer.
Tom looks up to see the dragon diving right for them.
Frantically, he heaves Hermione away by the underarms. Tripping and stumbling over rocks, he drags her toward the blazing treeline.
Only Tom’s not fast enough.
Hell opens its maw at her feet, a tongue of swirling lava lashing out. Massive teeth rip up her legs in a flash.
He lets go to scramble for his wand but—damn her!
Tom rips off his button-down to try and smother the flames, but it’s a laughable effort. The inferno rages and boils the skin from his hands.
Gagging from the pain, he’s forced to skitter back on his haunches.
The smell of burning flesh invades Tom’s nostrils.
A horrible crackling sound.
Then as quickly as it came, the fever dims.
The air feels cold.
Over the near-inaudible simmering, morning birds begin to sing in the charred tree branches. Insects chorus to the hammering of his heart.
Slowly, Tom peels his eyes open.
Where Hermione just lay, sprawled and bleeding…is now a smoking pile of ash.
Shards of bone poke up from the black.
He cannot tear his eyes away.
This isn’t real.
When Tom blinks, he will be back in the boiler room, writhing from the destruction of his Horcrux. He’ll blink and it’ll be December again and the world will be fresh, slated blank with snow. Cold and pure and—
Those cannot be her bones.
Burnt hands and open wounds forgotten, Tom crawls over to the scorched patch of earth.
A surreal lilac color paints the sky as dawn arrives. The hint of sun rays peek over the tree line, casting lacy shadows on the ground, and the morning breeze freezes the sweat on his back.
Tom kneels on a pile of ash, watching it slip through his ravaged fingers.
