Braving the Past

Chapter 62: Fractures

Hermione purposefully stayed away when Professor McGonagall helped patch up Draco. She didn't want to see him look at her; didn't want to see the words behind his eyes that said he'd had his life irreversibly changed for a fake.

Hermione had been wrong. She was the one who told them what the horcruxes were.

She was the reason they were now different.

That first day, she threw herself head first into processing, analyzing, looking for clues that would tell her when Voldemort would have deviated from his original plan. Why did he not use the locket?

And the bigger question that was on all of their minds: what did he use instead?

They had gotten everything else right. The cup, the ring, the diadem, even Nagini. The diary, though nothing was inside, confirmed that this Dark Lord was indeed created from that very horcrux Tom had made at sixteen.

Of all of those, why would Voldemort choose this one to change? Why only this one? Was there something he valued more? She had assumed his obsession over the Hogwarts Founders' possessions could never change. If he skipped the locket, there must be another item one of the Founders had that he would use instead.

She'd spent two days in her own head, glued to any parchment she could find and the books she still had stashed in her bag, even going so far as to pull memories from her mind that she could look at again and again to catch anything she might have missed. For every attempt she made at deciphering the mystery, there was a hard wall there to greet her. Her knowledge failed her. Her books failed her. She had no way to piece together the puzzle. No way to know if the Founders of Hogwarts had any other possessions Voldemort could have used. She had nothing.

Now, it was like the engine had finally sputtered. And then stalled. She felt aimless.

Her fingers absently played with the pierced locket, twisting it in circles on a desk that sat in a corner of the main drawing room. At the moment the room was empty, aside from her and Tom, fire crackling innocently in its hearth across the room.

Tom sat on the couch closest to her, one arm splayed across the back, ankle on one knee with a book resting on top. She watched him stare at the pages and never move to turn them.

Her stomach growled. Professor McGonagall had done her best to force food and rest on Hermione during her deep fixation on solving the problem she had created. Though she knew the old witch was trying her best to fill Mrs. Weasley's motherly shoes, she simply didn't have the same soft presence that Molly did. Hermione hadn't listened, much to Professor McGonagall's displeasure.

Tom looked up at her. She expected amusement to light his eyes like it usually did, but now they just held concern. She knew she hadn't taken very good care of herself, but hadn't considered until now how it would feel to those who cared about her.

"I suppose I should eat something," she said.

Tom nodded and closed his book.

Hermione stood from the desk. She hesitated, staring down at the locket. She knew it didn't have any worth now; it didn't mean anything at all. But she still grabbed it from the desk and shoved it in her pocket. She hadn't paid much attention to the new clothes Luna had helped her find, but they certainly kept her warm. Much better than the thin, scratchy scrubs she'd donned before.

"Let me help you," Tom said, following her out to find the kitchen.

Professor Snape was there, staring down a peach as if it was the most disgusting thing he'd ever been forced to eat. Upon their arrival, he curled his lip, threw the half-eaten peach into the waste bin, and strode out.