#180 in Fanfiction || #1 in Hermione ||
In the language of literature, there exists a seemingly-concrete, antonymous relationship between good and evil, light and dark, hero and monster. And yet, we often disregard the transition from one to anothe...
Hermione and Tom, for a reason much unlike them, desire not for the company of tomes and text the next day, choosing to spend their time by the Black Lake. The snow has melted into luscious green grasses, the air not quite perfumed and rain not yet pouring in the March month. But all the same, the birds sing and call in the marking of a new spring, relaxing to the ears of both parties though Tom would never state this as a reasoning. They speak in soft tones, unfitting of their strong identities and taking in the peace of no other company to bother their time.
But Tom Riddle is exhausted, his pale skin slightly purple in a lack of sleep and mortal expression of insomnia. Averaging around two hours of sleep per night, he did not expect this reaction, but with the guilt clawing at his chest, he places the coloured-circles on that excuse. And this guilt derives from a hidden fact, so calmly ignored by himself yesterday despite his wishes for some confidant. To speak of the Chamber of Secrets and not speak of his actions behind it was a blow to his conscience, given Hermione's receptive ears and innate ability to take his actions and make light of their errors and praise of their wonders. It kept him awake for this reason alone, a guilt so poignant that he cannot help admitting it as the conversation eases back into oblivion.
"Two years ago, I opened the Chamber of Secrets."
It baffles Hermione in entirety, moving the conversation from the mechanisms of Transfiguration to the murder of children. But his eyes now look guilt-ridden, the first expression of its kind on Tom Riddle and one that causes Hermione's stomach to erupt in pity. "Tom, you do not have to tell me..." But she really wants him to, all the same.
His eyes flicker sharply over to hers, as if angered by the fact she is being compassionate. But then again, this man takes kindness as a weakness and only feels the more poignant of emotions: hate, anger, passion, jealousy, and guilt. His eyes reflect the blackness of the Lake, fittingly as he gaze outward.
"I released the Basilisk on the school with the intent of following through with Slytherin's wish to purge the school of mudbloods. It went on for weeks--many were petrified, but only one died. 'Moaning Myrtle' they called her, not that I knew her personally. I didn't at all. It was the latter that was to shut down Hogwarts, which I could not have if I wanted to stay away from the vile orphanage. So I blamed it on the most likely of candidates: a Rubeus Hagrid who had been keeping an Acromantula in secret. I convinced Dippet of his guilt, got him expelled, though the beast escaped. I got the 'Special Services to the School' award, which was nothing more than a paper weight. But while everyone fully believed in Hagrid's guilt, Dumbledore did not, and looked to me instead. I closed the Chamber then, and I do not intend to open it again while I am here."
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She looks at him, eyebrows furrowed in an incomplete exposure of her facade. It is hard to recover from such a story, no matter how many times she's heard it (and experienced it). But the emotions in his eyes are far too much to ignore, drawing on her coldness and Slytherin ideologies so as to not curse him for such barbarism. "I do not condone any of the injuring or killing, being a victim myself, but you did the right thing in closing it, even if it was selfish."
