Friday, November 19, 1944
7:51 A.M.
The first three words that floated into Hermione's mind were soft, warm, and bright.
The fourth was Riddle.
Gasping, Hermione bolted upright. Simultaneously, her eyes flew open, though she had absolutely no idea what she expected to see when they did...
Of all the thoughts that had raced frantically through her mind she certainly didn't expect to see herself laying in her own oversized bed in her own bedroom. The copious rays of sunlight streaming through her floor-to-ceiling windows, a testament that the morning had arrived without her. Automatically, Hermione blinked and quickly glanced at the clock on her bedside table. 7:52.
Bugger. If she ran, she might just make it to Defence Against the Dark Arts on time. "Just" being the key word.
Yeah, that's exactly what I need for the rest of the year, my own personal Defence Against the Dark Arts system installed in my own common room, she thought sarcastically. Throwing back the blue and bronze covers, she glanced down in relatively composed recollection at her clothing from the day before; still on, but rumpled.
It was enough to send the events of the previous night rushing back to her memory. Had she really and truly passed out? Had she really had an enormous fight with Tom Riddle and not died, or even emerged seriously injured? Had Tom Riddle actually taken her upstairs - up to her room? - rather than leaving her lying, sprawled, in the middle of the Head common room like she most certainly would not have hesitated to leave him?
Was her life even making the slightest bit of sense?
Her periwinkle blouse pulled halfway off, Hermione thoughtfully paused in front of her mahogany bureau-mirror combination.
Had Riddle really told her everything that he had?
Had she really done the same?
Eventually, she shrugged, too rushed to ponder the mysteries of the night before. She finished tugging off her shirt, hurriedly yanking her uniform skirt and blouse out of the top drawer and slipping them on. Messily sweeping her hair into an inelegant bun, she distractedly attempted to push the drawer shut. After five shoves and no results, she impatiently slammed her hip up against it, closing it with a BANG!
I can still make it, I can still make it.....
Hermione practically flew across the good-sized Head Girl bedroom. Lifting the strap of her book bag, she was on the verge of slinging it over her shoulder and hurtling out the door...
Until she saw the piece of yellowed parchment that definitely hadn't been there before.
It was stuck haphazardly in the folds of her bag. The paper itself was large enough so that she would notice it, eventually, but small enough that it wouldn't be especially conspicuous... And it sported the slightly antique colouring that Tom Riddle had always favoured.
Ohhh shoot.
Warily, Hermione regarded the parchment slip as if it had suddenly sprouted beady red eyes and a mouth with dozens of sharp teeth, wondering what in Merlin's name it was doing there... and why, in Merlin's name, he would bother to leave her a note. Hadn't everything that could have been said basically been said the night before?
The seconds ticked by.
It was then that the reality of the situation truly gripped Hermione. Sweet Merlin, Tom Riddle had been in her room. While she was unconscious!
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