Thursday, December 2, 1944
10:03 P.M.
Hermione yawned contentedly and stretched out, half-asleep, on her favourite leather sofa in the Head's common room. Half-asleep, she glanced again at the small, ticking grandfather clock on the wall, wondering where exactly Riddle could be so late at night on the day he had been released from the Hospital Wing.
Still, she was physically and emotionally exhausted from the past day's events, exhausted. As if pulled down by an unseen force, her eyelids drooped and closed...
A low, jarring scrape, and Hermione heard the portrait hole slide open. The subsequent, entering footsteps were a notch slower than their usual, brisk pace.
Riddle was back.
Unable to believe that she was actually going ahead with the day's madness, Hermione cautiously opened one bleary eye. From her half-obscured roost on the couch, she watched Tom Riddle tread into the common room. A stack of books were tucked under his left arm, and his shoulders were slumped slightly, rather than their normal rigidness, his face a tint more ashen.
Not even glancing toward the couch, Riddle headed toward the staircase to his room, completely oblivious to her presence. Hermione's stomach beginning to flip nervously, and she prayed something stupid wouldn't pop out of her mouth and give her away. Say something now, Mione! Go! GO!
"Hey!"
The word tumbled from her mouth before she could completely lose her nerve.
Immediately, Riddle stiffened; his feet glued to the floor, his long, dark robes swished to an abrupt stop around his feet. His free hand jumped halfway to his stomach, but he seemed to catch himself before it could make it, and he slowly lowered the hand back to his side, casually sticking it into his pocket.
"How are you?" she continued quickly before Riddle had a chance to say anything. She turned around on the couch and sat up fully, trying not to smirk at how expertly well Riddle had covered up his hand slip.
The dark-haired Heir of Slytherin stared at her expressionlessly, but he shifted the few books out from under his left arm and balanced them in front of him. Hermione noticed that The Most Thorough and Complete History of the Founders was among them. "Fine," he said in a low, slightly hoarse voice.
Steadily meeting his stormy gaze, Hermione hoped that her resolute stare gave away nothing of the apprehension she was feeling inside. "You didn't look fine," she pointed out with a frown.
Riddle seemed to realize that she was referring to that Sunday in the Hospital Wing... the day he knew she had to have seen him there, in order to have given him the gift. "I wasn't fine then."
Hermione nodded to herself, accepting his response for the moment. "Does Madam L know what's wrong with you?" she inquired innocently, wanting to at least sound half-interested, but not wanting to come off like she knew exactly what was going on with him. Which, for the most part, she did.
"Madam Lamberdeau is making a potion to heal me as we speak," Riddle said monotonously. Hermione knew he was lying, not because he was a bad lier but because she knew about the curse. He heaved an enormous sigh, the faint glow from the fireplace and the supernatural moonbeams shining through the west window only further illuminating the deep, dark circles under his eyes, leaving him more tired-looking than usual. Rather than being neatly brushed, his thick dark hair seemed to have been haphazardly thrown to one side, yet another testimony to the argument that he was being affected by something.
Like a curse.
That didn't exactly answer my question, either.
Riddle transferred his books back to their place nestled under his arm, and an awkward silence, broken only by the random crackling of the fireplace, filled the common room. Hermione had not stopped staring thoughtfully at Riddle, still unsure of how she should approach the situation, and Riddle, for his part, had not stopped staring at Hermione... until he shook his head slightly and took another step toward his staircase. "I really should go."
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