Misunderstood Maledictions | Tomione

Breathe, Tom...Breathe

Monday, December 20, 1944
7:31 P.M.

The teenage Dark Lord was propped halfway up, his head tilted to the right so she could only see the left side of his attractive, well-defined, but unhealthily pale face. He was sleeping, and any traces of worry lines around his forehead, the corners of his eyes, and his mouth were momentarily gone. His house sweater was rumpled, a far cry from his usually impeccably dressed self.

She felt like she hadn't seen him in ages. Ever since their deep discussion the day after Hogsmeade, she and he had hardly spoken, minus the generalities needed to keep the school and the Holiday Soiree planning running smoothly.

Tom's Infirmary visits, though, had become something of a regularity. Hermione had decided that Tom actually saw more of the place than even Harry had. Hermione, on the other hand, didn't want to be in there any longer than she had to be. The Hospital Wing contained to many tragic memories.

"Tom," she whispered softly. When he didn't respond, his breathing still slow and steady, Hermione reached out with her uninjured hand and gently shook his warm shoulder. "Hey. Sleeping beauty. Wake up."

Even in his sleep, Tom Riddle stiffened at the contact, and a beat passed. Finally, her Head counterpart tiredly cracked open one eye, squinting in the Hospital Wing's relatively dim evening torchlight until his guarded gaze landed on her own tired face.

"Good morning, sunshine," she managed to quip cheekily, forcing herself to smile while trying to push both her conversation with Calulaga Malfoy and the unremittingly burning feeling of her hand from her mind.

A slight, genuine smile did break out on her lips for half a second. Tom visibly relaxed and actually let out a tiny groan, closing his eye again and shoving his dark head farther into the pillow like an obstinate six year old. "Wha tie's'it?" he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.

Hermione translated his question into an answer. "Seven thirty at night."

Tom's eyes snapped open. "No."

"Yes, actually." Hermione attempted another grin, but failed miserably, as the pounding in her hand had spread to her brain like a potent drug. It was fogging up most of her happy senses, her motor skills, and her hearing: the only sound echoing in her head was a loud drum. She was almost beginning to regret she had even punched Calugala Malfoy in the first place.

Almost.

The petite brunette felt no better when Tom—the most observant person on the planet—took a quick, assessing survey of what he could see of her from the waist up. He lingered on her no doubt ashen face, pale even for her tanned skin. She shifted uneasily under his gaze, but she was still caught completely off guard at the speed of his perceptiveness when he muttered a second later, "What's wrong, Nefertari?"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up, both staggered and impressed, and she automatically, defensively protested, "Nothing's wrong!"

The too-smart-for-his-own-good prat merely raised his eyebrows in a similar fashion, as if to say 'Uh-huh, right.'

"Well..." the brunette rephrased, absently twisting her loose curls into a ponytail with one hand a tucking the wavy mess under the collar of her robes. "I was thinking about how you just missed the last and best Silviarius project meeting that we've ever had..."

Like she had pushed a button, Tom's stormy eyes clouded over. "Yeah?" he asked, his voice emerging unexpectedly apathetic— unexpected because he had loosened up around her a lot, or, at least, a lot for Tom Riddle. He never constantly masked his feelings anymore, unless the occasional time came up when he really didn't want her to know what he was thinking. Like now, apparently. He turned his head to get a better view of her. "What was so wonderful about it?"