HUNGER.

Chapter 19

Madam Pomfrey had done a remarkable job, really- even Tom had to admit it.

There was only a thin silver scar there. Only a trace of that day, an unwelcome reminder, but he appreciated the subtlety of it nonetheless.

Hannah was still weak, not that she'd accept it, and it had become an unspoken competition between Tom and the matron as to who could persuade her back into bed the fastest. He won, of course, every time. That stubborn tilt of her jaw each time she gave in, flopping defeatedly back into the cot, he'd smile as softly as he could manage.

It was strange, growing comfortable in the company of others. Part of it felt unfamiliar, intimidating, even. But the more time Tom spent in the hospital wing, the more he'd grown to enjoy it. Sometimes, during his more fervent study sessions at Hannah's bedside, the healer would set a steaming mug of tea beside him.

He'd finished his divination homework early, with the abundance of tea leaves, and done Hannah's too for good measure. There was something about gazing into the murky cup, his eyes finding patterns in the leftovers- he liked to think there was an element of truth to them. In hers, he could see the vague shape of a thatched roof house, box hedges, or perhaps they were quaint stone walls. His imagination had filled them with wildflowers, using the tip of his quill to sharpen the image. He liked the idea of that.

But no matter how hard he tried to envision the same in his own readings, they always seemed to be just tea leaves. No discernible shapes, no scenes of the countryside home he'd set out for Hannah. No future for me, Tom supposed, casting a grim eye over the essays.

"You're doing it again."

Tom hummed softly as she sat up, each movement easier than it had been the day before. Hannah reached to poke his shoulder, and instinctively he pressed her hand to his lips.

"You're brooding," she scolded, her expression softening.

"And you're prying."

She laughed, tentatively swinging her legs out of bed. She watched him, ready for the usual protests, raising a daring eyebrow.

"What's got under your skin, Tom? I'll be out of here in a few days, you could look a little happier about it."

"I'm sorry," he heard himself say, his tone not half as convincing as he'd hoped. "There's just a few things I need to take care of."

They hadn't spoken about that day. Part of him didn't dare bring it up, the simmering guilt would rise up into his throat and drown them both in it- and she'd be so fucking good about it. Gracious, forgiving, everything Hannah was that made him feel so utterly unworthy. He didn't deserve her forgiveness- he didn't want it. Tom wasn't sure he could bear it.

She'd been waiting for an elaboration, but when nothing came, Hannah sighed. "What things?"

The chamber. The monster I've created, waiting down there for me. The monster I've become.

"Homework."

"Homework?"

Tom cleared his throat, mustering a nod. It was harder to lie to her, now.

"I see," Hannah said evenly, pulling his schedule from the cabinet beside them. "That's rather strange, considering it says here that you've done it all."

Fuck.

Riddle snatched it back, holding it to his chest as if it were precious cargo.

"I'm- damn it, I just have some things to do, alright?"