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He could open the trapdoor again and take Hermione into the Chamber itself to hide—
Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn poked their heads into the classroom. "Tom!" Slughorn exclaimed. "And Lady Hermione!" he added, springing forward when he saw her unconscious form.
Dumbledore was giving Tom a look as hard as steel and as cold as ice. "Is this the place, then?" he said.
Tom instantly knew that Dumbledore was aware of what had just happened—and why would he not have? He was the High Master of the school, and it was common knowledge that Tom was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.
Tom nodded, not looking into the High Master’s bright blue eyes. "She has been Petrified," he said to Slughorn, shame filling every syllable. His fantasy about having the basilisk kill Malfoy and Lestrange was long forgotten. "I don’t remember the formula—"
"The principal ingredient is chopped mandrake," Slughorn said, "which I have." As Tom rose to his feet, still carrying Hermione’s limp form in his arms, the stout potions master touched her forehead. "Yes, you’re right, of course—that’s what it is. She’ll be all right, Tom," he said reassuringly. "The potion will have to brew overnight, but she will be perfectly fine in the morning!"
Tom knew that Slughorn was trying to make him feel better, but it felt ghastly and inappropriate right now—though he could not articulate even to himself why. Why was Hermione here? he thought as they left the room and headed up to the infirmary. What was she doing out? Was she with Potter and his friends? They drew her out of the common room—out of safety—and then she followed... me? She must have seen me....
As he attempted to cast blame upon Potter, upon Potter’s friends from other Houses, upon Hermione herself, he felt even worse. He gazed down at her face, her eyes still wide and unseeing. It was wrong, all wrong. He had seen Hermione making such an expression of surprise before, of course, but it should never be affixed to her face like this.
They reached the infirmary and went inside. Barely aware of his own actions, Tom moved over to a bed and set Hermione down—and then he realized that it was the bed about which he’d had a bad feeling. At that realization, he wanted to be sick.
"I will stay here," Slughorn said to Dumbledore, "and awaken the healer." He nodded at the quarters of the school healer, which were just off the infirmary itself. "Once she’s made aware of it, I’ll be in the potions laboratory to brew the restorative."
Dumbledore turned to Tom. "It is a long walk to my office. The room next door, then."
Tom did not dare disobey.
Dumbledore closed the door behind himself and Tom and regarded the young wizard with a look of deep disapproval on his face. "You are fortunate, Lord Thomas. You are fortunate that this monster did not kill Lady Hermione, and you are also fortunate that the wizarding populace is in a state of unease. Your lady mother obviously must know about this—and I rather expect that Lady Hermione will see to that," he said with a hard look, "but luckily for you, the present political situation makes it... inadvisable... for me to allow this information to spread any farther. Lord Malfoy would certainly use it against all of us."
Tom had not even thought about that, but of course, it was true. He remained silent as the High Master continued to speak.
"I am not going to waste time scolding you for the fact that you harmed Lady Hermione," he said. "You should feel remorseful for that yourself, and if you do not, then my words certainly will not make a difference."
Tom gaped at Dumbledore. "Of course I feel bad about that!" he protested. "I did not mean for the beast to endanger anyone in the school, let alone her! I would like to see her as soon as Master Slughorn gives her the restorative potion."
"The last thing Lady Hermione will remember upon awakening is catching a glimpse of Slytherin’s monster. The professor will have to explain to her what happened and why she is in the sickroom, and you should consider the possibility that she may not wish to see you immediately after that."
Anger rose in Tom’s chest. "I have the right—"
"You are not in charge of this castle, Lord Thomas. I am. If Lady Hermione wishes to see you when she wakes up, that is a different matter, but I will not force it upon her."
"You would keep me from her? It’s unlawful to kidnap someone else’s spouse, even in one’s own castle...."
"Hermione is not your wife, and no one is "kidnapping’ her. While she is a pupil in this castle, I am responsible for her. You will not be admitted to the sickroom unless she asks for you." Dumbledore eyed him dubiously. "What I mean to discuss with you is the Chamber itself. I have known of its existence; I was one of the Founders’ own pupils, after all. But I have not known where its entrance was. I presume it requires words to be spoken in Parseltongue."
Tom nodded. "There is a ward in Parseltongue, but I think it is also linked to the blood of Slytherin."
"As master of this school, it is not acceptable to me for a lethal monster to reside in its bowels, accessible to a single student," Dumbledore said severely.
"You would kill it?" he exclaimed in horror. If Dumbledore had the basilisk killed, that could mark the end of his dreams of revolution. He would not cooperate, he vowed. The Chamber would not open except to a command in Parseltongue, and he would not speak it on the command of someone who wished to kill the basilisk. "Professor—please—it belongs to my family—"
"You said that you did not mean for it to endanger anyone in the school. What was your intention, may I ask? What did you mean to do?"
"I was going to take it out of the school and settle it in the dungeons of my mother’s castle."
"How were you planning to get it there? You cannot Apparate with such a creature."
Tom had not considered that part. He temporized. "I would have taken it outside the school grounds and... ordered the house-elves to bring a cart," he said. "I would have put it back to sleep after it was inside."
"That would have been a long journey for you."
Anger surged in him once again. "Are you implying that I’m lying to you? I tell you, I did not mean to harm any students or professors with it! If I had, why would I have brought it out at night, after most of the students went home?"
"Mind your tongue! I do believe you when you say you didn’t mean to harm anyone here, but your "plan’ for getting it home seems half-baked at best. I will not have this creature in the school, Lord Thomas. I would strongly advise against bringing it to your own castle, but if you insist upon it, you have until the school reopens in January to work out a feasible plan for removing it safely. Otherwise, I will take the necessary measures."
Tom glared back. "And how do you suppose you will do that, Professor? The Chamber only opens to Parselmouths, and only those of Slytherin’s blood can control the basilisk."
"Your lady mother is a Parselmouth of Slytherin’s blood," Dumbledore said pointedly. "I expect that when she learns of the danger, she will gladly help."
"You would pressure my mother—?"
"I would ask your mother. I meant what I said. That basilisk will be out of my school soon, one way or the other." He peered at Tom icily. "I recommend that you go to bed, Lord Thomas. The restorative potion will not be ready until daybreak anyway, and I will not let you sit in the sickroom overnight."
With that, Dumbledore stalked to the door, opened it, and walked away briskly, leaving Tom to his thoughts.
Tom considered returning to the Chamber to brood and think there, but he decided against it. If he had to devise a plan to keep Slytherin’s basilisk from being destroyed, it was best not to do something that this old man would probably consider blatant defiance. He returned to his bedchamber in the Slytherin dormitories, a headache now throbbing away, and plopped down on his bed to think.
Hermione almost died, he thought. The basilisk almost killed her. It would have if I had not blindfolded it. I wish there had been thicker material in the castle! But she will be all right in the morning, after Slughorn gives her the mandrake potion.
I almost lost Hermione. It has been two years since we had our first fight, and that’s quite long enough. I almost lost her, and it is time to make amends. Dumbledore may ban me from the sickroom, but he cannot keep her locked inside it forever. When she comes out, we will finally talk. Surely she will understand that this was completely an accident. We can talk about the things we argued about, the alliances and the Adelaide Lestrange matter. I really do want to have that talk now, and I will listen to what she has to say. I have to get her back. She cannot think that I did this on purpose. Tom sighed, rubbing his aching temples. He was hopeful that the discussion would go well... but there was still a voice of doubt deep in his mind. He could not pinpoint just what it might be about this plan that made that part of him skeptical, though. Dismissing the concern, he rolled off the bed and stumbled over to the cabinet where he kept general-purpose medicinal potions. Finding one that would cure a headache, he gulped down the requisite amount and fell onto the bed again to wait for it to take effect.
Hermione is lucky, in a way, he thought, staring at the ceiling. She is unconscious. I am the one who will have a terrible night.
Hermione awoke the next morning choking, her mouth full of a foul-tasting fluid. Her vision was fuzzy, and her entire body ached, as if she had not moved a muscle for hours. She closed her eyes, which seemed unnaturally dry, to allow them to lubricate. She swallowed the remaining liquid—she realized, on some level, that it must be a potion, so it was presumably safe—and felt the pain in her arms and legs lessen as she did. Her eyes seemed to settle as well, and she opened her eyelids and blinked several times before recognizing Professor Slughorn and Mistress Pomfrey, the school healer.
"Uggh," she groaned, rising from her pillow. This was not her own room; it was the infirmary. She tried to remember how she had gotten here, but she found that she could not. The last thing that she remembered was... it suddenly hit her. Tom was in the storage closet with a giant snake beside him, its eyes blindfolded, but I could still see two great yellow blurs through the cloth. Hot rage flooded her body as she realized what this meant had happened.
"Lady Hermione," Slughorn said solicitously, "are you feeling all right?" He looked anxious. "You have just recovered from being Petrified...."
She blinked again. "Petrified," she repeated. "For how long?"
"Just overnight! We had all the ingredients on hand to make the restorative draught for you."
She considered that. It meant that... today was the day she was supposed to go to Parselhall. With Tom, she thought, the mere thought of his name in her mind sending a new spark of anger through her. Where was he, anyway? He was responsible for this, and he did not even have the decency to show up when she was awakened?
"Where is Lord Thomas?" she asked tartly, not caring that Slughorn grimaced at the formality of her question and the fact that she did not call him by his nickname.
"He is probably in the Slytherin common room or his bedchamber," Slughorn said.
"I see." She threw the sheet down the bed and got to her feet. She was still dressed in the day robes she had worn yesterday, so she did not need to worry about being decent. "In that case, if I am well now, I had best go so that I can gather up my belongings." She gazed at the healer for confirmation of this.
"Yes," Mistress Pomfrey said, "you are quite well now. Careful on your feet, though, my lady!" she added as Hermione wobbled a bit.
As she made her way to the Slytherin rooms, Hermione resolved on what she would do. It hurt, but enough was enough. No one could expect her to marry someone who would treat her as something lower than a mistress, blame her for events that were not her fault, and then put her life in such grave danger—and express no contrition for any of it. Well, no one in the magical community who is not a Malfoy or Malfoy ally, she thought cynically, before feeling bad about the thought. Well... surely my parents would not insist that I wed someone who hurt me. But many Muggle nobles would. Lady Merope, though, is the one who gets to make the final decision, and she promised me that she would break the contract if I asked her to. I will offer to swear my wand to her service instead. She needs magical vassals. She may not want to accept that, because of the complication with Tom... but I suppose it is time I accept the fact that there may not be a complication with Tom. He was not here this morning when I was awakened.
She entered the Slytherin common room and immediately saw Tom himself seated in front of the hearth, gazing out at the cold unlit fireplace silently. He turned around as she entered the room, and his dark eyes widened. He rose from his seat and approached her.
Instantly, instinctively, Hermione drew her wand and pointed it at his heart. "Stay away from me," she said, her words so cold that it surprised her.
He stopped abruptly and gazed at her. "Hermione, please, let me explain."
"Explain?" she repeated. "I cannot imagine what "explanation’ you can have for Petrifying me with Slytherin’s basilisk and then not even being present in the sickroom when I wake up, but I suppose you’ll say it anyway. Very well, then. "Explain’ yourself. It should be quite amusing," she sneered.
His eyebrows narrowed. "Are you even going to give me a chance?"
"How dare you? I owe you nothing. Now is your "chance’ to speak, though, so get to it!"
He breathed deeply, trying to control himself and the storm of emotions that he felt. "I wanted to be in the sickroom, but Dumbledore would not allow it," he said. "He forbade me from being there."
Her gaze softened ever so slightly at that. Encouraged, Tom continued. "As for the basilisk—I really didn’t mean for that to happen! I would never set it on you, Hermione! It was an accident. Please believe me. I can’t even express how grateful I am that you weren’t killed." He moved forward, reaching for her hands, but she recoiled. He stopped and gazed at her face, plain need written in his features. "I was awake for most of last night, Hermione. I could not get to sleep."
"You could not get to sleep," she repeated, her eyes hard and set. "What are you implying, Tom? That you had it worse last night?"
"Well, didn’t I? I mean, you were unconscious."
He winced, realizing that that had not gone well at all. "My point is, I thought about what had happened, and it made me realize that I... well, I need you. I don’t want to be alone—without you. I regret that it took almost losing you for me to realize that. I’m sorry about the basilisk. It really was an accident, and after all, you were awakened quickly. It will never happen again. Will you forgive me?"
Hermione stared at him in disgusted amazement. "That’s it, Tom? You truly think that that is all you need to say to me? That I will take you back after those pathetic words?"
He drew back as if she had slapped him. "I don’t understand, Hermione. I am sorry about it! I never meant for this to happen...."
"Tom, let me "explain’ something to you now. If you had meant for it to happen, you would not be standing here. You would be the one in the infirmary!" she roared, her voice suddenly hot with outrage.
He stared at her with pleading eyes. "Hermione, what should I say? What do you want from me? I don’t want to lose you. I realized that last night, after I almost did."
"What do I want from you? What I want," she said, her voice suddenly breaking, "is something that you are clearly incapable of offering, Tom."
"What do you mean?" A chill darted down his spine at her words.
"Have you even been listening to yourself? Everything that you have said to me has been about how bad you have felt, how much you think you couldn’t do without me, and how much of an accident this was—more excuses for yourself, and what does it say that you think you need to tell me that? Do you think that I believed you did this on purpose, and that saying it was an accident will therefore make everything all right? Because it will not, Tom."
He gaped. "I don’t understand."
"You certainly don’t. You have said not one word about any of the problems we had over the past two years—nothing about your atrocious treatment of me in my second year here, all supposedly to please your "allies’ whose families already knew about the betrothal. You have also had not one word to say about the time you blamed me for Carrow’s torture of you. And now, you don’t seem to think you owe me any explanation or apology for the basilisk other than "it was an accident.’ You really seem to think that you have suffered more last night, in your fear that you would "lose me,’ than I have suffered for the past two years." She stared at him with wide, sad eyes. "Tom, I cannot marry someone who disregards me, unjustly blames me for things, has no consideration for my feelings, and insists upon heedless pursuits that will endanger my life."
Tom was gazing at her in growing horror. "What are you saying?"
Hermione took a deep breath. "We are going to your mother’s castle today. At some point, whenever the time is right, I am going to tell her that I want the contract broken after I complete my education here."
His mouth dropped open in shock.
"I will swear my wand to her service," Hermione said, the idea taking solid shape in her mind as she spoke the fateful words. "I have great respect for your mother. I want to help your family, and since she is with child, she needs more defenders."
"You can’t," he protested, reaching for her hands again. "Hermione, no, you can’t—"
She pulled away, avoiding facing him. It broke her heart all over again to see that look of shock and abject misery in his eyes, but she could not allow a consideration like that to persuade her. Tom had expressed contrition for what had happened, but that was it—it was for "what had happened," not "what he had done to her," either now or any time over the previous two years. His words had made it plain that he had not thought about her feelings whatsoever, but was instead focused on how much he thought he would suffer. Worse, it had not even occurred to him that she would be offended and hurt by that reaction.
"Tom," she finally said, "for two years, you have scorned and dismissed me because you took for granted that "I can’t’ do anything in response. It’s time you learned that, as a matter of fact, I can."
With that, she turned on her heels and went to her bedchamber, leaving him in the common room with devastation inscribed on his face.
What can I do? Tom thought as he paced back and forth in his Hogwarts bedroom. The shock of what had just happened had fully sunk in, and he was horrified and distraught. Mother would accept Hermione’s offer. There was no doubt in his mind of that. Mother liked Hermione, and if Hermione made her loyalty to Mother as clear as a sworn oath would imply, then she would take up the offer. He would then have to go about the grounds of Hangleton, perhaps even the castle of Parselhall, knowing that Hermione was there but had rejected him and moved on with her life. How could Hermione have felt as she claimed she did for so long without his knowing about it? He was a perceptive person, a Legilimens. How could this be?
Well, Hermione is an Occlumens, he thought unhappily. She has hidden her thoughts and feelings from me... and now she blames me for not seeing them? I don’t understand. She always chose her studies and her friendships... she wanted no part of my doings after our first fight and tried to dissuade me from my goals for some reason I could never understand... she disliked my friends because of politics, I thought, at least.... I remember how, after Mother formed alliances with my friends’ parents, it was perhaps time for me to talk to Hermione, since I no longer needed to keep my distance from her to impress those families. But then she involved herself in the Lestrange business, and I was tortured over the murder of that filth....
As he dredged up the memories, the anger that he had felt at the time resurfaced once more. That was not productive; he realized that, but he could not figure out what to do. He did not really even know how to begin winning her back. They had been estranged for so long.
Is it true? he thought miserably. Is this the end? What can I do? I would say whatever it is that she wants to hear from me, but I don’t know what it is now. And if I said, "Of course you have suffered, and I am sorry for that," she would consider it insincere, since she accused me of not saying those things a little while ago. And... Tom sighed deeply at this... I suppose it would be insincere, because I don’t understand her feelings.
He had already packed, but as he brooded, his eye caught the gleam of an empty flask on a shelf. It was the one that had held the green potion from the sea cave.
Slughorn said that the potion makes one feel remorse. It brings up memories of one’s worst moments, he thought. I wonder....
The idea flashed through his mind that if he drank the potion, he might get to take the artifact that hopefully lay at the bottom of the basin. His heart thumped oddly at that. He did not even know what it was. It probably was not Excalibur... that basin did not look large enough to hold a sword... but whatever it was—if indeed an artifact existed—it was something that was significant to the Gaunt family.
Perhaps I can drink the potion, see these events again and gain some new insight about them that will help me talk to Hermione, and also gain the object! Tom thought excitedly, springing to his feet. The object could be a reward for doing that! Perhaps this is the answer. And Slughorn said that there was probably another potion nearby to restore one’s health and vigor. It could be the water. It could be. This is what I will do, then.
They were to Apparate to Parselhall that afternoon. Tom glanced at his pack. He could bring it with him, making it appear that he was already at Parselhall in case he did not return from the sea cave in time and Hermione asked Slughorn to look for him.
She might not, he thought. She might assume that I had gone on without her anyway. That thought did not offer him any comfort, but he could not ignore it. Sighing, he picked up the pack and left the Slytherin rooms to walk to the Apparition point in the castle courtyard.
Having been to the site of the sea cave before made it possible for Tom to Apparate directly there—or, rather, almost directly there. He emerged from the unpleasant constriction to face the salt spray of the sea, which was a very different matter in late December than it had been in the middle of summer. To make matters worse, a storm was battering the coast with damp, frigid gusts of wind, so sodden with moisture that he could see them in the distance as fast-moving white clouds. Tom shivered immediately as the water soaked him through. The elements were certainly going to make him earn whatever was in the basin, he thought.
He pulled the hood of his dark green cloak over his head, tugged his pack across his shoulders, and turned away from the sea to face the back wall of the shallow antechamber. The storm had pushed the water about an inch deep along the floor of this outer cave, and the back wall was blasted with spray. However, Tom remembered where to go. Even amid the howling of the icy wind, the thrum of ancient blood magic called out to him, thump-thump, as it had that summer. He walked to the spot and shivered as he cut his palm open to offer the ward passage. As he expected, the rock of the wall slid away, revealing the inner cave, bathed in a cold green glow. Tom breathed deeply and pressed forward into the dim light.
The fresh water inside the vast inner cave was unnaturally still, even though the storm outside had free rein to enter this chamber now. In fact... Tom realized that he himself could not feel the wind. Magic, he realized. The air was full of it. He followed his magical sense to the spot where magical power seemed to converge, grasped at air that was suddenly thick and solid, and pulled on the shining silver rope that appeared in his hands. It was attached to a boat that slid out of the water with much greater ease than it should have. In the absence of magic, it should be impossible to pull a submerged boat by hand with only a rope, but with the charms that Tom could sense covered this boat and its rope, it was a relatively simple task. When the boat emerged fully from the water—again, barely making any ripples at all, Tom noted—it was already dry on the inside. He gathered up the long folds of his cloak and robes and sat down. There was a single oar, which he used alternately on each side to propel the boat toward the glowing island in the center of the lake. No ripples disturbed the surface of the unnatural, obviously enchanted fresh water.
Why did I not notice this before? Tom thought about halfway to the lake. Was I so focused on getting treasure out of the basin that I did not make note of anything else except for barriers that I had to overcome? This water is obviously highly magical.
In a bit, the boat bumped against the island, and Tom got out, making sure to tie it to a large rock on the bank. He scrambled to the pinnacle of the small island, where the glowing basin rested atop a short pillar, its light illuminating the vastness of the cave on all sides. Tom gazed at the green surface, almost glittering with potency.
The worst moments of one’s life. Tom’s stomach churned at the thought of what that might be like. It is so that I can understand, he told himself, taking a silver goblet out of his pack. I need to know what the past two years were like to Hermione, since they were clearly much worse to her than they were to me. I did not just declare I would break the contract, after all. And... she is right... I assumed that she would not do it either.
Shivering in dread of what he expected to come, Tom dunked his goblet in the basin and drew out a cupful of the green potion. Closing his eyes tightly, his mouth already puckered into a wince, he downed it.
The effect was not immediate. For a few seconds, Tom gazed down at the basin, which was now a bit less full. Then the potion took effect.
A scene appeared in his mind from two years ago. He and Hermione were standing in the courtyard of Hogwarts, just returned from a holiday visit to Parselhall. Although he did not have access to her exact thoughts, the potion-induced memory did provide him with a sense of what she was feeling. At this moment, she was happy and content, her satisfaction tainted only slightly by a sense of darkness on the horizon. In the memory, he brought her hand to his lips, smiling back. The happiness in her face suddenly seemed to release a pent-up urge inside him, and he pulled her close, kissing her in full view of anyone else who might be present—which included his Lords of Beltane.
In the cave, Tom did not want to relive this, but the potion was in his system, and he had no choice now. He observed in horror as he scorned Hermione before his friends, alluding crudely to their intimacies—a private, special, almost sacred part of their lives—as though they were no more than a romp with a whore. The boys tittered, and Hermione stared at him in shame and betrayal. For the first time, Tom saw it as Hermione had seen it: A Muggle-born who had wanted so much to be part of the world to which she belonged by birth, who had been bound to him but found joy in that due to their early friendship, and then found that joy curdling into sadness, confusion, betrayal, and dread.
Not her, Tom thought in the cave as the memory repeated itself almost endlessly. She was so innocent then. I never realized how much she simply enjoyed her life, despite being under threat. At least she had my affections, and hope for a happy future.... What have I done?