Split (1)

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He finally came back to himself and gazed down at the basin. It seemed so full yet. Shuddering, he dipped the goblet into the bowl again and drank another full cup of the potion.
In his memories, Hermione was returning from the seventh-floor room where the Friends of the Founders met. She had just learned that Neville Longbottom’s parents were going to take the oath of fealty to Dumbledore, aligning Hogsmeade under the authority of Hogwarts. He had been outraged that she would go to the meetings, accusing her of "swanning about with other wizards" and "switching sides."
"Are they your people, Hermione?" he asked her in the memory, a nasty smirk overspreading his face. The question had been little more than an attempt to get at her; he had not meant to actually exclude her from wizarding England either as a Muggle-born or a part-Norman, but she had interpreted it to mean both. In the cave, Tom felt the cold knife of rejection himself. What had been a spiteful comment on his part, uttered because he was jealous of her persistent friendship with Potter and worried about political matters that were out of his control, had hurt her deeply. The wizard she was supposed to marry had essentially just told her that she did not belong.
Tom noticed as he pulled himself out of the memory that his eyes were damp. He was starting to feel physically weak as well. He grimaced and downed another goblet of the potion.
They were standing in one of the paths on the grounds of Hangleton, alone, the summer sun radiating down upon them. "You really have joined these "Friends,’ haven’t you? You have sided against me—betraying me—"
Hermione was angry now; Tom could tell that in the memory. His words no longer had the same degree of power to hurt her that they used to. She was already hardening to him. That realization was horrifying. Tom watched in the memory as they argued about how he treated her and how he professed to regard witches. At the end of the encounter, she had stormed off, leaving him alone. He had wanted to follow her—and, for the first time, Tom in the present realized that she had wanted him to follow her. She had wanted him to chase after her and express his contrition. She had hoped that her logical argument—if he really respected witches, he should treat her better—would persuade him to do that. It had not, and another little bit of hope died inside her at that moment.
Tom stooped over the basin, wiping away the tear that now trickled down his face. He doubted that it would contaminate the potion if it fell in, but best not to let it happen anyway. He realized that he was clutching the rounded sides of the bowl for support, and his head felt light, as if he were soon going to faint.
Not yet, he thought, drinking another gobletful. At least the basin was finally noticeably emptier, but that was the only good thing.
It was another Friends of the Founders meeting, this a meeting that he had agreed to attend. He had decided it was best to see if he could guess what their families might be up to, as well as to stake his claim on Hermione in front of Potter, Longbottom, and the others.
"I asked you this once, and I will ask you again now: Whose side are you on?"
That still hurt. The implicit accusation of betrayal still hurt her, and now, it combined with anger and outrage over the fact that she was convinced that he had betrayed her by his treatment of her.
In the memory, they went upstairs together to the meeting, but it had ended rapidly in disaster when Tom learned that Hermione had signed a magically binding oath not to speak of their doings to Malfoy or his allies. He had stormed out of the meeting, refusing to take the oath himself even though he knew it was not one he ought to have an objection to—and leaving Hermione standing in the room before her friends and companions, utterly humiliated. Now, though, Tom himself felt every pang of humiliation, every stab of rage and shame as Weasley and his girl laughed at her.
She believed, at that time, that she was bound to me with no choice in the matter, that I cared so little about her that I would humiliate her in public before social inferiors, and she suffered mockery and ridicule from people who knew that they did have freedom to choose their partners, he thought, staring at the green potion that remained. The horrifying magnitude of his mistreatment of Hermione was slowly becoming clear to him.
"What have I done?" he whimpered, his words barely audible, though there was no one else in the cave to hear him anyway. He did not want to drink any more of that potion, but the bowl still had plenty for him. Clinging to the sides, his knees bending, he swallowed another cupful—and immediately wished that he had not. This was the worst by far—at least as of yet.
Hermione had long known that horrible crimes such as rape occurred, but her encounter with the pregnant, morose, terrified Adelaide Lestrange was her first experience with a person who had suffered such a trauma. She had struggled with her misgivings about helping a foe, but in the end, her fundamental compassion and sense of justice had won the day, and she had made the potion for Adelaide that would prevent her from being at the mercy of the rapist and her villainous, also-rapist father. Tom had been so quick to chastise her for not swearing Adelaide to an oath of silence, or otherwise protecting herself, but he had ignored the fact that, despite the second-class status bestowed upon her by Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange himself, despite the ridicule she suffered at school, despite the mistreatment by him—the one person who, more than any other, should love and cherish her—she was still a kind person who wanted to do the right thing and help those who were suffering. Perhaps he had had a point that she should have protected herself better, but he had placed no value on her basic compassionate instinct. Even if he himself did not share it, he should have valued it in her, as something that she did better than he did—a strength to counter what was a weakness in him. And if we had been together, he thought miserably, we would have discussed it and devised a way to keep Lestrange from a forced marriage to a rapist, see justice done to the criminal himself, and protect Hermione’s role in it. It had not had to have happened the way it had.
"What have I done?" he repeated again—or perhaps he only thought it. He did not know, but it did not matter—and worse was still to come.
The second wave of the memory slammed him like a dragon. He had blamed Hermione’s letter to Bellatrix Lestrange for the fact that he had been tortured over the rapist’s murder. I was angry and scared, he thought. I could have died that day, and I knew it—and I took that fear out on her.
The horrible fight occurred once again in the memory, only now, he saw it from Hermione’s perspective when he spitefully revealed the bargain he had made with Mother about their betrothal contract. She had been angry, but it had hurt and shocked her deeply. For the first time, Hermione had questioned if he cared for her anymore.
When Tom came back to the present time in the cave, he realized that he was not standing upright anymore, but rather, was clinging to the pillar where the basin rested, his knees bent. He was not sure that he could rise again. The water, that cold and unnaturally still magical water, beckoned to him.... It could restore strength, he thought—but only for a moment. He might regain his strength, but somehow he knew that if he drank from the lake now, before the basin was drained, he would be barred from ever trying again. The artifact therein would be sealed against him, and he would lose Hermione, even after the memories that he had already relived. He could not explain how or why, and he supposed that it was his magical instinct that told him this rather than any part of his logical brain, but somehow he knew that draining the basin was necessary for him to have a chance at changing Hermione’s mind. Shuddering and shivering, he reached in the dim light for the side of the basin, hoping that it was magically secured and he did not pull the thing onto himself. Clutching it, he hoisted himself up and gazed upon the remaining potion. He filled up his goblet yet again, noticing that after this one, there appeared to be only one cupful left. He could not scoop up every last drop, but the magic of the bowl would detect when he could not get any more. He drank the potion he had just gathered and braced himself.
This memory was not about Hermione. Instead, he was reliving the horrible argument he had had with his mother after he had killed his father. He experienced it from her viewpoint, and this was just as horrible—if not worse—as anything he had experienced from Hermione’s view.
Hypocrite. Liar. Every word was a stab to his mother’s heart, as she questioned and second-guessed her own choices in life. She had told lies, but it had not been out of casual unconcern for the truth. It was because she had agonized over when she ought to reveal the awful truth to Tom—the truth that she had eloped with his father as a young woman, barely adult, no older than he himself was right now, in order to prevent her own brother from raping her on a hideous, unholy mockery of a "wedding night."
"Who was it? There must have been someone. There always is for noble spawn." That question, tumbling viciously from his lips, had brought up memories of awful dread in her mind.
"Why did I say that?" he murmured—or thought—as he relived the memory of saying that to her. "I could tell that the question hurt her, and that was why I asked it. She could have told me the truth in her own way." Shame filled him at the thought of it.
She had set up the betrothal between him and Hermione because she had had such a bad experience with her first marriage. He had been correct about that, he realized. But she had genuinely believed that two young people barely out of childhood who had so much in common would be happier, and love would come naturally, if they went through their young adult years contractually committed to each other. She had meant well for him. Everything she had done had been well-intended, whether it was ultimately a good decision or not. Tom felt ill at the memory of accusing her of selfishness—especially after he had just acted very selfishly.
Tom’s legs had already collapsed and were unable to support his weight now. He was clinging to the basin for support as he scooped up the last of the potion that he could. He noted, vaguely, that there was indeed something in the basin, though he could not quite tell what it was. It was something elongated. Perhaps a wand? But no, wands were a recent magical innovation, he vaguely remembered. It was certainly not the Holy Grail. Perhaps Excalibur? Wasn’t a sword supposed to be longer than that, though? Tom's vision was fuzzy and growing dark, and his entire body ached. After this, he would fall to his knees and drink that water. He downed the last of the potion and tumbled to the ground, curling up on his side. Somehow, he knew what memory that this cup was going to invoke. That did not make it any easier.
Tom closed his eyes, feeling his cheeks dampen, as he relived the talk he had just had with Hermione.
She does not think I set the basilisk on her deliberately, but she does not trust me to ever change—not so much to change my plans; she does not care so much about that, but to ever consider her well-being, her feelings, or even, now, her safety and life when I make my plans. In some recess of his soul, he had already known this truth by now. The sweet, innocent Hermione he had met three and a half years ago was gone, and largely by his own deeds. All people lost some of their innocence as they grew up, but they retained their idealism about some things, usually. Hermione had lost her idealism about him, at long last. Three and a half years ago, she looked forward to marrying me. Now, she thinks I will be her death if she stays with me.
He was not sure how long he remained curled up on that cold, rocky bank. It might not have been long at all, but the pain—both physical and mental—was so intense, and he felt so utterly, deathly tired, that time itself seemed to become impossible to track. Please, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, let her never be hurt again. Not her. Me. Not her. Not them. Me. That thought repeated in his mind until, at last, it faded to a vague buzz. Some of the physical pain seemed to lift.
I am dying, he thought suddenly. In that moment, he remembered the water. It took every ounce of his remaining strength, but he was able to drag himself to the bank. He did not hesitate. Making sure that his nose remained above the surface, he plunged his face into the water.
It tasted vaguely unpleasant, not at all like the pure magically infused "water of life" that he had expected, but as he drank deeply, he felt his strength returning to him. The pangs of physical agony returned, but only briefly. Another swallow of the water, and they began to fade.
Tom crawled from the bank, still feeling tired, but no longer as though he were dying. Instead, he felt as though he had gained several years of wisdom. He stood up on the rocks, the water swirling around his feet, and clutched the now almost-empty basin for support.
There was indeed something at the bottom. He had not been in a potion-induced hallucination. Tom steadied himself and gazed down at a sheathed blade. Gingerly he lifted it out of the basin. The sheath itself was clearly ancient and valuable, being made of perfectly molded copper, chased with fantastic beasts and Celtic knots, studded here and there with green beryls. Tom’s pulse quickened as he drew out the short blade, silver-white and pristine. The edge was clearly sharp enough to cut even after... how long?
Tom soon had his answer as he examined it. It was not a sword. It was not properly a dagger. This blade, he realized, was an ancient athame, an artifact used by witches and wizards of old in potionmaking, in ritual magic, in blood spells. On the hilt, right below a sharp-eyed raven, were inscribed the words,
MORGANA, DAUGHTER OF IGRAINE
Tom gazed at it longingly. It was true, then, at least some of the legend about this cave. What power this artifact might hold....
But no, he realized. He knew what he had to do with it. In the end, it was not for him.
Tom closed the door of the inner cave behind him and faced the storm, which had not abated a bit. Cold, stinging sea spray blasted his face. He pulled his cloak closer and shivered, but the solution was clear. Taking a deep breath, making sure he had the energy and magical reserves to avoid a lethal accident with the process, he Apparated to the grounds of Parselhall.
At once, the air was drier, though still cloudy, and the wind was considerably weaker. He shifted his pack on his shoulders. It held the priceless relic he had just acquired, as well as his other possessions that he was bringing with him for the winter holidays. He wanted so much to perform a ritual with it... but he had made up his mind. The urges to use it himself first—or instead—were tempting, but he resisted them.
His mother was already waiting in the high seat, Snape beside her. Her face was grim as she greeted Tom. "My son," she said formally. She met his eyes with hers, which were unusually stern. "We have much to discuss."
Tom furtively examined her. There was no visible sign of her pregnancy... but then, he supposed, there wouldn’t be. It was too early. He glanced at her and nodded. "My congratulations, Mother," he said.
"Yes, that is one matter that we will discuss," she said. "But it is not the only one."
Tom’s heart sank. Had Hermione told Mother her intentions already? She had said that she would merely do it "at some point" over the intermission.
"High Master Dumbledore sent me a letter this morning," she said, her words hard. "Tom, when I let you read the family history books, you gave me your word that you would not use the information for destructive purposes."
Tom realized what she was talking about now. "I was excited," he said simply, no hint of petulance in his words. "I was excited and eager. I shouldn’t have opened the Chamber while people were there, but it was not my intention to attack anyone, least of all Hermione."
Merope studied him for a second before deciding that he was telling the truth. She nodded. "I believe you," she said, "but Hermione is extremely upset about this. If I were you, I would go to her soon. She informed me that you have barely discussed it with her so far."
Tom’s heart thumped at that. Despite her obvious disapproval, that was promising. It meant that Hermione apparently had not told Mother what she had told him. There was still time. "I mean to do that," he said feelingly. "I don’t think I apologized to her properly, which is probably what she means and why she is upset." He paused. "I hope to discuss a lot of things with her," he mumbled.
"I hope you do too," Merope said. The meaning of her words was clear from the tone; Tom realized that she knew quite a lot about their estrangement and disapproved of it. "In the meantime, welcome home."
Tom brooded in his room for a little bit as he considered how to approach Hermione and what to say. He fingered the athame, not removing it from its sheath, merely gazing at it as though it could offer him advice. Though perhaps I should not want advice from this particular ancestor, he thought wryly, recalling that according to the history of Arthur’s family that he believed, she had gone to her own half-brother with the belief that an incestuous marriage was a fine idea. He set the athame down on a table and considered further.
Hermione would be interested in hearing about his experience in the cave with the potion—after she was amenable to him again. She would not want to know immediately about how much he had suffered from the potion. This is about her, he thought. I suffered that much because that is what she felt too.
The snake she had given him slithered up the arm of the chair where he sat and coiled on top of his desk, flicking its tongue at him occasionally as he thought. He smiled at the creature, mentally contrasting this snake—his true familiar—with the basilisk of Slytherin. He had only ever thought of the basilisk as a weapon in the coming fight against Malfoy and Lestrange, he realized. It had never replaced this snake in his mind as his personal familiar. And Hermione gave her to me, he thought again. That was a potent thought. The war that he expected, the fight for his people, his own ancestry—as important as those things were, they were still ultimately secondary to her in his mind, even if he had chosen to ignore that fact for two years.
It was always Hermione, the entire time. I never even wanted to dally with other girls. I never even considered it. Every night that I felt those urges, I fantasized that my hands were hers. I never stopped loving her; I just stopped accepting that fact myself or showing her. Tom sighed. His task now was a monumental one: how to convince her of what he had so long denied to himself.
She will want to speak, he thought, reaching for the athame again. She will have things to say. The alternative is that she is immovable on the subject. There is essentially no chance that she will have little to say because she is accepting everything I say uncritically. She will want to speak, and I should listen to what she has to say. That means... Tom sighed again. That means that I cannot plan this out in exacting detail.
He picked up the knife and rose to his feet, quickly leaving the room.
Tom had a hunch that Hermione was in the library rather than her bedroom. He hoped it was the case; he doubted very much that she would welcome a visit from him in her personal quarters. He opened the great double doors to the library and eased inside, closing them behind him immediately. Since it was the day before the winter solstice, night had come early, and the black sky glittered with stars through the tall diamond-paned windows. He thought he glimpsed a light in a far corner. The candles in the library lit up by magic to track his path through the maze of bookshelves as he walked toward the glow.
Hermione was seated in the corner. A single candle flickered on the nearest table. She was not reading a book, but was instead staring out the window, having turned to face outward. As Tom approached, she heard his footsteps and turned her head, catching his eye. Her eyebrows narrowed and her lips thinned.
That was an inauspicious beginning, Tom thought, but he supposed it was to be expected. He gazed at her for a moment. "Hermione," he finally said, "there is something I would like to give you."
She instantly drew up into herself and glared at him with suspicion. "I suppose your real plan is that I will take back what I said this morning at Hogwarts due to this, and therefore that this "gift’ will really turn out to be a loan."
Stung, Tom instantly protested. "No, Hermione, it truly is a gift." He withdrew the athame from his robes and held it out to her in his palms.
She eyed it, surprise filling her face as she read the name of its original owner, but did not take it. "Where did you get this?" she said.
"There is another site where one of my family briefly... stayed," he said, searching for the right word. "As you can guess, about six hundred years ago, my royal ancestor left her grandmother’s athame behind in this... place. I think she or her mother must have been a Seer and had a premonition to do so...." He trailed off. "I want it to be yours, Hermione. It’s a powerful artifact; I can tell that just by handling it...." He sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping as he forced out the difficult words. "If you mean to serve my mother, it would be useful. But I want you to have it, whatever you do. It’s a gift."
Hermione considered for another moment before gingerly touching the athame. She picked it up and unsheathed the blade. "It’s very sharp," she observed, "and—yes—very powerful." She stroked the hilt with a single finger. "There is no binding magic in this...."
Her implication hurt, but he supposed he could not much blame her for being wary. "I’ve done nothing to it. The magic in it was there from the beginning. I would not use an artifact to entrap you, Hermione. I just... wanted you to know that I truly am sorry about everything."
Hermione sheathed it and set it down on the table next to her candle. "I see." She met his eyes with hers briefly. "Tom, I know what you want, even if you don’t say it."
"I don’t deny that," he agreed. "It’s true. But... it’s your decision, Hermione. I won’t even insist that we talk about it right now unless you want to."
"I don’t want to talk about it if you are just going to say what you said at Hogwarts. I need more than that, Tom. I warned you against this repeatedly... I know that circumstances have changed, but you pursued this—you went looking for this monster—knowing that people were there. Your obsessions almost cost me my life, and while I know it was an accident, it was the culmination of two years of disregarding me. It started with my feelings, then my ideas, and finally, my very safety." She gazed hard into his eyes. "If you think it was easy for me to say what I said this morning, you are mistaken. If it had been easy, then frankly, I would have said it a long time ago." Tom flinched at that, but she continued. "I care about you, Tom, which is why it was hard, and part of the reason why I decided upon something that would keep me near your family. But caring about you is not enough, and I need to know if you are doing this—giving me this—for more of a reason than that you are afraid you’re going to lose something that you want. I need to know if I am more than just another thing that you want to own."
Tom was appalled at that representation of it, but he knew better than to scold her for saying it. If she said it in such a calm, level voice, she had a reason to fear it. "You are," he said simply. "I know I haven’t treated you as much more than that—if even that—for a long time, but you are. I took you for granted. You were right about that: I put you last because I assumed that there was nothing you could do about it, however I treated you. That no matter what I did, you would always be there, and I could just return to the way things used to be later." He flicked his wand, summoning a chair from a couple of yards away, and sat down once it was there. "It wasn’t malicious, intentional cruelty... most of the time," he added, feeling a pang of shame at the realization that there were some occasions, especially later, when it was. "That first time in the Hogwarts courtyard... and the moments leading up to it, when I treated you with contempt in front of my friends... I thought I needed to impress them. It was not my aim to hurt you."
"But you did, and you did not seem to care."
"I didn’t," he admitted. "I told myself that you would understand why I did it and ignore it because it was just an act." He gazed at her. "Because they also hated the Norman wizards’ rule, I thought they would view it as a weakness if I let them see how much I truly cared for you, but it’s not a weakness to show affection for one’s family—or family-to-be—in front of other nobles. In fact, it’s a strength. Family ties are everything to the nobility, to magical ones especially. I should have treated you as the lady you are, but...." Tom glanced down at his lap, shaking his head. "What can I say? I still thought I needed to act in a certain way to "earn’ their respect as an equal, but I shouldn’t have acted that way—treating you as less than an equal. Even if I had been correct that their support was tied to it, I shouldn’t have done it. I meant to stop after I had their alliances, but that just means I was taking you for granted and expecting you to tolerate something that you should never have had to."
Hermione considered what he had said as he lapsed into silence. "I’m glad that you finally understand that," she said pointedly. "What about those alliances, then? I confronted you about that, you know, after your mother established formal sworn alliances with their families. You’ve had those alliances for quite a while now. We have still been estranged."
He winced at that memory. "That was the time that the business with Adelaide Lestrange occurred," he said. "I actually intended, the very day that I was tortured, to talk about it then... but Carrow had other ideas. And," he added quickly, "you were right. I blamed you for what happened. I was frightened that day... I knew that I could have been killed, that Malfoy and Lestrange truly were that lawless, and I was thinking about certain magical rituals that I had known of but never truly considered before.... It was overwhelming. But none of that means I should have blamed you for it. If anything, it was largely my own fault that we hadn’t conspired together about what to do, and there was the strong possibility that even if we had, anything we did that resulted in the rapist’s death would have meant I got tortured anyway. Malfoy and Lestrange are our enemies, after all." His voice cracked. "There were times when I think I forgot who the enemy really was."
"You were certainly eager to show me how little you trusted me," Hermione said tartly. She had been listening to his words, and although they were explanations, somehow they did not feel like justifications to her. He knew that his actions were unjustified. Somehow, something had occurred to him over the course of the day to which he had been completely oblivious in the morning. She wondered what he had been doing all day between the time she Disapparated from Hogwarts and the time that he appeared here. "You were constantly asking me if I was on "your side’ because I kept apprised of what Harry’s friends were talking about."
"I still think their families are up to something," he said, "especially the Weasleys. But that doesn’t mean that their children are part of it. I don’t think Potter is, or Lovegood, or probably even Longbottom."
"They’re not," Hermione said. "Of course their families are up to something. Do you imagine you are the only person to deduce that? They know it too, and every time they see their families, they attempt to find out anything they can about their parents’ secret correspondence. Harry knows that his parents are involved in some kind of scheme... or his father is, anyway," she said bitterly. "He’s tried to discover what it is. That is why I have been going to their meetings, Tom—that and the fact that we’ve also been practicing magic."
"Yes, we have. Part of the reason I advanced to your level this year is my own studying, but we have practiced dueling and other magic in these meetings. It has helped quite a bit."
He smiled. "That’s great! I’m glad for you."
"I wanted to know what they were doing too, and whether their activities—if we could ever discover them—would make them useful allies for this family or something that your mother should be wary of. I have never been your enemy."
"I know," he said penitently. "I realize that now." He ran his hands through his hair. "That argument about Lestrange was a time when I was purposely cruel to you—the end of it, when I told you about my bargain with my mother. I have nothing to say about that bit except that I am sorry. I’m sorry for giving you reason to worry that I didn’t care about you. I’m sorry for making you feel such misery at the prospect of being married to someone who didn’t care about your feelings—and that this was the best outcome, as you reckoned it then." He met her eyes with his. "I hate what Malfoy and Lestrange have done against witches, Hermione. I hate it. For all their fine airs about being pureblood wizards, their views of witches are based entirely on Muggle opinions of women, specifically Norman—"
"And Saxon," Hermione said sharply.
"Yes," he admitted. "Muggle women have not had it very good in this country for several centuries, and now, Malfoy and Lestrange are trying to do the same thing to witches. I want to rip this weed out of magical culture by the roots before it can take hold... but what I’m trying to say is that I have not really considered the fact that I have been making your situation even worse. I’ve wanted to help "witches’ but haven’t noticed how you were forced to see a betrothal that was making you miserable as the best outcome for yourself, because of laws that harm witches. Again, I’m sorry." Taken by a sudden urge, Tom leaned forward and reached for her hands. "Hermione, will you give me another chance? If you do, I swear to you, I will make sure that it really is the best future you can have." He swallowed. "I remember what it was like that first year and a half."
"It can never be like that again, Tom, and you know that. We were fourteen years old and...." Her voice wavered. "So much has happened since then—so many dark things. We’re not innocent anymore."
"No, we aren’t," he agreed. "But it’s inevitable that people lose some of their innocence and idealism as they grow up. I regret that I wasn’t there for you when you went through it, and I regret even more that I was the cause of some of it." He took a deep breath and released her hands. "If you still want to take an oath to my mother, I understand. The ritual blade of her ancestor will help you if you do that. But you deserve more. You deserve to be loved." He gazed at her, a wry smile forming on his face for the first time that evening. "I will, you know. I won’t stop. It’s up to you whether to accept me, though."
Hermione took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly before facing him once more. "I need time to think about it. The basilisk attacked me yesterday, Tom. It’s obvious to me that you have thought deeply about all of this... and this knife," she said, "I don’t know where you got it, but I would guess that this has some connection."
"It does," he said. "I’ll tell you about that if you want. It was a... profound experience."
She considered, then shook her head. "Another time, Tom. If it was profound, it... well, it might be too much right now. I need to think about everything." She handed him the athame.
"Keep it," he said immediately, drawing away. "It’s yours, Hermione. I meant that."
Hesitantly she took it back, unsheathing the blade once more to study the intricate designs of both the athame and its sheath. "It is beautiful," she finally said, "and powerful. You say that her granddaughter placed this—wherever you found it?"
He nodded. "The Princess Ceridwyn—dispossessed, of course, but the Gaunts still recognized her title in our family histories. It’s a cave on the western coast, a very magical site where she stayed for a while after Camlann to escape Arthur’s loyalists who blamed her father for what happened. It seems fitting to me that a witch should own this blade." He rose from his chair and gave her a feeble smile. "You said you need to think it over. I’ll leave you to that. Good night, Hermione."
She glanced after him as he left the library, sighing deeply once he was gone. She had been so sure that she knew what she had to do, but now, she was not certain anymore. I should go to bed too, she thought, rising from her seat. It’ll be easier to think in my bedchamber, where I know I won’t be interrupted.
She took the blade.
Crookshanks curled against Hermione’s side as she lay in bed, the athame resting on the shelf inside the heavy headboard. The heavy draperies that hung from the bed in winter kept out the magical torchlight from the ramparts and gates of the castle that shined through her window, so she had her wand lit dimly as she thought about what had happened.
Tom had seemed sincere. Much of what he had to say had been explanatory of himself, and it had hurt on some level to have those memories dredged up again, but he had never used his explanations to excuse or validate his actions. Every time he had mentioned something, he had been clear that he knew now how much it hurt her when he had done it and that it was both wrong and unnecessary. Of course it was unnecessary, she thought. I was not always able to articulate why, but I knew he did not "have" to treat me the way he did. If, for whatever reason, he had, I would have been able to see that myself. I was raised noble. I understand about political considerations. If he really "had to" treat me the way he did in order to impress allies that he also "had to" have, then I would have recognized it myself and would have waited before showing him so much affection in the first place. Just thinking about it angered her again. He understands now, she thought, calming down. He knows it was wrong. He really did seem penitent throughout that entire discussion.
And the discussion itself was civil, she thought suddenly. That’s the first time in quite a while that that’s happened. He never even came close to losing his temper with me. He truly did sound respectful in that talk. I wonder what happened to him? She reached for the athame, regarding the artifact with awe. A sea cave full of magic. I wonder if it was the same place he went last summer. It must have been. And he gave me this, despite the fact that he would have coveted it himself last summer, if my guess is right. It’s almost as though his act of giving me this knife is... giving up on his dream of wearing a crown. But surely not? He’s had that dream for so long....
Though, perhaps he also realizes at last how hard it would be to make that happen. Malfoy and Lestrange must be removed from power, but it does not follow that a wizard must sit on the English throne. Perhaps he realizes that too.
She thought about his parting words. "You deserve to be loved," he had said. He did love her, according to his own words, and would continue to do so. Hermione thought about the happy times she had experienced with him two years ago. She had looked forward to marrying him. In fact, she remembered, they had even assured each other that they were married in their own eyes and according to ancient magical custom. Their affections and confidence had been a joy to her at Hogwarts in a time when she was otherwise being threatened, diminished by those in power, ridiculed by many of her own classmates. It had all been bearable because she could escape to their little room in the castle and have no secrets between each other. It had not mattered as much that adversaries told her that she did not belong among other witches and wizards. She knew it was inherently untrue, of course, but it was easier for her if she did not have to comfort herself solely with her own mental assurances of that. A thinker like Hermione would always question her own convictions from time to time without outside support—and she had it then. She had a specific place, wizarding family, and future partner with whom she knew she belonged. Afterward, her friendships with Harry, Luna, and the others had filled the void somewhat, but she realized that she had never—not once—been as happy as she had been in that first year and a half.
Have I even been happy at all? she thought. I suppose there have been times when I was, but since then, it’s mostly been drudgery, apprehension, fear, sadness—and resignation. I want to be happy again. If there is a war coming, and it does seem that there must be one, I want more than just resignation, duty, and friendship. If he does love and respect me—if he really does see what he did wrong and has resolved to change—then we can have that again. It will not be what we had two years ago, but—Hermione realized something with a start—it never would have been. We always would have grown up and changed. The actions of Malfoy and Lestrange, the evil of their allies and vassals, always would have darkened us.
If he means what he said tonight....
A thought occurred to her, one that satisfied her as soon as her mind formed it. This is still very sudden. He opened the Chamber yesterday. He must have had an interesting experience today in that cave, but I will see if this lasts for more than a few hours. I will wait a bit before deciding what to do. I will see how he acts tomorrow, and then I will decide.
The next day was the winter solstice. Hermione emerged from her bedchamber to find the castle decorated for Yule, with mistletoe and evergreen branches decorating the arches, ledges, and furniture. It brought a smile to her face.
At breakfast, Tom sat next to her and ate his food very properly, without the faintest allusion to their conversation the night before. Evidently he was sincere about leaving the decision in her hands, as difficult as that must be for him. Across the table, Lady Merope and Lord Severus ate quietly. Hermione observed the subtle affections between them as he murmured a morning compliment to her under his breath and she gave him a warm smile. She was glad of it. They both deserved the happiness that they had. She hoped very much that the twins would be born healthy. They deserved that too....
Could I have that someday with Tom? Hermione thought. If he meant what he said, I could. Her heart thrilled at the possibility, which she had all but given up over the past year as she resigned herself to the prospect of a loveless marriage of convenience and a husband who regarded her with disdainful coldness—and then cast that notion aside with one horrible event. The idea she had formed as a child, before she even knew that she was a witch, the idea that she had developed from watching her parents and then had sadly dismissed as naïve and foolish for a noble girl, was suddenly tugging at her soul once again. She wanted it to be true. She wanted Tom to be sincere, more than she had even wanted the betrothal itself at the beginning. That, after all, was before she had really known him. She did know now how he could be at his best. She wanted to believe.

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