Chapter Sixty-One: There's Hell to Pay

A/N: It's been a while.

When the darkness crumbles and light breaks through, Hermione lands on her feet in the Forbidden Forest. She looks around, but Voldemort is nowhere to be found. She is alone and the light is lavender, cast on the amber world around her. The trees around her are briefly unsettled, as though she has fallen through their branches, but beyond that there is no sign that she does not belong here, wherever here is. There is no sign that she has traveled.

She has toyed with time too much. She does not know who she is, or when she is. But there's a wind through the treetops now and she knows, somehow, that wherever she is, it is not a happy place. Of course, it must be a world of Voldemort's making, and she must tread carefully - he can only create unhappy places. And danger lurks, but waiting for it to come to her is the most dangerous of all. He is chasing her through worlds, through time, trying to get her to some point-she must not let him win.

There's nothing to do but walk. Her French heels are unsteady, but the dirt is brittle. She picks her way through the Forbidden Forest, thinking, unbidden, of Harry: the reason she has done everything, the reason from which she has strayed so far since landing back in time. She has lost sight of Harry in some indefinable way, but it is his eyes that she sees as she reaches the forest's edge and finds herself staring up at Hogwarts, unobstructed. That peculiar shade of emerald always hooked deep within her, made her do things she might otherwise never do, and it is the place from which her true courage springs.

A dark figure, a smudge on the landscape, approaches from the castle. He is tall and slim, and his robes billow carelessly around him. She raises her wand as her belly clenches, and he laughs, baffled, at her.

"Darling," Tom says as he reaches her, hands splayed out. He's wearing glasses and his hair is mussed. "What in Salazar's name have you got on you?"

He takes her hands, then her wrists. "You look like a Muggle," he muses, dropping her wrists quickly, and there's a flash of something, a way his brows draw together then relax again. He looks like he is stung but trying to hide it.

Though her coat is heavy enough to shelter against the cold, her flesh prickles, every hair standing on end. She studies Tom's eyes, but they remain defiant of any glimmer of ruby; he is merely a man. But where is the serpent, waiting, coiled, to strike? What does he hope that this spell will do?

"I was in Paris," she says, testing out the words, but Tom's face falls.

"My wife," he says softly. "Always the busy schedule. Come, we'll miss supper if we're out here much longer."

There's a silvery streak in his hair that is teased when they turn and the wind howls harder, tossing his dark waves. He looks falsely-cheerful; preoccupied.

"What's wrong?"

As they walk, she sees a flash of gold on his wand hand. He's holding the yew wand and the sight of it never fails to make her shudder, but it's the wedding ring in counterpoint to that wand that makes her sick. What spell has he cast-what is he trying to do to her?

"Nothing," he says, and a shadow passes over his features, then dissipates. It is already growing dark, and by the time they reach the doors to the Great Hall, it is dusk, and she is cold, and no closer to understanding this than she was when she got here. Tom turns to her as they reach the doors.

He looks about to speak, then clears his throat, and instead holds the door open for her. She can smell baked pumpkin and roast beef, and the low clatter of supper, and she longs, powerfully, for Harry and Ron. To be in her own timeline, to have never gotten into this mess. Because already their faces are fading; all of those years-she sees now that they were like dreams - of eating with them in the Great Hall are slowly fading, being taken over by Geoffrey, by Alphard - by Tom. And for a moment as Tom stares at her she feels as though he can sense this deep regret, and he turns from her bitterly.

"Professor Riddle," booms a familiar voice as they enter the Great Hall. It's nearly empty of students, and Hermione realizes that it is just past Christmas. There's a bare tree, stripped of decoration, in the corner, that has not yet been taken down. Dumbledore is at the high table, and his bright blue eyes sweep past Tom as they never would in real life, devoid of suspicion. "You're looking particularly lovely. Won't you join us for supper-"

"-Thank you, Professor, but I'm exhausted," she cuts in. Dumbledore smiles fondly at her, then at Tom.

"Your husband here has been all at odds without you," he says. "I'm certain that the two of you would like a quiet evening together. We'll see if some supper can't be sent to your rooms."

His words would humiliate Voldemort-to be all at odds over anyone, anything-but Tom merely leads her through the empty castle in silence. She is tensed, wand up her sleeve, ready for the slightest hint of what Voldemort is playing at, but when they reach their apartments in the castle - luxurious and remote, stuffed with bookcases and matching desks piled with parchment - he only gestures for her to enter with short, swift motions, and then they are standing in silence in the room, and Tom won't look at her.

"You look guilty," he remarks at last, stepping toward what she presumes is his desk. He lifts a black envelope from the desk and runs elegant fingers over it. "I thought we were past it."

She does not speak. In the candlelight she can see that the envelope is addressed, in silver ink, to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Riddle.

"Past what?"

He looks up at her at last. With a flick of his wand, the envelope materializes in her hand, and after studying him, she opens it with shaking hands.

It's a wedding invitation.

She knows he is watching her closely.

"Did you visit him? In Paris?"

When she looks up, Tom's face is blank. She sees him swallow, watches his Adam's apple move. "One last time together?" he breathes.

She cannot afford to show confusion, to show that she is upset or scared. After all, there must be some reason that Voldemort has brought her here, to this strange world in which he is a doting, jealous husband.

She draws in a deep breath, and crumples the invitation. "Did you, or did you not, visit Black in Paris?" His nostrils flare.

Hermione has learned that having a plan is pointless, that Voldemort is always a step ahead of her-the only person who has ever come close to defeating him had no plan at all, and got by on pure nerve. She thinks of Harry's eyes, and tries not to think of Alphard, of how he will suffer, of how he already has suffered.

"I did," she admits softly. The air is humid with his hurt, and Tom clenches his fist and looks away.

"You promised," he breathes, staring at his desk. "You swore it would be the last time. Am I expected to go to his wedding, to watch you weep for the man you love as he marries another?"

She does not know what she is doing; she does not know what Voldemort expects. "I suppose I should be grateful," he muses at last with a desperate scoff. The invitation disappears from her fist and reappears in his, and he sets it aflame, and they watch the black parchment curl together in silence. "At least now he's finally marrying, so you'll at least have to sneak around from now on. No more trips to Paris and London, saying you've got to meet this wizard or that scholar; see this rare artifact or that one." He shakes his head. "They all warned me, you know. Malfoy, Avery, Nott... they all told me that this affliction would never cease."

"It's over," she says, watching him, and Tom looks back at her, his glasses turning opaque briefly in the light, and there is such raw, naked hope on his face that she feels sickened by it. She knows him well enough to know that that is a look that would never be on his face, at least, not for her, and this realization is so deeply sad, as deeply sad as the thought that she will never see Harry and Ron again, that she wonders if she is still a fool for him after all, after all of the pain and all of the madness.

"You told me that before," he says softly. "I'm no fool, Hermione - but then, perhaps I am."

He swipes the yew wand, and the ash disappears midair.

Alphard awakens to late afternoon blush light, January in Paris outside of his window. The bed is plush and warm, and a smooth back with sparse freckles and wild brown hair is pressed against his side. His head aches from champagne, and the air is thick with the scent of sex. Hermione, he realizes, and he runs his fingers along her shoulder blade. There is silver in her hair, and when she stirs, it flashes briefly in the light before disappearing again.

"This is a nice dream," he murmurs, because it is. He has a vague sense of sadness, like someone has died, and he wonders if his mind is giving him a brief respite from some tragedy. A future with Hermione, one in which they make love in the afternoons lazily somewhere far from Riddle and Death Eaters and all of the madness that has occurred. A nice dream, one that cannot happen, but he will sink into it as long as he can. He turns on his side and holds her, breathes in her warmth. Her shoulders shake.

"I don't want to go back," she says thickly. "The moment we leave this room, it will all end. You'll be married, there won't be time for this anymore."

"We're married, Hermione," he reminds her with a laugh, pressing a kiss to her shoulder carelessly because he can, and there's something lived-in and wonderful about being able to just kiss her like this. If only she weren't sad - isn't this his dream? Shouldn't she be happy? If she only exists in his mind, then should she not be as he would like her to be?

"We're not, Alphard," she weeps. She rolls blindly to face him and curls against him in the way that Hermione never would, and a lump forms in his throat. "I should have said yes. We should have run off together. I should never have chosen Tom."

The dream turns sour on his tongue, but it's too intoxicating to hear the words, and he pulls her closer, reeling as she holds onto him, clinging to him desperately. "We could be happy, and hidden away. I know your family could never accept me, and our children wouldn't have had any place in the Wizarding world, but - oh, Alphard."

There is something very, very wrong. He tries to pull away from her, but she only clings harder. This is no dream - this is something darker, he is sure of it.