A/N: okay i KNOW it's been a rather unforgiveable amount of time but i've been sorting out some personal issues and haven't been able to write this chapter in a way that felt good enough and genuine enough and thus the delay. i promise i won't give up on this story though and i hope you enjoy this chapter.

"Who's the real you? The person who did something awful, or the one who's horrified by the awful thing you did? Is one part of you allowed to forgive the other?"

Rebecca Stead

The room, her room, was green. Everything from the carpet, to the walls, to the bedspread, to the dresser, had a dark emerald hue. Patterns of leafy vines sprawled their way through the floor, their jagged leaves harsh and unforgiving.

A small bookcase sat in the far corner, its few inhabitants gathering dust. They were old, and about obscure topics that sounded almost sinister, but in an unidentifiable way. Hermione ran a finger over the spine of one. The rope still binding her hands together tightened.

"Is it to your liking?" She jolted at the question whispered in her ear. Riddle stood inches behind her, not quite touching her. She flinched away.

"Yes." That much, at least, wasn't a lie. She had expected to be given a closet or to be put in the mildewy corner of a cold basement. This was infinitely better, and she wouldn't risk complaining and losing it.

"Good, your comfort is my utmost priority." He delivered it so deadpan it was almost funny. Nervous laughter tickled her stomach.

She didn't respond, and he didn't say anything else. His eyes followed her as she moved around her gilded cage.

Hermione almost sat on the bed. It looked so inviting, with a thick, elegant comforter on top of what was sure to be an expensive mattress, more pillows than one person could reasonably need, and a four poster canopy.

But then she remembered where she was, and who she was with.

The bed felt like a beautiful trap. Like the warm golden light to a naive fly. Instead, she settled for a stiff-backed chair in the corner. Riddle continued to stand, his only movement the rise and fall of his chest. Hermione drummed her fingers against her leg.

There were no lamps, no candles, no paperweights, and no sharp or heavy objects of any kind. Nothing that could be weaponized. He was clever.

She watched him from the corner of her eye. His hands lay at his sides, one clenched into a white knuckled fist, the other flat against the side of his upper thigh. He hadn't blinked in a very long time. The light from the chandelier flickered, extending his shadow into creatures with sharp claws and fangs.

A heartbeat, loud and fast and sharp against the bones holding it inside thundered in the quiet.

Hermione heard Riddle breathe. In. Out.

The wind rattled against the window. Creaks, some faint and some jarring, settled in the walls and floor.

In.

Hermione turned her head to look at the door as footsteps echoed down the hall. She resisted the urge to call for help, to scream. It would do her no good. She sank one of her nails into the tender skin on the side of her knee.

Out.

Riddle stepped closer to her. She froze, chills creeping through her body. A knot twisted her stomach.

In.

A drop of blood gathered in the shallow crescent moon scratch, coating her fingertip with a thin layer of red.

He was standing over her, now, his looming form blocking out the light. A soft breeze of his scent caressed Hermione's face. He smelled of her house. Of the evergreen candles her mother insisted on burning. Of the mint hand soap her father loved. Of home. It would have been comforting, but in this setting it invoked a deep unease. He hadn't taken her from her home, he hadn't been there for the scent to cling to him. Unless he had.

Out.

His exhale stirred her hair.

In.

He rested a hand on the back of the chair, wrist just brushing her shoulder. Slowly, Riddle leaned down until he was kneeling in front of her. His nose ghosted along her cheek, leaving burning tingles in its wake. She didn't dare pull away. Her own breathing was shallow.

Her mind conjured the image of herself ramming the top of her head into his nose, shattering the cartilage into his brain.

Out.

Voice soft, he whispered, warm breath puffing against her ear, "Does it hurt?"

In.

Voice cracking, Hermione managed, "What?" Riddle's cheek scraped against her own, the faintest hint of stubble making the sensation itch. She was suffocating.

Out.

She sucked in air, his air. It tasted sweet in her mouth, sugary on her tongue.

He sat back to look her in the eyes, and his free hand came up to wrap around her calf. A trickle of blood leaked from the scratch she'd made. His dark eyes tracked it in fascination.

A vein pulsed in his neck. His jugular. Would it be possible to scratch it open, Hermione wondered? Could she dig her nails into the soft skin of his throat and tear away the delicate layers of muscle and flesh until blood gushed out from the gaping hole?

What would he do if she tried?

Riddle's nails pressed against the wound. Her nostrils flared. She swallowed. He tapped the pads of his fingers against the blood-smeared skin. Even now, his empty eyes stayed on hers.

The taste of vomit coated Hermione's tongue. It bubbled up and churned in her stomach.

Tears rose unbidden to Hermione's eyes. Her knees locked together. She couldn't, wouldn't allow this to happen.

In a low voice, Riddle began, "You'll come to love it here. You won't even want to leave. And by the time our fun is about to end, you'll-"

It was the best opportunity she was probably going to get. Hermione drew back her leg and rammed the hard bone of her knee up into his chin as she jumped to a stand. She barely felt it, but she heard a sharp crack split from Riddle's jaw. He careened backwards, toppling to the floor in an inelegant heap.

She'd barely had time to begin to desperately make for the door when he lunged at her, sprawling across the floor and flinging out a hand to wrap around her ankle. She twisted her leg in his grip, throwing all her weight into yanking herself free.

"You bitch," he spat, his death grip only tightening. Hermione tried to turn to use her free foot to kick him, but this time he anticipated her movement and blocked the blow. He gave her ankle a sharp tug, pulling her leg out from under her and sending her to her knees.

"No!" Hermione whipped herself around, hands coming up defensively just as Riddle surged forward and tackled her to the ground. The back of her head hit the carpet with a loud thump. Inky shapes crawled across her vision.

His weight pinned her legs at painful angles, restricting her movement. An angry shout tore from Riddle's lips as Hermione raked her nails down his face, leaving ragged red trails in their wake. She struck at his face again, aiming for the furious dark eyes that she couldn't escape.

She knew this would be a moment she never forgot; a terrible, brutal horror for her nightmares that she'd wake from screaming even twenty, thirty years after it was over. It was a distant thought. A blip in the stream of curses and prayers to gods she didn't believe in.

Perhaps that was why she continued to struggle. For the After. For the day when this would be a memory.

In the struggle to get her hands away from his face, Riddle managed to grab her wrists. The rough bonds burned her skin as she tried to jerk free.

And she screamed. The sound tore from her raw vocal cords, an anguished plea to anyone listening. Riddle gritted his teeth, unable to do anything to silence her with both his hands occupied.

Hermione smiled then, her eyes momentarily flashing with something dark and unreadable before she went still.