Thorns

A/N: Long-awaited, we finally have some more sections in Hermione's PoV! Blame Tom Riddle's characterization, he's too alluring for his own good. xD But first, let's settle that cliffhanger, shall we?

Much thanks to everyone who reviewed on Chapter Six: RaND0mnESS, vamp1987, ckatherine, Anoymous, sweet-tang-honney, Areej, ClaireReno, seriana14, Serpent in Red, Prissy, maripas, Sterope, Frantic-Disco, magentasouth, Ijoan, Dark'nLightAngel, Elspethe, ShimmeringWater, Vestal Harlot, Risottonocheese, xevanescentstar, A. Nymous, Blue-Starlight92, Ariel in Tempest, Sakura Takanouchi, PersephoneTricked, and My Misguided Fairytale! Anonymous review replies are at the end.

Chapter Seven: Value

Yet it be less or more, or soon or slow / It shall be in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high / Toward which Time leads me—John Milton, "How Soon Hath Time"

Saturday, March 10, 1945

10:27pm

The space of five minute's time found Tom sitting opposite the Grey Lady in an alcove off the seventh floor, not far from where she had originally found him. Neither had spoken another word to each other, but the disapproving yet distressed expression on the Grey Lady's face spoke volumes about her opinions of his inability to simply "let go" of the home he'd built at Hogwarts.

"Tom Riddle," she began at last with a resigned sigh. "Not only have you already graduated from this institution, but it is after hours, surely you must have realized this. You must explain yourself."

She had not offered to bring him tea or any other comforts save the worn, blue striped armchair he was sitting in. He was not a guest here, no longer, and Tom was all too aware of the Grey Lady's behavior and intent.

Like all beings residing in the castle, Tom had sought out her acquaintance on more than one occasion throughout his years residing there, simply to discover more about her condition and her heritage. The Founders had fascinated Tom, and Helena's conversations on the subject had been short and vague, no matter how hard he tried to coax the information out of her.

"Well, you see," he began slowly, leaning his head back against the top of the armchair to observe the Grey Lady while his own face remained hidden in the shadows of the alcove's many angles and heavily draped windows. Her eyes had been blue in life, he decided, for they glimmered back at him strongly, as though always on the verge of tears. It was the kind of face that knew both wisdom and sorrow—the kind of face one could not easily lie to.

"I am giving magical instruction to a Hogwarts student," he said calmly, crossing his fingers together over one knee.

"I see. She is not in Ravenclaw?"

"No," Tom replied. "Gryffindor." He swore inwardly, instantly realizing his mistake in the smug expression the Lady wore for an instant before removing it to return to her dull look of sorrow. It was as if the lines had been so deeply etched into her face over the years that she could wear no other look, but she was Ravenclaw's daughter, and in all probability she was smarter than Tom—more intelligent than he gave her credit for, he acknowledged bitterly. The personification of a contemporary Ravenclaw student had evolved from her own ethos, where high intelligence and calculated logic will supersede all else, even in the face of a moral or ethical quandary. She could have been a snake of Slytherin save her lack of cunning—but, Tom noted dryly, an Eagle will always protect itself and its own, first.

"I see," the Lady repeated.

Did she? Tom's mood lessened by the second. "Tell me about your day, Helena," he asked disinterestedly.

She laughed; the sound was cold and empty. Familiar. "We both know you care not for how my day went," the Lady replied. "I have not left this tower in months, and only then to wander around the building as you found me. In the dark, Hogwarts is timeless, is it not?" She nodded at him sagely, and Tom had the unsettling feeling that she knew much more than she let on. "In the dark, with no one else around, it could very well be the century of my life that I have returned to, and not the one of my death that I am forced to re-live every day. Does that answer satisfy you, Tom?"

"Not really," he answered without inflection; in fact, her answer evoked a worsening sensation of discomfort. "If you must, then, tell me about your life."

Her laugh this time was choked with grief. "Only you, Tom, would ask such a thing of me." Gray, vapid eyes met his. "No one has asked me about my life in years, and if you recall, you were the last to do so and I told you nothing then."

"Yes," he agreed. "Yet I would be interested in hearing your side of the story."

"What story?" She asked.

"His."

"The Baron's?" She sneered.

Tom inclined his head. Check. One never made the same mistakes twice.

"Yes…the Baron," he said slowly, enjoying her familiar discomfort. "I was in Slytherin, as you know."

"You could have been in no other House," she agreed. "Not even mine—you are of Salazar's blood, after all."

His body stiffened, his countenance twisting into an ugly scowl. The Lady was his intellectual match, certainly—yet they had never played a game like this, if each of their threats were of any indication. She was furious at him for something, and he wished to know it. The Bloody Baron unsettled Tom almost as much as his current companion did, and Tom was not lying when he told the Lady he had heard their story from the Baron's point of view. The Baron, the House ghost in name only, was as filled with the anger, threat, and terror that had defined him in life—his memories of the Lady were bitter and warped, cruelly romantic, and startling in their intensity and misguided passion. He deserved his fate, unwilling to let go of the past as he was.

"You know what he says about you," Tom added conversationally.

"He is not the victim, here," the Lady said sharply. "And neither am I. I have not exchanged words with the Baron in decades."

"Then why does he wear his chains for all eternity for you?" Tom asked, his voice growing in volume and acceleration. "Why is your penance your silence?" He shook his head in disappointment of his own. "What I do not understand is why you would willingly lock yourself away in your tower when your mind could be put to much better use outside these four walls."

Her smile was thin and did not reach to her eyes. "I understand that the pain my mind could bring would far outweigh any potential, hypothetical benefits—that was the mistake of my life. I acted out of passion, not love. You would not understand anything about love, Tom—its joys or its consequences."

"Ah, of course," he mocked bitterly. "Your love for your mother, whom you abandoned. Your love for the Baron, who she sent to retrieve you—who killed you and then himself in despair. I so clearly see the boundless praise for the heaven-sent resolution that is the plague of love. If only the world save myself were infected."

"I am not the one to teach you about love, Tom," The Lady said coolly. "And you should not talk as an expert would on things which you know nothing about."

"You seem to know too much about it," Tom replied. "Look what has become of you—all because of your choices involving love."

"You also share the blood of a Founder," the Lady said. "You understand more than anyone the pure power in their blood—the supremacy of their magic and the need to want to surpass that at all costs, and the knowledge that you never can."

"I can and will," Tom said, his voice low and even. I know your failures—you have even given them a name. So gracious of you to do so. Rest assured, I will not repeat your mistakes.

"You are already on your way," the Lady acknowledged. "Whether that is a good thing or not, we will see."

Tom kept his face neutral and even, no sign of the frown he wished to display. She knew more than she let on—she always had. Perhaps that was why he could trust in her secrecy, if there was anything to trust in at all. That was the thing with people like them—for they were very much alike, Tom realized clearly—he did not have to pretend while in her company. He could be as cruel as she could be, without repercussions—and they had both proven in their lives that they had an endless capacity for cruelty. That was the main reason he had avoided her while in Hogwarts except for a few notable exceptions—he did not much like to be around people like him; he knew what they were capable of.

"It was a shame, I suppose," Tom said. "That you ruined something so promising. You have no one to blame but yourself for your actions, I'm sure."

"Wisdom is unbecoming on you, Tom," the Lady whispered. "As it was on me when I defied Rowena."

"What did you do, exactly?" he asked, his pitiless smirk razor-sharp and unrelenting. "What could your creative mind have come up with?"

"I wanted my mother's intelligence," she replied. "I thought, that by stealing her diadem I would obtain it."

"Diadem?" Her words piqued Tom's interest.

"The symbol of Rowena's intelligence and power. She created the diadem as a manifestation of her magical significance. I stole it from her—and she let me."

"To what end?" Tom asked, leaning forward slightly. The Lady's smile was thin and wan, but he saw the life brought back into her eyes by the recollection of the memory. "I wished to become greater than her, of course," she said wearily. "More intelligent."

"You obviously did not succeed." Tom gestured to her ghostly body.

"No. By stealing the diadem, my desire for greatness was corrupted. I proved that I was not her equal—I was not even worthy to access the diadem's powers! Me! Her own flesh and blood!"

"And where is this diadem now?" Tom asked, his own eyes alight with greed and longing. "Please, Helena. You can tell me."

"I hid it in a tree in Albania," she said.

The thrill that ran through Tom at those eight simple words screamed through his body, following his veins all the way from his neck to his fingers and toes. First the discovery of the locket, and now this—he wasn't even ashamed at the wide grin that stretched his mouth from corner to corner, baring all of his teeth, leaving his mouth open in a silent show of wonder and appreciation.

Checkmate. It's mine…all mine…they both will be! he thought with anticipation. Does she even know—what she's just given to me freely? His eyes narrowed. Of course she does.

"What's the catch?" he bit back. "You know what this means for me."

"It must be found eventually," the Lady answered offhandedly. "I do not choose sides—what you do with it is your business." Her own eyes glanced up, once again shining as though with tears. A ridiculous notion—Tom dismissed the idea. Ghosts could not cry; they did not have tears to shed. And she most certainly would not cry for him.

"—If you can find it, after all," she reminded him with a cryptic smile. "That should keep you occupied so you do not have to wander the halls of Hogwarts at night, teaching this student of yours."

Damn it all. He couldn't go after the diadem now—there was still Hermione's education, as the Grey Lady so charmingly put it, and the simple problem of their separation through time. Perhaps the Lady had an opinion on this as well? The diadem could wait. No one else knew of its existence, after all. Obscurity would keep it safe, for now.

"The Baron loved me," the Lady murmured. "He killed me out of love."

"The things people do for love," Tom agreed. He knew the Baron perhaps as well as he knew the Lady. "He's insane."

"And then he killed himself out of hatred. Guilt." The Lady stood fluidly from her chair, silver shimmers outlining her thin body. She reached up to tuck a stray piece of hair back into place.

"This conversation is no longer of benefit to you or I," she said. "It is best if we leave each other at that."

Tom stood as well, inclining his head to gesture that she should be the first to leave the enclosed alcove.

She frowned. "I know I should not have told you this," the Lady said, "but it is not for you. It is for her."

"Who?" Tom asked.

She looked at him sorrowfully. "You won't be able to get to it. And when you do, it'll be too late. And Tom?"

"Yes?" He asked.

"Never let me catch you here again."

Monday, March 16, 1995

10:14am

Hermione stood in the library during her morning break, traversing a comfortable path between the many shelves and a small table tucked away in a back corner next to a large window. She had a habit of spending much of her time here, and the window let her know when it was getting dark, or else she would keep on studying right through dinner.

It was a table for four, but Hermione's books and papers spread out over the entire surface, her satchel resting on an adjoining chair. Carefully, Hermione set down the newest stack of books, each on the same subject.

Wish-magic, he'd called it. An unusual, but apt name. She wondered if he invented it himself, as she could not find any mention of it in any magical textbook, so she'd moved on to theory, medicine, philosophy—anything that could give her the information she craved. She could always just ask Tom, she supposed, but Hermione wanted to be able to present the information herself.

She had just opened the cover of Adalbert Waffling's Magical Theory—no better place to start than the basics, right? she thought—when the two empty chairs were pulled out and Harry and Ron dropped themselves heavily into the seats.

"What are you doing here?" She asked.

"Well," Ron started, "Harry here was a little impatient, wanted to get started on his Divination project early—"

"I was?" Harry managed to cover his surprise well, although Hermione only raised an eyebrow thinly in response to his shallow cover. "Yeah. The sooner we start, the quicker we finish, right?"

"Well, Harry," she said, pointedly ignoring Ron. "I'd be glad to help you, if you'd like."

Harry sighed, shooting a brief glare at Ron, who twisted with discomfort in the wooden chair. "All right! Hermione, I'm sorry for not supporting you through this whole…Skeeter mess. You're our friend, and that's what friends do. And besides…we've missed you. I don't know what you do without us, but without you—we're lost, Hermione." He laughed.

"Apology accepted," she said with a smile.

"So, what are you doing?" Ron twisted the book nearest him so it was no longer upside-down. "Practical Numerology? What's all this for?"

Hermione closed the book she had just begun reading, taking a few additional moments to straighten the other books around her. "It's a special project I'm taking on."

"That's funny, I thought Professor McGonagall wouldn't let you take on any extra work," Harry said, concerned. "Not after letting you overwork yourself last year."

"It's not with Professor McGonagall."

"Really? Vector, then?"

"No, it's—" She paused, biting her lip, unsure where her hesitation was coming from. "It's a special project of mine. Some personal research—you wouldn't understand it."

"Probably not," Harry agreed with a friendly smile. "We don't understand half of what goes on in your head, Hermione."

"But I'm also doing some research for the last trial," she said with a smile. "Here, I grabbed a few spell-books for you." She passed Harry a thick stack of books, with subjects ranging from creative Charms to intermediate curses.

"Wow, Hermione," Harry said, gathering the books carefully yet swiftly. "You didn't have to do this, you know."

"Yes I did," she replied. "You'd be sunk without me."

"That's probably true." Ron's easygoing reply, instead of warming Hermione to the repeated reference to her magical skill, merely made her even more acutely aware of how true it was. She shook it off with a slight shudder—they were her friends, and friends help friends, right? She had only just made up with Ron, and that was probably it, she decided. She was still on the edge, still looking for a reason to antagonize him, instead of letting bygones be bygones like she should have done. It wasn't her fault she couldn't forget.

"Come on," Hermione said, lowering her voice. "The weather's nice. Let me check out these books and we'll go outside and work on some spells for your third task."

"Really?" Harry brightened considerably, and Hermione noted how he handled the books with greater attention than before as she gathered the rest of her things together. "Do you really think I need to learn all of this stuff?"

"Of course you do, Harry!" She said. "You can never be too prepared. Who knows what you'll be up against—"

"—Diggory and Krum, for one," Ron interrupted—

"—and I'd feel much better if I didn't have to worry so much about you blowing yourself up because you made the improper wand movements for the Incarcerous spell!"

They walked quickly together through the Library's doors and into the main hallway, Hermione and Harry each struggling with an armful of books. Once outside, they found a quiet spot by a cluster of benches in the entrance courtyard, and Hermione set down her books, took off her cloak, and reached for her wand.

"Ok, Harry, let's see what you've got."

"…What?" He asked.

"Pretend you are being attacked. Something is coming at you. What is the first spell that pops into your head?"

"…What?"

"Harry!" Hermione threw up her hands in exasperation. "You need to change your way of thinking! You're a wonderful wizard, but you need to have sharper instincts! Here, let's practice the Impedimenta curse, it's on page sixty-seven of that book." She prodded the cover of the book with her wand, and the pages immediately flipped to the desired page.

Harry leaned in to read the text on the spell. Hermione felt her face grow hot, but kept her surprise and embarrassment under control. Whenever she had practiced wish-magic, she had done it in private and in secret—it was not the wand at all that had flipped the pages, merely her desire for the book to move as she commanded. Hermione could have told Harry and Ron about her newfound abilities at any time, as she knew Harry especially could sympathize with having unusual personal magical resources. It was just that there was no way to tell them about her abilities without explaining the rest: she had been studying in a secret room inside the castle with a reclusive, powerful instructor for months. He had been teaching her to command all aspects of her powers—he did not shy away from teaching her how to cast spells with negative intentions, as she referred to them in her mind—and she did not shy away from learning those spells. Control was a circular, well-rounded process, and Hermione wished to know magic in all its forms and guises.

No—it was best that Harry and Ron not know of her new magical abilities, for now.

For now, she would help them the best way she knew how.

"Yes, wave your wand like that," Hermione said, reaching into her bag and grabbing a spare quill, transfiguring it into a rubber ball. "The incantation is Impedimenta. It will slow down your targets. If you have enough force of will, it will stop them completely in their tracks."

"Impedimenta," Harry said. "Got it."

"We'll see about that," she replied, tossing the ball to Ron. "Toss the ball at Harry, and Harry—you cast the spell. On my mark."

She nodded to Ron, who threw the ball lightly at Harry. "Impedimenta!"

The ball smacked against Harry's shins. "Ow! Ron!"

Hermione pursed her lips. "Stop, stop. You're doing it all wrong. You need to learn control." Her own words startled her, they seemed so familiar. Where had she heard that before?

She folded the burgeoning thoughts within herself, focusing instead on the botched spell before her. "Your force of will isn't strong enough," she corrected. "With this spell, you control the ball. You have to want to stop it, merely saying the word isn't going to do a thing."

"Ok, Hermione." Harry had the proper air of determination about him now, and he tossed the ball with a snap of his wrist back to Ron, who caught it deftly. "Again."

This time, Harry was ready. "Impedimenta!" His heart soared as the ball slowed its arc, moving in almost slow-motion through the air. Harry reached out and plucked the ball from the air, feeling its oddly heavy weight settle in his palm. "I did it."

"Of course!" Hermione said brightly. "You can master any spell if you just set your mind to it, literally."

Harry threw the ball back to Ron. "Let's try it again."

"All this work's making me hungry," Ron said, scratching his stomach with his free hand. Hermione rolled her eyes, and almost unconsciously reached into her bag to pull out a conjured apple. Belatedly, she realized what she was doing, but no one had seen her. Ron was hungry, and she had a means of obtaining food—why not share her gift in this small way?

"Here, you can have this," she told him, handing him the apple.

"Hey, I've got an idea," Ron said between mouthfuls. "Hermione, you should help prepare Harry for the third task! Teach him everything you know! He's bound to win with your help."

"I thought that's what I was doing," she said with a grin, as Harry succeeded again in slowing down the ball in mid-trajectory.

"I know, but more formal," Ron said. "You need to teach Harry these things. And me, too," he realized after.

"Ok," Hermione said. "Let's start on Wednesday." There was no question she would do everything in her power to help Harry win the tournament, but it seemed that every instance of her time was being stolen away by different magical projects. School, lessons, these new lessons, avoiding hate-mail by Daily Prophet devotees. Hermione found that out of all of them, she was most looking forward to her lessons with Tom each week.

March 17, 1945/95

Hermione walked with expectant anticipation into the Room of Hidden Things, eagerly awaiting their lesson. She found Tom seated on a green velvet cushion in a wide gap between a set of high shelves arranged like the spokes of a wheel, pointing out towards the exit.

"How are you today?" She asked. They had not discussed their lives much, outside of the context of their lessons, but she felt they had grown comfortable enough around one another to ask and answer such questions.

"I am well," Tom answered, his voice heavy with an unknown significance. "I am very well."

"That's good to hear," Hermione said with a smile, seating herself next to him in an empty cushion beside his. Tom had conjured both of the cushions prior to their arrival, but out of idleness made them both green in color. She did not seem affronted by her lack of Gryffindor-colored seating, instead arranging herself comfortably in the cushion, tucking her feet underneath her legs.

"And yourself?" Tom asked after a pause. He supposed it was the polite thing to do, after all.

"I'm fine," she answered automatically. "I have a friend, competing in the Triwizard Tournament—I've been teaching him all sorts of spells and things to help him prepare. I can't teach him the magic you've taught me, of course, but the theory and tactics are coming in handy."

"You're…what?" Tom asked, noting belatedly with mild interest how his knuckles grew white where his fingers had clenched themselves around his wand. "You're teaching someone else my secrets? My strategy?"

"What's the matter?" She asked innocently. "You said you wouldn't teach him yourself, so I'm doing it. Besides, using the skills you've taught me to teach another is surely helping me improve more than simple practical applications?"

"That, Hermione, is beside the point," he said. "My time and attention are gifts reserved solely for you—your benefit alone, not for you to re-gift to whomever you choose."

"I'm sorry," she replied sincerely. "I did not know that you would—"

"And did that not occur to you?" he interrupted harshly, "I am doing this for you—not for—" He stopped himself suddenly, withdrawing himself simultaneously from Hermione's mind lest the next words out of his mouth were 'some idiot with round glasses and a bad haircut.' He would not be caught in her mind like a child with a finger trapped in the cookie jar.

"—anyone else," he finished. Not technically true, he thought. I do this as much for myself as I do for you, Hermione.

"I'm still going to help him however I can," Hermione argued. "He's my friend. That's what friends do for one another. I love my friends."

Tom visibly flinched at her words, his jaw tightening, fingers clenching his wand so tightly it hurt. The pain was good—helped him to see things more clearly.

"I see," he said. "In that case, may I enlighten you as to the true value of friendship?"

Hermione opened her mouth to speak but Tom continued. "I have learned, in my line of work," he began, and Hermione wondered briefly just what work that was, "that to trust anyone beyond myself would be foolish at best and suicidal at worst. People are in this world for themselves—what are your friends really getting out of their relationships with you? Assistance on their schoolwork whenever they need it, no doubt. Yet—you can see clearly that they get much more benefit from your friendships than you do. Now why is that?"

"If I'm correct in what you're insinuating—such a thing would not be possible," Hermione said. "Only perfect equals could derive equivalent benefits from a friendship."

"Then in your world and mine, you are my only friend, Hermione." This time it was Hermione who flinched, but her eyes were filled with confusion and compassion rather than carefully concealed fury.

"There is more to it than that! It's…not what you say."

"I still do not understand your preoccupation with such matters," he said. "You are wasting your time."

"It is mine to waste, then."

He shook his head, sadly. "I thought I had taught you better than that."

"Did it never occur to you," she replied softly, using his own earlier words, "that I might have something of value to teach you as well?"

Tom allowed a thin, forced smile to build itself from his lips. "When you are here, I am the instructor, and you are my student. Today, I have something new to teach you."

Hermione instantly brightened, leaning forward with rapt attention. "What is it?"

"Wish-magic is as limitless as you believe it to be," Tom began. "Conversely, it can also be limiting, if you choose to limit your mind. You have learned to move objects through the air, shield yourself from harm, and create fire. Light. Sustenance. You know well how it can destroy—today I shall teach you how to heal."

"Heal…what?" She asked.

"Anything."

"A-Anything?"Hermione's logical confusion overpowered her enthusiasm for a brief moment. "But that's not—"

"What did I say—you are limiting yourself by your thoughts, Hermione," Tom said. "You can knit together wounds, set splints, purge the blood of toxins—with the proper concentration and practice."

Hermione looked around, spreading her arms out in proof. "Practice? There's no one to practice on except for you and I, and I really don't think that's a good idea."

"But Hermione," Tom said with a low grin. "How else will you learn? We'll start out small for today."

He waved his wand almost carelessly through the air and a loose sheet of paper flew towards him. He caught it effortlessly, turning it over in his hands. It was a piece of plain white copy paper, unmarked, and Tom eyed the edge. Swiftly he ran one hand sharply up the side of the paper, showing no sign of pain or irritation at the paper-cut that now marred the side of his index finger.

Hermione looked on in mild horror as he dropped the paper and held out his right hand. "I healed you the other day," he reminded her. "Now it is your turn to return the favor." He shrugged. "A paper-cut is minor—if you cannot heal it, I simply will instead. Now try."

Hermione gingerly reached out and took his hand, folding her own fingers around his. Hermione was a frequent sufferer of paper-cuts, and she knew that while they were very far-removed from life-threatening, they still stung worse than most larger cuts. And to do it purposefully, and so casually—physical pain meant nothing to him, she realized.

Tom's hands were clean and well-maintained, she noted. Even, short fingernails, no calluses on the fingertips or palm. She noticed Tom's amused smirk after a few moments of inactivity and set herself to work, feeling the magic inside of her respond to her desire to heal him. She brushed her own fingertips over his, watching as the thin line of red seemed to seal itself up until nothing remained but clear, unbroken skin.

"Nice work," he told her, removing his hand from within her protective grasp, still feeling the impression of her touch lingering on his skin like an itch.

"Practice more on your own," he told her. "Perhaps next week we will graduate you to something a bit more impressive, hmm?"

"Yes," she said. "I would like that."

With a slight yet genuine smile and without another word she left the room, leaving him alone with two matching green cushions; one occupied, one not. He glanced at the space she had so recently inhabited, wondering just how he had let himself become involved to such a degree. It would be worth it, in the end—nothing this good ever came without effort, he reminded himself again.

Theirs was a relationship of complexity and potential—he was building ever higher towards the sky, forgetting about the foundation underneath.

It was like a castle built upon the sand. The structure was magnificent, breathtakingly immense and detailed, arched bridges and towers and intricate stonework. The foundation was crumbling to pieces underneath; no matter how pretty the castle was, it could not make up for this.

Monday, March 12, 1945

7:21pm

He had ordered the book specially from an antique magical bookseller who owed him a favor and promised him that his deliverance would not disappoint. Tom was wary of the proprietor but knew that the tome in question would be of undeniable assistance in his endeavors.

He had taken an unusual course of action; Tom was well acquainted with several employees of the Department of Mysteries, whose research delved so deeply into the strange and unknown depths of magic—the ancient and the powerful. It was one such recommendation that had led him to this particular book, and this particular spell.

He opened it, looking past the heavy dust and heavier weight of the pages to the chapter marked 'The Wizarding Trace.'

He read the passage eagerly, index finger skimming over the lines, drawing the necessary conclusions as his eyes gleamed with the knowledge he uncovered.

To bring her to his time, he needed a way to anchor her here. He needed to build a trace on her. And to do that, the current trace must first run out.

He frowned. He didn't know her age, or her birthday, both necessary information in creating a new trace. He'd have to find out, and wait. It'd be a year or two, of that he was certain, but he'd need more than his own magic to draw upon to make it successful as well.

The answer was both glaringly obvious and aggravatingly difficult.

He would create his second Horcrux from the Slytherin locket, and with its power, he would create a new trace for Hermione, binding her to him. To his time. She would be with him—at last.

A/N: I was very disappointed with the way that Deathly Hallows handled the explanation behind the idea of the Trace. I thought it was a really interesting idea with tons of potential, considering that it could be implied that the Trace could act more as a binding spell rather than a magical limitation—and then we learn it's more of an elaborate intimidation tactic designed by the Ministry to keep children from using their magic at home. Really? I find that unrealistic as the news would have gotten out eventually, plus I just love the idea of the Trace being abused in its most literal meaning. So, for plot purposes, I want to expound upon the what-could-have-been with regards to the missed potential behind the idea of the Trace (and in an unrelated note, I just recently saw the trailer for the Deathly Hallows film for the first time—it gave me chills. I want to see it so badly! It looks great! =D)

In addition, sticking to my theme of updating on holidays (ha! xD) today happens to be my birthday! Favor me with a delicious review, or some chocolate cake?

~Kako

Anonymous review replies:

Anonymous: Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far—I hope this chapter didn't disappoint! =)

Areej: Planting ideas in her head? That sounds like Inception! (haha, just ignore that, I saw that movie for my birthday and now it's all I've got in my head xD [to the rest of the readers: Kako highly recommends xD]) But now that's the real question—what will Hermione do when she finds out? How will she find out? We've got a few chapters to go for that, but I'm planning something epic!

Prissy: Thanks so much for your review! Hopefully this fast update agrees with you, yes?

Neko girl: Thank you!

A. Nymous: Heehee, I like your pen-name! You're lovin' it? *sings McDonald's theme song* ... xD Anyway, thanks for your review! I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter!