IMPORTANT Author's Note: Hello, friends! I am a hot mess. I messed up. The previous chapter cut off a little more than halfway through, so it may be in your best interest to check that out as this continues from the previous scene. I apologize. I am a trash person (in many ways)

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Chapter Four: Compromise

Hermione lurched from her bed with the sort of practiced ease that came with being a veteran of a deadly war, her wand gripped tightly in her hand as she jabbed it out in front of her. Before she could truly recognize what she was doing, instinct falling in place faster than logic, she sent several stunning hexes in Tom's direction- all of which passed right through and collided into the wall. Picture frames fell from their hangings at the impact, falling to the floor with a crash as the glass shattered and spilled over the area, books tumbling from the nearby shelf. Scorch marks singed on the cream colored walls from the sight of the spell, and Tom considered it for a moment before turning to her with a poorly concealed look of amusement, brows raised.

"That will surely show it."

Her mouth gaped open, the muscles in her eyes twitching in annoyance. She began to speak, the start of a word dying in her throat as the door to the room slammed open with such force it bounce against the wall and came swinging back, Ron running in with wide eyes and his own wand held before him. He frantically looked around the room, making sure it was safe before coming to Hermione's side, large hands clasping on her shoulders. "Hermione, are you alright? What happened? What was all that noise for?" Before she could answer, he sighed in relief, pulling her into an oppressive hug.

"I'm fine, Ronald," she muffled to his chest, trying to wiggle her way out of his tight grasp. "I can't breathe."

He released her, smiling bashfully in apology, one hand still wrapped around her in comfort. "What happened? Why did you scream?"

Her eyes flicked over to Tom, who stood with his arms crossed and a stoic, near bored expression on his face. "I...had a nightmare. I guess I overreacted," she finally said, nodding her head in the direction of the burnt wall. Ron followed her gaze, laughing.

"Bloody scared me half to death, you did. Glad you're alright," he said, walking across the room to begin righting the mess. She watched as he came within a foot of the apparition of Tom Riddle, entirely unaware to the presence of the Dark Lord, as he bent down to magic the frames together again.

"A Weasley?" he asked to no one in particular, looking around the room and at the rumpled comforter of the bed. His gaze finally fell on her, dark blue eyes flicking down and then dragging back up in an appraising manner. She met him with a glower, biting her lips on the retort she could not say, knowing Ron would surely think she'd gone mad. But all anger dissipated when Tom's bemused expression returned, lips skewing into a crooked smirk. "A little under dressed for company, aren't you?"

Her cheeks rouged as she remembered that she was still dressed in her nightshirt. There was nothing terribly inappropriate about it- it was hardly lingerie- but the dark navy fabric was sheer enough to hint over the shadows of her curves, the hem not even falling to her mid thigh. She wore no bra, and the fabric clinging around her bare breast suddenly felt too constricting, too revealing to the contours. Her scowl becoming a proper glare, she summoned her bathrobe and wrapped it around herself, cinching the belt tightly at the waist.

By the time she was satisfied with her appearance, Ron rose from his crouched position, everything whole and in its rightful spot once more. "I get them still, too, you know," he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Nightmares, I mean."

"Oh...sorry," was all she said, torn between wanting to comfort him and not wanting Tom to be privy to something so intimate and person. 'What the bloody hell is he doing here anyway?' Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she asked, "Would you mind getting me some tea please, Ronald?"

If he thought it was unusual for her to request it of him, he didn't say anything, only nodding at her eagerly. "Right. I'll get that. Don't forget, we were supposed to meet Harry and Ginny for lunch today," he said. She tried to ignore the way Tom seemed to perk up at that, his head inclining ever so slightly in interest. Ron gave her a peck on the lips before he disappeared, closing the door behind him.

"I'm excited. It has been entirely too long since I've seen those two," Tom said with a wry grin, one that made her stomach feel heavy with dread. Casting some quick silencing wards over the room, she reared on him, straightening her spine and shoulders in an attempt to match his towering height, chin raised defiantly.

"You will not be seeing anyone. You will be returning to the Ministry," she commanded.

Eyes glowed in mirth, but not a joyous kind. It was cruel, condescending, a deep chuckle coming from low in the base of his throat. "How adorable. Like a kitten."

She seethed at his taunting words, honey colored eyes narrowing. "You'll do well not to patronize me. Though I suppose you tend to make a habit of underestimating your opponents, a one year old being the greatest testament to that indiscretion of yours," she hissed, delighting in the way the smile fell from his face, eyes hardening as his nostrils- still very human- flared.

"And you'll do well to watch your tongue, mudblood," he bit back, his voice hitting that octave that seemed to command her hair to stand on end. Command her knees to buckle.

Still keeping her chin raised high, she asked, "How did you get here anyway? I warded the diary and my office."

His features softened only slightly, his shoulders rolling in a small shrug. "It would appear the magic of this soul bond is stronger than your wards."

She let out a frustrated growl, pinching the bridge of her nose as she exhaled long and slow. Of course. So he could follow only one of two paths. The diary at the end one path, and she at the other. She had worried that that may have been an aspect of the ancient ritual, but had hoped that her wards would still be strong enough to lock him within his vessel. She would have to study them some more, try to tailor them to be stronger then.

"Well, go back," she said through gritted teeth.

"And let you toil away the weekend, not a care in the world as I stare at the walls of your mess of an office? No," he answered firmly. "I spent far too long trapped in a prison, with nothing to occupy myself with but my thoughts, I will not do so willingly so you can consort with your friends. The only way I will return is with the condition that you return as well and keep working on how to fix-" he gestured broadly to himself, then swiping his hand in her direction as his lips skewed in disgust, "this."

"I think we may have more than a weekend of work ahead of us, and I don't plan to keep my life on hold for you," she hissed, swallowing hard, the unspoken words lingering on her lips. 'I've already lost so much of my life to you.'

He moved with impressive speed, fingers curling around her chin as he held it in his grasp, pulling it sharply so she was forced to look at him. "You want to bemoan having your life put on hold? Poor, little Mudblood," he spat, words like acid as she struggled to remove from his hold, his other hand gripping tightly on her waist to hold her in place. "You have no idea what it means to truly have your life put on hold. To spend what very well seemed like eternity in a box. Forgive me for not being sympathetic that you will have to cancel your lunch plans."

"And forgive me for not being sympathetic to your plight," she countered, pressing a palm against his chest and giving him a shove. He loosened his grip, stepping back and adjusting the wrinkles in his uniform, the only indication to his barely tethered rage being the clenched muscles in his jaw. "You expect me to feel bad because you made a horcrux after killing an innocent girl? Poor, little Slytherin," she jeered.

"I didn't kill her," was all he said in his defense. "I merely summoned the creature that did. How was I to know she was in there, bawling in the stall?"

Hermione said nothing, lips pinched. He hardly seemed contrite in the matter, treating the murder done by his hand- indirect though it may be- as if it had been a mere indiscretion. As if he had spilled some wine on white linen and really, it wasn't his glass so it wasn't his fault.

The door to the bedroom opened, and Ron came through with a floating tea tray, the wooden slab trembling somewhat in his less than careful hand as it settled on the surface of a bedside table. There was a plate of biscuits on it as well, a chocolate paste spread thinly over them. A bowl of juicy red raspberries was placed beside it, and Ron grinned sheepishly, his ears turning pink. "I...uh...brought you something to eat. For yesterday," he mumbled, raising a hand and rubbing it over the back of his head. "I said some...well...I was a bit of a prat. So..."

She smiled, forgetting about Tom's presence for a moment as she stood on the balls of her feet to place a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you," she said, sitting in bed and curling her legs beneath her, plucking a berry from the white porcelain dish and bringing it to her lips.

He sat beside her, and they spent an hour in bed with the treats between them, talking about nothing in particular. Conversation faltered often, trailing off as Hermione was entirely too distracted by Riddle. He had sat himself upon the armchair tucked in the corner, beside a bookshelf, and she had noticed with interest that the cushion did not depress under his weight. As if he wasn't there.

She giggled inappropriately, sputtering into her tea cup as she wondered what would happen if Ron were to try to sit there. Would he go right through Riddle, to sit on the cushions, or would he magically float in the air, on the Slytherin's lap? Despite the absurdity of it all, she struggled to conceal her laughter as she imagined the look of mortification that would mar the entirely too handsome face. Ron fixed her with a worried look, rubbing her back comfortingly as she waved him off.

"Have you gone mad?" Riddle questioned, and she fought against looking at him as he spoke. Ron was attempting to have a wonderful morning with her, and it wouldn't do if she made herself look like a nutter, glaring at seemingly empty corners. "Hurry up, I haven't much patience left and would like to return to the office," he added, his voice sounding somewhat strained despite the deepness of it, the harshness lacing his words.

'Not much bite to your bark, eh?' she thought, her eyes flicking to him for only a moment before returning to Ron as he talked about his Auror training, animatedly waving his arms around. It was a torture worse than death, and perhaps even imprisonment as a horcrux for the young Dark Lord. He had no power in the situation, no upper hand. He was forced to rely solely on her- a mudblood- to do as he wanted with nothing to bolster himself with. He could not kill her, for fear of cutting his only tie to this world. And he could not torture her, as no wand would respond to the dormant magic of something less than tangible.

The emotional part of her was indignant to be tied to such a monster, her nerves frayed and sizzling with rage at the very thought that she was in any sort of way bound to the man. To Tom Riddle. It was almost poetic in its cruelty, though for who the punishment was intended for she did not know.

Yet her analytical side, her arguably more dominant side, was fascinated by the unprecedented bond she had forged. And though she was adamant about not giving into Riddle's whims- if for no other purpose than to indulge her Gryffindor stubbornness- she would be lying if she said that running to the library to study it further didn't sound appealing. If it were anyone else, ideally someone with a more agreeable disposition, she probably would have made his ears bleed with her incessant questions, asking them faster than could be answered and with a greed to them that would make even the most covetous of sinners cringe.

She would have stayed awake into the early hours of the morning, sleeping only for a few hours before returning to her ink smeared notes to learn more. She would consume the knowledge like a carnivore digging into tender and pink flesh, tearing into it like it was what gave her strength.

But whenever she looked to Riddle, a question on her lips and her brows knitted in intrigue, she would remember who he was. Who he would be. And she would want to scream, scream so loudly the walls shook and it sounded like waves crashing down on her to her own ears.

No, Tom Riddle seemed to excel at shutting down any reasonable thought.

-xXx-

Hermione did not return to her office.

And neither did Tom.

Which is a quick summation of how she found herself in the very odd predicament of sitting at a table with Harry and Ginny opposite her and Ron, struggling to look interested as her eyes wandered over to Riddle and where he sat, perched on the stone wall enclosing them. It was an outdoor dining area, the day being too lovely and unusually warm for an October afternoon to waste away inside the cafe. The streets of Hogsmeade were bustling- as they often were on a Saturday- and a parade of colors blurred together as emerald and magenta robes swayed in the light breeze, a chorus of laughter on the wind as students excitedly running to Zonko's.

They had arrived late, Hermione stalling in her morning ablutions, hesitant to take a shower or to even change until Riddle had said that he had no intentions or interest in peering at a filthy mudblood. Still, it was perhaps the fastest shower she had taken, wanting to leave no window of opportunity. When they had finally arrived at the eatery, Ginny and Harry were already seated, waving them over with large matching grins.

"It's unfair that you lot were pardoned of completing your final year, but I have to finish it. I fought in the war just like you did!" Ginny bemoaned playfully, picking at a loose thread in her maroon jumper, the golden G knitted into it.

"Sorry, Gin," Ron teased. "Special perk of being part of the Golden Trio."

Hermione stiffened as she heard Riddle scoff from beside her, a surprisingly inelegant noise coming from the wizard. "Is that what they call you? The Golden Trio? How cloyingly pandering," he said. She bit on the inside of her cheeks, the soft flesh already swollen and tender as she tasted dirty pennies in her mouth.

"That and admission into the Auror program," Harry added, unaware of the young Dark Lord, running a hand through his untidy black hair. "And Hermione becoming an Unspeakable. How is that working out, by the way? I know you can't tell us exactly what you've been up to, but is it as stimulating as you had hoped?"

Now it was Hermione's turn to scoff, the sound turning into a snort as she lifted her bottle of butterbeer to her lips. "Oh, it's stimulating something alright," she said, her voice bitter as it whistled against the neck of the bottle. She was met with curious looks, Ginny's eyebrows practically disappearing into her hairline. She sighed, placing the bottle down so it clinked against the glass tabletop. "Fine. Couldn't be better."

She knew she sounded anything but convincing, but it hadn't mattered as Ron shrugged and said, "Well, our training is going great, isn't it Harry? We might be officials Aurors before you know it, what with all the Death Eaters they've still got running about. Bloody delusional, they are, thinking that there's still a chance in Hell they'll finish Voldemort's work. But the Ministry is desperate to get them all caught and in Azkaban. Bad PR, I suppose."

Her eyes flicked from Ron to Riddle, who rose in interest at that, one side of his mouth curving into a crooked smile, a peek of pearly white teeth visible behind the full lips. "How very, very interesting," he said, looking at Hermione with a look that made her shrink back in her chair, a hungry glint to his eyes as he strode around the table. He finally came to a stop behind Harry, his hand curling to wrap around the back of the chair, the wizard entirely ignorant to his presence. "Tell me, Hermione, how well do you think the Boy Who Lived will fair against the Dark Lord and his army a third time? Luck can only get a incompetent wizard so far."

She cleared her throat, turning her gaze to her lap. "Let's not discuss work," she said, her voice sounding strained even to herself. Her eyes were squinted against the growing pressure behind them, the beginning ache of a migraine settling into her skull as her stomach contorted onto itself. She had already been dealt enough to handle, she certainly didn't need to curtail Tom Riddle from finding the army that so desperately sought his guiding and powerful hand. The less he knew about the current events following the war, the better.

Harry eyed her curiously from behind his wire rimmed glasses- honestly, didn't he plan to get a new pair at all now that he had his own funds?- and shrugged. "Alright, then. Are you okay, Hermione?"

"Just feeling a little under the weather," she admitted, raising her eyes once more. But her gaze rose beyond where Harry sat and to Riddle, a wolfish grin in place. Like a cat who got the cream.

"Surely," Riddle began, his words mingling over Harry's, deeper and more commanding. "They'll be delighted to know that their Lord isn't gone. Not truly. They'll be positively thrilled when I return to them."

She had to physically bite her lip so as to not speak, the words dying in her throat. 'Not if I can kill you first,' she thought, wishing that there was a way for her threat to transcend spoken words so he could hear her.

"Of course, dealing with you," he added, his gaze turning from Harry to Ginny a cruel facsimile of a fond smile settled on his handsome face, "will be the first task I give to them. One third of the Golden Trio. What a wonderful celebration." His hand extended, reaching over to lay the ghost of a palm on Ginny's freckled cheek. She didn't so much as flinch when he cupped her face, thumb settling under her chin.

"I'm sure she would love to hear all about your project with the Ministry, wouldn't she, Hermione? Perhaps you could even interview her. Not too many accounts exist of those who fed their soul to a horcrux," he teased.

It wasn't until she was already standing, the linen napkin she had placed over her lap fluttering to the ground, and all eyes were on her that she realized she had abruptly jumped from her chair. Riddle's hand had fallen to his side, a satisfied smirk in place as Ron twisted to look at her. "Hermione? What's going on?" he asked.

She swallowed, meeting his concerned eyes as her lips parted and a sound left them. A warm blush crept up her neck, suddenly embarrassed of the very public scene she had made. "I..." she started, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"We were asking you if you needed us to get you anything?" Ginny asked, standing from her own seat to come around the table, a hand settling on her shoulder. "You look as if you've seen a ghost. What's wrong?"

She shook the hand from her shoulder, stepping away from the table and grabbing her beaded bag from where it hung over the back of her chair. "I think I need to stop and see a mediwitch. I'm feeling very unwell, I'm sorry, but..." she trailed off, biting her lip.

"I'll go with you," Ron said, moving to grab his cloak.

"That won't be necessary," she began hastily. "Enjoy your lunch."

And she turned on her foot, exiting the dining area before anyone could catch up to her. She stomped off in the direction of the apparition point, a sour expression on place as she raised a hand and pressed it to her temple. Her skull felt as if it was being drilled open, a white light filling her vision.

When she reached her destination, she placed her forehead against the cool and forgiving stone of the nearby building, palms pressed flat against the textured surface. She felt someone come to stand beside her, a nothing sort of presence that she knew instantly to be the figment of Tom Riddle, and if she opened her eyes a little she could see the tops of his shiny black shoes.

"I'm going to the apothecary," she said through pants, her teeth gritted against the pain. "You will be quiet, and let me complete my transaction uninterrupted. And then we will return to my office, and discuss the terms of our...partnership."

He said nothing, but his shoes disappeared from her sight and she thought she heard the ruffle of his robes as he leaned against the wall beside her, waiting for her headache to abate. "You don't need side-along, right?" she asked, recalling with irritation how he had arrived behind her in Hogsmeade despite her want.

"No. When you leave, it's like a portkey. I have no choice but to go with you," he responded, and she felt the slightest bit of joy at the frustration evident in his voice. He did not like that he was forced to follow after her, having no volition of himself. It was a small triumph, but it warmed her all the same.

Without any warning, she disappeared with a POP!

Riddle followed after her, unbidden.

-xXx-

He did not listen to her, though he did not actively try to distract her when she purchased her potions from the elderly wizard running the till. It wasn't a matter of keeping conversation with the stubborn witch, simply a matter of not following her orders. It was bad enough he was as limited as he was, forced to follow her around like a poor, pathetic puppy. It was indignant, and honestly if not for his insistence on returning to his corporeal form as soon as possible, he would have been content to spend the weekend away from her, maintaining what dignity he could. But he was capable of nothing, not even able to pick a book from the shelf to read from. He was left to wander around the small, disorganized office (did it really have to be such a mess? No wonder she made such a grievous mistake) and it did not take long before he was filled with anxious energy.

Like a fissure broke within him, his nerves quivering and blood thrumming through his veins so forcefully he could feel it with each pulse of his heart. It was overwhelming, to have gone from the feeling of absolutely nothing when he was trapped within the diary, not even alive enough to host him properly after Potter destroyed it, to feeling everything at once. It was almost painful, the sensation coming at him all at once.

He was angry at that witch for leaving him to his own devices, angry that he even relied on her in the first place. He was angry that he had failed- so miserably- against a wizard who seemed incapable of cursing himself out of a wet paper bag. He was electric with rage, and he wanted to destroy something. Anyone of the trinkets in her office would do really.

But he couldn't. He was useless, teased with the promise of life and the world behind the battered pages of that damned book only for it all to be held outside his grasp. The only one he could physically harm was Granger, and he needed her.

The thought alone was enough to make his rage double in its intensity, a heat furling and unfurling like a clenched fist in his rib cage. And though he positively loathed the idea of trailing after her, he did so, loathing even more the idea of spending a minute longer in this mockery of a body.

He would not admit how pleasant it had felt to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, or the slight chill of a breeze as it brushed through him, undeterred by the obstacle he otherwise would be. He would not admit how his mouth twitched as Hermione ate the chocolate coated biscuits and raspberries with that clueless Weasley, not nearly savoring it enough. What he wouldn't give to taste the tartness of the berry, the saccharine sweetness of chocolate. He would not admit the way he had felt almost at ease by the looming figure of the castle as it sat a top the hill above Hogsmeade, the nostalgia it offered him embarrassing in its sentimentality.

It was so much more than he had since the day he stupidly locked himself within the pages of the diary, and yet not nearly enough.

He would cooperate with Hermione. Long enough to succeed in their task until he could return to a proper form once more. He might not be entirely used to having a proper body, but he was still confident enough that he would be able to overpower her. It wouldn't be much for him to incapacitate her, procuring her wand for his own use until a more suitable one could be found. He would call to his followers, what ones remained, of course, and he would move forward.

He was adaptable, and he had the luxury of knowing what had failed. He would not follow in the self-fulfilling steps of that monstrosity parading around as Lord Voldemort. He was more whole, retained more of the humanity that he had once detested that he now knew was vital to his sanity, to his ability to rule and claim objectively.

As for what he would do to repay Granger for her service to returning him to power?

He would try not to prolong her death more than necessary.

-xXx-

Author's Note: I hope you all enjoyed.

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