Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Root of Desire	By : MegiiOfMysteriOusStranger Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 42312 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 6
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not Harry Potter or anything else quoted within. I make no money from writing this. Zip. Zilch.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
Hermione Wilkins lived at 1804 Weary Terrace. It was an old brick row house with crumbling corners, flaking white paint, and a stoop with a large crack down the middle. The terrace next door looked much the same, as did the next and the next and the next. The ones across the street were also the same monotonous design. A couple of them were even boarded up. In her letter, Hermione had said she had fixed up the inside of her house, but Tom was having a difficult time imagining it, considering how run-down the outside was.

Tom squished himself under the narrow eaves. It was still raining steadily, and Hermione was late by at least fifteen minutes.

'What's keeping her?' he wondered. He disliked being kept waiting, especially in this weather. Water dripped from his hair, and his socks and shoes were uncomfortably soggy, making squelching noises with every step.

As soon as the thought had passed through his mind, however, a figure with a bright violet umbrella appeared around the street corner, running. Water splashed with every step, legs shielded by a pair of dark brown wellies and a beige trench coat. The person approached quickly, and it was soon recognizable as Hermione.

"Good of you to show up for your own dinner party!" Tom called through the pitter-patter noise of the rain and her footsteps. His cutting remark held no water, though, and his irritation evaporated with her arrival. He'd missed her, he realized, as he had been so accustomed to seeing her on a nightly basis.

"Sorry! My boss called me in for an emergency, but it turned out to just be a silly leaky pipe." She gasped, and clutched at her waist when she reached the bottom step. "Merlin, it's been a while since I've run like that! I've a stitch in my side, now."

Tom's lips thinned with concern. "Are you all right?"

"I'll be fine, it's nothing that won't go away in a minute or two." She took a steadying breath and pulled out a ring of keys, jamming a small brass one into the door. "This might take a moment, the lock is rusted through and I haven't gotten to replace it yet.

"I would have apparated, but there's a veteran wizard down the road and he's very paranoid about the Germans. He put an anti-apparition ward over the whole neighborhood. I nearly splinched myself the other day because he didn't tell me he'd cast it."

Tom turned his head to look toward the end of the street. "This isn't a magical community, though. Can't he get in trouble for that?"

"A fine and a warning are usually the only punishment for a first offence. They might make him take the ward down too, but with everyone being on high alert these days the aurors haven't come around yet, so they might not confront him about it at all. Hah!" The door lock finally gave way and opened. "Voila! In we go!"

Tom smirked at her enthusiasm. "Ladies first," he said with a mocking flourish of his hands.

Hermione smirked back, countering, "Children before women."

The curl fell from his lips and he frowned, crossing his arms. "I am not a child."

Hermione eyed him with something that might have been wariness, though the curve of her mouth suggested only amusement. "Perhaps, but you're twelve years of age and I am nineteen; you've a lot to learn until you catch up to me." She gently ushered him inside by drawing her arm around his shoulders.

Tom decided that it was much nicer inside the terrace than its outward appearance suggested. It was fairly Spartan, but still managed to feel homely. There was no carpet, just clean, reddish hardwood floors and several rugs of various colors and styles that didn't match at all. She'd painted the walls a shade of lilac that Tom thought was positively garish, and the window frames and fireplace mantle were an off-white color. There were quilts in place of draperies, and two dark blue armchairs that were so nice that Tom was sure that they were conjured.

The only ornamentation was a glass of daisies on the makeshift coffee table, which was just a slab of glass set on four stacks of books. That was the most eye-catching thing. There were books everywhere. Hermione didn't seem to have any bookshelves yet, and in the corners of the room books were stacked all the way up to the ceiling in tight stacks that were reminiscent of cake layers.

When the door was closed behind them, Hermione folded her umbrella and shed her coat, placing both in the small closet by the door. She shook some stray raindrops out of her hair and retied her rebellious curls back with an elastic band, stepping out of her rubber boots with their muddied soles.

"Sorry about the mess. I've been so busy nothing's quite finished yet."

Tom tried to think of where all the books came from. "Did all of these books come from that handbag of yours?"

She smiled at him. "Yes, they did... most of them, at least. I've gotten a few more since graduation.

"You can hang your socks on the mantelpiece." She said. "They'll be long dry by the time it's time for you to go back to the home. No radiator here, I'm afraid." She swished her wand at the hearth and a cheerful fire instantly took root and began crackling merrily. "I'll fetch you a towel."

"Why not just use a drying charm?" Tom asked, kneeling to untie his laces.

"I don't really like using a drying charm when wearing clothes. It tends to cause the skin to become dry, itchy and all around unpleasant." She called from up the stairs. Her steps echoed loudly, and the stairs creaked like groaning old men.

Tom set his shoes neatly by the door and hung his socks over the fire on the hooks set there. The wooden frame, though coated in a fresh, smelly coat of white paint, was riddled with nail holes. It looked as if bugs had eaten at it, though the perfect roundness of the holes indicated no such infestation. The water in his socks began to steam away.

The stairs creaked, indicating Hermione's return, and he turned only to have his sight blocked by a fluffy white towel landing atop his head.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, drawing it out of his face.

Hermione stood in the doorway, giggling at him. She waggled her pinky finger in the air. "I promised, remember?"

"'Course I do," he said wryly, scrubbing the towel along the legs of his pants, "You'd be messing my hair up all the time and ruining my good reputation, otherwise."

"Ha!" she barked, pushing away from the doorframe to stand in front of him. "I didn't realize first years had such shining reputations to uphold."

"Second year," he corrected firmly, straightening. He reached out and drew a finger down the side of her arm, and wisps of the dream he'd had that morning drifted to the forefront of his mind… 'You're my girl.'

"Oh yes, a great grown-up second year—my mistake," she teased lightly as his hands fell away from the towel and were replaced with hers.

"Very good of you to take responsibility for your misdeed," he sniffed.

She snorted. "Those purebloods are rubbing off on you." Then she paused, as if realizing she had just said something heavy. Her hands slowed then stopped, falling to her sides, her brown eyes becoming distant and forlorn.

"Hermione?"

"I'm sorry, I…" she inhaled shakily and stepped away from him, staring off into the fire. Her voice was a drawn-out, aching sigh. "Oh, I let myself forget. Everything's been so nice lately, so different, ordinary, and it's a relief to let it slip my mind so I… I…" her voice dropped to a foreboding whisper. "I let myself forget."

Tom stood there, towel around his neck, feeling frustrated and useless. Well, perhaps not useless, but he wasn't willing to reach out and provide some sort of reassurance or comfort.

"Hermione." 'Don't be sad. Don't be sad. Stop being sad!' he willed. 'And for Merlin's sake, don't cry!'

Her eyes flickered over to him, wide and glassy, and she looked at him as if he were an adder about to strike. He didn't like it.

"Hermione," he repeated.

She took a great shivering breath, closing her eyes as she did so, and seemed to collect herself, taking her negative feelings and burying them away, deep down inside where he couldn't see them. She threw her shoulders back and her lips tilted upward a little, and when she opened her eyes they were warm again, if a little aggrieved.

"Sorry," she said, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. "I'm okay."

Tom nodded slowly. "Okay." He felt as awkward as Hermione looked, and he hoped his discomfort wasn't showing too openly on his face. Looking everywhere but at her, he grasped at a new conversation subject. "Something sure smells good."

Liveliness came into Hermione like a doll whose gears had finally been rewound. "Hmm? Oh, yes, dinner!" And just like that the dark proverbial cloud hovering over them was gone. She smiled brightly. "I put a stasis charm over it when I got my boss' owl. I think you'll like it, it's chicken tikka masala."

"Chicken what?"

It wasn't the most appetizing thing he'd ever seen: a lusty red-orange concoction with chunks of chicken throughout like some sort of thick chowder accompanied by rice—but oh was it delicious! Ordinary spices put together in an exotic, foreign blend, native to the far-off land of India, to create a dish full of flavor and spice. It was positively drool-worthy, though of course he'd never say such things aloud. After an entire week of the orphanage's meager, tasteless fare, it was heaven on a fork. He tried not to eat too quickly, but in no time at all his plate was scraped clean.

"Seconds?" Hermione asked, pushing the serving bowl toward his side of the dining table.

Second helpings? "I… couldn't possibly impose…"

"Nonsense; you're a twelve year old boy, going on thirteen. I'd be worried if you had a small appetite. What isn't eaten will just go in the refrigerator until I decide to make a quick lunch of it or something. I'm used to cooking for a couple of people, so there's usually a little too much. Go on, if you're still hungry. You're more than welcome to it."

Well, if she insisted… "How many are you used to cooking for?"

"Mm, three." She placed her elbow on the tabletop—bad manners!—and rested her chin atop her palm.

"Yourself and… your parents?"

She got that distant, sad expression again. It was growing less and less intense each time he saw it rise to her face, but he still hated to see it.

"No. No, Harold and Ronnie. I… I would rather not talk about it, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind." He didn't really want to talk about it either, not when it put her in moods like this. Tom also didn't really care to hear about people she had befriended before him. Those people were inconsequential, and it was better—for him, at least—that they were gone now.

It was probably better for Hermione too, come to think of it. She was always sad when those people came up in conversation. In fact, she was always sad, period; although she did a good job of hiding it. The moments where her depression evaporated away completely were rare, far between and fleeting—like last Christmas during her snowball fight with Bertie Bott. Hermione was depressed—that much was obvious—but she seemed to be slowly getting better as time wore on.

Tom really hoped she got over her past soon. Those people were gone; what did she need them for when she had him?

"You never told me what you're doing for work." He said.

"Oh, that's right," she said, sitting up straight and lifting her napkin out of her lap, "Well, I'm working with the Witches Voluntary Service, and they have me as a receptionist at an ammunitions factory, actually. It's as boring as it sounds, except that the men at the factory realized that I'm better at a lot of things than some of the hands they have on hire, like maths and such, so they have me doing a little bit of everything."

"Like fixing leaky pipes," he said dryly. He watched her hands as she folded the napkin: soft, feminine hands; but her hard work showed in her short fingernails and the small callous on her middle finger where her quill rested when she wrote.

Hermione snorted softly. "Hey, if that water had flooded enough to soak the phosphorous we'd have a real crisis on our hands," she said mock-pompously, "No bullets for the planes to protect London when the Germans decide they want to bomb us."

"They're preparing that far ahead already, huh?"

She sighed. "Better to have a gun and not need it than need it and not have one, as the saying goes."

"I've never heard that saying," he said, frowning thoughtfully and he drained his glass of milk.

"No? Ah, I suppose not. Well, 'better safe than sorry,' in so many words."

"Who said it?"

"I… can't quite recall… Phil Dalmolin, maybe?" Tom hadn't the slightest idea who that was. "There are a number of variations of it: a couple of lines in the Bible, and I can even think of a two or three of America's presidents."

"Well, that's a bit more like 'having the right to bear arms,' it's not quite the same."

Hermione leaned back in her chair, her chin pointing downward at a slight angle. "It is from a certain point of view. Does a man have a right to bear arms if he uses those arms not to protect, but to harm? One could argue that, while he doesn't have the right to hurt people recklessly, he does have the right to his arms, but you could also say that he loses his right to bear arms once he hurts someone."

"I have to agree with the first one," Tom admitted. "A wand could probably be considered a weapon; there are lots of spells that can hurt people badly, but if everyone who cast a-a bludgeoning hex had his wand snapped, there'd be hardly and witches or wizards at all."

Hermione's hands made an animate sweep. She was getting into the topic now. "Ah, now see, that's what it comes down to—intent. Do you just want this person to hurt as a warning? Did it happen by accident? Is it in self-defense, or for some sort of revenge? Are you trying to get a point across, or are you just trying to hurt them for the sake of hurting?"

"Sounds awfully like a moral debate."

"I suppose it does come down to that."

Revenge. Tonight the word made him think of wretched, nine year-old Johnny Johnson. It wasn't revenge he was after though. Revenge was always spoken of as something selfish and cruel, but Tom told himself that he was after justice. Do unto others as you would do unto yourself. Johnny had gotten Tom into trouble, gotten him punished, gotten him hurt, and so Johnny would suffer even more than Tom had in repayment. It was only fair. 'An eye for an eye,' he thought.

They discussed the topic for a little longer, and it became clear that Hermione's morals leaned more toward the right to arms being lost once someone was hurt. When Tom's plate was again scraped clean, she stood and took the dishes to the sink, and set them to washing. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to seeing such things; it still left him feeling weightless and eager. Magic was still… well, magical.

They moved back into the living room, and she ushered him into one of the armchairs.

"Oh, I almost forgot something!" she said, perking upright.

"What is it?"

She smiled a secretive smile. "Dessert. No, no, don't get up; we can eat it right in here with no worries. It's brilliant, really brilliant; I don't know why I never thought of it before."

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Tom found his lips tentatively curving up in return. She went off into the kitchen, and returned a moment later with her hands clasped behind her, a pose that piqued his untamable curiosity. It lent her a bizarre image of innocence. As a wide, glowing smile stretched her cheeks like a child about to tell a big secret, she pulled her hands from behind her back and held out a handful of small, individually wrapped treats: chocolates, taffies, mints, and caramels.

He couldn't stop the amused twist that pulled up the corners of his mouth. "Pick n mix? Your 'brilliant' dessert is pick n mix?"

Hermione laughed lightly and dropped into her chair. "Oh, come now! It's not as if I'm a wealthy woman, and I haven't even gotten my first wages yet. What's wrong with pick n mix? I never got these kind of things when I was a little girl!"

"You didn't?" he asked. Tom never got those kinds of things either, but it was surprise to learn that Hermione was in a similar boat.

She shook her head. "My parents were dentists, remember? No sweets except on birthdays and holidays. Well, go on, take your pick!"

Still smirking, he looked over the offered "dessert" and plucked out all the chocolates.

Hermione scowled. "Oh, now that's not fair."

He snickered and unwrapped one, popping it quite happily between his lips. Heaven. He dropped one lone chocolate back into her hands.

"There you are. Happy now?" he mocked.

The bushy-haired young woman rolled her eyes at him, but made no further complaint, pulling her legs under her. It was odd seeing her so casual, so comfortable, in her home. He wanted to tell her to correct her posture, but refrained. It was more of an anomaly than an annoyance. She dropped the candies onto the glass table, where they settled melodically like brightly colored pebbles, and started on the saltwater taffies.

"You're not going to eat the chocolate?" Tom asked with a slight puzzled frown. If she wasn't going to eat it then he wanted it back.

She winked at him. "Saving the best for last."

Not a bad thing for her to do, but Tom had to admit to himself that, while he could be patient, he was more a character of instant gratification; and he was glad to discover that, magical or muggle, chocolate was chocolate.

"What time do you have to be back at the home?"

Oh, how he hated the thought of going back there. "Curfew is at eight." He said, wishing he could just stay at Hermione's house for the rest of the summer. He could sleep in the armchair. It wasn't as if were impossible, either—She was of legal age, should could even…

His heart jumped into his throat, throbbing, and his stomach dropped to the floor. He swallowed thickly and looked down at his hands, pale and long-fingered. No, no, it was unreasonable of him to want Hermione to adopt him. She had said it herself, she was not a wealthy woman, and she probably couldn't afford to house and feed another person. Besides, he didn't want a guardian/ward kind of relationship with her, and that's what an adoption would be. He wanted to be with her like a man was with a woman.

'You're twelve years of age and I am nineteen…' he remembered her saying.

Tom wished he were older. He wouldn't have to be so patient if he were older.

"Tom?"

A hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up with a surprised flinch. Hermione recoiled, her fingertips blue with electricity. Her promise had kicked in, giving her a static shock. He stayed stiff in the chair, fingers sinking deep into the fabric, and did not reach out for her.

"Oh, I see," she said softly.

She saw? Saw what? Tom avoided looking into her eyes—he didn't want to know if she was looking at him with pity, or sympathy or that damned sadness that he was starting to realize was a deep, possibly permanent part of her, sadness that he was so sick of seeing—and stared hard at her mouth, the mouth that had so sweetly kissed him in his dream that very morning…

"I can't do much for you when it comes to Wool's Orphanage, Tom."

"I never asked," he replied darkly.

"I wasn't finished," Hermione snapped, "Don't—please don't interrupt me."

He tensed defensively. It was rare that he was on the receiving end of the sharper side of her tongue. Hermione was a fairly bossy woman, and not one that accepted being in the wrong easily. When Tom was around, however, she demanded less and asked more; made him think of what to do instead of just telling him. Every so often, though, when her nerves were frayed or Tom found himself in a bad mood, Hermione's temper burnt short.

"The most important words are the ones we don't say aloud, Tom."

He tore his gaze from her pink lips and turned his glare to the scattered candy on the table. For some reason, his mind chose that moment to remind him that his socks were still hanging over the fire. They were probably dry by now.

"Look at me."

He turned his eyes further away, into the fire.

Hermione placed her hand on the armrest of his chair. "Tom, look at me."

He shifted his elbow away from her hand, but reluctantly dragged his eyes in her general direction.

"I can't do much for you when it comes to Wool's," she repeated, the words sounding as hard for her to say as it was for him to hear, "If-if circumstances were different, I would. Really, I would. But things are what they are and I can't… I can't do that. But, Tom," she moved her hand closer. He shied further away. "I will always be here if you need me. I may not be home all day, every day, but if you need to get away, if you need a break, you can always come here. You can always send me a letter, or take a trolleybus to my house. My door will always be open to you, okay?"

He felt like a candy had gotten lodged in his throat. He didn't want to be in this position. He didn't want to hear this.

"I think you're reading too deeply into it." He told her. It was a lie, not just to Hermione, but to himself as well. He wanted her to back away, to drop the subject, and he was sure his words would wound…

"I don't believe you."

Every muscle stiffened, and he finally looked at her. It was too early for there to be shadows, but the fireplace cast a reddish light on her face that made her deep frown seem scarier than usual. Her soft mouth was a thin line, her eyes the dark color of over-brewed tea.

"And I don't appreciate being lied to," she continued. He was tempted to turn away again but she placed her hand by his face, not touching, but forcing him to keep his eyes on her. "There's nothing wrong with feeling the way you feel, Tom. I won't pry, you're entitled to your privacies, but don't shut down and shut me out like this. I don't like it, and when you do it, you scare me."

He scared her? Since when was Hermione Wilkins afraid of anything, least of all Tom Riddle? "I… never meant to frighten you, Hermione…" he said quietly. The thought of him being the source of her discomfort was greatly unsettling. He wanted her to always be happy when she was with him.

"I know, but, Tom…" she sighed, and her stern expression slipped away to something defeated and mournful, as if she didn't have the heart to really be upset with him. "Tom, I will be your friend as long as you'll have me. I can't take you in, for more reasons than you know, but we could have dinner every Sunday, just the two of us. You just have to tell me so."

"I would…" he swallowed through the knot in his throat. "I'd like that."

She smiled gently at him. "Then we'll do it."

Her hand was still supported on the armrest of his chair, and he subtly inched his hand over so that the side of it lightly brushed against her own. He felt the need to somehow reassure her, though he did not want a lot of contact right now. But Hermione had other plans—as she always seemed to—and took the small invitation to clasp his hand entirely in hers, their fingers knotted around each other. Tom blushed, and hoped it wasn't too visible.

Hermione exhaled breezily. "Since we have a couple of hours until you have to go back, would you like to read anything?"

"I—" he began ungracefully then caught himself before he could say anything foolish. He swallowed down the desire to ask for confirmation. He knew her offer was sincere; there was no need to question it. "Charms?"

"Charms it is then." Her wand slipped out of the sleeve of her blouse, and she brandished it in a circular motion. The top half of a teetering stack of books rose into the air, and a leathery brown tome floated over into Hermione's lap. The remaining books lowered back into place. Tom was surprised that, instead of giving the book over to him, Hermione opened it, the spine cracking with newness, and began to read aloud.

"The New Rise of Charms of the Old World, by Whitney Sheldon. Introduction: Throughout the world, charms are widely regarded as the most versatile of all magical spells. They are the most flexible of magical arts, used in every profession from aurors to wishing-well craftsmen. As the most easily manipulated magics, in ancient times pagan muggles could often be found collecting magical herbs and stones, and compiling them in a way that would effectively create an item that bestowed them with temporary protection or good luck or fertility. On some occasions, these magical materials would be used to place a jinx on a hated neighbor or foreign enemy. Charms of this sort were usually worn around the neck as a pendant, or hung from a doorway. In the first world countries, muggle-created charms work has mostly died out, typically only still practiced by the Roma people (better known as gypsies) but they can still be found actively practiced in more distant countries, such as parts of Africa, China, the Indies, and the growing practice of Voodoo in the southern United States of America…"

She was still holding his hand.

Tom allowed his body to relax, and sank against the back of the chair, his eyes focused on the motions of Hermione's lovely lips. Her voice was rhythmic without being so soothing as to bore. He listened rapturously, the sounds she made chocolate to his ears.

'My Hermione.' He thought fondly.

They spent the better part of the evening like that, though, after a while Hermione handed the book off to Tom, as her mouth had gone dry, and their entwined hands parted ways when she went to add a log to the pale blue and orange embers of her fireplace. In the process, his itchy socks made it back onto his feet—they were the basic, poor quality ones that the orphanage provided, not the nice woolen set Hermione had made for him some months before. The penny sweets were finished off, and when Tom looked up from the Charms book to glance at the clock, Hermione implored him to stay, saying that she was plenty happy to apparate him back when the time came instead of letting him traipse across London at the early hours of the night.

An hour later saw them at a quarter to eight, twirling floppy shoelaces to hold tight against the rainy streets that awaited them. Hermione held her umbrella in the nook of her armpit, and in the shade of evening it looked more indigo than purple. At the last moment, she stomped upstairs to her bathroom and retrieved a small vial of Pepper-Up Potion.

"To make sure you don't catch a cold or flu," she explained. "You showed up sopping like a drowned animal; I don't want you getting ill on my account."

"I'm sure I'll be fine," he said, but drank it anyway. It filled his senses with the taste of cracked pepper, cinnamon, ginger, a bit of clove and some sort of Allium flower. He inhaled deeply through his nose after he'd swallowed, feeling his eyes water a little as the herbs burned through his sinuses and numbed his throat.

"Merlin, that wakes you up!"

Hermione chuckled at his exclamation. "Professor Slughorn didn't make everyone try his own potion after you all made it? That was November, wasn't it?" She jiggled the handle of the front door, and they were let out into the icy, wet evening air. Her umbrella opened like a morning glory in bloom, and branched out over both of their heads. To the west, the bellies of the clouds were burnt with sunset. The streets were bathed in quicksilver.

"He didn't; didn't want anyone getting poisoned under his watch. I don't blame him. Rosier's was absolutely atrocious; he would've killed himself drinking it! Bit of a pity, really." Tom said, allowing Hermione to take his arm. They began the short walk out of the neighborhood to where it was safe to apparate.

"Oh, hush," Hermione scolded lightly, "That's not a very nice thing to say."

"Well, Ferdinand isn't a nice fellow."

"That's not good enough a reason to wish for his death. I'm not excusing his bad behavior, but it's hardly his fault he was raised by ignorant bigots."

Tom rolled his eyes, but didn't respond. He'd hardly be able to make Hermione see things his way on this subject. Some of Ferdinand Rosier's character could be blamed on his parents—he certainly was an "ignorant bigot" —but when it came down to it, he really was just a foul git with very few redeeming qualities.

They reached the end of the lane. Adjusting her hold on him slightly, Hermione drew her wand and then Tom got to experience the horrible, nauseating experience feeling of apparation. The world twisted, and he felt as if he were being sucked through the eye of a needle, pressure coming in from all sides, darkness, he couldn't breathe…

A fraction of a second later it was over, and they stood hand-in-hand a scant few blocks from Wool's. His feet were touching solid ground again, but his legs didn't want to support his weight, as if they'd been transfigured into jelly. He swayed dangerously and would have collapsed if not for Hermione's quick hands to steady him.

"Are you all right?" she asked worriedly, holding him against her. "You're paler than a ghost!"

"I…" he swallowed dryly, feeling as if he might vomit. "I think I might be sick." He couldn't even appreciate the feeling of Hermione's hands resting on his middle.

"Oh, boy. Here, let's go over here." She ushered him to the sidewalk and, after checking for muggles, conjured a simple bench and sat him down on it. She rested one hand on his back and rubbed circles through the sweater. He knew she meant to comfort, but all that she really managed was to make him more ill at ease.

"Just take slow, deep breaths, all right?"

"Mm," he grunted.

"I'm going to make sure nothing got splinched." She said, and trailed her wand down the length of his form, the tip glowing lime green. "No, you're all here. Apparation takes some getting used to, and it's worse for people siding-along, but I admit I've never seen anyone get this apparation sick before."

"'m just a special case, I s'ppose," he mumbled sourly. At least there was no headache, and the whirling in his stomach was beginning to ease. "Got to be a better way to travel."

Hermione snorted softly. "Broomsticks and floo."

"Ugh, no. Long way to fall, and floos are filthy."

"I can't disagree with you there. I hate flying."

He rested for several minutes, collecting himself until he no longer looked green around the gills, and a bit of color tinted his cheeks again. Then they resumed walking, heads shielded by the umbrella.

Two blocks away from the orphanage, Tom stopped them. He didn't want Hermione to see the place where he lived and grew up. It was too humiliating, too private, especially since he knew that Mrs. Cole would have a punishment waiting for him. He especially didn't want Hermione to see that, or be shouted at.

"I can make it from here on my own," he said.

Hermione's eyebrows rose in surprise. The expression was rather endearing on her. "Oh. Are you sure? I really don't mind walking you to the door."

"I'm sure." He said, nodding firmly.

"Well…" she obviously had qualms about him walking through London alone, even if it was only for a short distance. Nevertheless, she relented. "If you insist. Be careful, and unless something comes up at the last moment, I'll see you next Sunday, yeah?"

He voiced his agreement. Hesitantly, he leaned over and wrapped his arms around her, searching for that warm swathe of comfort he'd imagined early that day. Hermione stiffened in surprise before returning the embrace, holding him tightly to her breast. It wasn't like it had been in his dream, though. The embrace was just entrapping and claustrophobic, and made him wish he hadn't he hugged her at all.

'Pathetic, Riddle, you can't even hug the girl you like. How are you ever going to kiss her?' He frowned inwardly, though he kept it carefully schooled off his face as he let go.

"Goodnight, Tom," Hermione said, smiling.

He smiled tightly back and took off. "Goodnight." He didn't look back, though a noise not unlike a backfiring car told him that she had disapparated.

The orphanage loomed before him; all sharp, purple shadows veiled by a sheet of rain the same, drab grey as Wool's uniforms. There was an owl waiting on the rooftop.

Mrs. Cole was waiting too.
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Root of Desire