It Has Been

It has been two months since she fell into this hell. Or maybe it has been two lifetimes. It's impossible to tell in this world where time does not pass, where everything remains the same. There is nothing to do here, except wandering through the black and white memories, worlds where no one acknowledges her existence, where her eyes are startled again and again when she looks down at herself and sees color. She wonders how long it will be before she goes mad.

It has been two months and three days, as far as she can tell, when she breaks down and goes seeking for him throughout his memories. There are only so many recorded, and it does not take her more than an hour or two to find him. He is just as arrogant and hateful as he was when she first met him. He mocks her, throws her insults and morals back at her, and her former words now sound naïve and self righteous. She puts up with it silently at first, and when he pushes too far, grates on that last nerve, she snaps and screams back.

It has been another week before she realizes he is even lonelier than she is. When she experiences this epiphany, his words no longer sting, and now she has the power, now she is the one that is smug. He grows furious and sulky, and wallows in his bad memories, pouting, sulking. She laughs indulgently, and is disturbed when she realizes his obnoxious behavior has become endearing.

It has been three months, and now they spend their interminable time together. She finds they have much in common, and his intelligence invigorates her to such a level as no one else has been able to before. They do not need to eat or sleep, and she finds herself forgetting who he really is, and tells him more of her thoughts, feelings, and desires than she has ever said to anyone. She begins feeling sorry for him, and thinks she understands how he became the way he is. He shows her new magic, powerful magic. They spend the rest of their time poring over books in the library, mainly in the restricted section.

It has been four months when they begin to experiment, creating new spells, new potions. Each success, and there are many, fill them with assurance of their own intellectual superiority over other witches and wizards. They are both changing because of each other; he is more animated and lighter in his heart, she is less governed by rules, less certain of all she had always believed in as undeniable truth. Right and wrong, good and evil, become mixed and blended in her mind. She tries not to think about her changing feelings, the unease it brings, so she stuffs it down.

It has been five months since she first met him. She asks him how he feels about her, and when he replies that blood no longer holds meaning to him, she kisses him. They do not talk for two days. Finally he seeks her out, and they kiss again. The silence between them now is not of discomfort, but of mutual understanding and respect.

It has been one month since their first kiss, and now they have become lovers. The feelings of guilt, the memories of her friends that surface from time to time are becoming less and less frequent in her thoughts. She starts to feel angry at those who have wronged him in the past. He is beginning to be furious at the purebloods who have mocked her, looked down on her. Their talk turns darker, their spells more vicious. They began to plan their escape.

It has been seven months total that she has been trapped here when someone writes to them. The words hang in the air, inky black with desperation. Her friends have found it hidden in her trunk, and are at their last resort. She tells them she is fine, and alone. He smiles at her lies.

It has been two months since her friends found her, and now, when they are willing to do anything, she tells them she has figured out how to escape. They do not question her or her methods; they never do. She instructs them on what ingredients to gather, what spells to perform. When they do her bidding, the world surrounding her for the past nine months changes. It swirls around her like a tornado, black and white, turning to grey. She is sucked upward and spewed out like a cork from a bottle of champagne. Her world is color again, and now, so is the boy next to her.

It has been five minutes since she escaped from Tom Riddle's diary, after falling into it by accident. Harry and Ron lie dead on the floor, and Tom is advancing on Ginny, his wand out. She looks down at her former friends, and only feels a mild guilt. Their deaths were needed to escape, and after all, they end justifies the means. A bright green light shoots from Tom's wand and Ginny falls over in a heap, her eyes open and glassy. Riddle turns to her.

"Are you ready, Miss Granger?"

Hermione smiles.