uhhhh what is this even

takes place in the 1940s. youll find out the rest hopefully

She was so utterly confused.

Her mind kept going back to memories of him. Even though it was long over, everything was done, there was nothing more to do because there was nothing to be resolved and yet… her mind couldn't keep shut. It was a pang of longing, of things that could have happened, that would have happened, that could have been prevented even if she didn't commit that insane act. Her hands were stained, her heart tainted, her mind restless. Maybe, if only maybe, she still had that time turner, she could stupefy some sense into herself. Her past self. But she didn't, and so everything sucked.

His blood was still on her hands, on her wand, in her conscience.

She had told them very specifically that she would get the job done, however she had to, with no feelings or attachments. But the more they interacted, the more Hermione tries to get (unemotionally) close to him, he let her in (not completely, because for Merlin's sake, he would be himself if he did) and she actually got attached. They were friends (sort of) at first, and then he asked her what she planned to do after Hogwarts (she couldn't remember what she said, but it hardly mattered) and then he told her to join her. Not as a Knight, but as an equal.

She was formidable, he had said.

He knew exactly how formidable she was now.

And then she panicked, and said yes, and then they began their journey to greatness (in his eyes), journey to his demise (in her eyes). But how she had hoped that this day would never come to be.

How she had hoped that she wouldn't be the one to kill him.

Killing wasn't even the right word. It sounded rather… tame, too ordinary, to describe what she had done, the look in his eyes, the look in her eyes, the last words that left him. But the blade had already sprouted from her wand, and it was already in his gut, sprouting and spitting blood the moment she drew it back. It was like a poke – a lethal poke, right in the heart. The worst part would be, in his opinion (if she would ever be able to listen to it again), the fact that he had prepared an inauguration for her, the fact that she wasn't going to get a dark mark but instead a blood bond. In his eyes, that was the ultimate promise he could ever give her – a blood bond, almost impossible to break. They'd have been together forever, ruling the world, sharing ideas, plotting their moves 5 times in advance. And then she had gone and stabbed him in the back (literally) and his eyes gave away everything for the first time in his life.

Betrayal.

She knew she would go into the last circle of hell for this act of hers.

Betrayal of your benefactors. Possibly the worst sin of all.

Oh, Merlin, what had she done?

And he wasn't a benefactor. She didn't know what to call him, but he was someone special. Everything Harry had told her was false, his image was false, what she experienced was true and the fact that she just threw it away all because of a plan that was doomed to lead to something bad for her. He wasn't Voldemort in her eyes, he wasn't Tom Riddle – he was just Tom, or just Riddle, and that was what he was – nothing more, nothing less. It was plain and simple.

The guilt was overwhelming her now, and she completely forgot that she needed to visit Dumbledore and give him his body. But she couldn't bring herself to even glance at the body that belonged to the most misconstrued person in the universe. Because Tom Riddle was an enigma, someone to be understood and treated right, not shunned away and left to his own self-destructive thoughts. His thoughts (she had seen them first hand) weren't self-destructive in the most common way – they were bloody and cruel and she saw his thirst to be respected, to be valued, to be known. She would have experienced it herself if Harry and Ron hadn't been there in her first year. She knew that.

He knew that.

Her mind kept replaying the scene. How she plucked the knife from her back pocket just as he was directing her wand hand to start the blood bond. And then just before he was done, because a complete bond would make it impossible for her to do what she was about to, she inserted the knife right in the centre of his back. She heard his small gasp, and could feel his gaze harden and burn with betrayal and everything lost.

She hated herself.

He probably hated her now too.

But she couldn't bring herself to hate him.

She hoped he couldn't too. Wherever he was.

Because after she saw his memories, she couldn't help but hope he had gone anywhere but hell, because he didn't deserve it, he didn't do anything.

She knew that people would think her deluded.

But she didn't care.

Because once you see the person you just stabbed a knife into, and you see the look in their eyes and the blood slowly pouring out of the hole in their back, you can't think of them in a bad way. Only because you were the one to kill them.

And Hermione Granger would be known as the deluded one from then on – the one who Tom Riddle had failed to conquer and collect, but little did they know.

Little did they know.

Please don't shun me.