Author's Note: As stated in my profile, I am BEYOND excited to finally post my first fic. I started writing this early today upon inspiration, and I couldn't wait to post it, so, here it is! I do not have an exact outline or plan for this story, although I will say that I am not planning this to be very lengthy. I'm aiming for about ten chapters or so. Then again, who knows what may happen? We'll see! This fic is AU, and there is no Hogwarts/wizardry involved. And although the rating is T right now, it may change later on down the road, so I will keep you updated on that. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy my first story! Read and review.
Much love,
Cassiopeia Noire
DISCLAIMER: All characters and the Harry Potter world belong to J.K. Rowling.
CHAPTER ONE
March 14, 1999
Hermione didn't believe in spirits. Not really, no.
Of course, her grandmother had passed on certain tales—something about a porcelain doll in a decrepit house in the briny-scented air of the cliffs that spattered the edge of Wales in Three Cliffs Bay—of supernatural entities, but Hermione had only listened for the sake of pleasing her.
She had not returned to her grandmother's ancestral home in many years; Hermione had briefly visited with her parents one summer at the tender age of five, but since then, she had not remembered much. All that she knew now was that she was to return on a scholarly mission and study a certain species of whelks that were colonizing in the area for her graduation research assignment. Naturally, her rapidly aging grandmother had been overly eager to allow her to use the house as a means for her stay, those bony, quivering hands wriggling in excitement and something else—
Hermione's hands gingerly picked up and scanned the faded polaroid pictures that her grandmother had given her after their conversation that had taken place hours before; most of them showcased Hermione, her five-year-old self posing on the beach, digging her toes into the tawny brown sand, others showing her displaying her collections of various sea shells, mussels, clams—
And then there was one where Hermione was pictured next to one of the flower beds, holding the hand of a young, dark-haired boy—
The wind howled outside.
She shivered.
March 21, 1999
The sand was still the same shade of brown, and the water still was frigid cold as the midnight blue waves lapped along the shell-speckled edges of the shore. Her grandmother's house stood looming from above the cliffs and the beach, overlooking the area from its seemingly regal position as the sole house located in the area.
Hermione had risen rather early in order to survey the various tide pools and their inhabitants; she wondered if they had changed during the fifteen years she had been away. Around six in the morning, Hermione had strolled into the dimly lit, gloomy kitchen, set a pot of water to boil, and watched out the window as she noticed the gardener's son, methodically working away at discarding the multitude of weeds in the flower beds surrounding the estate.
She had known him—Tom Riddle—from a young age.
When she vacationed with her parents and grandparents at this very house fifteen summers ago, Tom Riddle Sr. had introduced his only son as a playmate for five-year-old Hermione, and the two of them had been inseparable for the better part of her stay.
Hermione spent the majority of her time with Tom upon meeting him, either helping him plant flowers and weed the gardens with his father or splashing him with the ice cold waters of the sea, seeing who could gather the most shells before dinner time was announced. She could still vacantly recall the more intimate moments they had shared before she departed with her family—
(June 26, 1984)
Threads of her spectacular memory recollected the moment in which they had hidden in the decrepit boathouse as the rain poured down and the winds roared outside. Tom had managed to find a set of candles and matches on the farthest top shelf of the cobweb-covered cabinet in the corner of the shack, and she could still remember their sweat-sheened hands intertwined with young Tom repeating, "It'll be all right 'Mione, it's just a storm—"
As she watched him vigorously plug the sprigs of dandelions littering the garden, she recalled lecturing him after he had foolishly cut his finger on the sharp edges of a cluster of goose barnacles.
(July 9, 1984)
She remembered seeing ruby pearls of blood drip from the slight nick on his finger, and even though it had hurt, Tom refused to show any sign of the pain. He had been constructing miniature sand sculptures with her until she had eagerly tugged him by the wrist to investigate one of the tide pools and admire the miniscule ecosystem within. After discovering a small collection of goose barnacles, she had been more than happy to display her growing knowledge of marine biology, her first and foremost passion; Tom had listened with vapid attention, which apparently got the best of him as he reached down far too quickly to feel the glistening surface of the petite creatures—
His eyes widened, and he yanked back his hand at lightning speed, causing Hermione's speech to come to an abrupt halt; immediately, Hermione snatched his hand scrutinized the drops of crimson blood collecting at the tip of his finger.
"I told you, Tom, I had just finished saying that these barnacles are dangerously sharp and look at yourself—"
Although he appeared to be listening to her heated lecture, Tom had truly been fixated on the feel of her touch, and had momentarily forgotten about the brief pain.
But Hermione didn't know that.
Her gaze was now directed to how he hastily wiped away the sweat from his brow with the handkerchief he kept tucked in the pocket of his shirt; taking a brief reprieve from his work, Tom had glanced up towards the window and met the stare of his now grown playmate—his smile was still just as cripplingly beautiful.
(August 15, 1984)
Little Hermione's hands shook ever so slightly, her lips quivered, and tears pricked at her eyes, as her parents began packing their suitcases into the trunk of the car. Tom could feel her trembling as his held onto her hand, reassuring Hermione that he would see her very soon.
"—be all right, 'Mione, we'll see each other soon, I even think I heard my father telling your grandmother we'd even be going to the same school. It'll be soon, very soon, 'Mione, so don't worry—"
And that had been the last time she had seen Tom. They had exchanged letters after her departure, and Hermione received, on average, about ten letters per week. However, about three weeks into their fleeting correspondence, Tom revealed to Hermione that he would not be joining her at her school; his father had hired a private tutor so that young Tom would be able to work in the various gardens and landscapes of the estate. She had cried and cried—
A new season had arrived, and with it came to Hermione and her parents' move to London, far away from the Welsh seaside, and after finding a new circle of friends and busying herself with schoolwork, she had given up the exchange of letters and chose to focus on her academics instead. Her stack of his letters had been tied up and decisively tucked away in the farthest corners of her trunk in her room, never to be touched again for years.
When Tom looked up and smiled at her, Hermione resolutely walked away, trying to ignore the blush creeping up her neck.