Author's note: This is my second story, for those of you who don't know. Don't worry, I'm not abandoning How Times Change... I will simply be working on both at the same time. Anyway, I'll post more information about this story on my author's page. For right now, I guess I should just say that as this is a Tom Riddle/Hermione Granger fic, it should be considered slightly AU. However, I will be trying to follow canon as best as I can. I hope you all like it – let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, everything belongs to J.K. Rowling, and this story is written purely for amusement in my free time.

Chapter 1

The Stranger

She woke with her head pounding.

It must have been late, or very, very early; there was no moon out, and her bedroom was pitch-black. All the better, she thought vaguely to herself. I'm sure the sunlight would only make me feel worse.

Hermione Granger moaned and rolled over in her bed, wishing she would fall back to sleep. Never, in her twenty years of life, had she ever experienced a pain like this. Her head felt as though it was about to explode, her mouth was more than a little parched, and the longer she stayed awake, the more she felt as though she was going to be sick all over herself.

So this is what a hangover feels like.

She cursed the day that Ron finally convinced her to go drinking and pulled the covers up over her head.

Hermione had never been one for drinking. To be quite honest, she thought all alcohol tasted foul. And, she thought as she sniffed the stale air beneath her sheets, it smelled even worse. Usually, when Harry and Ron wanted to go out drinking she would either stay behind or tag along reluctantly and order a pumpkin juice. On the rare occasion that Ron would force her to try a firewhiskey she would only allow herself to have one drink. There was no sense in overindulging in something that would make her lose her good judgment and feel sick the following day.

Last night, however, was the first time that she had given in and had what Harry had called a "proper night out." Under normal circumstances Hermione would have determinedly stayed away from anything toxic, but that night was a special occasion: it was the night marking the two year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Unbelievable as it seemed, two long years had passed since the downfall of Lord Voldemort and the death of all those innocent people.

Yes, Hermione had to agree, it was a momentous occasion, and together, the Golden Trio had headed out to the Leaky Cauldron to have a night of celebration and remembrance.

And now as she lay on her sickbed, she wondered why anyone would think it was worth it to go drinking ever, even to celebrate. She tried to remember how many drinks she had had... from the degree of her headache she would guess more than a few, but as she never consumed much alcohol, her drinking tolerance could be very low.

It was at this point that Hermione realized it was storming outside. A huge thunder clap sounded and she bolted upright in bed, her heart racing at the unexpected sound. This was a mistake; at her sudden movement, (and probably also the loud noise), her headache mounted to a point that was almost unbearable. Her head was spinning, and she really thought for a moment that she was going to be sick. Then a flash of lightening lit up the room, and Hermione momentarily forgot about her weak stomach.

This was not her room.

She rubbed her eyes. It must have been a trick of the light... it was so dark in here, and her head was spinning anyway, so she could be delirious.

But then the lightening flashed again, and she saw for the second time that this was certainly and most definitely not her room at Number 12 Grimmald Place. Her own room was larger... and more cluttered... This one was stark. It was smaller, and the window was facing the opposite direction.

She began to panic. What happened last night? Where did I go? Where am I now?! A million possibilities ran through her head, and not one of them made any sense to her whatsoever.

With her heart a heavy lump in her throat, Hermione felt her side for her wand. It was still there, thank goodness, and she grasped it immediately.

"Lumos."

The wand's light illuminated the rest of what she had missed before. Wincing at first because the brightness stung her eyes, she then saw that she was lying in a decent sized bed adorned with a tacky floral pattern. Across the room was a white chest of drawers, and hanging from the wall was a slightly chipped mirror. The walls were painted a dirty white color and the solitary window was draped with a heavy pink curtain.

Her heart began to pound. She could not, for the life of her, remember arriving here. She had been at the Leaky Cauldron... she remembered sitting at a table in the back, cluttered with empty bottles... Harry and Ron were there, and so were some other people... they had been talking, and hadn't they been playing some sort of game? Unfortunately, that's where her memory stopped. Anything could have happened between then and now. Was Ron or Harry with her? Was this some kind of inn? Had she been... she shuddered... forced to come here? The thought of what could have happened last night sickened her.

Outside, thunder roared again and the rain continued pound against the window. Hermione shivered; it was awfully cold in here. She wondered if she dare leave this room and find out where she was.

After a few more minutes of huddling beneath the covers and trying to remember what had happened between the time she was at the Leaky Cauldron and now, Hermione decided that yes, she did dare to see what lay outside this room.

Her Gryffindor courage mounting, Hermione took a firm grip on her wand and pushed aside the floral comforter. It had still been warm with her body heat and now, her bare arms fully exposed to the damp air, she felt colder than ever. She placed her feet tentatively on the drafty floor and cringed when they made a creaking noise. Then, after another moment of trying to calm herself, she moved towards the door on the opposite side of the room.

Halfway there she tripped and fell over something.

Hermione swore and grabbed the place where she had stubbed her toe. Despite her wand light, the room had still been dark and she hadn't seen the object blocking her way to the door. Now that she was sprawled on the ground, though, she was close enough to see that it was a small duffle-like bag.

Is this mine? She thought to herself in dismay. This made her think that she had come here willingly, for a reason, but couldn't remember why. Has my memory been erased? Still horrified, Hermione left the bag and continued her journey towards the door.

It was unlocked, thankfully. Hermione didn't know what she would have done if she was stuck in this place without knowing where she was or why. She opened the door slowly. It creaked, just like the floor.

Beyond the door was a small hallway. Though this was dark as well, she could tell she was in a small house. There were two doors on either wall, including hers, all of which were closed. She wondered if the other three were occupied as well, but didn't quite dare to find out. Instead, she held her breath and ventured out of her room, hoping that if there were anyone else here, they wouldn't hear any noise.

The house was silent, save for the weather still storming outside, and when she walked her footsteps seemed to echo all over the place. Surely they would give her away. Hermione continued down the corridor, waiting for the moment when she would be caught. She didn't know why she felt as though she was doing something wrong; after all, she had woken tucked up in a rather comfortable bed – if she had been forced here, would her captors really allow her to sleep in such luxury? Despite this, though, the situation she was in gave her the creeps, and she had a feeling that something bad was about to happen any moment.

Hermione arrived at the end of the hall, and her wand light showed that it opened out into a small, dark kitchen. There was no one in here. She let out her breath and crept further into the room.

There were two doors beside the small threshold she had just come from. One was curtained and she guessed that this led to the outside; the other, a plain, small doorway, was closed. Hermione sighed – she was apparently going to have to start opening doors soon.

Her heart pounding, she crossed the floor and placed her hand on the antique doorknob. It swung open easily and let her into yet another dark and empty room. Hermione narrowed her eyes and wondered if anyone really was home.

She went back through the kitchen, into the hall, and tried the first door on the left. It was a bathroom. Bathed in her wand light, Hermione noted that it contained a small sink, a strange-looking toilet, and a dirty and cracked tub. When she placed her foot on the dark tile, she discovered that it was sticky with a sort of film.

Hermione suppressed the urge to be sick in the toilet and backed out of the room. Then she tried the other two doors that didn't lead back to the room she had woken up in, and discovered that they were both bedrooms, and both empty. She didn't know if this was more relieving or worrisome. On one hand, now that she was by herself she could calmly think through the situation and try to get home; on the other, she had no idea what had happened and being that she was alone, no one was around to do some explaining.

As the wind howled outside and rain pattered against the window of the third bedroom, Hermione tried to weigh her options. She could leave the house, but that probably wouldn't be of much use; it was pitch-black outside, and the storm would soak her through within seconds. She then considered apparating back home, but decided against it; what if Harry or Ron was around here somewhere? She didn't want to leave them alone and not be able to get back to them because she didn't know where she was in the first place.

A thunder clap roared again and Hermione almost jumped out of her skin at the noise. She decided then that the best plan of action would be to find some kind of light to use other than her wand; she could barely see where she was going, and the darkness was only adding to her growing nerves.

She made her way back to the kitchen, creaking on the stiff floorboards as she walked. Within a few moments she was able to find an old-fashioned gas lamp sitting on the table. Using her wand, she started a small flame that lit up most of the room. Now she was finally able to get a good look at where she was.

It was a kitchen, all right – she hadn't been mistaken at that; but it was smaller than she first thought, and... dirtier... than she would have guessed. It looked as though someone had just made a big meal and left everything out to fester over night... or over the course of a few days...

She wrinkled her nose. There was certainly some kind of food left out, and it was starting to smell rancid. Dishes and saucers littered the counter... there was a large pot sitting in the sink... and, as she peered more closely, there was a china tea set out on the table. She carefully picked up one of the cups and saw that it was still half-filled with cold tea.

Hermione placed the china back on its dish with a clink and, taking the gas lamp, went to explore the rest of the house.

The room beyond the kitchen turned out to be a sort of sitting room. There was a dark, dumpy-looking couch, a dusty fireplace, and pillows everywhere. The walls, hung with various portraits crafted in varying degrees of skill, seemed to be painted in the same dirty-white color as the bedroom. She walked by a table adorned with books and trinkets, past a pair of armchairs, and stood in the middle of the room holding the lamp high above her head.

Well, she thought optimistically, at least it doesn't smell in here.

As she stood surveying the room, something caught her eye. Lying draped over one of the armchairs was one of the most beautiful throws she had ever seen in her entire life. She carefully set the lamp on one of the end tables and fingered the fabric. It was soft, and though her eyes were untrained in matters of needlework, she saw that it was finely crafted. Hermione let out a soft sigh of awe; it must have been embroidered – the entire piece of art was composed of strange geometric patterns, detailed in rich reds and oranges. One thing was certain: this was a fine piece of handicraft, and it undoubtedly clashed with the somewhat unkempt atmosphere of the rest of the house.

She sat on the edge of the armchair for a while, continuing to admire the finer details of the embroidery, when a noise other than rain or thunder sounded from outside the house.

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

Hermione jumped at the sudden and quite unexpected noise. She looked wildly around and, after spotting what appeared to be the front door, gathered that someone was knocking to be let in.

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

It sounded a second time. Hermione's insides knotted up into a nervous mass – who was it? Did this person live here? Were they dangerous? Why were they out so late at night? If they lived here, why were they knocking?

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

They could possibly know what happened to her. They may be able to help.

It might be Ron or Harry.

THUNK, THUNK, THUNK.

Whoever they were, though, they were apparently very intent on being let in. Hearing the wind outside howl, Hermione didn't blame them. So, gathering as much Gryffindor courage as she could muster for the umpteenth time that night, Hermione strode to the door, unclicked the lock, and twisted the handle.

She gripped her wand tightly in one hand as the door swung opened, and hoped as hard as she could that the person standing outside had no intentions of harming her.

Hermione blinked.

Standing on the threshold was not some crazed lunatic – or, at least, she didn't think so. It was obviously not someone who would have any idea of what happened to her last night. Nor was it Harry or Ron, or anyone else that she might have recognized.

No, standing outside, shivering and waiting to be let in, was a very wet and travel-worn-looking young man. His hair, dripping wet, stuck round his pale face in dark spikes. His dark Muggle suit was soaked through and clung heavily to his body. As he stood there, rain continued to pelt on his head and dripped from his hairline down to the tips of his nose and chin.

He looked at her, surprised for a moment, and then inclined his head. "Mirëmbrëma. Si jeni?" he said politely.

Hermione was taken aback by this. She had, out of all things, not expected him to be foreign. Visions of the strange embroidery clouded her mind and she started to wonder if she was a bit farther from London than she first thought. Meanwhile, the man stood shivering in the doorway, waiting for her to respond, and she realized she had no idea of what to say.

"Um," she said stupidly, "I'm sorry, I don't know..." she trailed off, at a loss to what language it was that he had spoken.

A look of relief crossed his face. "Oh good," he said. "You're English, too."

Hermione frowned in confusion. Was she not expected to be English? Now she was almost certain that she was somewhere far from England.

One of his hands mopped his dripping face, trying to get water out of his eyes. "May I come in?" he asked.

"Oh, um," Hermione stammered, "of course." She stood aside and let him come through. He stood in the entranceway, drenched from head to toe. In the dim candlelight, Hermione saw that he was younger than she first thought, and a good deal taller, too. She surmised that he was probably about her own age, give or take a year or so. He held out his arms and looked himself over, as though he found the water dripping from his body intriguing. Then he spotted the wand in Hermione's hand.

"Oh, good," he said. "You're a witch. I was afraid for a moment that you might be a Muggle." Then he slipped his own wand out from one of his jacket pockets. An instant later he was completely dry and brushing the sleeves of his neat black suit. "This is Professor Nopcsa's house, am I correct?"

"Er, yes," she found herself saying. In all honesty she had no idea who this house belonged to, but if this person believed that it belonged to a Professor Nopcsa, then it probably did.

"Is he home?" He stepped further into the living area and set his small bag on the floor. "He should be expecting me."

"No, he's out."

The boy looked confused. His eyes narrowed and he peered at Hermione closely.

"Do you, by chance, know where he is?" he pried.

Hermione was beginning to feel very stupid. "Er, no; I don't. I just arrived myself, actually."

He nodded and stepped around her, eyeing the room. She followed his gaze as he glanced from the dumpy couch to the portraits on the wall to the trinket-laden end tables and the empty fireplace. Finally his eyes rested on the gas lantern she was holding.

"I presume you are visiting as well, then?"

"Yes."

"How did you arrive?" He spoke slowly and carefully, as though he didn't believe her story.

"I flooed in."

He raised a long, thin eyebrow.

"I had his house connected to the floo network," she continued quickly, trying to cover her tracks. "Just for an hour. So I could get here easily." Hermione mentally kicked herself for lying. Why was she saying all of this? This boy was obviously not a threat; maybe he could help her.

Still, she lied anyway. She didn't trust anything about her situation at the moment, lest of all, this stranger.

"I didn't know that he wouldn't be here," she added.

He nodded his head slowly, obviously considering the situation. "I see."

After a moment of awkward silence, Hermione decided to take the plunge. "If you don't mind me asking," she said tentatively, "er, who are you?"

He looked at her as though really seeing her for the first time and a smiled snapped on his face.

"Oh do forgive me. I'm an acquaintance of the Professor. My name is Tom Riddle."