Phosphorus and Oxygen

a collection of Tom/Hermione works

I.

The dreams came to her in the night when she slept and lingered in between classes, the dreams lingered during study time and during meals and refused to go away.

She dreamed of Tom Riddle. Not Voldemort, not the Dark Lord. Tom Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

After second year, she had been intrigued by the diary – not because of the Dark Arts, of course – but because of her curiosity about the methods Tom had used to infuse himself, to put his consciousness into the blank pages. Her interest was piqued, but after Ginny's shaky end of the year, she put it out of her mind and conveniently forgot it.

Now she was having dreams. Not malevolent, no, not turning against her friends. Just dreams. It was as if her curiosity from second year had flared up again, only this time in was in the person – her parents had had a talk with her before she came for her first year at Hogwarts, oddly, she hadn't remembered it until now, and felt guilty when she thought of Malfoy, her parents' words always carried a lot of weight with her –

'Often the most evil people come from the seeds of misunderstanding and neglect, which is a pity. Treat everyone with kindness, Hermione, and maybe you could prevent more evil from surfacing, just show someone a little kindness and it will go far. Try to understand them.'

Now, she understood. She understood Tom.

Her dreams were not frightening to her anymore: she was not betraying her best friends, and she was not helping Voldemort. Her own dreams were secure and safe, locked up inside her head. They could never escape.

But every time she woke up, a little pang of disappointment went straight to her heart. Tom wasn't there. Tom wasn't beside her; he was fifty years plus in the past –

and in her dreams –

Every time she was back in 1944, she felt more alive than she had ever felt before. When their lips met, he made her think of the most ridiculous, simple things. Circles and squares, and the colors red and green, and the feel of his soft, thick hair parting under her fingers raking over his scalp. She lived in the moment.

His hands, stained with Mandrake root juice after Potions that he hadn't washed off yet, cupped her face, and his mouth was pressed against hers. Their bodies fit so perfectly against each other, and Hermione put her arms around Tom's shoulders, the rough material of his well-worn grey robes scratchy against her arms.

They warmed each other and fire burned in each of them, and Tom was everywhere around her. She was touching his skin with soft brushes and she was whispering against the underside of his jaw with her head tilted fully up while leaving lingering kisses there (he was that much taller than her), she was breathing in Tom, living with him, living him; he was stroking her wild hair and pressing against her, kissing her so hard she saw stars and warmth stirred in her heart and his heart, that he had finally found again, and both of them locked in an embrace,

And then she woke up, and went to the bathroom and cried for a few minutes for all the shame of it, because of the inevitable coming news of a new death, a new attack somewhere out there,

And knew that all he had needed was a little kindness and a little understanding.