Twelve Days of Christmas
Author's Note: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone!
Hello everyone! This fic is inspired by the Aftermath of Silence, by Breeze-Riddle, and I hope this silly fic will give her the strength to kick life in the butt!
As you might be able to tell from the title, this is loosely based on the 12 days of Christmas. There is no religious connection so those of you who do not celebrate Christmas can read this. :) The verses won't necessarily mean in a literal sense, as you'll notice, and instead of going one through twelve, I went backwards. Twelve is the beginning of Tom's weird wooing and one is obviously the last. C:
These will all be bite-sized, drabble like chapters. Short and sweet. . . hopefully. xD There will be one chapter per day until Christmas.
Enjoy!
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
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Twelve warm butterbeers
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Hermione Granger can't really say how she got here.
She just knows she is now sitting among people she knew for a fact that were immutably dead, or some that have a few less wrinkles and a little more color to their hair. Hogwarts still surrounds her, yet now she wears teaching robes, and has been welcomed by the staff just a few short months ago.
She is sitting nearly sixty years in the past, her future a muddled mess. She suppose it is not even in existence anymore.
When she found herself in this time, far into the past that she was surprised the travel had not killed her, she believed if she had found a way to return as soon as she stumbled across time, than perhaps everything would be right.
Only it isn't.
Now she has to deal with another war. She has to deal with new people. She has to force herself not to see dead, lifeless faces, nor recall facts she learned by reading and endless research. She has to deal with a certain Albus Dumbledore, who watches her like a she would be the next dark witch to cause chaos and there is no trace of twinkling trust in his blue eyes. She has to deal with grief; Harry, Ron and all the others she holds dear are so far gone, so far out of reach, they might as well be dead.
And she also has to deal with a particular Head Boy. . . who happens to be the young Tom Riddle—Voldemort. She is quite pleased with herself that she can say that name out loud, see his deformed face, and not shiver in fear. Perhaps in revulsion, but she is no longer afraid.
However, now she has to deal with Voldemort while he is still practically sane. That is something she fears.
She can easily understand how the professors adored Tom Riddle. She finds herself begrudgingly engaging in academic conversations, debates even, and it makes her marvel over just how intelligent this boy is more often than not.
What a shame it will be damaged by obsession, greed, and hatred.
Hermione has taken a notice that his dark eyes seem to linger on her. At first she brushes it off as curiosity. Every student is chattering about the new professor; she is a small, young, woman, and yet she proves herself in mere moments of her first class.
But when the marvel wears off, he is still staring.
"We would like to say it has been a wonderful first half of the year," Headmaster Dippet says, bringing Hermione out of her musings. The staff had gathered around, celebrating the end of the first half of the term. They have butter beers in their hand, clinking them around the table in merrily cheer. She reluctantly tips her mug against Horace Slughorn's, who is chattering away about how much the school year has been smooth under the Head Boy's care.
Speaking of the devil, he is seated across from her. The staff had invited the Head Girl and Boy in congratulations.
It is a whole lot of shite, if you ask her.
But she grits her teeth and bears sitting in a room where Riddle has yet to take his eyes off of her for longer than a full five minutes. She just hopes that her magic doesn't stir around in her ire, nor does it show on her face.
She is almost finished her butterbeer with Riddle leans forward, outstretching his own mug and his pale lips pulled into a polite but sinister smile. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Granger."
Her name sounds odd rolling off his tongue. Her muggle name should have been spat.
The glass mugs make a clink as they tap delicately.
"Thank you, Mister Riddle," she murmurs, taking a small sip of her drink, wishing desperately it could have been something a bit more stronger, something with a bit more venom that she can kill him with.
And yet. . .
He still has yet to take his eyes off of her.
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