Just a small A/N:

orangemavis asked: like it so far, but what time era are we in and what school year?

I'm glad you liked it so far, and oh man, I actually forgot inform you guys of the time era and school year! Sorry! So, this whole story is AU-ish, with a lot of changes and stuff.

So, we are in 1943, in 6th year. At this time, Grindelwald is their looming threat, and Hermione and her friends and Tom along with his lackeys coexist, but Hermione is a bit more open and prone to the dark arts (and there is the fact I still struggle with interpreting their characters). But there is still a long way to go with this story, and at the moment, I'm trying my best to make it better. But everything else is pretty self explanatory with Tom's era and Hermione's merging, but Harry Potter doesn't have a scar and still has his family, and everything else, you will see in the story.

I hope this explains stuff for a bit, guys.

And I also made a small mistake in Chapter Two, where I addressed Dumbledore as Headmaster, and then Hermione replied to him back with a "Professor." Albus is the Transfigurations Professor in this era, as you know, so he is not headmaster. I'm sorry for the mistake guys, and I've already fixed that. So I hope it clears up.

And thanks for those who've read this! Now, on to the story.

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Chapter Four

"Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move,
fall like a thunderbolt."
—Sun Tzu

He knew now why they talked about her that way; why they avoided her mere presence altogether. Though her curls were expressed to be quite a homely feature, he thought them quite telling and magnificent of who she was. Her dark, coffee curls that bounced on her head like static framed her face, like a cushion, tempting you to run your fingers and untangle the curls from their confines. It was so bushy, it looked like it could swallow you whole.

Her skin was fair, always powdered with the redness of her cheeks and nose, lifted into a flattering light by her high cheek bones, gifted with a bit more plump flesh because of her feminine youth that danced through her face. Her nose was dusted with copper freckles, also found beneath her long lashes that framed dark, whiskey brown eyes that once in awhile, presented embers of firewood and glowing ash.

Her lips were not as full, but the petal softness of the texture it had, and the dusky pink it glowed sat on her face in a nearly sensual way. Her chin was rounded, and her jaws in elegant arcs spoke of the elegant beauty she could become if she put more effort into her looks. But her youth shined across her face, giving her the look of innocence.

She had the light, shy meekness of beauty that tempted you to just smother it. The kind where the darkest of beauties could not touch, in fear of marring it and hurting it. She was untouchable, but she hid it behind her soft words, her cutting remarks, and her jabs of sharp quips and matter-of-fact comments. She hid it behind books, behind parchment and ink; behind glowing spells and large clothes.

She didn't believe in her beauty, and overrode it with her intelligence, filling her head with so much work and study, she matured herself for the world to be ready. But they weren't. He mere presence was overwhelming because of her warmth—the fire she lit. She drove others away because of her sharpness, disregarded as nagging and being meddlesome. But they couldn't see the brilliant mind, too caught up by vanity, because she had dark circles beneath her eyes that spoke of late reading into the night. She busied herself so much with her future, she didn't seem to care what kind of past she was leaving tarnished.

Tom Riddle now knew why Hermione Granger was such lone figure.

It was because she was too powerful. She was an overwhelming entity that came on too warm to people, she burned them. She was so innocent, so hard working, so helpful, yet so strong, so righteous, and too kind that whenever she looked at you, you felt bare. You felt like you were spread out to be dismantled and examined. She looked like she could count all your sins, and made you feel afraid.

She spoke of truths and facts that overwhelmed a person to the brink of annoyance. But Tom understood her. Hermione only had lack of control of her thoughts and her tongue. Her bloody Gryffindor pride and bravery smothered her, and her magic felt like the cover of a blanket, too warm to stay underneath.

He would help her control that, and make her stronger than she could ever be. But not stronger than him, of course. She was only a weapon named to himself. He would help her grasp power beyond magic and politics. They would change the future with what they could be.

But he couldn't do that when she was holed herself up in her Gryffindor Common Room, doing Merlin knows what in the fast approaching afternoon. Snow had long covered the grounds, leaving Hogwarts in a white wonderland, void of disturbances and filled with peaceful change. It was serene and gave Tom time to process his thoughts and plans with the company of the changing season.

He had left his Knights to their devices; sending letters back home or receiving early gifts from their families. Tom had all the free time in the world without family. He was free of them, unsullied by their unwanted demand of emotion, warmth, and attention. He had time to achieve his goals without any distraction, and was not disturbed to say the least.

He was up in the Astronomy tower now, contemplating many things in the presence of silence and solitude. He loved silence and solitude, particularly in his own presence. But sometimes, it left so much to be asked for. The silence never said anything. Other people's silence left answers, yes, but somehow, with himself, it didn't. All his life, silence always meant the end of something. It left him in the dark, questioning, and questioning, and questioning, falling down into the brink of his sanity, toying with his own fraying ends, until it all became too much. He'd shut himself out, and his own humanity that had forced him to question his own actions. He left it out of himself until there was no turning back.

There were many things in his life that had shaped him into himself now. Somewhere, deep down, a part of himself knew that he wanted to change that. He wanted to change himself—but for the better or for worst?

He smothered the feeling of being lost, beating it down with his memories of his anguish; his pain, his suffering, his despair. He was better than this! He had to prove to everyone that he was so much more. Being an orphan had always made people question his abilities, his motives, his existence. The ignorant observers always loved prodding at his old wounds he desperately wanted to hide. But they poked at it until it festered, and hurt, until it reminded him of what he had to do. Of what he had to prove. They had no right. No right to take away his childhood of knowing what he truly was; to be away from those clueless muggles who hurt him as a child. Tom Riddle was Salazar Slytherin's heir, entitled to have something bigger than a hovel full of starving children filled with depravity and desperation. He inherited old blood that was much more purer than those bumbling idiots. The Ministry knew it—they kept track of children who were born to magic, after all!

And that proved the Wizarding World to be at fault as well, not taking care of their future—the children who were meant to know what they were. His own family—his uncle—didn't want him. He was a bastard. So did his own father who was the exact replica of him, albeit, Tom was much stronger. No one had wanted him into both their worlds—different yet connected somehow.

Neglect.

That was what was in common.

So why would he want both worlds? Why would he want to be part of this world that left them exposed to many sorts of danger?—unseeing to the threats that hung over them at large? They left them weak and useless and Tom would change that. He'd change that. It wasn't a fucking promise he would keep, because it was a future he was going to secure.

"R—Tom?"

In a flash, he pressed the tip of his yew wand against the soft part of her neck, in her jugular, successfully pinpointing her pulse point. It was like magic, thrumming through his veins, but it was her heartbeat he felt, resonating through his wand to his body, like a different core altogether. He was ready to snuff it out—her life—but her bright eyes and her red cheeks, and her riotous curls brought him out of his stupor.

There. There it was. The silence that left so many questions to be asked with far too little answers. Many things came with silence. Like death. After the flash of green light—or after the piercing of a blade—or after the crush of bones—after the lock of a cellar door—after being thrown into the dark—silence followed. Always there—relentless and wielding superiority over the death. The chaotic peacefulness after anguished cries. It always followed Tom wherever he went, leaving excited whispers into deathly silence. He hated it. It meant an end to something.

He looked downat Hermione Granger's face, shock evident in her wide, doe eyes, staring back at him with slight apprehension. Her warm features—the red of her cheeks, her dark brown curls, her copper freckles and her maroon scarf—all became a strange contrast to the cold surroundings. She was singled out from the dusty interior of the tower—grey, cold, and dark, making her a light through the darkness.

She was an anomaly. A radiating power he had collected the previous night.

"You disrupted my thoughts," he told her, voice hollow of any emotion. He looked at her underneath his lashes, height dwarfing her over his form and shadowing her. He watched, fascinated as her sigh let out a gust of sound and visible cloud through the air. She put sound into the deathly silence—as if she was the life that had long come to claim the chaotic abundance of peaceful noise, breathing life back into what was not there. Her simple meek presence overpowered that of which was not there. A part of him wanted to kill her presence.

Hermione looked up at him, brows knitted, expression perturbed. She held her hands up, fingers peeking through her jumper with an 'H' at the front. It looked a bit too big on her.

"Yes, I did," Hermione answered him slowly, warm brown eyes darting to his wand, then up to his face. She gnawed on her lip, before clearing her throat sharply, slightly annoyed. "Do you mind?" She gestured to his wand, still pressed at her throat, and he could still feel her fast pulse across his body, thrumming like an entity foreign yet will not be forgotten. He lowered his wand slowly, now fully aware of her presence inside the Astronomy Tower, suspicious of her sudden interruption.

He narrowed his eyes on her slightly, watching her."You called me by my given name," he brought her to attention.

"I have," she answered nonchalantly, before actually looking up at him, scrutinising "Is there a problem?"

"No," he shook his head, feeling despondent at that moment, conversing with Hermione Granger with no actual reason except for the fact she had interrupted him in the middle of his solitude. Normally, if it was anyone else, he'd tell them to leave, or hurt them if he wanted. But steering his thoughts away from earlier, he thought it'd be better to talk to Hermione Granger now, figuring that it was why he was waiting here. He had needed to talk to her about her magic and her weaknesses.

Now, he wondered why she had not woken up early in the morning, Normally, she did. It was peculiar to know she hadn't woken up at the crack of dawn.

"It's fine," he continued his response, deciding it was for the best to talk to her now than another time. "If you can call me Tom, then it'd be fitting for me to call you Hermione as well," he told her. Meeting her eyes, he suddenly found dark crescents beneath them, slightly sunken and clearly, her indication of lack of sleep. He scrunched his brows together. "You did not sleep properly." It was a statement.

Hermione shook her head, unconsciously smiling, and Tom was astonished at the genuine action it represented. Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle had always been rivals. Now that common ground had been established—though, her loyalty now fell to him—he'd never thought he'd see her much warmer, reserved emotions displayed so openly to him. It made her look frail—weak. Not like a knight. Something so less—but showing emotions even in his imposing, dangerous presence?—she was something more. That's what it seemed like.

He had just pointed a wand at her throat a few seconds ago. Normally, his knights would cower. Hermione Granger did not.

"I was up reading the books you lent me last night," she told him, smiling serenely, shrugging her shoulders. But other than that, the rest of her was guarded, as if she was scrutinising him under her bout of words and gestures. "And then I woke up late and went to the Great Hall for breakfast, but Abraxas told me you were searching for me. He pointed me here. What do you want to talk about?" Her soft demeanour disappeared in an instant, evaporating into a stronger front, managing a shield on all sides. Tom silently appraised her change, the power she was exuding befitting as his weapon.

"I wanted to talk about your magical core. I've given you books to understand the magic that lies inside of you. But your magic still seeps from your form—and I suppose we need to work on that. We need to see how much you can do with your magic practically, and not only work on theory within books. We have to sort things out." He informed her, eyes blank and unblinking.

He watched, slightly amused as she seemed to bristle at something he said.

"We?" Hermione echoed, as if not expecting to work with him.

"Yes, we." Tom pursed his lips slightly as he practically saw the implication within Hermione's mind grow to life. Her wide, shocked eyes darted to his face, where the only thing he did was drew a brow upward, assessing the rest of her with slight annoyance and amusement.

"B-but you and I—we'll be alone—and Merlin knows—!" Hermione spluttered helplessly, curls bouncing to life with indignation, and her magic sprung forth to shroud the air in thick warmth, relieving themselves of the winter chill, which only proved his point of needing to help her. Tom pulled an angry scowl on his face.

"I am not that kind of man, Gr—Hermione," Tom snapped at her, blasting that notion out of her head as quickly as it came. He had all the time in the world, yes, but he had never ever even indulged himself in the mere thought of the illusion of pleasures of the flesh, or even taking advantage of her in their lonesome. It was simply primal. Primiive. Tom felt above that, for he had never felt the need to ever yield to simple pleasure. He was simply too busy with other things.

"I've done this with others before, but your're different. I've only trained Abraxas and the others with their magic—not their magical core," he told her, soothing her thoughts down, feeling quite ruffled at having the need to reassure her. He had forgotten that with Hermione Granger, she was quick to worry and anger, and her bloody Gryffindor pride couldn't take being alone with a Slytherin. She was also very cautious, and quite skittish. It was infuriating

Hermione glanced up at him, her brows knitted. "Really? I assumed you always did things by yourself." She voiced her thoughts aloud. Tom watched her in the corner of his eyes. "And you looked troubled earlier. Lonely."

Lonely. That was a word he had been long acquainted to, but had never liked.

It had accompanied him for years, hanging over his head and always in the back of his mind. But he hadn't quite known it himself, having chosen to limit himself from others, rather than having others desert him. Well, he chose it after having others desert him. But indeed, he quite knew the brief pain of loneliness.

And he did not like it.

Tom flashed his eyes to her, filled with anger at having to be reminded of his past. It itched at his skin, the way she said it with frivolity just nipping at his patience. No matter how powerful she was, she was infuriating. He needn't be reminded of his weaknesses.

Needn't be reminded of what kind of loneliness he had experienced, and what kind he had indulged himself in.

"I am not lonely, Hermione. I only choose to be alone," he hissed at her, slamming the air with his magic, heating the air with an ominous demon that nipped at their fingers and their exposed skin. The demon danced in the air, playing.

Tom watched her, waiting for her to get scared, or cower under the tremendous weight of his magic. But in her eyes—something cracked—the shield she had put up lowering. She looked at him—and the sadness there—so palpable. Tangible. It was surreal, seeing such a poignant emotion escape her eyes and touch the heated air. She was different from his knights, he realised.

All it took was one touch to dominate his anger, letting the air become shrouded with the icy chill of winter.

Hermione looked out to the large balustrade of the Astronomy tower. Her thoughts rampaged, he could see that through her eyes. It was like a mirror. She had described how troubled he looked awhile. Now she did. And it honestly felt so strange and intriguing, he couldn't help but stare.

Inside, it made him angry how still simply human and still ever feeling he was. How he became so responsive to weak emotions.

Hermione slowly drew back the shield in her eyes, whispering in a hard voice, "But loneliness is...inconvenient."

It was.

It truly was, and Tom quelled down his flare of anger. He hated how the witch knew so much. How utterly vulnerable it also made him feel to know that his weapon was as much knowing as he was to certain things. It fucking sucked. He turned away from her, sweeping his magic across the tower, feeling Hermione turn to his back at the change of atmosphere. He jerked his head in the direction of the stairs, downwards, and beckoned her over.

"For others, yes, but for me, it is my only reprieve," Tom told her.

Hermione stayed oddly silent the rest of the way as he lead her to the Black lake, her gaze burning holes into his back as he contemplated the silence. The chaotic noise. Her presence. The life. The loneliness.

How he had always thought that no other minds could certainly know what being lost in the world was.

He dashed the feeling away like he did with his thoughts that morning until it was nothing but a mere inconvenience.

It worked.

...0O0O0O0O0O0...

He had hurt her.

It was not intentional.

Studying on Magical Essence and cores by the lake had been a great idea, out of the sight of others who lingered in the castle. Harnessing the threshold of magic inside of a witch and wizard was quite a difficult task for those who didn't fully recognise their potential. Hermione Granger had surely noticed her own, but the mere thought of letting her magic run rampant held her back.

Tom had grown tired of her reluctance, knowing that only theorising on her capabilities wouldn't do her any good. He wanted her to experience strength that she could never before. She was strong, but her body was far too weak. She hadn't had an ounce of experience of ever using her magic with intent to defend or attack. She hadn't been forced before to use it at her will, or at her precipice.

So he duelled her, to the point he was pushing her to defend herself.

He was ruthless, and he knew that.

He duelled her to the point that he drew blood.

Crimson painted the snow on the ground in droplets, blooming a warm contrast against the ethereal white of the snow. It flew over their heads like a sign of change. He wasn't simply attaining power for himself. It was for her as well. He didn't need someone who was weak amongst his knights.

No matter how brilliant of a mind she had, it was no good if she did not put it to use in an actual fight.

"Get up," he hissed at her, watching her as she glared up at him.

He hadn't drawn blood in a long time, and it sent a thrill down his spine, to be able to stretch and test his magic as well with her. His magic always clashed with Hermione, her magic being the only thing that can withstand his. His magic was like a demon, awakening at his command. It demanded to be satisfied. To be used.

It ate at him everyday, like a parasite. It was not his intention to feed it. He needed to quell it down. He gripped his wand tightly, despondent to the world but wary to what was around them. Too aware of of his own, like a snake, waiting for the given moment to lash out.

To kill.

"Shut up!" Hermione spat from her spot on the ground, her wand drawn, but pressed to the snow like a staff, wanting her to stand up. But her legs were too weak. Her fingers shook from the relentless cold. The gash on her leg bled steadily, and her face was pinched red with pain. The sight of her blood sent a jolt through his veins; like a thrill, drilling into his mind.

He pressed his wand to her temple, threatening. Unafraid. It was an extension of himself, reaching out to her. He held it there like a weapon, searing it into her head. Drawing out what power she could.

He was at power at that moment, looming above her. It was a manic, satisfaction that blinded his senses. He needed to control himself. Control her.

"Accept it, Hermiome." He whispered to her, loud enough for her to hear. Only her. "You're weak. You can't become strong if you shut everything out. You are gifted with power, yet you do not use it. You're not worthy of it if you keep it shut inside. Let it control you."

Hermione looked up at him, and there was a blazing inferno in her eyes, staring back at him like a void. He stared back. And he found her defiance, lurking at the edge of her mind, tumbling, shaking, breaking free. She didn't like being treated like this, he knew that. But her bladed gaze pierced his soul, and he saw the torment. The loss in her eyes. She hated him at that moment, and he revelled in the dark emotion, searing his skin and permeating the air like a thick fog. It raised goose flesh on his skin, piercing like needles. The lioness looked like she was crouching low now, and he felt the power she radiated. The heat—the searing gaze.

He felt bare, and it was intoxicating. He hadn't been challenged in a long time. It made him shake with excitement, accepting the rush of nerves and magic. He loved being at power, it made him drunk.

He was lost in it.

"I won't let you control me, Tom," she snarled, and before he could even twitch his wand in his fingers, she gripped his hand, hard. With a hot pulse of magic, she managed to concentrate magic into her hands that seared his flesh like a hot rod, burning him through her fingers. And then, he was forced away, like a stupefy that pulled at his gut and forced him into the air for a few seconds.

He met the ground with a thump, his mind reeling.

He ought to be angry with her. He really should be. But he helped her channel her magic, and that was enough of an accomplishment for now. In the inside, he felt quite proud—but also unnerved. He hadn't had anyone force him down in a duel for a long time either.

The thrill it all came in and the challenge she posed. She was like change now. After years of boring rivalry with her and navigating through fools, he finally managed to change all of that. Finally, he would be able to test her skills—which he had always been thinking of before now.

He brought himself to sit up on the ground, and he stared at her form, bleeding and panting.

She was just another pawn in his plan. Or maybe his actual knight.

But her defiance.

It was fresh.

It was change.

But it would be torment for her if she kept defying him.

"A-Are you alright?" Hermione asked him. Tom stared inquisitively at her, nodding his head but coming to stand up to only step back into her space. Her torso heaved up and down with what would be the sudden loss of her erratic magic. It blazed the end of her hair, like a signature. Her brown doe eyes watched him.

"You're the one who's hurt, Hermione." He told her, matter of fact. He pointed his wand at her leg and healed the gash. He stared at her at the tip of his nose, offering his hand to pull her up. He forgot the burn marks she had left on his hand, but didn't show the pain on his face when she gripped his fingers, biting down on his lip harshly like a muffle.

"Hm, who's fault do I think that is?" she snapped at him sarcastically. Tom gave her a small smirk, and Hermione fumed at his nonchalance.

"Next time, don't hold back, Granger. Use your magic if you must."

He left her trailing after him.

It hadn't been his intention to hurt her.

But it also hadn't been her intention to burn him.

He had to control or they'd both burn from her defiance.

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Well, that was fun to write!

I had a hard time expressing Tom at the end, but it came out pretty decent to me.

Drop a review if you have certain opinions! Thank you!