Disclaimer: I have to save up the last of my money for Deathly Hallows so I can't afford to be sued; therefore, I do not claim to own anything relating to the world of Harry Potter.

Rating: T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

Summary: In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

Author's Note: For those of you who expressed concern and well wishes regarding my sister and her back surgery, I extend my deepest thanks. She was in a major car accident in 1993, and sadly, is still having back problems to this day. She's had 5 surgeries in the past 4 years, and none of them seem to be holding. This go around, her vertebrae fractured in three places, and an old fusion didn't hold (they seem to be breaking like dominoes now), so they took some bone from her hip to fuse the fractures together. The surgery was a success, but we don't know how long, or if it will hold at all. So, we just have to keep our fingers crossed that it worked this time. I really don't want her to have to end up in a wheelchair when she's only 30. Ok, now on to the topic of this story. I was pleasantly surprised that everyone enjoyed the last chapter, even though I was a bit disappointed with it. It bolstered my spirits, to say the least. Right or Ryn – You've given me some amazing ideas for this chapter, so I must give credit where credit is due. Do I have any other words of wisdom to impart? No, I don't think so. Well, then! On with the show!

Chapter Three

"Ugh! This is hopeless!" Hermione muttered in frustration, slamming closed the heavy tome she'd been paging through and shoving it roughly back on to the shelf, sending a cloud of dust in the air and causing her to sneeze multiple times. The shop proprietor shot her a stern look, and if it had been any other time, Hermione would have felt properly chastised. As it was, she had searched the entire store and had found absolutely nothing on the effects of meddling in time and changing the course of history, nor had she found a way to get back home. And to top it all off, this was the third magical bookstore she'd searched in the past two days. Dervish and Banges in Hogsmeade didn't even have a section on time travel, and Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley had only vague references. Now she'd done the unthinkable and traveled in to the dark recesses of Knockturn Alley, and the suspect establishment claiming to sell books was little better than it's less disreputable counterpart in Diagon Alley.

Sighing heavily, Hermione resisted the temptation to whip out her wand and blast the nearest bookshelf.

"As much as I love you," she whispered heatedly, glaring at the colorful, dusty spines across from where she stood, "I'm really beginning to hate you."

"Sacrilege, truly," a soft voice sounded out of the shadows, laced with amusement and curiosity, though slightly menacing at the same time. "What did those books ever do to you?" The figure behind the voice remained behind a curtain of darkness, but Hermione would recognize it anywhere.

Shuddering despite herself, she backed away from the direction the voice was coming from, bumping in to a tall rack and nearly knocking it over. Her face contorted in to a mask of confusion and fear, afraid of what he would do to her now that he had her cornered and alone. Surely he would pay her back for the previous weekend's insinuations, right? He was that evil, after all.

Hermione worried her bottom lip between her teeth, drawing blood when she winced as Tom Riddle finally stepped out of the shadows.

"Why are you so afraid of me?" It was whispered, though an accusatory edge remained. He was not upset by her fright, nor dismayed, but curious and slightly disturbed. As far as he knew, he'd never met this woman in his life. He was a model student, a Prefect at Hogwarts, and had recently won the award for Special Services to the school for catching a murderer in their midst… Of course, nobody had to know that he was the true murderer, that he was the one who had opened the Chamber of Secrets and released the Basilisk. Only a select few Slytherin's under his command knew his true nature, and his mark ensured that they remain loyal. He would feel it if they didn't. So how did it explain this girl's obvious fright of him? A fear so palpable, it was like he had single handedly destroyed everything she knew and loved. Which was preposterous. Myrtle's death was his worst crime yet.

'But that will all change tonight' he thought to himself with a sneer, thinking of his worthless muggle father and his equally worthless family. They would pay for abandoning him.

"I'm not afraid of you," Hermione whispered, though she wasn't sure who she was trying to convince more, herself or Tom. He snapped his gaze back to her, and she couldn't help but wonder if his thoughts had drifted. If so, what had they drifted to? 'I'm not entirely sure I want to know' she thought with a slight shudder.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped in reply, running an elegantly long, tapered finger along the spines of the books she'd been perusing. They were all on the concept of time, time travel, paradoxes and alternate universes. Hermione silently prayed that he didn't read the titles. Thankfully, while his fingers moved in a dance that would be better suited for a piano, his empty, cold gaze lingered on her.

"What are you doing here?" she countered softly, inwardly flinching at her gall. She didn't have Cormac or Hagrid to save her this time. The shop proprietor was busy wiping down the counter with a dirty rag, purposefully ignoring the altercation in the stacks. 'Riddle probably has something on him,' she snorted, rolling her eyes. He caught this, his eyebrows raising a notch as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the stack opposite her.

"Research," he replied simply, wondering what reaction that would garner from this infuriatingly interesting woman.

Hermione resisted the temptation to laugh at his answer. Research, hah! How to be evil? 'Don't need books for that,' she thought darkly, her eyes narrowing in to a glare, which she leveled upon the teenage Voldemort. His eyes narrowed in return.

"You didn't answer my question," he muttered darkly, and Hermione could swear he was more annoyed that angry. 'I must really be getting under his skin,' she thought with a smirk, straightening slightly. Her hand unconsciously moved to the belt cinching the loose dress tightly around her waist, fingering the wand that was hidden in the folds of the fabric. "What are you doing here?" he reiterated, his voice tight and laced with frustration.

"Research," Hermione smirked cheekily, lifting her chin haughtily. Tom's face seemed to turn three shades of red with her remark, and he took a menacing step forward. All at once, her bravery drained, leaving her cowering against the stack of books once more. He stopped suddenly, shocked by the sudden transformation of feisty woman to whimpering girl.

"For Merlin's sake, I am not going to hurt you!" he exploded in frustration, lending absolutely no credibility to his statement. Hermione's chocolate eyes grew wide.

"I'd believe that more if you weren't towering over me with the wrath of Hades in your eyes," she whispered, her own usually smooth, melodic voice faltering, roughened by fear. Tom seemed to shrink back at that, all emotion leaving his face once more as he schooled his features into neutrality.

"If you'll excuse me," he muttered, the ire in his voice giving away what his eyes would not, "I have a visit to my father to prepare for." Before Hermione could reply, he was sweeping out of the store in a swish of black robes that reminded her eerily of Snape.

And then his words hit her.

A visit. With his father.

Memories ran through her mind like a freight train, pummeling her brain with an overload of information. It was the summer of 1943, nearing the end of June, just a week after Hogwarts let out, when Tom Riddle had journeyed to Little Hangleton and murdered his father and grandparents, framing his uncle, Morfin Gaunt, for the crime, and creating his first Horcrux in the diary.

'Oh God,' Hermione thought, her hand flying to her mouth and stomach lurching with a wave of nausea brought on by her sudden revelation.

Tom Riddle is going to kill his father. Tonight.

She knew instantly she had to do something to stop him, damn the consequences. 'When you have the power to affect change, and you do nothing, then you are no better than the person or thing that created the problem to begin with.' Hermione thought feverishly as she hurried from the shop, away from prying eyes that could report her movement back to young Voldemort. When she was safely ensconced in the dark recess of an alley off the back end of Knockturn Alley, she twirled on her spot, concentrating with all she had on Little Hangleton. Destination. Determination. Deliberation.

She felt compressed suddenly, as if all the air in the world had been sucked out, creating a vast vacuum of space, until, just as suddenly, the air rushed back in and she was standing at the base of a hill, atop which stood an impressive manor that looked nothing like the crumbling, run down building where Voldemort had hidden during their fourth year. Hermione and Ron first saw it on their search for the Horcruxes, when they revisited the shack of the Gaunts, looking for leads, which eventually led them to the former Riddle mansion and Hufflepuff's cup.

The sun was quickly setting, leaving dusk in its wake. The Riddles would soon be sitting down for their evening meal, which Dumbledore had revealed to be their last, for Voldemort had barged in and murdered them in mid-bite. If she didn't hurry, she would be too late, and run the risk of being caught by Tom.

With a burst of energy she hadn't felt since the beginning of the war, she whipped out her wand and ran up the hill, heading straight for the door. She didn't bother knocking, simply barging in and rushing in to what she remembered to be the abandoned dining area. Except for this time, it wasn't abandoned.

Two men holding a striking resemblance to one another though the age difference was great, and an older woman stared at her in shock and slight fear. The casserole dish that the woman had been holding crashed to the floor, sending vegetables skittering across the polished floor.

"I'm not going to hurt you!" Hermione exclaimed quickly, which did nothing to ease the Riddles' fears. "I'm here to warn you! To help you! Please, you have to believe me!" she added, desperation lacing her voice. The younger male blinked stupidly, before noticing the wand she held in her shaking hand. She knew immediately that this was Voldemort's father, for, if he had been a decade younger, could have passed as the evil Slytherin's twin.

"You're a witch!" he exclaimed, a new fear in his eyes. His parents scrambled back, reaching out for each other and clinging with an urgent desperation.

"Yes, but you have to listen to me! I'm good, I swear it!" Hermione dropped her wand on the table as a gesture of good faith. The old couple relaxed visibly at this, but their son did not. "Tom, listen. Merope was pregnant when she lifted the love spell she had on you! She ran away and gave birth to a son, your son, in a muggle orphanage. He believes that you abandoned him! That you didn't want him! And he's been building a grudge, a deep, unfathomable hate for you ever since. He's going to come here and kill you all, tonight, if you don't leave, if you don't hide! Please! You have to believe me!"

"I have a son?" Tom Sr. whispered in awe, all of Hermione's warnings having no effect on him. His face lit up like it was Christmas, shocking everyone in the room. Hermione shook her head, stamping her foot to get his attention.

"A son that is hell-bent on killing his muggle father! And since he believes you abandoned him, he's associated your muggle status with the rest of the non-magical population and harbors a prejudice that would put Hitler's hate for the Jews to shame!" Her words were drastic, she knew, but she couldn't think of a more appropriate analogy that would convey the weight of the situation properly. Hermione took a deep breath and circled the table until she was standing face to face with the handsome man that had fathered the future dark lord. "Do you want your son to be the next Hitler? Only with the power of magic behind him? He could bring the world to it's knees if nobody stops him," she paused, her ears suddenly perking as she heard the distinct sound of a slightly rusted iron gate swinging open. "He's coming now," she whispered urgently. She pierced Tom Sr. with a heavy gaze. "Those who have the power to affect change and do nothing are no better than the person or thing that created the problem to begin with."

He blinked again, her words sinking in to his brain as she hurried over to his parents, grabbing their shaking hands in her own.

"Merope named him after you, by the way," she whispered, mentally preparing for side-along apparation. "I guess she really did love you."

In the blink of an eye, Tom Riddle Sr. watched as his parents disappeared with a nameless witch to some unknown place. He wondered if he'd ever see them again – if any of this was real, and if this woman could be trusted.

The sound of the floor creaking snapped him out of his thoughts, and quickly, he moved in to the shadows of the dimly lit dining room. He watched in slight awe as a young man entered the room, his cold eyes darting around as his pale, bony hand clenched a long, thin stick of wood. If it hadn't been for the utter lack of emotion being displayed, he would have sworn that his own portrait had come to life, stepping out of the frame and in to the real world.

"She never told me she was pregnant," he whispered, causing his son to whip around, the swinging door to the adjacent kitchen sliding closed with a rush as he abandoned that route. "I never would have abandoned you, my son. But I didn't know. She never told me." The younger man's eyes remained riveted on the corner where he stood, and, taking a deep breath, he stepped from the shadows and in to the light. His breath hitched in his throat as his son raised what he remembered to be a wand, pointing it straight at his heart. "Please believe me," he whispered, echoing the nameless woman's plea.

"If she never told you, then how is it you know who I am now," his son spoke, the voice cold and menacing and powerful all at once. Tom Sr. flinched in fear, truly afraid of what his son was capable of. If this woman spoke the truth, he was capable of murder. And that scared him like nothing ever had. He had to think fast. Something told him that the woman didn't want to be known, that her very life depended on him keeping the secret of her existence. She may have already saved his parent's lives by taking them away. The least he could do was repay the favor.

"I received an anonymous letter a few days ago, telling me of your existence," he supplied. If he had known of the art of Legilimancy, he would have been, at that moment, greatly relieved that his son had yet to master it. "I immediately started searching for you, but I've had nothing but dead ends. The magical world is a world of it's own – I didn't have the first clue where to begin," he added, praying that the menacing young man glaring at him bought the lie.

A heavy silence descended upon the room as Tom Jr. seemed to consider his father's words. For the first time since setting eyes on him, Tom Sr. watched an array of emotions flicker across his face, lighting his gray eyes with a fire that reminded him oddly of melting ice. For some reason, this worried him more than the stoic expression did.

"May I see the letter?" he spoke at last, his voice a dangerous whisper. Tom Sr. felt his heart speed up at the request, and he suddenly felt trapped. Then he remembered something from his time spent with Merope. Whenever she received correspondence from her family, which was extremely rare and usually only to berate and curse her, it would always burst in to flames when she finished reading it.

"I don't have it. It set aflame the second I finished reading it," he supplied hastily, once again praying that his son bought the lie. "Tom, please believe me. I would have loved you from the moment you were born if Merope hadn't robbed me of the chance. Please, let me try now. Let me be a father to you."

He waited with baited breath as a palpable silence once again fell. The air was thick with emotion, almost suffocating in its intensity. The younger man had turned his head, glaring at the half-set dinner table, his hand clenching and unclenching his wand as countless thoughts raced through his head.

'This wasn't a part of my plan!' Tom thought to himself, biting his tongue to stave off a sudden flood of foreign emotions that surged through his body. 'He's supposed to hate me, to resent me! He abandoned me! He deserves to die!' he tried to reason, but the emotions kept pushing, causing him to bite down harder on his tongue, drawing the coppery taste of blood in to his mouth. 'She didn't tell him. She didn't tell him. The bitch didn't tell him. I could have had a father. I could have had a family. A family. Family. Home. Family. Home. Secure. No taunts, no teases, no pain, no hate. A father. Family. No orphanage. A father. Grandparents. Family. Love. I could have been loved!' The thoughts spiraled out of control until he let out an angry wail, doubling over an clutching his stomach, punching it as if that act alone would banish the sudden swell of emotions that was taking over his body.

"Tom!" he exclaimed, rushing over to his son and reaching out a hand. He was shoved roughly away, however, and sent sprawling to the ground. He thought, in that moment, that he would be killed. But the youngest Riddle said nothing as he straightened, his body going taut and his hand clenching around his wand once again. He leveled that cold gaze upon the man on the floor, his stormy gray eyes boring in to the lighter gray of his father's. He saw hope there, hidden behind the fear. Clenching his teeth, Tom Riddle Jr. held out a shaking hand to the man who had sired him. His father's hand shook as it raised off the ground and clasped his own. He was pulled gracefully to his feet, his hand immediately released when he was on solid footing once more. His son turned his back then, his shoulders high and tight.

"I'll be in touch," he muttered, and, in a rush of air, disappeared much like the nameless woman had. Collapsing in a chair, Tom Sr. sighed heavily, dropping his head in his arms and letting out a relieved sob.

"Stay here, please," Hermione instructed the elderly couple, who sat numbly on her bed at the Three Broomsticks. "I will return as soon as I learn of your son's fate." They nodded, still holding on to one another as if their very lives depended on it. Hermione leveled a sad smile on them. "I'm sure he is fine, but I must make sure before I return you to your home."

Grabbing a cloak, she wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, raising the hood until it obscured her face, and disapparated with a loud pop. She arrived in an alley a few blocks away from the muggle orphanage that Tom returned to every summer. She hurried out of the alley and down the street, being careful to stay in the shadows as she looked for the orphanage she remembered from their search for Ravenclaw's wand. When she found it, in far better condition than she remembered, she removed her cloak, transfiguring it in to a book that she clutched in her arms. She stood in the shadows, waiting for what seemed like an eternity, before she heard the telltale pop of apparation from an alley across the street. Quickly, she opened the book and stepped out of the shadows, hurrying along the street with her nose buried.

"Oomph!" a rough voice sounded as she bumped in to him. She hid her smirk of triumph as she scrambled to her feet, glaring at Tom Riddle. He glared up at her from his perch on the sidewalk. "Oh, it's you again. Don't you ever watch where you're going?" he muttered darkly, his voice missing the menacing quality it usually had.

"Only sometimes," she remarked with a smirk, reaching out a hand to help him up while simultaneously questioning the action. He stared at her hand for a moment, before grudgingly taking it and allowing her to pull him to his feet. She backed away a moment when his glare intensified.

Hermione shook her head and took a deep breath. She had come here to find out what had happened after she'd left with the senior Riddles, and that was exactly what she as going to do.

"How did your visit with your father go?" she asked tentatively as he began to walk away. He stopped abruptly, his foot perched on the first step of the orphanage. He didn't turn to face her when he finally spoke, but Hermione could still see the flash of some powerful emotion flicker across his face.

"Fine. We have some issues to work through, but it was fine," he replied evenly. After a few moments, when she didn't reply, he pivoted on his toes and looked down at her blankly. "Why do you care?"

"Just curious, I suppose," Hermione shrugged, inwardly delighting at his answer to her question. If she deciphered it right, than his father should be alive and well.

"Right," he drawled, fingering the wand in the pocket of his black trousers almost nervously. "Are you going to make it a habit of bumping in to me?" he suddenly asked, eyes narrowing. Hermione shrugged once again, a small smirk gracing her lips.

"Maybe."

"Right," he said again, and Hermione nearly reeled back when his glare suddenly turned in to a hesitantly playful smirk. "At least give me a name so I know who to blame when I end up at St. Mungo's with a fractured back."

"Hermione," she stuttered, still shocked at this complete one-eighty. She had only dared to hope that he wouldn't kill his father. She hadn't ever expected him to be nice, or playful. It was slightly disturbing, to say the least. And it had the potential to wreak havoc on all her preconceived notions of the boy who would be Voldemort.

"Always a pleasure, Hermione," he drawled sarcastically, ascending the stairs briskly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some packing to do." And without looking back, he disappeared through the heavy, oak doors. Hermione stood on the sidewalk, floored at this sudden development. When a young street urchin tried sneaking his hand in to her dress pocket, she started out of her shocked trance and looked down. He grinned sheepishly, about to run away, when Hermione distractedly handed him a few muggle coins she always carried for emergencies. She stared back up at the door to the orphanage in awe, a small smile slowly spreading across her face.

"Well, I'll be damned."

AN: Shocked? Yeah, me too. I can't even use my outline anymore, this plot has deviated so drastically. I didn't even see that coming! My fingers have a mind of their own, I swear! And for those of you who might believe I made Tom too OOC, remember, he is now a very conflicted, confused young man. He will go back and forth a lot over the next chapters. So, stay tuned!