A/N: As usual, I don't own HP. JK Rowling does. But I hope, if she reads my story, she'll think, "Hey, what a great idea! What a fantastic story! I want to write something with the person!" I wouldn't mind getting some fame either.

Lay Beside Me in the Dawn

Chapter IV

Her release from the hospital wing went uneventfully. Aside of Madam Lystra, no one was present to witness it.

During her sick leave, only her Head of House, Dumbledore and – Hermione scowled – Tom Riddle, had visited her. She didn't catch a glimpse of Cedrella, Alphard or his girlfriend during that time. She corrected her calculations, remembering the visit of Anton Dolohov, who had arrived with Riddle and Dumbledore, awkwardly apologizing for the accident, and given her a box of chocolate frogs.

She hadn't missed the irony of the situation, accepting an apology from the future Death Eater.

Hermione softly stroked the brown curls that replaced her lost hair, lost in thought. Professor Dumbledore had once enquired about the absence of Cedrella, but Hermione couldn't bear to reveal the truth. She had mumbled something incoherent instead. Based on the expression flickering in his eyes, she got the impression Dumbledore somehow knew already. Hermione's heart fluttered nervously. She wondered if the Slytherins had somehow learned that she was a muggle born witch.

She glanced at her image in the mirror, still slightly startled to see her changed appearance. The wounds had mostly healed, and her tender new hair hid those few scars that were to remain, decorating the skin of her scalp like pale snakelike marks beneath the soft brown curls.

"It's a bit different from earlier, I know," Madam Lystra sighed behind Hermione. "I thought it would happen. You never know how a body reacts when exposed to such strong and harmful magic."

She tried to smile. "It's not so much different. The colour's still the same. At least my head's not pink!" Hermione let out a sudden chuckle, remembering Tonks and her constantly changing wild hair. "Besides, it's a lot easier to maintain now. The main thing's I'm mostly scarless – and not bald." She turned to look at the nurse, giving her a reassuring smile.

"Such a brave lass!" The nurse smiled, turning away, which was when Hermione's own smile died.

She fingered her new hair, unsure whether to like or dislike it. It had always been a bit of an annoyance and she had often wished for a way to tame it. Now, the hair reached to her chin and instead of protruding in every possible direction, curled only slightly. She sighed, turning back to her reflection. Her appearance was the least of her worries.

Constrained in the hospital wing, Hermione had had time to think over her frequent encounters with Riddle The thought of snaring the Head Boy's attention was more than alarming. She had made sure that he couldn't know anything about her origins. Hermione felt confident about this. Then, why, Hermione frowned thoughtfully, walking from the hospital wing, did he suddenly pay her such notice?

"Ah, Miss Greenleaf! Just the person I was hoping to see!" She turned, recognizing Dumbledore's voice and her contemplations shattered. The man walked to her with his dark teacher robes billowing behind him as if he was the personification of Snape himself. "I trust Madam Lystra's tended you back into shape when I see you up on your feet already now."

"Professor," Hermione greeted the wizard. "Yes, she just released me from the hospital wing. I promised to visit her once a week, just to make sure there're no complications."

"Splendid! 'Tis a wonderful piece of news!" Dumbledore beamed. "And as you appear to feel so well, I would like to discuss with you some of the ideas you wrote in your essay about the possible uses of fairy dust in transfiguration. Would you have a minute?"

"Certainly, Professor," Hermione answered, blushing, and somewhat baffled by the request. She had written the essay during her sick leave, cursing her inability to visit the library and check the necessary books for her references. Riddle had brought her some material but Hermione had been reluctant to ask him for anything extra in fear of becoming even more indebted to him.

Scowling at her recurring thoughts of Tom Riddle, she followed Dumbledore through the corridors to his office.

He sat down in his chair, his brows furrowing before he started to speak. "Miss Greenleaf. I have received some answers concerning your -," he hesitated only a little before continuing, "situation and this…Pythagoras' Device."

"Oh?" She licked her lip, surprised.

Dumbledore glanced over her to the wall of his study. "It seems Pythagoras truly was able to create spells than bent the surrounding time-space quantum, as you were told."

"So the device is a time-turner?" she asked, somewhat relieved, and already starting to think of how to undo her trip to the past. If Sophia had been right and the markings were some sort of navigation lines, she only needed to figure out their meaning. She was relatively certain she could create a spell to recall how the settings had been in the first place. She could modify the spell that was used in creating a pensieve…

"Not entirely."

"What?" Hermione gasped, her previous plans forgotten, and granted Dumbledore a shocked glance. "Professor, what do you mean by that?"

Dumbledore sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking at Hermione oddly. "According to him, it is said, though never proved, that Pythagoras had a way to travel in time. He was said to travel widely in his youth, visiting various places seeking knowledge. During his travels, he came up with…certain knowledge and items that couldn't come from his own time."

"Yes?" She nodded, wary, not liking his tone at all.

"Well, apparently his inventions gave him prestige in his world, allowing Pythagoras to found a magical school somewhere in the Mediterranean in which he taught his followers."

"I read about it. His followers were sworn into secrecy, following very tight rules, developed by him," Hermione commented quietly.

He smiled at her. "Precisely, Jean. I see you've already gained some information about the subject. Then you must know that while his school gained importance, it also gained some enemies. Eventually, the school was attacked and burnt down, and Pythagoras was forced to flee. Devastated by what happened, he swore that no one would be able to use his magic ever again without a consequence. Whatever he did afterwards is lost to history, and nobody knows his eventual fate. But the legend tells he stored his powers in a golden locket, the size of a palm, and sealed it with a powerful curse. "

"Curse?" Hermione repeated weakly.

He opened his mouth, then snapped it closed. "I feared it might be the case when I touched the locket for the first time. It didn't feel dark in itself. Rather, I felt a protective spell surrounding the locket. However, when I tried to screen it, it rejected all my tries. I only succeeded in gaining some knowledge after I tried some very old magic on it, which is no longer practiced in the wizarding community." He fell into silence, bringing his gaze straight to Hermione. She started. His eyes were void of their usual twinkle. "It confirmed my suspicion that the latent magic in it had waited all these millennia, and was reactivated by your unintentional touch, or more precisely, your blood."

"Blood magic?" She nearly fainted. "You mean – Unbreakables?"

"I regret you are correct, Ms. Greenleaf," he said, apologetic. "The spell that brought you here, to this time, was a result of an unbreakable curse you activated in your own time."

Hermione's forehead furrowed. "But Unbreakables - they usually have a reason, a task, something the cursed is obliged to accomplish, or else…" She didn't continue, feeling the unvoiced threat hanging above her like the invisible Damocles' Sword.

Dumbledore sighed.

Tears filled Hermione's eyes when the realization dawned on her at last. "I won't be able to return home," she whispered, her shoulders slumping, and wiped her eyes. The thought of not ever again being able to see Ron, Harry, Ginny or her parents strangled her throat. "Am I doomed to die painfully only because some stupid Death Eaters tried to get their revenge on me?" she sniffed, tears starting to fall.

"Now, now, Ms. Greenleaf. Let us not sink into the pit of despair. You're still alive, and whatever the goal of the curse was, you have all the time in the world to accomplish it. The touch of your blood has broken the worst part of the curse, and I found no trace of it lingering in the Pythagoras' Device," Dumbledore comforted her. He opened a drawer and shuffled through it, lifting the golden locket into view. He looked at the shimmering item, sighing. "Whatever might happen in the future, your blood has now bound this to you, Ms. Greenleaf."

"I don't want it," Hermione huffed with wet eyes, the bitterness evident in her voice.

"Regardless, the Device belongs to you. It does no good to deny the undeniable. You are bound with powerful magic to the Pythagoras' Device, just as it is to you," Dumbledore gently persisted.

Something in his voice penetrated her woe, and she snatched the locket from his hand. The item felt cold, the spheres edging sharply against her skin. A dizzying sense of light and buzz took over her. For a moment, the study room ebbed away and Dumbledore's face faded. She heard shouts, thundering commanding voices and echoing blasts. She blinked, and the sensation disappeared. Only the silence of Dumbledore's office rang in her ears, the ancient walls emitting their relentless coldness.

Dumbledore eyed her gently. "I would keep it close and continue researching. But remember, you're living in this time. It might be good to accept this fact in case the spell cannot be remedied."

Hermione only nodded, slipping the golden chain over her head.

(ix)

"Cedrella! Wait!" Hermione hurried after a familiar looking blond-headed girl, having only just been released from another meeting - this time with her Head of House.

Cedrella turned. "Oh, hi, Jean."

Hermione stopped, out of breath. "Umm, are you alright?"

Cedrella turned aside, her face unreadable. "Fine. Madam Lystra let you out from the hospital wing, I see."

Suddenly unsure how to continue, Hermione furrowed her brow. "Look, I get that something must have happened…"

"You know nothing, Jean," she interrupted, swiping invisible dirt from her robes. "I'm sorry but I don't have time right now." She looked straight at her for the first time, attempting a feeble smile. "Good to see you up though," she said before rushing away.

Hermione stared after the disappearing figure, weary and worried. Just what exactly was wrong with Cedrella? She shook her head, lifting her hand to her chest and feeling the bulgy form of the Pythagoras Device beneath her clothes, the golden chain around her neck suddenly throttling her. She let her arm fall on her side and briskly started walking in another direction.

Entering the silent library calmed her nerves. The room was devoid of other students apart from a pair of Ravenclaw girls sitting in front of a table, their heads buried behind schoolbooks. She gave a distracted nod to the librarian while heading for her old favourite place in the back of the room and, knees bending underneath her, sat down on the chair.

Hermione stared at the rows of shelves, blinking away tears of rejection and humiliation. Cedrella's abandonment hurt her more than she wanted to admit. She sniffed, wiping her nose and feeling absolutely miserable. Why was Cedrella avoiding her? It couldn't be, Hermione deduced, other students learning about her invented family roots. She hadn't given away any signs, had guarded herself and held her tongue as well as she could. Even the name she had selected as her own, Greenleaf, was a known wizard name. Not pureblooded, of course, but a wizard name still.

Hermione realized with a sinking feeling that name and blood was the only thing that mattered to Slytherins. She couldn't forget the contempt Valburga Black and Serena Crabbe hadn't even tried to hide after they learnt that their new roommate's parents didn't own big estates, weren't influential, or famous. She had very little with which to impress the others, no connections or rich family.

Hermione had believed Cedrella was different. Apparently, she had been wrong. At the moment it seemed unlikely Hermione would ever be accepted as a Slytherin.

Stupid Slytherins. Who needs their approval, anyway? Hermione sniffed again, glowering at the bookshelves. She would show them and get new friends. But… Her gaze narrowing, she started pulling her hair while her brows furrowed in a deep frown. Crosshouse friendships, especially those between Slytherins and the other Houses, were rare occasions.

Why the Sorting Hat had decided she would be suitable for the Slytherin House was a mystery. Her new housemates appeared to avoid her like a plague, excluding Tom Marvolo Riddle, while other students apparently only considered her as another sly, wicked and untrustworthy member of the species.

Albus Dumbledore's worry seemed so stupid. Hermione doubted she could even slightly alter the future, not when she had no one to talk to. She fought back the tears of self-pity, hating herself for feeling like this. What had happened to the old Hermione? She didn't care about other people's opinions, not any longer. Hadn't she already learned that lesson?

Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, Hermione settled for groaning.

"Homesick already, Jean?" Hermione jolted at the smooth voice. The mocking question aggravated her more than scared her. What did he know about homesickness anyway, coming from an orphanage?

"That's none of your business, Riddle," she snapped before got hold of her tongue.

"Tsk, tsk. That wasn't very friendly, Jean." He clicked his tongue, taking a seat next to her. The light coming from the window behind him illuminated his fine features, inviting her to accept his almost angelic appearance at face value. "And haven't I told you already to call me Tom?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "Sorry, Tom. I'm not having a very good day."

He arched his eyebrows questioningly, turning to her. "Care to tell me why so? Maybe I can help."

Stiffly, Hermione forced a smile and felt it was more a frown. He appeared to buy it, however. "Professor Dumbledore asked me to rewrite last week's transfiguration essay." Her words sounded like someone was pulling out her teeth, and she blushed, appalled at having to reveal this – of all possible people – to Tom Riddle.

Well, better this than confess the truth to him. That she had learnt only a moment ago that she was stuck 50 years in the past, under a millennia old curse, and her only friend in this time had just decided not to talk to her.

"How awful. I told you the spell's a tricky one and needs good references. I know the library like my own pockets and could give you a hand, if you wanted," he said, sounding almost uninterested. But there was something in his voice that made Hermione want to give him another glance.

She hesitated. Every time Tom Riddle had offered to help her, she had turned him down. Maybe that was the reason why he appeared to be so interested in her? Tom Riddle was a model student, liked by everyone. She had no reason to avoid him, not when he hadn't given her any cause to think otherwise. She didn't want to make him suspicious.

Facing him, she failed to notice how she continued tugging her hair again. Could it be she had been wrong? Maybe it had been an accident, not Tom Riddle's machination, that she ended up in the infirmary? After all, Anton Dolohov had apologized her. And Hermione couldn't forget the steely glint she had seen flickering in Tom's eyes as he stood behind Dolohov, making sure Dolohov fulfilled his task.

He had acted friendly towards her, enough to come to meet her each day during her sickness… And Hermione had to admit, she was curious to know what drove Tom Riddle to pursue immortality so intently he was willing to give up his humanity and become Lord Voldemort.

She had used a time turner one year without getting caught, Hermione reminded herself. She might be able to learn something no one else before her had known, and if she was careful, she could do it without jeopardizing her future.

Tom Riddle returned the stare, face impassive.

"Thanks. I'd appreciated that…Tom," Hermione said at last.

After spending more time in the library, little by little, Hermione's nervousness started to fade. She still avoided looking him straight in the eyes, but wasn't feeling so tense or frightened. True to his words, he had searched for her additional material, accompanied with some very helpful tips. They had discussed briefly the nature of conjuring, finding out they shared surprisingly similar views about the theory behind the spells.

Almost ashamed, Hermione realized she found his company agreeable – never mind that his friendliness had to be a facade. But she couldn't deny her pleasant surprise when he understood her, even when she cited some of the books or theories she had studied, providing compelling arguments back at her. To silence her bad thoughts, she cut short their theoretical discussion, and started to work with her essay.

"That's an interesting necklace you have."

Hermione looked up, startled at the sudden comment. His expression was as neutral as always but Hermione didn't like the gleam she perceived in his gaze. She touched the Pythagoras Device that had come loose from beneath her clothes, swaying in front of her chest.

"I got it as a present when I came here," she muttered uncomfortably, remembering Tom Riddle's obsession with artefacts and other ancient items. The golden loops encircling the hub felt ice cold against her fingertips as she stuffed it back inside her robes.

"It appears to be quite old," he commented slowly.

She smiled forcefully. "I - my parents dug it up some time ago in Greece."

"Do you have any idea to whom it might have belonged?"

Hermione shrugged and looked back at her books, picking up her quill. "My mother thinks it belonged to Helen of Troy, my father believes Alcibiades owned it, and I decided long time ago not to guess anything when it comes to history. Someone always has a new theory to give as an explanation."

She could sense Tom's dissatisfaction, but he refrained from asking more questions and continued his work across the table. After a while Hermione let out a sigh she had been holding, starting to relax. She stared at the parchment in front of her, trying to focus on the spell's theory. Instead, she could only think about the boy facing her.

The question, as innocent as it had been, had rattled her more than she could have guessed. She glanced at Tom and his dark-haired head bent over his homework. His feather quill rustled against the parchment as he inscribed with elegant handwriting the essay he had been working on after helping Hermione find books for her transfiguration essay.

Her eyes fixed on his gleaming ring and acid-tasting bile accumulated in her mouth. She swallowed it down, unable to rip her gaze from the black-stoned jewellery adorning his finger. Tom wore Gaunt's ring. It meant he had already killed his father and maternal grandparents, and framed his uncle of their murder. How long ago had that been? A week before school started? A month?

Feeling suddenly nauseous, she started piling her stuff together.

He interrupted his work and looked up. Something in her face must have given her away, since his eyes narrowed as he asked. "Is something wrong, Jean?"

Hermione couldn't gather a word, shaking her head. "No. I only…I need to go to the dormitory. I forgot some of my books."

He blinked. "You can borrow mine, if you want to."

"Umm, thanks, Riddle," she mumbled, pulling herself upright. "I, um, I'm not…I just need to go. I'm sorry. See you later."

Without waiting for his answer and before she could say something even more idiotic, she spun around and hurried away, her cheeks burning. The sight of the ring had felt like a bucket of cold water. Icy shivers travelled down her spine as all those things she knew Lord Voldemort had done - was going to do returned to her mind.

Stupid her, thinking even for a while, he could be something more.