Sorry for the slight delay – I'm on fall break, but I am quite busy, nonetheless! But here is a nice long chapter. Warning: there is a small measure of fluff.
-XXX-
To her great and every-lasting surprise, Hermione thoroughly enjoys Tom Riddle's company. Well, to the extent of discussions and the occasional debate over tea. But within those non-voluntary hours she spends with him, over the dozens of topics they cover, she finds that she honestly enjoys the psychotic homicidal maniac. His eyes do not glaze over when she starts on house-elf rights (though he does get quite the chuckle out of Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, all too quickly catching onto the acryonym). He instead rises to the debate heartily.
It's quite a change from what she is used to. Even Percy, her most loyal conversation partner, would sometimes seem to doze off during discussions of non-human rights – though, to be fair, she was hardly better when it came to the regulation of cauldron-bottoms.
"You can't curse another living creature just for sake of another!" she protested during one of their more heated debates. The features column of the Prophet that day included an article on the issue of dragon-pox. Apparently, some (fools, in Hermione's mind) thought that dragons held the key to the cure and were all for slaying or at the very least capturing a few hundred to find some kind of antidote.
"But if that living creature's life isn't the same value as your own," Tom explained patiently. "Then why should it not be fair?"
"Who is to say what lives have value and what lives do not?" she cried. "That's an awfully black-and-white way of looking at the world, Tom."
His eyes possessed a steely glint. "It's a realistic way."
"Oh, hardly."
"No, no," he argued. "It's only true. Some lives are worth more than others. Wizards above non-magical and non-human beings. It's like how men are superior to cows. The falcon to the mouse."
"Being prey does not mean the life of the prey holds no value," she replied. "For how would a predator survive without the prey? Every life holds equal weight. Besides, you speak of these creatures as though they are prey. As though muggles are prey. Surely you don't believe that, Tom?"
He never gives her a straight answer, but it doesn't matter. Hermione knows precisely what Tom Riddle believes when it comes to the value of life.
-XXX-
Hermione does not know how, exactly, he has become a fixture in her life. But in just a few short weeks, Tom Riddle is a regular installation in Beatrice Garner's day-to-day activities. And she feels as though it is not quite within her will.
But there have been no threats. No bribery, no bullying, nothing of that nature at al. He simply insisted on being inserted into her reluctant existence in this decade, and she is at a loss on how to get rid of him.
He picks her up every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from the shop to have a drink at the Leaky Cauldron. On Tuesday and Thursday she meets him at the crossroads between Knockturn and Diagon so they can walk along the streets of muggle London, exploring the older parts of the city. And on weekends, Hermione might find him in her threshold with a new book or – far more likely – nothing more than a smirk.
Of their odd, not-quite-friends relationship, Hermione doesn't know what to think. Part of her terrified to mess up the timeline. Another part is equally terrified of him, this younger version of Lord Voldemort. And another part is thankful to have the company. She had no idea of how lonely she'd been until Tom came into her life, filling what were once quite hours with arguments and lectures and thoughtful conversation.
For the moment, she can do little more than accept it. She has tried ignoring him, tried keeping a careful distance, then a not-so-careful distance, but Tom Riddle is having none of that. For whatever reason, he seeks to know her and to keep her near.
"Do not share anything more than necessary," Dumbledore's letters advise. "And as soon as you have an opportunity, make your distance."
She's trying. Really.
-XXX-
Sometimes, her mind is a million miles away.
He can tell when she gets that glazed look about her eyes. Her mouth goes soft with longing. Any person could see that Beatrice Garner is out of this realm, out of this life. Her thoughts are some place beyond the horizon that he can see.
Tom hates it. He hates not knowing all of the corners of her mind. He hates not being able to follow.
If he dared, he'd use Legilimency on her. He's gotten better over the last four months. But no – he doesn't dare. It's Beatrice. The mere notion of performing such a spell on her is enough to turn his stomach.
-XXX-
The spring is a wet one, full of many sporadic downpours. Hermione is often forced to bring her umbrella to work, as she much prefers to walk rather than apparate. If she forgets, she has to find an awning to hide beneath until she can cast an water-repelling charm or transfigure herself an umbrella.
He teases her about her overly-cautious nature and will go to great lengths to hide her umbrella whenever he visits her at work. Hermione loathes these games, and tells him as much. Tom doesn't see to care.
It is during one of these storms that she accidently brings Tom Riddle to her flat, her last safe haven. As soon as she realizes what has been done, Hermione wants to hit herself.
A heavy afternoon storm crashes down upon London at approximately four in the afternoon, when Hermione's shift at the store is up. She's greeted at the door by a rain-drenched Tom. Beads of water collect on his skin like diamonds, glittering in the dim light outside of the shop. His perfectly styled hair is flat against his head, several locks glued to his forehead. Hermione pushes this back with the heel of her palm.
Touching him has grown easier. Tom encourages it, to her surprise. He likes feeling her skin against his. Often times he randomly reaches out to feel the back of her hand lightly. As though to remind himself that she's corporal. Present. With him.
Out of Flourish and Blott's, Hermione opens her umbrella. "Where are we going?
They start moving away from the shop. Tom opens his mouth, offering a suggestion, but is interrupted by a gust of wind that tears Hermione's umbrella forward, whipping it out of shape. She cries loudly, reaching for her wand. Tom takes the lead, tugging her towards another covered shop front.
"Let's just go back to the flat," he suggests. "We won't have much of a evening with the way the weather is tonight. Let's just go indoors and wait this out."
With a sighs, she agrees. Closing her eyes, Hermione takes his arm and apparates them –
- straight into her parlor.
"Damn."
Interested, Tom peers around the room. "Well, this wasn't exactly what I imagined. But I am pleased, nonetheless."
Dropping her arm, he moves though the room, heading towards the mantle, looking at her possessions. Hermione, frozen, is internally cursing herself. "You idiot! He said the flat, not your flat. You had no obligation to bring him here! Now he knows where you live!"
A soft meow distracts her from the internal berating. Nyx is winding her way between her mistress's legs. Hermione stoops to pick up the feline, shushing it as she strokes the length of the cat. Tom approaches, reaching out. He politely offers Nyx his hand. After a period of sniffing she decides that he may pet her.
"This was not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
He tilts his head. "More books."
She can't help but laugh.
-XXX-
"Who was that?" she asks vaguely.
A person had come to his door. It was only about eight o'clock, but still the visitor was mysterious in the way they pulled up the hood of their cloak and spoke in a near-whisper. Tom met them at the threshold. They were not invited in. Business was conducted over the course of three minutes in hush tones while Hermione remained in the kitchen, nudging a blackened something-or-other beefsteak in the frying pan. She cannot hear them over the sizzle, and wishes for a pair of Extendable Ears. There is a pair somewhere in the depths of her beaded bag, but that's over a mile away. It's no use summoning them.
When Tom steps away from the door he does so quietly, taking his time in coming back to the kitchen.
"Oh," he replies shortly. "No one. Just a business associate."
"I didn't know shopboys had business associates."
He meets her eyes levelly. "Shows what you know," Tom says coolly. There is a pause. "Let me do that, you're useless in a kitchen."
"No, I've got it," she whispers. It takes a good deal of control for her to steady her quivering wrists.
-XXX-
"A surprise," he says. "Dress for walking."
Wary, Hermione wears a comfortable skirt and cardigan, packing a hat (one thing she likes about this era is its acceptance of hats) and her beaded purse. He meets her at her flat and apparates them, demanding that she close her eyes and keep them closed until he directs otherwise. She giggles nervous, hoping to hide her true anxiety. She wants to bite her lip and protest, but it is not to be. Tom would not receive it well.
"Open," he commands only a few moments after her feet are steady upon solid ground.
Hermione lets her eyelids flutter open, gasping to take in the dramatic landscape. They're in a sparkling green wood that has only been just touched by rain. A small brook flows a little ways away, and at the base of the tree they have landed in front of a fine picnic is laid. The gingham blanket is spread with fine china and crystal (likely transfigured), a bowl of grapes and strawberries, cheese, bread, among other things.
She stares, mouth agape. Tom nudges her, smiling. "I thought we might go out for the afternoon."
"Oh, Tom."
He leans in to kiss her cheek. "Do you like it?" he whispers.
"Yes." Hermione touches her cheek where he kissed her, surprised again. "Tom, when –"
"Come!" he pulls her towards the blanket, plopping down and patting the spot beside him. She sinks to her knees, folding her skirts beneath her.
They eat and talk for over an hour. Once finished, Tom sends everything back into the basket, then leans against the tree trunk, bidding her to sit with him. She does, and her head somehow finds its way to his shoulder. With a sigh, she closes her eyes.
"This was utterly lovely, Tom. And a massive surprise."
The wizard leans towards her, head against hers. "I'm pleased you've enjoyed yourself."
"You have been so…." She searches for a word. "Sweet."
He chuckles. "I do not believe any person has ever used that adjective upon me before."
"I find that hard to believe."
-XXX-
Thoughts of Harry and Ron and life in 2000 resurface on bad days. She's been her nearly seven months. By no means has Hermione given up – but sometimes, she almost forgets that this is not where she belongs.
In those moments when she is taken by thoughts of the future-past, she's simply gone. Wistful, she might withdraw from them after a few minutes or an hour, depending on how sad she wishes to feel, and then go about the rest of her day on heavy limbs.
Tom notices. Of course he notices. And he cannot stand it. He will never ask what it is that haunts her so frequently and with so much strength, but it is all too easy to derive that he wants badly to know. In those moments that she is far away, he often reaches for her, attempts to pull her back to the present, back to him.
Never once is she tempted to tell him.
She's still searching for a way back. If it's not the book she's currently reading, then maybe it will be the next one. Or the one after that. One day, one of the books will have a spell or a rune or a potion that will send her home. She's sure of it.
-XXX-
What do you think so far? Do the short scenes work?
Reviews would be so lovely!