So I want to apologize for taking so long to update. I knew when I uploaded this story that I would be short on time but I did it anyways. A lot has been happening in the months that I've been away, mostly college. I'm taking my pre-req courses for nursing so most of my time is spent studying. The rest is spent on my job, trying to get as many hours as I can. By the time I get home, I'm exhausted and crash as soon as I can. So I'm sincerely sorry, everyone!
Anyways, I managed to get a little time to write and finally finished this chapter (and a short oneshot that's been nagging at me). Hopefully I'll be able to write more now that I'm adjusted to my insane schedule. Let's cross our fingers.
Scelestic (suh-lis-tic) - adjective- 1.) evil; wicked; atrocious.
Hysterical laughter rang throughout the unorganized room, books strewn all over the area, empty ink bottles and broken quills littering the floor. The shrill noise was dark and hopeless, and if anyone had been there to hear it, a shiver would have traveled down their spine at the unsettling tone. But that was the problem wasn't it? No one was.
A set of bony hands gripped greasy and limp hair as Hermione stared down at the text with furious eyes, the glowing ember becoming duller and duller as her shocked hysteria started to calm. The devastation came slowly, licking at the edges of her psyche, teasing in it's disbelief, before venturing forth and enfolding the witch in a blanket of ice. Painful sobs tore through the rest of her crazed laughter and she threw herself away from the table with a broken roar. The floor was merciless as her knees buckled, throbbing aches flaring in her legs and hands, and the pain only reminded the witch that she was alive.
It was not a welcome reminder.
Kneeling on the ground, hands and knees, Hermione's head hung as she wept harshly, her dirty, tangled hair a curtain around her wet face. Ragged breaths were gasps of the violent sort, tearing at her throat and making it ache, persistent and stinging. She knew she must look a right pathetic mess, but she didn't care. What did it matter when no one was there to watch as she broke into pieces?
A weak curse fell past her lips then, as, arms too weak to hold herself up any longer, buckled, and she only managed to stop from hurting herself more than she already was by twisting her body to land on her side. The attempt was futile, really, as her whole body already ached from lack of sleep and the emotional pain she felt bled to physical. It was sharp and biting, and, Merlin, she was so cold.
'So close.' The words were barley intelligible, the white noise filling her mind almost drowning out the phrase of her defeat, and almost as if the voice in her head realized this, they were repeated, louder this time, 'So close.'
She screamed then, falling in a helpless, weeping heap. Curling into herself, Hermione ached. Her physical pains were nothing compared to the agony she felt inside. Wedged deep in her chest where a bleeding heart rested was a ball of disappointment, lonliness, and grief so overwhelming, Hermione thought she was drowning. Misery surrounded her frail frame, and Hermione felt as it her body was made of lead. She couldn't breath, and she desperately tried to suck in air, but she couldn't breath. Why couldn't-
"You'll never find it, 'Mione."
With a whoosh, air filled her screaming lungs, and she froze, because she swore she heard-
"It's impossible, even for the brightest witch of her age. You should just give up now."
Scrambling to her knees, trembling and gasping, Hermione gaped, her muggy mind swirling and her mouth trying to form words. "Ha-Harry?"
He looked the same as she last saw him three years ago. Black hair messy and falling across his forehead, almond shaped eyes a fierce, glowing emerald. His body was as she remembered, thin and short and almost fragile. But his expression...she had never seen it aimed at her before.
Black hair was disturbed as he shook his head in disappointment. "You know it's impossible to change the past, 'Mione. You told me so yourself. So why are you even trying?"
"H-Harry!" Hermione sobbed. She was too weak to stand, but she tried anyways. But she was so confused, and her mind was failing her in that moment, trying to catch up, trying to process- "I thought you died, Harry! Where have you been? How-"
"You're not listening." Harry frowned at her, watching uncaringly as the frantic witch tried to scramble forward. "Stop." Hermione froze and stared at her best friend dazedly, her trembling arms coming to wrap around her body. "You have to listen, Hermione. Do you hear me?"
Her lip trembled. She wondered why she was so dizzy. "I thought you died, Harry. What-why-?"
"Listen!" Harry snapped, and Hermione fell silent, a sharp breath passing her lips. His voice and face softened, but his eyes stayed hard. "It's impossible," he repeated. "Do you remember in third year, when you told me the past cannot be changed?" Hermione nodded slowly, tears dribbling down her cheeks. Her hand brushed against her chest as she felt the phantom weight of a time-turner. "Then why are you doing this? You know you can't change anything, so why are you trying?"
"I have to try, Harry!" She burst out, desperate. Didn't he understand? she thought painfully. She thought that if anyone would, it would have been Harry. "Everyone's dead! I thought you were dead! We have to change this! Please, Harry, we have to-"
"Give it up, 'Mione."
A gasp tore from her throat as her head swung to the side. Ron Weasley frowned at her, his freckled face a mirror of Harry's own expression of disappointment. She thought her heart would burst then, it was beating so frantically against her chest. Hermione swayed, nauseous and afraid and so, so confused.
"R-Ron?" She asked brokenly. Her eyes swept across his face, so familiar, and she wondered if she had gone mad.
"I've been waiting for you, you know." He stared at her sadly. "Why are you still here? I - we - have been waiting for three years. And for what?" He laughed bitterly, and Hermione was trying to keep up, her mind scrambling and trying to work around the ache in her head, her body, her heart. "So Hermione Granger could conquer the impossible?"
"W-what are you talking about, Ron?" She begged to understand.
"It's time for you to come back to us," he told her, and Hermione shook her head in confusion, because where was she supposed to go but this room full of books and parchment and ink? "You can't change the past. Give up this hopeless mission and come back to us, 'Mione. We miss you."
"C-come back?" Hermione murmered, and she felt a wretched tickling sensation in her mind, as if something was trying to grab her attention but couldn't. The thought continued to elude her no matter how desperately she reached out for it, moving out of her reach easily in the sluggishness of her mind.
"Come back to us, Hermione." Harry and Ron both beckoned, and Hermione watched, horrified and heartbroken, as they began to fade. Because she was beginning to understand and she wasn't sure she would be able to handle what she already knew. "You know what to do, 'Mione, and we'll be waiting on the other side," the continued in eery tantrum.
Hermione tried to lunge forward and grasp onto their bodies but their fading forms moved away before she could touch them. "No! Please don't leave me! Ron! Harry!"
"We'll be waiting."
And then they were gone.
Hermione crumpled, staring blankly at where her two best friends had just been. And then she felt something snap and a long, animalistic whine filled the air. She pressed her hands against her mouth painfully trying to halt the noises leaving her mouth, and she could taste blood, the sharp bite of copper and rust.
She had vaguely began to realize what had truly been happening, but it was only then, slumped against the floor, that the knowledge finally cemented completely. Her hope crashed around her, shattering and shaking her to her very core. The shards cut painfully against her already bleeding heart, slashing mercilessly at the weakly beating organ. And as her vision began to blacken, sleep creeping up after four days of disuse, Hermione cursed her mind for the first time in her life. Nightmares were terrible but hallucinations were far, far worse.
Hermione shot awake with a gasp, and she stared unseeingly into the darkness, silent tears sliding down her cheeks. It wasn't the first time she had dreamt of the memory, but, as always, it felt just as real as it did over two decades ago. The events that had occurred after she woke from falling unconscious in exhaustion briefly flashed in her mind, but she pushed the biting memories away stubbornly. It didn't matter anymore anyways-everything was different now.
With a heavy sigh, she swiped her cheeks and roughly rubbed her eyes. She wouldn't be able to sleep again tonight, not with the dream still fresh in her mind. So, her heart throbbing, she shuffled out of the bed in her quarters, sliding her feet into a pair of slippers to protect them from the cold, and moved into her living area. Might as well get some research done while she was up.
Calming Draughts was the perfect solution (nice, chemistry puns) for the severe panic attacks Hermione suffered, for which she was relieved. Hyperventilation, insofar as triggering fainting spells and hysterics, was not the impression Hermione wished to give. It was bad enough that she was a witch rather than a wizard in this time. Weakness was not something she could afford to display.
If Hermione had not been under the influence of a mild Calming Draught yesterday - more specifically during Riddle's Defense block - the witch was sure her first day would not have passed so smoothly. What if she had not had the artificial serenity that held her composure, albeit not completely, when the Gryffindors began speaking of evil of the Dark and their self-proclaimed rightful punishment? Even under the influence of the potion, Hermione had lost control.
It frightened the witch that she was to be dependent on an addictive potion if she was to keep her head throughout the year. Hemione knew eventually she would have to start weaning off of the draught and face the PTSD on her own, just as she knew it was impossible to always be drugged with false calmness throughout the day. She couldn't afford to be addicted.
With this in mind, the witch withheld from knocking back one of the glimmering, light blue potions for her first set of night patrols. Rather, Hermione had a glass of red wine to sooth her nerves before exiting her quarters. (She ignored the voice in her head telling her trading one addiction for another wasn't any better, and set the empty glass firmly down.)
The halls were quiet. Hermione didn't know what was worse; the silence, or the cacophony resultant of the living. Both caused her chest to tighten; both brought the need to consciously control the speed of her breathing. However, while noise brought back memories she wished to forget and ignited panic, the silence filled Hetmione with a sense of deep and all consuming lonliness.
Refraining from wrapping her arms around herself, her mind wandered back over her day to distract herself from the feelings the silence stirred up.
It was apparent during breakfast that all of Hogwarts now knew she had been on the 'front lines'. The words did not reach her ears from the head table, but the whispers and curious, awe filled glances told Hermione the gossip mill had done it's job. And considering the looks of fear and caution in several eyes - most transpiring from the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables - her lapse of control was also known.
No matter how much Hermione told herself it didn't matter, she couldn't help but feel hurt. She didn't even try to lie to herself anymore when Harry and Ron's grandfathers had eyed her as if she was a wild animal about to attack.
Her chest ached just thinking about it, but instead of wallowing in self pity, she used the hurt to fuel her determination. Ignorance. That's all it was. And with ignorance, prejudice is formed. Hermione was now a professor; her job was to educate the ignorant, and that is exactly what she would do.
The fourth floor - where her quarters and office resided - was free of mischievous students. Hermione wondered if Hogwarts was similar to her own time, or if the students were more behaved with their restricted and proper lifestyles. Of course, she could name several trouble makers already, but none like Fred and George had been, or the "Golden Trio", or even like Draco and Blaise in their seventh year. The ones that she had seen were tame in comparison, and rather than feeling relieved like she would have thought she would, Hermione only felt sad. It was a shame, truly, as this time was as riddled with war as her own had been in her Hogwarts days, and laughter was a precious balm to a dark soul.
One particular student with promise did come to mind, however. He was a surprise himself, but his best friend even more so.
Calder Lovegood, no doubt Luna's grandfather. He did not have the same dazed eyes as his granddaughter did, and Hemione wondered if that was a trait Luna would have alone or if she had gotten it from her mother or grandmother. No, the male Lovegood's eyes were bright, rather, and he was sharp and full of quick wit. His house was also another difference, one that had surprised Hermione more than his disposition, but perhaps not as much as would be expected. Luna had been rather sly after all, once one got to know the girl enough.
But his best friend...now that, Hermione did not expect. Not only was inter-gender friendships uncommon in these days, but McGonagall had never hidden her disapproval of Luna's otherworldly frame of mind. Not even simply disapproval but outright distaste. Did something happen between the two unorthodox best friends to cause such an opinion?
Hermione supposed it didn't matter, not anymore.
The snake and lion made the witch's lips twitch as she thought back to their block. Indeed, Lovegood had promise. And McGonagall was surprisingly mischievous as well, though Hermione thought this trait was more directed at her best friend than her classmates as a whole. Even so, Hermione could hardly connect her old stern Transfiguration Professor to the snickering sixth year lion who gleefully unraveled the fair haired Slytherin's trousers with a quick spell. And though Lovegood didn't have Luna's dazed and serene disposition, his lack of modesty while he had his trousers around his ankles was familiar, and much more endearing now than it had been when Hermione had carried too much of her own.
Fred and George would have loved to see Mcgonagall with her hair down, both literally and figuratively.
The sound of whispering and stifled laughter pulled her from her thoughts and Hermione had to stop the immediate urge to draw her wand. Instead, she took a moment to calm her racing heart and then channelled her very best Serverus Snape. After all, students out after curfew was simply unacceptable in any time.
xXx
The next morning Hermione tucked a Calming Draught away in her robes and headed to the Great Hall for breakfast. She decided to see if she would be able to handle being around others without the influence, but she wasn't going to risk not taking the potion with her. It would be incredibly arrogant of her if she expected to sail past her anxiety. (She snorted at the underestimate.)
Professor Slughorn-Horace, she reminded herself firmly-smiled cheerfully at her, but before he could wave Hermione to the seat on his left, Dumbledore spoke.
"Good morning, Professor Granger," he greeted jovially. "Would you care to sit with me? I thought perhaps we could discuss your lesson plans. I've heard many interesting things and am curious to hear about it from the source."
Hermione pasted on a friendly smile and nodded, sitting beside the older wizard. "Of course, Professor Dumbledore. Though I'm sure by interesting you mean complaints. The students will have a very trying year ahead of them."
He laughed, and for the first time since Hermione has appeared in the past, the twinkle in his eyes seemed genuine. Dumbledore wasn't a bad man, she knew, and she didn't wish to make him an enemy, but Hermione was aware it was inevitable if her time here went as planned. Eventually, Tom would need to trust her and she him. They would be partners if she had her way, and if there was anybody who did not trust Tom Riddle, it was Dumbledore.
The frown that wanted to appear at the path of her thoughts was stifled with a fork and a bite of fruit. She hadn't even realized she had filled her plate and it was only the burst of sweetness that had drawn her to her actions. She would need to stop doing that, falling into her thoughts, and she zoned back into what Dumbledore was saying with a small shake of her head.
"-me Albus, my dear. After all, we're colleagues," he told her, and it didn't take long to understand what he was asking of her. (She swallowed a hysterical giggle because for a second, she had thought "me Albus" had been the beginning of his sentence and she had immediately imagined the older man in just a loin cloth with a large leg of game in one hand and a weapon made of rock in another.)
She nodded calmly, taking a sip of her juice to wash away the bubbling giggles. "Very well, Albus. You may call me Hermione."
"Excellent," he said, beaming, and Hermione wondered if she wasn't the only one off her knocker. "As I was saying, Hermione, I'm interested in hearing about your lessons. Is everything moving along? It's difficult transitioning in the beginning, I know, and it can be overwhelming at times, my dear."
Hermione's eyes were purposefully slow as she met the wizard's gaze evenly. She recognized a challenge when she heard one, and she understood that the brief glimpse of kindness she saw was gone. Bipolar, she thought analytically, and inwardly smirked at the diagnosis.
"Perhaps a bit to take in, certainly, Albus, but I am confident in my abilities," she replied easily, and when his eyes shifted for the slightest of a second, she knew she had been correct. The older wizard was aware of her brief lapse of control during the seventh year's lesson; she could imagine what he was thinking.
"Armando wouldn't have accepted you as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor if you did not," he agreed lightly. Dumbledore peered at her with hard eyes and a careless smile on his face. "Or should I say the Defense professor?"
Hermione smiled serenely, though her gaze was just as sharp as his. "Only unofficially, though Armando did like the idea, so who knows what the future could hold?" (The irony of that statement was not lost on her. Who indeed?)
The Headmaster chose that moment to jump into the conversation. It didn't surprise Hermione as she had guessed he was listening in as they spoke. He seemed entirely unaware of all that had been left unsaid.
"You know, Albus, it wasn't that long ago when Defense Against the Dark Arts was simply Defense-"
Hermione's attention only vaguely lingered on the conversation. The hairs on the back of her neck were slowly rising and she was acutely aware of the feeling of being watched. She scanned the Great Hall until, finally, her gaze settled on Tom Riddle.
She should have known.
It was unsettling that she couldn't read the emotions in his eyes, only that they were intense and focused upon her. Even with the small smirk hinting at the corner of his mouth, he was unreadable. Hermione wanted to squirm in her seat because she was never good with such focus directed at her, and it was only her stubborn will that stopped her from moving.
"-it was only when Gannon Bedford became Headmaster in 1816 that the class was changed to as it is now-"
Riddle did not look away even when Hermione's eyes met his own. His gaze seemed to become even more intent, rather, and she was confused because this was not how Tom Riddle had been described in his Hogwarts days. Hermione had fully expected the boy to continue with his charade of the polite but aloof student for another several months before he began to show so much interest, but she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. This was what she wanted after all, it was just sooner than she had expected.
"-depending on how well Hermione does this year, I may reinstate DADA to how it had been in the past. There must be a reason the Founders wished to teach all defense rather than just that of the Dark Arts-"
Hermione should have known she couldn't expect anything of Riddle, even if for something as simple as this. It was a gamble, but, luckily, not a damaging one. She couldn't afford to wipe all preconceived notions of the Slytherin but she would be careful now, adjust and rewrite and tread along a very thin line.
She wasn't much for dancing but Hermione knew the steps and turns and she could waltz like she had been having lessons for years if she needed to. It could even be fun if she wasn't forced into it, and wasn't Hermione the one who had bowed and offered a spin around the floor?
"-I may even sit in on a class myself later in the year. Hermione and I have discussed many delightful ideas that she has, not limited to her Defense class-"
They would be partners one day, she had no doubt about that. Once she put her mind to something, Hermione Granger could accomplish anything. So if she had a little fun before then...well, it couldn't hurt anything. Would most likely make thing better in all likely hood. Even with just the bare knowledge that she truly knew about the Slytherin Heir, Hermione would bet her left foot that the boy didn't suffer with fools. And dancing...the kind that involved intricate steps, precise movements, and artful turns...yes, dancing was certainly not for the foolish.
"-defense and dueling come hand in hand, don't you agree, Albus? Hermione suggested transforming the Dueling Club into an elective and I find that a marvelous idea, especially in these trying times. The year has already started of course, so it shall be unofficial, but she has requested permission to supervise and teach once the club starts in a fortnight. Perhaps you would like to assist her, Albus?"
At that, Hermione's attention abruptly snapped back to Dumbledore and Dippet. She couldn't stop the displeased sneer in time but she managed to smooth out her expression before they both saw. This had been a possibility that she had planned for but she had hoped it wouldn't come to pass. It appeared the hope had been futile. Even now, Albus Dumbledore was a respected and powerful wizard, and even with his added responsibilities as Deputy Headmaster, he was a logical choice in helping Hermione with the Dueling Club. Especially when he had been "supervising" the club for several years now.
That didn't mean she liked it.
"I would be delighted, Armando," Albums agreed cheerfully, his eyes meeting Hermione's. "If Hermione doesn't mind, that is?"
"Of course not," Hermione lied smoothly. "One can't duel with themselves, can they? And I can't think of anyone better to help me. I've heard many great things about you, Albus."
He gave a nod of thanks, and even as Dippet began speaking again, he continued to hold her gaze. Hermione slowly raised an eyebrow and finally the old wizard nodded once more and fully turned his attention to the Headmaster.
Hermione's hand clenched into a fist under the table, unseen.
As the hairs on the back of her neck continued to stand on end, she glanced back at Riddle. A small frown rose on her face when she saw he was conversing with his classmates. Absently her hand rose to rub the back of her neck and decided she was just being paranoid. Perhaps she should take that Calming Draught after all, she thought as she tucked back into her breakfast.
Above the Professor's heads, a moth fluttered.
And that's a wrap! This is the longest chapter so far; I wanted to try to make up for such a long wait. I'm really excited for the next chapter, you guys, it's gonna be fun. There will be much more Tom as well.
So I have a few things I want to address but I'm going to try not to ramble.
1.) Dumbledore isn't the bad guy here but he's not going to be really good either in this story. After all, with Tom as one of the main characters, it's to be expected.
2.) Some of you have mentioned this, one review specifically bringing up Hermione's comparison to Lucius. Yes, she is arrogant. That's an aspect of her personality that has always been there, now it's not just for her smarts but also her magical abilities. And as it is with her intellect, she is both right and wrong. She is incredibly powerful, but is she at Lucius Malfoy's level already? No. He was Voldemort's Lieutenant and trained by the Dark Lord himself (at least in this verse). She'll eventually see this but it will be awhile yet.
3.) And lastly, I finally finished the outline for this story. It's gonna be a beast, let me tell you. I'm expecting at least a hundred chapters with two parts, several major arcs, and many minor ones (though no sequal). It's gonna be a fun and wild ride.
I'd like to thank everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and followed this story. And especially those who have been patiently waiting for an update these past few months. Y'all are amazing and I love every single one of you. Please tell me if there is any major mistakes that you see as I do not have a Beta, and if you are so inclined, your favorite part of the story so far and what you would like to see. I will take everything in consideration.
To the guest who reviewed yesterday: I'm glad you like the story so far! On what you said about ideals, that's one of the reasons I started this story. My headcanon is that Tom is an asshole but not evil (different from Voldemort), and a oneshot didn't satisfy my need to write him. Hope you enjoyed the update, darling!
(To the guests who review, please personalize the name so I know who you are and can reply. Thank you.)
If I don't update again this month, I want to wish everyone a Happy Holidays. Eat lots of pie.
