Lovely response! Thank you everyone who has followed and reviewed!
-XXX-
Over the weekend, Hermione takes some time to think about her Tom Riddle predicament. He really hasn't proven to be the insane freak she'd assumed he'd be. A bit intimidating, yes. Unable to comprehend social norms, certainly. But murderous?
Hermione decides that she's perhaps been a little too harsh. Constantly challenging him wasn't going to be healthy for her in the long run. She needs to end this. Now. He can't have this fixation upon her. That fixation alone could alter time.
Stroking Oxyn thoughtfully over an untouched glass of wine, Hermione plans what she wants to say and how she's going to say it. Of course, it doesn't go as planned. These things have a tendency not to.
It's early afternoon when she finds herself in Borgin and Burke's. She still feels utterly creeped out by the shop, and it takes a bit of steeling herself to even enter, but Hermione manages it. The withered Burke stands behind the counter. He eyes her, but issues no greeting. His features are like melted wax, sallow. She's vaguely reminded of Snape.
"Is Tom in?" she begins hesitantly.
Burke's brows rise. "What would you want with our Thomas?"
"I – I've brought him lunch." She holds up a bag. "Please, if he's not here, may I just leave it –"
"Yes, yes," Burke says, waving his hand. "I'll make sure he gets it. Anything else?"
"No, thank you!"
When she's gone, he examines the bag's contents. Once he's determined there's nothing suspicious, he consumes two of the three chocolates and reads the note folded at the bottom of the bag.
Tom –
I'm sorry I was so standoffish the other night. Please know it is nothing personal. I do appreciate the offer, however, I simply cannot. I think, in fact, that it is best that we keep our distance. Take this peace offering, either way, as a gesture of thanks for saving my a few weeks ago.
Best wishes,
Beatrice
Burke thinks the girl is a fool and tells his shopboy as much when he arrives with new purchases from the MacMillian estate. Tom smiles thinly when he reads the note. Burke asks why the young woman turned him down and Tom shrugs.
"She won't again," the young man assures the elder wizard.
-XXX-
Dear Professor Dumbledore,
"….I cannot say why my encounters with Mr. Riddle are so risky and unsettling. Only that knowing he is so close to me – has an interested in me – isn't right. If he continues with this preoccupation, there is a chance history may be permanent, dangerously altered.
Truth be told, there is not much you or the Ministry could do. I really just wanted this to be on the record. I'm doing everything within my power to keep my distance. The trouble is, he's very much working against me…."
Ever yours,
Hermione
-XXX-
"Beatrice – that's Shakespeare, right? As You Like It?"
"No," she says through gritted teeth. "Much Ado About Nothing."
"Right." He flashes her a falsely apologetic smile.
Something about this slip of a girl has entranced him. Though she appears to be a dull, stressed creature, she is all but dull. Her wit is whip-sharp, cracking, really. She dares to speak to him in a way no one has. Well, at least, no one has dared to do more than once.
They're come across each other a handful of times now, proving that the world really is a small place. Or perhaps it simply feels like a small place when two people of similar interests inhabit the same areas repeatedly.
He's never met a girl who likes books the way Beatrice does. He's seen her at Flourish and Blott's, watched the way her hands caress the rich leather covers, seen her fingers dance along gold-dusted spines. She's intoxicated with affection for them, possesses a foreign and admirable respect for each tome she crosses, even those she finds distasteful.
Maybe it's the fact that she's run away so many times or maybe it's because he's bored and she looks like intriguing entertainment with her mysterious lack of a backstory. Whatever it is, Tom Riddle's interest has been caught. He has no intention of releasing it anytime soon.
-XXX-
"You again?" She's incredulous. Tom does a double take, smiling when he realizes who, exactly, he's come across in this nook of Diagon Alley.
"Beatrice, a pleasure to see you." His voice is cool. Clearly, he's still angry with her. "What brings you here?"
"Cat food," she says awkwardly. "For my cat."
His lips twitch. "Well, I am certainly glad it isn't for your hippogriff."
She ignores the tease. "And you?"
"I'm just getting a few mice."
"For pets?" Curiously, she peers into the cardboard box he's holding.
Tom smirks. "So you could say. My snake requires rodents."
"Snake?" Hermione shakes her head. "How…unusual."
"Yes," the wizard agrees. He pauses. "Would you care to join me for a drink?"
"Now?"
"No, in 1958. Yes, now."
She considers, weighing her options. He's bound to keep asking if she doesn't say yes at some point. Maybe if she goes along with him once he'll see that she's no one of particular interest. At worst, she can say she's well and truly found him not to be her type. Then he'll practically have to leave her alone.
"That at least sounds good in theory," she thinks to herself wryly. "Though I've no doubt in action things will turn out quite differently."
"Very well," she says. "One drink. At the Leaky Cauldron, then?"
His smile is wide, and in her eyes, dangerous.
He sends the mice to his flat, and offers to do the same with her cat food, but Hermione keeps it on her. It would serve as a good excuse for leaving should things become more even uncomfortable.
Tom leads her up to the bar, ordering two butterbeers. She's thankful it is not Firewhisky, which she has a hearty aversion to, after an evening spent drinking it gave her dreadful dreams. Tom offers her a cheers, which she returns, and they drink up. She feels his eyes upon her as she scans the room, searching for familiar faces. There aren't many, which is of little surprise.
She's not made a point of meeting many new people. Friends means lives affected which means history potentially being altered, which could mean any number of things. So, when Hermione wishes for companionship she takes herself out for dinner and watches the other patrons of the restaurant. In both Diagon Alley and muggle London she's found an abundant number of interesting people. Crazy old folk and eccentric young ones. It's quite interesting to her, as she's always been keen on history. Post-war London is particularly interesting – still shaken, the city is rebuilding at a thoughtful rate, proving how the wet little island held a great deal of fortitude.
"What are you thinking of, Beatrice?"
His voice shakes her from her reverie. Hermione lifts her mug to her mouth, taking a long drink before answering. His eyes are on hers, amused and liquid.
"Oh, who knows?" she answers airily. "I often don't."
He laughs – well and truly. It's a startling sound. "I do not believe that for a moment, Miss Garner."
"Well, then, what do you suspect me of thinking about?" She leans in, fingertip tracing the rim of her mug.
"However would I know?" The young man leans in closer as well. "Hmmm. Have you been thinking of…cats?" He eyes the bag at the feet of her barstool.
Hermione shakes her head.
"Books?"
"I am nearly always thinking of books, but no."
"Me?" he tries again.
She nearly laughs, but instead flashes him a smile.
"Very well then….time travel?"
Her smile fades. He's not hit the mark, not quite, but it's a little too close for comfort, regardless. Tom watches her face, gaze calculating. He quickly notes her discomfort.
"Time travel, then? My, you've held that interest for quite some time," he muses. "Whatever is it about time travel that has caught your interest?"
Hermione shrugs, taking another sip of her butterbeer. "It's simply intriguing," she says, trying to sound nonchalant.
"You know, I know of some books on the matter that you may find interesting, if you've not read them already."
She is surprised. He's offering help? Why is he not questioning her further? But she recognizes that keen glint in his eyes – it's familiar because it is one she often possesses herself when she's on the hunt for some obscure or complex piece of information. Hermione smoothed her skirt before answering.
"What kinds of books?" she asks, leaning forward again. His eyes skirt the neckline of her blouse before meeting her eyes. She glares. Tom just smiles.
He promises to send her the list later in the week, on the condition that she'll meet him for another drink. Reluctantly, she agrees. His eye gleam dangerously when she says yes. Dread rises in her throat, which is only aggravated when he kisses her hand to bid her goodnight.
-XXX-
When five days have passed and she still has not received his letter, Hermione grows suspicious. She's ventured down Knockturn enough times now to feel markedly more at ease, though the same cannot be said of Borgin and Burke's. Burke actually greets her this time with a grunt. Hands crossed behind her back, she politely inquires after Tom. She is informed that he's been out for the last four days, forcibly after he'd nearly collapsed in the middle of a delivery.
"I am sure, however, that he would be ever so pleased to see you, Miss Garner," the old wizard suggests slyly. Without any prompting, he slides a scrap of paper with an address across the marble countertop towards her. Eyes narrow, Hermione picks up the paper.
It takes her two hours to make up her mind to visit him. Her guilt pushes her to bring him some soup (from the Leaky Cauldron), knowing that like is incredibly likely that no one has visited him since he was struck ill. Her kinder nature won't allow her to ignore him. So, with trepidation she climbs the rickety stairs up to Riddles fourth-floor attic room. Her knock goes unanswered, so she magically unlocks the door – there are no other security enchantments – and slips inside.
Immaculate. That's how she would describe his flat. Painfully neat, not a speck of dust nor a book out of place. She creeps in, peering around nervously. It's smaller than her flat, and certainly shabbier. The wallpaper is drooping sadly near the ceiling. The floor is scuffed, and the fireplace has a sad, dirty look about it that clearly can't be helped. A worn velvet sofa sits directly parallel to the fire. And upon it lies a miserable looking Tom Riddle.
Nearing, she notes his pallid skin, the deep grey bruise-like circles beneath his eyes, and the slight sheen of sweat on his brow. "He is far sicker than I thought he would be." He shivers slightly she reaches out to shakes his shoulder gently. Glazed eyes flicker open slowly. He opens his mouth to breath her name hoarsely.
"Hush," she scolds. "Your boss told me you were alone here wasting away. I came to make sure you're still breathing and to bring you some soup."
Tom blinks. "Wha –"
"Do you have any bowls?" she asks briskly. He lifts a heavily limb to point towards the kitchen. She rises, deciding she'd rather do a bit of poking around rather than simply summoning the bowl. It's a rather ordinary kitchen, however, nothing particularly special or interesting. She finds no traces of murder or dark magic. It is merely a kitchen. Just like hers.
She returns with a warm bowl of soup, helping him sit up before offering it forth. He winces as he shifts upwards.
"Thank you," he says after a few bites. "Why…" Tom hesitates. "Why are you here?"
"You never wrote. It didn't seem like you. I tried to reach you at Borgin and Burkes, which lead me here."
"Almost against your will," he says wryly before launching into an attack of coughs. Hermione fetches him a glass of water. Once his throat has been calmed, Tom speaks again. "You felt guilty."
"Do I?" Hermione scoffs. "I think you're mistaking the desire to be a descent human being with feeling indebted or something. Let me assure you – it was nothing more than concern that any normal person would have for an acquaintance."
He tsks. "Here I thought we were friends, Beatrice. But I don't think so – none of my other acquaintances have stopped by to inquire after my health."
Jaw tightening, Hermione restrains her eyes rolling.
She ends up staying the afternoon, entertaining him by reading from a few history books and the Daily Prophet. This is a preferred occupation, as it allows her to avoid his too-keen eyes. Tom is relatively quiet for the rest of her visit. Before Hermione exits the flat she leaves him with a cup of tea and a promise to return again tomorrow.
-XXX-
The next day she brings more soup and some bread. She makes more tea, and this time, she actually talks to him.
"Why ever didn't you call a friend or someone to help you?" she asks while stirring sugar into his tea – three spoonfuls, positively disgustingly sacrine. "Surely someone could have brought you medicine or a healer."
"I've got no friends," he murmurs.
She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. "No lackeys, either?"
Tom laughs – a sound that quickly turns into a hacking cough. Hermione pushes him back onto the sofa, then hands him the teacup. It's chipped around the rim.
"No, no lackeys. No friends, no lackeys, no hired help."
The witch grows quiet, leading Tom to observe her in earnest. He doesn't understand why she's being so…so….
"What?" he asks finally.
"It's just…sad," she says finally.
Tom sneers. "Don't pity me."
"I'm not!" Hermione cries, recoiling at his expression. "I promise you! But it is terribly sad to have no friends, no anyone."
He holds her chocolate colored eyes in his own for nearly a minute before releasing her, realizing that perhaps Beatrice herself felt this sadness that she mentioned, even if he didn't himself. Oh, but it would make sense – she's always alone when he sees her. Never in the company of friends or family or really even her co-workers. Beatrice is a witch set apart from others. Not so different from him.
"Why did you come?"
"You asked me that yesterday."
He waits. Hermione sighs.
"I assumed no one would come to look after you. And I thought about how I might feel if I didn't have anyone to care for me when I fell ill."
Tapping his fingers against the saucer, Tom makes it clear that he still does not quite believe her. But Hermione shan't indulge his suspicious mind anymore. She pulls out a new novel, flipping to the first, fresh white page.
-XXX-
As soon as he is well again, Beatrice promptly disappears from his life.
For almost a week she's at his flat everyday. At first she will only sit on the scuffed, rickety chair, perched as though ready to fly from the room at any moment. Eventually, her managed to coax her onto the couch, where she sits beside him or at his feet, working very hard to avoid his eyes. It is a though she believe he will read her thoughts by merely looking at her.
Which is not preposterous. He's been learning Legilimency for almost a year now, with moderate success. But he's never even thought to direct his new, limited power upon Beatrice.
At some point within their week together, he touches her. It's nothing particularly special, really, but quite momentous to him. On their fifth afternoon together, he's managed to convince her to sit next to him again – though it is with nearly a whole two feet between them – she'd been reading poetry. The muggle poet Keats. He doesn't ask how she, an upstanding witch, knows and favors such a writer. He's never asked her anything about her life. She falls asleep halfway through a poem about sad knights. Falls asleep and ends up leaning against him, head finding a perfect place on the crook of his shoulder.
He claims her hand, tracing all the lines, the creases, examining the curve of her nails. It's a curious thing, touching another human being so intimately. To feel the pulse of blood, soft hair that billows like a cloud, smell of sweet lotions. Tom Riddle isn't familiar with the smooth skin of another person. He nearly forgets. The experience leaves his quite struck.
Before she wakes he lets go. But he does not push her away. She must deal with the embarrassment of finding herself sleeping on him. Flustered, she blushes deeply.
She leaves the day he admits to feeling better and does not return. He does not see her for nearly three weeks, even when he's searching for her casually upon the streets of London. Tom is driven to suspect that she has cast some kind of an anti-finder spell upon herself.
He's eventually forced to frequent Flourish and Blotts until he finds her in the middle of one of her shifts, reshelfing a the charms section. She looks messy, with a few wings of dusky brown hair falling in her face and a wrinkled blouse. Tom watches her for several minutes before interrupting her work. A punishment feels in order, so he sneaks down the row with great lightness of foot to caress her exposed neck.
Beatrice jumps at his touch, rising swiftly to face him. "What are you doing here?"
"I've not seen you in three weeks," he says flatly.
Beatrice scoffs. "Is that a crime now?" she asks coolly. "Going a few days without seeing you?"
Her tone draws a thin thread of anger up in him. Tom's eyes flash. "Yes," he grounds out.
And that's that.
-XXX-
Things are progressing! Towards a less-than healthy path, yes, but by golly they are progressing!
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