Life has been crazy. Sorry for the delay.

-XXX-

He takes her out to dinner to make the big announcement. In her heels and silk dress, Beatrice looks lovely and deliciously nervous. He spins her around the flat several times before apparating them to the restaurant. After being shown to their table, Beatrice sits on the edge of her seat, twisting her napkin in her lap. She suspects something.

"Probably something with more diamonds." He winces at the thought. The idea isn't a bad one by any means, but neither of them are ready for such a step. Beatrice is far too independent, he's got a heavy eye on his career – settling down is not an option. For now, anyways.

"Beatrice," he begins halfway through their soup. "I did something today –"

"That's a surprise," she quips.

He could curse her where she sits, but instead he forces a patient smile.

"—Something I think you'll be proud of. I quit Borgin and Burkes."

There is no smiling. No squeals of surprise and joy. In fact, there's hardly any reaction at all. Beatrice simply freezes, spoon halfway to her mouth. After a moment she collects herself enough to request a confirmation.

Yes. Yes, he did indeed submit his resignation with Borgain and Burke.

"But why, Tom?" she asks desperately. "You were doing so well there. They'd just given you a raise and commission and –"

"I quit because I've accepted a job at a new place, Beatrice." His eyes are practically glowing. "The Ministry. I got the owl today. I'm to start in Magical Law Enforcement."

"Oh, Tom," Beatrice whispers.

He can't contain himself any longer. Public displays of affection are not his style, but tonight he will make an exception In a second he's embracing her. The returning kiss is stiff initially – she's still surprised. Later, he finds it wet, mingled with her tears.

"I'm – I'm just so happy," she says when he asks.

-XXX-

Hermione is painfully conflicted. On one hand, Tom has selected new, less homicidal path. On the other, he's gone against how the timeline is supposed to go. He's disrupted time. Or, rather, she has by some how influencing him to reconsider his life option.

Part of her is very pleased that he is reaching a full, hopefully less evil potential. But another, bigger, more logical part is panicking.

She doesn't know what to expect. Before there had been a series of expectations. There was a timeline – she could follow it neatly, knew what to watch for. But now…now what was there?

On top of the new disparity in the timeline, Tom is generally giving her anxiety. Which, really, is nothing new. However, he's crossed a new line in questioning her about time travel. And it's giving her a nervous break down.

They've not discussed her project in several months when, on the way to Flourish and Blott's, he casually asked.

"What have you been doing with your time travel research?"

She freezes before the window of the second-hand robe shop, where she has been examining a bright purple velvet cloak, an atrocious article of clothing that mystifies her.

"Oh, you know," she says without looking up from the glass. "Just…researching. I don't really have a plan for it."

"Oh, don't you?" His tone is still friendly, but there is just a hint of an edge to it. So sharp you could effortlessly knick yourself if you stepped too close. "Nothing? That seems a waste, Beatrice."

"Well, it is only a pet project. Nothing serious."

He gives her a scathing look that Hermione very pointedly ignores. Still, he is undeterred, and for the next several weeks he purposely brings up the subject several more times. It's enough to give Hermione more than a few sleepless nights. Eventually she cannot stand his clear attempts at getting a rise.

"Why do you keep asking?" she grounds out one evening while they're walking up the stoop to his flat.

Surprised, Tom looks back down at her. "What?"

"Why do you insist on pestering me about my research? I'm interested in a topic and all of the sudden you've got some paranoia-suspicion thing going on?"

They're inside now. Tom sweeps off his coat, sending it to the closet before sinking elegantly into an armchair. Hermione stands with her hand on her hips, fuming in the entryway.

"What is the meaning of this, Hermione?"

"You're being…odd," she says slowly as she throws herself into the sofa, crossing her arms. "You are pushing this time travel thing like I'm hiding something. Which I'm not."

"Aren't you, Hermione?"

She opens her mouth, ready to argue, when what, precisely, he said strikes her.

"Aren't you, Hermione?"

Silently, she gasps, rising swiftly from the couch.

"What's wrong, Hermione?"

The young witch does not reply. Instead, she flees, flinging open the door and bolting down the stairs. She does not look back, but if she had, she might have seen Tom Riddle standing on the landing, watching her with flashing scarlet eyes.

-XXX-

As soon as she's back in the safety of her flat, Hermione wards the place off from apparition and scrying. He won't be able to get within nearly a block without her express permission. As soon as she's finished, she curls into her mattress with Nyx, taking an hour to cry then subsequently collect herself.

"How can he know? How, how, how can he possibly know?"

She must write Dumbledore. It is the only thing to do.

For about a quarter hour she stares at the blank tan parchment, trying to compose the words. When she has it, her quill scribbles furiously for only a few minutes.

"I am aware that the spell is not perfect, but now is the time to go. This will likely be the last correspondence you receive from me. I plan on making an attempt tomorrow evening, at the height of the full moon. Please do not think me rash – I realized today that now is the time. I need to go. I have overstayed, and I fear for the repercussions. Leaving may not repair what I have done, but could still help, perhaps.

Thank you for all of your wisdom and support. I shall not forget it, nor you Professor."

There is nothing else to be said.

She owls Flourish and Blott's the next morning with the excuse of illness. There is no word from Tom – not an owl or an attempt to break her wards. It is a relief, in a way.

All day she rests and prepares. The spell will require a good deal of energy and focus to make it work adequately. Hermione only prays this time with this big of a leap through time, hair is the only things she comes back missing.

-XXX-

She sets up in the back yard. It's not a true yard, really, but a browning patch of grass boarder by three tall buildings and a broken down fence. Regardless it shall do the trick. She needs air and space. Should things go wrong, Hermione does not want either the flat or anyone within the vicinity to be injured. The yard is still not enough to give much protection, but it is better than staying indoors.

Most magic does not require the ceremony that this particular spell wants. She must write runes upon the grounds spelling out the dates, and then there are a series of chants and a specific way of moving her wand. Incredibly complicated, she wishes she'd had the forethought or time to brew Felix Felicis. She could use the luck.

When the moon is high and pearly in the sky, Hermione begins, placing the time porkey – a cobalt-colored teapot. Lowly, she chants. There is the bare minimum of wards upon this place for fear that the extra magic might mess up her attempt, so she must be quiet. Should anyone find her, Hermione must stun them. She doesn't want to, really, but it is a necessity.

"I only hope that no one should come."

While she chants, her mind wanders to Harry, Ron, and home. For months she has pushed back her feelings of loneliness and longing towards her previous life. Tonight, they all flood back, so that the witch is half in tears as she recites the Latin phrases. Her sadness sweeps in, unmerciful as it reclaims the lost months.

It is so distracting that she completely misses the sound of a person approaching.

Tom steps lightly down the alleyway leading back to the yard. As Hermione's focus has been claimed by the time travel spell, her wards faltered, giving him the perfect opportunity to slip in. He'd been waiting just outside of them, at a nearby café, for most of the evening, having intercepted her letter to Dumbledore with a bribery of owl treats. The letter now lies crumpled upon his floor, abused in a rage.

With his wand at the ready, Tom waits at the corner of the building. Hermione's motions are quivering. She's tiring. In a few seconds his opportunity shall arise and he should conquer her, prevent her for going. Despite his immense anger, Tom Riddle has one focus on this night – stopping Hermione from accomplishing her attempt at leaving 1947.

When they both came to the understanding that she wasn't Beatrice Garner, that she had not been born of the 1920s and did not intend to stay within the 1940s, he had become livid. How dare she even conceive of leaving him! What does she think she is doing? Hermione is one of his. She is his.

He abruptly realizes that she isn't quivering – Hermione is vibrating! She is fading, and the runes about her are glowing dimly, brightening with each repeated citation. Tom's thoughts fly madly. "Stop her."

Lunging for the circle she has cast about herself, the young wizard stamps out the nearest rune. The vibrating stops. The glowing sharply quits. Hermione returns to a more corporal form with a bloodcurdling scream as though she is in terrible pain. Tom is at her side in only a moment, catching the witch before she tumbles to the ground.

Hermione beings shaking almost immediately, nearly seizing. Her skin is boiling. Teeth chattering, she struggles against him, wrenching her wrists from his grasp, writhing away. Stumbling on weak legs, she stands shakily to turn and vomit violently upon the grass in the nearest corner of the yard. Tom surges forward, intent on grabbing her up again. Hermione whips out her wand, sending him back with a poorly-aimed, yet strong stunner. Tom almost trips, hissing when another spell hits him like a slap.

"What the bloody hell?" she spits out. Flicking her wand, Tom is pushed back from her again.

"I should ask the same of you. What are you doing, Hermione?"

At the sound of her true name, the witch nearly snaps her wand in half. He takes the opportunity to rise and is before her in a flash, his own wand withdrawn. They are at an impasse.

Suddenly, Tom attempts a body-bind curse.

She deflects. "Protego!"

His brows rise. "You are an accomplished dualist. Yet another curiosity about you, Miss Hermione."

In response, she aims another stunner at him. Tom simply smirks. He has regained his footing fully. A silvery shield charm flies up without a single sound.

"You don't know what you're doing," Hermione says sharply. "You have no clue what you are meddling in, you great git!"

"I think I have surmised well enough for your letters to Dumbledore."

She grits her teeth. "Of course. Naturally you would think the invasion of another's privacy is perfectly acceptable."

"When one suspects their partner of some kind of sneakery, of course they might make that invasion of privacy."

"Do not make excuses for your pitiable behavior!"

"And yours? Lying? Pretending interest in me while fully intending to part from me?"

"You do not understand." Hermione is on the verge of fresh tears. "Tom, you have not the least wit as to what is going on, why I must go."

"I do not need to know why," he sneers. "Only that you intended to go." Without another word, Tom flung an unfamiliar spell upon her so quickly, Hermione does not have time to block it.

"Nediscedereti!" he roars. The impact is brutal; Hermione sinks to her knees, then keels over. White hot magic course through her. The shaking returns, twice as worse as before. She feels like she has lost total control. It is powerful magic he directs towards her.

"Wha –" she gasps when he kneels at her side.

Pushing hair from her brow, Tom shushes her gently. "It's a modified anti-apparation spell. You're not the only one who has experiment with spell formulation. You see, with a few tweaks, I can restrict where you go. You cannot travel backward or forward in time except in the most natural of ways."

When she cries, he lifts her from the grass to hold her to him, cradling her head to his shoulder. Hermione is too ill to push him away.

-XXX-

Someone is being a massive asshole, amirite?

Well, we have reached a climax-y point in the story. Hang on for the next three chapters!

Review, please!