I hope my American readers are gearing up for Thanksgiving! Everyone else, I hope you are enjoying the coming holiday season! It's terrifying how excited everyone is over here.
-XXX-
Peace takes bit of time to reclaim them. It is tedious, at best. Before the year is up they are back of speaking terms. They are not quite as they were, but close. Hermione holds a good deal of resentment towards, him, naturally. She restrains the feelings most days, just as Tom acts like a normal beau on most days.
"I do not know what I would do without you," he says sometimes. It is a seemingly harmless remark of affection. Hermione always manages to catch a more ominous note. "I shall not do without you."
So she kisses him on the brow and squeezes his shoulder. Tom's eyes will always close. He, Lord Voldemorte, looks at peace during times like this.
They will likely never be steady. They will never be like other couples, sharing trust and confidences in one another. Perhaps, though, it isn't necessarily. Nor is trust something that is in their nature – at least, not when it comes to each other. She eventually grows comfortable with this notion - that shall be their steadiness.
Tom, for his part, never seems to particularly ponder the more questionable parts of their relationship. Then again, he is what makes up the questionable parts.
-XXX-
1948 comes and Hermione can barely believe that she's been here for nearly two entire years. She takes to staring in mirrors for long periods of time. He knows it is not vanity – she is looking for changes in her own face. Tom does not offer any words of support. He simple pulls her away from the looking glass whenever he catches her at it.
They celebrate a slightly belated birthday on New Year's Day. Hermione is surprised he selects a muggle French restaurant for his celebratory dinner. In turn, he is equally startled to hear her order in smooth French. The waiter is pleased, and pours them both an extra measure of wine when she politely engages him in a brief conversation.
"I did not realized you spoke anything beyond English," he remarks.
"Well, you also did not know I could read runes."
Tom purses his lips. "You did tell me you could not, if you will recall."
She ducks her head, grinning. "Did I?"
Their food arrives. Tom eats steadily, but Hermione is too busy looking around at the other patrons.
"What is it?"
"Hm?" She turns her wide brown deer-like eyes upon him. "Oh, sorry. It's just, well, I've not been in the muggle part of London for sometime," the witch says softly. "I've missed it, a little. M-muggles, I mean."
"Yes." He sips his wine thoughtfully. Her statement nearly unsettles him. "I forgot – you're muggleborn. This must feel so natural to you."
"Does it not feel normal to you?" She frowns. "You spent half your life muggle. It may not have been a nice life, but it was yours."
He smiles indulgently, patiently. Almost dangerously. "I was never muggle, Hermione."
"You know what I mean."
"I do not miss it, no. But you do?"
"Yes. Sometimes. It seems things were simpler then. But I'm sure everything was seen through rose-colored glasses, back then, being a child, you know." She stirs her soup, eyes downcast. "But never mind."
"Hermione." He reaches across the table to clasp her hand. "I should very much like to know your life."
"I am sure you would." Her eyes rise. "You'd like to have a forecast for the future, wouldn't you?"
A crooked smile tugs at his lips. "You know me too well," he allows. "Why not, Hermione?"
She laughs. It is abrupt and all together too loud. Several of the other tables look over, brows furrowed.
"It doesn't matter," she chants quietly. "It doesn't matter, Tom, for it's all been messed up anyhow."
"How?" he asks earnestly. "How has it been altered?"
But she will not answer. Instead, Hermione poses her own question: "Would you like to open your gift?"
He does. It's a book – no surprise there – about the history of voiceless magic. But that is not all. There is also a very nice hat of silk-lined wool felt, a box of Belgium chocolates, and a new cloak. It's jet black, lined with emerald velvet, and a silver serpentine clasp. Tom does not know where these boxes come from – she'd not brought them in with her, they simply appear up from under the table. He leans over the table to kiss her, whispering a "thank you" against her reddening cheek.
-XXX-
"Do you hate muggles?"
He is in the midst of paperwork when the question arises. He frowns, brows furrowing at the black-and-white print before looking up. "What?"
Impatient, she repeats the question. "Do you hate muggles, Tom?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"One you have yet to answer."
Tom considers this for a moment. "No. No, I'd say not."
"Why?"
His frown deepens. "Another peculiar question, Hermione. I don't know, I simply do not hate them. Dislike a few, certainly. I generally prefer to avoid them. It's my nature, really, being Sytherine. Just as it is your nature to be foolhardy, my Griffyndor."
She does not respond, stroking a purring Nyx, suddenly entranced by the fire.
-XXX-
They are rarely apart now. He has all but moved into her flat. He has half of the closet, a side of the bed, and shelf on the medicine cabinet (giving Hermione plenty of fuel for teasing him about his fixation with his hair). Recently, he suggested they move into a bigger apartment – he is earning more now that he's moved up from shopboy to Ministry official, they could afford a nicer flat. But she is reluctant.
"Maybe in a few months," she says. "I'd like to wait for my application to Mungo's to go through."
She has applied to the healer training program at St. Mungos. He was quite pleases to hear of her ambition and had praised her upon hearing the news.
He'd rather get a new place sooner rather than later, but is willing to wait. It would be nice to have his own space, or perhaps a bigger room for a bigger bed. Hermione is a "sprawler" when she sleeps – but that is only a minor problem in comparison to her night terrors.
They start a few months after he prevents her from time travel. Or, perhaps before then. He wasn't living with Hermione then.
When he did notice them, it was quite flooring. She would start by crying softly, growing eventually louder, tossing then thrashing, calling out for people he doesn't know – a Harry, a Ron, someone called Luna and a few others. To calm her, she must be pinned down, awaken, then soothed with soft words and hands. Usually she just cries more after realizing it was only a dream. Hermione never shares details of these terrors. She simply lies in the circle of his arms – if she even lets him touch her – and shakes.
"I didn't think it was real," she sobs. "I didn't believe – Oh! Oh my…."
Sometimes her anxiety is so great she works herself up into a state of being unable to breath. He rubs her chest then, whispering calmly, pleading with her to pull herself together. Then Hermione's eyes will open wide, mouth a gape. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and allows herself to relax.
These attacks do not happen too often – perhaps once every other week or so. But it is enough to remind them both of the sins committed against her.
-XXX-
Sometimes, when she wakes, she cries out for fear of seeing him looming over her. His face is not serpentine, but it possesses familiar traces of the terror that haunted her childhood. The gaunt paleness, his sharp features enhanced by shadows, he still looks like the Dark Lord.
She only has to see the concern in his eyes to know that the enemy she faces in bed isn't the same as the one she fought at Hogwarts. At least, not quiet.
"It's Tom, it's Tom, it's only Tom," she chants silently to herself.
A small, nasty voice will arise from the back of her mind, cajoling. "Precisely."
She does her best to ignore that voice.
-XXX-
"Why won't you tell me?" he asks. His lips, smooth and rose-colored, pout slightly as he runs a hand down her lightly. The hairs on her skin rise.
Hermione tilts her head up to the sun, feeling its warmth, the wind, tasting the spring's damp lightness of flowers and rain. She has missed fresh air. It was really too kind of Tom to take her to the countryside today.
"Because," she answers simply. Childishly.
For that he sits up from her lap, where his head has been resting, to glare playfully at her.
"Why ever not, Hermione? I already know your name, among other things? Why not this one little detail?"
She smiles down at him, silent.
Feeling rather provoked, Tom tickles her sides until Hermione keels over from laughter. He looms over her, pushing back a few pieces of her unruly mane, eyes locked.
"Will you not tell me?" he whispers, lips mere inches above her lips.
"No," she whispers back before he kisses her.
-XXX-
"Have you ever wanted to go to Europe?"
He eyes the window of the café as Hermione waits, her fingers circling the rim of her cappuccino. Tom seems to analyze the question thoroughly before answering.
"I did, once. But it didn't really fit with the circumstances."
"Why? Why did you want to go?"
"I suspect you already know," he replies dryly. "You're fishing. There are many opportunities for me in Europe."
"But?" she asks archly, brows rising.
"But, as I said, circumstances prevented me." Tom looks back towards her, lips pursed in a vague amusement. "I decided that it would be more beneficial for me to stay in England. The goals I wish to achieve are better met here than a sea away."
It was rather fortunate, then, that Hermione had wandered her way into his life. Having a reason to stay on the continent proved to be rather helpful. True, he had to reimagine his path a little, but in the end, it would be worth it. He would change the wizarding world and it would be with Hermione at his side. She was no pawn like Abraxas and Cygnus – Hermione was to be his rook, his support, making moves with him rather than at his command.
"Why do you ask, Hermione?"
She considers what to say for a long moment. "I know that you collect things. And that, if you were to leave for Europe, it would be with somethings that you've collected."
"What somethings?"
Hesitating, Hermione rubs her neck, pulling her cardigan closer. "A necklace, I think. And a cup."
Tom's eyes light up. "A locket?"
With a little more prying, he launches into telling about his collection, how he stole the locket and off of Smith with a memory-removing spell, then moved it to his hiding place with the other things he's found. So far, the collection was rather impressive – the two items stolen off of Smith, his mother's ring, and a diadem that belonged to Ravenclaw. The last object on the list surprises her, and he explains that he went out to seek the diadem in Albania after convincing the Grey Lady to share the location with him.
"So…what are you doing with them?"
He blinks. "They're hidden. Safe."
"And…that's it? You've not cursed them or anything?"
"No." Tom frowns. "In your timeline did I do something to them?"
"I don't know," she answers quickly. "All I know is you had the locket and the cup."
He does not believe her completely, but he digests most of the lie. "I just want to have them," he says blankly. "That's all."
She sips from her mug, eyes sliding to the window. "Where did you hide them?"
A sly smile crosses his face. "Where they belong."
"Hogwarts." It's not a question. "How will you get them back?"
"Oh, undoubtedly when I return for my interview."
She'd forgotten his aspirations to teach someday. Delicately, Hermione asks when he thinks he shall interview. Tom shrugs.
"Probably not for several years. Dippet said he thought I was too young. With my luck, Dumbledore will be headmaster by the time I can get an application through. "
"Why do you think Dumbledore will be headmaster?" She crosses her legs beneath the table.
Tom leans back. "I have no doubt he will be headmaster one day. He's one of Armando favorites, he's the most famous wizard of the last two decades aside from maybe Grindlewald."
"And you would work under him."
"If that's what it takes," he says with great resolve.
She's surprised. Hermione knew he was quite determined to reestablish himself at Hogwarts – in her time, they had suspected that he planned to make it the seat of his throne over the wizarding world following the Final Battle. But this is quite a different plan, a more docile plan. Tom Riddle, willing to work for Albus Dumbledore? Had someone suggested it to her two years ago she would have laughed in their face.
Her silence is bothering him, and Tom taps the tabletop in mild irritation. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm…surprised."
He accepts the honesty in this. "I know I'm in a good position at the Ministry. It's a good job for me, really, but not where I wish to make my career. Hogwarts is home to me. The first place I fit in, the first place I felt welcomed and safe. I'd like to give others the same experience."
Pity twinges in her briefly. Hermione brushes this away swiftly. She knows how he feels about pity, particularly when it is directed towards him.
"Even muggleborns?" she asks in disbelief.
"They'll need it." Tom shrugs. "I'd give up my work at the Ministry in a minute if I could have a position at Hogwarts. I know it sounds mad –"
She suddenly reaches for his hands. "No," she says earnestly. "Not mad, Tom. It's wonderful."
He can only smile.
-XXX-
1950 arrives. They're at a Ministry-sponsored New Year's gala to welcome in the new decade. He only makes a few scathing remarks about the "Gryffindor quality" of her golden dress. Hermione, in turn, makes sure to step on his feet at least three times while dancing. Tom smiles the entire time, even when she stomps his toes.
"Alright, that one actually hurt," he says through one his more grimaced smiles.
She purses her lips in amusement. "What, dearest?"
Tom spins her abruptly, nearly knocking the witch off balance. Hermione catches his arm, falling into him with a laugh. Her eyes are sparkling like mad, some of her wild hair falling around her face out of the fancy knot she'd charmed it into earlier in the evening. They've both had quite a bit of punch and are therefore a smidge tipsy. He's a little off on his dancing, not that Hermione – who is clumsy even in the best of times – notices.
Her arms lace around his neck as the countdown begins. All voices are merry. "Ten, nine, eight…"
"Happy Birthday, Tom."
"Seven, six, five…"
"It's about time you remembered!"
"Don't be daft, of course I remembered. There will be a cake soon, just after this. Chocolate cherry coconut, just how you like it. They're all prepared to sing."
He rolls his eyes, but pulls her closer, arm folding across her back neatly, chests brushing one another in a comfortable, casual way.
"Four, three…"
"Love you," she whispers, lips hovering just above his.
"So cliché," he whispers back before claiming her lip in an even more cliché manner.
-XXX-
A good part of her does not want to admit that in all honesty, things are…well, quite fine. Despite the major slip in the timeline, the world hasn't not fallen apart, London isn't going to pieces, and Tom is being quite Tom-like indeed. He still has moments, naturally, when his eyes gleam, his voice grows high and cold, and he grips her just a little too tightly. Even then, she knows him to be Tom, not any sort of Lord Voldemort.
There are still the occasional late-night visits from darkly cloaked strangers. She does not know what they discuss in the foyer or the corridors near the kitchen. She simply hugs herself, back against their headboard, head on her knees as she makes out the slight hint whispering. When they leave, she can sometimes hear the murmur of "my lord."
Still, she does not worry. His schemes are known to her. Tom is anything if not honest.
She started her healer training about a year and a half ago, shortly after they bought the house. Tom had surprised her with the real estate wizard one morning. "We need to expand," he explained as he helped her slip into a coat. "He's got a few listings in the city that will suit us."
They ended up settling for a two-story in Battersea. It's far more spacious than their flat, bright, with the Thames visible from nearly every window. Hermione would prefer the country, but Tom insists that, for the moment, it is best for both of the their careers that they stay in London. Hermione reluctantly agrees.
Her career is going a little slowly in comparison to Tom's. He has excelled in Ministry, becoming a deputy head of his department. In the coming months he will likely be promoted to a ministerial advisor. Hermione is still a student, something like a nurse in the world of wizarding health. Her work at St. Mungo's has been described as "exemplary" by Healer Heartwook, the head of the trainees. She's been assured that, should she continue at her current rate, she will be made a healer before autumn.
"We're a power couple," she says when he comes home after a satisfying day of arguing with other department heads over a policy change regarding transport and oblivating muggles.
Thoughtfully, he regards the window. "I suppose we are."
-XXX-
We're coming to the end! Hard to think that I started this piece only about a month or two ago.
Looking out for a series of one-shot I've been working on – Labyrinth, Alice in Wonderland, and Lord of the Rings – all likely to be posted within the coming month!
Please review!