A/N: Here we are! Chapter 15! I got some amazing reviews for the last chapter that made me dance around my house. Just perfect, thank you so much. And good news - after about 6 different attempts, I've finally worked out how I wanted to write the ending, and it's getting there! Huzzah! Hope you enjoy this chapter, there's a particular section that I love, personally, and I hope you love it too. Enjoy! =]

Tempora Abducto.

by Flaignhan.

"Merlin she's awful," Tom dumped his briefcase on the kitchen table loudly, took off his cloak and vanished it with a quick wave of his wand.

"Who?" Hermione asked.

"Hepzibah Smith," Tom said, with a great deal of distaste. "She's just...well," he sat down heavily on a chair and rested his head in his hands. "She keeps eyeing me up like I'm a piece of meat, it's horrible."

Hermione was stirring the stew on the stove slowly, trying her hardest to remain cool. She had not yet told him that he would have to kill her, and then plant a false memory in her House Elf's mind. She just couldn't quite bring herself to give the command, she would feel responsible for it, and actually, there were no two ways about it, she would be. Tom wouldn't even consider killing her, not without Hermione's encouragement.

"Burke thinks she's got something wonderful though," Tom continued, scanning the front page of the Evening Prophet, pulling a face of disinterest and turning over to move on to another story. "She's got a lot of trinkets, and some of them are definitely worth a few galleons, but I'm yet to see anything breathtaking."

"You will," Hermione said, and the words came out before she could stop herself. She kept her gaze on the simmering stew in front of her, but the sound of newspaper page stopping after it had only been half turned was unmistakeable.

"Do you ever stop to think that it's a little disconcerting from my point of view that you know every detail about my life?"

Hermione said nothing.

"What has she got?"

"Something special."

"Such as?"

"You'll find out."

"Oh come on," Tom said, his chair scraping against the tiled floor as he slid back and got to his feet. The next moment he was by her side at the stove, casting a shadow over the saucepan. "You can't just throw out comments like that and then tell me you can't say any more."

"You're going to have to do something terrible," Hermione said quietly, and her hand trembled as she continued to stir, still not looking at him. "And somebody else is going to take the blame. What do you know about planting memories?"

"What?"

"Planting memories. So that somebody thinks they've done something they haven't?"

"Well, I'd never really considered it. It does sound like a handy little trick to have though," he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, leaning against the counter. "I suppose you'd have to create the memory in your own mind, from the other person's perspective of course - and you'd have to make it utterly perfect, no evidence of tampering, and then you'd extract it, put it in a vial, and then implant it into their head. Maybe lace it with feelings of guilt, or pride, depending on the individual, but yes, I imagine it's possible."

"You should get practising."

"Why?"

"Binky is going to poison Hepzibah Smith."

Tom's mouth formed a small 'o' shape.

"And you're going to take Helga Hufflepuff's cup," she continued. She didn't want to look up at him, didn't want to see the flash of excitement in his eyes, nor the longing for such a treasured piece of history.

"And then I quit my job?"

"And then you quit your job," she confirmed, ladling the stew into bowls, tutting when a good portion of it slopped over the sides and onto the counter.

"I'm almost looking forward to it."

Hermione ignored him.

He placed it on the table carefully, before standing back to marvel at it. Hermione couldn't help but glare at it. After all she had been through with Harry and Ron, after she had broken into Gringotts to get ahold of the ancient golden cup that was now sitting on her kitchen table, here she was, creating all the problems in the first place. Here she was, seeing to it that she and her friends had a miserable time, the weight of the world on their shoulders. Here she was, ensuring that Hepzibah Smith was murdered, over a silly little cup.

Yes, it was a beautiful cup, and yes, had the circumstances been different she would have been giddy with excitement to be able to see it, touch it in real life. The trouble was, all these ancient artefacts that Tom was almost frothing at the mouth with excitement over held such terrible memories for her that she didn't want anything to do with them at all.

"So I guess it's time now?" he asked. "To get the ball rolling?"

Hermione nodded.

"I might be gone for a long time."

"I know."

"Will you be all right paying the rent?"

She nodded.

"Right," he said, "I guess tomorrow is as good a time as any to get going."

"Tomorrow?" her voice came out in a much more panicked tone than she had intended, and he almost smiled.

"I'd rather get it all over and done with," he said. "And the sooner it's done the sooner I can find some sort of work so I can start paying the rent again."

Hermione's shoulders drooped and she let out a small sigh.

Hermione whacked the alarm clock with a considerable amount of force, and it stopped ringing. She groaned into her pillow, not quite ready to face another day of repetitive tasks, only to come home to an empty house, which would most likely stay that way for some time. For the first time, she realised how much she needed Tom. She had spent so much time missing all the people she'd left behind in her own time that she hadn't realised that suddenly, her entire world was built around him.

She touched his arm gently and his eyes flicked open.

"Do you really have to go today?"

"The sooner I start, the sooner I'll be finished. If we start putting it off then we'll probably end up putting it off forever."

She sighed, knowing he was right. Her eyes met his. "I'll miss you."

He smirked, as she always knew he would. He pulled her close and kissed her gently.

"Send a message, tell them you're ill. Maybe I'll go away tomorrow instead. One day won't make much difference."

Hermione had never feigned an illness in her life. In fact, the only times she had ever missed lessons at Hogwarts were in circumstances beyond her control - cat face, petrified, timeturner mishap, bubotuber pus. Never, not once had she ever come up with a lame excuse about a little bit of a sniffle, or an excruciating headache. Whenever she had been ill, she had battled on with little regard for her own well being.

And it was with that clean record that she justified to herself that she could pretend she was ill, and she could stay at home with Tom all day. She summoned some parchment, ink and a quill, and scrawled a quick note to her boss. It disappeared with a loud crack when she jabbed it with her wand and Tom sat up, looking at the space on her lap where the note had been.

"How did you do that?"

Hermione's eyes widened slightly. "Never mind."

She kissed him, and all questions about spells that were yet to be invented remained unasked as they became tangled up in each other, determined to forget about the life that neither of them had ever chosen.

She stayed late at the office.

She ate alone, in the Leaky Cauldron, just to be around people.

She read a lot.

And then she read a lot more.

She went to bed early each night.

She woke up alone and did it all again.

Eventually she was promoted, and staying even later at the office was an option. The work was more complex, and gave her brain something to focus on, other than how many months it had been since she had last seen him in the flesh.

She made a promise to herself, not to ever complain about the fifty years ahead ever again once he returned. Being without him threw into sharp relief just how much her sanity depended on having him around, how quickly the time passed in the evenings when they sat in front of the fire, trying to think of every possible avenue they could go down to hold up their ageing until Hermione was good and ready to get older.

Sometimes she made tea for two, out of habit, and when she noticed, her stomach contracted uncomfortably and she had to look away.

Sometimes it felt as though he had died, and she was just in denial. This was, of course, a strong possibility, but she hadn't heard any news, and no news was supposed to be good news, wasn't it?

Sometimes it felt as though he had never existed at all, that maybe, she had never been sent back in time at all, and her 'fake' life was slowly crumbling around her, Tom being the first to disappear.

Then she'd stub her toe on the door frame because she wasn't watching where she was going, and remember that it was all very painfully real indeed.

Sometimes, and stomach acid would rise in her throat at these times, she wondered if he had gone ahead and done it on his own. She wondered if he considered world domination to be better than a clear conscience and fifty years of hiding out in a cottage in the middle of nowhere.

At times like that, she had to focus on his last words to her, but it was getting more and more difficult to remember the sound of his voice.

"I'll be back before you know it, I promise."

At times like that, she tried to remember when he whispered in her ear in the great hall.

"Patience and trust, Hermione, patience and trust."

The fact that he had made it to the great hall at all proved that he had returned to her eventually, proved that he had kept his promise, and proved, though she wasn't keen on this bit, that she just had to wait it out patiently.

The first year passed, and to mark the occasion, she drank a bottle of wine on the sofa, eventually falling asleep in her work clothes and waking up late for work the next day with a dreadful hangover.

The second year passed in much the same manner, as did the third.

And fourth.

She often complained to herself that it wasn't fair.

It was easy to be selfish when you were lonely.

It was raining heavily.

Hermione was lounged on the sofa, fire crackling in the hearth, a book open on her lap, though she wasn't reading it. The sound of the rain hammering against the windows was comforting when she was inside with a nice warm fire and a bar of Honeyduke's best.

A crack of lightening lit up the sky momentarily, and the rumble of thunder followed soon after. Hermione frowned, not sure she was comfortable being surrounded by so many tall trees when the lightening was a little too close for comfort.

She took a sip of her tea and let her attention fall back onto the book in front of her, her tired eyes taking in the words while her brain trundled along, committing the information to memory. She wondered whether she would ever run out of brain space, if one day her head would just turn around and say 'no, Hermione, no more, there's quite enough in here already'. She supposed she still had a fair way to go before reaching that point, if she ever reached that point. Dumbledore had only got sharper, and more intelligent as time had gone on, still learning even after he'd passed the century mark. She had a long way to go yet, so she put the worry from her mind.

There was a loud creak, and she jumped, grabbing her wand from the coffee table and getting to her feet quickly, her book dropping to the floor with a thud. She ran through hexes and defensive spells in her mind, ready for whatever the owner of those slow, clunking footsteps was going to throw at her.

"Show yourself!" her voice shook, though her wand was steady in her hand.

He appeared in the doorway, and lowered the hood of his black cloak, which was dripping wet.

Her jaw dropped, along with her wand as she crossed the room in four large strides and threw her arms around him. He was soaked through, and her clothes soon became wet as he held her tightly in his arms, her face buried into his damp neck. He still smelled the same.

They said nothing. It wasn't the time for words. They had nearly fifty years for words.