((A.N. Chapter 17. Wow, it's awful to think that this story is almost over. A reviewer asked me if Igot attached to my characters. Hah. I am very attached to all of my characters (God, especially Tom!)and I hate to see them go. :((The good news is that thereis a preview ofmy new story on my profile, so check there for a summary and information. Thanks for reviews goes to slytherinstargazing, EuphoniumGurl0, Loriliant Angelisa Snape (hah. I have no idea what you're rambling about), Oliver's Quidditch Crazy, ObsidianEyes666, daxi, Jolena, cocovanilla, SarcasticCapricorn, CareBearErin, An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin, haiga, Oblivionknight7, SpiritWell (you actually expect me to answer that:D), Kathryn, Jennayster, stargazer starluver (you unknowingly said some very important things), Spicysuga, enchanted light, Sakuya Kaleido, Jaqueline (right now Miss-Know-It-All is being a little thickheaded, actually), via Ldiva, softballprincess541, Black-rose23, BelleLamour, Jess, msqt9029, steffy-potter, BabyGooGoo2, silver gaze, Jay Ficlover (may your sugar levels decrease quickly), ramones4me, GoBbLeDyGoOk, blaiselover, You-know-who (I do know who), Annie, KyootNShort, sweet-little-girl (good question), donoma, UNOWEN, CountessMel, and Mihita. And thank you to DramaShethan, my beta, who has been with me through think and thin, rain and shine and inexcusably bad grammar. This chapter is a little tricky and might be confusing. But those of you who have read carefully up to this point might have seen it coming. ;D I won't give anymore away Enjoy!))
The whole course of human history may depend on a change of heart in one solitary individual– for it is in the solitary mind and soul that the battle between good and evil is waged and ultimately won or lost.
– M. Scott Peck
Chapter 17; Black Rose
Hermione awoke early the next morning, despite the fact that she'd had a late night. She was restless, anxious, and felt as if sleep would elude her for eternity. She had no idea what was ailing her, and she was only aware of the fact that she had a Bad Feeling about something. One of those 'Bad' Feelings that you couldn't quite place, yet that nipped at the back of your mind like a hard-to-swat mosquito.
Hermione unfolded the piece of parchment that Dumbledore had given her, and decided that it was as good a time as any to check out the book. Time Theoretics, by Nicolas Flamel, she read again. If there was any book in the world that would be able to tell her how to go forward in time, this one was it.
Do I even want to go forward in time? She asked herself blatantly. She realized that the answer was a resounding no. If Hermione could not live her life with Tom, she saw no point in living her life at all. She reasoned that she still needed to check the book out and try to understand what Dumbledore had been rambling about.
She wandered down to the library, which was, predictably, empty, save Madame Rostam, the current librarian. She gave the note to Madame Rostam (who eyed her suspiciously and stared at the signature), and waited while the librarian retrieved it. When Hermione came back, she was surprised at the book's appearance. She had expected a large, important looking leather bound tome with aged yellow pages and ancient scrolls. Instead, it was a small, concise book that looked unbattered, though yellowed.
Hermione sat back in a comfortable chair, twisting her hair behind her, and nibbling at her lower lip as she rifled through the pages. Finally she came to the Rumineus Theory, which had apparently been devised by Nicolas Flamel. The occurrence only took place when the 'bearer' went a great ways back into time. Hermione's eyes widened as she read the writing on the page.
Going back years in time literally defies its essence. Time was not meant to be manipulated so completely, whereas going back a few hours in Time is reasonable and perhaps more manageable. Going back years is theoretically and mathematically possible, but logically is perhaps impossible. The problem is, modern day wizards have made it possible. The Rumineus Theory is an extremely outlandish occurrence that will never be forced to occur unless the bearer goes back years in time.
Each moment is a doorway to time travel. Being in this very moment and no other, time as we know it stops. You can freeze frame and stop. Then you can make another choice. You can stay in the same holographic pattern, or you can choose a different one.
In other words, when the bearer travels years and years into the past, the future . . . simply freezes. Everything and everyone in the future freezes for the amount of time that the bearer is in the past. Of course, the people in the future do not realize that they are frozen. Until, and only until, the bearer goes back into the future, does time unfreeze. Time is, fundamentally, waiting for the bearer to return. This is simply because it is not possible to have two coexisting alternate realities so far apart. One must freeze until they are united again.
Hermione's head snapped up. He's saying that time is frozen in the future until I come back? If this was the case, she remembered the exact moment that she had used the time-turner. Lord Voldemort had been raising his wand to finish her off. She continued reading.
Time, however, is a force to be reckoned with. Just as we are not meant to travel too far back, time is not meant to be frozen. From this we can discern that it will not wait long for the traveler to return. After a certain amount of time in the past, the bearer is flung back into the future quite suddenly and unexpectedly. One or two months is the maximum amount of time that can be spent in the past before the Rumineus Theory takes hold. When the bearer returns to the future, time resumes its normal pace. Until that moment, however, the future reality is frozen. Though this has never occurred, it has been theorized that there may be a short time in which the two alternate realities merge. For one moment, people of the past can see into the future. For one moment, people of the future are able to see into the past. Then the two realities separate, and the bearer returns to the future. Finally, the greater will power that the bearer has to remain in the past is closely correlated to how long the bearer will actually remain in the past.
Hermione put the book down with a thud. If Flamel's theory is correct, I could be flung back into the future at any moment! That must have been what that vision was on the night of the masquerade. I must have almost been flung forward then, but my willpower to stay was too great. With a sick feeling, she realized that she had arrived September 1st, and it was currently November 2nd. Then again, she had had a strong desire to remain in the past. Even if it had been subconscious at the time, there was a large part of her that had wanted to stay with Tom. More than anything.
Suddenly Dumbledore's words came back to her.
"Times waits for no man, Miss Nestowe. Do not be so naive to think that it will wait for you."
He was warning me! She realized. He knew!
Then, Hermione sat back in her seat and did the thing she was best at. She thought.
The memories flooded into her conscious.
"Tom . . . if you could go back and change something really, really terrible, would you do it?"
"Do not forget, Miss Nestowe, that it is time, the greatest of all elements, that you are attempting to hoodwink . . ."
"Although time could be reversed and fast forwarded, there was ultimately no way of changing–"
"I'm a firm believer that you can't change time, Hermione . . ."
Did I go back in the past because I was unhappy with the future, or was I unhappy with the future because I went back in the past?
" . . .Being in this very moment and no other, time as we know it . . . stops. You can freeze frame and stop. Stop. Stop . . . stop . . ."
"Stop."
She said it aloud as the realization crashed down upon her. It was in that moment that she came to understand everything she had done was terribly, terribly wrong. And now, what would inevitably occur was a horrendous disaster that she had not seen coming. Though, as she looked back, she should have seen it. After all, it had been right in front of her for the majority of her life.
For what she had done in love, she had paid for in righteousness and truth. Love had mutilated her world (their world), beyond any recognition. Here was an incidence where love had not conquered all, it had destroyed all.
And the scariest thing was that if she had known that falling in love with Tom would bring about the ruin of the world, if she had known that the price for loving him would have been destruction and evil, she would not have changed what she had done.
She would not have given up loving him for the world.
Hermione was no Harry Potter, no chivalrous savior, and love had taken hold of her and tainted her as it corrupted so many others.
Love was a beautiful and awful concept, and the most awful thing of all was that no one had control over it. Not Hermione, with all her grace and intelligence. Not Tom, with his control over the world and everything in it, everything but the one thing that had saved him.
It would destroy him.
Tom, was her next and only thought. She had to get to him somehow, and warn him. She leapt up from her chair, mind still chipping the pieces together. Why didn't I see it before? At any moment, I may disappear . . .
She darted out of the library door, hoping beyond hope that it was not already too late.
Tom stopped abruptly at the side of the lake, and turned onto the garden path. The sun was close to rising above the Forbidden Forest, signifying the start of a new day. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of the breeze rustling through the trees. It was a sound he had never previously noticed, much less enjoyed.
Predawn shadows stretched across the garden, which was bathed in a champagne luminescence. As sunlight touched the petals of the crimson roses with gentle fingers, Tom was struck with an idea.
He carefully broke the stem of a blood red rose and held it in front of him.
"Carpe Noctum," he whispered, with a wave of his wand. The rose instantly transformed. Crimson red faded to midnight black. It was, sensationally, the very color of Tom's eyes. The spell he had performed made the rose everlasting. At least, until he gave it to Hermione. When he gave it to Hermione, the black rose would stay alive for as long as he loved her. The perpetual and unfading midnight rose could gaze directly into his heart, and the moment that he stopped loving her, it would lose strength. Tom was sure that the rose would wilt only on the day that he died.
Footsteps echoed behind him on the barren path, and he whirled around, already certain of who it was.
Sure enough, Hermione stood there, bathed in the pale-golden glow of the rising sun.
"Tom," she whispered, stopping before him, as if it was the most profound word in the world.
Her hair was slightly disheveled, and her cheeks were flushed and pale all at once. Her expression reminded him of a lost child's, as if everything going on around her was too much to take in. He would never forget how she looked in that moment. Soft, like an angel in the sunrise.
She stepped toward him, and gripped his forearms forcefully. He would have hexed anyone else, but this was Hermione, his Hermione.
"Promise me," she choked out, the words like fire in her throat.
"Hermione, what . . ."
"I love you, Tom. But you know that already. You've changed since I met you, and you know that too. Before this, you never loved or laughed or felt. You've become a person. You're emotional and upset and vulnerable and human. But you're also stronger, you're so much stronger than I could ever be . . ." she cut herself off as she realized she was babbling.
"I want you to promise me. Promise me that if something ever happened to me, you would go on living, and loving. Promise me, promise me that you will never be bitter or vengeful or angry. There are more good people in this world than me."
Tom stared at her. What was she trying to say?
"But, Hermione, you're the only thing in this world that matters to me–"
"No!" she screamed, wrenching away as if his skin burnt her fingers. His mouth dropped open in surprise.
"Please, Tom," she begged, nearly hysterical. "Please. I want you to give this world a chance, even though it has not given you one. I want you to give this world a chance for redemption. Promise me, Tom, that you will not turn your back on those who have turned their backs on you."
"I don't know what you mean," he said quietly, his concern growing with every passing second.
"I mean just that. Not everything is evil, is terrible, is cruel. If you lose me, you haven't lost everything. That's the second reason I came, to say goodb–"
"Why are you ranting about me losing you, Hermione? I'll hold on to you and never, ever let go if that's what it takes to keep you here!"
He was yelling, hysterical himself, as panic rose within him.
"I wasn't strong enough to save you," she said, and an expression came over her face so anguished and heartbroken that he felt as if her soul was laid open for him to see, as if he was driving a stake through it by looking at her. "I'm so sorry, Tom. Love wasn't strong enough to save you. Now all that you can do is try to save yourself."
He chose that moment to thrust the rose into her hands, half because he never wanted to talk to her again, and half because he subconsciously sensed the urgency of the situation.
Hermione looked down as the rose in her hand. It was a black like she had never seen, and had a dark, enigmatic air about it. The very air around seemed to sparkle with forbidden beauty and alluring depth. It was just the color of Tom's eyes.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Tom said in low voice, then paused. "I don't know all that much about you, like where you're from or why you're here or what you're playing at."
He stared at her, silently, then spoke. He seemed on the verge of hysterics.
"But I do know that the rose you're holding won't wilt until the day I stop loving you, and that'll be the day I die. That, I know . . . it's all I need to know, Hermione."
He met her eyes imploringly, and all of her resolve melted. She launched herself into his arms, the rose still clutched firmly in her right hand.
Though their love would inevitably destroy countless thousands, Hermione refused to believe that love in itself was wrong. She refused to believe that love as a principle was unethical, though it would take Tom to the point of no return. In that moment, their love was poetic and unstoppable. She never let go of him.
They were as close as two people could be, yet were separated by decade upon decade, by choice and destiny, by light and dark. And even as Tom held her to him, breathing in the smell of her hair and savoring the touch of her skin, even as he loved her with all of his heart, she was slipping away. Her image was flickering like a candle in the wind, and for a moment she was in neither future nor past. Then Tom saw her eyes widen, as if seeing a danger that was not there, and then there was a flash of green light, and a cold laugh that sounded vaguely familiar to Tom.
And then, she was gone.
Tom still had his arms wrapped around her, except that she was not there. The warmth of her skin lingered for another moment and then disappeared as if never having existed at all. He still heard the way she breathed, though in the garden there was only dead silence. There was something incredibly gone about her, something that told him she would never, ever come back. Tom knew because a place inside of him was suddenly completely empty, or a degree farther than empty. The spot where she had been was like a black hole, sucking in and destroying everything around it.
As the sun finally made its way over the horizon, a boy in a rose garden dropped to his knees in despair. And the saddest thing was not that he was crying and he did not know it. The saddest thing was that Hermione, his Hermione, was not there to wipe the tears away.
She never would be.
Tom did not know exactly how he found himself in Dumbledore's office a few hours later. Perhaps it was the fact that Dumbledore was the only man in the world that would possibly have any idea what had happened to her.
"Mr. Riddle . . . you say you saw her disappear with a flash of green light, and you heard laughter?"
"Yes," Tom said blankly. The black hole where his heart had once been had sucked him into an empty shell. Nothing remained.
"Then I fear that the worst occurred. You may be surprised to find out that Miss Nestowe was a time traveler, Mr. Riddle. She was from the future."
Tom's head came slowly up at this. The future? How is it possible?
Dumbledore continued, "I'm sure you've learned from your studies that nothing like this has ever occurred. I believe that she was blasted into the future unexpectedly, and the flash of green light represented the Killing Curse. The fact is, someone murdered her in the future, Mr. Riddle. I do not know who it was, or why, but from your evidence we can discern that she is dead."
Dead. The word rang through Tom's hollow brain like a gong sounding. He recalled that there was something disconcerting about the laugh that he had heard, something chilling and haunting and unusual, though he could out his finger on what it was.
Dumbledore sighed. "I wish that there was a way to prevent her murder, but . . . it is not wise to meddle in the dealings of time." He paused there, contemplating. "I regret not taking the time to interrogate her more persistently."
Someone murdered her, Tom thought blankly.
In the years to come, he would strive relentlessly for anything that could turn back time, that could save Hermione's life, and bring her back to him. He experimented with the Dark Arts, convinced that if he became skilled enough with them that he could defy death itself. But it was of no use. He was the most powerful wizard of his time, and had accomplished things that ordinary men would never dream of, but would never manage to bring back the one thing that mattered most of all.
He did not know who had murdered her, but he knew that for this man he felt something so far beyond hate that it was a freezing, burning entity in the pit of his stomach. In that moment Tom made a promise so strong that he knew it could never be broken.
I will kill him. I will kill whoever it was that caused her to die right in my arms. I will kill him if it is the last thing I do.
And then, Tom was done. He was done with sympathy and he was done with empathy and he was done with caring.
I love you.
He had never said it to her, but he had felt it. He had adored her beyond all rationality.
Tom's love for her had not saved him. It had destroyed him.
Hermione was the only thing that he had cared about, and she was also the only thing he had lost. It was different from his parents, because he had never had parents in the first place. But he had had her.
And he had lost her.
"Are you feeling okay, Mr. Riddle?" Dumbledore asked, peering across at him.
The truth was, Tom was not okay. He would never be okay again.
Before he had been drawn into this most beautiful nightmare, this most tragic illusion, this most haunting and compelling dream, it stood true that his heart had been a chip of ice, a block of granite, as frozen and solid as onyx. He had given his entire heart to her, at last coming to the realization that he did not have to be afraid.
His heart was frozen no longer, but this was not from healing. He simply did not know where it had gone.
She had taken his heart away.
She had proven to him once and for all something he had always been on the brink of believing. Love was a weakness, simple as that.
And Tom Riddle did not tolerate weakness.
Dumbledore would never forget when Tom looked up at him that day. His eyes were haunted, inhuman, and . . . were they, perhaps, red? But . . . no . . . a trick of the light, nothing more. Dumbledore did not need an answer to his question after that. Tom was so far gone that he would never come back. He had snapped.
He had gone from having a frozen heart to lacking a heart all together, from creating to destroying, from being afraid of love to being incapable of love.
Here was a human who had become inhuman, whose soul was scarred so badly that he would never again think twice about murdering or torturing or destroying.
Here was a man who had discovered hope and joy and laughter, only to have lost it in the span of a heartbeat.
And so rose the Great Lord Voldemort.
((A.N. It is not over. I repeat, the story is not over, so hang in there. Yeah, that means you, Jay Ficlover. I seriously cried while writing this scene. I want to get some theories on how this all plays into the future, though. Hints have been dropped. Review. :D))