A/N: Thank you for all the encouraging comments! Thank you!

With all the craziness that has been going on, I still don't have any set schedule to update. I will work on this story when I can.

Chapter Eleven

Godric's Hollow was a small, sleepy village whose inhabitants milled happily from task to task and that evening was no different. The sun was setting, the sky bursting with orange and yellow as the last rays of the day filtered down onto the small village.

Tom apparated them behind the quaint church on Main. The waning light glinted off of Hermione's curls, throwing stunning reds and golds into the mix of browns that was usually the only visible color and his heart lurched, tugging uncomfortably in his chest. The longer they stood there, the harder it was to part. And he knew that he wasn't the only one affected. Hermione's small hands curled in his robes and he wasn't sure if she was pulling him closer or trying to steady herself after apparation.

"What was it you wanted to see?" Tom asked curiously yet breathlessly. Leaning in, he inhaled the scent wafting off of her hair and closed his eyes as the dark desires pulsed through his body, concentrating in his now semi-erect cock. The tendons in his neck became taut as he clenched his teeth against the rising hormones running rampant through his body.

Trying to concentrate on something other than Hermione and her sweet body, Tom looked around. Just because Godric's Hollow was a small wizarding village whose entire population consisted of wizarding-kind didn't mean that anything was exciting about the place. In fact, it screamed sleepy middle-class suburbia. The lack of anything resembling drive and ambition made him a bit queasy.

Pulling out of his embrace, Hermione caught his hand and tugged him onto Main Street, strolling hand in hand. "The reason why I came here is twofold. First, the differences between what I know of this time and what they are now are significant. Seeing it is concerning. I have to ask myself; did I affect this change or is what I know of the past wrong? There is someone here in town that can give me that answer. Secondly, this is Dumbledore's hometown and just the thought of us being here will freak him out. Especially when he finds out who we are meeting which coincidentally is the same person who can answer my questions,"

"Oh?" His eyes twinkled merrily. "And who is this enigmatic acquaintance that will knock Dumbledore off kilter?"

Hermione smirked and pulled them to a stop in front of a small blue cottage with some of the loveliest landscaping Tom had ever seen. Hermione bounced up the stone walkway and rapped her knuckles against the door as if she knew the place well. She turned back and winked at him, before turning her smiling face to the middle-aged woman who opened the door.

"Can I help you?" the smiling woman asked.

"I am Hermione Dumbledore, and this is Tom Riddle. We are students of Hogwarts doing research for a combined N.E.W.T.s project."

"Oh, how interesting!" the woman exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "Come in, come in and tell me all about it. I will do what I can to help you!"

"Thank you, Professor Bagshot," Hermione said, turning to Tom and waggling her eyebrows. He, on the other hand, just looked as if he took a bludger to the chest. Bathilda Bagshot, the author of their History of Magic textbook, was ushering them into her house, offering her prestigious brain to their endeavor. He blew the pent-up breath out of his lungs and chuckled softly to himself and ran his fingers carefully through his perfectly styled hair as he followed the two women into the house.

"What is your project on?" Bathilda asked, summoning a House elf with a wave of her hand.

"Mistress?" the tiny elf bowed her head happily.

"Tea please, Dinks,"

Dinks bobbed her head excitedly and said, "Right away!" before popping out of the room.

"Some sources have indicated that Muggleborn children are the direct descendants of a wizarding family, either by squibs or even rogue house-elves that switch magical children out with muggle children," Hermione began, the wrinkle on her nose deepening.

Bathilda Bagshot laughed so uproariously at the last, she had to wipe away the tears that sprang to the corners of her eyes. "Been looking through the Malfoy libraries, have you?"

"That was our first stop," Tom admitted.

"Of course, it was. I know who you are, Tom Riddle, I know the rumors whispered about you, your talents, and your followers. Oh yes," she interrupted just as Tom was going to speak. "They aren't really your friends. Even I know that. You don't have the pedigree for it. Don't feel ashamed! The Malfoys are some of the worst bigots in England. And where a Malfoy walks, the other Slytherins follow. Don't take it to heart, Mr. Riddle. More fools, them."

"You don't agree then, that Muggleborns must be born of magical blood?" Tom asked.

"Definitely not! I've traveled the world and boy, have I seen some things but the most common belief I keep coming back to is that Magic is unpredictable. Strength doesn't necessarily run in families."

"Oh?" Tom asked noncommittally.

"Yes. Only the Europeans and Americans are caught up with blood purity. Everyone else is just excited for the magic to infuse the next generation. The question is always this; if blood purity mattered then why is it that those who are most powerful tend to be half-blooded? Even Muggleborns have some that are super powerful, those that are middling, and those that are lucky to do magic at all. Those same levels are across the board no matter the blood. Why are the Malfoys consistently powerful? Because they constantly marry women who have magical strength. It isn't a guarantee, but it is more likely for a magically strong couple to produce strong children."

"But then how to account for the Muggleborns?" Tom asked. "In those cases, they come from a couple without any magic at all."

"That is just the thing. You can't. It is magic and it doesn't always act in predictable ways."

"Could it then stand to reason that a Muggleborn must be born of magical ties? A squib in the familial line? Just the fact that squibs are the exception, not the norm, would lead one to believe that magic does indeed run in families. That magic has to be inherited and that some children do not inherit that particular gene." Hermione said even though she was firm in her belief that magic could be in anyone, regardless of blood relations. Tom looked at her, a thoroughly bemused look on his face.

"Not at all!" Bathilda said passionately. "Many powerful Muggleborns have had their lines studied for this very thing. Some of them have found Squib ties but many more of them have not. In some cases, the documented familial lines traced back to the Hogwarts founders without finding any. Those were impossible to prove either way. Documentation wasn't as rigorous then as it is now or even as it was five hundred years ago. A magical family who produced a Squib could have hidden their issue among the muggles. All those years ago, it wouldn't have been shocking for a ten-year-old to suddenly die. No one would have questioned the absence."

Hermione bit her bottom lip, and for a moment she looked truly sorry before saying, "Is that where your nephew picked up his views on Muggles?"

Bathilda stiffened her back in shock and eyed Hermione warily. "My nephew and I have had no contact in years. And just because he holds to a certain belief, doesn't mean I believe the same! I'm not entirely sure where he got all those fantastical ideas from, but he didn't get them from me!"

"I believe you," Hermione said remorsefully. Who in bloody hell was this unnamed nephew? Tom almost couldn't believe it, but if he was following along correctly, he had his suspicions. Successfully, he held back his smirk. This was another thing he would be able to hold over Grindelwald's head when they met again.

"Then why even mention it?" Bathilda held Hermione's stare, each searching the other's eyes.

"Would you believe me if I told you that I wasn't from here?" Hermione said quietly.

Bathilda pursed her lips and for a moment looked as if she was making a decision. Finally, after a singularly long pause, she sighed and said, "The rumors of you have reached my ears, girl. Are you under the impression that I don't know that neither Albus nor Aberforth have ever produced any progeny? I know the Dumbledore family better than anyone else and I do not, not for one second, believe you were the product of a one-off. Especially not from Aberforth. Mostly because I doubt his ability to interest a woman long enough and Albus because the female anatomy doesn't exactly excite him."

Tom rolled his lips between his teeth and struggled not to laugh at the scathing candor.

"I traveled back over fifty years to be here. But I've noticed something that I hadn't even considered could be possible. Nothing is what I was expecting. What I have studied and learned of this time period is all wrong. I don't know who to trust and I can no longer tell who the enemy is," Hermione said in a strangled voice, taking the teacup that the House-elf handed to her.

"Obviously you trust Albus Dumbledore. He wouldn't have given you an alias otherwise." Bathilda cut her gaze to Tom and canted her head in curiosity, accepting her own cup. "And Tom Riddle has made your list of allies, but by all accounts, it didn't start out that way."

Hermione nodded once and took a sip of the tea that Dinks had served.

"It wasn't easy to get her to shake her preconceived notions of me," Tom said with an innocent smile.

Bathilda chuckled and set her teacup on its saucer, leaning forward in her chair. A single brow rose, arching high on her forehead. "Not all of those preconceived notions were undeserved though, were they?"

Tom's smile slid into a smirk, and he leaned back comfortably against her floral settee. "There were a few things she knew of me that was spot on,"

"Hmm," Bathida said, mimicking the comfortable pose in which Tom draped himself. "then perhaps the question isn't why things are different but why are some things the same?"

"The thing is," Hermione butted in with a frown. "there is something I believed Tom to have done, something I was supposed to prevent. However, when I arrived in this time, Tom was not the one who did it."

"Maybe he just hasn't done it yet,"

"Maybe." Hermione agreed, "except the receptacles have since been destroyed and I know for a fact that in my time and this time, the artifacts used were the same and legitimate. They cannot be reproduced."

"Interesting," Bathilda breathed and for a moment she forgot about Tom and their Slytherin posturing. The shine of interest, academia, glittered in her eyes. "Were they destroyed before or after your return?"

"After,"

"So, you did affect change. The question is why were the objects created by someone other than Mr. Riddle if you know them to be his in the future? And the objects you destroyed this time were the very same ones you dealt with in the future."

"Yes,"

"Curiouser and curiouser," * Bathilda said.

"The strangest part of the tale is that Dumbledore had told her before sending her back that I was such a consummate liar, so convincing a manipulator that she couldn't believe anything I said or did."

"Are you?"

Tom snorted. "I'm fantastic at both. However, I am not so proficient that I am seamless in execution. Not to the level, Dumbledore seems to think I am operating at, anyway. The whole thing is quite the compliment, but I am positive Dumbledore never meant it to be one," Tom said, shifting until his leg was crossed over the other. "Besides my talents, she is aware of my beginnings. If I didn't know better, I could believe the enemy is me. The things she knows of me are things that no one else knows," He shook his head.

"Just because some of it is not you, doesn't mean that what she knows won't come to pass eventually,"

"For what purpose? I have no desire to make those objects and I had no intention of making any. Not after I saw firsthand the effect it had on the Wizard casting the spell."

"But it may not always be so," Bathilda said and Tom leaned forward, his mouth open to argue but she held up her hand to stall his response. "Yes, the objects destroyed were the same both in her time and now. Yes, it may be true that they weren't yours. But that does not mean you will not do what she is accusing you of."

Tom went cold and his heart began to pound for an entirely different reason.

Bathilda continued. "What is the catalyst of Miss Dumbledore's time travel? And if things are changed, if they are so different, why would she come back here to this time?"

"Someone manipulated things, manipulated me, to appear this way!" Hermione said.

"Or maybe someone recreated everything to ensure your return," Bathilda answered Hermione while watching Tom, a grim insinuation on her face.

"Why would anyone want that?" Hermione cried incredulously.

"Indeed," Bathilda answered Hermione, still pinning Tom with an inscrutable look. "When are you to return?"

"Dumbledore says it can't be done," Tom answered for Hermione and he could hear her huff in aggravation. He wasn't exactly sure what power play they were playing but neither Tom nor Bathilda averted their eyes to look at her.

"Just because Albus says something is so, doesn't mean that it is so. It just means that to his knowledge it can't be done. Perhaps someone else can send her back. Perhaps someone who cares more for her than for themselves. Witches shouldn't meddle in time. No matter what you know of the past, present, and future that truth is still undeniable. The consequences would be dire."

"What if she can't return?"

"What if she can't stay?" Bathilda returned. "Is death better than sending her back?"

Tom's head snapped back as if he had been slapped. "What are you saying?"

"There is not one instance of long-term time travel that didn't end tragically in one way or another."

"That you know of,"

"Do what you want." She said dismissively. "But heed these words, it will be Miss Dumbledore who pays the price,"

After that dire statement, the conversation fizzled out and it was clear they were overstaying their welcome, and though Hermione tried to get Bathilda back into the conversation, Bathilda continuously deflected.

"Thank you for your time and candor," Hermione finally murmured and stood, smoothing her robes.

"Anytime," Bathilda said by rote, obviously giving a response she had repeated many times. Tom suspected that if she never saw them again, she would be happy.

Once they were back on the main street that ran through Godric's Hollow, Tom slid his arm around Hermione's waist and pulled her close. Like lovers. And Bathilda words rolled around his head until he could think of nothing else. Would he be the one to send her back, protecting her from staying too long where she didn't belong?

Tom leaned in and buried his nose in her hair, trying to stifle the unwanted fear. Merlin, did she smell divine, he thought to himself, leaning closer to inhale the dark fizzle of magic that clung to her body. He calmed slightly but there was something still aching in his chest that even her nearness couldn't dispel.

"How much of that did you already know, Sweet?" he murmured into her ear. She shivered and inclined her head toward him, an enigmatic little smile tugging the corners of her lips.

"Some. I suspected the rest." Hermione said grimly.

"Like what?" He asked as they continued to meander down the lane.

Hermione paused in front of another pretty cottage at the end of the lane and just stared at the home before continuing. "You are clearly not the man I thought you to be and Grindelwald having Horcruxes is not something known from the first war. In fact, those that do know about them from the second war only attribute them to you. Why? Why lay the blame at your door? Why does Dumbledore hate you so much?"

"If you ever find out, let me know," Tom said. "Is there a reason we are in front of this house, staring at it as if it kicked your Krupp?"

"This was Harry's house. But in my time, it wasn't livable and hasn't been since Harry was a one-year-old. This house was a shrine, a temple to show that you were not undefeatable."

"Oh?"

"I came here once with Harry. We were visiting the graves of his parents the Christmas before he died. He had been shuttled back to his wretched family for the winter hols because the Ministry made it too unbearable to stay at Hogwarts. I just knew he was having a terrible time of it, though he rarely complained. Christmas Eve, I showed up on his doorstep. My parents were just wealthy enough, just connected enough as muggles to convince Harry's Aunt and Uncle to let me take him for the rest of the Holiday. He told me two nights later that it was the best Christmas he had ever had."

"What happened to his parents?" He asked, desperately trying to tamp down the jealousy that rose like a mighty Basilisk within him.

"It was widely believed that you killed them,"

"Why would I care about one family?" he scoffed, uncertainty now coloring his voice. What would he be willing to do to make sure Hermione was his in this time and in the future?

"There was a prophecy that Harry would be the one to stop you. You came to kill him, and his parents were killed because they were there and in the way. But Harry's Mum's sacrifice made it impossible for you to kill Harry and your curse rebounded off of him and hit you instead, sealing your fate as something not quite dead but not alive either."

"I don't believe in prophecy," Tom began. "I believe in facts. Plus, there is so much left unsaid within a prophecy that it probably would never come to fruition the way one would think anyway. I think you already believe that I am not the man you know as Voldemort."

"No, you're not. I've been convinced. But it has to be someone who knows you intimately. Someone close enough who would be able to steal your identity."

"Dumbledore," Tom breathed.

"Or someone who Dumbledore wants to protect," Hermione finished grimly.

Suddenly a thought entered his mind that nearly made him physically sick. What if Dumbledore sent Hermione back to him on purpose to make sure that all those terrible things came to pass? What if Tom did do them? What if he had a really good reason? Hermione was constantly sharing things of the future with him because she trusted him. What if she shouldn't?

Tom sighed and looked at the house that was the place where the fate of Hermione's best friend, Harry, was sealed and wondered what he was going to do. About Dumbledore, about Hermione's time travel, about himself and the things he might be capable of under the right circumstances. Before, he was running on the assumption that Hermione was there to stay and that he wouldn't do the things he was accused of, having already changed his future goals. Reluctantly, he acknowledged that changing the former could change the latter. The uncomfortable throbbing in his chest confirmed the thought.

Just because Dumbledore was wrong in believing Tom made the first two Horcruxes didn't mean he was wrong about Tom. Maybe, just maybe, Dumbledore saw the monster within him that he couldn't yet see.

"Let's head back to Hogwarts before darkness falls," he murmured against her hair and he could feel her nod against his chest as he pulled her in closer, wishing for the first time that she wasn't a time traveler and that she belonged there with him.

**HGHG**

Curiouser and curiouser is a quote out of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll