a/n: Hey what's up. It's another time travel fic. O wow. I love those. This one's gonna be dark. Maybe? Guess it depends what you're used to. I practice a bit of a disregard for the details of canon, like dates, and other such intricacies. It's AU, and all that. We shall show Rowling the same respect she shows others, yeah? So if you notice any errors, you can enlighten me, but know I don't really care. Tomato, tomato, y'know. Just settle into the vibe.

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Do It So I Deserve It

Chapter 1:

The Queen Gets Her Colour

She decided to do it. It was her call. There was no longer a Harry, or a Dumbeldore to talk her down. There was no Ron to quell her, take her into his arms, and tell her everything was alright. That everything was already fine. He used to be so good at that.

Somehow that loss stung most. She thought perhaps it was because it wasn't a consequence of the war in the most direct sense. His wasn't a heroic death by any means. He was a hero, and he did die, but the two things weren't correlated. He'd drunk himself stupid and passed out in an alleyway mid January, and so froze to death. She remembered when she found out about it. It didn't feel real. It felt like it wasn't her life. It didn't belong to her. It wasn't right.

And so a thought hatched in her mind one morning, six months later, as she stirred milk into her tea. An idea so neat and clear. So pure and succinct. It told her to go back. To go back before any of it. Before the unraveling of everything she'd ever loved, all that was good, hopeful, and worthwhile in the world. She would figure out how to get herself back before it all crumbled, and stop it from happening. Consequences be damned.

Everything was already the worst, after all. She couldn't mess it up any further. It was like the drastic measures one might take to remove a terminal illness. It was worth a shot. Worth the risk of undoing all of space and time. She didn't feel afraid. Not desperate. Not deluded. Not misguided. She felt sure. Like this was it. It just felt right. Harry taught her to trust that.

To accomplish her new, shining, goal, she required some kind of magical device. Something that didn't exist quite yet. Something like a Time-Turner, but capable of further leaps. Ideally before Tom Riddle. Before Voldemort. Before the trauma could amount, and affect like it did.

And as the thought to go back, settled into an intention, a blue rose appeared in the otherwise empty porcelain vase on the kitchen window sill. She regarded it with caution, before she called it to her. Accio. And she held it suspended before her. The magic didn't seem hostile. Fixed to the stem, with a strand of silver ribbon, was a small scroll of parchment paper. A tag read: To you, From you. Tentatively, she reached and untied the scroll. As she did, the scroll extended to become a meter in length. As she read it, a grin crept along her lips. It was instructions from her future self. From her seventy year old self. It detailed exactly how she could go back in time, and apologized for not doing it herself, but explaining she'd have a better shot without the stiffness in her joints and failing vision. There were detailed instructions, complete with diagrams, and common troubleshooting suggestions, on a complex ritual to perform in order to go back.

It was strange to her that it didn't end up being a magical object to contain the power. Perhaps it was a power too large to be contained in an object. But the fact that she'd been dedicated to the goal for fifty years, and hadn't changed her mind with age or experience only served to convince herself further it was a good call.

The ritual was designed to take her back exactly fifty years. She frowned, as it might have been easier to catch him before he was ever dangerous, before he would be difficult to kill. She supposed she could go back twice, to one hundred years in the past, but it was too risky. She wasn't sure she could wait that long. She could die in that time, be arrested, otherwise incapacitated. Any number of things could happen in that time. The world would be too different. There would be too much she didn't understand. Too much unknown.

Fifty years ago Voldermort would be just out of Hogwarts, and working at Borgin and Burkes. It was for the best. At twenty, she herself couldn't really pass as a student anymore. In addition, there were too many restrictions upon going there. Dumbledore would know in the way he always did. She didn't need that. What she was doing was illegal, and dangerous. So it was perhaps a good thing. She could catch Voldemort before he made his third Horcrux, hopefully. She would find the Diary and the Ring, and he would be dead. She'd done it before, she would do it again, before his ideals rooted and corrupted the entirety of the wizarding world.

She altered her own robes to be period appropriate. Extending the length here, adding embellishment there. It felt good to have a mission. She slipped into the task, like a fish into water. She did three sets. One summer one in pale pink, one in forest green, made of a sturdy material for fall, and a formal one in deep crimson.

She decided she would be an American traveler. That would be her back story. The accent was easy enough, all things considered.

She also prepared a bag of potion doses, for all sorts of shenanigans. She still had the Basilisk fang in her possession, and in the worst case could conjure Fiendfyre. Next on her list was money. The beneficial thing about wizard money was that it never changed. They didn't date, or change the design, so she packed as much as she could of it in her beaded bag.

Lastly she dressed. She did it slowly. She had until midnight, and the preparation staved off her nerves. She shouldn't be nervous. She decided she wouldn't be nervous. She just supposed it was natural before committing to such a drastic change. She would never be who she was, ever again. Her correction wouldn't cause it to be as it once was. But it would be better. She had to believe that. If she ever did get to meet Harry, or Ron, they would be children.

She parted her hair and pinned it back. She applied red lipstick, pulled on white satin gloves, to go with the pale pink robes.

She set the ceremony up in her backyard at midnight. She laid out the salt to form the ruins, and the rosemary. She burned the amber candles, and aligned the gold coins. She didn't have to worry about any clues of her discretion being left behind. There wouldn't be any way anyone could make anything of the remnants left behind, her future self had assured her. Most of the materials were transposed with the incantation, and lost to physical form. She took a grounding breath, and closed her eyes. She spoke the words of her future self, and instantly it felt like falling, and burning all at once, as the world closed to black around her.

In another instant, she stood in the same backyard, fifty years earlier. There were pink petunias, and geraniums in terracotta pots. She'd never bothered with such things, but they filled the air with their fragrance. She walked out the wrought iron back gate into the alley. She looked up. The night sky was shimmering. The moon was full, and the air was cool and soft.

Priority one was collecting the locket. Assuming she was just in time for that one. She knew who the previous owner was. Hepzibah Smith. How much she knew about Voldemort's history was actually nauseating. She knew his story almost as well as she knew her own.

She walked up a cobblestone path to an old, Victorian style, home, with purple siding. She walked up the creaking steps. She knew there would be a lonely old woman and a house elf. No dragons. No trolls. No dark psycho wizards. No anything. She stopped and knocked on the door.

A woman came to the door brandishing her wand. It was just after midnight, after all. Hermione smiled at the woman and wordlessly cast the Imperius curse. The woman left to go to her safe and get the locket, as well as other jewelry, and hand it over in a charmed canvas bag Hermione provided her. She'd stunned the house elf and altered their memories in a subtle way. She basically just obscured her appearance. The fewer alterations made on a memory caused the suggestion of any alterations less apparent to anyone who may be searching through it.

She'd already thought about the morality of it. You see, she was saving the woman's life and the house elf's dignity.

She wore the locket around her neck, tucked into her robes. The rest of the jewelry she cast into the abyss of her bag. Might be useful for money if she was there longer than planned. She also took it, because the woman may be liable to report the stolen property once she realized it was missing, even if she had no conscious memory of it's theft.

And because the objects were rare in the way they were, the woman might alert Borgin and Burkes, in case the thief tried to sell the wares. And Voldemort may recognize or be intrigued by the description of the locket and go on the hunt. That was fine. He'd been after her before. For the same damn thing.

The locket itself felt different, without the rotting remnant of Voldemort's soul stinking it up. The object sat pleasantly cool against her skin, and it was almost beautiful with all its elegant detail, and fine craftsmanship.

She went out into the woods and set up her tent with its protective spells, like she had done so many times on the run the first time around. She made herself some toast and raspberry jam, and reread a little from an advanced alchemy textbook. And after, she slept dreamlessly.

In the late morning, she headed down to Knockturn Alley. The heat was sweltering, and the sunshine relentless. She cast a quick cooling charm over herself.

She walked alone. But she didn't feel that way. She felt her people at her side, all of the fallen were with her. She could feel it. She knew it sounded irrational. There wasn't any research on it. But she could practically feel Harry and Ron at her side. Perhaps it was just some kind of psychosomatic impression. A sort of muscle memory.

She'd wanted to look Voldemort in the eyes. He never gave her much credit in her time. Not that she wanted his credit. His view was so distorted, that what he saw didn't really mean anything to her. But he'd caused her some much personal distress. Destroyed people she loved, and pieces of herself as well. There were such better things she was supposed to be doing with herself. She was supposed to be living, not dealing with him. She wanted him to look at her. She wanted him to know.

She was so lost in her own head, and was almost surprised to find herself standing in the front entrance of Borgin and Burkes.

She stopped and looked up at the heaps of oddities. A man stepped out from the piles. His tone was cool and polite, "How may I assist you this morning?"

She took a moment to speak. He was so human. The colour of his skin was warm. His hair and eyes were rich and dark. For a moment she questioned if it was actually him. She stepped forward and extended her hand, "Hermione Granger."

"Tom Riddle." He took her hand, in a brief greeting.

His skin wasn't cold, or clammy. His touch wasn't callous, but the contact made her stomach turn. She fought the urge to wipe her palm on her robes. She said, "I'm interested in purchasing a souvenir to take back with me to America. Something small. Jewelry perhaps."

"You would be better off visiting the shops along Diagon Alley for something like that."

"I'm not interested in collecting any more useless trinkets. I like things that have a bit of character. I've heard this is the place for that."

He offered her a smile. It had a bit of a crook to it. "I might have a thing or two." He gestured for her to follow him further back.

"Wonderful," she said, and walked after him. She wondered if it may be easier to kill him before destroying the Horcruxes. It may be easier considering he was currently sitting on them. The black Ring glinted in his finger, as he unlocked a glass cabinet. She couldn't be certain of the whereabouts of the Diary. As far as she figured, he wouldn't have felt the need to have someone else safe keep his treasure quite yet. She should mind her thoughts. Just to be careful.

He took out a golden hat pin, with an aqua blue and silver crystal cluster at the end of it. It reminded her of a pair of earrings she'd once owned.

"It's beautiful," she said, "there's something about it."

"It was cursed by a jilted lover. It accelerates the aging process of the wearer. One day of wearing the pin causes one year of physical aging."

"Incredible. I've never seen anything like it." She didn't really expect him to show her something so serious off the bat. She knew the item's properties didn't explicitly break any dark magic restrictions of the time. But it definitely was gray, nevermind immoral.

"It's a curse sprung from the intense rage of betrayal. The creator probably didn't even consciously realize what they were entirely doing. It's an erratic sort of magic."

"I see that." She did. The energy felt almost deranged. She wondered what about her screamed she would want an item like that. Perhaps he'd sensed her vindictive mood.

"Yes. Subconscious magic can be surprisingly potent."

"You must get to see such interesting objects, you wouldn't otherwise." She looked up at him. He didn't seem to want to be speaking with her at all, and it was actually sort of fun to think that she was annoying the Dark Lord, and there wasn't much he could do about it. "Do you have any proof?" She asked. "That it does what it says it does?"

"Borgin and Burkes thoroughly vets all of their curios."

"So there's no proof," she smiled, "I just have to trust you."

"Is that so difficult?"

"What's this?" She pointed to a silver necklace behind the glass.

"A cursed necklace."

There was the vagueness she'd expected. She tapped her chin. "Is there anything you have that I could actually wear?"

"There's some antique gold earrings, and a pocket watch that don't have much value past that of their metal." He pointed to the jewelry tree on the till.

She frowned, "Somehow, they don't hold a candle."

Another person entered and grumbled his way up the stairs. Hermione's gaze flicked briefly to track him, then back to Voldemort. It was jarring meeting his eyes, but she held it as she asked, "Are you ever worried about who you're selling things to? Considering their nature, and all."

"That isn't any of my business." He said it reassuringly.

That sort of bothered her. "But don't you ever wonder?"

"Never."

She broke their eye contact, and looked down at her hands. She was ready to leave. "That's very discreet of you. Where I come from everyone's always in everyone's business."

"Where are you from?"

"America. Just a small town in Michigan. Just couldn't stand being there any longer. It made the world seem so small. Do you have any tips for sightseeing? It's my first visit."

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a guide. I spend most of my time here."

"Must be sort of lonely."

"I rather enjoy my own company. And as you stated, there are many intriguing items that come through here to occupy my time. Have you decided about the pin?"

"Yes. I don't think I'll purchase it, afterall. I'd be too tempted to give it as a gift, and then it wouldn't serve as a souvenir at all." She bit her lip, "Maybe you were right. Maybe I'd be better off shopping somewhere else. Thank you for your help, though."

"Do have a good rest of your day."

"Goodbye Mr. Riddle." She walked away, back into the open air. Tears pricked her eyes. She shook her head. She would not cry. She had to find out where he lived. That was never disclosed in anything she could find in her time. Nobody cared to note it. Like it couldn't possibly matter. Well it made her life much more difficult. It wasn't as if she could look it up either. Documentation of this time was a nightmare. It hadn't been much better in her time, but after the war they seemed to have more of an interest in keeping track of things such as whereabouts and belongings.

She could ask about where he lived. She could say she had something for him to deliver, or something. Perhaps. People were more trusting in that time. Perhaps they would help her. She walked to the nearest tavern, back along Diagon Alley, called the Bullfrog's Tongue that didn't exist in her time. It had charmed orbs of lights, like fireflies drifting around the sign. She was fine if it got back to him that she was asking after him. That would be perfectly fine.

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a/n: thanks for reading. Updates will be spastic.