Tumbling, Falling, and Crash Landings
Author's Note: So, this is out of order for Tom, but in order for Hermione… if that makes any sense what so ever. I know you will all be confused, and even though this is categorized as a Romance, it's not your typical romance story.
Thank you to each and every one of you lovely readers! It's so nice to see favorites, views, reviews, and followings.
Enjoy!
c:
II
Hogwarts
Nineteen Fifty One
She was falling.
Tumbling.
The pain wasn't only clouding her mind.
But bloody Tom Riddle as well.
Why, oh why was she thrust into the years of Voldemort as a boy?
Riddle had even known her name.
Falling.
How could she possibly be so stupid?
Tumbling.
He looked so tormented.
So broken.
Falling.
But he was a murderer.
She braced herself.
.
.
.
Hermione was spat out into Merlin knows what time and smacked against something hard. Warm, but hard. Well, perhaps 'hard' wasn't the correct word. This felt nothing like the desk or the stone floor she collided with but with something…solid. Her body was leeching the warmth that it supplied.
By the Founders, did she want to sleep.
But she knew she couldn't do that. She had to figure out what was happening. Or at least a way to make it stop.
She groaned, trying to will the buzz in her head to go away. Her magic was crackling; like in a warning to whatever force that was tossing her to and fro; that it will learn that she certainly was her own force to be reckon with. Her nose buried into a soft—but scratchy—fabric, waiting the ringing in her ears to subside. She vaguely could hear the singing of birds, the rustling of leaves. Her unruly hair tickled against her cheek in the slight breeze.
She turned her head so her ear was resting against the warm, hard—yet soft—object as she sighed contently. Why couldn't her travels have ended as nicely as this?
Thump. . . Thump. . . Thump. . .
Her eyes snapped opened and her body went ridged; the heart beat was loud in her ears.
Oh god—
And then, suddenly, a deep rumbling of laughter made the witch leap from the warm, hard—yet soft—surface with a startled yelp. She shivered at the baritone of a sound. Her eyes blurred around, her head protest profusely at the sudden movement, swimming, her body moving quickly as she could to scramble away from the warm, hard—yet soft—thing.
Only, it wasn't a just a thing—object—but it was a person—
—Fucking Tom Riddle.
Her wide, doe like, chocolate eyes landed on his—alight with a playful mirth and amusement and. . .was that bewilderment? His lips were pulled into the trademark Slytherin smirk. But—staring at him longer—his seemed like it was curled with an air of exuberance. There, in front of her, was the most evil man to live in her life time. How in the world could he look so—damn her for thinking it—beautiful? Salazar's descendant himself, the Prince, was sitting in the grass in front of Hogwarts entrance.
She simply stared. She stared at his face. Stared at his smirking, amused mouth. Stared at his immaculate—a little tousled now—hair. Stared at his neat professional robes. Stared at his hands—no rings. Just stared.
Gods, he was so much older than the third year she had just seen. She didn't understand. She didn't want to understand.
She hesitantly licked her chapped lips. "When—" she started to croak out, but he beat her to it.
"August 2, 1951. Sunday afternoon." That damn amused face certainly grew.
1951.
1951.
19 bloody 51!
She stared some more.
Oh, Gods! Why?! She really was leaping through time—she had a thought before. . . but this. . . this only confirmed her fears.
The panic must have been evident on her face because Riddle's own expression was pulled into a concerned frown and was on his feet, next to her. Then he wrapped his strong arms around her shaking frame. His musky pine scent over whelmed her. And Merlin—he was warm.
To close!
Hermione immediately shoved his shoulders roughly, escaping his embrace and wildly scurried back further away from him. Her crest rose and fell rapidly, her hands fisting the lush grass beneath her. The force of everything happening to her finally was hitting her—weighing her down to her soul. Riddle's face was serious as he watched the girl shrivel into a panicked heap.
"Hermi—" His voice was cautiously tender.
"NO!" She shrieked.
He was supposed to have disappeared! Dread filled her to her very bones. She didn't want to change the timeline! How many possibilities existed now? How many lives will change? How many lives will die?
Her hands were over her ears; her wild bushy hair tumbling over her face. This was not the Golden Girl—Harry Potter's best friend. This was Hermione, a sniveling mess, who had just changed her and everyone else's entire existence. Single handedly, by the way. She couldn't blame the murderous madman—that was supposed to have happen, as awful as it was.
Her watery eyes opened and slowly shifted towards the standing wizard. His face was blank. A mask, carefully constructed to show nothing.
The only result to that was to further ignite her anger.
"W-what are you doing here?" She managed to form a decent volume for her hoarse words. He frowned.
"To make sure you're—"
"No, no." Hermione interrupted. His lips pulled into a hard line. "Why are you here? At Hogwarts?" Probably to try find a way to kill Dumbledore or something to that degree. Riddle's mask slightly shifted and an almost pleased—proud—expression seeped through.
"I'm going for my teaching position," his lips even curled at the corners. "For the Defense of the Dark Arts."
Again, the staring.
That was not supposed to happen either.
His slight delighted expression morphed back into one of concern—the witch really wanted to hex right off—as he carefully kneeled in front of her. He hesitated, gently placing his hand on her tense shoulder.
"Do you know me?" His question was quiet, hushed, and most of all, apprehensive—like he was terrified of her answer. Which answer, she had no idea.
Her eyes slid shut for a moment and took a deep breath before opening them again. His jaw locked, his vein slightly prodding at his temple, his intense dark eyes, his body stiff—on edge.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," she managed to say in a whisper. Voldemort, her mind supplied.
It was silent for a moment before a small, sad smile somehow graced his lips before he moved away and sat next to her without a response.
"Those wounds," he said softly after a few beats of silence, almost in a husky reluctant rasp. "I gave them to you, right?" He stared straight ahead, not glancing at her. Hermione heaved a sigh before she leaned back into the grass. She chose to ignore him.
"Do you know what is going on with me?" She whispered, not entirely sure if she was asking him or if she was just afraid to know the answer—
—which is saying something for the Know-It-All.
He turned slightly, placing his arm behind him and twisting so he was almost leaning over her. She refused to look at him. He sighed and leaned back on his other hand, away from her.
"I haven't seen you since then. Since 1945, in the Room of Requirement."
Well, that was certainly good news.
"What year did you just come from?" He asked, a blade of grass between his long, slender fingers.
At first, she didn't want to answer, but she did so anyway through bitten lips. "1940," she murmured. Awkwardly, she glanced over to him, studying his profile lazily. Why was she always so tired?
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he whispered. Hermione scoffed.
"Really now?" She bit out sarcastically. But Riddle shook his head; he looked so defeated—exhausted.
So hurt.
But this was Voldemort. He could be faking such an expression.
He had to be faking it.
He reached out slowly and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself in place. Cool fingers trailed across her skin; under one of the quickly fading marks he had given her back in 1945. A small quake overtook her body and she suddenly felt herself become light again, like she was being lifted by this damn uncontrollable force. Her magic crackled angrily with protest.
Seriously?
She wasn't quite sure if she was happy to get out of the awkward and serious moment with him or she was annoyed that she had to go through another round of traveling. Tom—who seemed much calmer than his younger part when he noticed her body's reaction—turned to her fully, leaning slightly over and fully cupped her cheek with a calloused hand; his face solemn. He was so warm. It felt heavenly against her cold and hot skin.
She was slipping.
"Hermione." Why was he so close?
Sinking.
"I need you to know," his breath ghosted across her lips. Oh god—she watched him with wide, panicked eyes.
What?
Fading.
The last thing she felt other than the rioting buzz of her body was his lips gently pressed against hers.
And then she was falling.
.
.
.
I
.
.
.
Love
.
.
.
You
.
.
.
Hogwarts
Nineteen Forty Two
The dark spots were fading from Hermione's wide eyes—staring at the familiar stone ceilings. Again. She finally slowly blinked.
Once.
Twice more.
Oh, my god—
She slowly traced her numb fingers over her tingling lips, her heart banging against her rib cage.
The hell—
What. . . what? What in the name of Merlin was that? Tom Marvolo Riddle—Voldemort!— kissed her. Damn it! She could still feel his warm lips! They were so soft, smooth, and. . .
Her cheeks were flaming.
And. . . and. . . He told her that he. . . he. . . He. Loved. Her.
What?
The thought was unfathomable!
In a haze, Hermione slowly pulled herself to sit up against the wall in the empty corridor. What the hell was she doing? She was Hermione Granger! She was messing with time—destroying it. She had already altered her past—or present, whatever—but what she couldn't understand was why.
Why her?
Why Tom Riddle?
Why change time?
Considering that Voldemort left a damaging scar in the Wizarding World and even the Muggle World, it was not a surprise that someone wanted to change it. But she wasn't that someone. She knew bad things would happen to those who tampered with time. Even though she wouldn't wish Voldemort's wrath on anyone—enemy or not. So what was she going to do now?
Or. . .
Has she already done it?
Hermione groaned and placed her head in her hands, trying to control her breathing through her nose.
Voldemort.
Voldemort.
Voldemort.
No.
He wasn't quite Voldemort yet, was he? The lack of jewelry on his fingers said something. The caring strokes on her face—
Her head was swimming with thoughts, giving her a headache. She idly wondered if her timeline was still going on.
What were Harry and Ron doing? Did they notice her absence? Or were they entirely erased and placed with another Harry Potter—one whose parents did not die, with a god father, and a happy childhood? Another Ron Weasley? Well, he might still be stubborn, loves Quidditch, but whose homework would he copy? Who would argue with him logically? Was there even another Hermione Granger? Her heart felt heavy inside of her.
She was entirely alone here.
Well, no, that wasn't quite true—was it?
"Ah, Auror Granger! There you are."
Hermione lifted her head automatically at the sound of her name, but her brows furrowed in confusion. Auror? She was met with a sight of Professor Dumbledore.
Did he just call her Auror Granger?
Besides him was Professor Slughorn, and another man who she didn't know—perhaps he was a professor as well. He was glaring darkly at her—his eyes spitting fire with a sneer on his lips in disgust. He was holding two students by the ears, but from her position on the ground, she couldn't quite see who.
Of course, she could guess by the way her magic buzzed around her.
"Lazing around on the job, Auror Granger?" She was very well aware that the nameless professor practically spat the words. Was this something that her past—well, future—self did? She blatantly stared at the man, while getting to her feet and brushed the dirt from her trousers. Her eyes caught the sight of the snow gold hair—Abraxas—his face sneering at a handsomely dark haired boy—Tom. His incredibly dark eyes caught her own and she quickly shifted away, her face burning.
The faint brush of his lips against her own—Merlin! Stop thinking about that!
But then she blinked, peering at the two in scrutiny. Was that. . . mash on Tom's cheek? Pumpkin juice in Abraxas's hair? It was confirmed when it slide down his temple and then smell hit her nose.
Ignoring his obvious hatred stare, she lifted her head up and meet Dumbledore's knowing gaze.
"I do hope your mission went well—" Dumbledore said cheerfully. Sure, let's call her travels that. "It appears that you had came in at such an embarrassing matter."
"A whole hexing fiasco at lunch today, I'm afraid," Slughorn sighed.
She glanced at the two students—more at Draco's look-a-like and then around them. She was in front of the Headmaster's office.
"Oh." She stepped aside awkwardly, keeping her eyes to the ground. "Don't let me stop student discipline."
She dared to look up—
—Of course, her eyes quickly—and easily—met his.
Tom Riddle.
'I love you.'
Bloody hell.
.
.
.
