Tumbling, Falling, and Crash Landings.
Author's Note: Hello, hello everyone! Welcome to the third installment of this story. There's not really much to this chapter—I'll be honest—and I had a very hard time for some reason to write the rest of it out. But I suppose it does have some purpose!
Thank you everyone!
III
Hogwarts
Nineteen Forty Two
She was avoiding him.
He could not fathom why.
He was almost terrified she knew—
No. If she did, the Golden Girl would know what to do—
Every time he had tried to talk to her, look at her, or even be in the same god damn room as her, she would flee. Run and hide. With a stony face, he'd watch her retreating back with one word echoing in his mind: Why?
He tried not to let it affect him. He really did try. He didn't need silly sentiments. Not now. Not ever. But, as if he had not one ounce of self control, those damn emotions boiled inside of him like a toxic venom, killing him slowly; burning.
It had been a year since he had seen her last; his only friend.
Well, his only real friend.
Tom snorted.
Many students, regardless of House, would try to talk to him, try to snag his attention, and he would be polite and reply, sit in the front of the class and let whoever sit themselves down next to him. Why? Possibly it was because he needed to fill the void that was left every time she had traveled. And not just one person could fill it. So he would strive. For perfection. For good marks. For praise. For glory. For love?
No. No one was allowed to have his love. Not even Hermione.
But—damn it all! He ran a slender hand through his hair in frustration. It was difficult dealing with the oddity of her. She wasn't like anyone he had met in his entire existence. It seemed like every time she had popped into his life, she was a completely different person. One year, she is his everything, the next she's claiming she had absolutely no idea who he was, then she is freely laughing and comfortable—like she should be; but now she's avoiding him.
Salazar, she was infuriating some times.
He gritted his teeth.
Perhaps if he could have controlled himself, this wouldn't have happened—
—Alas, his dark eyes landed on the back of her ridiculously wild hair. She was in the back of the library, where none venture to, surrounding herself with thick heavy tomes and books. Cautiously, he circled around, far away to just seem like a passing of shadows. When he had stepped closer to inspect, her brows were furrowed, and her little pink lip was trapped between nibbling teeth.
It was clear that she was confused and annoyed. Whatever the witch was looking for, she wasn't having the most pleasant research. Sneaky and silently, Tom slid himself in a chair across the table, trying not to alert her of his presence at first—he didn't want her to run. It had been so long since he had sat down with her, so close, yet it seemed like she was just the memory of his Hermione.
She didn't stir at all when he was fully seated in front of her, bluntly staring. She was still biting her lip—he was surprised it wasn't gnawed off by now. Even though her posture seemed relaxed, with her leg tucked under her and her arms loosely around her, it was her fingers tightly holding onto the book, back tense, and her face pulled into a troubled expression told Tom that she wasn't at all pleased.
"Hermione," might as well get to the point.
He watched with some amusement as she comically jerked in her seat, her eyes changing from irately narrowed to widening in surprise. The book was snapped shut and her jaw ticked for a moment when she gained some of her composure. Her amber eyes blazed for a moment, as if she was contemplating—probably thinking of escaping him again—much to his chagrin.
He was mildly surprised when she stayed put in her seat; however her back was too straight and her knuckles were clutching the closed tome a little too tightly.
"Riddle," she said tightly.
Merlin, Awkward Hermione was utterly exasperating. It was getting old very, very quickly.
"To what do I owe for such a greeting?" He simply pinned her with a stare—there was no more reason to be polite—friendly—like he had been before since that gave her room for evasion. She was not going to run now—not until she gave him a few answers.
The complex witch in front of him stared at him with eyes wide and brows arched upwards. After a minute of silence, she leaned back into the chair and her shoulder deflating with a defeated sigh.
"I'm sorry—I didn't mean. . ." She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath through her nose. "Things are just—a bit—complicated with. . ." she trailed off, looking towards the side. Well, anything but him. He could hear the nonexistent 'you' at the end of her sentence and snorted. "Some matters," she muttered off after a few seconds of silence. Awkward Hermione chanced a glance to him, her cheeks tinging pink before clearing her throat and looking away. She sat up and quickly collected her tomes.
Fear tugged at him.
Was it possible—
No.
Tom's hand lashed out, placing it heavily on top on the last text on the table she was reaching for. He was fixed with a heated glare after she flinched.
"I don't understand," he bit out. "You leave, and I haven't seen you in a year, and you come back like a complete stranger and avoiding me like I am the plague," he snarled. His magic crackled around in as his anger crossed his face, but a small bit of panic bubbled inside of him. He needed to calm down, but he couldn't control—not with all this bullshite she was leading on.
Awkward Hermione did not move. The two stared, energy sparking around them before her face faltered—softened—as she sighed once more.
"It's not you—well, I mean," she stammered.
Tom let out an annoyed growl.
"And how exactly is that my fault?" he snarled. She seemed taken aback for a moment, before leaning an elbow on the table and rubbed her hand tiredly over her face.
"I know, I know." She mumbled. "It's just—you were older. . ." She shook her head, her wild hair following her erratic movements. "It's not your fault. I know that—but just looking at you. . ." She trailed off once more, her face growing hot.
Tom felt his irritation subside slowly, simmering down as he took a deep breath.
"Yes, well," Tom drawled a bit, his smooth lips slowly pulled into a reluctant smirk. "That guy can be a real pain in the arse."
Awkward Hemione glanced at him; her face blank for a moment before she snorted out a breathy chuckle. "Quite."
His eyes flickered to the many books around her scattered on the table, his face closed off with a frown on his lips. "You won't find anything in them," his slightly octave voice mumbled, looking pointedly at one of the books. "I haven't came across anything that will get you home."
He chanced a glance at her face—
Her eyes looked far away again, longingly and sad. Her posture had slumped in defeat. She sighed. "I'm still going to try."
He ignored the wave of guilt and loneliness that washed over him.
.
.
.
She had been trying her damned hardest to just stay away. She had always felt his gaze—those dark, piercing eyes that made her shudder. She remembered those eyes looming down at her, filled with such emotions that she couldn't even begin to understand. She could almost see them every time she shut her eyes. She had always heard his voice—silky smooth, and so full of hope and desperation, buried under his even tone that made her muscles freeze. She remembered when he had whispered to her, what he had to let her know. Merlin, she was glad he didn't touch her. She was certain that she wouldn't be able to handle the tingle in her skin and the riot in her stomach that would certainly multiply.
But the boy that was sitting across from her now, she knew that he wasn't him.
He was just a boy.
The affection in his eyes was just that; affection. There wasn't any of the storming emotion she had seem in the 1951 Tom.
Hermione let out a breath through her nose and lowered her head.
At least—there wasn't any of those emotions yet.
She watched him talk excitedly for the past hour. The mask had melted from his face as he freely smiled, smirked, and scowled. His voice was as smooth as ever, but the hurried words jumbling together made her smiled, almost forgetting what she was doing in the library in the first place.
Almost.
She had gotten nowhere near an explanation and that infuriated her to no end. She needed to know what was happening to her, and how to make it stop and go back home.
If there was a home to go back to.
She shook her head slightly. No, don't think about it.
"—and then I was appointed a Perfect—"
"Ah, Riddle. Gloating by yourself, are you? Did no one want to listen to you today?" A cold sharp voice cut Tom off abruptly. The boy had immediately slipped the blank mask on and his back was ramrod straight. Someone had stepped out of the shadows and Hermione found herself stiffening. It was the Draco impostor.
"Malfoy," greeted Tom in a hostile calmness.
Hermione blinked for a moment. This was a spitting image of Draco—albeit with longer hair that was pulled back. Merlin, how could she have not made the connection sooner? Perhaps all this traveling was wearing on her intelligence. Malfoy regarded Tom with arctic eyes before lifting an eyebrow towards Hermione. His face was pulled from the sneer and to a small, conniving smirk.
"Auror Granger," the malicious voice was gone and replaced with a pleasant and polite tone. His eyes flickered to Slytherin across from her and then back. "Pleasure to see you here," he was undoubtedly laying the charm on thick.
She tried very hard not to glare at him. Biting the inside of her cheek, the witch straightened herself up in her chair. "Hello Mister Malfoy," she replied tonelessly.
He smirked at her, lurking around the table. The closer he was getting to her, the more she felt suffocated. Magic crackled around her in such ferocity that it almost made her choke. She noticed Malfoy's eye twitch in annoyance before shooting a glare towards Tom—who was leaning forward with his nonchalant and emotionless mask in place.
Merlin, that was Riddle?
Voldemort.
Herimone quickly interjected. "Is there something that you need, Mister Malfoy?" She asked quickly, keeping her tone strictly polite.
"Perhaps not, Auror Grang—"
"Since there doesn't seem to be an emergency, then I must be going." She rose from her chair, flicking her wrist to send the books back to their spot among the shelves. "Come along Mister Riddle, I will answer your question as best as I can while I'm on my way."
Tom, gracing her with a small smirk at her white lie, gracefully rose up, and dusted his robes off before following his friend. Malfoy stammered unlike a proper Pureblood before he locked his jaw and glared at Riddle.
Once they were out of the library, Tom matched his longs strides with Hermione in the empty corridors.
She paused for a moment, running her slender fingers through her unruly hair. "Tom," she started. The boy turned his head towards her and rose his perfect eyebrow. "Do you know the dates that I—erm—return?" She managed to ask awkwardly.
Riddle was quiet for a moment—she almost didn't think he would answer her— before he gave a curt nod and about faced, heading down the hall. The witch rolled her eyes at his dramatics and followed. He took them down to the dungeons, where Hermione had used the Disillusionment Charm on herself. Tom had spoke to the portrait, which swung open easily into the common room. There were a few Slytherins playing Wizards Chess, while some were around the fire and scribbling with their quills on parchment. They glanced up and greeted Tom, who gave them a curt nod. She followed the boy to his dorm, which was thankfully empty.
Her eyes glanced around the place as Riddle was removing a few charms and spells from his trunk at the foot of the bed. It seemed cold. Nothing like the Gryffindor Tower she was so used to. Silver and forest green surrounded her. It felt— lonely.
"Here," Riddle's voice was quiet, soft even, and he was flipping through a black bounded journal—
—Oh god.
The Diary.
She stared at it. It didn't radiate dark magic. It didn't beckon her over with sweet, sinister promises to kill. It didn't whisper to her with cruel, harsh words of her blood—
He thrust out small piece of parchment that he ripped out from the book. Hermione's eyes flickered over Tom's hasty script.
April 22, 1933
Good Merlin—1933? She glanced a look at Tom, who was oddly keep a fixed hard stare at the floor. He must have been so young.
October 15, 1940
December 28, 1940
April 3, 1941
March 24, 1942
"Those are the dates," Tom mumbled. Her eyes flickered over the numbers, trying to find a pattern. Her lips pursed and her brow furrowed. Hermione gently took the quill from Tom's fingers before writing 1945 and August 2, 1951. Tom's dark eyes widen a little before look at her again. "When in 1945?"
Hermione only shrugged. "I wasn't there long enough."
"What about 1943 and 1944?" Tom inquired insistently.
"I'm not quite sur—"
The rush of what felt like snow flooded into her bones and lava over her skin forced the woman to slide to one knee. It was back—the force gripping her and her magic seemed to hiss in protest. Tom urgently gripped her elbow with his strong warm hand.
"It's happening, isn't it?" He whispered. Shivering, Hermione looked up at him with a small sad smile on her quivering lips.
"It is."
He looked down and swallowed. "Does it hurt?"
Hermione shook her head, making her dizzy with such a small movement. "Not at all," she lied.
Tom frowned.
"I'll see you soon," she whispered. Tom could only nod.
And then she was falling.
.
.
.
