Tumbling, Falling, and Crash Landings


Author's Note: It has come to my attention that this doesn't really seem to be the love story I had planned out in the beginning. After writing this chapter, it doesn't seem very typical, nor anywhere close to where I had mapped out. Tom loves Hermione, yes. Hermione may love Tom, who knows. Whether is it platonic or romantic, she probably does love him. This chapter was supposed to way different— but things didn't quite happen that way.

Oh well! Enjoy!


V

Hogwarts

Nineteen Forty Four


She was falling.

No, that wasn't the right word.

She was plummeting.

Her stomach felt like it was in her throat.

Her head felt like it was going to split in two.

Her body was violently being pulled in every angle.

When will it stop?

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She flopped into a dark room without an ounce of grace, vaguely feeling the silky sheets under her numb, tingling, fingertips. There was a looming pressure over her—the unknown force—intimidating, oppressing, threatening her to submit.

She choked in a breath.

It was like it didn't want her to think—didn't want her to solve this ugly, tormenting mind game.

A door clicked open.

The pressure suddenly dissipated.

"Hermione?" A deep, familiar voice called out to her. Slowly, the witch turned her head towards the sound. Half lidded eyes landed on a baffled Tom Riddle. An older, shirtless Tom Riddle. A blush managed to color her cheeks before she promptly looked away, clearing her throat. She was laying perfectly on a large four poster bed; her head on the pillows and toes tucked in. The dark green duvet didn't seem all that disturbed with wrinkles from her abrupt intrusion.

"I—I'm sorry to barge in like this," she murmured sarcastically, wishing that her body will respond to her brain, which was screaming move! She glanced at him again.

She blushed.

He smirked.

Forcing herself to keep a firm, fixed stare at the wall, she managed to sit up, swinging her legs over the side and purposely kept her back to him.

What exactly was happening to her? How was it even happening?

If she could just remember something—anything

She squeezed her eyes shut, praying to whoever was willing to listen, for this to end. She was utterly exhausted—completely spent. Sometimes she wondered how her eyes were able to stay open. Her magic was always hissing around her; like she was being threatened. And being thrown around over and over again was physically and mentally demolishing. She couldn't think straight. She couldn't remember what she had done—what was so incredibly stupid of her to do—

A warm knee nudged hers.

Tom, clad in a shirt, sat next to her of the edge of the bed. His expression was full of concerned, but twitched with curiosity and even hidden touch of guilt.

She gulped.

He placed a hand on hers.

He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles.

And then she broke.

With a rather pathetic display of her emotions clashing in a chaotic mess, she choked out a sob before completely melting into tears. She curled into Tom, who seemed startled, and awkwardly placed his arm around her shoulder, patting in comfort.

She felt liked she needed him.

He was the solid, most independent, stationary person in this situation.

She needed the force to leave her alone.

She needed her magic to clam down.

She needed to feel full again, and not just an empty shell.

She needed to feel restored, to sleep.

She needed to go back home.

Merlin, she needed Tom.

She was so caught up in her childish wants and dependence and even trying to feel herself again that she hadn't really focused on Tom. She was searching through texts of time, theories, and documents, that she completely missed the crucial evidence—a piece of the puzzle.

Tom himself.

She needed him.

She felt lips against her hair, his soft, soothing voice shushing her softly.

It took her some time to realize just what, exactly, she was doing; sobbing in Tom Riddle's lap of all things. But the somewhat future Dark Lord did not seem to mind as he tried combed through her frizzy mess of hair in comfort.

She had quieted down after some time, which found them both laying down on his large Head Boy bed. Hermione still had her back to him, but he had laid himself against her back in a constant line of warmth. He tucked his arm under her neck, and the other was idly rubbing patterns on her side.

And she was just too tired to process their current position to care.

"Do you miss them?" He quietly asked her, his breath tickling her ear. "Your friends? Family?"

Sleepily, Hermione nodded, tracing lightly with her fingertips against his pale forearm. "Every day."

Tom's long, strong arm tightened around her waist protectively—possessively. "I'm sorry," he rasped with a strained voice.

She snorted quietly. "It's not your fault I'm traveling, Tom," she mumbled sleepily, her eyes fluttering shut.

Tom's arms stiffened as he buried his face into her wild bushy hair, keeping silent. Hermione took in a quick breath and her eyes snapped opened as she felt the familiar push and pull of the force.

"I'm so sorry."

And then she was falling.

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Wools Orphanage

Nineteen Thirty Three


She could barely breathe. The force had just left. Her body tingled; her magic sizzled.

I'm so sorry.

Bloody hell. Tom Knew something.

Anger clawed through her veins.

But why didn't he tell her?

Hot, furious, tears flooded her eyes.

Merlin so help her—when she found him next—

Her eyes opened with a fierce determination, ready to hex Riddle a new one when she stopped suddenly. Confusion knit her brow as she took in her surroundings

Where was she?

She had always been in Hogwarts. But there was no extravagant, ancient stone walls, warm plush rugs, enchanted moving portraits, the linger of magic—

—it was old, musty wooden floors, a lumpy cot in the corner, a too large, scratched up wardrobe, and a tiny little side table with a lamp and a few books, and it smelled stale. There was a small window which rain spiked against vigorously, giving in barely enough light to see, but when lightening struck, it lit the entire small, little room.

Hermione heard what sounded like a dull thud after the thunder had rumbled away, before hard staggering steps sounded like they were coming from outside of the door. Quickly, she pressed herself in the corner of the room near the door just when it had burst open, banging against her aggressively. She bit her lip from crying out.

Someone else whimpered.

"Shut the 'ell up, boy," hissed a slurred gruff voice. "I know it wer' you—you demon."

Hermione held her ragged breath. She had no idea what was going on, and she could not see a damn thing! Suddenly, there was a sickly snap—a thud, something causing the small night table to screech across the floor before it toppled over.

The man spat again.

"Disgusting."

The door was slammed shut—the man leaving—and Hermione stared at a small lump in the darkness.

Dear Merlin.

That lump was a child. A boy, who looked like the age of no older than nine was curled into himself next to the night table that was turned over, books and a pencil laid around him. She was unable to look away. Her eyes wide trained in the dark room, never leaving the small form of the boy. In the back of her mind—even deep in her gut—she knew who it was, but she refused to believe it.

It couldn't be.

He managed to sat up, sniffing and wiping at his nose with his too longed sleeve. He winced quietly.

She uprooted her feet, taking a hesitant step forward, and the wooden floor groaning as she put her weight cautiously down. The child froze, daring not even a breath. Hermione stood there, stationary as well. Slowly, ever so slowly, the mass of what looked like black ruffled hair moved towards her, a bruised face exposed to the woman. Child-like large, watering, eyes stared up at her.

Her heart froze.

Sweet Godric.

"Tom."

She didn't mean to say his name, but it just tumbled from her lips.

She saw him shake and Hermione lifted her hands up in the air, showing him she meant no harm. She took another step towards Tom, and found herself kneeling down next to him. The small child's breathing was labored, and it was like his fear was reeling from his shaking body.

"Wh—who. . . are y-you?" The boy demanded, wheezed out a whisper. She stared at him for a moment; this was the first time he had met her. Hermione then shook her head slightly, pressing her finger to her lips, signaling him to be quiet.

Tenderly, she brushed his hair out of his face, and he tensed immensely. She paused her movements before running her fingers gently through the matted locks. After a moment, he started to relax slowly.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she whispered ever so quietly. "I promise."

His eyes never left her face, still cautious of the strange woman, but he allowed his body to learn into her comforting touch.

Her heart swelled. This was the orphanage. So was why she had meant so much to Tom? Her eyes lingered over his face, over the swelling bruise. He needed medical attention, but she doubt that whoever ran this place with give Tom the time of day. Without a wand, she couldn't do much, and she couldn't bear to leave him to find any sort of medical supplies.

Her fingers rubbed soft, gentle circles in Tom's hair. Slowly, they slid down to his temple and she could feel him stiffening each second.

"Do you mind?" she asked quietly, keeping her fingers still. He had moved slightly to look at her; his lips pulled into a stubborn line and his haunting eyes held hers for a long moment. Slowly, he nodded and Hermione found herself smiling. She ghost her hand over his bruised cheek and her eyes closed. Focusing her magic into her hand, she took a deep breath and whispered, "episkey."

A faint gold yellow glow coated the palm side of her hand as the magic swirled from her to Tom's injured cheek.

When she had opened her eyes, the little boy was watching her with wide eyes filled with a little fear and wonder. When she looked at his cheek, she frowned—it didn't seem to do much.

"How does that feel?"

Chubby, child fingers had quickly pressed into the still bruised cheek without hesitance. His lips pulled into the tiniest of smiles.

"How'd you do that?"

Hermione laughed softly and wiggled her fingers.

"Magic."

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Riddle would fly through the house—she could hear his scampering all the way from his room—and he'd yanked the door opened. Out of breath, he frantically looked around until his eyes landed on hers. She had been here for a week. There was no heat, no cold, no slipping, no falling. For an entire week, she resided in Tom's room, casting 'Notice Me Not' charms when someone else had entered. But Tom had always knew. When he'd rush in, it was like he'd pick up her magic pattern and stare at the space Hermione was, grinning to himself that he was able to find her. When she canceled the charm, he'd launch into questions, his eyes filled with fascination and curiosity.

There were times where he would sulk in, saying he was being punished for something he didn't do. Of course, Hermione would ask what happened and he would go on some story that in the end, the other children would blame him for the windows shattering when he was angry, when Tom claimed he didn't do such a thing. Times like these where Hermione would pull Tom closer to her, like she was going to tell him a secret.

"Tom," she'd say. "You know you're different from them."

He would frown at this, and protest that he was the same. There wasn't anything wrong with him. Hermione would shake her head. "Not wrong, different. Perhaps you're like me?"

He would pause, look up at her excitedly, and she would explain to him how she had broken her mother's vase by accident, and because she was so upset by her mother's distraught, she broke the dinner china as well; all because she was distressed. Her magic was reacting.

"I could have magic?" Tom's voice sounded far away, full of wonder. "So that means I'm like you!" His face lit up. "We're stronger then them. We're better than them!"

This was where Hermione would chastise him. He would then grow quiet, as if he didn't want to displease his only friend.

Seeing the little boy made her heart swell—ache—with the thought that she was going to leave him, and he was going to feel betrayed. Abandoned. Utterly alone.

Whatever beautiful, cruel force brought had her here, she didn't like it. She would send a rude gesture to the sky, just to show whoever the hell was watching that she didn't agree with toying—messing and destroying—this boy. No wonder why he was a madman.

He looked so—god forbid—adorably proud that he would accomplish stealing food from the kitchen. It really wasn't much—they didn't have a huge supply of food to begin with due to the war rations. His eyes were alight as he showed off the apple with a coy arrogance. Least to say, Hermione was amused. He was always bringing her little bits here and there—trying to feed her. When Tom was not around, she would leave under a disillusionment charm—which took her a few times to fully accomplish without a wand—and went to the small town, steal food and come back.

She smiled kindly, rewarding him.

"Thank you so much, Tom. Let's cut it in-half," she'd offer. He was just too tiny.

Tom's frown grew.

"No! I never seen you eat!" The protest was, in its own way, valid.

Unfairly so.

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One the tenth night found Hermione and Tom on the small bed, a book in her lap as they read silently. Tom wasn't much of a cuddler, but he was pressed into her side, scanning the words on the page. Once, she had offered to read to him, but he'd only scoffed and said he was old enough to read. Only when he didn't understand a word, he would point it out and Hermione would explain. Sometimes that lead to long discussions. He was thrilled that she didn't talk to him like a child, and patiently waited for him to be one as he processed information.

It was well after bed time when Ms. Cole had locked the bedroom doors. Hermione wasn't too sure that it was only Tom's door, but Tom never said a word, scowling. Hermione had finished the book, and Tom was barely awake. Smiling fondly, she shut the book, flicking her hand and sent it back on the side table. She slowly slid herself off the bed and pulled Tom to the pillows instead of drooling on her shoulder. She tucked the blanket over him as he grumbled, shifting around before looking up at her with half opened eyes.

"Promise. . ." he whispered in a sleepy voice. "Promise me you'll stay, Hermione?"

She stared at him.

This was it.

This was the biggest mistake she made.

These were the words that will torment him for his entire life.

And then he'll have no one. Absolutely no one.

Tom's mop of smooth, rich, slightly wavy hair snuggled closer to her on the bed, and her arms instinctively wrapped around him, keeping him close.

What can she say?

What can she do?

She already knew what she would say.

She already knew that she would do.

Lie.

"I will always be around."

Perhaps it wasn't so far from the truth.

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On the twelfth day, Hermione stared out the window, waiting for Tom to come home from school along with the other children. She wondered if she was stuck here. But that seemed silly, because she knew that at one point, she would leave him. What time will she appear to next? Will Tom still be in school? Will he be older than her? Will he become Voldemort? She hadn't looked into Time Travel since she was in this time. She hadn't looked into her situation. She just knew once she left, she was going to demand Tom—whatever age he was—what he knew; if he knew anything. Hermione pressed her forehead against the glass. It was 1944 when Tom knew, she'd only seen him twice when he was older. Perhaps she will be lucky and see an older Tom, and if was even luckier, he would help her.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not hear the door open, nor the heavy steps that followed.

"And just who th'fuck are you?" The sleazy voice of Barry snarled. Her eyes widen as she spun around. She was about to cast a Disillusionment Charm around her, making him believe that he was just crazy, or that could back fire and he could turn to Tom— but she stopped cold.

A gun was pointed right at her.

Instinctively, she reached for her wand that was not there, and Barry bristled, and his fingers tightened—

—the shot was loud, almost like apparation, but the pain blooming in her stomach told her that she was either splinched or Barry had indeed shot her.

"GOD DAMN IT, BARRY! Don't shoot in the house! The children will be back soon!" Ms. Cole's voice screamed from down stairs. "Bloody gun," she huffed.

The words seemed to have brought out the man out of his stupor. He stared—wide eyed and mouth agape—shocked. He had just shot someone. A woman none the less!

Fuck, he was going to prison—or worse, he was going to the front lines!

They were silent, staring at one another, neither moving. Slowly, Hermione placed her hand on the growing red stain of her shirt. Blood seeped quickly over her fingered and she let out a ragged breath.

The sound of scampering feet clattering against the cold floors, and voices echoed in the hall. The children were home. Hermione quickly turned her back to the door, her hand holding the bleeding wound at her abdomen. She couldn't focus enough magic to heal herself, to disillusion herself, to hide herself. Barry had quickly hid he gun in his trouser pocket just when Tom burst through the door.

Her body was becoming lighter.

This was it.

"Hermione!"

His voice was so happy.

A tear ran down her cheek.

She did not turn around.

"So this wer' what you doing. You fuckin' molesting this 'ere boy!" Perhaps that made Barry find justification of just shooting an unarmed woman.

She could hear Tom's breathing suddenly hitch.

The frigid cold and blazing heat flooded through her system was familiar. Her body was roughly shaking as the force tried to grip her. She shut her eyes, focusing her raging magic into one spell.

She waved her arm.

Stupefy.

Barry fell to the floor in an unconscious heap.

"Hermione?"

Tom's voice sounded far away and smaller.

"Good bye, Tom."

"What? No! Wait! Please stay! I'm sorry! This won't happen agai—"

And she was falling.

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Nineteen Ninety Four


Pain exploded at her lower body, and her eyes were blinded with spots. The blood flooded out of her wound in red silky ribbons. When she landed, she simply laid there in a heap, in her blood. Wherever the hell she was—she didn't care. She didn't care anymore. If she was to die now, perhaps then all the madness was stopped. She knew the war had ended in her time. She knew that Harry and Ron were safe in her time. She knew that her parents were alive in her time.

She knew that.

So she could die and not have an regrets.

Vaguely, she registered something moving—sliding—across her legs.

A loud, familiar crazed cackle echoed through the room—through Hermione's skull—yet she didn't feel the need to look around. The lightness of her body did not surprise her. The nausea consuming her scenes did not surprise her. The pain the boarded numbness did not surprise her. The difficulty of breathing and swallowing did not surprise her. However, a wand was digging into the milky flesh of her neck by none other than Bellatrix Lestrange, did surprise her.

Just when was she now?

Merlin. She was going to die here—with her.

"If it isn't the little Mudblood!" Bellatrix sounded absolutely delighted, even though she spat out the last word.

If there was the slimmest of chances that the bullet wound did not kill her, then she knew that she was going to die by the unhinged witch's wand. Gods, where was Tom? Did she not save him? Hermione's eyes finally glanced around, hoping to find—even though it was the most bizarre thing in the world—Voldemort among them; to have that peace of mind that Tom was there—at least there when she would finally die.

Bellatrix's laugh boomed again, and she thrust her wand forward, digging painfully into her throat.

"Crucio!" she sang.

Hermione choked out a scream, her body withering on the floor in pure agony. But it did not last long.

"Enough," a voice rang out and Bellatrix immediately ceased her curse, bowing her head in complete submission.

Tom.

But it wasn't. This was Voldemort.

Light steps moved around her, before finally coming into view. Those forever red eyes stared down at her, his snake like face completely voided of emotions.

"It has been quite some time, Hermione."

Merlin

A frown formed at his mouth.

She could barely process anything. This wasn't Tom anymore. This was Voldemort. The deformed, snake embodied Voldemort—

The man before her circled around her again, his eyes glancing at the red pool around her.

"I killed him," he simply said. "I killed Barry for you."

Hermione's eyes widen as they locked back into his and she took in a wavering breath.

"W—what year i—is it?" she managed through her chapped lips.

He stopped at her head before crouching down and ran his abnormally long fingers along her cheek.

"1994," he murmured.

She stared at him, baffled, confused, exhausted. She wanted to recoil from his touch, wishing for the force to grab her and take her away—

—away from Voldemort, and back to Tom—

He pointed his wand at her.

"Avada Kedavra"

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