Author's Note: First of all, I sincerely apologize for the HUGE delay in posting this chapter. Not only have I been consumed with school work among other things, but I have also spent quite a bit of time thinking about this chapter and how I want to develop the rest of the story. Needless to say, it has not been an easy process. This chapter sort of serves as a small transition point. Up until this chapter, there haven't been any other characters introduced into the main story line, and that is about to change (I can't just have Hermione and Tom all by themselves, now can I?). Moreover, there is a very important point made in the flashback scene in this chapter. During the first few chapters, Tom appears to be a perfectly innocent besotted young man, HOWEVER, I am still planning to make Tom resemble his "true self." Although he may seem like the "perfect, ideal boyfriend/man/whatever" for Hermione, he is (canonically speaking) charming, charismatic, manipulative, and sociopath-like. Now, he is not going to be the wand-wielding horcrux-making Tom Riddle you see in most fanfics and in the Harry Potter novels, but this Tom is going to maintain some of these same characteristics as the story progresses. That being said, Tom Riddle is not going to be a perfect angel in this fic. And now that being said, I hope you enjoy the next installment of the story, and I hope to update soon!

P.S. I apologize for the brevity of this chapter, but, like I previously mentioned, this is a transition point into other parts of the story.

CHAPTER FIVE

Weak, dappled rays of sunlight began to pour through the golden brocade fabric of the curtains, illuminating the room in a subtle glow. Outside, the far away sound of waves crashing against the shoreline echoed throughout the room. Every facet of the house was perfectly still, unmoving and frozen in time, as Tom lay completely awake in the tangle of the covers.

Hermione had incessantly tossed and turned throughout the night, causing Tom to wake up on numerous occasions to readjust as she fidgeted—he hadn't realized she was such a heavy sleeper. Sometime around the break of dawn, she had finally come to rest facing him, her left hand placed against the wall of his chest and her face nestled in the crook of his neck, her breaths continuously tickling his skin.

In reality, Tom had rarely slept.

He wasn't tired in the slightest, and, to be truthful, he really didn't want to sleep.

Most of the night was spent simply staring at Hermione. After all, he hadn't seen her in fifteen years.

The only memory he had of her was the petite, bushy-haired girl with wide brown eyes that was simultaneously the most serious and the most carefree girl he'd ever known. She still was the same in a way; her features hadn't changed drastically, but with the budding of womanhood, her chaotic hair had now evened out into silky curls, and her eyes became the color of molten caramel, and her body was—

Well.

Tom had first counted the number of freckles that rested on her shoulder.

From there, he then studied the way her finely arched eyebrows would come together as she dreamed and the way her lips formed a perfect pout, a dark, dusty pink, just begging for him to kiss her.

The more he thought about her, the more Tom realized he could spend an eternity just watching her, just being with her.

His musings were interrupted as Hermione began to move in her sleep once more, stretching her back and yawning until her mouth formed a perfect "O".

He smiled gently as he watched Hermione's eyes flutter briefly before opening in utter fascination, her large brown orbs coming to focus on him.

"Morning," Tom greeted politely as Hermione continued to stare at him. She glanced down quickly at her hand placed upon his chest, and almost immediately, her cheeks blossomed with rosy color in response, causing Tom's smile to widen in amusement.

Although she looked like she could bolt from the bed any moment, she chose to rest her hand there as the two of them stared at each other.

Tom cleared his voice after a moment.

"I trust you slept well?"

Hermione's eyes darted back down at the tangled mess of the crimson-colored comforter, and she blushed again, realizing that she was the cause of the slight mess.

"I suppose I didn't warn you that I tend to move about when I sleep," she spoke sheepishly, the flush of her face creeping down towards her chest—

Tom was quick to respond with, "I really didn't mind. Really."

He felt the familiar heat flood his face now as Hermione graciously smiled at him.

"Well then," Hermione stated, "would you object to me making us some breakfast?"

Even though he wanted to blurt out, "No," Tom realized that, against his best wishes, that he and Hermione couldn't laze around in the bed all day.

"Of course," Tom replied, as he sadly watched her push herself away and rise from the bed.

She stepped onto the plush carpet and turned towards the large window, reaching out to draw back the curtains and allow the golden sunlight to pour into the formerly dimly lit room.

Tom's eyes widened as the rays of sunlight rebounded off her slightly messy curls, which now looked even more like her caramel eyes; her cream-colored nightgown capped off at the middle of her thighs, and it was slightly translucent, just enough for him to see the equally creamy skin underneath, and he suddenly found himself enraptured, wondering if a spatter of miniature freckles, similar to the one on her shoulder blade, existed in the dimple and arch of her back—

He released a shaky breath and ran his hand through his hair as he sat up in the bed, watching Hermione gingerly slip a pair of slippers onto her feet.

He forced himself to turn away in the opposite direction; the more he stared at Hermione in just a simple nightgown, the more he wanted to catch her by the waist and pull her against him and smother her pink lips with kisses.

His mind buzzed with the thought of it, wondering if she would object to it, wondering if she might enjoy it if he did.

He gulped as he shut his eyes tightly to focus on something else, something to distract him—

He couldn't see, but he could almost hear someone calling his name, trying to get his attention, and then suddenly, he came to reality and noticed Hermione tapping his shoulder, a concerned look etched on her face.

"Tom? Are you okay?" she asked quietly, her eyes darting from side to side, inspecting his face. "You look pained. If you have a headache, I have some—"

"No, no, I'm fine," he quickly responded, a little huskier than he intended, "Perfectly fine, nothing to worry about." He beamed up at her, still aware of the blush flooding his face.

"All right," she replied, giving him a small smile while pulling her hand back. "If you say so. How would you like omelets?"

"Omelets sound great," Tom replied earnestly. "I'll go shower while you fix them."

Hermione smiled at him again and nodded, exiting the room, and Tom could hear the soft thuds of her feet loping down the staircase.

And so he was left in silence, his cheeks burning with desire and his thoughts racing.

(June 20, 1984)

Hermione's eyes furiously scanned the pages of the book, her fingers constantly flipping the pages as she absorbed every sentence, every mark of punctuation, her brain electrified with the influx of new information. She watched the pages come alive with vibrant pictures of the various sea creatures of the Great Barrier Reef, a place she had longed to visit—

A stray thread jutting out from the hem of her dress caught her attention, and she jerked it with impatience, losing her concentration for a mere moment.

Nearby, Tom was left to the task of replenishing Mrs. Granger's vast herb garden, having spent most of the morning collecting and then replanting the basil, the rosemary, the lavender—

And even as he plunged his trowel into the thick, dark soil over and over, his mind and eyes kept flickering back to the curly-haired girl perched elegantly upon the grass, her legs crossed, barefoot, her small hands consistently attached to the large tome she was holding in a vice-like grip.

He frowned.

To be honest, Tom didn't understand why that book was so special.

He had politely asked Hermione to join him on numerous occasions, but she denied them all, staying fixed to her reading. The first time she rejected his offer, Tom became visibly disconcerted; Hermione never said no to playing with him or to helping him with his gardening.

Who gave her that book anyway? He was sure that he was more important than a stupid book.

He wouldn't think himself to be jealous, but he wanted to take that book away from her, that way she couldn't say no to him.

With his decision made, Tom rolled up his falling sleeves and decisively jammed the trowel into the soil, leaving the scattered bags of seeds and the basket of herbs alone on the ground. He walked over to Hermione until he came to face her, watching as her eyebrows crinkled with impatience, her eyes refusing to look up from the text.

"Hermione," he spoke, trying to hide the tinge of anger in his tone, "could you please put down your book and come over to the garden? You promised me you would earlier!"

"Tom," Hermione stated evenly, not even bothering to glance up from her reading, "I already told you—"

Tom wouldn't let her finish.

He reached out and snatched the book from her, slamming it shut as she stared at him, mouth agape.

"Tom!" she screeched, standing up to meet him furiously. "That wasn't even fair, I didn't even get to put my bookmark in it!"

He stood there blankly, the book tight in his arms, watching as her cheeks flushed red and her eyes glimmer with anger.

"Give it back!"

Tom didn't answer. He simply stood there, an unreadable look etched on his face, as he clutched the book tightly to him.

Something about the change in his demeanor stilled Hermione.

As she looked back at him, Tom resembled a statue, unmoving, just staring back at her with an equally eerie, blank look, almost as if he didn't care she was angry, like she wasn't a concern to him.

His eyes were noticeably darker, much darker than before, so much they appeared to be black. They flashed momentarily with a hint of danger and a twinge of anger, but it dissipated as quickly as it had appeared.

She had always thought his eyes were lovely.

But there was something unsettling about the way that he watched her in that moment.

She couldn't quite place her finger upon it, and that unnerved her.

"Hermione," he said impatiently, "just help me with the garden. You promised me you'd help with the lavender, didn't you? You remember."

She nodded, she did remember.

Her eyes glanced back down at her book, now in Tom's keeping.

His eyes did it again, that same dangerous glint appearing—

She supposed she could finish her book later.

"All right, Tom," she replied, watching as his blank, unmoving face transformed into the smiling Tom she was accustomed to.

He started towards her, causing her to suddenly jerk back, but he gently took her hand and led her back over to the garden and set her down next to him, showing her the proper way of planting the sprigs of the various herbs.

"Tom," she started nervously, "I didn't mean to yell, I'm sorry—"

"I know, Hermione," he interrupted, "it's all right. Here, just take the trowel like this…"

He didn't look at her when he spoke, he kept his eyes directed at his task.

Something twitched inside of Hermione, something telling her that something was off—

The sweet aroma of the lavender and rosemary perfumed the air, relaxing her almost immediately as she bent down on her knees, mimicking Tom's movements and techniques. She allowed herself to smell the sweet branches of lavender before dutifully planting them like Tom had instructed. A comfortable silence had enveloped them as they both continued their fastidious work, the two of them exchanging smiles now and then.

"See, this is much better than reading that book!" Tom exclaimed, as he began to plant sprigs of other herbs.

Hermione nodded in response, but didn't answer him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a small smudge of soil on the edge of her sky blue dress, begging for her to react.

She ignored it.

Hermione stared down at the coagulated mass of eggs frying in the pan, her mind once racing at lightning speed with incoherent thoughts, filled with him, filled with Tom—

My goodness, they'd even shared the same bed last night. She still blushed profusely at the thought of it, and her hands became clammy and sweaty as she gripped the handle of the pan. As improper as it was—what would her parents say?—she had to admit that it was…enjoyable. More than that even.

Almost too quickly, her trail of thoughts reverted back to the previous night's storm, and she winced, recalling the monstrously loud sounds of the cracking thunder and visions of blinding lightning. She hazily remembered gripping the edge of the bathtub so tight she could almost hear her bones snap, and soon after she could hear herself screaming for Tom in strangled sobs, tears flooding her eyes, a small voice in her head using those same words—"It's all right, Hermione, it'll be all right"—that she had heard once before.

She admitted that she had needed Tom, especially in that moment, and she knew that he was the only one who could shower her with promises of safety that she could actually believe; she remembered her father doing the same when it stormed, gathering her in his arms and comforting her with soothing words, but it wasn't the same, it never was, because he was not Tom—

The sound of her voice had come out shaky and insecure, still coated in residual fear from the storm, as she asked him to stay with her, her cheeks fuming with embarrassment and her heart beating with the speed of helicopter blades. She recalled the way he smiled at her and the way that his hands shook ever so slightly because she had realized that they were one in the same—he had never done this before, and neither had she.

Her nervousness had peaked when he reached out to pull her into his embrace.

But when he did, Hermione could have cried in the tenderness of the moment. The boy—the man—she had dreamed and wondered about for years, was real, was tangible, was here, protecting her, just like had had when they were children. Her seemingly far away fantasy of seeing him again had happened, and she was finally with him, and now that she was—

She was scared.

And still nervous beyond belief.

Of course, she had some close colleagues at school that happened to be male, but she had never had a boyfriend.

She hastily sprinkled some shredded cheese and cubed ham into the omelet, folding it methodically, as she wiped her brow.

Her eyes shut for a brief moment.

Logically thinking, she shouldn't let that happen again. She would have to remind Tom that he needed to go back to his own house—surely his father had noticed he was gone?

Tom had stayed with her only one night, and it was going to remain that way. For heaven sakes, they weren't even married—

But.

But.

There was that small part of her that wanted her to tell him he could stay again. A nagging voice that begged her to just abandon the work that she was supposed to be doing and just... leave it. Leave the schoolwork, leave the project, and just pack her bags to come here to stay. With him.

She hadn't thought that spending one day with him would affect her this much. It had been one day for her to see that Tom was the same, and that she still had the same feelings she had for him since they were children.

It had hit her with the force of a hurricane.

She had to admit herself that she did feel something for him. Even though she was still embarrassed at the thought of him spending the night with her, she knew, deep down inside, that she did not care and that she wanted him to do it again.

She didn't know how it happened, they had only been five years old, but Tom had made such a noticeable, irrevocable impression on her that could not be removed, even by the barrier of time.

She had managed to forget about him occasionally, especially when she became wholeheartedly immersed in her studies, but Tom was always there always somewhere in her mind, her memories constantly creeping up on her from the recesses of her thoughts. Hermione had often wondered what became of that charming, charismatic boy she met that summer, and she had pondered often about how he could have changed and what he might have looked like—

With her adolescent friends sharing their stories about their boyfriends and their first kisses and their dates, Hermione had sat and frequently—more than she cared to admit—wondered what Tom would be like.

Would he be the perfect gentlemen, who held doors open for her and held her hand and surprised her with crimson red roses?

She wondered what a kiss from him would taste like.

Would a kiss from him quiet her thoughts?

Would a kiss from him give her that sublime satisfaction that all teenagers seemed to chase?

Maybe if it did, she wouldn't feel so alone anymore, like she wasn't the only one of her friends who seemed to lack the experience—

But she also wondered if a kiss from Tom would solidify the same thought she had been thinking for the past fifteen years, the thought that she had attempted to dissolve for those fifteen years—

She hadn't realized there were tears running down her face.

And she certainly hadn't noticed that there was someone knocking on the front door.

She hastily turned off the burner and flipped the omelet onto a plate, dropping the pan to the stove with a clatter.

Hermione stepped through the kitchen entryway and glanced up to see the bedroom door still shut, the faint sound of rushing water from the shower still running.

The knock continued until Hermione finally stepped forward and opened the latch, revealing a rather unexpected, yet familiar visitor.

His hair was still relatively dark in color and maintained its trademark thickness, but tinges of silver were threaded through it. He was clothed simply in a canvas shirt that hung loosely from his lean frame and black pants with the telltale smudges of dirt coating the hems. His face had become lined and creased with wrinkles due to age, and yet he smiled brightly before Hermione, his dark eyes crinkling with awe.

"Why, Hermione, you surely remember me don't you? I know it's been a while, but surely you do, I know Tom mentioned you were coming—" he spoke jubilantly and excitedly, almost as if he couldn't wait to see her. He reached out and shook her hand, pulling her into a warm embrace, which Hermione gratefully returned.

She smiled softly at him, and her mind once again reverted back to flickers of her childhood memories and the smell of lilies and hydrangeas and the herbs of her grandmother's garden—

"Of course, Mr. Riddle. Come right in."