Hermione didn't get the chance to revisit her more puzzling birthday gifts until the next day, where she had a free period after lunch until Divination before dinner. She was reaching into her bag to grab her and Tom's diary when she spotted the new journal - the one with the mysteriously blank pages but notably worn spine. Curiosity getting the better of her, she picked it out of her satchel instead.

Starting from about the middle, she flipped through the pages as she pondered it. She hadn't made sense of his note yet either. If for some reason their connection to each other was interrupted in the future, causing him to need to write her letters, as he'd called them, then where were they?

She considered the problem for several moments before she noticed a faint smear of ink towards the front pages and stopped.

Had she gotten ink on it the day before?

But as she flipped the journal to the front, she saw that the first several pages, all of which were as blank as the rest of the book the day before, were now filled with Tom's familiar handwriting. One or two spots of the first page even looked like raindrops or tears had fallen on the paper.

Raindrops, surely. She couldn't envision Tom crying.

Puzzled, but always curious, she began to read:

Dear Dove,

Before I say anything else, you need to understand that fretting over why I'm not writing you directly through our diary is a lost cause. I can't tell you exactly why without ruining everything, but to appease your curious mind, I will tell you this:

There will come a time when we cannot reliably communicate through the diary. This isn't as much of a frustration for you, Dove, since you always have two points in time where you could reach me: the past and the present. I, however, have only every had one future to look toward when contacting you.

And considering you've yet to be born, there is no present Hermione to go talk to.

I have to be careful of course, because if this new diary pans out, I'll give this to you one day. Probably charmed so you're unable to read anything beyond what you've experienced in our bothersome little time web. We wouldn't want time to collapse in on itself would we?

Though, I suppose that particular burden only truly belongs to me, doesn't it?

She frowned at that line. Tom the elder, Lord Riddle, had said something similar to her in the Malfoy library, hadn't he? Since Tom was living on both sides of the timeline, he was the one with the knowledge to bugger something up. But somehow, she couldn't do anything…since it was her present. That logic made her head spin, but she chose to believe him despite her worry.

Though she still wished she could help him manage it.

Still, Abraxas made a point when I finally swallowed my pride and ran the idea by him and Flynn. I can still write to you, I just won't get a response until time catches up to itself and you read this in the future. Assuming I don't just burn this damn thing. It feels wrong, writing to you this way. But it's all I have right now. So I'm going to try and write to you in a way that helps you through your end of our mess without blasting a hole in the fabric of time.

Maybe I'll write another journal where I don't censor myself and give that one to you when everything has caught up.

She tried and failed to ponder that idea. What did he even mean? When everything caught up? For time to finish overlapping itself, then her connection to the past would have to end at some point? Is that why he was writing her letters? Does their diary stop working entirely?

He'd told her not to worry about it, but she couldn't help it. What would happen? When would it happen? Was it supposed to happen or was it a temporary issue? She'd never considered the possibility of being connected to Tom through time for her entire life, but the feasibility of such a thing was near impossible. Which meant there would have to come a time where she only had access to Tom the Elder permanently…

But that means, if you're reading this, then you're a third year right now. Yesterday was your birthday, if I got my timing right. Maybe this journal was one of your presents from adult-me. This me, just older. Not the fifth year prefect who somehow didn't notice the ankle bracelet you were wearing.

Why didn't I notice it originally? Oh bollocks. I bought you a charm for it. And I bet I had to build a concealment charm the damn thing so younger me wouldn't notice the bracelet at first and time would carry on as I remembered it.

Oh, Dove, I hate this. There's so much planning to do, so much figuring out what I step in to nudge in the right direction and what happens without my interference. Which would normally be fun but if I fuck up… Nevermind. I'll save that train of thought for another journal.

Hermione frowned. There was a raindrop, or perhaps a frustrated tear, slightly blurring the word hate. She knew how much anxiety contemplating the space-time aspects of their situation gave her... She couldn't imagine how much stress he must have felt, still felt even. Though, she wondered, if he was this worried about details - how old was he when he wrote this? He made sure to separate himself from the boy and the man she knew. Perhaps this Tom had graduated Hogwarts? Is that when he had to start putting things in motion for the future to remain aligned as he remembered it?

Where was I? Oh — Happy Birthday, Dove. I know why you didn't tell me, but this me wishes you had. I do hope you realize he'll figure out your birthday and do the math, but no fretting. Nothing bad happens and I'm not telling you when he figures it out either. We'll bicker about it a bit. It'll be a fond memory eventually. One of many that Abraxas and Avery like to bring up from time to time to remind themselves that I'm human.

If this journal is your birthday present, I hope I found something better than this and a charmed charm as a gift, especially since one of me isn't going to know to celebrate the occasion with you. These two will be sort of mandatory for maintaining time, but I'll need to think of something else to give you as an actual gift. If you got 3 things from me, then the third means I succeed eventually.

She remembered the book with the strange markings. She'd have to investigate its contents before bed.

Oh, yes, your fourteenth birthday — You became a parselmouth last night and you have no idea how bloody amazing that is! Granted, younger me failed to explain it. Let me think…surely giving you some clarity there won't ruin anything…

The ritual we performed to give you parselmagic is the same ritual Salazar Slytherin performed to help imbue that power into his magical line. He made Parselmagic a trait that locked onto the hereditary threads of his family's magic, which is why centuries later, I, a long removed descendant, am also a parselmouth.

Several of his kin took months if not years for that ritual to work, and they were often performing that ritual with far more frequency and duration than we had time for.

Do you understand my excitement now?

She did, though she still didn't feel half as excited as this older version of him seemed in writing, nor a smidge as excited as the fifth year she'd spent her evening with completing said ritual.

Your magic was strong enough and capable of picking up an incredibly rare and complex trait from mine in less time than most of Salazar's children. I believe he'd be proud that a witch of your caliber had it. She started to roll her eyes, then saw he'd already started to admonish her. Hush, he wasn't a modern blood supremacist, witch. In his day, muggleborns were a legitimate threat to wizardkind. One stray rumor resulted in mass witch hunts, destroyed communities, et cetera, et cetera. That's where the muggleborn prejudice comes from, but he didn't have it the way modern purebloods do now.

Whether you believe me or not, I was and am still so proud of you for being able to become a parselmouth. I know, you didn't have to put in any massive mental effort to do it, so it doesn't count as an accomplishment to you. I still think that logic makes you ridiculous, though.

You impressed me when it happened. Take your accomplishment and your reward in stride.

She blushed, remembering the far longer than normal hug she'd chosen and how nice whatever hair products or cologne he wore had smelled. He always smelled nice when she was close enough to notice, but the prolonged exposure had started to make her head a little fuzzy. She was just grateful she hadn't done something stupid to embarrass herself or make him think less of her as a result.

Silly little bird. It still baffles me that way back in your third year, all you wanted was my friendship. Merlin help me, I was blind. And damn it all, you may not be his friend, Hermione Granger, but you're certainly mine. So chin up, Dove. Be patient with him. He's never had a friend like you before and he doesn't have a damn clue what he's doing.

Her throat tightened as she read the lines again, eying another water mark blurring the end of patient — you may not be his friend, Hermione Granger, but you're certainly mine. So they would be friends one day? Granted, for all she knew he wouldn't start to consider her a friend until his seventh year. Or until he sat down to write this letter. But still…eventually she'd mean almost as much to him as he meant to her. Surely that would be enough?

I'll definitely have to write a second journal. There are so many things I wish I could tell you, but I can't. I know I can't. Merlin, help me, how will I stand watching you go through all of this again and not tell you everything? Will I go mad the second go around when I know I could technically do or say things to ease your frustrations if maintaining time wasn't a variable?

Check this journal every so often, would you? I don't know how often I'll need to write to you like this, but whenever I've figured out some useful or comforting tidbits for you, I suppose this is how they have to be delivered.

This still feels ridiculous. We're at one of Malfoy's country houses. A quaint cabin near some cliffs with a jagged staircase carved into the rock to get to the beach. It's dreary today. And I'm sitting on driftwood writing a letter to a girl who hasn't even been conceived yet.

That's what bothers me the most right now I think. Will it be easier once I know you're alive? I don't have much of a choice but to wait and see, do I?

I'll write again when I can think of something helpful to say. It's probably best to keep the maudlin thoughts in their own separate journal, don't you think?

Your impatient eventual friend,

Tom

Hermione frowned at the sign off, concerned. She knew this was the past him speaking, but she felt the urge to write a letter to present-day Tom all the same. Maybe he could tell her more. He had given her the journal, after all. He knew its contents.

She was worried about the man he'd once been, even knowing he'd grown and managed to find ways to keep the integrity of time intact. And if the man writing this was truly just the younger version of Tom the elder, then…then he also considered her his friend. A friend he'd been waiting for while time caught up to itself. And then when he did finally meet her again, she wasn't even the friend he'd seen last, was she? He had to meet her as a second year twice.

Well, she'd just have to fix that next time she saw him then. Hopefully she'd be able to come up with some way to do that before he visited the school again or their next school break.

She had just put the journal away and pulled out their diary when Harry rejoined her from his quick trip to the dorm and the loo. They enjoyed the cool sunny day in the courtyard until Hermione happened to glance up. She'd felt someone looking at her, noticed Tracey Davis standing in the shaded halls around the courtyard, and realized the Slytherin was blending in with her surroundings in a way that made her go unnoticed by the rest of the students mingling about.

Tracey smiled and mimed opening a book, her head slightly cocked to the side.

Hermione grinned. "We're being invited to the library," she told Harry. "Want to go?"

"Yeah!" Harry said enthusiastically. "I've been wanting to talk to Draco about some of the maneuvers in the Quidditch books I got for my birthday."

The magic of the spell's edges shimmered on the one wall he left blank solely for its purpose. The complicated web of magic was of his own creation, something he'd concocted in his youth so he could keep an eye on Hermione whenever they weren't in the Room of Requirement. Now, he used it to make sure he didn't damage time.

"Are you satisfied yet?" Abraxas asked. On the wall, Tom's one-way surveillance spell let them see Harry and Hermione get up and begin their journey to the library.

"No," Tom said petulantly. "Still feels wrong somehow. You two getting her presents was already a risk."

"I hardly see how that'll affect anything. She'd already figured out that we'd befriend her by the time she met us as lads," Flynn said, eying the teens. "She's also mentioned the journal in a few notes before. I think there was something about how she'll be anxious to see you once she's read the first letter. She didn't say why."

"Probably full of questions I can't answer," said Tom. "But I already planned to check on her during one of their first Hogsmeade trips."

"Sooner the better," Abraxas said carefully. "She has something on her mind."

Tom turned towards them, his gaze narrowed in suspicion. "You two are making a point not to say something."

They shared a tired glance. "She needs to talk to you, that's all she told us," Abraxas said.

Tom's glare deepened. "When she needs to speak to me, she tells me herself."

Flynn sighed harshly and returned his glare. "She's literally going to write you a letter when they get to the library. You and Black. Watch."

Tom's expression softened from agitated to tired bitterness as he watched her pen first a quick note to Sirius, then a slightly longer one to himself. Harry and Draco both offered to go with her to the owlery after the group had studied for a while, both having letters of their own to send.

"You're just worried," Abraxas said. "As far as she's led us to believe, this is just one of the many things we didn't have the ability to notice the first time around. You haven't made the first iteration of this spell yet."

Tom only gave a quiet hum in reply. His nerves were on edge, but perhaps it was simply paranoia. He'd spent decades writing in that diary and several others. Decades wondering if she'd even be able to read their contents without destroying the future he was desperately trying to maintain.

It also smarted, he realized, that the words in those pages failing to immediately shake the foundations of time meant the letters weren't enough to prevent the suffering they'd been written to soothe.

Still, he watched the three. They were so young and unaware of the changes brewing around them. Unaware of how quickly this chapter of relative peace would come to a close.

With a sigh, Tom ended the surveillance spell and stood. "I don't need babysitting tonight," he said before either of the other men could comment. "I appreciate you heeding the directives of your lady, but you can piss off now."

Flynn frowned, but Abraxas seemed unsurprised by Tom's declaration.

"Just don't forget that your schedule is pretty packed tomorrow," Abraxas said.

"I haven't," Tom assured them. Flynn hesitated for another moment before following Abraxas toward the door. "I'll send Tink if I need either of you."

They bid their farewells, heading into the heart of the house towards the nearest floo, and Tom basked in his brief moment of peace for a few breaths.

But only a few.

The warded drawers of his desk had recently become the home of several of his old journals and notebooks from school. It only took him a moment to find the sister-journal to the one he'd given Hermione for her birthday. He remembered setting aside the green journal to pick up its blue twin. The beach had been chilly. A storm was brewing out on the horizon, but didn't reach the shore for another day after he'd sought out the waves to help calm his spinning mind.

It was one of the few times in his life that Tom had cried. Frustration, fear of failure, and the sudden lack of connection to his bonded had been more painful than he could've imagined. Eventually, the feeling of his bond being in limbo became something he could almost ignore. But back then, he was constantly reminding himself that she wasn't dead. She couldn't be dead when she hadn't been born yet. Even if the empty hole on the other end of their bond that his magic was sensing made it like she was.

He took a breath to center himself, then flipped the little blue book open to reread the words he couldn't send her.

Dove,

I don't know if I'll ever let you read this. I can't even fathom that far ahead right now. It's all up to me and I don't know where to begin. Are there choices I make now that set the stage for choices I'll make that could change the future? Have I already made choices that have changed something drastic? What do I do? How am I supposed to do this without you? I know I do, you've told me what I built for us. I've seen it. But how do I do it? Where do I start? I can't afford to make even a slight mistake, Dove. The cost of failure is too high.

I have to figure it out. Abraxas and Flynn will help, as always, but it's not the same. I don't like having a project without you working beside me. Circe, how long do I have to wait just to read with you again? Because it doesn't go back to normal once we meet. You were a little second year when you met me on either side of the timeline. I was so dense. I wasted so much of the time I could've had with you doing circles in my own head and now I'll suffer for it twice.

I'll have to earn your trust again, won't I? Because when you meet me, I'll be the adult version this time. You won't understand my motives and I can't even tell you why you're so important. But does that mean I get to befriend you all over again? Will you shatter my world-view again? Teach me things I didn't know I hadn't learned again?

What about my sixth year? How will certain events change how you interact with me on this side of time? Will you be shy? Will I be able to stand knowing you're in the arms of a boy who has no idea what you mean to him when by then I'll have missed you for over 50 years?

What about after the bonding? What happens then? You were barely 17 when we cast that spell, Hermione. Legally an adult, sure, but I'll be in my 60s. Will you regret that decision the next time you see me afterwards? At some point I'll figure out how to still look 20-something. But we both know my real age will be much older. Will that bother you? If it doesn't, shouldn't it? Worse age gaps have existed in wizarding history but will you feel cheated out of spending our youth together?

Am I going to spend 50-something years waiting for you, missing my bonded, just for her to miss the boy she had before time caught up to itself when I finally get her back?

I need answers, Wendy. Will you still be in Neverland when I find you again?

Will you still choose me when the fairy tale is over?

Tom shut the journal without reading the rest. There were four more tear-stained pages full of words he'd never be able to verbalize, but he knew his younger self had dissolved into the fears and anxieties no one could soothe until he'd broken his quill in a fit of despair.

The journal thudded softly as it landed back in the drawer, which he unceremoniously tapped shut with his foot as he walked over to his pensive. While he normally sought refuge in his sixth year, tonight his seventh was calling his name.

He fell into the memory, one of dozens of quiet nights spent studying in the Room of Requirement, and saw his younger self lounging easily on the couch with his witch.

Hermione was older. Seventeen or eighteen, Tom couldn't remember. Her wide, curious eyes had sharpened with knowledge unless they were fondly turned on himself. She was sitting with her back to his chest, laid together on one of the sofas in the room. He had one bent leg tucked against her bum and under her knees to help keep her from sliding out of place against him. The other foot rested on the floor.

He'd been toying with her hair, twirling stray curls around his fingers in one hand and balancing a book on his arm in the other. Her messy bun was his chin rest. He was her cushion.

Their outer robes were thrown over the back of the sofa, and the sleeves of her button-up shirt were rolled to just below her elbows. She had her knees tucked up so one of her books could be used as a writing surface for some essay or another.

Abraxas, Flynn, Harry, and Draco were sat around them, also studying or reading. Sometimes quietly talking amongst themselves.

Tom sank to the floor, basking in the sight of an echo of Hermione that was fully comfortable in his presence. Enjoying how she sometimes made an absent attempt to bat his hand away from her hair - which maintained a one-hundred-percent failure rate - or would shift to get more comfortable.

As the years ticked on, it became less of a question of whether or not Tom would be able to make sure time repeated itself properly, and more of a question of what would be waiting for him at the end. But even if chaste moments like this were all he had to look forward to, he'd take it.

It was one thing to be separated for a long, but temporary, stretch of time. It was another to never get her back at all. And the choice of how they moved forward when the diaries disconnected, when everything was said and done, would be hers to make.

A/N: So if you're not following my Tumblr, then you're missing out on my bored shitposts and impromptu diary discussions. When work is slow I write on my phone. And shitpost on Tumblr.

The real question is: Who saw the shitpost before the update? And subsequently who's going to hunt down the shitpost and interact with it after the update?

Also I'm only really updating early because it's my beloved editor's birthday and I felt like it was appropriate.

I really am trying to build out like...10 or 11 chapters of buffer, especially since I've finally gotten to a point where I'm consistently writing scenes that didn't exist in the original. (I.e. writing without a blueprint to follow and having to plan things excessively so I don't screw up my own plot) Currently about halfway through Chapter 38. If you want to know a teeny bit of what happens in the far-away lands of Chapter 38, you should crawl through my "The Diary" tag on my tumblr. I tag everything diary-related. The shitpost included.

Otherwise, hopefully anyone else having an incredibly tiresome week was given a little extra dopamine from this update, despite the sad nature of it. Love you guys. See you in a month-ish?