Tom falls back with a bang, landing neatly against the ottoman he was sitting on only moments before. His entire body croaks in pain. He feels like he's been through several rounds of crucio.

"Had a fun trip down memory lane?" Hermione sneers as she wipes her hands onto her skirt, smearing it with his blood. She's holding his wand in her hand, and Tom panics when he sees her waving it so casually. He fumbles with his robes to pull hers out of the hidden pocket so he can be equally armed, but it is no longer there.

She notices, and tuts condescendingly. "Looking for this, my lord?"

She pulls out her wand from her sleeve, and then tucks it back in, preferring to wield his.

Tom stares at her in horror, unwilling to believe he is back in Hogwarts, back in the come-and-go room, back here, staring at an angry young Hermione who does not smell of the Mediterranean, who does not embrace him.

He sits on his tremoring hands so they won't betray him. He doesn't think he's ever been this afraid in his entire life.

"Who are you?"

"I thought you had that all figured out already?" Hermione doesn't edge any closer, and Tom thinks for a wild moment that maybe it's an act. She still feels weak. That is why she won't attack him now, when she has all the advantage. He's contemplating a strike when she interrupts his thoughts.

"Move an inch and I'll slice you in two."

"You wouldn't know such a spell," Tom scoffs, curling his lip.

"Wouldn't I? I like to think I'm a good pupil—you did take such pains to teach me."

Tom opens his mouth, and then promptly closes it. She's angry with him, and goading her doesn't do much to serve his purpose when she's holding the only two wands in the room. Despite the real presence of danger, he's desperate for her to explain what he saw.

"You called me Lord Voldemort," he begins, gritting his teeth in annoyance at the sudden change in circumstance. Trails of fresh blood drip down her face like tears from his mental assault. He isn't sure how he's meant to soften her up when she's clearly incensed and set to draw blood.

"I call you lots of things," she responds, attempting to be flippant.

"How do you know that name?" Tom demands, then realizing his voice is too hard to persuade anyone, let alone her, he adds, "Please, I just want to talk."

It's an afterthought, and she obviously notices.

She laughs, waving a hand over herself to showcase her bruising cheek, her matted hair, her bloody tears, torn shirt, and bloody skirt for him to examine. "Is this how you normally initiate a civil conversation?"

"Of course not," he snaps at her, forgetting he's supposed to be mending bridges. "I've been going half-mad with visions and you've been avoiding me again," he pauses, doing his best to give her the most condescending look known to man, "If you had just been honest from the beginning, I wouldn't have had to resort to such drastic measures."

He is immediately slapped with a stinging hex, right across the face. Hard enough to twist his head painfully with the blow. He reacts with a grin, righting himself to look at her.

"I never meant to hit you so hard, Hermione."

She scoffs and loosens her tie. "Was the curse to my insides an accident too?"

"I don't believe in accidents. But sometimes I can be a little overzealous." Tom smiles at her in mock-embarrassment, "I did heal you. It may take a week for you to feel completely back to normal—a little dropsy draught will quicken your recovery."

"Oh, shut up!" Hermione snaps, "Just because you think you've undone the damage, does not mean you didn't commit the crime! It isn't an excuse that you healed me when you shouldn't have cursed me in the first place!"

"Ironic, isn't it?" Tom asks, trembling in anger, "That the poison and the medicine come from the same source?

"Don't pontificate with me."

"Then tell me what I want to know."

"You're not really in a position to dictate the subject."

Tom stands, irritated that she's still being difficult. The incredible tension threatens to suffocate him. He throws his cloak off, letting it tumble in a heap on the floor. It's too damn hot in here. "What do you want from me, Hermione? I'm sorry I hit you. It disgusts me. I wanted to talk—I tried to talk, but you stiff me at every opportunity. And why? You obviously lo—like me when you're older."

"What makes you think that? Because you saw me hugging you once at some point in the future?"

"It's more than that—I saw it in my dreams. It isn't just once, Hermione, and it isn't just hugs—don't lie about it."

She gives him a cold, unrelenting stare. Then, in her snootiest voice, "I haven't a clue what you're caviling about. Your dreams do not relate to the future. And you're not entitled to any answers, no matter what you think. In fact, I'm going to leave now."

"No!"

"And just how do you plan to stop me?" she asks, pointing his wand directly at his face.

"That's not what I—wait!" Tom begins, but she's already shot off her wordless spell, which hits him square in the nose. For a moment he panics that she struck him with a rather painful obliviate and that it was all for naught, but then, with a sharp crack the broken bones in his nose snap back into place. Tom's eyes sting as his nerves readjust to the feeling of being able to breathe through both nostrils again.

"You're welcome, arsehole." she tells him bitterly, leaving him on the far end of the room and moving closer to the fire. She takes a seat on the armchair, and Tom is left awkwardly staring at her while trying to regain his bearings. He realizes his face is covered in blood, and casts an aguamenti on his cloak to try to wipe off some of it. It has coagulated already, and it hurts to rub his tender nose. He gives up, and decides to join her, feeling stupid standing there alone, feeling grateful she doesn't leave.

"May I sit down?" he asks when he approaches her, feeling much safer reverting to a guise of politeness.

She nods her head toward the armchair across from her, and Tom takes a seat. They say nothing for a few moments.

"Thank you for fixing my nose."

She says nothing.

"Fixing my nose counts for something, even if you were the one who broke it." He's trying slyly to make a point, and it doesn't escape her.

"I only broke your nose because you were rummaging around in my head again," she says coldly, "It is not the same-do not try to manipulate my words, Tom."

Tom decides to change the subject, "What year were you born?"

"Can't tell you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Won't."

"What were we looking for in Portofino?"

"An object."

"What kind of object?"

She sighs.

"Won't, again?" Tom guesses.

She gives him a pointed look.

"Are you a spy?"

"No."

"Finally, a straight answer. Although I doubt you would tell the truth if you were."

"Don't you think I would have just killed you by now, if I was?"

"Maybe you're playing a long game," Tom reasons.

She snorts, leaning further into the cushions and staring into the fire.

"Are you in love with me?"

He lets the silence stretch on forever. She never tears her eyes away from the fire. Tom watches her face closely for the slightest betrayal of her true feelings, but she doesn't move, doesn't budge. She's stiller than a statue.

"Won't, again?" he finally says, trying to keep his voice light.

This time she says, "Can't."

He sits with this information for a bit, letting it sink in. For some reason, it makes him feel infinitely better.

"Can I have my wand back?" he tries.

"No."

"Don't make me wrestle it back," he threatens, shifting forward in his seat.

"Try it, if you want to feel pain like you've never felt before."

"You always know how to turn me on."

She cracks a smile. It's very brief but it reaches her eyes, lighting them up like sparkling crystals before the crackling fire. Despite the dried blood that cakes her cheeks, Tom thinks she looks more beautiful than ever.

"If you're not going to kill me, and you refuse to give me my wand, I'm assuming your plan is a little more brilliant than trapping me in this room for the rest of the year?"

"Hmm." She hums, "Hadn't thought of that. It's not a bad idea."

It's Tom's turn to snort. "Will you bring me food from the Great Hall after meal times? I wouldn't want to starve."

She turns to look at him slowly. "You've been here before."

It's a statement, not a question. How else would he know that the come-and-go room's one defect is that it cannot procure food?

"Many times," Tom acknowledges, and he watches as the cold shutters of her eyes close against him again.

"If you still had your wand, what would you do?" she finally asks him, shifting in her seat to cross her legs. It's an interesting question. Tom thinks for a moment before answering.

"I would kiss you."

She rolls her eyes. "Tell me really."

"I would torture you until you gave me all the information I want."

She smiles, and it's a wicked grin, one that threatens to gnash at his flesh, eat up his sanity, divulge his insides.

"Now we're talking, Riddle. Which option shall I choose for you? Torture, or kisses?"

"Torture, of course." Tom answers unthinkingly, "It will be so much more pleasurable for you."

"You know me so well."

"I would like to know you better."

"So you tell me."

She stands, and for one exhilarating moment, Tom thinks she is going to sit on his lap. But instead, she throws his wand back at him. It lands stupidly on his thighs, but because of his surprise, he doesn't move to catch it in time and it falls to his feet, rolling slightly on the floor away from him before coming to a stop before the merry fire.

He looks up at her in anger and disbelief. "Why?"

"Regardless of what you think, Tom, I am not your enemy. Clean yourself up before you leave. You look a fright." She says, motioning to his dirty face as if forgetting her own. It's oddly comical and simultaneously infuriating.

She starts to move toward the door when Tom jumps up, grabbing her from behind until she's pressed against him. He's desperate to prevent her from running away from this conversation, from him. He needs her to stay. He's oddly touched she's willing to let him leave.

His wand is still laying on the floor. What he plans to do, he doesn't know. Nothing is simple with her. She brings out the brute muggle within him—his basest, lowest instincts reign. She's shaking in his arms, and it takes him some moments of deep breathing to realize he is the one shaking her, so forceful are the tremors wracking his body.

"Tom," she whispers into the empty air. Tom thinks he can almost hear the compassion in her voice. He feels a strange knot in his throat, and he tries to swallow against it. His nose stings, and it isn't from the recent fracture. He dips his head into the crook of her neck, and tries to steel himself against the senseless tears threatening to well over. He cannot help but think he's never been shown such mercy. Is her baffling behavior love, or is it a trick?

"Hermione," he whispers into her hair, "my Hermione."

He closes his eyes and imagines he can almost smell the Mediterranean in her curls. That was real. In his dream, she was the storm.

"Do you cross me?"

She doesn't answer, and he tightens his hold until he can feel her ribs protest against his arms.

"Tell me…" he swallows again, "please."

Her answer is of paramount importance. It is the most important thing on earth. Everything seems to hang in the balance. A precarious trust hangs between them like the thinnest, most vulnerable thread in the world. To ask a question, and to trust the answer. It is a muggle way of being. It is against Tom's every innate reflex. It feels as unnatural and ripping out his own nails.

"It isn't that I do not want to answer your questions. Certain subjects—it is not safe to discuss… to reveal too much can change everything," she hesitates, speaking slowly and carefully into an empty room as Tom holds on to her for dear life. She sighs. "I know you won't believe me, but I'm doing this to protect you."

"Protect me? From what?" He snakes his left arm in across her chest to settle his hand against her neck. He presses his fingers into her neck, trying to feel her pulse. Reassurance; he needs reassurance.

"Mainly from yourself."

Tom can hear the rueful smile in her voice, as if she is amused that she has had to take a dangerous trip into the past, forsaking her friends, family, and timeline to babysit a teenage Tom while fabricating an intricate story to maintain her cover.

"So your feeling from Divinations, it wasn't just a hunch?"

"Sadly, no."

"I… I become a liability?" he asks uneasily.

Hermione shifts, and Tom misreads her movement to mean she wants to leave him, so he holds her tighter, loving the feeling of the warmth emanating from her, and unwilling to let her go. She stops trying to turn, seeming to understand he cannot bear to face her at this moment either.

"I think you already know."

Tom's brain whirrs senselessly for a minute before he can control his rising panic. He is unable to bear the thought of his mind unraveling, thus destroying everything he ever planned for. As important Hermione has become to him, becoming Lord Voldemort is still more important.

He decides to change the subject, frustrated with her revelation and uninterested in believing it.

"Explain Dumbledore. How does he play into this?"

"I cannot discuss that with you either."

For some reason, her answer infuriates him. He grips her neck tighter before clamping his other hand over hers, sending white-hot sparks out of the tip of her wand. "What can you discuss?" he breathes into ear, "You say you're on my side but you won't answer a single question. What's stopping me from wringing your neck right now?"

She tries to turn her face to see his, but awkwardly ends up puffing out her chest and laying her nose into the opposite crook of his neck. Tom blushes, aware that they look like the cover of a violent harlequin romance.

"Nothing, I suppose," she murmurs against his neck. It sends gooseflesh of pleasure down Tom's back. He twists her wand arm behind her, arching her back further. She's too seductive for her own good.

"Answer me with something more substantial, Granger."

"I know something about him. I used it to manipulate him. That is all I am willing to say—able to say—so ask no more and be satisfied." She wiggles lightly against him until he allows her to twist fully in his embrace. They're suddenly nose to nose, and she's looking unabashedly into his eyes. It's a stare that has startled him many times before, for its brazenness and its confidence. Tom thinks it now makes sense. She's known him all along. Known him better than he can know himself.

"Why won't you let me kiss you?" he asks.

"Sometimes there is nothing more that I want," she says in reply, and Tom thinks it is the most wonderful sentence that has ever been formed. He lifts a hand to cradle the cheek he slapped only minutes ago, rubbing light circles into the bruise, wishing he wasn't such a bastard, before his high comes crashing down.

"…but it would be a mistake."

"A mistake," he repeats coldly, letting it sink in. "We split up."

She doesn't respond to his statement, but that in itself is a response, Tom decides angrily.

"Then why are you here?"

"Reasons beyond understanding."

Her tone is painfully sardonic and matter-of-fact, as if she didn't just shatter Tom's heart and hopes to pieces. As if she isn't being maddeningly cryptic. Tom abruptly lets her go, feeling physically gutted. The act is so sudden she stumbles back a step as he withdraws from her.

He stares at her, only now seeing her for the first time. Another person who leaves him. Another person who uses him, keeps him around when convenient, discards him like forgotten trash when he's outlived his usefulness.

Alone; he's always alone.

"So you abandoned mefor reasons beyond understanding?" Tom emphasizes the words sarcastically, "Beyond my understanding, or yours?"

She doesn't answer. She's looking at his feet. She looks to him like a chastised child—it incenses him further.

"Not everything is so black and white, please understand it isn't that simple." She speaks quietly, in contrast to Tom's booming voice which seems to swell with each angry word.

"It is incredibly simple. You should have stayed with me, helped me—especially if you knew I was teetering on the edge of insanity! Not galivanting around 1944!"

Tom is stunned by his own words, his own hurt, even if Hermione seems to expect it. He hates the sage way she takes him in, as if she understands his protests and even sympathizes with him. Her empty sympathy doesn't change anything. It doesn't fix her disloyalty.

His head aches trying to understand the timelines. He tries to understand how an act of betrayal in the future can already feel like it has come to pass. How many years does he love her before she devastates him? Does she even warn him before she disappears? He feels sick. This is why it is safer to never depend on anyone at all.

He was on the right track before. He should have been avoiding her, not indulging in these revolting feelings. He thinks of the future; the twisted, confusing future. A future where Hermione flies and sleeps in his bed. A future where he trains her, and possibly teaches her dark magic. A future where he goes to Italy with her, and not to Albania alone.

He must be looking for a way back right now. He must have dropped everything for her. He must be obsessed with only the thought of finding her. There is no other possibility. Tom feels a visceral mourning for his future self, while the other half of his mind resolves to learn everything he can about time travel to prepare for the eventual necessity of coming back far enough to his Hogwarts seventh year to bring her back to him. He has to begin preparing now. He cannot be without her.

"You shouldn't have left me, Hermione. I'll be looking for you—I'm probably trying to get back to you right now."

She smiles at this, but it's thin-lipped and she's avoiding his eyes.

"I don't leave you, Tom," she finally answers him sadly, flicking her wand over her body and instantly transforming herself into a clean, bloodless, innocent school girl.

"You leave me."

A/N: Ff is no longer showing the visits to my story, and that sucks. This story already gets such low engagement, I used to really depend on those stats to make me feel *someone* was reading. I'm starting to think it is not worth it to keep updating here..