It was dark when Hermione opened her eyes, but she immediately sensed that she was not alone. An arm rested on her stomach, warm breath brushing her neck regularly. There was another person in her bed and as unbelievable as it seemed, she knew it could be none other than Tom Riddle.

Careful not to wake him, she rolled over and slipped out from under his arm. He had to have fallen asleep after…

Yes, after what, actually? Exhausted, Hermione recalled the last events. She had meditated while he had used some kind of spell to block out her body's own noises - a variant of the Muffliato? But that had not even been invented yet! - and then she actually encountered something inside her. She wanted to touch it, after all Tom said that the aim of this meditation was that she would enter the source of her magic and thus learn to control it. But instead, she felt like she had been burned. Not just the way one burns oneself on a hot plate, but all over her body. As if her mind and body were on fire. After that, there was only blackness.

Obviously she had done something wrong and lost consciousness as a result. How long had she been out? Cautiously, her fingers felt for the magic clock on her bedside table. It was well past midnight. Tom definitely should not be here anymore, certainly not in her bed.

Slowly her gaze wandered along his figure. When he slept, he seemed completely harmless. Just a good-looking boy. It was amazing that she had been here less than three months and yet already felt as if she had known Tom all her life. Of course, since she first entered to Hogwarts, she had been confronted with Voldemort almost every year – thanks to Harry. But this boy here, this seventeen-year-old Tom Riddle was not Voldemort.

"Tom," she whispered softly as she gently shook his shoulder. She needed to wake him up and send him to his own room. It was not good that he was still here.

Slowly, Tom opened his eyes. Hermione could see that he was completely disoriented for a moment, and that only made him seem more human than he appeared in his sleep anyway. But immediately any tender feeling she felt for him was nipped in the bud.

No sooner had Tom realised where he was than his weariness dissipated and gave way instead to an old familiar rage. With one relentless movement, the fingers of his left hand closed around Hermione's neck, forcing her back into a horizontal position. "What happened?"

Angrily, but not really intimidated, Hermione looked up at him. "I don't know, you tell me!"

His jaws ground on each other, but eventually he let go of her again. Shaking their heads, they both sat up, Hermione annoyed, Tom obviously still confused. Why was he so confused?

"Did I faint?" Hermione asked quietly, though she knew the answer. She wanted to hear from Tom what had happened.

He nodded as he ran a hand through his tangled hair. "Yes. You were quicker than I thought. You reached out before I could hold you back. You are too careless, my heart."

His gaze rested sternly on her, but Hermione did not see how that was her fault. "You told me to enter the source of my energy."

"But surely not unprepared!" he snapped at her, "What do you think happens when your mind comes into contact with such an amount of energy? It's a wonder you just fainted. That was completely irresponsible."

Frowning, she stared at him. "I only did what you asked me to do. Why is it my fault now?"

"Are you saying it's my fault?"

The icy coldness that resonated in Tom's voice immediately signalled to Hermione that she was about to enter dangerous territory. Of course it was his fault, but equally obvious it was suicide to say so. Affected, she looked down at her hands. Tom Riddle did not make mistakes.

"You see," he hissed aggressively. With an energetic movement, he rose from the bed. "If you don't follow my lead, you'll only hurt yourself. You will keep putting yourself in danger if you don't obey me. Why is it so hard for you to accept that?"

He was trying again. He was trying again to subdue her. Stubbornly she crossed her arms in front of her chest. "I've managed without your guidance so far."

Tom just grinned contemptuously. "You didn't have an interesting life before me either."

To this Hermione spared a reply. Her life had definitely not been unexciting before, but it was impossible to even begin to tell him about it. Instead, she changed the subject. "Okay, fine. What did I do wrong?"

Satisfied, Tom sat down on the chair by the desk and turned on the lamp there. The previously silver darkness was illuminated by a warm glow, but the shadow cast on Tom's face made him look even more sinister. Slowly he explained, "Your mind must be armed. You must protect it."

With a wave of his hand, he motioned for her to join him. As if it were the most natural thing, he pulled her onto his lap and held out a sheet of parchment written in his even, small handwriting. Unsure what to make of this new familiarity, Hermione's eyes wandered over the written lines. Her breath caught in her throat.

"That's right, my dear," he murmured as his hand tenderly ran up and down her back, "You've shown me the spell that allowed me to finally fathom the source of my magic."

A tremor seized Hermione. Whenever Tom talked about unleashing magic, even when he introduced her to meditation yesterday, she always assumed that he could already fully master his own magic, that he was already as powerful as he had been in her time, just not as experienced yet. But this ... this meant that the magical power Tom had shown so far had not been his full ability at all. Clearly, he had been still looking for a spell to protect himself from his own energy. To be able to unleash it.

And she had provided him with that spell.

As she had prepared for the second duel in Defence Against the Dark Arts, it had seemed like a brilliant move to try out the new shield spell she had read about. It was a shield that wrapped tightly around the entire body and did not disappear as long as a little magic was applied to it. It allowed free spell casting in duels without having to worry about shield spells or counter curses. That it was so unknown was because it required high concentration to maintain. And, as she had experienced first-hand, if the opponent was more powerful than oneself, he could blow up the shield with sheer force.

"A clever little spell you used against me there," he praised condescendingly, "But you obviously didn't realise its full potential. You can also put this shield around your own mind wonderfully."

"And thus protect yourself from the consuming effects of magic," Hermione finished the thought. She shuddered.

Had she actually provided the key to the most powerful dark wizard of her time here in the past? Did the Voldemort that Harry had to fight so many times in her time have access to that power? Or had she just changed history by making him even more powerful? Did the future as she knew it even exist anymore?

She took a deep breath. She was here. If the future had changed, she would not be here, would she? After all, surely enough would have changed that she would not have gone down to the chamber with Ron that day, during the battle, and found the portrait.

But conversely, it also meant something else. That Voldemort had been able to spread his terror over England at all was partly because of her, for without her he would never have become so powerful. Perhaps someone else could have stopped him.

"Hermione?"

Tom's suspicious voice snapped her out of her ominous thoughts. It was better if she did not worry about the negative repercussions of her actions. She could not know what had and had not happened in her time because she had been here in the past. There was no point in worrying her head about it - and Tom would only ask awkward questions sooner or later if she acted suspiciously.

"Sorry," she said with a faint smile, "I was just quite taken by the fact that I could actually contribute something to your endeavour."

He regarded her sceptically, but if he did not believe her lame excuse, he kept it to himself. Instead, he continued with his explanation, "It's worth a lot just to see the inner source of magic in the first place. That alone makes you more powerful, as you become much more aware that magic really rests within you. But it wasn't until I could dare to touch it that I knew what it meant to truly unleash it."

Still Hermione did not fully manage to detach herself from her worries about her own time. And so, Tom's words connected in her with one of the darkest memories of the future. Before she knew it, she formulated the question that had risen in her, "Do you think that Muggles are able to steal their magic from us wizards? For example, by taking away our wands?"

Briefly, Tom looked at her in confusion, then burst out laughing. Irritated, Hermione stared at him. She had rarely seen him laugh like that, and certainly did not expect it on such a subject. Clearly amused, he shook his head. "I hope you don't think that, my dear. What a fabulously stupid idea. Magic resides within us, you've seen that for yourself. No Muggle will ever be able to steal it from us. Wands respond to that magic. To a Muggle, they are just a piece of wood."

Hermione no longer understood anything. Sure, after realising that magic rested as a source within every wizard and witch, it was only logical that Tom would think so. But then where did the firm belief of the Death Eaters of her time come from that Muggles could steal magic and that was the only way Muggle-born witches and wizards got their power? For the first time, she wondered how actively Voldemort himself had actually been involved in Ministry politics.

"I don't think so," Hermione replied, shaking her head, "After all, I'm Muggle-born myself. I wouldn't know that I stole a witch's wand."

Tom's expression suddenly became hard. "Hermione. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you don't deserve your magic, understand? Certain characteristics or features of a person sometimes skip a generation. It seems to be the same with magic. Your parents might not have magic within them. But if the bloodline is strong enough, the magic will eventually reappear. Like with you. Never let anyone despise you because of your blood."

Several times Hermione blinked. Had those words actually just come out of the mouth of Tom Riddle, who would later, as Lord Voldemort, be responsible for making Muggle-born witches and wizards hated and persecuted? It was late at night; it was quite possible that she was in fact asleep and dreaming. This could not possibly be reality.

"Didn't you yourself mouth the word mudblood as an insult?" she asked weakly.

"You are different, my heart," he said, pulling her head to his shoulder, "You have strong, magical blood in you that has come out undiluted. You are not as weak as all those mudbloods, in whom the magical blood of the ancestors has been completely tainted by muggles. We need to prevent the magical bloodlines from becoming more and more diluted, but that does not affect you. You are the exception to the rule, as am I. Our blood is pure."

Hermione allowed him to stroke her head. She was far too confused by his words. He was clearly bending the world to suit himself, ignoring any form of logic. Wearily she closed her eyes, but her curiosity was not yet satisfied. "Are you actually going to tell your friends that you are not a pureblood? Or do they already know?"

As if sensing her weariness, Tom put the parchment with the explanations about the shield spell back on the desk to stand up with her in his arms. As if she were light as a feather, he carried her back to the bed and laid her gently there.

"Don't worry your pretty little head for me," he whispered to her as he began to unbutton her blouse.

Upset, she hissed back, "Don't treat me like a stupid child! And who gave you permission to just undress me?"

He actually pretended to be surprised by her protest. "What's your problem, I've seen you much less dressed."

Blushing, she slapped his hand away. "Those were completely different situations. You're going to leave me alone, understand?"

She knew exactly why he was treating her like this. He was not doing it to be kind or gentle with her, as a true friend would have done. No, he was doing it for a show of power. She would not allow it.

Tom grinned wryly. "Clever girl. All right, I'll leave you in peace for today because you've been so good. We'll pick up at the weekend where you failed today."

Frowning, Hermione looked after him. He had clearly been too readily responsive to her remarks. He had given in too quickly. What was he trying to achieve with his considerate posturing? Did he really think she would believe him, that he cared for her and sincerely wanted to keep her safe? She wished she knew what his motive was.

But for the moment, her body reminded her how late in the night it already was and that just recently she had suffered a black out due to mental injuries. No sooner did the door slam shut behind Tom than Hermione fell asleep.