Chapter Text
Hermione didn’t know how she had come to exist in the year of 1944.
One moment, she had been hunting for Ravenclaw’s diadem in the Room of Requirement along with Harry and Ron, sifting through dusty artifacts and levitating crates aside. In the next moment, she’d been sprinting from Crabbe’s Fiendfyre spell—crashing into shelves and launching over furniture as flames had licked at her heels.
Ron had only just outstretched his hand to yank her onto his broomstick—their fingertips had almost clasped. His wide blue eyes had been so panicked as she’d leapt. But in Hermione’s haste to jump atop, she had misjudged the angle and had stumbled against something fragile on a shelf.
There came the shattering sound of glass then, followed by a splintered shard ripping through her jumper and slicing at her hip; from that once innocuous object, whatever it had been.
And just like that, Hermione’s world had changed.
It was then that she’d felt a tug at her navel, like the pull of a Portkey ripping right through her abdomen. Sickening and dizzying. The room had swirled and rippled like the surface of a calm lake being shattered by skipping rocks—Ron’s horrified face twisting into her memory, his shouts burning into her brain—until suddenly the spinning had stopped, and Hermione had slipped through the air into a stone room much the same as the one before, albeit less dusty, much neater, and decidedly not on fire.
It had taken Hermione almost three hours to gather the courage to leave that room, most of it spent in a summoned lavatory where she had hurled her entire breakfast into the toilet.
She’d had the forethought, at least, to transfigure her muggle jeans and jumper into a bland, school-regulated uniform. The skirt length a little longer, the stockings a little opaquer, if the newspaper in the corner was to be believed.
The day was September 1st, 1944, and judging by the angle of the sun slanting through the windows as she slipped into the seventh-floor corridor, early evening was high upon the castle. Which meant the boats carrying the first-years would arrive at the docks at any moment. As long as she was quick, there was still time to locate help from a trusted professor before the Sorting Ceremony began in the Great Hall.
She was just attempting to find said help—striding down the familiar-yet-uncanny hallway with more confidence than she felt, chin tipped high and hands clenched at her sides—ignoring the murmurs of the portraits at her sudden appearance, and occluding her thoughts as much as possible, when she crashed bodily into a firm, masculine figure rounding the corner.
The boy appeared just as startled as she was by the intrusion, both of them grunting from the impact, though he recovered first with admirable swiftness.
Strong hands steadied Hermione as she tangled with his legs; pale, elegant fingers clamped like shackles on her arms. The tie dangling in her vision was green and silver striped, and she knew without looking up that he was a Slytherin. Almost certainly a seventh-year like her, judging by his sturdy, lean frame and exaggerated height. His clothes were immaculately pressed, and his shiny Oxford shoes were free from scuffs and dirt. With a gentleness that surprised her, the boy heaved her onto her feet, dropping his hands and wiping them on his trousers as soon as she found her balance.
And then she looked at his face.
That was her first mistake.
His dark brown eyes bored into hers, the color bordering on black—his lashes fanned and curled in the way that women so often tried to imitate. His sclerae were tinged with a bloodshot hue as if he hadn’t slept in an age, and there was a wariness within that gaze that belied his youth, along with a hint of rapt curiosity that mirrored her own. Lines creased at the corners of his eyes as he studied her, his forehead knotted in concentration as his dark brows drew together.
But the boy wasn’t ugly. Quite the opposite, in fact.
His hair was thick and black and parted down the side, with a windswept fringe that was cut in a timeless style. His face was chiseled and angled with a strong, straight nose. The lips frowning at her were full and wide with a softness to them, aside from their chapped and bitten state. A light pink flush stained the tops of his cheeks, likely from his surprise at their sudden impact, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as her eyes trailed down the long column of his pale throat.
The collar on his shirt was high and severe, with every button cinched tight. He was a modest man, she surmised, as she appraised his dress. A golden badge decorated his breast pocket, which meant she had tripped into the Head Boy.
Hermione knew that information meant something—that it was important, and she needed to remember why—yet her fuddled mind couldn’t place it at present.
The boy broke the silence first, his voice smooth and sibilant.
“Well. How very unexpected.”
The timbre was familiar somehow, though Hermione couldn’t recall from where—the sound pleasant and deep in her ears.
She swallowed and took a tentative step back, patting down her skirt. It wasn’t proper to be alone with a boy in this era. She would have to play the part of an uncomfortable and flustered schoolgirl. That would be easy enough, at least, given the intensity in his gaze as she righted her blouse and tucked her curls behind her ears.
If not for the sudden headache that pulsed at the base of her skull, she might have laughed at her luck.
Instead, Hermione grimaced and rubbed at the back of her neck, trying to collect herself as the boy studied her from head to toe—his gaze stalling on her plain gray tie, now knocked askew. A nagging uneasiness crept into her stomach. She had the distinct impression that the Head Boy wouldn’t be so easily duped by girlish simpering after all. No, he looked far too sober for that, far too cunning—as if he knew without a doubt that Hermione didn’t belong in this hallway, and he was simply waiting for her to speak to confirm his suspicions.
With a shaking hand, Hermione straightened her tie and forced a polite smile. If her lips wobbled at the corners, that couldn’t be helped. As brave as she was, she was also afraid. Every interaction held a risk of altering the timeline exponentially, and part of her worried that she would vanish at any moment.
Or worse—that Harry and Ron would vanish—that her family would vanish, all because of her mistakes.
The wisest course of action would be to keep her head down until she could speak with Dumbledore, and to keep her story as near to the truth as possible until she could find a way home.
So she forced herself to hold this stranger’s gaze, as unsettling as it made her feel. If only for a few more minutes, until he could guide her to where she needed to go. She extended her hand in greeting.
He left it hanging in the air.
“I’m so sorry,” she started, wincing as the pain in her skull intensified. The boy seemed unbothered by her distress, with his stern yet aloof demeanor. She snapped her hand back to her side, abashed. “Thank you so much for catching me. I’m just—you see—it’s all rather—I was dizzy, you understand… and then sick… and now I am just… lost,” she finished lamely, wincing as her eyes throbbed. “I was on my way to meet with Professor Dumbledore before the Sorting Ceremony. If you could be so kind as to show me the way?”
The boy’s frown deepened. He seemed to weigh each of her words, sliding his tongue across the front of his teeth as if tasting the air for her truthfulness. There was a serpentine likeness in the movement that Hermione didn’t care for.
“I see,” he said, searching her gaze. After a long few seconds in which Hermione wrung her clammy hands in her skirt, the boy’s face transformed. The smile that lit his lips was far too charming, almost sickeningly so, as he bowed his head in a warm greeting. Hermione’s headache abruptly stopped. “Yes, I see now… please excuse my foul manners. My name is Tom, and I shall be your escort. I hadn’t expected to meet one of our newest arrivals so far from the Great Hall. The boats and carriages have only just returned.” His eyes were too sharp, his voice too light. “Forgive me, Miss… you said your name was…?”
He ended that sentence with a raised, manicured eyebrow and extended his elbow for Hermione to grasp. A perfect gentleman—except now she knew. She knew. And this is where she made her second mistake.
Tom.
This boy’s name was Tom.
Horrified, Hermione looked from his proffered arm to his golden badge and staggered backwards, the words ‘1944’, ‘Head Boy’, and ‘Tom’ blaring in repetition across her mind. That information meant something. That information was valuable. Nausea wracked her gut as her heart thundered in her chest—the thumping so deafening she feared it must be amplified.
Tom Riddle was the Head Boy in his final year at Hogwarts.
And Hermione had just traveled fifty-four years into the past.
The gravity of the situation overwhelmed her, panic clotting in her veins. Sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled down her spine. She trembled and sputtered, swaying on her feet as her vision faded in and out. He may not have been Voldemort yet, but he had already created a Horcrux at this point—he had already murdered innocent people.
And he wanted her to touch him.
He wanted to be her escort, as if he were civilized and normal.
Absolutely not.
But surely… surely… Hermione was wrong. Surely this wasn’t the Tom. Her Tom. The same Tom who had ruined her world.
It couldn’t be—it just couldn’t be. Life wasn’t that cruel.
There was a voice hissing low in her ear, deep and commanding as she slumped to her knees, but she couldn’t hear him—couldn’t understand—couldn’t think—couldn’t grasp—the nausea swelled—and then she was vomiting again and again despite her empty stomach, spitting bile all over his shoes, all over the carpet, all over her lap—the sickness punching her in the gut with every jerk of her chest—and he was swearing and firing cleansing spells even though he hadn’t held a wand—and she was certain, then—so certain—because wandless magic was nearly impossible for even the strongest of wizards, and here was this boy, this Tom, in nineteen-fucking-forty-four, vanishing her sick and levitating her bodily towards the stairwell with nothing more than a disgusted glance at her person—as if she weighed nothing—as if she was nothing—and then she screamed.
And screamed.
And thrashed.
And kicked—until he’d gagged her with a spell and had slapped her with a Stupefy for good measure—his once handsome face now blackened and bleeding from where her heel had connected just-so with his perfect fucking nose, crunching the cartilage.
Those black eyes gleamed with red, so incensed was his expression as he whipped her around a corner and smashed her shoulder into a stone wall. The pain of it barely registered. At least he’d missed her head.
Bloody froth pooled at Tom’s lips, and he spat—barking at the rare student who crowded in the stairwell to move out of his fucking way.
It was almost hysterical—she was hysterical—quite literally trapped with evil incarnate as he whisked her down the never-ending stairs. Except he wasn’t Voldemort yet—he wasn’t nose-less and soulless and beyond human recognition. He was still a boy. Still a student. Still Tom. Through her terror, she fought to keep her mind shielded, to push him out if he tried to invade again. But Tom wasn’t focused on flaying her secrets open at present. Perhaps in all the ensuing chaos, he had decided that Hermione was a genuine lunatic after all, and that she wasn’t worth the effort of systematically destroying.
It wasn’t until they came to the first floor that Hermione even recognized where Tom was leading them. Leading her. The infirmary doors slammed open as he sailed her stiff body into the menthol-scented wing, her skirt dangling obscenely at her hips—modern knickers on display for the entire world’s enjoyment. Were they white today? Black? As if she could remember.
Tom slammed her onto the thin mattress of a creaking hospital bed right as a harried, elderly Madam shrieked and balked at the interruption.
The room was so noisy.
The lights were so bright.
The ache in her shoulder was finally registering.
Yet none of that mattered. Time stood still in that moment—the air warping as Tom leaned over Hermione’s chest, his movements slow and calculated as if measuring her mettle. He was far too close, far too furious, with that stupid silk tie pooling between her breasts like a coiled snake. Bright red blood streamed from his broken nose and dribbled down his chin, down his jaw, until it dripped onto her parted lips and slid onto her tongue.
Hermione would have gagged if able.
Tom seemed to understand this and flashed a private smile, his first show of genuine joy.
“You will regret this,” he said, low and promising, for her ears alone. “I’ll make sure of that.”
And then he brushed those elegant fingers down her eyelids, the touch so gentle and warm, as the world faded to black.