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Both Hermione Granger and Tom Marvolo Riddle found themselves to be lonely children as they grew up. One with parents that couldn’t even begin to fathom the raw power running in her veins and the other an orphan dealt with the most undesirable deck of cards.
Perhaps it was her period due soon or her brain had finally decided it wanted to reboot itself after taking a restful break from locking away the thoughts she’d rather drown in the scents of baked goodies and the sounds of Tom playing the piano perfectly with his pianist fingers; but the curly haired witch found herself contemplating her split life as her fingers gently carded through her husband’s hair, his dark locks slipping through her fingers like silk.
A sigh escaped her, the warm of her breath brushing over Tom’s closed eyelids, not earning even the slightest twitch of discomfort at the act. It was silent for some moments, the only sound in the quiet room being his deep yet almost silent breathing.
“What’s gotten you all melancholy?”
Tom suddenly questioned, startling a shriek out of Hermione as her hand instinctively manoeuvred to slap that potential attacker. “Easy, Hermione. I still have work on Monday and your hand prints don’t leave for a week,”
Hermione flushed with a proud expression on her countenance, “You weren’t complaining when I was doing it,” she sniffed and resumed her cafuné.
Tom hummed and caught her free hand with his cheek, nuzzling into it as he cuddled into her in a manner he would never allow even his closest followers to see. “Then at least tell me what’s made you so affectionate after ignoring me for a week,”
“It’s already been a week?”
“So you were ignoring me.”
“No,” she shook her head, “I don’t know. I just didn’t want to deal with anyone,”
“That bad am I?” he teased lightly, something he caught himself doing more often than not since their initial meeting two years ago.
“Depends on your definition of bad,” Hermione said as she licked her lips. “As for the melancholy thing; it’s been two years since my war.”
“And?” he asked, waiting for her to elaborate.
“And I cant stop thinking about it,” she finished vaguely, her honey brown orbs adorning a distant haze as she stared into the space over his ear.
A frown marred Tom’s chiseled features. Although he had too been a child of war, he had been lucky enough to avoid direct contact with it. Tucked safely within the powerful wards of Hogwarts away from both Grindelwald and what was quickly becoming known as the Blitzkrieg. His wife, on the other hand, had been close to the centre of attention and thus fell into a crossfire that she would’ve eventually found herself in anyway, with or without her friendship with the Potter Boy.
Something warm and wet fell onto his cheek and for a moment he considered that he may have been weeping for sorrows that weren’t his own until he realised that his vision was clear and his eyes were dry.
Hermione was crying.
Excluding the first week or so of their meeting, Tom hadn’t truly seen the witch cry as she hadn’t him. Perhaps she cried more than he knew when he was away working or perhaps she simply distracted herself.
Despite his loathing for all things muggle, the dark wizard did keep up with what was occurring in the aftermath of the bombings in London. After all, knowledge is power. As the surviving soldiers returned from their trenches, the medics around the world had given numerous names regarding their frazzled, haunted states of mind.
Psychiatric Collapse, War Neurosis, Battle Shock, Combat Fatigue.
“In the future,” he started slowly, ensuring that his witch was listening before continuing, “Is another term created for battle shock?”
“Battle shock?” she sniffled.
“Soldiers from the Blitzkrieg are reportedly to have been diagnosed with it,”
“Oh, you mean PTSD.”
“PT- what?”
“PTSD. Or Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder,” Hermione explained, her head coming to rest on top of his, “It’s a mental condition caused by traumatic experiences,”
“I think you have that,”
“You’re not a doctor, Tom,”
“Perhaps not,” the wizard agreed, “But your symptoms are exactly the same as the soldiers. You were one, Hermione, don’t deny that.”
“And what if I was one? It’s not like it’s even happened anymore!” a traitorous streak of tears spilled from her eyes again, soaking his curled hair. “They might be memories for me but if I told anyone else then— then—“ she couldn’t speak as her throat tightened and her breathing became laboured.
Tom shifted his arm to rub her back gently. Despite his sociopathic tendencies and faux politeness, the green eyed wizard comforted the witch with genuine affection until her breathing evened.
“You think nobody will believe you if you ever told your story,”
“I know they won’t. But it’s not like I can tell it anyway with all the time travel business.”
“Why don’t you imperius—“
“No.” she declined promptly.
“Hear me out, darling,” he placated, “If need be, I’ll do it but why don’t you imperius a therapist — a muggle one if you absolutely must — and thread the spell in a way that they don’t question the itty gritty details and they physically can’t speak of your troubles to anyone else?”
“Why haven’t you done that?”
“I’m not the one with ahh, what did you call it? PTSD?”
“Maybe not that but you might have some kind of psychopathy up there,” she tapped his forehead mockingly, earning a swat to her backside.
“Ha Ha Ha.” Tom rolled his eyes, “Ever the jester, Hermione,” The witch grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling with crows feet. “Oh wow, you getting kicks from insulting me?”
“All the time, snake-eyes,”
“They’re not red anymore,” he argued.
“No, they’re not,” Hermione hummed as she gazed into the obsidian forest of greens and the faintest hints of blues and browns. “They’re like Harry’s but... sadder,”
“Sadder?”
“I think you’re a sad boy, Tom.” she pressed a kiss to his slim nose, “Next time you choose to throw me back in time why don’t you send me back to when you were in Hogwarts. I’ll help you live a little,”
“Sending you again won’t be necessary,”
“I think I still have my time turner somewhere,” she ignored him, “It was in my beaded bag under impenetrable wards,”
“You think I wouldn’t have managed to break through them?”
“Did you know about it?”
“No,”
“Then it should still be there,” Hermione puffed out her cheeks, a smile forming at the thought of finally besting Tom in something. Be it that in her own bag. “Some great wizard you are,”
Tom rolled his eyes and held one of her hands in his. “Let’s have a wedding,”
“What for? We’re already bonded—“
“Isn’t it every girls dream to walk down the aisle in a white dress?”
“Not every woman—“
“Did you at any point in your life want to?”
“Well yes but—“
“My point made.”
Hermione glared before continuing, “We were on the run then, Tom,” she referred to Harry and Ron, “Everything in us was on overdrive and I had obliviated my parents. When it was my turn to guard there wasn’t much to do and well I started thinking about what could’ve happened if I never had been a witch.”
“How could you not want to be a witch?”
“How could you not want to be a muggle?” she retorted, faltering at a realisation, “Well yes maybe you wouldn’t want to be one in this era but the one I was born in it was so much more different. Muggles are clever, Riddle. They developed algorithms and the internet. Cell phones, laptops, computers were becoming more prominent in society and the air was fresher than what you grew up in in London.”
“Stop bringing my past in,”
“Sorry,” she licked her lips, “My point is that in the other timeline you behaved like any other orphan. You coveted the overbearingly wealthy and ignored the commoners. That’s the way you lost.”
“So that’s why you had been so insistent on voting for legislations that benefitted the general public as well?”
“Yes,” Hermione nodded, “You gain their trust by doing that and with the majority support you can do whatever you like so long as it benefits them too,”
“Sounds quite Slytherin,”
“You’re not seriously bringing this down to those bloody houses are you?” Hermione growled, “I was put in Gryffindor when I was eleven but I’m very well sure I could be placed in Slytherin now.”
“You’re the wife of Slytherin’s Heir, anything else would be—“
“Shut your trap, Riddle,”
The man merely smirked and stole a deft kiss. “Back to the wedding. We can have it held in Black Manor—“
“Or we could have it in our own garden when we move into the new house,”
“There won’t be any real flowers there...”
“There’s no rush,” Hermione placated, “Besides we wouldn’t be able to have a nice honeymoon until everything’s repaired so there’s practically a whole year left,”
“Wedding in a year and we keep a family of house elves.” Tom bargained.
“What would we need house elves for? We’re fine without one!” Hermione’s righteous anger for the helpful creatures bubbling passionately within her chest.
Noticing this, Tom immediately began explaining the benefits and how he would even allow them to have the occasional few annual days off in order to avoid a lengthy lecture regarding their lack of rights.
It wasn’t something he wanted to experience again.
“Fine.” Hermione conceded in a clipped tone, “You still need to propose,”
“Patience, dear Hermione,” Tom hummed as he brought her lips to his, his hands cradling her face gently. “Time is what we have. As you said, there’s no need to rush,”
“Stop waffling and kiss me, Riddle,” Hermione groaned.
“Waffling?”
“Nope—“ she cut him off and distracted him from the word.
It was best explained when she wasn’t hungry for him.