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I weep because you cannot save people. You can only love them. You can't transform them, you can only console them.
— Anaïs Nin. Nearer the Moon: From "A Journal of Love": The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1937-1939
I. The photo
Hermione Granger Dearborn received a surprise letter one fine morning in 2004.
Hermione,
I found this picture in my family album. That woman was you, right? For a muggle-born who came from the future, you sure looked the part of a pureblood witch. I figure you would want it back. You’re welcome, by the way.
Best,
Draco.
P.S. Who’s the man next to you? I asked my grand-mère, but she told me to ask you. Normally she would have indulged me right away, but she seemed to be unusually tightlipped this time. Strange that.
More than half a century later and here it was, vivid and clear as if it was yesterday. In truth, Hermione hadn’t questioned its fate after that fateful night at the end of 1944, no stranger than the fact that this was the first time she had laid eyes on the picture.
She picked it up, holding the black-and-white photo by the edge as she stared at the moving figures. Her smile bright, his more aloof and a little stiff. She still had the dress and the tiara that her younger self had worn back in Wales, beautiful and grand and sophisticated.
The absence of colours couldn’t dim his handsomeness, dazzling and awe-inspiring like a meteor shower in the sky.
She sighed, listening to the silence that got louder with each thud of her heart.
II. The alchemist
Cerdic was the first person to be informed of their eventual end of relationship.
“I haven’t seen Tom here for almost a year now. Are you two still in touch?”
She couldn’t meet his eyes, choosing instead to look out of the sitting room’s window.
“It’s over, papa,” she muttered. “We’ve gone our separate ways.”
She refrained from clarifying, too tired to explain and too fearful to reveal the shakiness in her voice.
Soft rustling, followed by the sound of footsteps. His hand was on her right shoulder right after, and when he gently turned her around, the last of her resolve fell as tears streamed down her face.
“Oh, darling.” Cerdic murmured, drawing her into a hug as she cried in his arms.
“He’s an idiot,” she choked out, clutching his shoulders. “I give up. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Yes, brilliant as the boy is, I’ve known from the start that he is troubled,” he said into her hair. “His loss, child. Don’t blame yourself for it.”
He let her weep until the sun descended on the horizon.
III. His mother
One undisputed fact that Hermione knew about Tom Marvolo Riddle was that he wanted nothing to do with his family.
Both his mother and his father’s side.
He was not to be blamed, though, if one considered the circumstances of his conception and his birth. Bleak and miserable. An inauspicious start for a less than fortunate existence.
Death haunted him with every step of his life.
Why she spent her precious time between political manoeuvrings and the New Avalon Institute tracking down something with such little intel, she was not sure. Yet after days and nights consulting official pauper’s grave records, finally, Hermione found out where Merope Gaunt was buried.
In one of those mass graves in Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park, London.
Years of neglecting and desolation had left its marks on the fading headstone. She could hardly make out the letters, but she knew no spells would show her the name of Tom Riddle’s birth mother. Nature had tried to colour the greyness of the surrounding with green trees and grass and wild buses, yet Hermione couldn’t shrug off the gloominess that seeped deep into her bones.
She stood there, shrouding in the late afternoon mist, her satchel heavy with his file from the now disbanded Wool’s Orphanage.
Moments like this never failed to make her marvel at the irony of life. Her twenty-year-old self wouldn’t dream of visiting the resting place of her arch nemesis’s mom, let alone mourning both of their doomed lives.
Pointless as it was to consider what-ifs and what could have been, she wondered what Merope would think of all of this, of her son’s mad pursuit for power and immortality at the cost of his own and thousands of innocent lives.
Had she known this would result from her decisions? Hermione shook her head. No, it was impossible for the woman to foresee the destruction that would come to the Wizarding world when she had doused Tom Riddle Sr. with love potion, when she had given up her life and left her son all by himself.
The role that Hermione played – or failed to play – in his descent to madness didn’t make the answer any easier to process.
“I’m so sorry, Ms Gaunt,” she said lowly. “I’ve tried, but I couldn’t stop him.”
A sigh escaped her, long and rumbling.
IV. The black lake
She lingered after Albus Dumbledore’s funeral.
She was cautious, of course, with the help of notice-me-not and disillusionment charms. Seeing Harry and Ron from afar had sent a shockwave down her body, the first time she had seen them at such proximity after over fifty years. Her younger self had been there too, a girl not yet weighed down and beaten up by the trials of war.
If only she had known what the man now laid in the white marble tomb had had in store for her.
(Three more years, and she could have it all back.)
She couldn’t stay away, accepting the risk of blowing her own cover and creating a paradox to come and say goodbye to the headmaster, whom she had come to consider a friend, a mentor, and a great companion. Hermione Dearborn wouldn’t be here without his master mind, after all.
So she portkeyed all the way from California to pay her last tribute to the greatest wizard of all time.
The island was growing strong, well beyond her expectation. Its birth marked a new chapter of her life, providing her with an immense sense of purpose that she had sought for decades After Tom. All those hardships and challenges had prepared her for this, and she hoped Albus would watch from beyond and bless her on the journey.
He would be pleased, she was certain.
Speaking of whom…
She arrived at a certain spot facing the black lake, that old place where she and Tom had claimed to themselves during those heydays in 1945. She sat down; her gaze sweeping across the gleaming surface.
If there was one thing that Hermione would forever be bitter of – all while knowing too well the reasoning behind it – it would be this: Albus Dumbledore knew she would fall for Tom Riddle and took advantage of it anyway. Perhaps it was largely her fault, since she had forgotten the simple law of time travel, fooling herself with false hopes and fantasies. How could her heart remain too easily bleed after all this time, even for people who certainly did not deserve it?
Or did he?
She brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
The wind grazed her cheeks, and she closed her eyes, imagining him next to her, solid and warm.
V. The old friend
Hermione found herself in the greenhouse of Malfoy Manor the day after her identity trial.
The teacups sat forgotten on the glass table as she relayed the truth to Sophia – nee Selwyn – Malfoy.
“If only I knew.” The matriarch breathed out, leaning back in her plush armchair as she eyed the other girl. The bewilderment both aged and rejuvenated her countenance in the fading light of late afternoon.
“Not that I didn’t trust you, Sophia,” Hermione looked down, the rawness of her confession hanging in the space between them, “but it was hard enough to process the whole being-thrown-back-in-time thing on my own, let alone wanting to tell anyone else.”
Sophia reached out and took Hermione’s hand in hers. “No, I get it. Desperate time calls for desperate measures. You did what you could to survive.”
“Speaking like a Slytherin, huh?” A grin graced her lips.
“You of all people should know that, given who you were with.” Sophia retorted with a smirk of her own, one that disappeared the moment she saw Hermione’s brown eyes turned melancholy.
Sophia reached for her tea and took a sip, the clank of her cup hitting the saucer the only noise before she continued. “You were right,” she admitted. Her gaze landed on the small fountain not so far from where they were sitting. “There was more to Riddle than meets the eyes.”
She placed the cup down, then faced Hermione once more. “He was brilliant, yes. But what he did was equally great and terrible.”
“He was.” Hermione agreed, not knowing what else to say.
“I must confess, I got swept away with his vision for a while,” the distant look in her eyes tinged with reminiscence. “It was easy to agree with him back then, what's with the ban on underage magic and the crackdown on many old magical traditions. Even Abraxas, wary as he was at first, slowly grew more and more devoted to Tom’s little band, even managed to convince his parents to back them.”
The old woman shut her eyes immediately after, seemingly sinking deeper into the armchair. She let out a heavy sigh.
“Tom wanted me to officially join the rank, you know?” Sophia asked, and Hermione shook her head in surprise.
“He said that I would be invaluable to his cause, but I wasn’t born for political business and all that,” a faint smile, then she went on, “I’m more of a behind-the-scenes supporter type, so I watched my husband, then my son swear their allegiance to him.”
Her eyes opened and bore into Hermione’s again, face hardened all the sudden. “Judge me all you want, girl, but Tom was the best option for us back then, given how incompetent and corrupted the Ministry was. I wanted to save the Wizarding world just as much as you did.”
“So you have no qualms about tyranny?” Hermione asked, brows narrowing.
“Believe it or not, I don’t want to persecute muggle-borns or even muggles. I just want to preserve everything that makes us… us.” Sophia replied calmly.
“Indeed.” Hermione stared back, fingers tightening on the armrest.
Sophia released a long breath. “I know my link to Tom made it difficult for you to trust me, but after the whole Nobby Leach affair and Abraxas’s death right after, Tom’s campaigns started to rub me the wrong way. Terror and bloodshed were not my cup of tea. By the time Lucius was of age to be head of the family, I left England, wanting no part in the upcoming conflict.”
Neither woman knew what to say next for a while, fearful of breaking the fragile balance as tension swirled in the air, shimmering to the point of almost unbearable.
Hermione cleared her throat.
“Well, war is destructive, no matter which side you’re on.”
“Yes, the wars were rather eye-opening, especially the second one.” Sophia dipped her head, keeping her gaze on the table rather than on her guest.
At that, Hermione paused, wondering whether the change of heart came from witnessing first-hand repercussions on her own family – particularly on her son and grandson – or the actual atrocities committed against the innocent.
She got her answer soon enough.
“I would like to apologise, my dear.” Sophia looked up, her tone soft and solemn. “Now that I know who you really are, I see what you and people like you had to go through. Forgive me for all those comments back in the days, and for my family’s role in his rise to power. I would understand if you never wanted to set foot on this manor ever again.”
The other woman’s honesty was both startling and touching, and Hermione stroked the back of the other woman’s hand.
“Thank you, Sophia. Though I suppose I am to blame as well, I knew who he was, yet I blind myself with this unreal version of him in my head. I should have –”
“Listen to me, Hermione. It is not your responsibility to change anyone, let alone him.”
“But –”
“I know you Gryffindor feel like it is your duty to save everyone. But you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. Tom Riddle was broken long before your arrival, and love sometimes is not enough. Though that’s sad, it is life.”
She leaned forward, intertwining their fingers together.
“But never apologise for your heart, and never be ashamed of your love and compassion. Those alone make you miles better than us purebloods. Frankly, we need to learn from you if we want to survive as a society.”
Once again, Sophia’s impressive wisdom left her speechless. Perhaps the other woman was right about choosing Ravenclaw after all.
“I suppose,” she said after a moment. “For what it’s worth, we were happy once.”
“And that’s alright. Not to say that the man you've fallen for had never existed. If he had made different choices, maybe, but he didn’t. Whatever price he had to pay after was on him and him alone. Not you.”
Hermione wanted to believe it badly, but somehow, she felt the all too familiar pang in her chest at her old friend’s kind advice.
Still, wouldn’t it be nice if I was enough?
She offered Sophia a tight smile. The sad curl of her lips spoke louder than any words.
Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve…