Waking up underneath soft linen that was scented in a deliciously masculine fragrance hadn't been what Hermione had expected after blacking out in the middle of a solitary tea party with the infamous Lord Voldemort. Internally berating herself for her carelessness in leaving her defences down, the witch clambered off of the warm bed only to notice her change in attire. Her previous clothes that were torn and worn from its consistent use and lack of proper cleansing had been replaced with a simple oxford that was undoubtedly a man's considering her arms had been engulfed by the sleeves and the bottom reached mid-thigh. On a lonely peg on the door, a simple black robe hung allowing Hermione to confirm that she was in the presence of a wizard.

Tying the robe around herself to shield as much skin as she could, the witch mustered as much Gryffindor bravery as she could find and pulled open the door to find herself facing a small living room with an attached kitchen wherein an alabaster skinned man with dark hair styled in those of the 40s flicked through what she could identify as an edition of the Daily Prophet.

Clearing her throat, she made her presence known, "Er.. hi?"

The man looked up, his facial features giving away that he was somewhere within his mid or late twenties whereas his expression gave away nothing. "Hello indeed." He said without offering as much as a smile.

Tossing the paper onto the counter behind him, the mysterious man crossed his arms over his chest and shot her a withering glare that reminded the witch uncannily of Lord Voldemort who was definitely the culprit of her predicament. Moistening her lips she let her eyes roam around his small abode, eyeing the potential exits she could use if in need of an escape. "Do you know how I got here?"

"You fell from the ceiling," he said in a guarded yet bored tone. His casual manner of speech caused the corners of her mouth to twitch inn amusement before she clamped down firmly on the bubbles of hysteric laughter building within her.

Now was not the time.

"Hilarious. How did I actually get here?"

"I am not lying Miss...?"

"Hermione," Hermione nearly smacked herself for revealing her true name. She didn't even know where she was and if she was sent here by the hands of Voldemort then her very name would increase the intensity of the crazed experiments the handsome man was probably trying tenfold. "And you?"

"Tom," he stated with a hint of a masked sneer, "Though I intend to change that soon."

Hermione desperately hoped he wasn't who she thought he was. Forcing a smile, she asked if there was anything of interest in the newspaper. Tom handed her the article and silently curled his fingers around his wand as he watched the witch's eyes widen in shock and later fury once she read the fine print stating the date.

21st July 1952

Without wasting a second, he brandished his wand and forced himself through her carefully constructed shields as her cognac orbs inadvertently (on her part) locked with his dark greens. "Legilimens!"

A sudden stabbing force of agony spread through his body as though his magic was devouring him as punishment whilst he tore through the girl's recent memories. Incidentally finding himself in one wherein she was in the presence of a foul appearing human-creature, Tom recognised the aura of a blood vow initiated by the thing naming itself... Lord Voldemort. Running translations through his mind at what he could only fathom as a million miles per minute, the twenty-four years old man roughly depicted the ritual as one that was similar to a marriage binding though without the vows of love. The creature calling himself what Tom wished to revert his filthy muggle name to had essentially made the witch – who he learned was a mudblood – his wife and ensured that neither of them could harm (with extents) or kill each other.

Pulling himself out of the girl's conscious, Tom staggered back and gripped onto the edge of the counter as he slowly regained his breathing. Hermione's eyes had clenched shut as drops of crimson blood cascaded down her cheeks like tears. Gritting his teeth, the dark haired man wandlessly cleansed the girl – only to stop his shirt from being stained by her filthy blood – and cast a simple "Rennervate," to wake her up.

Once it appeared as though she had found her bearings, Tom unleashed his interrogation, "What is that hideous creature labelling himself as the heir to an esteemed founder?"

"What is your full name?"

"There is no reason for you to know,"

"Without confirmation I cannot tell you. Certainly you understand that?"

Narrowing his eyes, Tom confessed, "Tom Marvolo Riddle."

A bitter sneer marred the soft features that had been sharpened by war, "That hideous nose-less man that you saw is yourself, Lord Voldemort." She spat the anagram with hatred.

"And why am I supposed to believe you?"

"I don't care if you believe me or not. The day you die the world will be a much better place. Where is my wand?"

"Elsewhere," he responded cryptically, "Where are the letters... I gave you?"

Hermione tilted her head slightly in confusion, "Letters?"

"Honestly woman, am I really going to lose my mind to such an extent that I send myself a brainless bint as my supposed saviour?"

Hermione snorted, "Losing your mind is putting it lightly,"

Tom narrowed his eyes, "What would you call it then?"

"A severe case of megalomania." Then she sighed, "What are you waiting for? Kill me already,"

"I. Can't." he hissed.

"Why not? Just wave your wand and cast that blasted unforgiveable you love,"

"Which one are you referring to? I enjoy the usage of all three."

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Of course you do." She muttered under her breath before glaring at him, "Just say Avada Kedavra and be done with it. I don't want to be here anymore."

"All the more reason to force you to stay," Tom flashed her his million-dollar smile still untainted by the dark magic he had explored in his Hogwarts days.

"Not like I can go anywhere else," Hermione grumbled as she readjusted herself so her back was supported against the door of a cupboard filled with a solitary set of utensils. "So, dearest king of dumb and dumber, what are you going to do with me?"

"Well initially I was going to torture information out of you-"

"How delightful," Hermione clapped with sarcastic cheer. She couldn't fathom where her snarkiness was coming from and despite knowing the danger she was in simply being within a five-mile radius of the formidable man, her mind to mouth filter seemed to have evaporated since she had travelled backwards in time.

Tom glared at her, his jaw clenching as he fought to keep his ire under control lest he result in his magic punishing him for defying the vow his future counterpart had made. "- however, given the vows made neither of us can harm or kill each other without our own magic and blood rebelling against us."

"I think I'll be fine living as a squib."

"My apologies, I forgot you were stupid. Your magic will kill you and put you through pain worse than the Cruciatus which I am sure you have been placed under many times."

"Remind me to kill Bellatrix when she's born."

Tom raised his eyebrows in light shock, "What happened to your goodie-goodie no killing virtue?"

Hermione shrugged, "Lost it some time back. War does that to you. How old are you?"

"Evidently older than you. Are you at least twenty?"

"Eighteen."

"What?!"

"What were you expecting?"

"I didn't think children would be sent to fight in war. Surely I didn't-"

"Don't think of yourself so mighty and gracious, Riddle." Hermione scowled, "At the age of 55 you attacked a baby because of a bloody prophecy you could've ignored. At the age of 68 you duelled a fourteen-year-old boy and tried to kill him and by 71 you succeeded in that part only."

Tears welled in her eyes as she fought back the sob threatening to break past her trembling lips as she continued her rant in hatred of him and everything to do with him, "You – a man fifty odd years our senior – ruined our chances of a normal childhood all because of your paranoia stemmed from a prophecy created by a fucking fraud!"

"Language," Tom admonished, feeling uncomfortable in being in the presence of a crying woman alone without the ability to command somebody else to offer comfort he simply could not give.

"Oh fuck language!" Hermione snarled as she stood up, "This is your fault and only you are to blame regardless of whether you've committed the acts by now or not!"

The sound of his bedroom door slamming shut echoed through his small flat, the force rattling some of the furniture as Tom lethargically slid to the floor.

What was he meant to do?