#also remember when i said i woudl be focusing on bleed for me

[meowmerson]

A tomione time travel but she’s just pissing off Tom because she keeps sending roosters to the Chamber of Secrets to kill his basilisk. I’m just saying

Initially, she laid low.

It seemed like the sensible thing to do. Stranded in an unfamiliar world and desperate to get home before her very existence brought about horrific consequences with only an old man (younger now) who she barely trusted as an ally, it made sense for her to just keep her head down and focus on getting through each day until she could go home.

For six months, she did. Six fucking months.

She knew what happened here in 1943. Every time she felt the urge to intervene she reminded herself what was at stake. When she saw a young girl in Ravenclaw robes wiping at her eyes after something a cruel group of girls had said she bit her tongue, and when she saw a handsome, unassuming boy with Slytherin robes and perfect hair and a disgusting, vile, evil soul, she dug her nails into her thigh until she drew blood and told herself that if she couldn’t do anything now she would be able to do it later, when she was home.

Myrtle died, and Hermione–though she never knew the younger girl–felt her loss like a hole in her heart. 

And then she couldn’t go home.

Dumbledore didn’t understand her reaction when he told her that it was increasingly unlikely they would ever find a way to send her home. He kept saying things like ‘you can make a new home here,’ and ‘you’ll see your friends again, if its meant to be,’ and ‘open yourself up, you can have a life here,’ and she couldn’t make him understand that it wasn’t true. She couldn’t make him understand all the reasons she could never have a home here, and when she opened her mouth, thinking what’s the point if I can’t go home, I may as well just tell him everything, but the words got caught in her throat, and all she could keep thinking was Myrtle died for nothing, I could have saved her and it wouldn’t have made any difference but I let her die anyway.

It ate her up inside.

So she retaliated in the only way she could think of short of murdering Tom Riddle in his sleep.

She flooded the whole fucking school with roosters. 

She wasn’t sure the basilisk would still be awake, and even if it was, she wasn’t sure it would be anywhere within hearing distance of the roosters. But it wasn’t really for the basilisk, she did it to see the look on Tom Riddle’s face as he stormed through the hallways filled with roosters, slapped one off of the Slytherin table with an expression on his face like he was in physical pain. 

Dumbledore saught her out almost immediately, a rooster sat upon his head, and calmly asked her to join him in his office for a chat.

“Miss Granger,” He began, his voice soft, “It is unclear to me what the purpose of this was.”

“I’m not clear on the purpose either,” She said, plucking a rooster off the floor and holding it in her arms. “I’m also not clear on why you think I would know what the purpose is.”

“Miss Granger,” Albus repeated.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Hermione replied.

They stared at each other for a long moment, nothing but the soft coos of the cockerels filling the room.

“Miss Granger,” The old man repeated, “Closely following our last conversation about the…permanence of your situation, our school was inexplicably filled to the brim with Roosters.” 

“Yes, it was.” Hermione confirmed. 

“I have every reason to believe–” He was briefly interrupted by the Rooster in Hermione’s arms suddenly crowing, “I have every reason to believe,” He repeated, still sounding very calm, Hermione was always impressed by his ability to remain calm in all situations, “That the person who has somehow managed to pull this off, is you.”

“Interesting conclusion, Professor.” Hermione said, and refused to say anything else. 

The truth is she was angry. She was angry that she was here in this time, she was angry that Dumbledore was so quick to give up, that he refused to understand why she didn’t want to be here. She was angry that the rules of using a time turner had been ingrained so strongly into her that she was afraid to say anything, to tell him about the monster disguised as a boy, to warn him about the impending war. 

She was angry that she didn’t know what to do. So she just did something that would be satisfying for a moment. 

She wouldn’t think on it too much for fear of upsetting herself, but she did have the brief realization that she had never related to the twins more. 

But Dumbledore did not pull her into his office to speak about the Roosters, not exactly, and this became explicitly clear when he continued, “I wonder, and I hope you will indulge an old man’s curiosities when I ask you,” Hermione watched the rooster on his head, instead of meeting his twinkling eyes, “If this has anything to do with our most recent tragedy, and if you know what, or even who, is responsible.”

She did know. And she ached to tell him, to take him by the hand and walk him right up to Tom Riddle and say it’s him, that’s the monster you’ve been looking for, bring Hagrid back and give him his wand, put this man in Azkaban for a thousand lifetimes and don’t ask any more questions. 

She still watched the rooster. It cocked its head at her, beady little eyes staring back at her. “I have not yet decided,” She said quietly, because she lacked the strength currently to raise her voice, “If it is wise to tell you.”

Albus understood, as he always did. He nodded silently, and the Rooster did a funny little dance on his head to keep his balance. “Time is a funny thing,” He answered, “It is worth considering, perhaps, that if you are stuck here, you might as well do all you can to make your life here a happy one.”

It did not escape Hermione’s considerations that Dumbledore’s insistence that she was stuck here may have less to do with the possibilities of time travel and more to do with his desire to pry information out of her. She didn’t precisely resent him for it, but it did make her angry, and the way he continued to imply that she could ever be happy here away from everyone she ever loved upset her just as much as it always did. 

“Is that what you think?” She asked.

“It is.” He answered

She was teary-eyed, and still watched the rooster who stared back at her with black, beady little eyes, and she said, “Then you are a fucking fool.”

The door flew open, and the roosters in front of it crowed and flew away. Hermione turned, rooster still cradled in her arms, to see Slughorn and Tom Riddle in the doorway. Slughorn was rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed, looking extremely stressed. Tom Riddle was stone-faced and stiff-shouldered, and he looked straight at her. 

They hadn’t spoken, not once. She noticed when she first arrived, he paid some attention to the new transfer student, but after some time lost interest when she proved to be ordinary. She made friends within her house, sat quietly in class, achieved average marks. Soon his observations of her became less frequent until eventually, he lost interest altogether. So seeing his attention fully fixed on her once more was more than a bit jarring. 

“I apologize, Albus!” Slughorn said, sounding out of breath, “I didn’t know you were with a student! How do you do, uhh…” He looked at her, and remained there with his mouth open for some time. 

He forgot her name. Hilarious.

“Granger,” She confirmed, and turned back to Dumbledore. “Case in point,” She said, referring to her previous statement and pointedly nodding to what was clearly an unlocked door. She stood, let the rooster flap out of her arms and land on Dumbledore’s desk. 

“Albus, we simply must do something about these Roosters!” Slughorn said as Hermione picked up her bag, “Tom has graciously offered to help.”

Of course he has, Hermione thought. 

“Perhaps Miss Granger would also like to help?” Dumbledore offered.

“Not particularly,” Hermione answered, “But good luck to all of you.”

“Perhaps we can continue our conversation later,” Dumbledore said, and Hermione really wished he would stop singling her out right in front of Tom Riddle. 

“No need,” She said, “Thank you for meeting with me, but I have everything I need now.”

She thought Dumbledore might’ve noticed how she pointedly made it sound like she had arranged for this meeting herself, if the way he glanced toward Tom Riddle said anything. She didn’t want to let on that she was suspicious of Riddle though, not yet, let Dumbledore craft his own suspicions, but she refused to make any major changes yet. 

“Of course,” Dumbledore said. 

Hermione knew she shouldn’t do it, but when she noticed a dainty little hen sat amongst Dumbledor’s books on his shelf, she couldn’t stop herself from plucking it up and walking toward to door. 

She deposited it into Tom Riddle’s arms just to see his microexpression of disgust, “This one is a hen, better keep her separate.”

“Thank you, Miss–!” Slughorn began. 

He forgot her name again. Lovely. 

She left them like that, Dumbledore with his twinkling eyes, Slughorn looking flustered, and Tom Riddle looking distinctly uncomfortable with a hen cooing in his arms. 

–

“Miss Granger!” A voice called from behind her in the corridor, and she tried to contain her disgust. 

It had been two weeks since the incident, and Abraxas Malfoy had taken to checking in on her. He spoke to her nearly every day despite her obvious disinterest and was somehow more annoying than his grandson, and she didn’t think that was possible. 

She knew it was for Tom. He had taken to quietly observing her again, but she couldn’t say for sure if he had decided he would keep an eye on her before or after she thrust a hen into his arms. But if she could shake his interest once, she could do it again, so she didn’t allow herself to worry. 

“Malfoy.” She greeted as pleasantly as she was able, but she didn’t stop to wait for him, so he was forced to jog to catch up with her until he could match her strides. 

“You walk frightfully fast for a woman.” He commented.

“I’m not sure what that means.” She answered evenly. 

“Well, the way women walk is always slow, and sweet, and delicate.” He answered. She sped up her pace just a hair, just to be difficult. 

“I have never heard of anyone walking sweetly.” She said. 

“Ah well–” He continued, nonplussed, “Not a surprise, considering your upbringing.”

She ignored that comment. She had to ignore that comment because if she was going to avoid attention she couldn’t be righteously defending her muggle-born status. It was obvious with her name that she wasn’t pureblood, but she wouldn’t turn herself into an activist, not when she still had plans to leave this time relatively unscathed (the rooster incident notwithstanding) and return home.

“How can I help you Malfoy?” She asked. 

“I was hoping you might accompany me to Hogsmead this weekend.” He answered promptly.

Peculiar, she thought, but not altogether unexpected. “No, thank you,” She answered politely, “I’m going with some of my friends.”

Malfoy laughed, a cutting sound, one that grated on her ears, “Your friends?” He repeated, “What, the chatty one who’s balding at 15 and keeps worms? Or the one who smells like eggs?”

“Alfred is not balding and he only kept worms once and it was for the plants he keeps in his bedroom,” Hermione curtly replied, “And I’m not sure who you are referring to with that second comment–” Yes she did, she only had 2 friends, “–But none of my friends smell like eggs.”

“Miss Granger,” Malfoy said firmly, cutting in front of her so she was forced to stop walking, “I am simply suggesting that…perhaps you need a little help deciding who is the…wrong sort.”

It runs in the family, she thought. But then she already knew that. She thought of Harry, and felt a horrible pain in her heart, “I think I can decide the wrong sort for myself, thank you.”

He blinked, seemingly unsure of what to say, then laughed a bit hesitantly and said, “I am trying to look out for you, Miss Granger.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Hermione said, and feeling as if she might be a bit too abrupt, added, “But thank you very much for trying.”

She tried to move around him, but he stopped her with a hand on his arm. 

“Hermione,” He said quietly, and she wished he wouldn’t use her name, wouldn’t touch her like they were friends, they were not friends and they never would be. “I really do suggest–”

“Get your hand off of my arm, immediately.” She spoke lowly, wouldn’t keep the anger out of her voice. She could handle his irritating attempts to befriend her, speak to her, learn about her in order to report to Tom, but she absolutely would not let a monster put this hands on her without her consent. 

He laughed, which completely erased any small bit of patience she had left, and then he said her name again, “Hermione,” He said, and just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, he continued, “You must know the way people think about mudbloods, but I really do believe that you–”

It was that word, spoken so casually, as if it meant nothing at all, that finally sent her over the edge. She thought of Draco Malfoy, the vitriol with which he spoke, spat slurs and insults at her every day for no reason other than that she existed. That horrible, disgusting word, thrown around like it wasn’t used as justification for wars, torture, genocide–

She grabbed his wrist tight, wrenched herself out of his grasp, and pinned his wrist to his chest. She stared him right in the eye as he kept glancing between her hold on his wrist and her face. “If I tell you to get your hand off of my arm,” She said severely, “Then you take your hand off of my fucking arm.”

She let go of him, and he took a large step away from her, looking caught between offended, outraged, and shocked. 

She shouldered past him and he said nothing to her.

–

Hermione sat outside before the Hogsmead trip staring at the place where the Whomping Willow would eventually sit. She knew she shouldn’t have shown her anger with Malfoy, but she hoped it wouldn’t raise too much suspicion. Surely it was normal if she became angry when she heard a slur, but then it didn’t quite match up with the mellow, ordinary, unbothered persona she had crafted since she arrived. The anger was one thing, wrenching his wrist off her arm, swearing at him, and practically threatening him was another. 

She couldn’t help but feel like things were unraveling. 

“Miss Granger.” 

Shit.

She looked up from the field to see Tom Riddle standing a couple meters away. 

“What are you doing out here all alone?” He asked. 

She couldn’t breathe, she tried to be sure her face was schooled into something pleasant, unsuspicious, unreadable, but she couldn’t be sure she succeeded. “Just finding a moment of quiet, it can be difficult sometimes to find time on one’s own.”

He smiled, looking unfairly beautiful, and said, “It’s not as if you are surrounded by friends demanding your attention, though, is it?”

She was sure that was meant to rile her. It didn’t. 

“No, I suppose you’re right.” She said. She didn’t make a move to leave, if she tried to leave now he might change tactics and try to anger her like Malfoy did, and if Tom Riddle touched her she would punch him in his sodding face, she swore to Merlin. 

“Do you mind if I join you, then?” He asked politely. The early morning light suited him, it fell on his hair and made it shine shades of brown and brass, it shone on the highest point of his cheek. Harry was right, Tom Riddle was handsome. 

The thought of Harry hurt her heart. She looked away from Tom and back to the empty field where the Whomping Willow should be. 

“You can if you wish,” She said, still staring out at the field, “Don’t you have many friends fighting for your attention?”

“None quite so interesting as you.” He parried, and sat beside her at a respectable distance. She didn’t like that answer, it felt flirtatious, and she didn’t know why he would be flirting with her. It felt like a strange tactic.

She glanced toward him, tried to keep her expression mild, but he could clearly read the confusion on it. 

“Does that surprise you?” He asked, “That I would prefer your company?”

“Yes,” She admitted, and she didn’t think that would raise a brow, she felt that was a perfectly ordinary thing to express. 

He smiled a quiet, private sort of smile. One that felt like it was reserved for you. She knew it was an act, but she couldn’t figure out what the act was, or why he was playing it. “I must admit, you escaped my notice for quite a while,” She didn’t like his use of the word ‘escaped,’ but found it fitting nonetheless. He didn’t elaborate, and she tried to search for something nondescript to say. 

“Well, I…” She faltered, looked back at the field so she didn’t have to see him staring at her, but she still felt his gaze on her like a physical weight. She had no idea what to say. 

“Miss Granger,” Tom said, quietly, his voice carried over to her only by the grace of the wind, “I was disappointed when Abraxas said you wouldn’t be joining us in Hogsmead.”

Some part of her knew that when Abraxas asked for her to join him in Hogsmead, that extended to Tom and possibly more of his followers, but Abraxas had never mentioned it, and she had no reason to know that, so she asked, “I didn’t realize he was asking me to join the both of you.”

“A group of us,” Tom confirmed, and then with a tinge of genuine confusion in his tone, he asked, “Did you think he was asking the two of you to go…alone?”

Hermione turned back to look at him. She didn’t understand why that would be so unheard of - there was the obvious that Abraxas Malfoy would sooner die than ask her on a date, but she didn’t necessarily think it was so incredibly strange for a girl to assume it means ‘alone’ when a boy asked her to accompany him and mentioned no one else. 

“Don’t you think that would be inappropriate?” Tom asked. 

She blinked. Of course, it would be. this wasn’t the 90s anymore. She grappled for a response, and finally settled on, “He called me a mudblood. I don’t exactly have a lot of confidence in his manners and deocrum.”

That seemed to settle Tom, he lost the edge to his features that Hermione was coming to associate with suspicion. “Yes,” He said, “Abraxas told me that you were…upset.” She looked away again. “He was quite shaken himself.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Hermione responded. 

“He said he had never seen a woman look at him like that before.” Tom pressed. She didn’t look at him, kept staring at the empty field. 

“I find it difficult to believe he has never had a woman look at him with disdain,” Hermoine said.

“Disdain, perhaps.” Tom agreed, “Were you looking at him with disdain?”

A strange question. A strange tone. Hermione had a feeling she had made a wrong decision at some point of this conversation, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out where she went wrong. She didn’t want to look at him, she truly didn’t, but she did anyway, she turned and met his gaze and realized he had shifted closer. She didn’t like it, having him near her made her feel on edge, it made her feel twitchy and afraid, and the way he was looking at her was too invasive, like he was trying to read her. She tried not to look afraid, but she knew she was failing, and the only way she ever knew to cover up fear was through anger. 

“I’m not sure what the point of this conversation is,” She snapped, “Abraxas called me a mudblood and I reacted in kind. If you have something you want to say to me, I would appreciate it if you just said it.”

“I have nothing to say,” Tom said quickly, shaking his head, his eyebrows raised and he blinked once, his lips had the slightest downward turn. The perfect picture of innocence. “Nothing except I find it an admirable trait in a woman when she can strike the fear of god straight into a man’s heart.”

It was a joke, she realized. He was joking with her. He had lightened his tone to one of a teasing nature, but his eyes were as sharp as ever. She thought of every interaction she had with anyone in this time period so far and tried to find a reason for the way he was looking at her now, and could find none. 

“If you have nothing to say,” Hermione settled on, “Then I will take my leave.”

She pushed herself to her feet, and he did a peculiar thing then. He quickly raised to his feet as well, and without asking, without warning her, reached for her arm to help her stand. It was too quick, and too sudden, and as soon as his fingers wrapped around her arm she found herself reacting in a way that was entirely out of her own control. 

She wrenched her arm out of his grip, turned, and slammed the heel of her pal straight into his sternum in order to shove him away. It was a brief, hard strike, and he was pushed away. It only lasted a second, he caught himself by taking a quick step back, and there was space between them again. 

He stared at her with a strange look. Suspicious, surprised, perhaps a bit angry. But he also tilted his head the way a cat does when it locks in on its prey, and Hermione didn’t like the look of that at all. 

“I apologize,” She said, and she was out of breath, the fear of feeling this monster’s hand wrap around her arm was so sudden and so fierce that she found herself breathless and couldn’t right herself in time. “I don’t like to be touched.” 

“Of course,” He nodded, and his eyebrow quirked briefly before he righted his expression, as if he didn’t believe her. “I will be sure to relay that to Abraxas as well, it may settle his mind as to why you reacted the way you did.”

Hermione knew that she had complete, irrevocably fucked everything up. 

“Thank you,” She said, and she had control of her voice again, but that only seemed to intrigue him further, “And thank you for sharing your time with me. I’m going to go find my friends.”

“Of course,” Tom Riddle said, and his voice was quiet again, so so quiet, “Have a lovely time in Hogsmead, Miss Granger.”

She wanted to go home. She wanted to leave this time and see her friends and family, but the more time she spent here the more she so desperately wanted to make him pay for everything he would do. She hated him so much, she felt so much anger within herself and she hoped to Merlin it didn’t show on her face, she hoped beyond hoping that she could find some way to get him to stop staring at her like she was some marvelous discovery. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Riddle.” She said, and she walked around him, ignored the way he watched her leave. 

She would need to do something, anything, to get his eyes off of her. She just didn’t know what yet, or if she could even distract him anymore.