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Root of Desire	By : MegiiOfMysteriOusStranger Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 42312 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 6
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not Harry Potter or anything else quoted within. I make no money from writing this. Zip. Zilch.

Chapter List
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Hermione Jean Granger was trapped in a world that was not her own. It had been a little over a year since she had come back in time from 1998; a 60 year jump to the minute.

1938. A time of high tension and encroaching shadows of a terrible war that would sweep the entire world—magical and Muggle alike. Hermione had found herself plucked out of a terrible situation and placed in another one. While she was not fighting for her life here, and though things were slowly growing better, making the best of a bad situation didn’t make things any easier to deal with.

She was alone in a strange and foreign time. Short of locking herself away like a hermit in the countryside, or taking the Drought of Living Death and being put in a glass case in the Department of Mysteries for several decades, she had no way of ensuring that her future was unchanged or of even returning to it. She had no plan, she had no home, and there was no familiar face to rely on or look to for comfort.

She had initially been overjoyed when she realized that Albus Dumbledore was alive in this time, but the man she found teaching Transfiguration at Hogwarts was not the old man she had grown up knowing in the 1990s. This Dumbledore was scarcely middle-aged by wizarding standards, his hair still colored with auburn, and unlike the headmaster she had known, he was not as jovial or as open-eared. This man had not defeated Grindelwald, and there were obviously troubles in his past that he had not yet comes to terms with nor moved on from. He had never been Headmaster or founded the Order of the Phoenix. His blue eyes did not hold the same sparkle and he did not offer lemon drops. He had never met Harry Potter.

There was no Harry Potter.

Professor McGonagall was a mere schoolgirl. Hermione’s parents had not been born yet—her grandparents hadn’t even met. She had a great-uncle that would die in a trench in France during World War Two—he was alive in this time. Harry was gone. Ron was gone.

She was alone.

The Department of Mysteries was deeply interested in her, but they had bigger things to worry about than a misplaced woman not yet in her twenties. They tried to push and persuade her into joining their ranks, to agree to a single day of study, but she was a mere side project to them. With war brewing, they could not afford to snatch her off the streets and lock her away as they might have done otherwise.

For days, for weeks, Hermione cried herself to sleep at night, and was woken by nightmares of green flashes and fallen bodies almost as often. Screams and faces and blood burned into her subconscious. Little things—like a man wearing round glasses or a white knight chess piece or a boy with a camera—sometimes set her into bouts of uncontrollable tears. Children’s sudden shrieks of laughter occasionally made her descend into panic attacks. Oh, how she suffered. Survivor’s guilt wouldn’t even be identified for twenty more years, and a deeper understanding of post-traumatic stress disorder wouldn’t come around for another thirty.

However, no matter how deep her grief ran, life continued to flow. Time ticked onward. So, she locked her past and her feelings away, and buried them down inside, deep, deep down inside where no one would ever find it until it became so full that it burst like Pandora’s Box—a violent explosion of tears and grief and longing and melancholy, and during those times she’d cry and cry until she was physically sick from it—only there was no hope waiting at the bottom.

She was all alone…

…until she received a letter from a knowledge-hungry boy with seemingly endless questions and slightly bad spelling.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Unlike Harry, Hermione had had no idea what the young Lord Voldemort looked like. She had forgotten that he existed in this time, that he was alive and young and orphaned and…

‘Weak.’ The word slithered seductively across her mind.

She had not expected the preteen she had saved from being trampled to be the young Dark Lord. A hauntingly beautiful child: fair skinned, dark-eyed, dark-haired, defensive and suspicious; far too grown-up for his age, but still a child despite his mature mindset.

Humanitarian that she was, she was ashamed that the first thing that had sprung to mind upon meeting Tom was if she could-would-should kill him. This boy would grow up into a terrible, evil man—he was just a boy now, no wand in his hand, no knowledge of dark magic or curses… it would be so easy to strike him down. She was stricken with terrible guilt as soon as the thought had registered. It was wrong to think such things; he was only a child!

She pasted a smile on her face, masking her inner turmoil. She’d gotten good at smiling; one couldn’t mope around in the past-future forever, she had to put on a brave face. She’d spent too many nights time crying as it was. And, if she was honest with herself, she was deeply curious. Weren’t all madmen children once? Didn’t they all have sisters, mothers, daughters and lovers that loved them once?

So she’d smiled and been kind and charming. Behind his back she’d paid part of his book fees, warily waiting for the moment that he would shed his youthful skin and curse her, but the moment had never come. There was something off about the young Tom Riddle, something wicked, but he was not evil. Not yet. Lord Voldemort was just an eleven year-old child; his orphan status obvious in his uniform and his overly-respectful speech tainted by street-slang. She didn’t doubt that he didn’t like people in general, but he was curious and enamored with the Wizarding World and was marginally more willing to open up to strangers that shared his magical abilities. By some twist of fate that stranger had been her, and it was so pathetically ironic that it made her want to laugh and sob until she was sick.

When he thanked her for the charm she’d placed on his messenger bag, she’d momentarily forgotten exactly who he was. There was no reptilian, red-eyed face looking up at her, just a strange, lonely boy with dark eyes and dark hair.

She’d had to leave quickly after that, called away for an appointment with the Department of Mysteries. She had driven through the meeting as quickly as she was able to manage. Her smiling front was slipping by then. She had thought she had been managing to adjust so well until she ran into Tom Riddle.

As soon as she’d Apparated back to the house she was renting the dam broke. She cried and screamed and tore at her hair. By the end of her fit every dish was shattered, every article of furniture torn askew, and Hermione was so emotionally and physically spent that it was all she could to keep herself from curling into a tiny ball and lying on the living room floor for days. Instead, she stepped into the shower and ran it until the water went cold. Then she got out, peeled off her wet clothes and wrapped herself in a warm robe. Then she went about the house to repair the damage she had wrought. One by one the dishes put themselves back together and were restacked in the cabinets. Stitch by stitch the furniture mended, splintered wood re-grew, until at last it seemed as if nothing had ever been broken.

Finally she’d crawled into bed and allowed herself to be miserable for a while, crying on and off. Just when she thought she’d risen above her tears, a few minutes later they’d come back. She moped, sulked and sobbed, and the next morning finally gathered her wits about her enough to make a pot of tea.

In time, a letter arrived.

She knew she would not be able to leave Tom Riddle alone. She was now too aware of his existence; she would not be able to sleep at night if she didn’t keep tabs on him, so she had given him her mailing address. Unexpectedly, the letter that arrived was not the writing of a master of the Dark Arts, it was not written in fine calligraphy or on parchment. It was lined paper and pencil, and held the tone of a youth tentatively reaching out to a woman who had offered a smile and answers to all of his inquiries.

Talking to Tom was easy through paper. Letters and numbers had no faces, and he was a distraction from the painful reminders that confronted her every day. Writing kept him at a safe, comfortable distance as she adjusted to the time period and lifestyle she had suddenly been forced into. By the time they met for a second time on the Hogwarts Express she was mentally prepared to interact with him face-to-face.

The young Lord Voldemort was amazingly similar to her, only much less self-conscious, or if he was self-conscious he was less obvious about it than she had ever been. He was even as easy to tease as she had been at that age; though she always made sure her jests were good-natured. He was studious too, and hung around her like a stray cat—insistently staying near, but never wanting to be touched or pursued. The few times she’d invited him to study with her he had stayed away, but when she stopped saying anything about it he would quietly slip into a chair near her and bury himself in his essays. His tagalong presence only grew more frequent in the weeks following his Sorting, soon becoming a nightly occurrence.

She knew very well that Tom Riddle was a half-blood. She had not realized that, in this time, nobody knew, not even Tom himself.

Mudblood.

It flowed under her skin, defined part of who she was in the magical community and was etched into her arm by a cursed silver blade. Never in her wildest dreams would she have ever imagined that the Dark Lord Voldemort had once been called that name. Never had she thought that, despite his true heritage, as far as legal records were concerned, he was nothing more than a Muggle-born cast into a pit of snakes.

Professor Slughorn pulled her aside in the halls one day after Tom’s supposed blood-status had come to light and asked her to look after him.

“I have many students to care for, Miss Wilkins. I told Mister Riddle that my door is open if he ever needs help, but he denies that anything is wrong. However, for some reason he seems to look up to you. Perhaps it is because you are both Muggle-born.” Slughorn said.

“But Tom’s not…” Hermione bit her lip, cutting herself off. The entirety of Hogwarts’ staff knew that she was a time traveler, but despite their curiosity they were not permitted to ask questions, nor was she permitted to tell them about the future unless necessary. The DoM had been very firm and clear about that.

The round-bellied Potions Master’s eyebrows rose. “Ah.” He grunted shortly. “Well… it is what it is. There is no proof and I cannot stifle all prejudices. His situation will not be changing. He’s still in a precarious position. I know being around familiar faces troubles you, I know we cause you more pain than relief, but… he needs somebody, Miss Wilkins, he is only a first year. Brilliant children often become alienated, Albus certainly was! I adore the boy, but I cannot be everywhere or give help to those who don’t want it. For whatever reason… you are the only person he seems to have really attached himself to.”

Hermione had not believed the Potions professor at first. Tom was fiercely independent, or at least showed himself as being so, and was endlessly hungry for knowledge—knowledge is power—he questioned everything and trusted nothing, nothing sans himself.

‘And, perhaps, me.’

Which, of course, begged the answer as to why he seemed to trust her. Could the presence of one person—of herself—really make such a difference in a young boy’s life? Was she even making a difference at all? Was it possible to make a difference, or was the future she had come from set in stone?

Clawing out of her depression was easier when she wasn’t around people she had known in the future, her heart hurt less when she didn’t think of them, didn’t see them, but somehow she just couldn’t leave them alone, either. It had her wondering if war had turned her into some sort of emotional masochist, or if it was just part of the grieving process. Unlike so many others, however, it was frighteningly easy to be around Tom Riddle because he looked human, he was human. He was just a young boy not the inhuman, serpent-faced old man she knew. There was a vast psychological and physical difference between 11 years and 71. It was difficult to believe that they had ever been one and the same, though it wasn’t impossible to see shadows of Lord Voldemort already blooming in Tom even though he was only a boy.

But it was all too easy to forget whom he would grow up to be. On several occasions when her Pandora Box grew full to bursting she could not hide her weaknesses in front of him. He would see her when her mind was far, far away and tears fell from her eyes, and when she was jerked back to the present time he would be looking at her with such eyes. An expression so subtle but somehow so obvious on his handsome face that she wasn’t sure what to make of it besides try to smile as though her troubles were gone. They were never really gone though, and she doubted they would ever really leave.

Her life did not revolve around him, however. She found a wonderful friend in Miranda Goshawk, who would someday write the Standard Book of Spells, Years one through seven. Hermione also found a friendly companion in Carlotta Pinkstone, a Hufflepuff who believed strongly in repealing the International Statue of Wizarding Secrecy and allowing Muggles to know about magic. A passionate girl, Hermione recalled from future textbooks that Pinkstone would be arrested several times for performing magic in front of Muggles. She spoke with Dumbledore regularly, but surprisingly found his brother to be a sturdier, easier confidant. Perhaps it was because she had hardly known of Aberforth during her time, but she enjoyed being around him despite their vast differences—or perhaps because of those differences. A gruff person could sometimes be so comforting and reliable—and it was in his presence only that she could cry without being eaten alive by shame, like she was crying in the arms of her lost father. He never complained.

Aberforth was surprisingly insightful whenever Hermione bemoaned her situation with Tom. Ariana had hardly been the budding Dark Lord that Tom was, but she had been volatile and deeply troubled, prone to sudden, violent fits when she was upset or afraid.

“Children are children, even if they’re a bit mad, even if… there are bits of them that seem to be missing. At her core, every child wants to be understood and loved.” Aberforth said to Hermione. A jug of hot cider rested between them.

Hermione didn’t register the taste of the cider, and stared intently down into its golden depths more than she actively drank it; as if all the answers she was looking for were settled at the bottom of the porcelain mug. It was snowing lightly outside, bits of cottony white stinging the bony limbs of trees.

“Love…” she murmured. “I was always told that Voldemort couldn’t love.”

“Ahh, now don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Aberforth reprimanded from across the table, “He’s only a lad now, he’s lots of things to learn. Besides, I think of all witches a Muggle-born would know that nothing is impossible, especially one as unique as you, Hermione.”

She gave him a watery smile. The old man’s fond expression melted into something more melancholy.

“Don’t be afraid to care for him. It can only do more good than harm.”

“Good for him or good for me, Aberforth?” Hermione asked, her voice thick, and she took a moment to sniffle and swipe at her nose with the cuff of her sweater. “Because I don’t know. Sometimes looking at him hurts so much that I can’t think straight. It would… it will be very difficult to care or l-love him. And it’s not just knowing who he’ll grow up to be, just who he is now is… often he seems perfectly normal, if peculiarly bright, and other times… other times he-he’s so…” she swallowed. Her throat felt swollen. “Other times he scares me.”

Aberforth reached across the table and covered one of Hermione’s hands with his own, blue eyes somber. She stared at his knuckles for a moment; his skin softened and wrinkled gently from age. He nodded at the painting in the room—his late sister’s portrait.

“Ariana was usually mild-mannered. I would go so far as to even call her shy, but she never left our house and I don’t know what she would have been like around people. She didn’t like strangers, even if she never met them. She hated them. She grew angry and possessive whenever Mother or Albus or I left. She didn’t even like it when we talked to other people. She didn’t like that she had to share us with the world—she didn’t have to share anything else. I think that was why Albus resented her in the years leading up to… well. He wanted to be part of the world outside of our doorstep, but she was always calling him back. She despised Grindelwald when she first met him; she believed his sole existence was to take Albus away from her. I distrusted him for other reasons, but he charmed her into being comfortable around him eventually with trinkets and treats. As a magiphobic, there were countless things that other people enjoyed that she never did, things that she refused to experience. She was very childish.

“That Riddle lad is childish too. He’s alone and he’s angry and he doesn’t seem too keen on sharing. But he’s still only a kid. What’s more: he likes you. You can show him the ropes of right and wrong—give it time and he’ll come to listen.”

Aberforth gently rubbed his thumb over Hermione’s knuckles. “Give yourself time too, lass. You’ll heal. You’ll learn to live with the memories. It hurts like hell right now, but you’ll be okay too.”

‘You’ll be okay.’

It was exactly what she needed to hear.

She decided to do what Professor Slughorn asked of her. She would look after Tom Riddle. It was better to be at the devil’s right hand than in his way, as the saying went, but not because you were out of harm’s way—because then you could lead him astray of his chosen path. She would take his arm and walk alongside him, but never would she walk first through a door he held open for her. No matter how young he was, how evil he wasn’t, she couldn’t expose her back to him. Giving him her trust was simply impossible. What Lord Voldemort had done and what Tom Riddle was going to do made it impossible.

But she would look after him. She would watch him until her cheeked ached from false smiles, until those smiles grew genuine and she retreated into herself in fear of forgetting… until she did forget. She just prayed she didn’t go mad in the process.
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Root of Desire