Tumbling, Falling, and Crash Landings

Author's Note: So, I really—honestly don't know what this is. I've been reading many great stories of this pairing, and I guess I was inspired by them so much that somehow, this first chapter was written. This isn't a large ship, but I really like this pair. Warning; Tom Riddle is very—very OOC . Who knows, maybe some will like it, others won't. As much as I like a Dark Tom, I realllyyy like Misunderstood Tom.

This story is unBata'ed, so please excuse my errors.

So, yeah.

Here is my awkward story.

I

Hogwarts

Nineteen Forty Five

She was falling.

Tumbling.

Her mouth open wide; silently screaming; only to be swallowed into darkness.

Falling.

Tumbling.

And it fucking hurt.

.

.

.

Hermione's body slammed into a hard and cold surface. She vaguely felt the invisible clutches fading away, but running their nonexistent sharp claws along her skin as if a reminder—a reminder for what, the witch didn't know. She groaned with her eyes squeezed shut; her was chest rapidly rising and falling, greedily pulling in air to her lungs. The blazing heat and ridge cold was finally diminishing.

Bloody hell, her whole body ached.

She suddenly heard a shuffle.

The girl stiffened. Slowly, she turned her head toward the sound and cracked open her unwilling eyes. Her brain protested to function properly, refusing to let her vision clear. She might have cracked her head against the stone floor, but once her sight wasn't a blurry mess, she was looking at a very distinctive picture—either to test her sanity or simple fuck you to her intelligence. Stormy grey hues bore into hers, filled with painful unshed tears and his body was quaking. Before her mind began to kick start with information, his unmistakable cascade of white blonde hair screamed his identity; Malfoy.

Perhaps fate really was insulting her intellect.

"D-d-raco?" She rasped. When was the last time she had seen the ferret? She remembered the air of arrogance around him thinned—by war—his shoulders ridged, and the sneer had evaporated from his pale chapped lips. But this didn't seem to be that man. He was frightened, terrified even; that much was true. But the haughty mien was absolutely suffocating—nothing dwindled about it. And his hair had grown out longer—much longer. He looked disgustingly like his father—a man she knew Draco rather shave his entire head of fine hair off than to be anything like Lucius. "What's going on?" Her hoarse voice was barely audible. She was tried. So very, very tired.

He scarcely managed to shake his head; his quivering breaths unable to make anything punctiliously like a word to force through his lips. Draco was on his knees, sweating and shuddering.

"No more, Abraxas," a cold voice cut through the silence and it had actually caused her to shiver. "No more. Occisus ignis!"

The hiss-of-a-spell that was meant for 'Abraxas'—Draco impostor—had struck the witch instead—like the caster had absolutely no idea that she was there.

The spell felt like hot knives, carving into her flesh with no mercy. Hermione let out a cry of pain and flopped to her side in a pathetic attempt to just make it stop; her skin burned and tearing relentlessly. Exhaustion had soaked to her core from her fall and the cruel agony only made it worse. Slowly, she narrowly opened her eyes, her arms clinging her to bleeding form, to meet a dark set of eyes. They were wide, shocked—horror etched into his beautiful, pale face.

Her chest was beginning to feel light again—not from the blood draining from her body—like she was slipping through the cold, stone floor. She felt the promised reminder gripping her once more.

"HERMIONE!" The beautiful man cried out, his hand outstretching, legs pulling him forward, but it was too late.

She was falling.

.

.

.

A-fucking-gain.

Hogwarts

Nineteen Forty

Her back collided painfully against something hard—uneven. She choked in a breath; her eyes squeezed shut in the haze of pain. Her body protested the horrid treatment; the feeling of a familiar pull—cruel promising— loosening its grip once more. Black spots danced in her vision, staring up at the familiar stone ceilings through barely opened eyes. What was going on? What was happening to her? Parting her chapped lips, squeezing her eyes shut for a brief moment, she let out a small hiss of anguish between clenched teeth. She could feel the blood from her wounds seep around her; her clothes clinging uncomfortably against her skin.

The sound of shuffling was loud in her ears.

Her eyes popped open wide.

Merlin be damned, if she was attacked again—

Hermione immediately moved her hands for her wand; to her pockets, thighs, arms, breasts, and the clutter around her; but her fingers couldn't find her life line. Oh, no. No, no, no! Panic flooded through her weak veins, fueling her heart beat to race against her chest. Where was her wand!? Did she drop it? Was it even with her? Closing her eyes and calming her breaths, her magic crackled around her, extending, searching, reaching out for her wand—any wand.

It should have confused her when she felt quite of bit a wands calling back to her in assistance—that wasn't was what worried her at the moment. Her fingers twitched, accio'ing the closest wand, which was, in fact, right next to her. She was truly being laughed at, wasn't she? When her fingers wrapped around the wood, her magic reacted, almost melting with it—even though the she could feel that it certainly wasn't her own; though that was before her magic hissed in warning. Ignoring her magical core rejecting the wand, she rolled slightly, and suddenly tumbled face first towards the stone floors. Before she could shriek, her soldier instincts forced her hands to shoot out in front of her, propelling her back up into a defense stance quickly. With the unfamiliar wand in one hand, the other wrapped around her side to try to stop the blood flowing, she turned towards the beautiful attacker—

—Or at least, that's where he should have been.

She suddenly felt more than heard Expelliarmus, and it felt powerful. She whirled around, flicking her wrist, non-verbally casting a shield and waved her arm again, pushing the attacker back and then silently casting Petrificus Totalus.

The apparent assailant let out a hiss of pain, and a then a frustrated growl.

Dark blue—almost black—eyes met brown.

What?

Whatever had brought her here was surely laughing at her confusion.

Her eyebrows creased, her defense slightly slipping as her breaths rushed through her parted lips. This was a boy; he looked like the same man that had cursed her . . . but, somehow, he was younger. Clad in a Slytherin uniform, not in the dark robes from earlier, dark eyes were wide—shock—in awe, and what she could read the most like it was screaming at her; anger, suffering, longing. Hurt.

Was this a bloody joke?

Where was Malfoy? No—what was his name—Abraxas?

Her eyes flickered around hastily, seeing a classroom full of students whom all stared back at her. She spotted the blonde in the back of the room, sitting with a sneer that would rival Draco's; possibly even Lucius's. And he was in perfect condition—no sign of distress.

What was going on? Confusing and panic flooded through her—surging and she started to shake.

"Dear Merlin, girl! What is the meaning of this!?"

She whirled around again with her borrowed wand thrust up—but then she faltered. Hermione's mouth suddenly felt dry. Professor Slughorn, well, a bit of a younger version of him, stood in front of her, his wand raised.

What in the name of Godric?

Shakily, she lowered her wand and leaned back heavily against a desk. Her breaths were loud, uneven, and her body suddenly felt dense. Her eyes moved slowly back to the student who cast the spells earlier.

He glared harshly at her; his face bubbling with range of emotions and it looked as if he was trying to wiggle from her body bind. She cleared her throat and took a shaky step towards him, waving the borrowed wand, and watched his body suddenly slack. She placed the wand down in front of him on the desk that was covered in blood—her blood.

—So that's was what she had landed on.

"O-oh. Erm. . . Sorry." Her voice was hoarse in her dry mouth. Even the wand was covered in blood from her fingertips. Waving her hand, she performed scourgify wandlessly and the blood vanished from the wood, the books, and the parchment that littered the desk.

As soon as the boy found himself free, he lunged at his wand and pointed it at her with unbelievable speed and poise; his eyes hard and his body's movements were stiff. Was he really going to attack her again with everyone in the room?

"You," she heard him hiss, which sounded like an accusation. That hiss filled with anguish, rage, sadness, and—disbelief? Hermione's eyes widen, staring at the boy—he certainly wasn't a man—his eyes glassy, holding his wand out to her heart with a wavering, shaky hand.

She simply gawked blankly at him. Slowly, her eyebrow furrowed in confusion. What he talking to her? He had to be. He was looking at her.

What in the name of Merlin?

The two continued to look at each other, their magic crackling around them; his in rage, and hers in warning. How was this boy the same beautiful man she seen not a moment ago? Why is he so upset? The students in the class room started to whisper at the abrupt display between the student and the interruption of a bleeding woman.

"Tom, what is going on?" Slughorn called out, but he did not receive an answer.

The boy—Tom—did not move his dark, haunting eyes from her—nor his wand. His glare was unwavering, unlike his shaking body. She licked her chapped lips, about to open her mouth and say something when his choked voice stopped her.

"Why?"

Why what? Her brain was desperately trying to keep up, but she was beginning to feel light headed.

His wand now was digging painfully into her chest.

"Why did you leave me?" His voice was in a quivering harsh whisper. Hermione had the audacity to quirk her brow up. "You promised me you would stay!" he shouted, his tears were finally spilling over his cheeks.

Leave?

"I-I'm sorry," she rasped out. "Y-you're mistaken."

The moment she said let the phrase leave her lips, she knew it was a mistake. His face—anger and sadness clashing together—only seemed to be contorting in pain.

She was met with heart breaking, deafening silence.

"Minerva, go get Madam Pomfrey before she bleeds to death!" Slughorn's voice sounded far away; muddled. As if she remembered her bleeding body, Hermione winced as she squeezed her arms around herself.

The boy paused, finally seeing the blood seeping through her fingers—even though it was all over his desk not long ago.

"You're bleeding," he whispered raggedly, his tear streaked face finally pulled out of anguish and confusion was setting in.

Perhaps now he would understand he had the wrong witch.

"What happened? Hermione? Who did this to you?" He demanded.

She started—openly gaped at him.

He knew her name?

But she certainly did not know him.

Her body was becoming heavier and heavier, slumping forward without her consent, swaying ever so slightly on her feet, her knees shaking.

"Hermione!" His voice sounded so worried. She wondered for a moment if there was another witch named Hermione and it was all just an honest mistake. She barely registered his little hands clutching desperately at her arms, her eyes lids hardly able to hold open. Before she knew it, she was swallowed in darkness.

.

.

.

"—at do you mean she just fell out of the sky? Do you understand how ridiculous you sound?!"

"Just that! She just fell right on Riddle's desk out of nowhere!"

"How can that be? There are anti-apparition wards surrounding Hogwarts."

"The poor girl is bleeding!"

"Well—Erm, yes. I'm surprised none of the students fainted."

"Poor dear," a soft voice sighed.

Hermione felt someone touching her side at that moment. Without a second thought, her hand twitched, accio'ing the closest wand to her hand, sprang from the bed, and held it at an older witch's throat. Her body was exhausted, but the spiked fear and adrenaline kept the younger witch going. The movement caused pain to shoot all over her body, mostly at her recent wounds, but she ignored it.

All the commotion paused and the only thing heard was her rapid breathing. The woman in front of her obviously didn't look to be a threat.

She only smiled sadly. "It's alright, lassie. Now put the wand down."

Hermione did no such thing.

A sound came to the right and she moved her wand towards the direction. Her eyes registered the unfamiliar faces, with the exception of the younger Professor Slughorn.

"Now, now, dear. Lower your wand, please." An older man said. Now that Hermione had stared at him, he did look vaguely familiar.

But of course, Hermione did not listen to him either. Her hand was shaking. Nothing was making any sense.

Where is Harry? Ron?

The bigger question: Just where was she?

Someone walked into the circle that surrounded her cot and Hermione nearly passed out yet again. There, standing right before her—alive— was Professor Dumbledore; a much younger version of him.

"P-Professor Dumbledore." She squeaked, her hand shaking harder and her vision was becoming blurry. The man in question raised his eyebrow. Hermione thickly swallowed the lump in her throat. "W-where am I?"

Dumbledore took a step closer towards her, placing a warm—and very much alive—hand on her shoulder. "You are at Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?"

"Yes, and you're safe."

"Safe," she replied stupidly.

He nodded. She opened her mouth, ready to attack the young professor with a million of questions, but nothing came out. She snapped her lips shut, lowering her wand until her hand fell limp in her lap. She swallowed again.

"Am I dead?"

It seemed like such an absurd thing for the brightest-witch-of-her-age to say, but the words tumbled out of her mouth. It was the only explanation. Well, there was still one question: Why the hell did her body still hurt?

"Not at all m'dear," Her old Headmaster chuckled.

Hermione bit her lip. "Y-you're alive?"

His eyes twinkled. "Yes, I do believe I am."

.

.

.

Her face—confusion and all—swam into his memory. She looked the same.

Exactly the fucking same.

She was wearing the same ridiculous trousers; skinny around her calves, but slightly looser from her knees and up, then they hung snugly around her waist. They had the absurd looking pockets at her thighs.

The same brown short sleeve shirt that was not tucked in—woman or not, she should at least have the mannerism to tuck in her tail—then again, he had liked that about her.

The same worn old traveling boots. They even still had had the same fucking stains on them!

Her hair was the same; wild, outrageous, and untamed.

Her face, her eyes, all unaged; all the same.

Same as that day.

The boy leaned down, his elbows on his knees, his fingers tangling into his abnormally messy locks—courtesy of running his hands through it in frustration.

How was that possible? Could—could he really have—?

He could feel the wave of angry tears burning his eyes. His lips curled into a scowled. No! He did not want to cry over her anymore. Not now. Not ever. There were too many wasted moments where he thought about her. He no longer wanted to be seduced by the childish notion of hope—hope that she would come back. The hope that he—

He cannot believe he had broken down the way he had done in Potions. In front of the entire class no less! Even bloody Slughorn looked at him differently. He looked so weak! So pitiful! So pathetic! How dare she?! How dare she appear into his life again? He could not let this happen again. He needed to control—

"Mister Riddle," an old, wise voice cut off the thoughts brewing like a storm in his mind. "Professor Slughorn has mentioned that our—" the old codger paused, trying to think of the right name to call her. "—Guest, may be someone you know?"

The young wizard steeled himself before lifting his dark eyes up to Professor Dumbledore with a mask of mild indifference. He didn't want this man to see him weak. The old wizard waited patiently for answer. Tom swallowed thickly.

"No," he glanced away. "No, sir. I was mistaken."

.

.

.

He had no idea how he ended up here. Somehow, his long strides had brought him to the infirmary in the wee hours of the night. His lips were pulled into a scowl. He did not want to be anywhere near this place.

He didn't want to be near her—Hermione or not.

But, as if he was under the Imperius curse, Tom reluctantly pushed open the doors as quietly as he could. Inside the dimly lit room was Hermione—the only occupant—lying in a cot in the corner with drapes cutting her off poorly to the rest of the room. He could see her chest slowly rising and falling through the gap between the sheers. Slowly, he had taken quiet steps across the stone floor. His heart was beating rapidly, thundering in his ears. He was sure it would wake up the entire school. Tom dipped into the drapes—refusing her look at her—and noticed a single chair at the side of the bed.

The damn wooden thing groaned under Tom's weight, only slightly, as he slowly sat himself down. He cringed at the noise. It echoed off the stone walls and he stilled. If the matron came out, it would land him in detention for being out of bed after curfew.

After a moment or two, Tom's body relaxed—well, not as much as he could have been. And it took him longer to lift his stormy hues to the sleeping woman in the cot.

Anger rose up inside of him.

How could this be?! She looked exactly like Hermione.

It just was not possible!

She had left—

He had—

Finally, his eyes focused on her face.

He leaned closer—just a bit—and a frown tugged at his lips as his eyebrows furrowed.

"I know you're awake," he murmured quietly—even though it seemed like the loudest sound in the world.

There was a moment or two and nothing happened. Tom thought maybe he was going insane. Crazy. She was driving him mad. But then she slowly opened her eyes, locking her tired gaze quickly with his.

Her—same—brown eyes still held the warmth he had seen that day. The pent up feelings inside of him were brewing, bubbling over and he vaguely registered his shaking body. Her eyes were calm as they assessed him; flickering around to his eyes, his nose—they lingered for a moment—and then her scrutiny dropped to his hands. It was like she was searching for something.

Tom stiffened.

Her eyes stayed at his hands for a long time. Tom shifted slightly, his fingers gripping a fistful of his robes to keep him calm. Taking a deep, calming breath, he released the fabric. Her eyes snapped back to his face. She licked her chapped lips and spoke.

"You're so young," her voice was hoarse and quiet, her eyes seeming like she far, far away.

Damn it all, she even sounded the same.

Tom blinked. Surely she remembered something—anything at all—of before. Something inside of him felt like it was slowly crumbling. Maybe… maybe this woman really wasn't her. How could I be so stupid? Of course she isn't the same person. It is impossible!

Tom immediately puffed up his chest and sat up straighter, his face keeping a cool, nonchalant mask.

"I'm thirteen," he started almost proudly. Her warm eyes softened slightly.

"You're in your third year?" She asked. He nodded slowly.

Her gaze shifted back to the ceiling, and then she closed her eyes and let out a shuddering breath. Her whole body seemed to be shaking all of the sudden. The intakes of her breaths were loud and staggering. Tom's eyes widened and he leaned over to her, his hand gripping her too warm—but cold?—shoulder.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?!" He was about the turn and grab Madam Pomfrey but her voice stopped him.

"It's happening again," she managed to say between her chattering teeth.

Again?

That was impossible.

"I don't know you," she murmured softly, her eyes opened and found his wide, panicked stare. "But maybe that it is because I haven't met you yet."

Tom's eyebrows knitted in confusion and then suddenly, he watched as she started to fade.

"No! Please! Wait!" He all but leaped on the bed, grabbing frantically at anything he could hold on of her. The dissolving face smiled tiredly at him before her hand reached out and cupped his cheek.

"Don't worry. You'll see me again, Tom."

And then she was gone.

That confirmed it.

She was the same.

.

.

.