A/N: This is for Sasha, who is the best friend I could ever ask for. I don't deserve you and I'm just so glad you're in my life. I love you so much! Merry Christmas!

The wind is harsh and cold at Hermione's back, whipping her already bushy hair into a messy brown cloud around her head. She pushes a hand through it impatiently. Her pace quickens as she attempts to stay ahead of her pursuers. Well-meaning though they are, she simply isn't in the mood, and they won't fucking leave her alone.

Far too close, she can hear their voices just behind her. She breaks into a full sprint. Several students give her odd glances as she passes, which is probably due to the fact that she's running at top speed away from her friends whilst carrying a rather precariously balanced stack of books.

She thinks about just how inconvenient it is that her wand is currently inaccessible to her due to the load in her arms. She ducks as quickly as she can into the castle, taking the most obscure route as possible to the Room of Requirement. She paces in front of where the door should be three times thinking, "Hide me." Not soon enough, door appears and she struggles to get it open around the books before she slips inside. Just then she spots Ginny's tell-tale shoes coming around the corner.

The door shuts with a bang and she is momentarily stunned by the force of it. Slowly, she turns and surveys her surroundings. The room she has landed herself in is enormous, with teetering piles of every kind of knick-knack imaginable, both Muggle and Magical, stacked in mountains as far as she can see. Several jagged paths cut through the chaos, and, knowing she has time to kill, she chooses one at random.

Walking along, she takes note of the abundance of books; many, she's never heard of, which is a shock in itself, and a few that she recognizes to be banned. She has to stop herself from taking any of them. There's a reason these things are in here.

Suddenly, something cries out, startling her so badly that she flies backwards, dropping the stack of books she'd been holding this whole time. Shit. Her heart races and she is momentarily distracted from picking up the books strewn around her, just long enough that she doesn't notice it when a book that was not previously there makes it into the pile too.

Exasperatedly, she sets the reformed pile on the floor in front of her and takes out her wand. "Wingardium leviosa," she mutters. The books gracefully float in front of her as she stands and begins the trek back to the door. An intense feeling of being watched washes over her, and she jogs the rest of the way. She turns around one last time as she reaches for the rusted metal handle of the door, and a chill runs up her spine despite the pleasant temperature the Room has provided for her.

She pokes her head out the door, checking both ways for her friends. Although they are nowhere to be seen, she doubts they'd give up this easily, and she'll have to deal with them later. As it is, she levitates the books out in front of her and shuts the door gratefully.

The library is probably still open, and she grins in delight. The eerie feeling from the Room of Requirement dissipates as she makes her way to her favorite place in Hogwarts, but never completely leaves the back of her mind.

He has always hated Christmas. For all his genius, he is still unsure of whether or not it's the nearness the holiday has to his birthday or merely the fact that everyone else seems to be so utterly happy throughout the whole damn season that makes him despise it so much. Whatever the real reason is, he's had a nearly permanent scowl on his normally handsome face since the first decorations started going up (despite his many, albeit subtle, protests) at the beginning of November.

On more than one occasion, he's had to resist the painfully strong urge to hex the few people who've wished him a merry Christmas. Rather, he plasters a fake smile on his face and wishes them a merry Christmas as well, all the while imagining tearing them apart limb from limb. Now, on Christmas eve, the well-wishers had gotten even more unbearable.

The only place that doesn't make him want to Avada Kedavra the entire student population is the library. It is the sole location that isn't decorated in any way, and the quiet is a welcome change from the increasingly ridiculous carols that both the Mudbloods and Purebloods sing around the halls. Most years, there wouldn't be so many still at Hogwarts over Christmas break, but with both the Muggle war and the magical war going on simultaneously, there were only a handful that had chosen to go home.

He has already finished all the assignments he's been given to do over break, of course. In fact, he's finished more than half of them the day they'd been given to him. They'd been disappointingly easy. Not that he'd ever let the professors know that their so-called "Advanced Level" work took him less than half an hour per subject to complete the assigned papers.

The library is just a little too warm, as usual, and the old, dusty smell of books floods his nostrils. Madam Pince waves at him cheerfully, and he continues to his favorite spot. It's as far back as one can go before they reach the restricted section, and is far away from prying eyes.

He sinks into the plush black armchair he'd charmed to become invisible when anyone but him tried to sit in it. Not the best spell, but it worked, and he couldn't go placing more complicated blood charms on it without anyone being able to trace it back to him.

Taking out a book to read, he wills himself to focus on what it's saying.

She has made a kind of home out of the library with its cozy atmosphere and the small collection of pillows she's begun to accumulate in her special spot. Everything is just as she likes it, with neat stacks of books surrounding the wooden table and its single chair. It's the one place she feels more comfortable than the Common Room.

After making her way to the library, she'd managed to finish two of the books she'd brought with her before passing out. The stress of her situation was starting to get to her and she couldn't help but drift off.

It wasn't so much the fact that Ron was dating Lavender that bothered her, although that was part of it, the thing that made her most upset was the fact that he had brushed her aside seemingly so easily. This wasn't the first time either. They had had fights in the past that had ended in ignoring each other, but this was different. This fucking stung. Perhaps it was the nature of it being a matter of love and not just a trivial quarrel between friends.

Jerking awake, Hermione groggily rubs her eyes and stifles a yawn. A small puddle of drool has pooled on her current book and, horrified, she hastily wipes it off as best she can. Sunlight still streams through the window, so it can't be too late yet. She waves her wand and the time appears in glowing number in the air. 5:26. There's time for one more book, at least.

Pulling the next one from the top of the pile, she stares at it for a moment. It is obviously very old, with a greasy film coating the fraying grey cover. Inlaid silver letters spell out "Magick of Souls" in scrolling cursive. She doesn't remember picking up this book. It dawns on her that she might have taken it by mistake, but how? It only takes her about a minute before she makes the connection to the Room of Requirement.

No.

She can't read this.

She mustn't.

Any book found in there is inherently a bad idea to read.

She doesn't know much about soul magic, though.

Reading only one chapter couldn't possibly hurt. She can always stop if she needs to.

Her thirst for knowledge overcomes her misgivings, and after the seven analytical spells she casts on it to check for curses and hexes come up clean, she begins to read.

The beginning chapter is on soulmates. An involuntary snort escapes Hermione's lips. She doesn't believe in soulmates. She believes in love, and that two people can overcome obstacles and differences to be together, but that two people would be made for each other – a perfect match – seems too far-fetched. No two people fit together perfectly. There will always be something about one that the other finds annoying or disagreeable.

The further she reads, the more incredulous she grows, until eventually, with a scowl on her face, she shuts the book with a snap. The result is instantaneous. The book glows a startling green and shakes violently in her grasp. She tries to let go, but it is glued to her hand. A gasp escapes her lips, and she fumbles for her wand one-handedly. Strands of magic reach out from the book, wrapping around the wrist of the hand holding it like a vice. Having found her wand, she struggles to identify the curse that continues to dig into her skin, burrowing its way into her very bones. It pumps through her veins, courses through her body, swallows her whole.

In a panic she sends a severing curse at the strand of magic connecting her wrist to the book. Sparks erupt and a dome of swirling green light encloses her before she feels the familiar feeling of apparition, multiplied by a thousand.

There is a loud crack, and suddenly there is a girl standing in front of him. She stumbles forward and promptly throws up at his feet. He is up in an instant, wand drawn and pointing at her. She looks awful, her baggy clothes hang off her body in a way that suggests she isn't getting the nutrition she needs and the dark circles under her eyes tell a tale of their own. There is something off about her distinctly Gryffindor uniform, but he can't quite put his finger on it, it's not like he pays any particular attention to girls' uniforms. The absolute biggest hair he has ever seen is frizzy and tangled, accentuating her sickly complexion. Clearly, this girl has been through hell.

Making a split second decision, he stows his wand back in his pocket and offers her his arm. "Are you quite alright, Miss…?"

She eyes him shrewdly for a moment, and chooses to ignore his question, responding instead with a query of her own. "Who are you?" Her eyes, which are a soft brown, he notices, seem far too calculating for a girl who just threw up at his feet. Glancing around near her feet, she appears as though she's looking for something. When she can't find it, she glances at him again, this time her eyes fixating on his Slytherin tie with contempt.

He does find it strange that he doesn't recognize her, but then again, she is a Gryffindor, and he hardly goes out of his way to associate with Gryffindors. He smiles charmingly, "I'm Tom Riddle, Slytherin prefect. I can take you to the Infirmary."

If she had regained any color in the moments since throwing up it is lost again at those words. "Fuck," she spits. The terror and panic on her face would normally amuse him, but now he is merely confused. Her breaths come rapid and shallow. She takes several steps back, away from him, and instinctually he takes several forward to close the gap. She is muttering at a fast pace under her breath, her eyes flickering in every direction, still calculating, calculating.

"Excuse me?" He is taken aback by her reaction. Gryffindors and Slytherins aren't known for getting along, but this seems a bit extreme.

"I-I have to go." She turns away and makes as though to run away from him.

In the years that follow, he will forever wonder why he didn't just let her go. He will wonder what on earth possessed him to reach out his hand, made him grab her by her arm. He doesn't believe in fate or destiny or rubbish like that, he believes in choices, and being the master of one's own life. So maybe that makes it his own fault, but whatever it is, in that moment he extends his arm and grabs her.

The moment he touches her, she lights up like the Christmas trees he so hates. A feeling like being pricked with red hot needles spreads from his fingers, through his arm and down to his heart. A faint red glow shines out from where his heart is.

As soon as the shock wears off he is in her face, shouting, "What the hell was that? What just happened?" He shakes her with the same arm he used to grab her originally, and when he tries to let go so he can get out his wand, he finds that his hand won't let go. "What did you do to me?" he hisses furiously. He pulls on his hand as hard as he can, but it doesn't budge. His hand is attached to her skin through the material of her jumper.

For a moment she seems stunned, but then she seems to regain herself and her features become stony. "Me? What I did you?" a cold laugh that borders on hysteria cuts its way out her throat. "I didn't do anything to you, you're the one who deci-"

"If you hadn't tried to-"

"-go after me. If you had just-"

"-from me then I wouldn't have had to-"

"No! You listen to me!" She jabs a finger at him with each word. "I have no idea how I got here, much less how I got stuck with you, literally as well as figuratively, apparently, and I'd much rather find a way to get unstuck than to stand here arguing!" A muscle twitches in his jaw.

There is an uncomfortable silence. Finally, he gives a curt nod.

He is giving her an odd look, and she self-consciously brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. His hand is uncomfortably warm on her arm, just above her elbow, and she has to put effort into not twitching at the thought. This is the future Lord Voldemort. She is physically attached to the future Lord Voldemort.

He isn't what she expected he might be like. Despite the fact that he yelled at her within a few minutes of their meeting, his overall disposition since then has not been unpleasant, if more quiet than she is used to from other boys. Of course, she can't say for certain that he isn't planning on taking her somewhere and torturing her until he finds a way to dislodge his hand.

That stupid, fucking book. She should have just left it well enough alone. The ramifications of her actions are still unclear. Is she really fifty years in the past, attached to the boy who will become the murderous tyrant of her time? It seems too strange to be real. Yet, how else can she explain the boy in front of her? How else can she explain the firm pressure of his hand on her arm?

She pinches herself. Once. Twice. Three times. It hurts every time but changes nothing. When she blinks her eyes, the same dark-haired menace stands in front of her, deep in thought.

"We've been standing here for ten minutes doing absolutely nothing useful. Are we going to get ourselves out of this predicament or do you plan on being stuck to me forever?" he asks it with distaste, like she is some kind of insect and the sooner he's away from her, the better. The question comes out of the blue, and she is startled out of her thoughts.

"Right, sorry." She's not about to tell the future Lord Voldemort about a book regarding soul magic. "We could go to Professor Dumbledore," she points out.

If he feels any emotion other than indifference, he masks it well. "Typical Gryffindor, always going to Professor Dumbledore for sympathy." There is no malice in the words themselves, but his eyes, which are a coppery brown, flash distinctly red. They lock onto her face for a heartbeat. He cocks his head to the side, scrutinizing her. "I will not go to Dumbledore," she opens her mouth to protest, but he continues, "and, for some reason, I get the impression that you'd rather not be seen by anyone, am I correct?" That's the first rule of time-travel, if that is indeed what has happened, but she's not going to say that.

She completely ignores his last question. "Fine, what would you suggest?"

"I'll figure it out." She raises an eyebrow. "We are in the library and I'd bet there's more than a few books that can show me how to fix this." He is already eyeing the shelves as though the answers he seeks will simply leap from them all at once.

He abruptly begins walking, tugging her along with him. She swallows nervously. Never has a boy made her feel so…exposed. Ron simply made her feel irate and frustrated, but he, Tom Riddle, makes her feel completely panic-ridden. It is as though he can see into her innermost thoughts. She attributes this to the fact that he simply sets her on edge due to what he will become, and tries to simply grit her teeth and ignore the very fast beating of her pulse.

Not looking at her, he questions, "Why do I make you so nervous?" It sounds genuinely curious, but she can't take anything he says or does at face value. "I mean, I know I am attractive," she scoffs, "and you're hardly the first girl to act strangely around me, but you seem scared. Why is that?" He is still walking ahead of her, so she can't see his expression.

"Does it matter?" is her biting reply. She can't help but be annoyed. This is hardly the way she wanted to spend her evening, and the more curious he grows, the more on edge she feels.

His graceful movements come to a jerking halt and she nearly stumbles into his back, catching herself on a book shelf at the last second. She is still regaining her balance when he mutters, "Perhaps not." He turns toward her. A dark smile slowly curves his lips into sharp points. "But I'm curious."

"I suppose you'll just have to be curious forever, then." Deep down, she knows it's probably not a good idea to provoke him, but she's tired, and just wants to get back to where she's supposed to be. Her bed in Gryffindor Tower in her own time calls to her, where she's at least relatively safe, and, most importantly, not attached to Tom Riddle.

"You're certainly defensive." His eyes flash red again, and the dark smile only grows wider.

"You're certainly nosy," she shoots back. His wand is at her throat before she can blink. She didn't even see him pull it out.

"Now," the wand digs in, "I'd like some answers. You appear in the library in front of me with a crack and are sick at my feet – the obvious answer is apparition, but apparition isn't possible on Hogwarts grounds. So how did you get here?" he asks it, almost as if to himself. "Next, upon hearing my name you immediately try to run away from me. Strange, but not entirely inexplicable due to the flighty nature of females." That's where she draws the line.

"Stop, just stop. I'll tell you, alright? Just stop insulting women who neither asked for your opinion nor deserved such critical judgment from someone that knows nothing about them." She takes a deep breath that resounds in her chest. "I came here by a book. I had decided that I didn't want to read any more of it and so I closed it, and when I did I was here."

He looks unimpressed at her revelation. "A book you say? What was this book about? You weren't tampering with Dark magic were you? That'd be awfully dangerous," it is condescending, and she feels insulted.

"I can take care of myself perfectly well thank you very much!" Her face flames and she just knows she's turning red.

"Apparently not if you accidentally managed to apparate within Hogwarts and then get yourself physically attached to the nearest person." He thinks she is incompetent, then. As if coming to a realization, he says slowly, "You know, I could just do this the easy way." Her eyes widen. That can't be anything good for her.

"Let's not be hasty, we can-"

Wand now aiming at the point of connection between his hand and her arm, he shouts, "Lacero!" She is surprised the spell is verbal, but only for a moment before a searing pain bites into her skin. It feels like her arm has been lit on fire. Refraining herself from crying out, she chances a glance at the wound. It is an incision that traces the outline of his hand on her arm. Blood soaks through the coarse material of her jumper in seconds.

He grins wickedly and she knows what he is going to do a moment too late. Forcefully, he rips his hand away. What he doesn't expect, however, is for his hand to remain just as stuck as before. She flies toward him, throwing them both off balance, and with a mutually muttered "Shit" they fall to the ground in a heap.

She lands on top of him, so he takes the brunt of the impact, and she makes use of his distraction to get out her own wand. She shoots a nonverbal Blinding Hex at him, but is blocked by his, also silent, shield. Her hex dissipates against the thick yellow wall that somehow fits between their still intertwined bodies.

They lock eyes. "Did you really think you could hex me so easily?" Truthfully, she did, and she is miffed that even in his distraction he was still able to conjure a descent shield. Pushing herself off him with one hand, she attempts to roll to a safe distance, but finds that, like his hand that is still on her arm, her own hand won't move from where it rests on his chest. His right hand on her left arm, and her left hand on his chest, in hindsight it is a hilarious thought. At that moment however, it was far from amusing.

"Damn it!" he seems to immediately know what she is referring to.

"Stupid girl! Look at what you've done!" Blaming her again, not that she's surprised. They sit up at the same time and glare at each other.

"It's not as if I meant to do it! In fact, I was trying to get away from you, you evil git!" She picks up her wand, which had fallen in her shock at his shield, and starts to raise it. His own is up and pointing between her eyes before she can even registered that he'd managed to hold on to it.

"Don't try it." He is smug, because he's already proven that he's the better of the two magically. Not that he's surprised. In his honest estimation the only person that could best him in a duel would be Dumbledore. That was something he was still working on fixing.

She merely glares at him, and turns her wand to where her arm is still bleeding, muttering a nonverbal healing spell. He raises an eyebrow and makes a motion for her to drop her wand. She clutches it tighter and he can feel a muscle in his neck twitch in annoyance.

"Drop your wand."

"Or what? You'll stun me? Surely you must know Muldridge's Third Law of Physically Connected Objects? We're physically connected, if you stun me you'll also be stunning yourself." She sounds triumphant, as though knowing one law means she has won something.

He grinds his teeth together. He can't torture her, they are still in the library after all, and they still have to find a way to get unattached as quickly as possible. He keeps his wand pointing between her eyes. "What did you say that book was about?" He considers Legilimizing her, but again, they are in the library, and despite its reputation for being deserted there is always the possibility of a Ravenclaw or even the librarian stumbling on them by chance.

"Relationship magic." Obviously a lie, but he doesn't press it. She seems to think for a moment. "I had just finished the chapter on soulmates, and, like I said, when I closed the book it took me here." That, however, seems to be the truth, and he groans internally.

"Are you trying to imply that we are soulmates? That the book brought you here because you're my soulmate?" Her eyes are suddenly huge, staring at him in what can only be described as horror. Clearly, that hadn't been something she'd even considered. Her skin has a greenish tinge, and even though he feels the same way about her being his potential soulmate, he cannot help but feel mildly insulted by her reaction. "Is it possible that the book had nothing to do with you coming here?" He tries not to sound too hopeful.

"The magic came out of the book, so it was definitely the book that sent me here. As far as being physically attached goes, I have absolutely no idea why that is. The book didn't mention anything of the sort." She runs a hand through her hair distractedly. "There must have been other cases of this happening, though. We can hardly be the first, right? And if we're not the first then we just have to find mention of the other cases and see what they did to get free!" He can see in her eyes that she doesn't actually believe they will find anything, but he has to believe that they will, and her suggestion of looking for previous cases sounds far more appealing than his previous plan to find a potion made specifically for separating Siamese twins.

He says nothing, but slowly lowers his wand. She looks surprised, like he wasn't going to actually listen to what she had to say. "Accio soulmate books." Ten books immediately speed towards him, stopping a few feet away and lowering elegantly onto a nearby table. An eleventh book makes its appearance a moment later, almost nailing Hermione in the back of the head as it struggles to catch up to the others. Tom makes what would normally be a mocking bow that comes across as distinctly more awkward due to the fact that they are still quite entangled, and motions for her to go sit at the table with the books.

They make their way over to the table, Hermione having to walk backwards because Tom refused to do so. Upon reaching the table, they look at each other uncomfortably for a long moment. There are two chairs, and he tries to think of a way for them each to sit on a chair without being horribly straining on their arms. His face feels just a little bit warmer than it should when he realizes she will have to sit on his lap thanks to the placement of their arms. She, too, seems to have come to this conclusion, because she scowls at the chairs in an accusatory manner.

Carefully, he sits down and she, with her nose turned up and face away, sits on the very edge of his knees. He reaches for a book and she grabs one, too. He tries to open it with one hand, and finds it considerably more difficult than he assumed it would be. The girl, whom he still doesn't know the name of, is having the same problem. She fumbles with the book one handedly, going so far as to hold it in one hand and push the cover up with her nose. He snorts, and then immediately regrets it because she turns to look at him then, her eyes very close to his own.

Her eyes trail down to his book which is in his hand uselessly, still unopened. She smirks at him. "Need help?" Once again he considers hexing her, but the costs still far outweigh the benefits, and so he settles for pinching her arm. She flinches and goes back to her own book, which she has successfully opened and is managing to read with few problems.

It takes him two more tries to get the book open, and another three to get the hang of flipping pages, which puts him in an even worse mood, because the girl got it on practically her first try. She isn't that bad, actually, once she shut up, but he'd never tell her that.

Soulmates. What utter drivel. There was no such thing. The books he'd found were boring, hardly more than vague referencing of soulmates to be found. He had found quite a few ancient magical marriage and binding ceremonies that looked intriguing, especially the one that could bind one person's magic to another, but that was a study for a different time.

By the time they'd each made it through four books, her finishing barely two minutes before him, it was at least curfew, which meant he'd have his rounds to do. She'd just have to come with him and hope he didn't find any students out of bed. He starts to stand, but stops mid motion upon seeing her sleeping, precariously teetering back and forth on her spot on his knees. He stares. He stares for longer than is probably normal. She looks peaceful. While she was awake he hadn't noticed how tense she seemed, but now, sleeping soundly, the difference in her countenance is remarkable.

His first thought is to just let her sleep. Then, disgust at even considering it. His prefect duties are much more important than this strange girl. He likely would have debated with himself for much longer, but, luckily, the decision was made for him. The strange green glow that Hermione had seen come out of the book engulfs him, seemingly bursting out of Hermione and into Tom. He fights it, and is able to cover both himself and Hermione with an Invisibility Charm before it causes him to fall asleep, collapsing the short distance back into the chair.

The first thing she notices is that she seems to be semi-upright. The next thing is that her pillow smells much nicer and more masculine than she remembers it having in the past. After that she groggily blinks her eyes open and finds herself staring at a clearly Slytherin collar. She is confused she looks up the rest of the way to find herself staring at a still dozing boy. She blinks. Blinks again.

Dimly, she thinks it odd that neither the caretaker nor a prefect found her and whoever her pillow is at some point in the night. She doesn't dwell on it long, however, as her ever-so-comfortable pillow stirs slightly, revealing more of his face to her.

Memories come back all at once, in a garbled, inarticulate clutter, and she shrieks and topples backwards off his lap, which she has managed to snuggle into during the night, and she is still trying to come to terms with the fact that she just slept on Tom-fucking-Riddle's lap when the weight of her falling pulls him off the chair and into a heap almost on top of her.

He startles awake. His eyes are comically wide and staring at her in a mixture of confusion and anger. The yew wand she has come to hate so well is out, but not pointing at anything in particular. His keen eyes scan their surroundings, and finding no threats, turn back to her darkly. "What happened?" His voice is husky from sleep, and her breath hitches.

"I, um, I fell." She can feel her cheeks turn red and she mentally berates them. Not daring to look at him, she starts to get up, using the hand that is still attached to his chest to push him away from her. She is able to stand halfway, until her hand stops her from stretching any farther. He takes his time, straightening slowly to tower over her.

"We should finish the last book," he says, making a vague gesture towards it.

"Right. Yes, of course." She brushes imaginary dust off her robes.

They go back to their previous position of him sitting on the chair and her balanced at the edge of his knees. He grunts, dissatisfied, and pulls her forward so she's more comfortably seated on his thighs. She says nothing, but makes no move to go back.

At first, he attempts to read the book on his own, but she insists on reading it with him, and he doesn't argue, merely giving her a quiet warning about keeping up. Each holds a cover of the book, and she is in charge of turning pages. They form a kind of rhythm with him giving her a miniscule nod every time he's ready for her to turn the page, and her telling him she's already done and to hurry up by having the next page ready between her thumb and forefinger.

There isn't a table of contents, so they have to read the whole thing. After what feels like an eternity, they finally come across a chapter that is called 'Soulmates: The Facts.' Hermione gasps when she sees it, not realizing this draws Tom's eyes to her face. She is still enamored with her discovery, oblivious to his stare and the way it tracks all the lines and edges of her eyes, nose, and mouth. It is likely a good thing she misses the way his lips lift into something suspiciously similar to a smile, followed by a look of intense disgust and fear.

"Look at this, Riddle! I think we found it!" She points excitedly at a passage detailing about how soulmates have been known to be transported to each other after encountering certain forms of soul magic.

She reads on enthusiastically, because this must have the answer. Towards the end of the section, there is a personal account of such an occurrence by one who had been transported to their soulmate. However, that was where the similarities ended. The woman, someone called Maurice Pucey, detailed that upon finding herself in a strange environment with a man she did not recognize, and who seemed just as shocked as she was at her sudden appearance there, she immediately apparated away. However, she went on to say that she would still have dreams about him occasionally, and now regretted leaving so hastily, as she'd never seen him again.

Hermione bites her lower lip until she tastes blood. Tom's hand on her arm becomes painful and she restrains herself from throwing the book across the room. He has finished, too, apparently, because he lets out his breath in an irate hiss that fans her cheek. She turns the page.

The next section is entirely on theory. The first thing to catch her eye is that the author postulates that, if a certain person did not have a soulmate in their own time, then they would be transported to the time of their soulmate. She furrows her brow. The author then suggests that should this ever happen, the results would be entirely unpredictable, especially if the person in question was to travel to the past. With the time-turner, nothing is really changed, but with soulmates, there's no telling when your soulmate is from, and if they're farther than maybe 5 years in the past, then it would be impossible to guess the results, as no one had ever gone back more than a week and lived.

She can feel her fingers shake as she moves to turn the page. Tom grunts and so she pauses, waiting for his affirmatory nod. The next, and final section of the chapter is on the physical connections of soulmates.

'While soulmates have a definite mental, and of course, soul, bond, there have been a few rare cases of soul mates also being bonded physically. No one knows what causes these particular soulmates to be different from others, though it has been speculated that it is due to the strength of the bonds the soulmates have.

In the case of Mary and William Bradshire, the most recent and most thoroughly documented instance of this occurrence, when they first met (NOTE: they met under normal circumstances and were not magically transported to each other), upon taking Mary's hand in greeting, William found he could not remove it. She, of course, did what any respectable woman would, and slapped him. She too, though, found that once her hand was on his face she could not move it.

Over the course of several days of having to work around the inconvenience of being quite literally attached to someone, they eventually started to genuinely like each other. Their families, of course, were mollified. William and Mary became a well-known scandal in their hometown, despite their best efforts to remain dignified and respectable throughout the ordeal.

William agreed to be interviewed for the writing of this book, and he referred to that time as both the best and worst of his life. "I didn't like her at first. Not at all. She was a right pain in the ass, to be frank. I had a job, and so did she, and we worked it out so that we'd go to my job one day and hers the following day. Our bosses weren't pleased, but they understood that it wasn't our fault and agreed to let us continue working so long as we agreed to try to look for a fix. That seemed fair."

Another curious part of their predicament was that whatever Mary felt affected William, and vice versa. William mentioned that whenever Mary felt particularly happy or sad or any strong emotion, he'd feel it too. He also laughingly recalled that, once, Mary had been unable to fall asleep, and even though he was particularly exhausted that day, he was unable to fall asleep.

Upon asking William how he and Mary finally did manage to physically unattach themselves, William's eyes got a definite twinkle. He says on the matter, "We simply did as love told us to." When asked to elaborate, he refused, and ended the interview. '

Hermione glares balefully at the words. Lots of help, that man. ' "We simply did as love told us to,"' indeed. That could mean any number of things, each more unpleasant to imagine than the last.

"What the actual FUCK?" It is the first time she has heard him swear. His eyes are blood red, scalding her very soul. Wand clutched tightly, his knuckles turn a pasty shade of white. His breaths come in short bursts, faster, faster, his chest heaving. "What is this shit you've gotten us into? How the hell are we supposed to know whatever the fuck love wants us to do? What love wants us to do? That's fucking hilarious." Now that he's started swearing, it seems a dam has been unleashed.

"Maybe it-"

"See! You don't fucking know! There is no way to know!" They are nearly nose to nose, and she can clearly see all the muscles in his face. He is tense, ready to snap, a dark thundercloud before the storm begins.

"We'll figure it out! If those people could do it then so can we! Now, what's the first thing that you think of when you think of love?" She can't help but be curious as to the future dark lord's opinion on love.

"I- what?" His brows crease. Then, after a moment, his expression goes blank. "I don't believe in love at all. How could it possibly exist? Other people talk about it as though it's something good and real, but I've never experienced it, and, in the few cases of so-called love that I've observed, it's only ended up a detriment to the overall potential of all parties involved."

It's not the outright hatred that she expected, but it is still sad. "So you're obviously going to be of no help in figuring this out, then." She shakes her head. He opens his mouth to protest but she cuts him off, "The things I think of when I think of love are family, hugging, surprising people with nice things, friends, and putting someone else first rather than yourself." His lips curl into a sneer.

"And how is any of that going to help us? We aren't family, I won't risk hugging you and you getting stuck to my chest," he shivers in apparent disgust, "I highly doubt surprising you with something nice is the answer, we aren't friends either, and I think, in the end, we're each putting ourselves first in trying to get out of this."

"Stop making this so difficult. I don't know, what are some things couples do when they're in love?" She nearly bursts out laughing at his expression. He looks so completely confused and yet still irritated. "I don't have the most experience with this, and I've never truly been in love, but holding hands is obvious, though that can be ruled out due to the account in the book." She is embarrassed by what she is about to say, and she lets it out in a rush, "Thereisofcoursetheageoldtraditionofkissingandsleepingtogether."

"Come again?"

"I said,'kissing and sleeping together,'" she spits.

He lets out a frustrated sound. "We've already slept together, and before you protest, I know that's not what you meant." He now really regrets not just trying the Siamese twin potion, though now that it's clear their affliction is being soulmates he doubts it would've worked anyway. "I will sleep with you, in an attempt to get us unattached, of course, on one condition." The sleeping together bit is no issue for him, he has no moral qualms with it and has heard enough on the subject from overhearing his Knights to have at least a vague sense of what he's doing.

Her face scrunches. Then, warily, "And that is?"

"I want to know your name and where you were before you were transported here." He notes how wide her eyes go and the way she immediately tries to put space between them by once again scooting to the edge of his knees, stopped from further retreat by her own arm. He's struck gold.

"No. I can't tell you that." Her voice shakes, and her eyes are frightened, looking everywhere but at him. "I mean, I really don't think the solution is to sleep together anyway."

"So what does that leave us with?" Tom growls. "This predicament has gone on long enough. It is completely unacceptable. This is fucking Christmas for fuck's sake."

"It's Christmas?" the surprise in her voice sounds genuine.

"What of it?"

"I just didn't know, is all," she is still defensive, tense and ready to run, not that she could.

It hurts him on more than one level, but he suggests it, "We could go to Dumbledore." Her face instantly brightens, the first hints of a smile touching the corners of her mouth and eyes. He hopes his own countenance suggests how much he loathes the idea. It is the last resort.

"Yes, that sounds good. He'll know what to do. That was what I suggested in the first place." She slides the rest of the way off his lap, standing as far to the side as possible to let him get up. Upon standing, he looks down at her. She actually smiles at him, and he feels part of himself, a part he didn't even know he had, want to smile back. He represses it.

They stand there staring at each other for a full minute, him frowning, and her with a smile that slowly dies as the minute goes on. "Come on," he manages as last.

As they walk, awkwardly and at a slight angle, he mutters the same Invisibility Charm that he used the night previously and covers them both. The main benefit to this particular charm is that it allows one to still see themselves, but still remain totally undetected by others. The last thing they need is to be spotted by the school gossips. Not that any of them would be in the library on Christmas, but it's always best to be careful.

They manage to make it all the way to the doors of the library without being spotted, and, in what they will both look back on with no small degree of annoyance, cross the threshold of the doors without first checking for malignant spells or curses.

The instant their feet cross the line between the library and the hall they feel themselves unable to take another step forward. Frantic, they try to go back into the library, but they can't go back either, and are stuck in the doorway. Tom takes out his wand, determined to get out, one way or another. He scans their surroundings, trying to figure out where the curse came from when he feels the girl tugging on his chest. He whirls to face her, ready to yell at her for interrupting when he realizes she's pointing at something above their heads. He follows her finger to the offending plant. Mistletoe.

They look at each other and then simultaneously begin throwing all manner of curses and hexes at it. Not so much as a leaf stirs; even when Tom lights the whole plant on fire it remains pristine. After each of them has thrown at least 25 spells at it, increasingly creative and dark with each attempt, and the plant remains and they are still stuck, they give up and Tom leans against a doorpost in defeat.

That mistletoe definitely wasn't there yesterday, he'd swear to it. "Look, I know there's got to be some kind of counter to it that will-"

"There is." She sounds absolutely exhausted. "If we just kiss this will all-"

"Absolutely not."

"Why not? It'll get this over with faster."

"What if we get stuck like that? There must be another-"

"Oh, you're just an arrogant coward who-"

He surges forward, slamming her back into the opposite doorpost. He towers over her, staring down into her wide eyes that are gold in the sliver of light that hits them. Leaning down so that his lips are a mere breath away from hers, he hisses, "Don't call me that ever again." With that, he closes the last of the distance between them.

She tastes of books and honey, and he can't get enough. She is kissing him back with equal fervor, biting at his bottom lip in a way that drives him mad. Her chest heaves against his, he feels her heartbeat like it is his own, pounding, pounding in his ears. His tongue slips into her mouth, exploring, delighting in her very being. He nips at her lips, and is rewarded with a deep moan that reverberates in his spine. They aren't close enough, the thin layer of clothes between their skin too much.

Neither notices when their hands are freed, too tangled with the other to care. Tom's hands go to her waist, pressing her closer as one of Hermione's hands reaches around his neck and the other knots itself in his dark hair.

Also unnoticed is the green glow that starts in Tom's chest and then spreads through his body to Hermione's. It engulfs them both, swirls around them, caresses them with its light. The light leaves Tom entirely, settling on Hermione with an air of finality.

They are still kissing when she begins to disappear. Tom opens his eyes when he can no longer feel her mouth on his, and he can't speak when he sees her in front of him, still there but ghostlike and fading fast. She reaches for his face but her fingers go right through him.

She starts to speak, but her voice is hard to hear. She is shouting now, but it's barely a whisper to his ears. All he can hear is, "My name is-"

Then she's gone.

fin