Adronitis
n. frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone

After his last period of the day, Tom waited [somewhat] patiently for Hermione to arrive back at her office.

'Later,' she had said. Well, after her last class certainly would be later. They'd be alone, and he had had the remainder of the day to ponder extactly how to go about this.

With careful consideration, he had come to the conclusion that a standard interrogation, as he had initially planned, would not be as effective as one would expect and could potentially drive her away again. Aside from that, it would be impractical to attempt - he had no time to brew Veritaserum, he knew she had lied under the influence of the Cruciatus before, she was much too strong willed for an Imperius to hold(not to mention that even if it did, it's best not to make the those under that particular curse talk without a script; they'd often babble incoherently or make it otherwise painfully obvious that they'd been bewitched. Best to stick to actions alone), he did not trust his still developing Legilimency against her trained Occlumency, and having her mad at him was decidedly unpleasant.

For all those reasons, a true interrogation would have to be a last resort.

Her ability to withhold information was equally as admirable as it was infuriating.

However, he was still confident in his abilities to weedle information as needed. He wasn't a Slytherin for nothing.

So when it was ten minutes past classes and she opened her office door, he casually motioned for her to join him where he sat on her couch. He had been patient. He had waited. Now, it was his time to finally coax something useful out of her.

She cast him a brief glance before firmly replying, "No," and confidently striding over to her desk.

"No? What do you mean 'no'? You said-"

"I said," she cut him off with that haughty, stuck up tone she used far too often, "that attempting an interrogation in the middle of the day in my public, frequently occupied classroom was a bad idea."

Outraged by her refusal, he didn't bother to correct her about how he no longer planned to interrogate her. "You said, 'later.' It's later. Now."

"I said you would need to attempt it later, I never said I'd cooperate."

"And I," he retorted sharply, "said I'd hold to that. I am. Now sit down."

Just as she reached for a small, dragon hide bookbag that she had under her desk, she halted. Whipping around furiously, she asked, "Are you incapable of listening? Have you suddenly lost the ability to comprehend English? I said no, and as it just so happens, I have plans."

"No, you most certainly do not."

She set the bag down on the desk. Her hands visibly tensed into fists.

"I'm only going to say this once," she said, letting out a shaky breath. "Just as I know I cannot control you, you need to learn that you cannot control me either. I do not care what you tell me to do. You do not get to decide where I go, or what I do, or who I talk to, or when, or anything about my life. I'm going to do as I please, regardless of how you feel about it. And right now, I want to leave. There is nothing short of cold blooded murder that you can do to stop me from doing so. So, what's it going to be?"

Leaning against the desk, she cocked her head. He felt himself somewhat taken aback by the open boldness of the statement. There was no way in bloody hell she was serious.

Mentally, Tom began to process all his available options. A body-bind curse could be very easily blocked, or she'd simply dispel it if it did hit. Earlier, he had ruled out attempting to use the Imperius Curse and he had not changed his mind - it would be inefficient. Though he could attempt to physically restrain her, he knew she would not take it lying down and he did not fancy getting kneed in the groin again. Murder, was, of course, out of the question. At least for her.

Not having any other retort, he scoffed. "Bit dramatic, aren't you?"

"Right then," she said, once again grabbing her bag, "glad we could get that cleared up."

As she moved for the door, he jumped to his feet. "You admit you can't control me," he explained quickly at her exasperated groan, "so you admit you can't stop me from following you."

For just a second, she halted. Her hand stayed on the doorknob as she considered his response.

"Fine," she said coldly before practically stomping down the hallway.

Only a pace behind her, he didn't bother to bite back his smirk.

"What year did you graduate?" He asked with as much cordiality as he could muster, even pretending to check his fingernails.

When she had said she had plans, Tom assumed she meant an appointment, or perhaps she just fancied a weeknight trip to Hogsmeade. Evidently, his assumptions were incorrect.

Hermione looked up from where she stood, awkwardly bent over a mutilated piece of boomslang skin. Rather than Diagon Alley, or the Three Broomsticks, or any of the usual places people went when they 'had plans,' Hermione had chosen to lead him to Slughorn's empty classroom, which she was borrowing for her own experimentation. In one hand, she held her wand. Scattered in front of her were different bits of parchment, littered with notes, runes, and messily scratched questions. Placed on her right, the silver knife he had found in her nightstand.

After inquiring about what in Merlin's name she was doing, he discovered that the knife was cursed. While he definitely would have appreciated knowing that before he had picked it up, he did not tell her this because it would reveal that he had figured out how to get into her private room and he didn't want her to go changing the locks(metaphorically speaking). Thankfully, it wasn't the type of curse that could affect with just a simple touch.

She frowned. "What?"

"I said, 'what year did you graduate?'"

"I'm twenty-four. I know you haven't taken a math class since you were eleven, but I trust in your ability to calculate that for yourself. Regardless, how exactly is that relevant?"

This time he frowned, meeting her refusal to give him a straightforward answer with irritation and further suspicion. "It's not," he answered, "I'm just curious. Is that a problem?"

Her eyes narrowed. A moment later, she asked, "Why?" Without dropping her wand, she straightened her back and crossed her arms over her chest. She fiddled with her sleeves again as she spoke. "What reason do you have to be curious about me?"

"Well," he started, taking note of her irrational defensiveness and thinking to himself that she should be less conspicuous if she really wanted to stay under the radar, "you are a fascinating individual with an uncanny knowledge of my life, and are currently standing in front of me. Is that not good reason intrigued?"

"No," she sniffed. "I don't want your interest."

"Too late for that now, but you could try being less interesting. Not that it would work, of course, but if you want to expend the effort regardless, who am I to stop you?"

She opened her mouth, then quickly shut it before she could speak. The muscles in her jaw began to tense, and her fingers briefly tapped at her wand. As though thinking better of it, she turned back to her work, muttering under her breath, "I'd ask who raised you to be such a menace, but we both know better."

Rolling his eyes, he put his own book down and approached the desk she was working at. Moving her wand in a precise, methodical manner over the boomslang skin, she whispered an incantation he didn't quite catch.

The lacerations of the skin very quickly began to glow, but then nothing happened. A look of frustration very briefly flashed over her face before she took a controlled breath and managed to restrain her irritation.

"What are you doing?" Though it was the same question he had asked when he first entered this classroom, he now expected a more precise answer.

Reaching over to scribble yet another rune out on the parchment, she didn't look up. "Breaking a curse only prevents the cursed item from causing future harm, it does not-"

"Negate any damage done previously," he cut her off, "and you're trying to figure out how to reverse the effects of the curse on that knife. Yes, you told me. But what are you doing now? Explain the process."

Though not seeming to appreciate the command, she did as bade. "That," she gestured to the knife, "works by taking the users magical signature and forcing it into the wound it creates, causing long term pain and resistance to healing. It's almost like a magical infection. What I'm trying to do now is use the runes to identify, latch onto, and then lift - remove - the embedded magic."

The concept, in theory, was simple. Though he had very quickly learned that just because something can be easily understood, does not necessarily mean it is easily accomplished - immortality, for example.

"I've heard books mention the concept of a magical signature before," he said, grabbing at one of her papers to glance over it, "but I never thought it was literal. You told me once, that you can learn to identify someone's, that you know mine. How?"

"I never understood it until I became a teacher," looking over her notes, she replied absently. "Magic leaves traces. I'll see the same spell cast a dozen times in a row by a dozen students, and they all look the same, have the same incantation, cause the same effects - but the traces it leaves behind, those are different. If there's enough power, if it's strong enough, you can sense it - hear it, feel it, almost taste it, even."

Immediately, he wondered what hers would feel like - taste like - and how long it would take himself to figure it out.

"Think of it like hearing a bunch of people all say the same word," she continued, "the pronunciation may be the same, but you'll learn to recognize the voices."

That, he admitted, was quite interesting. It did not surprise him to hear that amongst a crowd, even the simplest of spells he cast would stand out merely because they were his - he had learned early on that his magic was special, different, better, when compared to other people's. Still, he liked having it verbally confirmed. He reached across from her, grabbed the knife, and twirled it between his fingers. There was still some residue from the boomslang skin on it, he noticed, and reached for a cloth to wipe it away. Hermione's eyes never left his hand as he held it.

"Where did you get this?" He asked, examining the engravings of the handle - decorative swirls, but no distinctive markings. Often, when an item was built to be cursed, it had runes, symbols, or other identifying markers. This one did not, meaning it was either created as just a knife and cursed later, or it was meant to be inconspicuous.

He looked up. Her lips had pursed. "It was given to me, in a manner of speaking."

He arched a brow. "In a manner of speaking?"

She said nothing, but reached out to take the knife from his hands. Carefully shifting his grasp to the blade, he allowed her to take the handle. She purposefully placed it down on her opposite side, far away from him. He nearly scoffed.

It's not as though he had any desire to butcher her. If he had wanted to kill her(which he did not), he'd pick a much cleaner method - blood stains were difficult to get out of robes, and regardless, he didn't much care for the mess - or for the smell.

She was still quiet as she examined the parchment again and began to sketch out another runic pattern. Not particularly interested, he wasn't looking too closely. Though, he did recognize a rune typically associated with blood cleansing, another with pain, and one for the soul.

"You never told me what you know about my family," he prompted. Interrogation would be impractical and unwise at this time, he reminded himself repeatedly, but there was no harm in asking questions. As she so often liked to remind him, she was a teacher - it was her job. "Just over a week ago, I asked you what else you knew about my family, but you never told me because-"

"I remember," she interjected irritably, seemingly unpleased with the subject matter. "I know that your family does not determine who you are as a person and that you put too much stock into your ancestry."

"Humor me."

She was right, he knew. His father had been a worthless muggle, his mother an incompetent witch. The only notable ancestor he had was Slytherin himself, and while that was significant in signifying his place within the magical world, he could not deny that he felt somewhat distanced from Slytherin since the Chamber had closed. Still, it was his family. He deserved to know about them.

A sigh was her initial response. A moment later, she put her quill down and angled her torso back, turning to him once again. Her lips had formed a frown of uncertainty, as though she was unsure of what to say. "Not much," she finally settled on. "I know what happened with your mother, and what she did to your father. What he consequently did to her, as well. But I also know that your mum did everything she could to keep herself alive until you were born, for your sake - Stole family heirlooms and sold them to keep the two of you fed and sheltered. She gave up once she could without completely giving up on you too, I know, but you mattered to her. You were the very last thing she lived for."

The subsequent scoff and the eyeroll were uncontrollable, reflexive gestures. "How terribly romantic."

The word 'heirlooms' definitely caught his attention, though. Sitting on his right hand was the only Gaunt family heirloom he had known of, and if there were more he wouldn't deny he felt a compulsive need to collect those as well.

They were his birthright, and little as that was worth now, he fully intended to restore its value.

"What heirlooms?" He asked, not bothering to hide his material motivations through any false pretense of sentimentality. "And where did she sell them?"

If she were disappointed by his lack of consideration for the woman who had birthed him, she did not show it beyond a small frown. "A locket that had belonged to Slytherin. She had no idea how much it was worth, so she didn't get much for it. There was probably more than that, but I don't know what. She sold it to Borgin and Burkes."

At the mention of Slytherin, he perked up, duly noting that information before turning his attention back to the real task at hand. "How do you know this?"

"I'm nosy."

"So I've gathered. Certainly, you're rather good at it too. I'd be interested to learn your technique."

"I'm afraid that's not negotiable," she answered.

With that, she turned her back to him. Rolling the bits of parchment up, she began shoving them into her bag. Realizing she was about to just leave, again, he grabbed the first thing he could think of to use as a hostage - the knife.

In retrospect, that was probably a bad idea considering his intention was still to earn her complete and unfailing trust. At the very least, he could say he was not wielding it at her - just holding it to the table, caged beneath his fingers. It was not going anywhere and if she wanted to keep it, neither was she.

"Tom," she ground out, "please give me back my knife."

"You aren't in need of it."

Though she did not literally stamp her foot like a petulant child, he could hear her heel begin to grind against the stone floor as she struggled to restrain herself from throttling him.

In its own way, it was cute.

With a slight tilt of her head, she raised her chin.. "Do you want to guess what'll happen to your fingers if I accio that knife back?"

"I'd lose a few fingertips, no doubt," he replied with ease, not removing his hand, "but you would then have a knife flung in your direction, and I wouldn't bet money on your ability to catch it without injuring yourself, or on your willingness to trust my healing capabilities."

Crossing her arms over her chest, she shifted her weight on her feet and leaned against the table. "What are you playing at?" She asked.

"I'm just trying to have a conversation."

"And I'd like to leave."

"Then leave - I'm not stopping you."

"Then give me back my knife."

"I already told you: you are not in need of it."

"It's still mine."

"And I'm sure you'd like to keep it," he replied smoothly, "which can easily be arranged if you cooperate and talk with me."

Hostages were a wonderful invention, Tom decided.

Her eyes flickered quickly from him, to the knife under his hand, and then back to him. It looked like she had come to the same conclusion he had, albeit in different terms: that they were at an impasse.

If she wanted to, she could utilize her position of authority and take house points, or award detention, for his insolence. Though he knew her well enough to know she would not. The same morals that made her furious with herself for kissing him, for even wanting to kiss him in the first place, would eat away at her for abusing her position of power to punish him for something personal. Everything she did had to be justifiable by her own ethical code, arbitrary and hypocritical as it may be.

"This isn't productive," she finally said. He couldn't agree more. "Will you please just tell me what it is that you want from me?"

The frustration in her voice was growing steadily more prominent. Slowly, the volume began to raise and the pitch came a bit more shrill. Since the incident in the alcove, she'd been more guarded than usual. More careful. The only time he seemed to be able to force a candid reaction out of her was when he had pushed her to the limits of her patience - this was proving to be no exception.

"I just want to know you," he answered calmly. "You told me once that there's power in anonymity - but the more I've seen of you, the more clear it is that you're not after power at all. You're terrified, and you're hiding from something. I want you to tell me what it is."

In a show of defiance, she raised her chin. "No." She spoke very clear, in a firm tone he very rarely heard outside of the classroom. "You're being awful presumptuous about my life, and I don't have to tell you anything."

"If you think something will happen to you, or someone is trying to hurt you, I can offer you protection. But I need you to tell me everything," he countered, discarding her attempt at diversion.

"You've always said I'm paranoid," she argued, "why are you just now coming to the conclusion that I have valid reason to be?"

He wasn't even sure what he was about to say to that, but as the classroom door swung open, any potential response died in his throat. Since this was not her office or classroom, she couldn't lock the door without suspicion. Tom was now sure that was intentional, further evidenced by the relieved sigh he saw her give as her eyes turned to address the newest occupant of the room.

Slughorn, jolly and oblivious as ever, waltzed in with half a dozen half empty potion bottles clinking noisily in his arms.

"Oh, Hermione my dear! I forgot you were in here!" He exclaimed exuberantly, giving no notice to the sudden tension in the room or the way Hermione immediately took several steps back, away from Tom. "I'll just be in and out - just needed to drop off these bottles before I forget. And Tom m'boy, I suppose I should've guessed you'd be here too, shouldn't've I ? Very considerate of you, indeed, always offering a helping hand. Have you gone through any of those papers I gave you? The ones from the Ministry?"

At the beginning of the year, Slughorn had given him enough Ministry pamphlets to stuff his bag twice over. Luckily, they had been given to him in an enchanted folder. Auror training programs, secretarial work that promised 'an opportunity to climb the political ladder' - none of it held any interest for him. He vanished them as soon as he was out of the overly enthusiastic potion master's sight.

"I've looked," Tom lied politely. He swallowed his anger at having been interrupted down with a proper, but entirely dishonest, smile. "I'm still considering it, I'm afraid. Haven't made a decision yet. I'm sure you understand how important of a choice it is."

Slughorn let out a deep belly laugh, still no consideration or acknowledgement of what he had walked in on. "That it is! But I'd be happy to deliberate with you, if you'd like. Or, Professor Granger, I'm sure you'd be willing as well. Perhaps make it a team effort, eh?"

Much too polite for Tom's liking, Hermione replied with a demeanor that mirrored his own. "I'd be delighted," she said with painfully forced sincerity. "Though, I'm afraid it'll have to wait. I was just packing up to head back to my office. Tom, hand me that knife, would you?"

With an audience present, he knew he could not refuse. Handing it over, he grit his teeth even as he smiled.

"Of course."

Her eyes sparkled with self satisfaction as she accepted it back. "Thank you," she cheerfully replied with a mockingly genuine smile.

After securing the knife within its holder and stuffing it back into her bag, she looked brightly up at their still oblivious and annoyingly present guest. "Thank you again, Horace, for allowing me your classroom on such short notice."

"Not to worry, dear! Not to worry. You know I only love to encourage your academic pursuits! And I'm sure Tom appreciated the opportunity to learn a thing or two."

Her smile tightened. "Well, I appreciate it nevertheless, but I really must be going now. Goodnight Horace, Riddle. " She nodded curtly to both of them before she exited the room.

Slughorn hummed a jolly tune as he loudly dropped the glass bottles into the classroom sink. "Lovely woman, isn't she? Truthfully, Headmaster Dippet was a bit apprehensive about her age at first, but she's proven to be such a gem for our dear school."

"Yes, sir." Tom gripped the table next to him until his knuckles turned white. "She most certainly is."

New tactic. New plan.

If Hermione would not give up her information willingly, not even through careful coaxing, he'd have to search elsewhere. Anywhere. Everywhere.

Even if it meant the source was as unpleasant as it was potentially unreliable.

Though it practically killed him to do it, Tom arrived to Dumbledore's class early and approached the desk.

As was usual in these types of situations, he was offered a candy - this time, an acid pop.

As was also usual, he declined it.

With the formalities over, Dumbledore turned his full attention back to the student in front of him. "Is something on your mind, Tom?"

"In a way, yes" Tom answered, forcing his voice to remain calm and unbothered, "though it's merely curiosity, I must confess. You see, I was speaking with some other students the other night, and I heard a bit of a rumor that I was hoping you could shed some light on."

Though he watched the other man closely, looking for any indication that he was nervous, or hiding something, or lying, he saw nothing. There was no twitching or coughing, no stuttering. Though, for a moment Tom swore that maddening eye twinkle looked just a bit brighter for a second.

"Is that so?" Dumbledore asked not unkindly. "I'm intrigued to hear what the imagination of young minds can conjure. Please, do go on. I'll confess, I have a bit of an ear for gossip."

"Well," said Tom, cracking a perfectly in character boyish grin, "I'm afraid it's not all too interesting. Just that you used to be Professor Granger's professor as well. Is that true?"

The intensity with which he observed the man across from him only increased, though he did his best not to show it.

"You spend a fair amount of time with her, do you not? Is there any reason you haven't asked her?"

Tom felt his mask crack for just a fraction of a second before he recovered. "She dislikes talking about herself, and I try to respect that."

Looking straight ahead, he irrationally felt much like he had as an eleven year old child, standing beside a burning wardrobe with a box of stolen goods in his hands.

Dumbledore, however, merely smiled at him. "How considerate of you."

Acknowledging the condescension he was sure was there, Tom said nothing.

"I've had many students over the years, Tom. And I'm sure to have many more." He then gave Tom a very knowing look, one which many would have interpreted as kind, but that only furthered Tom's suspicions that he was being taunted. "I noticed you finished the book for this course. How did you like it?"

Tom forced his muscles to relax, and his face to remain amicable. "It was very insightful, sir."

Politely excusing himself with the false premise of needing to relieve himself before class, Tom found the first available empty corridor and harshly smashed his fist against the stone wall.

It was muggle. He knew that. Wizards did not often solve their problems with their fists, always turning to wands and duels instead. Still, there was something uniquely gratifying about feeling destruction against one's skin that could not be achieved in the same way with magic, comparable to how even the most magnificently cast Scrougify was inferior to a genuine wash, or how "true love" could not be concocted.

Taking a deep, controlled inhale, he held it for a count of seven.

He healed the broken, bleeding skin of his knuckles. He finger-combed his hair back into place.

He walked back to class.

The too vague and too coincidentally relevant answer that Dumbledore gave only pushed Tom further into his suspicions, prompting further investigation.

Now, he needed evidence. Theories were useful but they were merely that: theories. He needed something solid. Tangible. Something that could not be refuted. Proof.

While he did not know exactly what he was looking for, Tom recalled the details listed in the book(limited as they were) and used them to form something of an idea.

The theory had been very clear that a charmed device would be needed. There was no other way to stabilize magic to apply the necessary precision to move through the chosen amount of time(no closer or further), taking only the individual themselves(and whatever chosen belongings, such as clothing, they may have on their person at the time). No matter how talented a single witch or wizard, the process of attempting such a feat with only oneself and a wand would have disastrous results, potentially flinging the caster much further than they intended, or destroying them in the process, bits and pieces scattered across time.

A device. That narrowed it down.

Something small enough to be taken with the user narrowed it down even more - if it were merely a machine someone stepped into, they'd be trapped with no way back. If it was possible to return to their own time, the device would have to be small enough to be easily handled.

With that idea in mind, he used his free period to go back to her private room, again, and search. He didn't bother with her office first. She would never be careless enough to leave something so valuable, so incriminating, in a room she knew he searched through regularly. Her bedroom, however, she still wasn't aware he could access on his own. The one time he had gone through it, he was careful to leave it just as he had found it.

After a thorough investigation of the room, twice, he still found nothing. Nothing suspicious, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that he hadn't seen last time(with the less than notable exception of some carefully wadded, slightly reddened toilet paper in the bathroom rubbish bin.That, he felt no need to investigate, though he did wash his hands).

Fisting his hands through his hair, he flopped onto the bed with an exasperated groan. Later, he'd fix the bedding, make it look just as pretty and perfect and unused as it had before he came in. Now, he hardly gave a damn. Lifting his wrist, he checked his watch. Twenty minutes left before she came back.

He allowed his hand to fall over the edge of the bed as he contemplated what to do next.

Before he could catch it, his ring slipped from his finger and clattered noisily to the floor. Despite the uselessness of the gesture, he tossed a glare in the direction of the discarded ring. He knew he should have charmed it to fit to size, he scolded himself as he lifted off the mattress and crouched to the floor.

As it had fallen under the bed, he didn't see it immediately. He cast a lumos with his wand, looking for the distinctive glint of the gold band reflecting the light. With that, it didn't take him long to find it, but he noticed something else as he went to reach for it.

The small beaded bag that Hermione had shoved under the bed frame was still there, though he had more or less forgotten about it. He hardly considered it interesting, and he knew it was unlikely to be able to hold much more than maybe a wallet and a tube of lipstick, but he had searched everything else already and he had twenty minutes left to look. It also wasn't like he could find himself any more disappointed than he already was, so it wasn't exactly a risk even by emotional means.

Without another moment of consideration, he grabbed it as well.

It did not take him twenty minutes to find incriminating evidence. It did not even take him twenty seconds to do so.

He had been right. Time travel. Impossible as it was, he literally had the proof in the bag.

The small, beaded satchel had an undetectable extension charm applied to it, and a damn good one too - the thing was practically a black hole. He took a moment, and only a moment, to berate himself for his ignorance, for thinking like a muggle and not searching it sooner, before he pushed the thought from his mind. The bag had been a goldmine, and his time to search it limited.

Though he had twenty minutes, he only took five. He rummaged through the bag, through all the books with publishing dates that hadn't passed yet, newspapers that has yet to be published, through the broken bits of artifacts, the excessive amount of sentimental photographs she kept away in a scrapbook, the muggle clothing even more unusual than those in her wardrobe, until he found what he knew had to be what he was looking for.

From the long, thin chain of a necklace dangled a pendant formed of two interlocking rings. Anchored within the inner ring was a disk containing a flippable hourglass. Along the sides of the pendant were the printed words,

'I mark the hours, every one, nor have I yet outrun the sun. My use and value unto you, are gauged by what you have to do'

He was careful about handling it. He didn't even have to perform a charm to detect for magic - like Hermione had said, he could just feel that it was there. Not wanting to accidentally trigger it somehow, he held onto it gently, touching only the chain as he tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. The bag was small enough he was able to shove it into the pocket of his robe, the black fabric easily concealing the slight bulge it caused.

His hands were shaking as he left her room.

Tom was careful before he approached her office. He knew that there was a solid chance this conversation would not go smoothly, and he didn't want to risk being interrupted before it resolved.

Deciding it was best to put as many safeguards in place as possible, he started with something simple: a diversion in the opposite hallway of the same floor to lure away the portraits. Specifically, he told Mulciber(who conveniently had a free period, as did most seventh years) that Nott had his Arithmancy homework from when he was in the infirmary two days previously, and that he was practicing for his charms exam in one of the abandoned classrooms on the sixth floor, not coincidentally on the adjacent wing from Professor Granger's office. What he deliberately did not mention was that Olympia Goyle, Mulciber's betrothed, had decided to join him.

(Even if Mulciber were oblivious enough to his fiancee's distaste for him, he was not so poorly socialized as to be unable to comprehend what it means when another man puts a hand up the skirt of his wife-to-be.)

Though he could have caused a scene in just about any other way(made a first year wet themselves, started a fire, lured Peeves into the corridor and asked him to hold any object weighing more than half a bludger - truly, the options were plentiful), there was nothing to excite the medieval portraits like the good, old fashioned gore associated with two men attempting to kill one another over the affection of a woman. He estimated that though they'd all be drawn to the scene, maybe a fifth would make a show of attempting to alert the Deputy Headmaster or the caretaker, maybe another fourth would attempt to diffuse the situation, but at least a solid half would just sit back and enjoy the performance.

His prediction was proven to be accurate.

With his remaining time, he took the opportunity to thoroughly ward her office. First, with just simple silencing charms applied to the walls and door, preventing noise from both coming in and going out of the office.

The second enchantment was a bit more complex - still easily accomplished by his own standards, but a bit more complicated.

After reading about the muggle repellent wards placed around Hogwarts, Tom began to question how easy it would be to tweak them. After becoming Head Boy, he made it a priority to further investigate so he could apply a modified version of the charm to his door, preventing needy students from disrupting his well earned rest.

The wards, as Hogwarts: A History had so helpfully described, worked by effectively weaponizing distraction. Any time a muggle neared the school, they'd suddenly find themselves remembering a dentist appointment they had set up, or that they needed to go grocery shopping, urgently, now, and find themselves walking determinedly in the opposite direction of the building. His modified version worked in much the same manner, except it didn't only affect muggles, but anyone who attempted to disturb him by knocking.

If he now had to open his door without touching it, it was a small price to pay in exchange for undisturbed rest.

Based on how soundly he'd been sleeping as of late, he assumed his experiment had proven itself a success, and applied the same warding enchantment to her door as well. Then, so that she would not be the one deterred from entering, left the door wide open and settled himself on the couch.

The warding and diversion, from start to finish, took thirteen minutes. Classes would be done for the day in two. It would take her maybe another ten, estimating generously, to finish packing up her class and get back to the office.

Fingers wrapping around the golden chain in his pocket, he attempted to calm himself and settle back against the cushions as he waited.

After what felt like an eternity, she came back.

Before even greeting him, she gave the open door a glance entirely lacking in subtlety, and then(presumably when her eyes alone could find nothing wrong with it), another.

"Why is my door open?" She looked over to him from where she lingered in the doorway. "Don't you tell people you study in here because it's more private than the library? Wouldn't having this wide open completely blow that cover?"

He blinked. "I'd rather people didn't think I was hiding," he quickly supplied.

Much too slowly for his liking, she cautiously stepped through the doorway. He counted her steps until she was far enough into the room for him to use magic to close(and then lock) the door behind her.

She jumped at the sound, turning back to him with wide eyes and a hand placed against her chest.

His response was a tight lipped smile. "Better?"

She gave yet another sideways glance to the door before shaking her head. "Absolutely not."

With a few strides across the room, she sat at her desk. He waited a few minutes(or, he thought he did), before speaking up.

"Hermione?"

He licked his lips. "I think there's something we need to talk about."

She looked up only to give him a cold stare. "Then talk."

"I'd rather you came over here first." He motioned to the space on couch next to him.

"Actually," she said quickly, tone significantly now high pitched, "I just remembered - I need to speak with Professor Binns about the detention supervision schedule." In a swift and ungraceful motion, she jumped from her chair and began to walk back towards the door.

Immediately, he sat up, ready to protest, but then as soon as her hand touched the doorknob, her eyes glazed over for just a fraction of a second. "Actually," she said with a slightly dazed tone, turning back to the desk, "I need to sort through last week's homework first."

As she sat back down, he bit the inside of his cheeks to forcibly restrain his grin. Oh, this was just delightful.

The repellent charm worked both ways. Just as others could not enter, she could not leave until he allowed it.

"No," he said conversationally, pulling the chain from his pocket, "I think we're going to talk now."

She looked up just as he fully revealed the necklace, expression shifting from one of indignance to a look of shocked horror. His lips quirked. "I think you would have some explai-"

Before he could even finish his sentence, her wand was out and aimed directly at him.

"Sectumsempra."

She whispered it softly, but with determination. Somewhat alarmed, he realized he had never heard of that spell before.

With a fierce slashing motion, a flash of white light was flying his way. It was pure skill that he was able to throw up a shield in time to block it. As he looked to the couch cushion beside him that had not been fortunate enough to be protected, he saw that the curse had cut all the way through to the framing. He swallowed.

Looking up, he saw her wand still raised and expression hard as stone. He was already on his feet by the time the next curse cast, blocking it with only moderate difficulty now that he felt prepared.

Though she had begun casting silently, he noted the colors of the spells leaving her wand, and the movements used to make them. No Unforgivables. She was scared - terrified - certainly, but she did not truly want to harm him. Or more likely, that she realized she could not, because for an Unforgivable to be correctly cast she'd have to mean it. Despite her situation, she didn't.

He took pride in knowing that, though now was not the time to devote attention to it.

When making his next decision, he was certain of one thing: he absolutely could not validated her fear. That would probably be the least productive thing he could do at this point, aside from killing or irreparably harming her.

After blocking another spell, he took the opportunity to cast his own. "Expelliarmus."

He said it out loud, clearly, so she understood his intention. As he did, her face took on an almost affectionate gleam before she discarded the look and fired another spell.

He dodged it, allowing it to collide with one of the bookshelves. The result was a resounding bang, and a colossal mess of splintered wood and torn paper.

With that, they stood in uncertain silence, wands raised.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He attempted to placate her.

She did not waver. "Then put your wand down."

He licked his lips. "That would be unwise," he drawled. "I said that I'm not going to hurt you. You, however, seem a bit too eager to curse me for my liking."

As if to demonstrate his point, she silently fired a curse straight at his head. Not wanting to test if this unidentified curse even could be blocked by a shield, he took the safe route and ducked. Sweat began to form at his brow, though he made no movement to wipe it away.

As the curse collided with the wall, it left a sizzling scorch mark in its wake. Since she wouldn't, he knew he'd have to be the one to call a house elf to clean that later.

"Hermione," he tried again as he threw a harmless Leg-Locker Jinx in her direction, and then in quick succession, an Incarcerous. Predictably, she jumped over both the jinx and the conjured ropes. "I'm your friend - you don't want to hurt me. You know that."

"What choice are you giving me?" She asked while firing a stunning spell.

With a quick Protego, he blocked it. "For Merlin's sake," he growled, patience thinning, "use your head! I've used spells more harmful than this in dueling club. All I'm doing is protecting myself. If I wanted to hurt you, truly, don't you think I'd have done it by now?"

For a brief moment, she stilled before continuing her assault. "Of course you can't kill me, nor torture me into insanity. That would be counterproductive. You can't kill me until you're done with me, and you don't have the information you want yet. Don't play me for a fool!"

"I'm well aware you're not a fool, I don't want information, and I'm never going to be 'done with you,'" he countered, still blocking and dodging the incoming spells. "I'm trying to protect you. All I want is you. Just you. Let me help you. Let me keep you safe."

"I've been just fine on my own. I don't need protecting." She crouched behind the armchair.

He grit his teeth. "The Ministry will come for you if they know what you are."

"Is that a threat?"

"No," he said, slowly coming closer, "it's a fact. That is what I'm trying to protect you from. Minister himself be damned, nothing is taking you from me."

Suddenly, she stood. "I am not something you own!"

Another spell, another block. "No," he said - it was only partially a lie - semantics and legalities aside, "you're my friend, and I'm not going to just let you get hurt."

At that, she faltered. Her wand hand, still raised, trembled just slightly. Her eyes glistened with uncertainty, and he watched her attempt to swallow it down.

Not missing the opportunity, he took his shot.

"Expelliarmus."

While the incantation came out soft, a gentle murmur, the effect was instantaneous. Her wand flew from her hand and sailed across the room in a delicate arch, where he caught it with ease.

As she watched her wand enter his grasp, she looked more afraid than he had ever seen her before.

He shoved both wands into his robe pocket, then held his hands up in a show of surrender.

"No wands," he said as soothingly as possible, "it's okay, we're just going to talk."

Closing the distance between them, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Now why don't we just sit down and-"

She jerked out of his grasp like the contact had burned her. "Stay the fuck away from me," she hissed. Her whole body was trembling. Shaking like a leaf in the middle of a thunderstorm. Her chest rose and fell with a frantic, uneven pace.

Just by the look of her, he could see that she was not even remotely stable.

Taking it upon himself to fix her, he transferred both wands from his robe to his trouser pocket, then shucked the robe off his shoulders as quickly as possible. Taking the robe, he pulled it over her shoulders tightly.

'Evenly distributed pressure over the body increases serotonin production and reduces nervous system activity, calming the body,' that was what she had told him last year. He had looked into the subject a bit more and discovered, predictably, that she had been correct. Now, he planned to put the knowledge to use.

"What are you-"

"Helping," he interrupted, answering her unfinished question as she squirmed within the grasp of the robe(If it also happened to act like something of a straitjacket, that was helpful as well - he had no desire to have to dodge punches), attempting to wriggle out of it. "Deep touch pressure - you told me about it last year - it can help a panicking person relax." Looking up at him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, she calmed, though only somewhat.

Using the restraining grip of the robe, he guided her over to the couch(remarkably, only a small bit had been damaged, but they'd worry about that later) and pushed her gently onto one of the cushions before placing himself beside her.

Later, he might question her sudden compliance, but for now he chalked it up to her state of shock, current lack of a wand, and underlying (albeit reluctant) trust in him. Letting go of the robe, he watched as she used her own hands to hold it snugly against her, gripping it like a lifeline.

She was still shaking. He needed to remedy that. Calmly, keeping his eyes level with her own, he asked, "How long before the full moon must a wolfsbane potion be taken to be effective?"

"Shut it," she snapped, eyes blazing. "That's not going to work, and I don't want your help."

Ignoring her remark that it wouldn't work(it had worked for him, after all), he continued. "True as that may be, you need it."

Still clutching the sides of his robe, she glared at him. He glared back.

He glanced over to her desk. One way or another, he was going to fix this.

"Accio Calming Draught," he whispered, easily catching the phial as it dislodged itself from her desk and flew across the room towards him.

Hermione reared back with wide eyes. "I am not drinking that."

Head dropping for just a second, he let out an exasperated sigh before looking back up at her with an incredulous expression. "You heard me summon it. You know what it is."

Pulling the robe around her tighter, she raised her chin in defiance. "I know that you were in my office before I got here, and I also know that you can say one spell while casting another, and that you can glamour the appearance of a potion. I have no idea what's in that phial, and I am not drinking it."

His jaw ticked. Her paranoia was infuriating.

'Desperate times,' he contemplated very briefly. Then he struck.

In a motion so quick that not even her hypersensitive reflexes could have blocked it, he used his forearms to keep her arms pinned and his body weight to keep her legs immobile. In one hand, he held her jaw, tilting it upwards and forcing it open. In the other, he held the phial. He uncorked it with his teeth and then proceeded to tilt it against her lips, effectively forcing the potion into her mouth.

Then, he dropped the phial and used both hands to force her jaw closed again. "Swallow."

He realized a moment too late that closing her jaw was not enough. Pushing the liquid from her lips, she promptly spat it into his face.

He blinked. "That," he drawled, releasing his grip to wipe his face, "was just childish."

Saying nothing, she continued to glare at him, pushing herself back further into the couch as though she could disappear into the cushions.

Unsure of what to do, he stared at her. At her somewhat glassy looking and yet firmly defiant eyes, at the blush that traveled down her chest - more likely from exertion than embarrassment or arousal. As he did: he came to a very comforting conclusion: he did not need her compliance. Not in this exact moment.

It would come in due time. He already had exactly what he needed to force her trust: leverage.

The book had been clear that intentional time travelers came back with a purpose, a goal, and that they inserted themselves into the lives of certain individuals in the hopes of changing the future. That individual, he was certain, was himself. He had always been destined for greatness, and she was here to help him achieve it. She had broken the laws of space and time(and of the Ministry, no doubt), to deposit herself directly into his lap.

Age and technical authority aside, he was the one with the power here. He had no need to force information from her, because she was here for him - she would make right the wrongs that led her here. And he, he could hold that future she had escaped over her, dangling it above her head, forcing her to prevent him from causing it.

Something must have shown in his expression, because she suddenly paled, blinking amber eyes shedding tears down her cheeks.

"Now, now," he gently chided her, wiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumb, "no need to cry. I'm not going to hurt you, remember?"

"You," she said quietly, coldly, "have ruined my life. And you don't even know the half of it."

There more anger to her tone than sadness.

He ran an affectionate hand over her hair. She shuddered. As he moved closer, she pushed herself even further back into the cushions. It did not deter him.

He scooted closer still, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. Ignoring the way she tensed and trembled underneath him, he wound a hand through the curls near her scalp, threading the hair through his fist. He pressed his lips softly against her hairline.

Smiling against her hair, he murmured, "this is going to be so good for us, you'll see that soon enough."

He continued to hold her as her body began to rack with sobs.

Author's Note:

- Fun(ish?) fact: the words printed on the time turner are technically canon. I got an official time turner replica as a gift that I am absolutely not nerdy enough to wear in public, but it was expensive so I had to use it somehow.

Update as of 6/2/19: this fic is not abandoned, but it is on hiatus while I explore other projects.