Tumbling, Falling, and Crash Landings

Author's Note: I really want to thank everyone who had stumbled upon this. It does funny things to my heart to see the love and appreciation from each and every one of you.

Thank you.

VII

Monster.

Insane.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Name.

Madman.

Devil.

Dark Lord.

Inhuman.

Sadistic.

Voldemort.

Freak.

Freak!

FREAK!

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.

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Failure.

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He was left there to wallow. He was left there to let the darkness he had once found comforting to consume him completely. He was left to rot. His mind would replay to course of his life, and he'd watch. Sometimes he'd join, and try to change—many, actually—things and his intelligent mind would be cruel and allow such changes to happen. He would nearly forget everything, but once he progressed through his life, usually about Fourth Year, everything came back with such a force that left Tom Riddle to swallow himself, sulking—pity his wretched existence—because nothing was fucking real anymore. Once he was playing Quidditch with his Slytherin house. Actually making—which was something he still cringed at—friends. He only envisioned that once or twice; they were all still babbling, incompetent idiots. He even tried the spiked pumpkin juice at the Yule. Such trivial things, really. Everything was different, however. His surroundings seemed to blur, people seemed translucent, the air seemed cold, his senses were diluted. In the beginning of his end, frustrated, Tom Riddle slaughtered as many students as possible before the old codger would kill him. Sometimes Tom would do it himself. And then were were times where he would cast the killing curse in the middle of the Great Hall, right to Dumbledore, and watch the life leave his eyes.

He just wanted to die—to be emerged in a peaceful, endless bliss of solitude—perhaps he didn't quite deserve that, did he?

Sometimes he'd left his father live.

Sometimes he'd strangle him with his bare hands.

By no means was Tom Riddle a sweet boy.

Years had past since his living body decayed, what was left of his magic seeking refuge in the clear glass paperweight that held the pitiful emotions of his entire life. As time passed, it was were those trivial things that made him regret so much. Like Butter. Merlin, did he miss the taste of butter.

Piteous.

That was all he was anymore.

Freak.

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.

.

The days all bled together and Tom Riddle couldn't say exactly when he had felt her. But it was abrupt. She was demanding, insistent, and overwhelming. The horcrux reacted harshly towards her entire being. She was innocent; her magic pure.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to embrace it or taint it.

There was a creek in the old, wooden floors of the small cottage—shack, really—and small, dainty, hesitant, footsteps echoed. He could practically taste her magic—he was nearly salivating. Her magic stretched out, filling, overpowering, dominating, destructing, and so full of life. If he was anything, at this very moment, he was absolutely pathetic.

Closer. Please come closer.

Please.

That was not a word part of a Dark Lord's vocabulary and certainly not familiar to Tom Riddle—except for when he charmed the damn knickers off of everyone he met, or when his blasted father was begging for his life when he killed him over and over again—

But this woman—

—He just—he had to—

Please.

He could feel the dark magic swirling in the depths of somewhere forgotten—hissing, raging, screaming, threatening, desperately just wanted to kill. Tom would not stand for it. The creeks were growing, and he never wanted something so—

"Tom Riddle," her faint voice breathed out. "Voldemort."

No! She knew. She knew. SHE KNEW—

—his magic desperately erupted, and he vaguely heard her shriek in surprise as his mere essence engulfed her, drowning her, sinking her, pulling her closer and closer to him. He could not be alone any longer. His fingers could almost ghost over her soft skin, and he could almost feel her wild hair—

—her magic retaliated; violently clawing, fighting and hissing, digging in—

She suddenly seemed like nothing but air; unobtainable, and slipping through his hold—through his magic—as he frantically tried to grip her back again.

She then she was falling.

Failure.

Wool's Orphanage

22 April 1933

"You're a freak."

Young Tom's face was stoic. The children all around him would either ignore Tom, or bully him. He was used to it. They thought he was strange, weird, a freak. They were, most of all, frighten of him; especially when Tom was mad. Toys were suddenly gone, found outside, burning—

'No one wants a boy like you," they sneered, teasing and Tom would just get so angry. Windows would suddenly burst, raining glass and shattering—

The adults who had come every month to adopt a child or two, would look over him. There eyes would skim over the little quiet boy in the corner, clutching a book, like he wasn't even there.

Lonely.

But Tom was used to it by now.

Dark eyes glanced down at the title of the book he held so desperately.

A Winter's Tale.

When Tom had seen the various books on the shelf in the sitting room, he wasn't sure where the Orphanage had gotten their dirty hands on such a collection. Perhaps it was from man who brought the post every morning; he was always bringing in something for the children. But there the book sat, high in the shelf looking worse for wear. Not that it bothered him. Everything was still legible and Tom was content sitting on the floor as the adults fluttered over the other children. He opened the cover, chubby fingers running along the smooth plains of the pages. A finger stopped at one word in particular.

No, not a word. A name.

Hermione.

Something stirred inside of him. He wasn't quite sure what, but as his dark eyes lingered over the name, and a pressure warmed his chest. Suddenly, a grubby hand ripped the book out of Tom's fingers. Wide, dark eyes looked up, startled as Billy Stubbs stood there, sneering at him. Billy idly flipped through the pages, tearing some right down the middle before tossing the book to the dull wooden floor.

"Freaks can't read."

Tom stared at the sullied book and felt something coiling inside of him—

It was silly really, he should be used to it.

Anger bubbled into rage—

Billy was walking away, back to the potential parents and gave them a wide, cheesy grin, like he had done something good.

Freakfreakfreakfreakfreak.

—something surged within him—

Billy, who was across the room by that point, suddenly bellowed over with a wail of a scream, startling all of the adults and children. He just continued to scream, scream and scream—

A sickly snap echoed through the room and everyone watched in horror as Billy's arm was now bent in an unnatural way, the bone breaking as slowly as possible.

Tom suddenly felt empty and tired. He reached over, picking up the abused book, holding it to his chest. His eyes darted around the room, the blur of adults crowding around a now sobbing Billy Stubbs. Some of the couples had even left, quickly giving their stuttering apologies to Ms. Cole before fleeing. Her eyes turned towards Tom, narrowing slightly with a frown, like he was being blamed—I didn't do anything! His mind screamed. Then he felt another pair of eyes on him and he desperately tried not to shudder. He didn't want to show weakness to them. He was smarter! He was better! He was gifted—

A large, tanned hand gripped Tom's shoulder painfully, enough to make his eyes water before Barry dragged him out of the room.

Not one person noticed Tom's absence.

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.

.

His body was numb. No matter how much Barry had smacked him around, no matter how much he had slammed Tom into walls, no matter how much he used his belt on Tom's skin; nothing compared to the overwhelming pressure swimming in his chest as his head chanted, almost as if praying that name would make Barry stop.

HermioneHermioneHermioneHermione.

The pain was sinking into his bones when Barry was finally finished, throwing the small boy into his room and spat at him for good measure. The older man said something, but Tom could barely hear him over the sound of his pounding heart and the rush in his ears, trying to focus on the fading sensation to keep him from the agony. The door slammed shut, leaving the small child in the darkness. Then the pressure was gone and Tom felt empty. He wish he still had A Winter's Tale in his arms, like it was his lifeline—

"Tom."

A strange voice startled him.

That was not Barry's voice, nor Ms. Cole. It couldn't be any of the children.

Lightning struck violently and lit up the room, emitting a woman standing in the corner near the door. Hair wild and eyes bright, her hands were up in a surrender as she crept closer.

"Wh—who. . . are y-you?" He didn't care how weak he sounded.

He didn't know how, but her hand was on his cheek and she whispered something and it didn't hurt—

She was so warm. So bright. So solid. So real—

"My name is Hermione."

Hogwarts

15 October 1940

"Correct again, Tom, m'boy!" Slughorn's praise rang out through the potion classroom.

His magic crackled. Lifting his eyes, he glanced around, centering on Malfoy. Memories that didn't quite make sense to him flooded into his mind.

"You dare defy me, Abraxas?" Tom's voice was smooth, but hard. He had a pointed, emotionless gaze on the pureblood. The blond wizard was on his knees, bowing properly to the half-blooded boy in front of him like Tom was some sort of God.

"N-no, my Lord," he coward, his long hair falling into his face as his body shook.

Tom waved his wand, bored. "You know better, Abraxas. Crucio."

Tom pulled himself out of his own thoughts as he witnessed Malfoy's agonized screams and withering. Yet, there Malfoy was, sitting, sneering at every word coming from Slughorn's mouth, and certainly not withstanding torture.

His magic was still reaching, still searching; for what, he didn't know. A looming pressure suddenly caught Tom's breath. It felt as if he was being crushed by an invisible giant that was being slowly lowered on top of him. Again, his dark eyes darted around the classroom, trying to see if this was some dirty trick. But everyone had their nose in their books—or some hiding behind them as they either slept or finished homework from their other classes—no third year student was strong enough—smart enough—to hold such a spell—

His magic suddenly gripped—

—tugged—

—pulled—

—a body crashed into his desk, sending Tom's seat skidding back a few feet. His eyes were wide as he started at the bloody mess, his magic crackling, hazing his senses—

So warm. Bright. Solid.

Someone he thought he'd never seen again—perhaps he even thought it was just his imagination—stood in front of him. Hermione rose his own wand against him.

Bloody hell.

She was real.

And he was livid.

Hogwarts

28 December 1940

He figured that it was his magic bringing her—possibly taking her away as well. Out of the two occasions he had seen his Hermione, there was that awful, crushing pressure. He desperately tried to control himself and his magic: mediating, researching endless books—restricted section, of course—but there was nothing! Not one bleeding thing—

His magic suddenly grasped something and then he felt it slipping.

"No," he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut, focusing on the force that was fighting his hold. Sweat rolled down his temples as his clenched fits shook—

—yanked—

—dragged—

—Nothing. There was no relief. There was no body. There was no Hermione.

He did what any rational wizard would do.

"Fuck!"

He bombarda his desk, watching it blast into a thousand splinters before repairing it and doing it all over again.

Failure.

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'I don't know you. . .'

Tom stared at the woman on the Hospital Wing cot, feeling numb. Her words echoed through his head throughout the months as he tried to make sense of it. He wasn't sure when he was going to see her again; if he was going to see her at all. Nothing was making any sort sense anymore. Ever since she had dropped onto his desk, Tom would wake up in a sweat, panting and shivering. He had vivid dreams of the dead—death by his hand. Something in the depths of his mind, a voice was screaming—

She knows what I am!

It was a shriek of agony, shame, and self loathing, but Tom couldn't quite connect to those feelings.

But all he could do, as he stood in the opening of the drapes, was stare at her. Gods, was she even the same woman?

Her nose was stuck in a book, her pale fingers were clutching it for dear life.

She looked—

'...but maybe that is because I haven't met you yet.'

—she seemed so weak, so fragile.

Her skin was pale, ashen and the brightness was diminishing. She had almost seemed translucent; not quite there—trying not to be there. Those bright eyes were lack luster and a bit red. There were dark purple circles under them, like she hasn't slept in a week. Her body was thin, lips were chapped and to the point there they almost looked blue—

What had happened to her?

Those eyes met his, and a smile broke out of her tinged lips. She then told him she was traveling through time calmly. Tom felt a bit put out for not coming up to that conclusion. It made sense, of course, why she didn't see to know him at first; why she was so confused. He wasn't just some dirty half-blood slowly going insane. So when had she come from? He had never seen her this weak; well, out of the two times he had seen her. Even when she was bleeding all over the place, she seemed strong, powerful, complete. He barely remembered the time he was younger, always trying to push those memories of her far away because he thought she wasn't real. Just a cruel trick his mind was playing on him. What had she looked like then? Had she met him yet? What if it was the traveling that was doing this to her?

Quickly, she drifted asleep while Tom stood at her bedside. Something stirred within him as he looked at her and he desperately tried to calm himself down. If his magic was what brought her here, whose to say it was the reason why she was leaving? When Tom stared at her sleeping, frail form, he could feel her—

—feel her magic constantly fighting.

Over and over and over—

If this continued—

Tom clutched the bed side, leaning forward and pressed his forehead against hers, trying to still her essence—her magic to calm down.

"Please stay," he whispered. What else was he supposed to do?

—she will die.

Hogwarts

3 April 1941

The dreams were becoming relentless. Only, they weren't dreams.

They were his memories.

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.

Mudblood.

There was nothing but sweet, pure agony. He was being ripped in half, being torn and saved into a permanent existence. He screamed and screamed, and pain flooded through him. But it was worth it. All of it. The stupid mudblood bint, Myrtle, had stumbled in like a little, pathetic duckling, only to be welcomed at Death's door by his most precious gift. His body felt heavy with dark magic, but his soul felt lighter—incomplete. He didn't mind in the slightest. There were no uses for any sentiments, emotions, silly feelings to block his judgment. Immortal; he was immortal. Death could never touch him, never graze his presence ever again. More—he wanted more.

Mudblood.

Oh how he hated that old man. That old codger. Dumbledore looked down at him at every turn, every accomplishment he had ever done. The stupid oaf knew he was great; knew he was far superior than any other student; knew that he was powerful; knew that he will be, one day, far stronger than he will ever be. But, now, Dumbledore stood in a position of power, a position which, he could easily shut Tom down, close all the doors he will need to become successful, make sure he will stay nothing but a lonely, pathetic, little half-blood in need a guidance. But, Tom knew. He knew perfectly well. He will be the one to kill the great Albus Dumbledore.

Mudblood.

Seeing the bright flashes of green sent a sick, twisted, pleasure-filled shivers of delight through him. As soon as he took out the Potter boy, he will become the most powerful, unstoppable Dark Wizard of all time. Nothing, not even a small infant—though he was appalled when he had first heard the prophecy—will stop him. The blood-traitor was first. James Potter fought quite relentlessly, fierce wand movements, as he spat at him. 'You will never touch my family!' All it took was a well-aimed Avada, right through his heart. The fiery red-head was just as stubborn as her husband, and rather good at her wand movements, for a mudblood. But she too, crumbled to the green light from his wand. But the boy—the small, useless, annoying, stupid child—the light never touched him.

Mudblood.

It was pathetic; the way she withered on such a beautiful piece of furniture. All she did was scream, and when she wasn't screaming, she was spouting some nonsense of 'inhumane' and 'monster'. Such an annoying Muggle Studies Professor. This was all for just amusement. But then her teary eyes landed on Severus, and she practically dragged herself over to him, her quivering body not cooperative in the slightest. She then proceeded the beg to him, over and over. Voldemort felt something he usually didn't usually direct to the likes of them—pity. So, as the caring Dark Lord that he was, he pointed his wand to her. He relished in the killing curse, and gave the dead body to his beloved Nagini.

Mudblood.

The floor was sleek with hot, wet blood. His bare feet seemed to glide on the marble ground with elegance. Nagini was certainly happy when he saw the snake merrily feasting on the warm, fresh, dead bodies. As furious as he was about the meddling trio finding his horcrux and destroying it, killing everyone in frustration and rage felt so good. The incompetent wizards around him were not keeping his precious items safe. He will not be destroyed. He will not be killed. He will not fall. He will not die. His legacy will run forever.

Mudblood.

Red eyes peered over the demolished castle, laughing maniacally as flashes of green created shadows of death on the ground. Rubble littered the stone floor as he strolled his way through, flicking his wrist at anyone who rose their wand foolishly against him. They would crumble to the ground in a heap as the life would leave their eyes—their blood quickly running cold. In his bony, long, ugly fingers, he held the most powerful wand, the unbeatable wand; The Elder Wand. He will rule all. And nothing will get in his way.

Mudblood.

Tom had his hand on Hermione's shoulder. Her skin felt like hot iron, burning and angry—

—memories flooded through him and Oh God—

"Excuse me, sir. I believe you had duel to a mudblood."

He wasn't real. None of this was.

Tom Marvolo Riddle—I am Lord Voldemort.

The glass paper weight. The small shack. There was nothing. He was nothing. Dumbledore was right. He was absolutely nothing.

But she was real.

Hogwarts

24 March 1942

Everything made sense to him now. Why everyone seemed to blur around him, why everything seemed so dull. Why Hermione seemed so solid. Everything fell into place. The dark horcrux magic was always crackling around him, trying to keep Hermione in one place but it was her magic that was constantly fighting his. It also explained why she looked they way she had in 1940; so weak, so exhausted.

But not this Hermione.

Her face was flushed; not in the 'I just had Quidditch practice' but it looked more embarrassed. . .

Like he understood what that meant.

The way she had avoided him like he was the Grimm himself had Tom thinking of the worst possible scenario of all.

She knew.

But, for some reason, she gave no indication of such. Searching and searching, she tried, but he knew.

He knew that it was fruitless.

His magic sizzled when it came into contact with her directly. And Tom prayed, chanting, willing, hoping to control enough to make sure she stay put with him longer, hoping that she will not wilt.

But it was useless.

Hogwarts

1944

He had been wanking in the shower when she came next. Embarrassingly, the increasing pressure in his chest felt more exquisite than his own hand around his shaft. Of course, that could also be a side effect of being non-existent. He was not truly alive, thus, masturbation was not required and completely useless. But he wanted to do it. Even though he could probably deduce that it was a waste of time, thinking of his Hermione stirred some thoughts and he began thinking that, as a boy his age, it seemed like second nature to wank about the bird he like.

Right?

But it was just embarrassing.

The water dripped down his naked form, simply standing there, holding his member unenthusiastically. His body tensed, skin tingling and he let out a shiver before groaning. His magic was rumbling out of him, reaching and stretching, trying to clamp on the Hermione's magical aura—

—jerked—

—wrenched—

—Tom groaned, finding a satisfactory pleasure of the weight suddenly leaving, and then filling up with warmth again.

Hermione was here.

Tom couldn't help but to smirk.

Thank Salazar.

He was quick to turn off the water, quickly mopping a towel over his wet skin, and threw on pants. A swift spell to dry his hair, Tom bounded out of his bathroom... to find Hermione tucked perfectly into his bed.

Thank Salazar indeed.

But the longer he looked at her, the grin melted off his face. Gods, she looked awful! He tentatively called out her name, just to make sure that in was indeed, in fact, Hermione. Which was rather daft of him—he knew that she was there, in front of him, like thunder after the lightning, she was after the pressure. She looked more frail, more weak than ever. Creamy skin pale, frizzy hair flatten. The wreck that was in front of him blushed as her dull eyes stared at his chest for a moment. He let a small, half hearted smirk curl his lips, but was quick to fall off as he watched her struggle to do the simple task of sitting up.

He flicked his wrist, calling over any clean jumper from his wardrobe before settling himself next to his Hermione. Those large brown eyes turned to him and Tom Riddle found himself without a single thought in his brilliant, yet cruel mind.

Her stare was pleading, whether she was aware or not. They were glassy, and her thick lashes fluttered every moment or two as she began shaking. The Dark Lord didn't do well with the art of comfort. At least when it came to other beings. A quick spell and torturing them seemed like a quicker route; killing them was not a challenge—it was as simple as breathing.

However, Tom had found himself with his hand over hers, trying awkwardly to give her some sort of condolence through the stroke of his thumb.

It seemed like he made the situation from terrible, to worse.

She started to cry.

This would be where the Dark Lord would grow irritated and quickly rid of the problem before anything else is done. But now, he found himself completely weak to the witch's tears as they streamed in abundance down her pale, hollow cheeks. Without any thought, he began to rub her back as she tossed herself into his lab, trying desperately not to let the guilt boil him alive. His witch continued to sniffle and whimper, and Tom found himself conforming them both in a comfortable position before he soaked himself in her essence, not matter how weak it was.

Tom Riddle never felt any sort of sorrow as he did at this very moment. As much as he relished in the feeling of living for the first time, it was not worth the expense of this witch.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, pressing his lips to the top of her bushy head. "I'm so sorry."

Hogwarts

1945

Tom felt Hermione's magic, but for once, he ignored it.

The sight of the man before him was occupying his attention, and this time, Riddle didn't grovel at the appearance of his Hermione. It didn't matter if this wasn't real or not, if he was really dead, or if she was really alive. She was a distraction—a peaceful, hopeful, yet so terribly mocking that Tom felt ire stir deep within him.

She was the reason why he was defeated.

She was the reason why he was rotting.

She was the reason why he was nothing.

Her and the blasted Potter boy and the freckled buffoon where the bane of his existence. They wouldn't have gotten half as far as the had without the little swot, know-it-all girl. Which, for some reason, Tom couldn't help himself but to smirk at that. He had everything planned out, so perfectly executed, but because he focused so much on killing a teenage boy, he had lost his sense of judgment and action. And that thought made him angry.

Right now, he just wanted to hear someone scream.

He wondered if he really could do it?

Could he really torture someone into submission? Into bowing before him like he was Merlin himself?

Yes, apparently he could.

And oh, he loved it.

Abraxas was the symbol of what could have been a suppressor in Tom's life, but at this moment, he was kneeling down, sweat coated skin, disheveled hair, and a pure terrified look on his face. He felt rage building inside of him. It felt foreign, but Gods, it felt so right.

This was who he was.

Voldemort.

No more was he the urchin of the Wizard World. No more was he someone's stepping stone. No more was he the scum people saw him as.

No more would he dilute himself because of some witch.

"No more, Abraxas, no more." He shot the dark spell at the blonde, but it never met it's true target. The feminine cry of pain echoed throughout the Room of Requirement and it anchored into Tom's useless soul.

"HERMIONE!" he shouted, rushing forward as he watched her bloody form fade this time.

Monster.

Hogwarts

1951

The feeling of a warm, solid, and completely healthy body crash into him was a breath of fresh air for the young Dark Lord.

Well, as close to healthy as she was going to get. His fingers traced one of the marks he left her in 1945. The regret was there, but that feeling was overridden by the sheer amount of relief Hermione was here and well—not some withering flower anymore. He couldn't help but let out some sort of crazed laugh of disbelief before the witch tore herself away from Tom like he was plague. Tom, wide eyed and mouth gaped, only watched as she panicked. He quickly tried to calm her, but the lioness showed her teeth and claws and Tom smartly left her to her own.

The look in her eyes spat fire at him as she wrenched her fingers through her hair, mumbling loudly, but jumbled words that didn't quite make sense to him.

It all ended with Hermione flopping herself into the lush grass. Tom couldn't find it in himself to look away. She looked so radiant, so alive that he wished uselessly for the millionth time that he could keep her in one solid time, to keep her magic at bay enough that it wouldn't fight his own magic.

Of course, the sentiment was pointless.

He could already feel her magic hissing, raising it's hackles towards him—which was the right response, he supposed, but it didn't lighten the fact that her entire being was completely against him. He watched as Hermione's body seized up, like he had seen so many times and he took a deep breath.

It was now, or nothing.

He leaned over her, watching with mild amusement that her face flushed from their close proximity. Her breath was sweet, fast against his cheek. He noted the freckles on her nose and the Dark Lord couldn't help but to find them adorable. But the terrified look on her face when he moved in even further erased all thoughts of her apparent features that were favored by him.

Now or never, he thought.

He was quick, pressing his warm lips against her own. She didn't have time to respond, as she was already seeping out of the current time, but Tom found himself clinging to her fading body, hands buried in her hair and kissed deeper than before.

"I love you, Hermione."

1994

Killing was all Tom Riddle knew how to do. Hurting people was another specialty that Tom perfected. Making them scream, wither, beg, weep, all simply fueled that. Can he make them scream louder? Can he make their body spasm so fast, so hard that they'd just die? Could he make them beg more; to the point where they pleaded for death, admitting he was the most powerful Dark Wizard of all time? Well, that was a silly question; of course it was true. But all the sobbing was annoying, however Tom found himself that it was very easy to make a grown Wizard pathetically shed tears like they were two and skinned their knee.

He was easily angered. Perhaps it was the incompetence he had seen in people absolutely astounded him, and then he would throw hexes and curses around because it seemed that he would have to do everything.

But nothing, absolutely nothing made him more enraged than hearing her scream—

"—Enough," he hissed, seething.

How was she even here? It that been years without feeling the pull of her magic; the pure retaliation, nor did he ever felt a looming pressure of her existence. There was nothing. He had assumed the last time she would see him was when Tom was younger; when he had first met her. It took a little practice to extract his own memory, to see exactly what had happened that night—that Barry had done to her. Tom thought that she had died that night, and in a fit of his rage, he killed him.

So very, very slowly.

It was what Tom did best.

Things cannot be changed, even though he was desperate to have the chance to really live; live while burying himself with a wild haired witch named Hermione. But, of course, that was not really Tom.

He was a master of being cruel. He could keep her for as long as he could, and when her magic depleted, he would watch the life leave her eyes; the last thing she will see would be him.

Red eyes fell onto the witch, still twitching of Bellatrix's curse. It only further angered him.

With a flick of his wrist, his wand pointed at his most loyal subject. Green flames engulfed her and she fell into a lifeless heap on the ground.

It was what Tom did best.

This, by far, was the worst he had seen her. It wasn't just the sight of her sweet blood pooling around her, it was simply everything of her. Once, he truly thought that watching her sink closer and closer to death would give him immense pleasure. But now that he was standing over her, watching her trying to suck in the last of her breaths, flinching from him, Tom Riddle had never felt so empty in his entire state of being—

He lowered his wand to her.

This was the only thing Tom Riddle knew best.

And that was alright.

Right now, she was suffering.

And he was the only one to fix it.

Goodbye, Hermione.

Her warm brown eyes locked into his as the tip of his wand grew green.

This was Tom's only defining feature; the art of killing.

And that was okay.

"Avada Kedavra."

As she was surrounded by green, Voldemort straightened, glancing around the dark room. He waved his wand in a complicated pattern, thinking to himself that, yes, he was a murderer. A very good one, he might say. Everything was becoming lighter as Hermione's magic surged out around him, before completely escaping his prison, back to life.

Red raging fire erupted from the Elder wand. The heat was impossible to bear, and the dark magic crackled all around him. A large snake, much like his beloved basilisk, formed from the flames. The curse's magic was thick and his own was screaming, raging, completely angered of his betrayal. Fiendfyre consumed everything—his magic, the horcrux, and he himself—and bringing them all to the ultimate destruction—their ultimate death.

And that was just fine for Tom Riddle Jr.

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fin