Prompt:
Hermione is used to the pesky mistletoe that springs up from time to time in Hogwarts, it is her eighth year after all, but what she is not used to, is having that mistletoe open a temporary portal to 1943. She must snog the wizard she has just helped to destroy. (Prompt filler decides how this will work)
-Thanks trinnyboppers!-

Disclaimer: All canon character, plots, and situations from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this writing.

A/N: My submission for the Quills & Parchmants Under the Mistletoe competition. The results are in and this story has won Fan Favorite, Best Kiss, and Most Creative Use of Mistletoe. Hope you enjoy! Please drop me a review if you feel so inclined!

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Dark magic thrummed around Tom as he strode through the halls of Hogwarts. It crackled around him in a menacing rage, and with immense effort, he called it back to himself. It would never do to stumble across a professor after he'd wielded such power.

A sadistic thrill of delight shot through him as he recalled the way his knights had cowered in fear. It served them right. They were well into their seventh year, the time for excuses had passed.

Tom roamed the halls, straightening the immaculate collar of his uniform as he went. His plans were falling into place rather nicely. So much progress had been made since coming to the school as a hopeless orphan, practically a muggle. He'd since found so much more about himself and set his sights high.

The future brought with it endless possibilities, and he would see to it that nothing and no one stood in his way.

He had meant the threat with every fiber of his being, the promise reverberated from his head down to his very feet. If the ground were sentient, the stones he walked over would likely feel the power of the oath he made. The castle itself could surely feel it too. For one mad moment as Tom made to round the corridor, and was roughly wrenched back, he thought Hogwarts actually did hear him.

One glance upwards confirmed what he already knew; Hogwarts mistletoe had spontaneously grown along the ceiling in all its holiday glory, effectively gluing him to the spot.

Narrowing his eyes in displeasure, he looked ahead, idly wondering whom he would be trapped with. Likely, Olive. The girl did so have a knack for finding him under the Yule holly. Or maybe she had learned her lesson and would stay clear—he'd made sure the kiss had been bruising and punishing the last time—hoping to scare the annoying swot away. Whoever the witch was, he hoped it wouldn't take long, he had quite a great many things to do.

"Sodding Helga Hufflepuff, and her pension for legacy charms," he muttered under his breath.

As he glared down the hall, willing his partner to hurry along already, the hallway seemed to inexplicably narrow and widen, as if flexing. The effect made him him feel dizzy, and his stomach suddenly clenched in nauseousness. His vision blurred as the castle seemed to stretch, and he thought back to earlier, when he'd wondered if the castle were sentient.

He had a brief moment where he thought he may hurl, before a witch seemed to appear out of nowhere, flying down the corridor, colliding right into him, and throwing their combined belongings on the floor. The movement around his eyes halted and the hall seemed somehow brighter, though gratefully sturdy.

"Watch where you're going, clumsy girl," he said with a snarl, as he ducked to pick up his fallen books.

The witch, a Gryffindor, he noted distastefully, dipped down to help him. "Sorry. I hadn't seen you there." She was about to reach for his diary but he snatched it away quickly. "You appeared out of nowhere."

They both straightened and she offered him an apologetic smile. He was momentarily startled to find he didn't recognize the witch—how in Salazar's name could that be? Her chestnut hair fell in a disarray of wild curls around her face, a pathetic clip doing a shite job of holding it all together. Her eyes were wide and expressive—liquid pools of chocolate. Her skin was flawless save for a splattering of freckles that graced her nose, her neck was long and graceful. Really, she was quite pretty. Symmetrical, rather. Perhaps the pesky mistletoe would not be such a bad thing?

"Are you a fifth year?" she asked, smiling kindly. "I don't believe I've seen you before."

A fifth year? Did the witch have a death wish?

"I'll be eighteen in a week," he informed her rather crisply.

"Oh." She furrowed her brows in confusion. "I thought I knew all the seventh year Slytherins. No matter. I would stay and chat, you seem lovely, but I have some work to do in the library."

She took one step away and was pulled forcefully back by the holly charm. Tom smirked smugly at the frown that appeared on her face. She looked up at him questioningly and he gestured towards the ceiling.

She glanced up, and then quickly glanced back at him, her cheeks burning hotly. "Oh," she said again.

Her eyes then proceeded to rake over his figure, her head tilted to the side and she bit her lip as she appraised him boldly. He could actually feel the heat of her gaze and it gave him the most foreign feeling.

He let out an indignant huff.

"Sorry." She ducked her head sheepishly. "I'm just really, really, surprised I haven't seen you before."

"Everyone at this school knows who I am; I'm Head Boy," he was compelled to remind her.

Her eyes widened and her breathing seemed to stop entirely. "Head Boy?"

"Obviously, you dense girl."

Anger flared in her eyes at the dig and she gestured to the red pin on her jumper. "I'm Head Girl." She raised her eyebrows challengingly. "So you see, there's no way you could be Head Boy; I would surely know you."

Keeping his face inscrutable, he scanned the badge emblazoned boldly on her distractedly form-fitting uniform. It was a Head Girl badge, clear as day, over red, which signified Gryffindor.

"We don't have a Gryffindor Head Girl." He steepled his fingers together, puzzling over the impossibility of what he was seeing. "Miranda Diggory is Head Girl, she's a Hufflepuff.."

The Gryffindor shook her head. "I knew a Diggory, but not Miranda." She peered at him over long lashes. "And what's your name? Besides being the rudest Slytherin I've encountered, I don't know you from Adam."

"From…Adam?"

"A muggle expression."

"You're a muggle-born," he sneered at her.

She rolled her eyes. "I see what's going on here." She motioned to his uniform. "Archaic school uniform, outdated views…you're some apparition from the past."

"I'm no apparition," he seethed.

"Well then, might I know you're name?"

He crossed his arms over his chest, his Slytherin nature imbuing him with the desire to not tell the odd witch a single thing.

"We're going to have to snog if we ever hope to get out of this trap, surely we can exchange names?"

"You first, future-girl."

She hesitated briefly before giving him a terse reply. "Hermione," she answered simply.

"Hermione," he tasted the name on his tongue. It suited the witch.

"Now, yours."

My, but she's bossy.

"Tom."

Hermione froze as the name seemed to inexplicably evoke fear in her. Awareness crystallized in her deep brown orbs. Tom was enthralled by it. A spectrum of emotions passed through her eyes, ranging first from horror, then determination.

"You know me." It was a statement, not a question.

She nodded, disgust burning in her eyes.

"I must become a rather great wizard."

"Let's just say, your good looks don't follow you in the future," she informed him rather bluntly.

He was not keen on the news, whether she was being purposefully misleading or sincere. By the smug look on her face, he suspected the latter. He'd always been one to pay a great deal of attention to Divination. Prophecies were an opportunity to see into the future and he valued the insight. This witch could be all of that and more—with the right amount of coaxing. He decided to turn up the charm a bit.

"It appears we got off on the wrong foot, lovely," he said silkily.

She narrowed her eyes shrewdly.

"What an incredible opportunity for both of us. A rare chance for you to glimpse into the past, and for me to glimpse into the future."

"Seductive as the devil." She shook her head, gripping the cloth of her skirt so tight her knuckles grew white. "I don't think so, Riddle. You won't get a word out of me."

Switching tactics, he tried for logical. "I'm just an apparition, remember?"

Abruptly, she grabbed him by the lapels of his robes, and pulled him forcefully to herself before Tom could even expound on what was happening.

Chocolate eyes collided with dark blue ones. "Let's get this over with, shall we?" She leaned forward, pressing her lips firmly to his.

Tom was momentarily frazzled by the abrupt change. His anger had been riled at her immediate rejection—women were always helpless against his charms. They turned to putty in his hands, he need only bat his eyes at them and smile warmly—if even that. But this witch was a puzzle.

Her lips were warm and pliant—they tasted like cinnamon tea and oranges. His hands found their way to her waist. She felt like power underneath his fingertips, he was willing to bet every last galleon he owned that this witch could wield some serious magic. Fuck…if that isn't a turn on. He suddenly felt his body awaken, becoming aware of her every movement.

She broke away, huffing when she noticed the mistletoe hadn't released them of the spell. "That should have done it," she muttered to herself.

"You're not trying hard enough, lovely." His voice was husky, and her eyes, measurably darker, drooped at the sound of it. "Think of the effort you must put into your studies, being Head Girl and all. If you'd only channel some of that brainpower into your snogging…"

"You're right." She dropped her books and he followed suit.

Twining her fingers in his hair, she pulled him back in for another searing kiss, licking along the seam of his mouth and demanding entry. He granted it immediately, eager to explore the cavern of her mouth and to taste more of her exquisite flavor. Their tongues twined together, roughly pulling apart, then clashing again, in a battle of wills. He used his grip on her hips to hold her more securely to him, melding her soft curves against him, delighting in the feel of where their bodies aligned.

Her fingernails scraped along his scalp, eliciting a muffled groan from him. Slightly annoyed at the effect she was having on him, he grabbed her leg and twisted it around his hip, grinning viciously as a moan tore from her mouth.

"That's right, lovely," he crooned, allowing his lips to drop from hers and trail down her neck. "I want to hear you make those sounds."

She let out a whimper as her hands left his hair to grip his shoulders harshly.

How he longed to break free from the constraints of the charm. He needed friction, he would press her against the stone wall and have his way with her. She'd managed to light a fire in his veins more potent than fiendfyre.

Circe's tit, the witch was decadent.

He should have known such a wild woman would be. Perhaps he'd met his match in her? Of course she would have to be stretched across the expanse of time. No other witch had made him feel half this responsive. A strange giddy feeling had taken over his stomach and it was causing him to think crazy things. His senses grew clouded as he drew taunting circles along her thigh, wracking his mind for how he could take this to the next level, immediately.

He felt something light brush across his neck, then his shoulder.

Sodding hell, the mistletoe.

The charm was breaking. He was starting to see students again, roaming through the halls, some he knew and some he didn't. They were in limbo, seemingly unseen for now as the last of the holly fell. Her eyes shot open, she knew it too. He gently lowered her to the floor, but he didn't release her.

"What year is it?"

She shook her head, clenching her trembling jaw.

"Tell me," he demanded.

"I can't," she sputtered, expelling a shaky breath.

"Don't you want me to find you?"

"You can't be trusted." She looked away quickly, unwilling for him to see her shining eyes.

Tom felt his power threatening to come out and play. It crackled menacingly around him. He did not wish to lose the witch.

With extreme effort, Tom regained control. He quickly reached for the books, scrolls, and quills lying on the floor and handed her hers. "Tell me something, whatever you can about the future."

She looked up at him with solemn eyes. "Your future is grim."

With that, the last of the mistletoe fell and the charm was broken. She wavered before finally disappearing completely. The hallway stretched and flexed and Tom found himself staring into empty space, students bustling around him.

Grim.

That would never do.

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Hermione could still feel the ghost of his kiss on her lips. Sweet Morgana, but the man could snog. She mentally shook herself. What in Merlin's name had she allowed to happen? What bloody choice did I have? As soon as she saw the corridor walls shifting, she knew something was amiss. Sure enough, she collided with the infuriating wizard only seconds later.

She'd been momentarily befuddled, believing herself to be facing a student she'd never come into contact with before. Perhaps a fifth year, for surely he couldn't be younger than that, but he couldn't be older either because she knew all the sixth, seventh, and eighth years. Yet she'd been remiss to believe so. Her quick appraisal of the haughty wizard had been wrong.

When he'd gestured to the mistletoe, she was horrified to realize her initial reaction had been one of excitement. She had no trouble admitting that the wizard in front of her was a fine specimen of a man, with his strong chiseled jaw, and his dark blue eyes that glittered dangerously. His petulant lips dripped with sensuality and he looked like a bloody aristocrat, a sodding pureblood prince. His hair was as dark as a raven's feathers, and she immediately thought about running her fingers through it. His shoulders were wide, though his body was lithe. She had thought he may play Quidditch with that sort of physique. She'd wondered how in Merlin's name she could have missed noticing him for four months already.

Of course it all made sense soon enough.

Everyone at this school knows who I am; I'm Head Boy.

The words had sent a chill through her body, and not a delightful one. It had taken a bit more digging on her part, but she realized rather quickly who the Tom, in the archaic Slytherin robes from the past, really was.

She was stuck under the mistletoe with Tom-bloody-Riddle.

The Teenage Dark Lord who would soon grow to be the Dark Lord she'd helped to defeat only months before. They were still rebuilding some aspects of the school and the grounds, but it had opened on September 1st, and she had returned for her eighth year, as she'd missed her seventh.

'It will be fine, no one ever has to know about this. He was only an apparition, anyway. He's dead now.'

Despite her rationale, a part of her felt sorry that the young and virile boy was no longer. Things could have gone so differently for the brilliant wizard.

Making her way to the stairs, she spotted her friends. "Harry! Ron!" she called to them jovially, waving to get their attention.

The two Gryffindors stopped, and Hermione was immediately struck with an odd, chilly feeling. Her friends frowned, and she noticed the way Harry's hair was styled away from his face—there was no scar .

She paled.

"Er, hello, Granger," he smiled kindly, but his face look slightly puzzled.

Ron didn't say anything at all, and both boys walked briskly down the stairs, neglecting to wait for her.

Hermione stood in shock. She glanced down at her feet, trying to figure out what had happened, it was then that she noticed the Ravenclaw tie underneath her jumper. She froze at the sight of it. She gripped her books to her chest, noticing to her dread, a diary in her hands that most certainly wasn't hers. She was still staring down at it when she felt someone come up from behind and grab her by the waist, kissing her chastely on the cheek.

"Hello, lovely." The voice was unmistakable.

She looked up with trepidation in her eyes, but she already knew it was him.

"Tom," she ventured tremulously.

He smirked, but then all mirth fled his face, replaced with open curiosity. "Is this the day we catch up, future-girl?" He took her silence for confirmation. "I'm so pleased. The other version of you was frightfully boring. Don't worry; you're still Head Girl."

"When…how?"

He motioned to the diary she still clutched. "When I slipped you a piece of me, I was able to determine the year, and travel back to it. I started school September 1st with the rest of you; I do so value education. Have things changed much from the 1997 you knew? I wasn't able to ascertain that. I figured I had to wait until the holidays before we caught up with each other again."

"They just let you, start school?"

Cobalt blue eyes cut through her. "You'll find I can be very persuasive. They were quite sympathetic to the missing Head Boy who accidentally traveled through time."

"You said 1997, but it's 1998. I was in my eighth year, after the war."

He frowned. "No, it's 1997, we're in seventh year." He glanced at her searchingly. "Come, lovely. There's much you have to fill me in on. I want to hear all about your old timeline."

Helpless to deny him, Hermione allowed Riddle to usher her into the nearest classroom, feeling dizzy against the tumultuous feelings that threatened to drown her. It seemed the harmless kiss she'd felt through half a century, was not so harmless after all.

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