Time in a Bottle

TIME IN A BOTTLE

CHAPTER 6

~*~

But there never seems to be enough time to do the

Things you want once you find them

~*~

"Hermione, do you want to dance?" Ron asked, tentatively holding out his hand to her.

Hermione sighed, smiling sadly, "No thanks, Ron."

It was forty minutes into the Ball, and Hermione was fighting the urge to begin pacing restlessly.

Biting her lip and tapping her toe, Hermione gazed at the sparkling, beautiful robes swirling on the dance floor. Her own robe was nothing special. She had forgone her usual periwinkle blue set and opted for ones that suited her mood more appropriately.

She wore black, satin material robes that complimented her quite nicely. Very little make-up was used on her face; giving up on her hair she had ended up piling the unruly curls on top of her head. She wore only one piece of jewelry, and that was the necklace with Thomas's ring on it.

For some reason, she thought that it would come in handy when she met him that night.

Sighing nervously, Hermione turned away from the dance floor and her friends, resigned to sitting out every dance.

Taking a seat at the table furthest in the shadows, Hermione tapped her fingers against her goblet.

"Nervous, Granger?" a voice drawled from behind her.

Turning around and arching a sarcastic brow, Hermione smirked at Draco Malfoy. "Wouldn't you like to know," she retorted.

Draco snorted. "Ouch, she has claws," he muttered over his shoulder.

"I warned you, Mr. Malfoy," Snape drew out, taking the seat to Hermione's right without waiting for an invitation.

"Please, have a seat," Hermione said sarcastically.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," Snape smirked.

Removing her wand, which had been strategically hidden in her hair, Hermione twirled it around with her fingers, every once in a while eyeing the area around her suspiciously as if she suspected Thomas would be lurking behind her.

"You know, I'm quite surprised he hasn't burst in yet; the Thomas I remember was slightly impatient," Hermione admitted thoughtfully.

"He still is," Snape muttered darkly.

"Yes, well, perhaps he's waiting for the most opportune moment," Draco suggested, taking the seat across from her and trying to inject some levity into the situation.

Hermione lifted a brow. "And just when would that be?"

"When you decide to grace the dance floor, of course," he countered as if it had been obvious.

"Fat chance, I won't risk getting anyone I dance with killed, thank you very much," Hermione huffed.

"Very Gryffindor of you," Draco drawled, "and very boring."

"Besides," Snape's silken voice cut off whatever scathing retort Hermione was going to throw back, "it all depends on who you dance with."

"How so?" Hermione asked despite herself.

"Well, he won't go off killing one of his own Death Eaters, would he?" Snape pointed out.

"Why, dear Professor, are you offering up your services?" Hermione asked.

Snape smirked as he announced, "Ten points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Miss Granger."

Hermione duly ignored him and pondered aloud, "Do you think that if I don't go out onto the floor then he won't come at all?"

"Wishful thinking," Snape proclaimed, successfully dousing the small spark of hope that had lit up in her eyes. "But," he faltered, suddenly wanting to see that foolish hope light up her eyes once more. "Perhaps he forgot the ball was tonight," he finished lamely

Draco Malfoy studied his professor curiously, proclaiming, "Doubtful, very doubtful."

"Perhaps I should just get it over with, then," Hermione announced rising to her feet and shooting both Draco and Severus an expecting gaze when they both remained seated, "Well, which one of you will dance with me?"

"Come again?" Draco asked dumbly.

"Well, you two are the only Death Eaters I know, even though you're technically not," Hermione pointed out.

"Don't look at me, Granger; I still have a role to play and a reputation to upkeep," Draco said, getting up and walking off in defeat.

"Well, then, Professor; no pressure but it seems to be all up to you," she smirked.

Severus looked at her proffered hand and sighed. Gods, she was going to be the death of him.

Resignedly, Severus rose and accepted her hand, gracefully leading them out onto the dance floor where the students parted for them like the Red Sea.

Hermione was quite surprised to find that Severus Snape was a very good dancer. He led her in a classic waltz, guiding her steps with a firm, gentle hand on the small of her back.

Both ignored the completely shocked students around them, conveniently forgetting that their dance was highly out of character.

Hermione looked up at her Potions Master, a man she had thought she once knew, but was now beginning to find she knew nothing about. And what really shocked her was that she wanted to find out. She wanted to know all of his secrets.

Gods, I'm going crazy, she convinced herself as Snape tucked in his arm and twirled her out.

And when Severus Snape pulled her back to him, there was a sudden crash of the doors being smashed to bits and then the fearful screams of several students.

The music stopped, and Hermione violently shoved Snape away from her, afraid of what was to come, and made her way to the shadows to observe as about ten or fifteen black hooded figures made their way into the hall and strategically placed themselves in certain areas.

Albus Dumbledore rose from his seat with anger clearly etched on his usually pleasant features, and withdrew his wand.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Hermione's eyes widened in slight fear. That voice; so achingly familiar and yet different at the same time.

"You see, Albus, if you took out your wand and started waving it about, I'd feel obliged to take out mine, and then we'd have a nice pile of dead Hogwarts students, and we don't want that, do we?" the voice rang out mockingly.

From where Hermione was hidden, she could see Albus Dumbledore slowly set his wand on the floor.

"And let's not forget about your Phoenixes, Albus; tell them not to do anything rash or I'll have my Death Eaters tear your school apart."

"Do as he says," Albus's voice rang out, and Hermione could see the "chaperones" push their wands back up their sleeves and glare at the Death Eaters.

"Good, now, let's get down to business," Hermione could hear the echo of footsteps ringing throughout the silent hall, "You have something that belongs to me, you see, and I'll be wanting her back."

Her heart leapt into her throat. Forcing herself to remain calm, Hermione quickly went into automatic defensive mode and scanned her surroundings.

Her gaze swept past the huddling students she did not know, and clashed with a pair of burning onyx eyes.

Snape's eyes.

He was looking at her with that same burning intensity from that night in the Hospital Wing, silently telling her with a simple look that he'll protect her no matter what; telling her that he'd keep his promise to her to the bitter end.

How could she have ever thought his gaze to be blank, hard, and emotionless?

"Hermione," the voice hissed and she stiffened in response, "I know you're here, love. Don't be shy."

Several students gasped in surprise at hearing the Dark Lord beckon the newly returned Hermione Granger to him, and not Harry Potter. The students shuffled about, craning their necks to find her even as Hermione pushed herself further in the shadows.

"Mya, it's rude to keep a guest waiting," his voice drawled. "Come out here."

Hermione flinched when he used his nickname for her that others had ended up adopting.

"Thomas, why do you always call me Mya?" Hermione asked, not looking up from shredding the sweet root for their potion.

"Because you are my Hermione, Mya; and I don't want you forgetting it."

Hermione sequestered herself further into the shadows.

Thomas sighed in annoyance, "Fine then, have it your way."

Hermione heard him break off into a purposeful stride towards one group of students and a scuffle occurring.

"Come out here now, Mya, or this whelp will die."

Hermione's heart stopped as she maneuvered herself to get a better look. Her breath caught as she saw him. Her Thomas, only he looked about ten years older than the last time she had seen him. The same, rich, silky black hair that she had loved to run her fingers through was piled up on top of his head, and the eyes. He had the same, twinkling blue eyes she would regularly get lost in on a daily basis. Only now they were hard, cold and unfeeling.

And the same strong, elegant hands were now pointing his wand directly over Neville Longbottom's heart.

Well, she thought sarcastically, that answers that question.

Ever so slowly, Hermione crept forward, careful to remain as silent and unnoticed as possible.

"Thomas," she said as she made her way to where he was standing.

Tom Riddle turned and smirked at her condescendingly, "Hermione Jessica Granger. My, it has been a while."

Hermione gently took hold of a very scared Neville's arm, smiling reassuringly at the shaking boy as she extracted him from Thomas's grasp and smoothly shoved him back to the huddling students.

"Actually, no; three days, really," Hermione countered, bravely positioning herself in front of his wand.

He sneered at her, dropping his wand as she knew he would and said, "For you maybe. But I've been waiting over fifty-four years for this."

It was Hermione's turn to smirk at him. "Pining, were we, Thomas? Always the hopeless romantic... Well, as flattered as I'm not, let's get down to brass tacks, so to speak. What is it that you want?"

Thomas started to slowly circle around her as if he were a predator waiting to pounce on its prey. "I think you know exactly what it is I want, Hermione."

Forcing herself to remain still and calm, Hermione retorted, "What? Revenge? Please, Thomas, cut the theatrics and righteous indignation. We both know that it was your fault I was sent back."

Abruptly, he stopped right in front of her, his face inches away and his expression bordering murderess. "It's the principle of the matter, my dear," he hissed. "You made me weak, and now, it's time I return the favor."

"That's it? You're upset because I made you feel? Please, Thomas, I did not force you to propose, and I didn't force you to fall in love," she spat out, the memories still too fresh for her even though they were years to him.

"Yes, you did," he threw back.

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes. "Look, Thomas, you can do whatever it is you want with me, but just hurry up and do it already. You're making a spectacle of yourself."

"Give me your hand, Mya," he ordered, "and come with me."

Hermione blinked. Whatever it was she had been expecting, it wasn't that.

"What?" she asked in confusion.

Thomas moved closer to her, bending down to whisper in her ear so that only she would hear him, "Come with me, Mya. It is time you realize that you are mine, and no one else's."

Gods, it was tempting. It truly was tempting. She could take his hand, run away with him and fool herself into believing that he was the same old Thomas from 1944. The same Thomas she had unwillingly fallen quite hard for.

But he wasn't. That was what it all really boiled down to.

"I-I can't," she whispered back, tears filling her eyes despite her resolve to not giving him the satisfaction of her tears.

It was the second hardest thing she had ever had to do, second to only having to reject his first proposal.

Thomas drew back from her, eyeing her face and reading her emotions. "Yes, you can't; but you want to, don't you?"

Hermione glared at him, wishing that he'd just go away, but also knowing that such a childish wish would not be granted.

"Here, I'll make it easy for you, love," he whispered for her before pulling back and raising his voice so that others could hear him. "Either you come with me, or I'll order my faithful followers to kill your classmates."

Hermione's mind raced. She couldn't knowingly cause the death of her fellow students, and yet she knew she couldn't go with Thomas. She had to think of a way to change his mind.

"Tell me, Thomas, why are you so intent on whisking me away? Why are you now suddenly playing the romantic?" she asked in false confidence so as to buy herself time.

Thomas smirked at her as if he knew exactly what she was doing. "Because, even all those years ago, Mya, you were never truly mine. And now, I intend to see that you know that you are, and that you never forget it."

He was in front of her again, lifting his hand to brush a stray curl behind her ear. His hand was firm, and surprisingly soft upon her cheek. He let his hand lightly trace her eyes, then her lips, and then it dipped down to her neck, turning rough as he tugged on and broke the chain resting there.

Sneering down at her, he then ran his other hand down her left arm and lifted up her hand. He leered at her as he shoved his ring onto the correct finger, bringing up her hand to his lips for a mock loving kiss.

"No one denies Lord Voldemort, dearest; not even his fiancé."

Hermione gritted her teeth and yanked her handout of his grasp. "I won't do it," she hissed.

Thomas actually laughed at her. "Yes, yes you will, Mya. And do you know why?"

"Please, do enlighten me," she sneered, but inside, she was fighting to hide her panic.

Again, he stepped closer to her, his face an inch from hers. Dropping his voice to a low octave, he murmured silkily, "Because deep down, you want it. And because deep down, you know what I will do if you refuse."

And in that moment, Hermione suddenly realized that what was happening was quite real. For a large portion of the night she had roamed around the hall as if she was in a dream. She had spoken to Thomas as she would have only a week before, easily forgetting that the circumstances she found herself in were now different, and not to mention dangerous.

Her whole conversation with him had been surreal up until that moment, that moment when she realized that time had changed the Thomas she had known. That moment when she was forced to realize that the Thomas she knew had withered away and was now lost in time, the only proof she had to his actual existence being her own memories.

She was now talking to a complete stranger. A stranger she had once known ages ago, in another life.

"Who are you?" she asked, disbelief riddled in her voice.

Thomas blinked, clearly taken aback by the emotion she suddenly chose to show. "I am Lord Voldemort," he proclaimed proudly, instant recovering from the quick jolt of uncertainty.

And there was the answer to the question she had been asking herself. Who was this stranger in front of her? This stranger with a slightly familiar face?

"I don't know you," she said in awe as the epiphany hit, looking up at him in dawning realization, "and you don't know me."

Voldemort leaned in further, claiming, "I know you better than you know yourself."

But Hermione was no longer affected by him, and the only thing she felt at his words was a soul deep sadness. "No, you don't. What's done is done, Voldemort. Let it rest."

And she gave him her back, slowly walking away.

The younger Voldemort flinched, anger clearly written on his features. "Don't you walk away from me, Hermione! You will not deny me my vengeance!"

Hermione paused in her walking, suddenly feeling older than her twenty years. She had always counted the time she had gained with her extensive use of the time turner in her third and sixth years, as well as her year stay in 1944.

She looked at the menacing man, seeing the face of the boy she knew once upon a time, her words holding an untouchable sadness as she said, "I have denied you nothing. You've already had it. You've killed the boy I once knew and cared for. You've murdered the man I once loved. Take that and be satisfied."

She saw a brief flicker of emotion in his blue eyes, but was disappointed when she saw him push it away. "I will only be satisfied, my dear, once you beg for my mercy."

Hermione arched a brow. "So is it to be a duel, then?" she asked in curiosity.

He glared, her seeming indifference angering him far beyond her words. "A duel it is, love."

Hermione took her stance, trying not to flinch in pain when he took the same one.

"On the count of three, then?" he asked her, staring intently into her eyes.

A shadow of a smirk lighted her face. "Why not two, since that is when you'd go anyway?"

He smirked in response, seemingly pleased that she remembered or spoke to him as if she knew him. "It'll be three, Hermione," he announced, "and it'll be fair."

And Hermione knew that he meant it. This wasn't going to be like their petty duels in the halls. This went far deeper than their trivial feud.

"One," he counted.

Hermione tensed her muscles in anticipation. "Two," she picked up.

And right when Voldemort opened his mouth to speak the last number, a brief scuffle and running footsteps was heard.

Both of them dropped their stances in surprise at the interruption and looked over to see a Gryffindor with unruly black hair running towards them, placing himself protectively in front of Hermione.

And all Hermione could do was only watch in horror as Voldemort's eyes lighted up in recognition as he hissed the boy's surname in pure, unadulterated hatred, "Potter..."