Root of Desire

Tomione with a twist. Tom's first visit to Diagon Alley isn't quite the utopia he imagined. Hermione Wilkins helps him out, but it's not as if she could ever really know what goes on in Tom's head. Young!Tom Adult!Hermione Time Travel.

A note before we begin: Hermione will be slightly out of character for several chapters, but I reassure you that there is a reason for this, and you will be provided with an explanation for it eventually. Just hold your horses until we get there, and please don't let it deter you too much!

1. Birth of Desire

The Leaky Cauldron wasn't half as clean as he'd pictured it. True, when considering its name it was sure to be substantially less clean than Mrs. Cole's tightly run ship, but he'd expected better than a pigsty, at least. The floorboards were blackened with stains and though the tabletops weren't half as unpleasant, a smattering of leftover crumbs and spilled drinks made it obvious that the pub was in need of a waitress or ten. If he turned his head he could look back out the door and see the people walking by, blind to this dirty but miraculous gateway to another world.

The world Tom Riddle belonged in.

The Leaky Cauldron may have been sour smelling and dirty, but he felt the magic as soon as he stepped across the threshold, felt the hairs on his arms stand on end, his mind crying 'Yes, yes, yes! This is it! This is where I am supposed to be!' blowing away the shadow of skepticism that remained.

A wide-shouldered man stood at the bar, polishing a mug with a rag. Reluctantly, Tom went up to the man.

"Are you Tom the barman?"

The man looked up, setting the mug down on the counter. "Hogwarts?"

Tom nodded shortly.

"Follow me, then."

He led the boy through the bar into a small, walled courtyard and pulled out his wand. Tom eyed the length of wood greedily, frowning at the wall. Was the man having him on? Was that Professor a part of the joke?

"Watch and remember, lad." Said Tom the barman, pointing his wand right above the small trashcan. "Three up. Two across." The bricks quivered in their places then shuffled out and away until a clear passage to the alley beyond had been made.

Tom stared breathlessly.

Diagon Alley was magnificent. Incredibly cramped, but no less stunning for it. Everywhere he looked people were wearing robes—some black, some green, some in the most outrageous patterns he had ever seen. Without thanking the barman, he stepped into the crowd, wishing he had about eight more eyes. There was a shop that sold broomsticks and an apothecary that sold livers, claws, flesh, strange flowers and bubbling, brightly colored concoctions. There was a pet store that sold owls, bats, black cats, rainbow-feathered birds and hissing, jewel-scaled lizards.

Unable to resist the temptation, he paused at the pet store window to look at a red, white and black striped snake. He'd never seen such a lovely colored snake before. What continent was it from? What would it have to say? It curled under its lamp and looked at him.

"Ssstupid human. Ssstop ssstaring at me."

It didn't seem like the snake was talking to him so much as it was commenting to itself. He prepared to reply when a group of older boys shoved him aside as they clamored for he store's entry.

"This is so great! Finally, my own owl!"

"'Bout ruddy time too, mate!"

"Now you can write to me when we go to Paris!"

"You should get the most expensive, just to spite your parents."

"Hahaha, yeah!"

Staggering, Tom glared fiercely at the boy's backs. Just as he was regaining his balance an elbow banged against his back and sent him crashing to the ground.

"Wotch where you're goin'! Stupid kid!" Presumably the owner of the elbow grunted.

'Damn it,' he cringed, trying to push himself to his feet, but the crowd wasn't thinning and people were simply walking around him, walking on him like he was dirt and 'I am not dirt!'

"Oh my goodness! Wotcher, you! Move it! Haven't any of you got eyes?"

A firm pair of hands wrapped around his arms and pulled him upright. He looked up and saw himself facing a young woman with a pretty face and startlingly fierce expression as she glared at the people passing by without a care in the world. Her curly hair was wild and seemed almost static with energy.

"No good, stuck-up, uncaring bloody…" she caught herself, cutting off the negative comments before something truly offensive came out. Her hand was warm on his shoulder and her eyes, he noticed when they met his, were bright and brown.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he said, brushing dirt and dust off of his clothes. Unlike the other witches he had seen so far, she wore her faded blue robes open, exposing a normal blouse and skirt underneath. Then he added, reluctantly, "Thank you." At least Billy Stubbs wasn't around to hear that; Tom would never hear the end of it.

The woman smiled, somewhat thinly, but nevertheless honestly. "You're welcome. It's appalling that no one noticed you, though! It may be rush hour, but that's hardly any excuse! Where is your escort?"

"I'm by myself," he admitted.

Her eyebrows rose into her curly fringe. "I see. Well, would you like to accompany me, perhaps?"

Her offer surprised him. "I can get by on my own well enough, miss."

"I didn't mean to insinuate that you couldn't. It's just that," she sighed melodramatically, "A young woman such as myself wandering around Diagon Alley unescorted is so improper for this day and age, no matter that I can defend myself perfectly well, but it would be so much nicer if I had a gentleman to show me around and provide good company, don't you think?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. She was laying it on thick and transparent and they both knew it. But she seemed… nice. A word he used very rarely to describe people. She gave off an aura of intelligence as well, and Tom supposed it wouldn't hurt to walk around this magical place with her; she might be able to tell him things he wouldn't otherwise be able to learn right away.

"Well, in that case, who am I to deny my good company to a lady?" He said, offering his arm like he had seen adults doing from time to time. She laughed and took it. Her teeth were white and straight.

"Wonderful! I'm Hermione Wilkins."

"Tom Riddle."

Something flickered in her eyes, but it was gone and replaced with a warm sparkle before he could identify it.

"It's nice to meet you, Tom Riddle. I'd ask where you'd like to go first, but I'm quite sure," she plucked at his sleeve, where a smudge of soil remained, "That the robe shop is the obvious answer. I still need to get my school robes too."

New clothes. The thought bubbled giddily inside him. He'd never had anything that was completely and wholly his before. Everything he'd ever owned had always been, at some point, taken away or belonged to somebody else. Though he was aware that the robes he would be getting would most likely be second-hand, the thought bothered him only minimally, because they would be his.

He found himself glad of Hermione's sharp eye, as it prevented him the humiliating task of asking to visit the tailor himself. It was embarrassing enough to have to wear dirty clothes without them being pointed out.

At the robe shop, aptly named Needler's Necessities, they were tended to by a tall, thin man with beady eyes, long fingers, and a longer nose. Tom guessed that the man was probably Mr. Needler himself. The young boy watched as a measuring tape flew around his body, taking measurements of every angle of his body. Beside him, standing on a stool identical to his, Hermione was undergoing the same procedure. He was surprised to hear her also request for second hand robes.

"What year of Hogwarts are you going into this year, Tom?" she asked.

"My first."

"First year, huh? That's great. I'm starting my seventh. I turn nineteen in September, though. I had some family troubles last year and had to miss school. I'm so glad to be going back. There's nothing quite so beautiful as Hogwarts; you're going to love it. It's my home away from home."

He'd nearly missed her by a year then. 'Lucky me,' he thought, and truly felt so. And though he didn't really want to ask…

"How is your family now?"

The sadness that overtook her face caught him off guard. Her eyes flickered toward the earth. "They… well, they don't remember that I exist, anymore."

It explained the second-hand robes at least, but he couldn't stop his mouth dropping open a fraction. He'd never had family to lose before, but like any orphan he'd once longed to be adopted, daydreamed that his mother had never died, that his father showed up out of thin air to take him away. But the thought of everyone forgetting him was nothing short of horrifying. He wasn't fond of Mrs. Cole, but the idea of going back to the orphanage and discovering that the old cat simply didn't know whom he was—to imagine that even foul, mean Billy Stubbs would look at him blankly and ask, "Who are you?"—made him feel sick inside.

"What about you? Do you have much family?"

He managed to keep from flinching, but straightened his posture. She hadn't meant anything by it, he told himself; there was no good reason for him to feel offended. "No, I haven't got any family. I'm an orphan."

He expected that any moment now she would stutter out a bit of insincere, disgusting pity and…

"Oh, okay. Well, you know what they say: if you can't find what you're looking for, build it yourself."

…She didn't pity him? She even offered advice—of a sort. This was new. He didn't immediately respond, thinking on the young woman's words. Build it himself… just what did that mean?

Suitable robes for both boy and woman were quickly found with only a few minor adjustments needing to be made at the hems and they were soon discharged from their stools.

"What House are you hoping to be in?" Hermione asked as they left the store.

"House?" he echoed, buckling his messenger bag closed, his robes, cloak, and hat tucked away safely inside. He held out his arm again and, again, her hand found its way to the crook of his elbow.

"Well, Hogwarts has four groups called Houses that students are Sorted into depending on their personalities. The Houses are named after the four people who founded Hogwarts." The way she spoke reminded him of a teacher, only she spoke much more passionately than any teacher he had met before, her voice rhythmic and enthralling. "First there is Gryffindor, which is my House, and the students there are brave and bold. Our mascot is a lion. Then there is Ravenclaw for the smart and studious and they actually have an eagle for their mascot. Hufflepuff is for the loyal and hardworking students, symbolized by a badger. Finally there is Slytherin House for the cunning and ambitious and a snake represents their House."

"I like the sound of that one," Tom couldn't help but say.

She smiled sheepishly. "In all honestly I feel like I'm doing a terrible job explaining the Houses to you. We should probably just pop into Blott's Books and you can read all about them for yourself."

"We can do that," he said, "But I think you're explaining it all right. Go on."

"Well, you probably ought to know that there is something of a rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin. The Founders, who went by the same names, used to be very good friends, but Slytherin believed that only pureblooded witches and wizards deserved to be educated." At Tom's puzzled look, she elaborated, "Wizards who have all magical families call themselves 'pureblood.' But not every witch and wizard has magical parents and grandparents—those wizards are referred to as 'Muggle-borns.' Slytherin didn't want to teach Muggle-born witches and wizards, but Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw felt that they had as much right to be a part of the magical world as 'purebloods' did.

"As you can probably imagine, they fought about it and finally Slytherin up and left. Students in Slytherin often clash badly with students in Gryffindor. Not everyone, mind you, but the older pureblood families tend to be very bitter about it."

Allowing Hermione to steer him into Blott's Books, he thoughtfully nibbled his bottom lip.

"Are you a pureblood?" he asked.

She smiled and seemed to preen a bit. "Nope. I'm Muggle-born. My parents are-were-" again that brief flicker of sadness and Tom wondered if she was lonely, "Dentists."

"What do they call wizards with mixed parents?"

"Half-bloods. To be honest, I've never liked all the terms being based on blood. We're people, not a lot of dogs dressing up for a show." She said, her nose crinkling with distaste. She continued, "Now, books here are sorted by subject then by author. I don't know why they don't just put the grade books together and sell them in sets, but for some reason they make us go around and find them all ourselves. Do you mind looking around without me for a while? I have a couple of old tomes that I want to sell and get a few extra galleons out of. It might take a while; that clerk looks awfully sour."

Somewhat reluctantly, he nodded and relinquished his hold on her, allowing her to walk up to the bookstore employee. Tom made his way over to an arch from which hung a sign that read "History." The little twinge of disappointment in his stomach was not unexpected; Hermione obviously had an agenda before she had come across him and it was unreasonable of him to expect her to abandon that agenda. Determinedly, he pushed her to the back of his mind and focused on finding his schoolbooks: A History of Magic, Magical Theory, Transfiguration for Beginners, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, Magical Drafts and Potions, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and finally The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection.

Peeking behind their covers, he was immediately entranced and knew he would surely have them all memorized cover-to-cover by the time September 1st arrived. Tom had never put much faith into the fairytales he had grown up hearing—Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White—but the discovery that such simple tales of adventure and magic had actual merit touched him on a level that he couldn't fully describe. He didn't hurry to the counter to purchase, instead lingering between the shelves and resisting the urge to read anything and everything.

'I could spend an eternity in here,' he thought. He had the desire to try and steal an extra book—it hardly mattered which one, they were all desirable—but the memory of Professor Dumbledore stilled his hand. If that man could so effortlessly discover Tom's trophies then surely the stores had anti-theft enchantments or something of a similar function.

He sighed and twisted his mouth to the side, frustrated. He would just have to cope with it for now, but that certainly didn't mean he had to like it. Besides, he supposed, what was keeping him from coming back to Blott's Books and reading the books without buying any of them? It may not have been a library, but who would notice or mind a kid reading in a shadowed corner? A smirk tugged at his lips.

The section he stood under now was, for some bizarre reason, pink, and the small sign present was labeled with a word he didn't recognize. He plucked a volume down from the shelves and snorted at the illustration of a man and a woman kissing.

"They have a whole section on love stories?" he muttered skeptically, "Odd. Love magic, maybe… like Beauty and the Beast?"

"Oh, there you are!"

His head snapped up instantly and his eyebrows rose at the surprising sight of Hermione.

"Hello."

"I've been looking for you." She said, grinning.

"Y-you have?" Internally, he winced at the sudden stammer and cursed himself for it. Her smile softened and, in his chest, Tom felt his heart thud just a bit harder.

"Of course, you didn't think you were going to get rid of me that easily, did you?" She said, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. Her voice had a teasing lilt to it.

Tom found himself at a loss on how to respond and blinked up at her. What to say? 'Get rid of you, why would I ever want to get rid of you?' or 'Actually, I thought you were the one who up and left.' Or 'Do you honestly have nothing better to do than follow me around?' They all sounded like terrible responses.

"What book have you got there?" She asked.

He found himself incredibly grateful for the change of subject.

"I'm not sure yet. I haven't read beyond the title page," Tom said, turning the book on its side so that she could see the cover.

A blush darkened Hermione's cheeks as she read the title and, boldly, she plucked the book right out of his hands and put it back on the shelf. "Ahh, I think you might be a bit," she coughed into her fist, "Young for this kind of reading. You'd probably be much better suited to browsing through those books over back that way."

Tom pursed his lips, annoyed, and pushed her hand from his shoulder. "And you just up and decided what I can and can't read for yourself, did you? You are not my guardian."

She stared down at him in open surprise for a moment before snorting loudly. Immediately her hand flew to her mouth, eyes glittering brightly with mirth. He frowned deeper, confused and rather offended.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I'm not trying to tell you what to do; it's just that, well, this particular bookshelf…" she leaned down and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "You do know about the birds and the bees, right?"

There was a moment of milky paleness before he went red all the way to the tips of his ears.

"O-oh." He managed. Yes, he certainly knew about that. As an orphan, no one bothered to sugarcoat the facts of life for him by telling ridiculous stories about baby-carrying birds. And he very nearly cracked open a book on the subject, good grief!

Hermione was giggling openly at him now and he managed to glare at her despite the blush spread across his cheeks, arms crossed.

"Sorry," she said between her chuckles, "But you're really cute when you're embarrassed."

You're really cute.

You're cute.

'She thinks I'm cute.' No one had ever told him that before. He didn't believe it was possible for his blush to get any darker, but that didn't stop his body from trying.

"I'm a boy. Boys aren't cute." He protested half-heartedly.

"Yes, you are, and yes, they are. Well, some of them anyway. The best ones." She added with a wink. Tom's chest almost hurt. "Are you ready to purchase your books? I could spend eternity in here, myself, but there are still a couple of other shops you and I both need to visit and if I'm not mistaken," she leaned in a little bit, "Don't you still have to get your wand?"

'My wand,' the thought jumped forward eagerly and his insides filled with hunger. Quickly kneeling to pick up his books, he entirely missed the look of alarm that flitted across Hermione's face, as it was gone by the time he straightened. Chin held high, he strode to the clerk's counter, only half-expecting Hermione to follow—which, much to his glee, she did.

The clerk nodded at Tom and began ringing up the books. He positively beamed at Hermione, his wrinkled face morphing into a craggy landscape, and when she plopped down a big, fat book next to Tom's pile he chuckled.

"Smart girl," said the clerk.

Tom frowned questioningly up at Hermione, but she only winked at him.

The total that the clerk gave was a smaller amount than he had expected—assuming the magic in the air wasn't affecting his ability to do math and the currency exchange rate hadn't changed immensely overnight—but he handed the coins over without a word of query or complaint. The book that had been added was titled Hogwarts: A History.

Hermione apparently knew what he was thinking, as, once they had left the store, she said:

"I got him to give you a discount."

Tom's steps faltered for just a moment as he tried to fit his books into his messenger bag. "How?"

She seemed immensely pleased with herself. "All I had to do was flirt a little. A fellow like that appreciates attention from a pretty girl. A small discount was worth it to him in exchange for some good conversation."

"You didn't have to do that."

"Ahh, but I wanted to. That look on your face reminded me of myself when I stepped into Blott's Books for the first time. Um, you know, if you like, I can put a charm on your bag." She offered.

His hands paused. "Charm?"

"I can enchant it so that it's bigger on the inside than it looks. All of your supplies should fit then. My handbag can fit an entire library in it. Nothing ever stays in the place where it was supposed to, though, so I have to summon everything. I wouldn't make yours quite so big, but…"

"Yes!" he blurted then blushed, realizing how that sounded. "Please," he added. The word was bitter on his tongue, but he knew only a fool would refuse.

And Tom was no fool.

Warily, he handed over his bag and watched with rapt attention as the young woman whisked her wand over it, murmuring under her breath. Her eyebrows were tilted in concentration, her eyes intense; the movement of her mouth small. He had met very, very few magical persons thus far, but it was clear that Hermione was a person with exceptional intelligence and skill. Tom realized, quite suddenly, that he wanted Hermione Wilkins.

The messenger bag deflated and Hermione smirked in satisfaction as she handed it back to him.

"There, all done. You can stick your arm in and check that everything's there, if you're unsure." She said.

He did so, and found that, indeed, he could stick his arm in all the way to the shoulder. It looked utterly bizarre. "How much bigger did you make it, exactly?" he asked, feeling out the books and robes and counting them up. All present.

"Only five times larger than its original size. It won't last forever, I'm afraid, but by the time school begins you won't need all that room, anyhow."

"I… Thanks." He said, meeting her eyes. 'You're going to be mine,' he decided, 'When I'm old enough, no matter where you are, no matter whom you're with, I will find you and make you mine, Hermione Wilkins.'

She flashed him a toothy smile. "You're welcome, Tom. Now, how about that wa—" She cut herself off, frowning, and reached into a pocket of her robes to withdraw a watch. It was vibrating and ringing noisily, only ceasing its annoying alarm when she opened it to look at the time. Her face fell. "Damn. I'm so sorry, Tom, something's come up. I have to go."

His emotions must've shown on his face, because she repeated herself, more softly this time. "Sorry."

Tom sighed and adjusted the strap of his bag. "It's alright, I guess. I will see you at Hogwarts soon." He didn't want to let her leave, but swallowed his desire, reassuring himself that he would possess her in time.

Her smile flickered into existence again. "Yes, we most certainly will." She paused, pursed her lips thoughtfully then began digging around her handbag for a quill and leaflet of paper. She scribbled something on it and when she was finished she handed it to him. "I know an owl probably won't be available to you right now, but here's my address so if you have any questions or concerns about the Wizarding world or anything else you can go ahead and drop me a letter at the post office. If you like; you don't have to if you don't want to, of course, but I thought I'd let you have the option."

There was no hiding his astonishment now. Gently, he plucked the paper from her fingers, his eyes dashing over the symbols written there.

"Why are you doing all this?"

That melancholy, distant look shadowed her face again and she looked at him with something that wasn't quite pity. "The world can be a cruel place, sometimes. I think that, as an orphan, you know that better than most people. I've seen… terrible things before; felt just how mean people can be. But there are kind people in the world, good people. The world would be a much more pleasant place if everyone just put a little more effort into being nice. I try to be one of those people. Besides," she added, grinning, "I like you."

His cheeks burned. Something knotted in his chest, above his heart, that seemed like it should have hurt, but didn't.

'I like you.'

Had anyone ever told him that before? He couldn't recall.

"Thank you." he said, and found that, for the very first time, he actually meant it.

"Write soon, would you?" she smiled, "I like long letters."

"I will. Goodbye then."

"Not goodbye. I'll see you later." She twirled on the spot and vanished before his eyes with a sharp pop.

Tom stared at the point where she had stood for a moment, before the space was filled with human traffic once again. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the paper before pocketing it and continuing on his way.

'You'll be hearing from me very soon, Hermione Wilkins.'

Notes:

One thing I've never understood with Time Travel fics is why people insist on coming up with a fake surname that is pretty-sounding and meaningful for Hermione when she already has an alternate perfectly available. Why bother with renaming her Hermione Greensleeves or Hermione Von Traveler or even jumping to Hermione Evans when Wilkins is so readily available?