Eternity

The sun was slowly setting in the distance. The chirping of birds started to decrease as the skies darkened. Slowly, the light source changed from the sun to the light coming from the windows of the houses that were scattered throughout the town.

Save the giggles of children playing, the streets were quiet. Occasionally, a car would drive through the town.

A woman, clad in black, appeared at one of the corners and slowly walked down the street. A soft breeze rushed through the streets, brushing past her, and gently swayed her bushy hair. Her eyes were cast downwards as she walked down the road that led to the mansion on top of the hill.

The door of one of the houses creaked open and a man in his forties appeared at the steps. He glanced at the woman and a smile appeared on his face.

"Good evening, Mrs. Riddle," Mr. Smith greeted her.

She glanced at him, raising her head only slightly.

"Good evening, Mr. Smith."

Although a warm smile was plastered on her face, the sadness behind that façade could not be hidden. Mr. Smith always wondered why the woman seemed so melancholy.

One year ago, she moved into the mansion sitting on top of the hill. Whispers about the woman spread throughout the town, like the wind disrupting the dead leaves on the ground from their slumber. The house had been abandoned for many years. Everyone in town knew that the Riddles died in the mansion and there were no doubts in the villagers' minds that it was haunted.

The mysterious woman called herself Mrs. Riddle. This only added to the curiosity of the people living in the town. The previous owners of the Riddle mansion were never known to have other family members. Then again, they never knew too much about the Riddles anyway.

Nevertheless, she was seen every single day, walking through the streets, as if she was searching for something. The heartrending expression never left her face and the unshed tears always added a layer of mist in her eyes.

She was not particularly beautiful but there was a hidden kind of grace and knowledge in her. Most people would willingly give her their respect. There was something inside her that commanded it.

Nobody knew how old she was, but she hardly looked much older than Mr. Smith. She never reached out to become friends with people and she never had visitors.

All in all, she was a very strange lady and children had learned from their parents to stay away from her, no matter how nice she seemed.

They did not need to worry anyway. She never attempted to talk to anyone. Mr. Smith was the only person who actually tried to speak with her. Although she was polite, she never disclosed any information about herself.

And Mr. Smith could tell she had no intention to ever do so.

~-0-~

Sometimes, she wondered if she was a masochist.

That thought would always bring a smile to her lips as she sat in the rocking chair on the third floor of the Riddle mansion. She would look out of the window overlooking the graveyard, stare at the sun until it set, and watch the moon rise.

What else could she be? Falling in love with a renowned sadist, she could not be anything but masochistic.

However, her acts of self-torture had reached a completely new level when she decided to move back to the Riddle mansion, two years after his death.

It had been three years since he had died. Most of the Death Eaters were already thrown into Azkaban. Yet, once in a while, she would still see one or two of them walking around in the midst of normal wizards and witches. Apparently, the Ministry was having a hard time rounding up all of them. It was not unexpected since not many people had the privilege of knowing the identity of every single Death Eater.

They seemed surprised to see her, although they did not know that her astonishment was greater than theirs when they slightly bowed to her. She supposed that their allegiance to him had not diminished.

Even though he was dead.

A frown appeared on her forehead and she closed her eyes. For a moment, she looked as if she was undergoing pain.

"Hermione."

A shiver ran through her as she remembered the way his silky voice would caress her name and the way he would gaze intently at her.

Most people feared him, but she never found a reason to be afraid of him. His expression always softened when he looked at her. It was not to say that he was not strict with her. No. Lord Voldemort always demanded complete respect and obedience.

Not that she was always submissive. There were many times when she would try to defy him.

A hint of a smile appeared on her face.

He always stared at her when she started to scream and yell at him. After that, he would simply do things the way he wanted, as if he had not heard a word she said. It frustrated and irritated her, but she knew better than to try to change him.

She opened her eyes when she felt something touch her hair. Her gaze fell on the slightly opened window and realized that it was merely the wind.

She reached out shakily and closed the window before she covered her face with her hand. When she uncovered her face a while later, she realized that there was moisture on her hand.

She did not notice that tears had fallen again.

When she fully acknowledged this fact, a surge of pain traveled from the pit of her stomach to her eyes and her sight blurred. She closed her eyes again, almost able to feel his arms encircling her now, as they had done so often in the past.

"You're never leaving me, Hermione," he whispered in her ears the first time she gave herself to him.

"I'll eventually die one day," she replied softly. He chuckled.

"I am Lord Voldemort, dear. Do you think I will let something as petty as death stop what I wish to do?" he questioned, his laughter laced throughout his words.

She resented the fact that he broke his promise to her. He left her. He promised her that he would not let death stop him. Yet…he was dead.

Dead.

Gone.

Disappeared.

The only thing he left behind were the memories, which were the sources of her pain as well as her only solace.

"It really is a pity. You are one of the most powerful witches I know, but you have so much of that," a smirk appeared on his lips, "Gryffindor honor and, quote unquote, 'goodness' that it will be impossible for you to help me towards my goal."

A sarcastic smile appeared on her tearstained face. Had he ever realized that there was darkness in her as well? The days after she Apparated out of the paradise he had constructed for her, she hoped and prayed that he was not dead.

There were moments when she almost wished…that the outcome was reversed.

She knew it was wrong. Harry was her best friend. She would immediately scold herself for allowing that thought to cross her mind, but it was not something she could control.

The truest and greatest demons in a person's heart only appeared when they were in despair.

And she could not think of a moment she was more miserable than the years after his death.

The moments when people were celebrating his death, she was immersed in the utmost desolation and pain. She would curse the gods for allowing this to happen. She awfully wanted to curse the people for being happy about his end, yet another part of her brain would remind her that they had good reasons for being joyful about the downfall of Lord Voldemort.

"You're just sickeningly pure and good, Hermione," he said one day, a sarcastic smile gracing his features. "Sometimes, I still marvel at the fact that you're attracted to me."

She opened her eyes, the memories momentarily filling her ears with phantom echoes of his laughter.

"Tom…Tom…" she whispered.

A bitter smile appeared on her face as she remembered how he would glare at her when she screeched out his given name in front of his Death Eaters. It was a look that would cause the bravest man to quiver. However, she could only ever see it as something endearing.

"You honestly have to learn how to call me by my real name, instead of…that name," he complained one day, a look of disgust etched on his face.

"I'm sure you would prefer being called 'My Lord'," she smirked in return.

"Hmm," he agreed, dark eyes glinting in amusement at the thought. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "But I know better than to expect you, my dear rebellious little lioness, to comply with my wishes."

She leaned into his touch, a pleased smile on her lips.

"…I miss you, Tom," she murmured, her eyes blurring from the tears welling up in her eyes again.

She leaned back in the rocking chair and closed her eyes.

As darkness took over the skies, she continued to submerge herself in her memories, the cause of her never-ending pain.

And the only reason for her to continue her wretched life.

~-0-~