So, this is the piece that I'd written some time ago. It's an AU, and quite OOC at that. I just can't stop myself from writing Hermione with Tom Riddle. I know it's a weird habit, but god, I'm addicted to this pairing.

As much as I love Harry Potter, I own nothing except for Hermione's extra heart. Everything else belongs to J.K Rowling and her wonderful imagination…


MY HEART WILL GO ON…

When my mind raises its feeble self from the haze of morphine, I find myself staring at a formidable looking woman in a nurse's outfit.

Her brows are scrunched as she jabs a needle in the drip that's connected to my arm.

What's happening?

I look around to confirm that I'm indeed in a hospital room. The austere white all around kinda gives it away. Hospitals should totally invest in interior decoration.

"Don't fidget, young lady," the nurse says, glaring at me while she does what nurses typically do.

"What am I doing here?"

She looks at me as if I've grown horns in a matter of moments.

"Donating one of your hearts, my dear."

What the fuck?

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When my eyes open for the next time, I find myself standing in the gloomy library of my college. It's empty, which is weird considering that our gargoyle librarian seldom leaves her post by the front door. The towering shelves of books look formidable in their inertness. I move towards my favourite section-Novels, only to find a guy occupying my beloved chair by the window. He is engrossed in a copy of Wuthering Heights, his half-full coffee cup forgotten on the table.

How did he sneak that caffeine goodness inside the sanctified halls of gargoyle's lair?

"Excuse me."

His head never rises from the pages he's lost in.

It's a rare treat, watching a guy invested in a love story.

"Hello."

He's still burrowed in that damn book of his.

"Hey, Heathcliff," I shout.

He raises his head, and breath is knocked out of my chest.

I can feel both my hearts thudding in my ears. The sound is all I can hear, and his face is all I can see.

Boy, oh boy, is he beautiful or what?

I've never seen a guy this beautiful outside YouTube, K-drama or a Buzzfeed article.

His face is the classic example of god's generosity. Pale skin stretched over the sharp clash of bones; it's a face that turns heads. His raven black eyes appear blue.

Damn.

He has such long lashes and don't even get me started on his lips.

His lips are utterly kissable.

What the fuck am I doing, standing here and ogling him like a perv?

When did I become this girly?

"You are in my seat," I blurt.

"I don't see a name on this chair." He scowls.

"You must be new if you don't know Hermione Granger's favourite chair in the library. No one dares to come within ten feet of it."

"I don't let daddy's girls bully me. I'm entitled to sit wherever I want."

He is such a dick. Why did I call him beautiful again?

I fix him with a deadly stare, one that scares the shit out of guys who dare to mess with me.

"Am I supposed to be scared?" he deadpans.

Is this guy real?

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What's happening with me?

I open my eyes to find my mother sitting near me. We must've been conversing. Only I can make that worried look appear on my mom's face.

The good thing is that I'm back at home. The familiarity of surrounding is a comfort I much appreciate in this situation when I hear people shouting stupid slogans outside my house.

"They are right too. Your extra heart can save someone's life."

My mom is one of those 'thinking-about-the-welfare-of-other-people' people.

"This isn't Hunger Games, mum. I'm not going to voluntarily agree for doctors to cut me open, two hearts or not." I finish my insightful rant with an added eye roll for the effect.

"Are you sure, Hermione?" asks my mother.

"Of course, I'm. Survival of the fittest, mother. I'm not gonna go against Darwin. Also, I don't want unnecessary scars on my body."

It's a known fact that we are all born to die. And frankly, I don't understand why it has to be made into such a big deal. If it were not for my mother I would have said that to the bunch of people outside my house, some of them with young kids, shouting slogans, waving placards, literally wanting me to cut one of my beating hearts out. "Save A Life. Donate!" they shout.

For someone who is one in billions, I expect to be treated better. Scientists are still befuddled regarding my condition that gave me two hearts in my mother's womb. But years of research and sticking needles into me have led them nowhere, and they have labelled me as a freak mutation. It's so rare - literally one in all humankind - that they didn't even name the anomaly.

An IQ of 180, increased concentration, exceptional athleticism and a phenomenal metabolism rate - are just a few boring benefits of an increased blood circulation. Why would I ever give that up?

I'd be mad to even contemplate it.

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I find myself at my hangout place behind the main college building.

Blaise and I, we come here to roll a joint sometimes. And talking of Blaise, where is he?

"-but I can give you so much more than what she does, Blaise." The whiny tone of one Pansy Parkinson reaches my ears.

I walk to a distance and round the corner only to find Blaise boxed against the wall, and I burst out laughing. Now, don't get me wrong. If it had been anyone else other than Blaise, I'd have felt pity for the poor guy.

Blaise is the definition of macho. Tall, dark and handsome with buffed up physique, he is the dream guy of almost every girl in our college, bar me. When he starts waxing lyrical in Italian, I don't think any girl is immune to the epidemic named Blaise Zabini.

"My dearest Time Lady, you are here to save me, aren't you?" The desperation in his eyes is vastly entertaining.

Pansy is not too happy to see me. "What are you doing here, freak?"

Ah, the nickname that has been bestowed on me for having two hearts!

"Nothing, bitch. I was just passing. You carry on whatever you were doing." I can hear Blaise's howl at my parting sentence.

The bastard totally deserves it. He abandoned me for Matt Bomer's hip thrust in Magic Mike.

Pansy can torture him with her close proximity, breathy whispers, and clogging perfume. I'm sure Blaise will be half dead by the time she starts her kissing attempts.

I'm going to love retelling the story in vivid details to Blaise's boyfriend - Harry.

"Leaving your boyfriend in clutches of a siren, Granger?"

He is leaning against the tree, a half finished cigarette dangling from his fingers.

Heathcliff smokes?

"You are mistaking a wannabe beauty queen for a siren, Heathcliff."

"Tom."

"Whatever, Heathcliff," I scoff.

The silence stretches for moments, yawning in the smoke from Heathcliff's cigarette.

"So, 'Time Lady', you a Doctor Who fan?"

Everyone who doesn't know about my heart condition assumes I'm a Whovian. After all, who has two hearts other than The Doctor?

"Nah, Heathcliff. I just have two hearts."

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"Granger, I've been standing here for past ten minutes."

I turn towards him, and he makes my hearts miss their beats. Again.

Seriously? He makes me behave like a girly girl.

I turn in a stuttering, blushing, awestruck fool whenever he is around. He makes me wanna shed the tough cover that protects me. Since childhood, I grew an extra layer of skin against the whispers that started whenever people saw me. As if I had somehow multiplied my hearts by my own sheer will inside my mother's womb.

Dad died after few months of my birth.

So, you can easily imagine the next adjective that society added with the pre-existing freak.

Unlucky.

I don't feel unlucky when I'm with him.

Tom makes me feel different. With him, I don't feel like a scientific anomaly.

I'm not a tomboy threatening to beat girls black and blue if they don't stay away from Blaise. I'm not a wise-cracking brilliant student with a bright future. I'm not a bookworm with bushy hair .

With Tom, I'm just Hermione Granger.

"Hermione."

I shake my head and focus on him.

"Sorry. I lost track of time." I point towards the books scattered on our table in the library.

My table has become our table. My chair is no longer mine, but ours. Now he is Tom along with being Heathcliff.

"I thought so. Here, drink some." He hands me my favourite Mocha Latte.

How does he keep bringing these in the library?

I look over at him. He is sitting on the edge of the table, his eyes looking at me intently.

I feel a blush creeping on my cheeks.

"You look beautiful."

A slow happy feeling blooms inside my stomach and all the butterflies who wake in my stomach in his presence go back to sleep.

"Stop lying," I mutter.

We bonded after initial sarcastic weeks over our mutual love for Doctor Who, Books, Pentatonix and Linkin Park. The shocker of me having two hearts wasn't a big deal for him. He'd shrugged after my declaration as if I'd told him something trivial.

And after months here we are, so entwined in each other's life that we never feel as if we had a different life before knowing each other.

The sudden touch of his finger on my cheek makes me raise my head to meet his eyes again. There is an intense emotion in them, something that suspiciously coincides with my pounding hearts and shallow breaths.

"I don't lie, Time Lady. It's you who does that."

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Heathcliff looks dashing in a tuxedo.

If he was beautiful in faded denim and black button-downs, he is simply otherworldly in his royal blue tuxedo.

Tom comes from money unlike me. Now, my mom is comfortably off, strictly upper middle class but his dad is in a league of his own.

Heathcliff is dragging me to this party his dad gives every year.

It's a black tie affair, so I have to dress up.

I look at myself in the floor-length mirror in my room. The girl staring back at me from the glass is a far cry from a rugged jeans and tank top wearing tomboy. My rich brown hair cascades down my back-smooth in texture and appearance. My sharp features have been highlighted by the clever use of make-up that my mother absolutely loved to put on my face. My cerulean dress is a knee-length affair of straight lines, dark fabric, and net.

These heels are pretty but they're fucking killing my feet and I've just worn them for few minutes. How am I going to stand for the rest of night?

Well, I'm gonna hang on Tom's arm like a limpet for the rest of the party.

When I come down the stairs, it feels like a cliché as his eyes meet mine and I forget everything.

He takes my hand as I descend the last step.

"You are breathtaking, Hermione."

And then he drops in a dead faint at my feet.

If we talk about the intense reaction, this takes the first place.

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Tom is angry.

I can do nothing but stare helplessly at his face. The bleakness in his orbs pierces my hearts.

Why doesn't he understand? I'm doing this for him.

"Why are you doing this, Hermione?" This is the umpteenth time he has asked the question, and this time around too, my answer is gonna be same.

"Because I can. Don't make it a big deal than it is, Heathcliff. You are being overtly dramatic." My poor pass at humor earns me another glower.

He walks towards me, bridging that small space which was already non-existent to begin with. He pulls me in him, and my hearts drop to my feet inside my body. I am so close. I can see those long lashes making crescents against his cheeks when he blinks.

"They are going to cut you open, Granger. Remember when we first met? You said you were never going to let them take one of your hearts voluntarily. Then why are you doing this? Why are you changing yourself for me?"

Stupid Heathcliff!

Doesn't he know? I will do anything for him.

"Why?" His voice is a whisper against my lips.

"You will die if I don't." The tears come unbidden and fall down my cheek. He has an irreparable hole in his heart. The day he fainted is not something I ever wanna go through again. The doctors have given their diagnosis, and a heart transplant is the only option left for my Tom.

"So let me die, Hermione."

My hand automatically connects with his cheek in a smack. In a moment, I'm hitting him like a crazy. "How can you say that?" I sob.

His hands come around me as he bands me to him. His fingers lift my cheek. His eyes are desperate as his lips touch mine.

Fire, longing, craving; I don't know anything apart from these.

The love that we've always skirted around is there in every touch of his mouth. It's there in the dominating way his tongue slides against mine. It's in his roaming hands and on my damp cheeks.

This is love as I've never felt it.

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When they wheel us together towards the operating room, the only thought in my head is a prayer for him.

I want my Heathcliff to be okay again. I want him smirking at me and leaving me breathless in his wake. I want to argue about Carlisle and Bella fanfiction I'm addicted to, with him. I want him to make fun of me again, to snatch the joint right before it reaches my lips.

I want his hands to tug me closer and kiss me till I forget to breathe.

I want him to be with me for the rest of my life.

I want him to live.

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The bright rays of the sun against my eyelids force me to open my eyes and squint irritably at the man who looks like a damn fashion model with his bed hair and ridiculous grin, lying on these decadent dark sheets.

"Hey you."

Tom gives me a soft smile as he leans down to give me my good morning kiss.

He still makes my heart race, even after ten years.

"Good morning, Tom," I say as my hand feels the comforting thump of my heart in his chest.

I'm minus one heart, but it's okay.

I've my Heathcliff with me.


Do you wanna kick my ass after reading this or do you wanna hug me? Review below and let me know what you think of this story, and I'm off to plan another one where the main attraction would be Hermione/Antonin. Blame awesome Thrifty-Crimson for getting hooked me on the pairing. Now, I can't find enough fics to satiate my hunger…