Hi guys. I haven't been around, I know (it's probably been 3 years or something). I kind of grew out of Harry Potter and stopped writing for quite a while. I don't know where this inspiration came from and my writing style might have change. A lot. So here we go.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Dark blue eyes with intent, slick brown hair and a calculating smirk on the lips. Despite rumours of his intelligence, competence and perfectness, Hermione never particularly care about Head Boy Tom Riddle. His more than mysterious ways, his disappearances, the fear in other Slytherins' eyes.
No, Hermione did not particularly care.
Hermione Granger had beaten – obliterated, was a better word - all previous OWLs scores. The brightest witch of the century since Nicolas Flamel, they said. Hermione Granger would have the most brilliant future of them all, she would make all of these stupid and degenerated purebloods kneel in front of them one day, she would make them swallow their pride and show them all.
No, Hermione did not particularly care about Head Boy Tom Riddle. Until he stood between her and her own ambitions as the first Muggleborn Minister of Magic.
Tom Riddle never paid attention to Hermione Granger. Brilliant, Muggleborn and quite pretty. But still Muggleborn. His own crowd abhorred the young woman. In academics, all students paled in comparison, even he did. Not that he would ever admit it.
No, Tom was not interested.
Tom Riddle dabbled in Dark Magic every day. As if practising something so frowned upon, dangerous, malicious, was like ordering a morning cup of coffee. He had no doubt he was the Wizard with the most powerful – or with the most potential - magic in all England, even more powerful than Albus Dumbledore at the naïve age of seventeen.
No, Tom was not particularly interested in Hermione Granger. Until their Magics brushed past each other and something much much more than his - Ancient, pure and abominably powerful - made his own Magic almost stumble.
Hermione Granger had been aware of the eyes of Head Boy Tom Riddle. They would follow her with the intensity of dog looking at a damn bone. Far from being stupid, she knew it was due to their Magics introducing themselves to each other the previous week.
Not that her Magic would ever introduce itself to someone insignificant.
Only great Wizards could sense each other Magics. But only even greater Wizards could hide their Magics. She had been careless in letting her Witchcraft free. She had been quite careful previously, learning to keep a low profile after a brush with Albus Dumbledore and a surprised wink from the old man after sensing her. The interaction had been quite pleasant. His Magic was experienced, strong and wise. Hers was younger but still brilliant. Their Magics had joined around each other like a hand-shaking gesture, a greeting, an acknowledgement. And Hermione had no doubt that her Magic had absorbed some aura and knowledge from Albus Dumbledore's, like their own relationship as teacher and student.
Her encounter with Tom Riddle had been different. Really, truly, divergent. If Albus Dumbledore's Magic was warm and pleasant, Tom Riddle's Magic felt like a puddle of mud. A dark, intense, powerful puddle of mud (okay – she might be exaggerating. More like a dark, intense, powerful hurricane). Hermione had previously known he had played with Dark Magic, but never to this extent, to the point of completely mutilating his entire Entity. She was quite sure her Magic regretted the introduction as it had almost recoiled to the contact of Tom Riddle's obscure, disgusting and disfigured Magic. She had to hold back a snicker.
"A peasant", she thought. She could only wonder how her body would react if they were to truly touch. Skin to skin. Repulsive.
Hermione did not wonder for long. Tom Riddle had cornered her.
"Granger", he touched her elbow.
She had to force herself not to vomit. Instead, she carefully, slowly, calculatingly moved away from his touch and examined the ancient painting of Andros the Invincible, Greek Wizard and one of the first one to successfully perform the Patronus charm.
"Riddle, I was expecting you", she answered politely and coolly, eyes still giving full attention to the painting. She did not want to upset him and show how repugnant she felt he was. Even if he was.
Brief surprise that lasted a fraction of a second before he regained marble composure and gestured her into the classroom.
"You know why I am here, then", he said in a conversational tone. Like he was here to borrow a book, like he was here to talk about the latest discovery on the effects of Murtlap Essence on indigestion, like he was here for a frivolous reason.
"Yes", Hermione answered with the same disinterest.
Despite the fact that he had cornered her, Hermione sat down in a chair of the empty class down with remarkable manners and effortlessness, like she had been waiting for Tom Riddle to appear in the corridor all along. She mentioned to the chair opposite of her with her hand, inviting him to sit in the same classroom he himself had prepared to trap her. He would hex her insolence to the other side of Time, he swore. One day.
"You know how talented you are", he said, while taking the seat. her attitude and the intelligent glint in her eyes truly demonstrated her knowledge of her how capacity.
"I would never be that presumptuous, Riddle" she scoffed. She studied him. So pretty, too pretty, she thought. She had the upper hand and she knew it.
Maybe he did not have to ask her nicely. Maybe he did. But she would be useless dead anyway, she thought. Definitely, the upper hand.
"You know what I want", he said.
If he thought she was about going to give him anything when he was giving her nothing, he definitely did not know Hermione Granger. So, she played coy. Great Gryffindor at heart, Hermione would probably make an even better Slytherin.
Tom Riddle studied her. So smart. Too smart, he thought. She would make an awful Knight. He would have to play his cards right.
"I have a diary", he said, expecting her to know all the details. Like she could guess all his schemes, like she could read his mind, like she had an absolute idea of the monster behind his robes.
"I know", she acknowledged - for the diary and all his other presumptions. She had seen the little leather book he would write in when an idea seemed to form in the Great Hall. She had seen how he seemed to always scribble names, names of people who were talking about their everyday lives, people they would meet or all the riches their family possess. Useful names.
She had spent hours in the Restricted Section of the library – under Harry's Invisibility cloak, reading ancient, forgotten books about Dead Magic, Rare Magic, Greek Magic. And she had seen him read books about ancient, forgotten books about forbidden. Oh, so forbidden.
"As you may know, I specialise in Ancient Magic, Riddle, bonding, binding, bloody even, Magic. I don't think you have any idea of how incompatible my Magic is with yours. How detestable it is to feel you", she almost spat.
She knew what he wanted from her. "How utterly nauseating", she thought.
Before she could move, his eyes had flashed red. Red, like when he would silently warn any of his fellow Slytherins. Red, like when Myrtle had been discovered dead in the girls' bathroom. Red, satin red, vibrant red, like the petals of a freshly blooming rose.
His right hand firmly closed on her throat, pinning her to the wall. She felt fear sipping through her bones, eating and heating her blood with fervour. His face was close and he pressed his nose against her neck, smelling her. The smell of her Magic, so brazen, so warm, so sweet felt sosososososogood. His own magic pulsed, flared and enveloped them in a dark inferno, caressing her skin, ardently looking to renew kinship with her Magic. When he could not feel her, could not feel her power, his hand pressed tighter.
She winced but refused to let Magic out, refused to make his Magic feed on the high only her own Magic could provide, instead, she smiled. Smiled. It was quite known Dark Magic liked to feed on Pure Essences such as White Magic, Love, Hope, Virginity. She knew her own brand of Magic probably felt like ecstasy to him. She knew.
"Blood bond me to my diary, Granger", he murmured, his lips whispering in her collarbone. His body pressed against hers with even more zeal, leaving no space between them. She could feel all of him, his hard body, his muscles, his erection.
"Horcruxes", was her only answer. Despite the situation, the loud heartbeats, her shivering and the chilled in her bones, her tone was even. He had to admire that.
"Yessssss", he hissed in her ears. His Magic was still probing her. She could feel it everywhere, her arms, her legs, her core. He was everywhere around her, on her, in her. He kept looking for her Magic and even though her Magic wanted to fight, wanted to liberate itself, she just kept mentally whispering to her own Entity "your time will come, wait, wait, wait…"
"Ravenclaw's Diadem", "I want Ravenclaw's diadem" she repeated after seeing his incredulous expression.
"You think you are in position to negotiate?", he laughed. He started rubbing his left hand on her thigh. And to make his statement clear, he slipped his hand into her underwear and pinched her clitoris. She meowled.
"I could kill you, right here, right now and no one would know. After all, the Heir of Slytherin is still roaming these walls with his beast", if his tone was sweet and gentle, the intensity and the intention to kill was still in his eyes.
"Ravenclaw's Diadem and I will blood bond you to your fucking diary. After all, the heir of Slytherin cannot kill without arousing more suspicion now that Hagrid is gone."
Rage. He saw, felt, showed, rage. Without so much of a warning, the buckle of his belt was undone, her underwear pushed on the side and he was inside her. She gripped his shoulder to keep balance. He could see pain and pleasure slipped into her eyes. He kept moving, leaving her no time to adjust.
Her raging breath was mingling with his. They were hissing and she was clawing at his back. She bit him and drew blood from his neck. And he could feel her Magic leaking out of cracks, pushing him and his Magic over the edge. As he increased his rhythm, she started purring. He felt her orgasm, contracting and tightening around him and as he was letting go and joining her in incoherent murmurs and curses, she freed her Magic.
He never felt anything so rich and felt entranced by the pureness of it. He felt the high and his body shaking, throbbing, crumbling. Before he could react, Granger had her wand and his own wand pointed to his throat. He stepped back.
Something felt amiss. Anger. So much anger.
"What did you do? What did you do, fucking bitch?" His Magic was fleeting, trying to overpower hers, but hers was oppressing his. He felt like a prisoner as her Magic was sipping through his, burning his with hunger, destroying some of his darkness. So, so oppressed, imprisoned, subjugated.
Hermione licked her lips full of his blood with a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.
"I blood bonded us. Try to kill me one more time and you also die", she sneered.
He tumbled. Tom Riddle never tumbled.
"Ravenclaw's Diadem for your blood bond, nothing else", she said as she casually adjusted her skirt and clothing.
He would kill her, he swore. One day.
She moved to the door of the classroom, the wands still pointing in his direction. She left his want on one of the tables as she was exiting.
Hermione Granger was always one step ahead. So smart. Too smart.
Tom Riddle would never know if he had cornered Hermione Granger. Or if Hermione Granger had cornered Tom Riddle.