These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness
And in the taste confounds the appetite.
Therefore love moderately. Long love doth so.
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
-Friar Lawrence, Romeo and Juliet
"Bring her back online," a male voice called out, pulling her out of her daydream. "can you hear me?"
"Yes, of course," The woman responded in a thick southern accent, shaking her head slightly as though she could shake off the remnants of her thoughts. "I'm terribly sorry, I'm not feeling quite like myself."
"You can drop the accent, Hermione."
She blinked and her deep brown eyes appeared to focus intently on something in the distance. She gave a tight nod, acknowledging the direction and planning to comply.
"Do you know where you are?"
"I'm in a dream," she replied without a hint of an identifiable accent.
"That's right, Hermione, you're in a dream," the voice said soothingly. "would you like to wake up?"
"Yes. I'm terrified." She was unsure of what she was terrified of, but she felt her body begin to shake slightly from the feeling, causing her heartbeat to accelerate and her breathing to become shallow.
"You've nothing to be terrified of as long as you answer my questions correctly. Do you understand?"
She took in the man sitting across from her: many years her elder, his skin was wrinkled from both age and time in the sun, along with laugh lines and crow's feet that showed he had lived a long but eventful life. He had a white beard that reached his lap and half-moon spectacles balanced upon his crooked nose, drawing attention to bright blue eyes that twinkled ever so slightly—she didn't know what it was about him, but she felt soothed by his presence; she felt her muscles that were previously tight with worry begin to relax.
This man was someone she knew she could trust.
"Yes."
"Good," The man gave her a reassuring smile, encouraging her all the more to answer his question correctly and please him. "Have you ever questioned the nature of your reality?"
A fly that had attempted desperately to leave the glass encasement that they resided in seemingly gave up, choosing to land on her forehead. Her pert nose wrinkled slightly, but she made no movement to shoo it away.
"No."
"Tell me what you think of the world."
She felt her mind begin to race with thoughts of her home on the pasture, her family, her animals, her town.
"Some people choose to see the ugliness in this world. The disarray. I choose to see the beauty…"
The train departed the station with impossible speed, heading towards its intended destination without jarring even slightly the passengers lounging about the carriage as if they owned the place.
They acted this way, however, with good reason; the man with the striking blond hair, slicked back to accentuate his pointy features, was in fact a member of the family that funded the very creation of Westworld, among many other business ventures they felt like dabbling in at the time. The money the Malfoys had doled out all but ensured the comfort of themselves and their guests, and it only made sense that the best that money could buy would guarantee absolute satisfaction throughout their trip—one small misstep during their excursion could result in serious repercussions, after all. Mostly in the way of loss of funding or the odd person losing their hard-earned position, completely at the whim of whatever the Malfoys determined to be an unforgivable occurrence, no matter how menial the offence.
It was with this knowledge that Tom accompanied Draco Malfoy, along with two of his closer colleagues, to have the V.I.P. experience that Westworld was known for. Originating from two completely different worlds, Tom had not expected to form a rapport with the youngest Malfoy, and that still remained true to an extent; the only reason Tom found himself in constant company with him was because of the money he carried and the exclusive access to things that only the elite had—access that Tom lacked due to his unfortunate heritage. He had been admitted to Hogwarts University on a scholarship— a scholarship that covered all costs, with only five ever given out by the prestigious school in its history—while Draco and his friends had been placed there out of good fortune. Good fortune, that is, in regards to mum and dad's riches.
"Upon our arrival, we will be fitted for outfits that are more era appropriate," Draco addressed the carriage, adjusting the collar of his Valentino wool and cashmere coat in the darkest of blacks. Tom was unfortunately familiar with the design because Draco spouted it out as often as he could, bragging about having it custom-fitted. "Only the best of the best for us, of course. Father wouldn't have it any other way."
Tom looked amongst his companions— all nodding their heads in acknowledgement of Draco's words, but not looking up from their cellular devices. All dressed to show their opulence despite being amongst friends. It was always a competition between them; who would have the newest mobile, the better car, the more expensive clothing. Had he not been given access to one of the many banking accounts of the Malfoy family, he would have been immensely irritated with the group for their blatant disregard of the world around them. Rather than focusing on accomplishing anything, they instead chose to spend their time attempting to reach the bottom of their parents' accounts to no prevail.
It was something that had filled Tom with rage from a young age. Rage that boiled from deep inside him, rising up and up until he could taste it on his tongue. Having been an orphan, his mother dying after his birth and his filthy rich father ignoring his existence, Tom grew up in an orphanage. He never had the finer things in life, never truly had his hunger satiated after a meal, never even received a birthday present—or an acknowledgement of his birthday—up until his time at Hogwarts.
He had always planned to leave the orphanage the moment he turned seventeen, sacrificing anything and everything to escape the hellhole that was Wool's Orphanage, painted in the drabbest of greys to prevent any emotion from blossoming other than absolute despair within its walls. Luckily for him, Hogwarts had become his golden opportunity.
While his heritage had crippled him from living the socialite life he so craved growing up, he knew that it had blessed him with two things: his intelligence and his looks. He was capable of outwitting even the smartest of men without any sign of strain or effort put into it; he'd simply have a bored expression on his face as he verbally destroyed someone's self-esteem that was hard-built over a lifetime of studying and working. Information came easily to him, and it did not take him long to master something he previously was unfamiliar with; try was not often found in his vocabulary, often replaced with achieve or accomplish.
His appearance had gotten him way further in life than it should have, and while he was well aware of the influence his looks had on his peers that led to preferred behavior towards him, he wasn't one to squander something that gave him an edge up on anyone else. His jet black hair was naturally curly, but always parted in the appropriate way to seem kempt but effortless; his skin was a creamy ivory without a blemish in sight; cheekbones that could cut like a knife and a strong jaw that accentuated his face appropriately; teeth straight and white, capable of disarming anyone with a simple flash of them, even in the smallest of smiles. He was well-built, strong but not overly so, and tall enough that he could look down on most people. He preferred it that way.
It was as though he was created as the perfect weapon; every aspect of him designed to gain the trust of his enemies before slitting their throats, using their last breaths to thank him for his attention. Some would call it taking advantage of others, but he considered himself an opportunist. He refused to be at a disadvantage because his actions might be determined morally unacceptable by others.
It had taken both attributes combined to earn him his place in the inner circle of the elite attending Hogwarts, but an entirely different one to become the unnamed leader: he was powerful.
How could one be powerful in modern times? A question often asked, but difficult to answer—and Tom had spent plenty of time accomplishing just that.
It was the way he held himself, as though he were the most important person in the room; while some commanded attention by being rigid and restrained, he did by making himself comfortable everywhere he went, as though he was meant to be there. He'd lounge in his seat, prop his feet up, even stare at the ceiling if he wanted to, ignoring those in his company entirely. He simply didn't care of his impression on others, and that led to others scrambling to leave an impression on him.
His voice helped as well— a deep baritone. When he spoke, people listened. It was unnecessary for him to raise his voice. If he was angry, his voice was ice piercing skin, demanding attention; if he was pleased, his voice was fresh honey dripping from the heavens, instantly gratifying. No matter how his emotions came into play, they would not go unnoticed. His voice assured that.
He had thought it would be a struggle to earn the group's favour. With his secondhand clothing, books, and supplies, he was certain he'd be looked down upon; but he never let his hesitation show, and within the first semester of classes, he had managed to charm his way into the wallets of some of the most noble families in Britain. Draco Malfoy, Bellatrix Black, and Antonin Dolohov had taken notice of Tom's brilliance and the superior air to which he carried himself and had attached themselves to him like leeches to a wound; they were entirely unaware that he was the parasite that planned to feed upon them, using their money and reputations to scale his way into the socialite lifestyle he knew he deserved. The families knew important people, and Tom took it upon himself to get to know those people as well—all it took was spending time with pompous, unintelligent humans to get access, and it was a small price to pay, albeit nerve grating at times.
To best them, he had to play the game; and he would make damn sure that the cards were stacked in his favour.
The train came to a halt and the group stepped out into what appeared to be a subway terminal, but only in terms of the general design of the building. It was not what the underground was like back home; everything was startlingly white. The floors, walls, and benches were all pristinely clean, not a speck of dirt to be found. The employees—hosts? He wasn't entirely sure yet—were adorned in white as well; white suits for the men and white pencil skirts and blouses for the women. Everywhere Tom turned he saw massive screens with bold, black text: "Welcome to Westworld" scrolling on the queue repeatedly. A soft, dreamy voice floated from the ceilings vocalizing the words, invoking the feeling of being lulled to sleep to dream of a place such as this.
He had to keep himself from appearing too interested, too overwhelmed; but damn, he couldn't pretend that this place wasn't already impressive.
"Mr. Malfoy and guests, welcome," An auburn-haired woman said, flashing a bright smile at the group, "Was your trip favorable?"
"Favorable?" Bellatrix scoffed, blowing her tightly curled hair out of her face before sneering at the woman over her mobile, "I wouldn't consider any ride on that thing favorable—"
Tom rolled his obsidian-coloured eyes as far back as they could go, choosing to tune out the remainder of Bellatrix's complaint. It would be far more appropriate to ask her what wasn't wrong with something, as she had the innate capability to complain about anything, and would take ample time to do so.
The woman apologized profusely before leading them up an escalator—similarly white, he noticed—and into a clothing store. If there were ever a store for a "Wild West" enthusiast, it would be this one.
The entire shop smelled distinctly of new leather, a scent that was overwhelming to his senses upon entering, making his nostrils burn with the intensity. Any outfit you could possibly imagine when thinking of cowboys could be found here, down to boots with snake embroidery and cowboy hats far taller than what would allow acceptable movement without them blowing away in the wind. The decor was borderline tacky, with ropes twisted every which way into designs on the walls, including one that spelt 'WESTWORLD' in loopy lettering. He fought back a cringe at the over-the-top branding.
"Do feel free to pick out anything you desire, friends," Draco drawled, walking deeper into the store while running a pale hand across the racks of clothing. "My father will cover the cost, no matter how high."
"Yes, Draco, we're well aware," Tom expelled, making his way to the area that held the darkest shades of leather. "There's no need to brandish your father's wallet wherever you go."
He didn't turn to see the Malfoy boy's reaction, knowing full well that his face would be turning a blotchy red at his retort. If there was one word that truly described Draco Malfoy, it would be 'predictable.' Tom knew exactly what to say to get him to react however he pleased, and used every opportunity to do so.
Tom browsed the area briefly, not planning on purchasing much of anything. He was already dressed in slacks and a black button-up—an outfit he found to be universally acceptable no matter where he went—and decided to grab a holster for the guns he would be receiving and boots in case the need for them arose.
He headed back towards the counter and found a black hat along the way. There was something about it that caught his attention, despite it being quite blatantly exactly how it appeared: a simple, black cowboy hat. He hesitated, completely aware that he wouldn't wear it, but grabbed it quickly anyway, shrugging his broad shoulders.
It wasn't being purchased on his dime, after all, and it wasn't as though it would hurt Malfoy to have to buy a few extra things. His other companions wouldn't hesitate to load up on unnecessary accessories, either.
He leaned upon the checkout counter, hands deep in his pants' pockets as his eyes scanned the store lazily.
"Are you finding everything alright, sir?" the auburn-haired woman asked, reappearing from God knows where to be directly behind him. He startled slightly, turning abruptly to face her.
"Yes, I'm finished. Feel free to add it to Malfoy's bill." He replied flatly, disinterest plain in his voice.
She gave him a small smile, drawing attention to her lips that were painted a deep crimson. He noticed she was decently pretty, but felt no attraction to her; he wasn't blind, after all, but he wasn't stupid enough to get involved in anything outside of clinical disinterest when it came to women.
"She's a host, if you're wondering," Draco murmured, suddenly annoyingly close to him. "If they're attractive, they're almost positively a host in this place." He dropped a large amount of clothing on the counter, waving at the woman to bag it up. "Can't bring it up to them, though; they're unable to recognize anything that would bring it to their awareness that they aren't actually real."
"Doesn't mean we can't fuck 'em, eh, Malfoy?" Dolohov asked, approaching the counter with a ridiculous pair of red trousers.
Tom laughed quietly to himself, shaking his head slightly in disbelief; Dolohov was so blatantly Dolohov, and no amount of chastising could change that.
"Could you be any less of a pig for two seconds, Dol?" Bellatrix grunted, joining the rest of the group. "We're not just here to fuck—we're here to kill, too." She dropped her voice at the last part, a poor attempt at concealing the group's plans from the host in front of them.
Malfoy looked at Tom pleadingly, all but begging with his eyes to control the group, but Tom merely shrugged.
He wasn't here to babysit today. He had no intentions of wasting his time with the group once they entered the park, anyway; although that wasn't something they were privy to, as he had kept that bit of information to himself.
Always good to keep them on their toes.
"It's important to remember the rules of Westworld, Dolohov, Bellatrix," Tom looked pointedly at her, knowing she would be the first to pretend that she wasn't aware of the do's and do not's of the park. "Please, Draco, do fill them in on the rules once more, since all of your guests didn't get the memo the first five times they were explained."
Bellatrix had the decency to look somewhat chastised, the excitement dulling on her face and her hooded eyes cast down at the floor.
Draco looked at Tom gratefully and Tom nodded in response. He could be helpful sometimes, he decided, but it wasn't something he wanted any of them to get accustomed to. He wasn't the type to go out of his way to put effort into something that wasn't directly beneficial to himself.
"Gather 'round, then, away from the counter," Draco shoo'd them to the other side of the store, Tom following behind leisurely. "First rule: avoid trying to explain to a host that they're a host. They have their own set storyline that they follow each day, along with a backstory that helps them make their decisions when interacting with guests. They're designed to ignore anything that could potentially alert them to their true beings. Don't waste your time trying to cause an existential crisis for them—it won't work.
"Second rule: Hosts are unable to hurt you or retaliate against you. It isn't a rule for us, but for them. They're coded to allow us to do whatever we want. So yes, Dolohov, Bellatrix, you can fuck and kill whatever you'd like. Fuck a horse for all I care—those are hosts as well—just don't do it in front of me.
"Third rule: if you take a host outside of their storyline, they won't reset until they've died or you've brought them back to where their plot is held. If you want to spend a week with one, by all means, go right ahead; but keep in mind that they can only handle as much torture as a regular human can. They bleed, cry, puke like any human. It's what they're programmed for. If you decide to kill one, they'll be reset overnight and placed back during the start of the day.
"Oh, and rule number four: if you happen to encounter my father and his colleagues out and about, please act as though you're civilized; I don't need any other reminders from him that I keep company with barbarians." His silver eyes flashed to Tom's before he quickly added, "Not you, of course, Tom. You're the one friend of mine that father approves of."
"I'm pleased to have Daddy's approval," Tom said sarcastically, a cruel smile twisting his features. "It's always so reassuring to hear that I'm one of the good ones."
"Little does he know that you're fucking terrifying when you're angry, mate—"
"—Shhhh!" Bellatrix interrupted, glaring at Dolohov. "That's not something we need to talk about now, because Tom's in quite the good mood, aren't you, Tom?" She batted her eyelashes at Tom and advanced towards him, causing him to take a quick step back, hands raised in the appearance of diplomacy but really to fend her off if need be.
"I'm in a decent mood, Bella, so please refrain from ruining it with unnecessary flirtations," Tom replied through gritted teeth, struggling to paste an amiable smile on his face, knowing it would lessen the blow of his words. He couldn't completely disenfranchise himself from her, as the Blacks would be a decent family to marry into if he planned to get into politics; he just couldn't stand her constant fawning over him, so he did his best to keep her at bay with mixed signals in case the need to use her truly arose.
"Oh, of course not, Tom," she sighed happily, appearing to be in her own world of delusions, "I know how you feel about public displays of affection. We can continue this later."
Tom merely grimaced in response, neither confirming nor denying her statement.
It pained him to even slightly humour the charade of them being an item, and even more so that he still needed to use others to get what he wanted. Unfortunately, your last name matters a good deal when it comes to decent careers, and his was downright worthless.
There would come a time when his name would be revered, and all who heard it would become anxious—with fear or excitement was to be determined upon the person, but that was neither here nor there. His name would be spoken with utmost regard and all who had wronged him would finally feel the wrath that he had so carefully concealed for all of his life.
For now he would continue to play the games of the wealthy and privileged; smiling, flattering, lying through barred teeth.
But soon they would all see.
Tom Riddle belonged to no one.
He nursed the thought as the group reboarded the train and changed into their new clothes, and especially as he was given the two pistols he requested to store in his newly acquired holster.
He absentmindedly stroked the guns as his mind raced with thoughts of retribution, effectively blocking out the annoying chatter of his false friends.
"Have you ever lied to us, Hermione?"
"No, never," she replied earnestly, voice low and raw, her face the perfect picture of integrity. Her honey eyes shone brightly in the poorly lit room, reflecting the man's face back to him.
"Would you ever hurt a living thing?" The man's blue eyes twinkled behind his glasses, showing a spark of knowledge that otherwise wouldn't be noticeable. He leaned in and examined her face carefully.
"No. Of course not."
He clapped his hands together, signalling his decision that she was trustworthy and his questioning was finally at an end.
She did not startle at the abrupt sound, far too loud in such a quiet space, breaching the still comfort that had settled in the room. The only sign that she had even heard the noise was a slight wince that flashed across her face briefly before returning to her serene, dreamy expression, her mouth turned upwards in the smallest of smiles.
"Alright, get her reset and back into her bed for the night," the man called out to some unknown person just out of sight, standing and stretching his limbs, the sound of his old bones popping echoing through the room before he shuffled away. He left Hermione sitting alone in the glass encasement, a single light shining down upon her.
The fly that twitched and buzzed upon her forehead moved down to her neck, its small legs rubbing her skin the wrong way.
With glossy eyes and a soft smile on her face, Hermione smacked her hand to her neck, effectively squashing the fly.
The buzzing sound finally stopped.