A Slight Miscalculation

(Penopy)

Tom was angry.

He had thought to exploit Hermione Dagworth-Granger's loneliness, befriending the wane little witch with the horrendous hair who had joined half-way through the term, looking like some urchin the transfiguration professor had picked up off the street, dressed up in pretty robes, and tried to pass off as the previously unknown heir to the Dagworth-Granger legacy. He had made plans to use her lucrative family connections to further his own goals, a perfect patsy, but she had made it difficult from the very moment Slughorn had introduced them with a friendly shove in his direction, motioning for her to take the empty seat next to him.

There had initially been rumors that she was involved with the war on the continent, had personally fought against Grindelwald's soldiers and somehow lived to tell the tale, but he had known those stories were nothing more than smoke in the wind as soon as he laid eyes on her. Her riotous curls were restrained in a tight queue over one shoulder and she stood uncomfortably at the front of the potions classroom, shoulders hunched forward and her knuckles white where they curled around the straps of her satchel. She was painfully thin and sick-looking for a supposed heiress, dark circles making her eyes appear sunken and dull. Still, he stood to greet her. She could still be of some use, after all, an ugly, unkept thing like her would be flattered by his attention and blinded by his charm - She would do anything he asked her, of that he was sure. More beautiful girls than her had fallen prey to his charms before, after all. But she had trembled and looked up at him with wide eyes when he had introduced himself, perfect smile in place and hand outstretched, and the chit had been so unnerved by his good looks that she had burst into tears and fled. No, she was no soldier. She was barely a witch. Useless.

No, it hadn't been until she had effortlessly and silently cast a corporeal patronus that his interest had been rekindled and he had tried to befriend her once more. She was a strange one. Despite her initial timidity, she was profoundly outspoken and refused to graciously back down even if it ostracised her even further from her housemates. She was intelligent and opinionated, and yet she avoided crowded places and looked sick with fear whenever she shared a classroom with Slytherins. It had taken several weeks before that timidity had fallen away, like a snake shedding its skin, and for the first time she hadn't flinched away from him when he took his seat besides her in Potions - instead, she had slowly looked up and met his penetrating stare head on. He had almost laughed. It had taken weeks for her to curry enough courage to simply meet his eyes. That wasn't bravery, it was pathetic. Dagworth was obviously well-educated, he would give her that, and she wasn't completely terrible to look at now that she looked healthier, but she was magically weak and wasn't worth the effort it would take to cultivate her. So he had turned away from her and ignored the way she had let out a long, shaky breath beside him and returned to her book.

But then that group of second years had stumbled across a boggart in one of the unused classrooms and he had been pulled from class to deal with it. It had chased the terrified boys through several corridors as a black-robed dementor before they crashed right into Hermione Dagworth-Granger and scattered her books across the floor. She had taken one look at the dark creature, shoved the children behind her, and wordlessly the silvery otter patronus had leapt from the tip of her wand and stood protectively between them. The Boggart had shifted, then, its shape flowing effortlessly to a crazed-looking witch with rotten teeth who began screaming about Mudblood filth and a stolen sword. Hermione paled, and then her own shift had been just as instantaneous. She advanced on the boggart with a fierce expression, magic crackling around her, and she viciously tore the boggart apart piece by piece with those violent, efficient little flicks of her wand. The first thrum and pull of hunger had tightened his stomach as he had watched her, finally taking notice of the incredible potential of the little witch.

Hermione had the most peculiar habit of looking relieved when he stopped being polite and even smiled when he began to scoff and sneer, like the perfect mask he wore unnerved her more than truth. They had begun walking between classes together and she hesitantly began to contradict him in class, arguing theory and application when no one else could keep up. He had assumed she was friendless, a little too smart and opinionated to make friends easily and too unfeminine and inexperienced to catch the attention of other wizards. She had always been alone both inside and outside of class and she actively avoided the Great Hall. He had assumed it was because she had no friends among her fellow lions.

He should have known better.

Septimus Weasley currently had an arm around her shoulders, jokingly pulling at a strand of her curly hair and pulling it downwards just to release it and watch it spring upwards. Hermione occasionally sent him an exasperated look, but neither did she stop him as she went back to reading her book. Instead a smile seemed to be twitching around the corner of her lips as he did so.

"Riddle?" Lestrange asked hesitantly as pressure began to built around the Head Boy the longer he stared at the couple just over his shoulder. Magic moved around Riddle like heat radiating from hot asphalt, distorting and blurring the air closest to his body and the familiar, violent snaps of static that would reach out and tangle across anyone who sat too close. Lestrange was a Slytherin through and through, well-bred, ambitious, and born with a keen sense of survival. Whatever was behind him was going to make the makeshift little lording lose his shit if something wasn't done about it. Lestrange began to turn around, trepidation tripping over his nerve endings at what he might find, only to heard Tom Riddle snap out in his cold voice, "don't look."

"My lord?" Lestrange asked weakly, the title slipping out unintentionally. "Is something the matter?"

Riddle only shifted his gaze for a moment, glaring at him, before returning to watch Septimus lean over, draping himself over Hermione and pressing his cheek against hers and pretending to read the same passage from her book. He was all over her and she wasn't stopping him. Hermione merely laughed, putting her small hand over his grinning face and inelegantly shoving him backward. She only laughed harder when Septimus wobbled on the back two legs of his chair, arms flailing outwards as he tried to prevent the chair from tipping over. The front two legs came back to the floor with a loud crash and Septimus pressed a hand to his chest and was making a show of taking in several deep breaths. He turned to glare at the witch beside him who had tears gathering in the corner of her eyes from laughing so hard, her cheeks flushed, and looking unforgivably happy. Tom felt his temper reaching it's breaking point. "Leave," Tom hissed. Lestrange didn't need to be told twice. He hastily crumpled his essay and shoved his textbooks in to his bag, not caring that his essay was now crumpled at the very bottom, and vacated the library. He didn't envy the poor sod on the receiving end of Riddle's temper.

Tom bided his time until the little witch stood, a large tomb in hand, and began making her way through the stacks. He stood up and silently followed her. She started when he pressed his hand on the bookshelf next to her head and she whipped around, curly hair slapping against his chest and staring up at him with wide eyes. "Riddle?" She asked. "What-"

She stopped as his hand came up and he fingered the same curls Septimus had dared to touch and possessively wound his long fingers through them and held them prisoner against her cheek. They weren't enemies and neither were they friends. Nothing to warrant to sudden intimate press of his palm against her cheek or invasion of her personal space, so whatever she intended to say died in her throat as she stared up at him with wide eyes. He sneered down at her with with no small amount of hot anger simmering in the pit of his stomach.

"What are you playing at?" He demanded. He was furious with himself for miscalculating, furious with her for allowing that idiotic Gryffindor to touch her so familiarly when she would still flinch away from him and visibly force herself to relax. Weasley was so very far beneath him in every way, beneath her, and yet she had looked so comfortable next to that poor excuse for a wizard and, even more, there was that clenching fear and realization that he hadn't known. That he hadn't even been aware that there were other wizards. That even now she could already be another man's witch - and there, another greedy throb that twisted up his insides and left him seething - that he had already let the witch slip through his fingers. A mistake, a grave miscalculation, surely, but one he was going to rectify. Immediately.

"Tom?" Hermione blinked up at him with wide eyes, and the tension that had knotted up her shoulders relaxed slightly when continued to do nothing but stare at her. She turned completely, her back against the bookshelf. Her wide, doe-like gaze moved over his face, trying to decipher his fierce expression. "What's wrong?"

"What are you doing here?" 'With him' was left unsaid.

"Why? Do you have something against the Goblin Rebellions?" She asked with a weak grin, obviously still unnerved by him but trying not to let it show. "Because I'm quite sure there's nothing I could do about that; they've been dead longer than Professor Binns has been lecturing, and studying it seemed harmless enough."

"Are you trying to make me jealous?" He hissed.

Hermione frowned at him in confusion, but there was a sly bit of humor usurping the wariness in her eyes. "I think you and are talking about very different things," she said slowly. "At least I hope we are. I've no romantic interest in goblins, personally, but I wouldn't judge another if they were."

He didn't react, neither to sneer nor laugh at the poor joke. The grin fell slowly from her pretty lips. He was trying to intimidate her, standing so close, and making her crane her head back to meet his eyes. She wasn't scared, yet, and he hungrily watched the nervousness and concern flitting over her features. She wasn't beautiful like Slytherin witches were - sleek, well-mannered, and perfectly coiffed. No, she was wild and kind, power and fierce intelligence belied by her delicate features. He had seen the dozen or white scars scattered across her hands and the prominent one located just under her ear and on the side of her neck, as though a blade had once been held there and only a sharp thrust away from killing her. He had seen the way she looked at him, at first in fear, and then the wariness giving way to pleasure when she spotted him in the hallway. The way she had dared to challenge him, argue with him, defend him. She hadn't shied away from his darkness nor his avarice when it came to the dark arts, and yet she was still so disgustingly noble. He knew she was so much more. A fool like Weasley wouldn't know what to do with a witch as rare as her. Tom wanted possess her, mark her, so that idiots like Septimus would know to keep their hands off her. He wanted to make her as affected by him as he was by her. He wanted to make her as aware of him when he stepped in to a room and struggle to keep her hands to herself - in the same way he was affected her.

So he did.

Ignoring the way she had tensed up, he stepped closer, forcing her even further against the bookcase, and caught her mouth against his in a rough kiss. His mouth slid across hers as he angled her face upwards, kissing her hard, something electric and addictive slipping down his spine the longer he kissed her, biting teasingly at her lower lip, coaxing her to open up to him, and groaning as she hesitantly began to respond with little nips and then it was her was pushing against him, trying to take control of the kiss. And then he pulled back. She was staring at him shocked, wide-eyed and lips swollen, but she looked far from disappointed. Tom groaned when he saw her lips, resting his forehead against hers, wanting nothing more than to pull her lips back to his and keep tasting her. He was doomed, he knew he wouldn't be able to give her up now. "You're mine," he hissed.

She frowned at him. "I'm not -" She began rebelliously.

He closed the scant distance between them and stole another possessive kiss. "You are," he cut across her, enjoying the way indignation and desire was chasing across her delicate features as she tried to regain her senses. She was a Gryffindor, through and through, and he hadn't found reason to appreciate it before this moment - The corners of her red lips were pulled down, her cheeks flushed, but no matter how angry she seemed, he could see the saw the way her eyes flickered to his lips even as she ranted at him about his arrogance and his chauvinism. He smirked and she abruptly stopped, zeroing in on it.

"What are you smiling at, Riddle?" She snapped. "You can't just go around kissing girls and think you can get away with it - "

"You," he said possessively. "You're the only girl I want to kiss."

"And what if I don't want to kiss you?" She spat acidly.

"Then I'll have to change your mind," he replied arrogantly. Then, because he couldn't help himself, he arranged his features and added, with a dubious look in her direction, "although I doubt it'll take much effort on my part."

The next time Lestrange saw Tom Riddle was in the Great Hall, where several students had stopped to stare at the head boy with slack jaws. Riddle ignored them, sweeping his robes to the side as he sat down and elegantly began putting food on his plate. Lestrange continued to stare at the red rashes scattered across Riddle's face made all the more prominent by his pale complexion with a horrible dropping sensation in his stomach knowing that someone had dared to curse the head boy followed by the even more horrifying realization that one of them would have to be the one to tell him and take the full brunt of Riddle's rage. Riddle wasn't known, after all, for channeling his anger at the right person but more often the nearest.

"What happened to Riddle?" Knot, a scrawny fourth year with thick glasses that kept falling to the tip of his nose, asked the boy next to him while staring at the head boy in horrified fascination. Lestrange kicked him under the table and glared when the boy yelped and turned to look at his accusingly. Lestrange didn't want to be near the head boy when he found out he had been cursed. He made a cutting gesture across his neck. Knot shrunk back, shoulders hunched forward, but he continued to mutter rude things about Lestrange's mother under his breath. Lestrange couldn't care less. Lestrange was sweating as he glanced at Riddle, even more alarmed when he saw that Riddle was smirking.

"Progress," he answered Knott succinctly and continued eating without any further explanation. Lestrange was sweating profusely, unnerved by the unusual display of calm and hesitantly glanced toward the Gryffindor table where Dagworth-Granger was sitting with her friends, red-faced and annoyed, and sporting a green and silver tie that refused to convert back to its original colors even as her housemates took turns trying to change it back. Septimus Weasley was also no where to be seen and Lestrange would bet all the money in his vault that the red head was currently in the hospital wing as the result of a convenient 'accident' of some kind.

If there was one thing Lestrange had learned since Granger-Dagworth had appeared at Hogwarts it was this: Tom Riddle was a possessive bastard and, whether Dagworth knew it or not, she was already his.

A/N: So this was originally a much, muuuuuuuch longer story that got so convoluted and frustrating that I decided to just cut it down to this single five-page scene and be done with it. I've never written or posted this pairing before, so I hope it's not *too* bad. It's also been cross-posted to A03. Thanks for reading! ^^ - Pen