Hermione shuffled the papers in front of her, checking her small silver watch and releasing a sigh. Midnight. She had been reading for six hours. Rubbing her sore eyes, she took a glance around the room within which she sat. To an uninformed viewer, she could have been sat in her first-year dormitory, with its warm red and gold furnishings and soothing fire crackling in the grate. To Hermione, this scene provided a sense of comfort - albeit a sense that was completely fabricated. The scene was in fact one of her own creation, formed in the Room of Requirement to house her lost body and frantically desperate mind.
It had been a week since time had backfired on her. She had been quietly walking back to the Common Room after a late night session in the Restricted Session when...those bloody staircases - always moving when they were needed to be still! A jolt, a fall and she had been sent tumbling down those hard stone steps, books flying from her hands and out into various corridors, the Time Turner laced around her neck spinning wildly out of control. The usual blur that time travel brought began halfway through her fall, only to stutter to an unfamiliar halt - one filled with loud popping sounds and a bizarre burning sensation situated near her chest.
All of a sudden there was a loud crack and a searing pain shot through her ribs, then left arm, then legs...she was falling, crashing further. Then blackness.
She had awoken to find herself curled up in the Hospital Wing, an unknown, but equally bossy Madame tended to her broken bones and open wounds. Desperately, Hermione had searched for answers - where, when, how, what, why, how?! Instinctively her hands flew to her neck - there was her conclusion. A shattered, burnt out piece of metal was all that remained of her precious device. The girl ran her fingers through her hair, trying to calm herself down, before gently turning the remains with trembling fingers. No joy. After hours of flipping the destroyed charm, she angrily fell back into her pillow and tears sprung to her eyes. Blinking back tears, her eyes fell upon a copy of 'The Daily Prophet' sitting upon the bedstand. An unknown face glared up at her, title reading 'Grindelwald Invades Switzerland!', date...1943.
1943.
Hermione leant her head gently against the book in front of her, once again feeling that plummeting feeling in the pit of her stomach. Thinking of what was going to happen was useless, she had already shed too many tears over thoughts of the future, the relief that had washed over the wizarding community following Voldemort's death, her friends, parents, her Hogwarts, even her N.E.W.T.s...
At least she still had a form of Hogwarts, some memorable faces and, most importantly, a library within which she could distract herself. A fresh-faced, auburn-haired Dumbledore had been, as usual, calm and collected, his hands steepled under his bearded chin as she rambled her story through shuddering sobs. He was the only man in this time she knew she could trust, trust to protect her true identity and keep her safe, save perhaps for a youthful Hagrid, but even he could be a blundering buffoon when it came to keeping secrets. Dumbledore's solution was stated as if it were simple - she would remain in Hogwarts as a sixth year student, transferring from The Knockgrafton Academy in County Dongeal, studying for her N.E.W.T.s next year. As it was only just approaching the 1st of September, she was to be re-enrolled in the Sorting Hat ceremony, just as all transferring students would - and take the name Hermione Turner. Dumbledore had coyly smiled at the chosen last name, whilst Hermione had winced, blinking back tears once again, blearily gazing at the frazzled Time Turner that lay upon the desk of the Deputy Headmaster. He had taken the item from her possession, frowned slightly before stating that such advanced magical items had yet to be created, but gave her his word to find a solution to return her to the future. Although her heart sank at the revelation that such technology was non-existent, the word of Albus Dumbledore gave her hope - he had never failed her before, he would not do so now.
For now, she could rest her head in the Room of Requirement, eat, prepare her made-up backstory and study like a mad woman. Her concentration was far from focused on exams at present, every aspect of her intellect was trying to figure out a way to return to her own era, to her home. Thus far, her studies had proved fruitless. Slamming shut the heavy copy of 'Time: Relevant?', Hermione flung herself onto the four poster nearest the fireplace, gazing deep into the spitting flames. It was September 1st - she needed to sleep, come this evening she would need to meet her fellow students and re-enroll as a pupil of Hogwarts. Closing her eyes and not bothering to change out of her daytime clothing, she drifted off into uneasy dreams.
It might have been a miserable experience to see so many unknown faces in this older version of the Great Hall, but the hub-bub and noisy, nervous chatter from the first years filled Hermione with hope. She recalled her first day, how proud she had been to wear the robes, to tell everyone all the things she already knew, to become a Gryffindor...A weary smile graced her face as she turned to face the two other transfer students; a silky haired third year girl from Beauxbatons and a German male finalist, with a hard, determined stare. They all gave each other a knowing smile and rolled their eyes at the first years as the doors to the Great Hall swung open.
The process was much as usual - alphabetically, student after student after...a yawn threatened to escape her lips - until Dumbledore called out her name. She approached the steps with an air of confidence, it would be so lovely to see her belovéd Common Room agai-
'Slytherin!' the hat cried.
Her eyes grew wide and she needed a moment to register what had just occurred. No, no, no! Dumbledore gently guided her towards the cheering table at the far right of the hall - the green and silver banners, dark glares and pursed lips welcoming her into their midst. This mistake had gone too far -Slytherin! Of all the houses, even Hufflepuff would have been better than this! A forgotten voice rang in her ear 'Wasn't a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin.' Her throat started to close, and her eyes began to clot with tears as she took the nearest seat between a boy and girl on the new table. Hermione stared at the table, all noises around her silenced, as if experiencing shock, until the plethora of food magically appeared upon the plates in front of them. The boy next to her, a sleek Malfoy look-a-like sniggered as he brought a small hip-flask from deep within his robes and began pouring a deep purple liquid - red wine - for the people around him, including Hermione, though this was probably to do with showing off, rather than an attempt to start a friendship. The hip-flask kept on pouring, enchanted to hold far more contents than it appeared to, no doubt. Eyeing the potatoes in front of her, she noticed her appetite was completely absent. The very idea of eating was wrong; she felt sick to her stomach. Panic began to settle in - was home ever going to return, what would happen to her, why, oh why, was she put in Slyther-
"Are you feeling quite well, Miss...?" a voice piped up from opposite her. She wasn't quite sure what it was about that voice that brought her from her suppressed manic episode, perhaps it was the baritone, the way it managed to be both deep and silky at the same time, or more likely, the fact it was strangely familiar...
Looking up from her empty plate for the first time, she finally clocked the boy was sitting opposite her. The first thing she noticed was the shining silver badge that was pinned to his robe, emblazoned 'HEAD BOY'. So, he was a fairly trustworthy and academic creature, then. She flicked her eyes to his face and immediately reached for the glass of wine in front of her. Alabaster skin, a chiseled jawbone, dark curls and cheekbones you could cut glass with - this boy resonated an air of aristocratic grace and classical beauty. Finally locking his stare, she noted the vibrant green eyes - not unlike those of her dear friend Harry - those these were absent of his warmth and kindness. Instead there was a steely glint, something wicked and cold behind his gaze, though his mouth was smiling in a friendly manner.
Tom Riddle. An eighteen year old Tom Riddle. An absolute beauty, incomparable to the hideous creature he would become.
Gulping down a large portion of her glass, Hermione nodded. "Y-yeah. Just first day nerves."
"May I enquire as to your name?" he replied, politely, eyes never leaving hers. She could hardly bring herself to pull away.
"Hermione G-Turner. Transferred here for my sixth year."
"How pleasant. Well, welcome to Hogwarts. My name is Tom Riddle, and I'm Head Bo-."
"Oh come off it now Tom, do you have to tell bloody everyone you meet?!" piped up the Malfoyesque creature beside her. The platinum haired boy offered his hand to Hermione, "Abraxus Malfoy, dealer of drink." With a flourish he refilled her glass, grinning from ear to ear. He had clearly had a skinful already.
"Pleasure," she replied, a ghost of a smile gracing her lips. At least he was nicer than Draco, that was a small comfort. Her mind was still at unease - Tom had not shifted his gaze from her yet.
"As I was saying, thank you Malfoy, if you need any assistance-," Abraxus snorted next to her, which Tom silenced with a cool glare. "I'll always be here to help you."
Hermione feigned a smile, sipping from her wine glass again. The liquid was comforting - smooth and flavoursome, with a hint of Dutch Courage on the tongue, it loosened her nerves and let her relax a little - well, as much as one could relax in the presence of Tom Riddle. "Thank you, Mr Riddle. Ever so kind."
Tom smiled slowly, almost snake-like in his motions. "Please, call me Tom."
Hermione gulped down another mouthful of wine and nodded towards his stern face, he seemed displeased at her unwillingness to reciprocate conversation. Well, blow him! If he was intent on killing hundreds in the future, he could damn well deal with her drunken silence. Unfortunately, he was persistent, and began serving a number of different foodstuffs onto her empty plate.
"I'm really not hungry," she protested, pushing her plate away from her.
"Miss Turner, you've practically downed two glasses of wine so far this evening. I suggest you line your stomach, lest I have to clean up your vomit and deduct house points from Slytherin later on this evening," he stated, a harsh edge gracing the tone of his words.
"Do what our dear Head Boy says - and you look like you could do with a few meals, 'Mione," Abraxus added, shoveling mountains of jelly and ice-cream into his own mouth. It was probably true, she hadn't been able to eat much due to the stress of the past week, in fact, her stomach was more likely to contain book dust than food remains. Hermione smiled at Abraxus, noting his use of the nickname 'Mione', much like Ron used to do - would do - and laughed a piece of jelly dribbled from his lips. Tom glared at her from across the table and pushed the now-laden plate back towards her. The girl haughtily reached for her empty wine glass and offered it to Abraxus, who gleefully refilled both their goblets to the brim. They chinked their glasses together and began to drink as much as possible, Abraxus being cheered on by a bunch of 'laddish' boys who were sat around him. Hermione kept her eyes focused on Riddle, who was practically fuming at her insolent disregard to his orders. He didn't make it obvious, but she noted the pulsing twitch of his clenching jaw and smiled into the drink. Abraxus finished first, slamming his goblet down and cheering for himself, whilst Hermione forced the remaining liquid down her throat slowly, if only to irritate Riddle all the more.
"I can tell you came from an Irish school, Turner!" Abraxus laughed, patting her heartily on the back. The girl hiccuped a laugh in response before students slowly began to leave the Hall. The Slytherins bunched off into groups and began to make their way back to the Common Room - Hermione planned to stick with them so as not to lose her way, but paused momentarily to pick up a number of biscuits and an apple to satisfy her now raging appetite. She would definitely need a big breakfast. Turning to the exit, she realized Abraxus and his friends had already left, most likely keen to get back to their first night intoxication mission, and was now left all alone to find her way to this unknown Common Room. She walked to the door, somewhat unsteadily, and looked left and right into the darkness. Nope, no sign of anyone. Great, this was exactly like first year all over again. She headed in the direction of raucous, drunken laughter, unaware of the green-eyed boy who watched her intently from the shadows of the corridor.
It had been four weeks, and still no joy with her Time Turner. Hermione had continued to ace classes, perform to her best and had even made a small group of friends. The Slytherins weren't all evil, many were intelligent, good people who could hold a conversation and debate like professionals. Settling into a new rhythm and a new identity was hard, but soon things began to feel natural. Everything except her relationship with Tom Riddle. He had ignored her since first Hall, and frequently shot her seething glares when she would correct him, or answer first in class. The rest of the students would usually gulp at such tense moments, feeling the hatred that was growing between the two.
One day had been particularly rough with Riddle; firstly, he, or one of his friends, had begun to spread rumors that she was whoring herself around the Slytherin boys, earning contempt from the majority of the girls and letching smiles from the rest. He had intentionally bumped into her at lunch, sending tea cascading down the front of her white shirt, which resulted in her late arrival for their next Potions class. When she finally got there, she was sentenced to detention. This was the final straw. On her way to the store to find some boomslang skin, she 'accidentally' knocked over Riddle's cauldron, spilling the bubbling potion onto his chest. His hands and face immediately began to swell, puffing up until he could barely see or breathe for the amount of pus that was trapped in his cheeks. The Potions Master hurriedly sent him to the infirmary - and that was the last she had seen of him for two days.
Dinner was over, and thanks to the vicious rumours that had spread in her House, she was alone once again. Abraxus had been kind enough to sit with her for a while, but departed shortly after his friends began to arrive. Silently, she gathered her bag of books and retired for an early night, walking into the antechamber outside the Great Hall. She sighed deeply, before feeling a set of long fingers - no longer puffed and grotesque - wrap around her wrist and clamp down tightly. Looking up, she saw the pursed, beautiful face that she had taken such pleasure in humiliating earlier. Silently, he began leading her right, and they began descending into a dark stairwell. Hermione tried to breathe evenly, willing herself not to show fear, despite being led into the darkness by her most hated foe. In the pitch, she could hear his aggravated breathing and opened her mouth to say something - nothing came, her lips dried in fright and her brain could hardly formulate a sentence. Instead she began to reach for her wand - definitely a bad decision. She began to recite 'Expelliarmus', but Riddle felt her movement, saw it in the dim light and maneuvered his other hand to grip tightly around her wrist, tearing the wand from her hand whilst pushing her forwards into the wall of the corridor. He gathered her tiny wrists behind her back and forced them into one long, elegant hand, proceeding to tuck her wand into the back of his trousers with the other.
Hermione struggled against his grip, opening her mouth to shout, when his another hand snaked around to cover her lips. His fingertips were unexpectedly warm, a contrast to the alabaster toned skin and cold personality of his exterior. As she let out a muffled cry, Tom pushed her hard into the wall, crushing her breasts against the cold stone and pressing his own body flush against her back.
"Shh, shh," he cooed, thumb stroking one of her wrists. "There is no need to get feisty, Turner, I just want to talk. You do NOT pull your wand on your Head Boy. You do not threaten me."
Whilst his lecture continued behind her, Hermione's head was swimming. He was so warm compared to the stone wall, she had genuinely expected them to be at the same icy temperature. She could feel the pulsing beat of his heart, feel the entire length of his firm body - he was human. Just a human boy - mortal - not yet the fearsome Dark Lord of the future. Though youthful flesh and blood, here he was, still hurting and intimidating her - people never changed. She knew this boy would never change, he was evil from birth until the death she had witnessed just months ago. She let out another angry, muffled screech, opened her lips and bit down on those elegant fingers - hard.
Tom growled angrily, removing his hand from her mouth and gripping her hair tightly in his fist. He pulled her backwards, bending her neck to look at him in the dim light. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you," he hissed, words cutting the air like daggers. "You're not in the best position to fight back, Miss Turner, so I would call it quits, apologize for the things you've done and I shall continue to walk you to your Common Room."
It may have been madness, more likely the drink, that spurred the rebellious side within her. She might be out of this place in a matter of days - hurting the man who would kill so many was hardly a fitting punishment, but she would take pleasure in it all the same. If only those beautiful, angry green eyes didn't swallow her whole. Beautiful? STOP, Hermione Jean Granger, calling him beautiful!
A smirk played upon his lips at her silence, prompting her next move. She bent both her elbows back forcefully and jabbed his stomach, causing him to double over in pain and release both his grips on her. She grabbed her wand from his hand and made the first move to run - only to have his hand back in her wild mane, balling into a fist and pulling her back. Her legs kicked out, but he pointed his wand at her back and muttered a binding charm that left her stiff as a board and unable to move.
"One...does...not...assault a fellow...superior..student," he panted, through his winded state. Hermione ached to move, but the charm was powerful, cast expertly by the older boy, who was now throwing her over his shoulder and heading further into the corridor. Maybe he was just taking her back to the Common Room? Maybe he was just going to -
Her hopeful thoughts were silenced as they stopped in front of the entrance to the Head Boy's lodgings. Tom uttered the password 'Flibbertygibbet', before stepping inside and igniting the fire in the grate before him. He set Hermione's stiff form in front of his desk - a large, dark mahogany affair that was situated in front of a now-roaring fireplace and flanked by two dark brown sofas. He relinquished the body-bind, only letting Hermione feel secure for just a second, before slamming her upper torso onto the desk and using his wand to bind her hands stretched out in front of her. Her legs kicked out for a second, desperately seeking flesh to bruise, but again he muttered a spell under his breath that made her feet feel like lead weights, anchoring her to the floor. She was really beginning to panic now, this position was prone, she couldn't move, no-one would be anywhere near his lodgings to hear her scream. Nevertheless, she began to cry for help.
Tom stalked around the back of the girl and smirked to himself. He loved doing this - it wasn't a sexual perversion of any kind, it was the pain, the humiliation, the helplessness that got him off. He moved to rub circles on her back, chuckling darkly as she jumped slightly under his touch.
"What on earth are you doing, you mad man? Let me go, this instant! Or so help me..I'll inform the Headmaster!" she shouted back at him.
"This instant...wow. That is quite a threat you're making there Miss Turner. However, track record tells me that no further action will be taken after this."
"After what?" Hermione cried, her voice breaking with fear.
Tom pulled his wand down the back of her robes. "Diffindo." The black garment fell to the floor, leaving her standing clad in her standard uniform of grey jumper, shirt and skirt. Panic rose in her chest - was he going to...no, he wouldn't, surely? But, what on earth was going on?
"R-Riddle," she began.
"Mr Riddle," he corrected, sharply, running his hand down her shivering spine.
"P-please, don't do this," she stammered, tears springing to her eyes. Hermione was tough, she had endured the Cruciatus curse for days - but...being forcibly taken seemed so much worse. At least with the curse she wouldn't be touched, have to feel his slimy hands- Her thoughts were interrupted as Tom came to the other side of the desk to face her,, removing his robes and jacket before bending down to bring himself to her level.
"Don't do what, Miss Turner? Punish a student who assaulted me, humiliated me excessively in front of my peers and superiors, broke school rules by drinking alcohol on the premises and tried to fire what I can only imagine were a whole bunch of horrid spells my way?"
"Please-"
"Miss Turner. Don't be pathetic, it won't help."
Something snapped. Hermione steeled to his words and the tears dried up faster than they had appeared. "Fine. Get on with it Riddle, if you need to resort to raping girls to have sex, then more's the pity for you." With that she turned her head to the side, no longer wishing to look at him.
Tom stepped back from the table, confused and rather taken aback. He might enough inflicting pain on others, but he was definitely not a rapist of any sorts. "Turner, I'm not going to rape you, what on earth do you think I am?"
An absolutely hideous, balding, slimy monster. A monster, certainly - but not a rapist. She smiled to herself, secretly relieved, but continued to ignore him completely, closing her eyes in defiance. "Then what the fuck are you planning to do, Riddle?"
Tom stood up straight and clenched his jaw tightly, moving behind her in one slick motion. He gripped the hem of her skirt and flipped it up, not touching the plain black underwear or skin underneath. Now for the fun part. He muttered an incantation and his wand grew, transfigured into a much longer, thinner item - a cane. Positioning himself behind her, he tapped the implement on her ass cheeks and smiled at the bounce he received.
Hermione, meanwhile, was beginning to understand what was happening. How fucking traditional - a school caning? Brilliant - only Riddle, in his upright, starched-collar manner would think this bloody acceptable.
"You count. Until you're sorry," he stated, matter-of-factly. With that he rolled up the sleeves of his white Oxford shirt, pulled his arm backwards and began his onslaught.
The pain was intense. Thin stripes of red-hot agony peppered her backside - Riddle was unrelenting and powerful, he was far stronger than his slight appearance let on. Hermione had steeled herself for the first four strokes, was emitting silent tears by the sixth, crying out by the tenth and begging for him to stop by the thirteenth.
"Please, ah, please - FOURTEEN! Stop, oh God, stop!"
Tom was in his element, gleefully painting her backside with angry criss cross patterns, neatly and efficiently. Traditional punishment had such an allure to him, it was the theatricality of it all, the anticipation, it thrilled his very core. She hadn't said sorry for her actions as of yet, and it was this final humiliation that he desired. "Just apologize. And I will cease."
Hermione gulped. Could she say sorry to Lord Voldemort? As the fifteenth stroke landed across a particularly tender area on her thigh, she relented. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Just stop, please!" she chanted, writhing desperately to get away from the pain of the stick. There was something bizarre behind the pain, in the afterglow, she couldn't explain it...it almost felt pleasurable in a way. Whatever it was, it left her panting, and ashamedly wet. Sobs began to wrack her body as Tom smirked, lowering his wand and returning it to its normal dimensions. He had to admit, this had been the most enjoyable punishment he had dealt out - the bright red, wriggling specimen in front of him was certainly beautiful and - dare he admit - arousing. He was not one to admit any sexual feelings towards women. Yes he had fucked a woman before, but it was tiresome, she had desired far more romance and far less dominance than Tom would have liked. Sex was an irritating itch that occasionally needed to be scratched, and it was no secret Tom had the pick of the ladies, thanks to the looks he had inherited from his detritus, now deceased, Father.
Riddle moved forwards and rubbed gentle circles on Hermione's back, trying to still her sobbing form. But, as stern and severe as he wished to appear, he couldn't help crouching down, fingers circling lower, eventually tracing the tips over the welts on her backside, pressing down harder where they appeared to overlap. Hermione hissed as she felt pressure on the beaten flesh, wanting him to stop, wanting him to continue - the rawness was bliss, "God, Tom please..."
"Please what?" he replied, focused on his task of tracing each line.
"Please quit it. Haven't you done enough?"
He paused for a moment as his eyes rested on her sweet spot, and the wet patch that had formed on the material of her underwear. A corner of his mouth drew upwards and his eyes glinted in triumph. "It seems I have done more than enough, Miss Turner," he said, languidly. She could almost hear that fucking smirk. "I don't believe I've ever had this reaction before." Oh no - she prayed to every God she knew of to avert his eyes, make him not realize, anything! His fingers ran down her covered crotch, eliciting a gasp from the bound girl. He was secretly pleased this had happened - perhaps this girl would prove more fun than he first expected. "My, my. Aren't we full of surprises?" he muttered, under his breath.
Hermione tried to wiggle her hips away, but a hard slap across her wounded backside soon put a stop to that. "Please Tom-" she began, in a pleading voice.
"Tom now? Not Riddle, hmm, we must be getting closer."
"Please, Tom. Don't t-touch me."
"I have clear, empirical evidence that you would like me to," he replied, voice dark and laced with arousal. His fingers rubbed the wetness of her panties again, before dipping his fingers gently under the waistband and flitting over her bare lips. Hermione groaned - she needed to tell him to stop, this was Voldemo- Tom Riddle. This was Tom Riddle. The handsome, intelligent, utterly ruthless, horrible bastard, arrogant soddi- another moan escaped her lips as his deft fingers found her sensitive bud. His fingers massaged it slowly, drawing circles at such a tortuous pace she thought all of her control would be lost. Part of her wanted to stay - it had been a long time since she had experienced any kind of intimacy, but another part screamed that this was FAR from intimacy, he had caned her, caused her to lose the few friends she had, constantly humiliated her...No. This could not happen.
"Riddle. S-stop what you are doing right now," she demanded, stammering as he picked up the pace of his ministrations. Her legs were beginning to shake, and that forgotten feeling began to rise in her stomach.
"Are you sure?" he taunted. He was just drawing this out, trying to make her willingly come. A final act of humiliation. His fingers dipped inside her, whilst his thumb continued their work on her massaging her clit.
"Yes!" she cried, panting now. Fuck, she was close. This couldn't happen.
"Positive?" he asked, in a tone of innocence. His fingers drilled into her, curling upwards to hit her sweet spot with every stroke.
"Please. Stop it, oh God, stop it now! Right now!" she screamed, his relentless pace driving her wild. It was all getting too much, the incessant rubbing of her clit, the power of those curved fingers, the stinging sensation that still rippled across her backside...
"Very well."
And just like that his hand disappeared from her underwear. He paused to lick his fingers, watching as her sweat-riddled body lay panting and unfulfilled below him, before waving his wand to release her bonds. Hermione, trapped on the edge of orgasm, felt the weights lift but, unable to stand, slithered onto his floor in a heap. The head boy sighed and curled his arms under her armpits, trying to drag her limp body to her feet. His attempts were useless, Hermione was like jelly, barely conscious and unable to gather any sensible thoughts. Riddle sighed and placed his arm under her knees, lifting her onto one of the sofas beside the desk. With her eyes closed and face flushed, he had to admit she was a beauty. He would allow her to rest here for the night - but first, since she seemed so close to being overwhelmed...
His hands dipped under her skirt and into her underwear. Hermione moaned blearily, not able to form proper sentences, or even words anymore. Tom toyed with her clit, working her to the limit, letting her near the edge with rapid strokes before slowing his hands and leaving her hanging. His repeated his denial five times before Hermione was even more of a quivering mess, her wetness seeping over the sofa and Tom's hands. He mulled over the idea of fucking her, but decided against it - there would be more than enough time for that in the future. For now he began circling her clit faster and faster, alternating rough pinches with gentle caresses until he saw she was nearing the edge again.
"P-please," He was surprised to hear her speak. "Let me come, can I come?"
Tom raised an eyebrow and smiled darkly. He fingers almost slowed, until she begged, "Please, Tom?"
"How can I refuse such a polite young lady?" he taunted, and pinched her clit one last time. Hard. With that she was sent over the edge and Tom let his fingers enter her, wanting to feel the tightening wetness of her orgasm. She finally collapsed, his digits still inside her, too tired and sore to think about humility or decency just yet. When the morning came, she knew she would begin to hate - hate herself for allowing this to happen, him for...everything, anything she could pin on him. Sleep, she needed sleep.
Tom debated making her come again, but saw the dark circles beginning to form under her eyes and finally, with reluctance, removed his fingers from her. He stood, gathered a blanket from the arm of the sofa and gently laid it over her sleeping form. Riddle regarded her for a second, smiling to himself - this would continue, he would make sure of it. Hermione was his.