Si Tu N'étais Pas Là
Summary: Magical and historical AU, Oneshot. Hermione had stepped over the threshold of her own dull grey world and into a world clouded with beauty and danger. And in the very center of it, he was both the serpent and the apple.
Author's Note: I literally do not even know what this is so do not ask because I cannot explain this. I accept full responsibility for this utter trash as much as I would rather not. It is as said utter trash, and random, and filled with clichés, but was surprisingly fun to write, so I'll put it here. Share all the bad!fic!
Hermione Granger was thirty-three years old and, shamefully, still unmarried, though she herself did not find this fact to be of the slightest pity. In fact, it was by and large her choice that she had remained single all this time, and when probed about her romantic life, she simply turned up her nose at her assailant and opened a book.
The thing was, she'd seen what marriage did to women: it killed their ambition. Powerful and strong women became wilting flowers in 'love' and then, in marriage, were crushed underneath their husband's boot, wilted and mashed into the ground, their color faded.
She had no interest in such things. She had her own goals and desires, and if she never met a man she liked enough to marry, she would consider herself quite accomplished indeed.
Her life had been rather eventful, anyway, even if there were no Prince Charming present. She had spent her girlhood in the tutelage of Minerva McGonagall, one of the most noteworthy magical scholars of the time in all of England. Minerva had never married, either, and Hermione had admired the woman even more for it. There had never been a cleverer person than Minerva, and she had passed on quite a bit to Hermione, including her fortune.
Minerva had been in possession of an enormous manor in the countryside, full of servants and a most impressive fortune. A few years ago, Minerva had fallen ill. Everyone of consequence had been pressing to learn who would she bequeath her estate to? There were whispers of it everywhere.
Minerva's passing had taken its toll on Hermione, and though she worked harder than ever, nothing seemed to come of her studies during this time of grief. Normally, she was not one to wilt in the face of sadness, but Minerva had been her life. Hermione had stood before Minerva's casket, tears silently spilling down her cheeks, and she had begged for a sign of what to do. Minerva had left her when she was on the precipice of becoming a woman, no longer in the care of anyone else.
And without Minerva's guidance and advice—which was even more powerful than her knowledge of magic—Hermione had found herself lost.
In addition, Minerva had shocked the world by leaving everything to Hermione Granger.
Four years had passed since Minerva's death, and though time had dulled the pain somewhat, it would never make it go away. Still, it had greatly fostered Hermione's independence. Now she was the mistress—the sole heir—of one of the largest and most prosperous estates in England.
She would never have to rely on a man.
Furthermore, Hermione was a practical woman. She had always been this way. Once the estate had come into her possession, she had cut down on many of the absurd practices—for example, she could certainly cook her own meals—and thus, enormous amounts of gold were saved. She was set for life by the woman who had taught her everything. And now, she would be able to spend the rest of her life as she always had envisioned: learning as much as she could about magic and spellwork, beholden to no one but herself and her deceased mentor.
Minerva's mentor, Albus Dumbledore—well over a hundred years old and yet, still sprightly as he had been when Hermione had met him when she was eight—came to visit one late winter day. Hermione had been cooped up in her study for several days now, and had only been coaxed to emerge at Albus' arrival.
"Mistress, you've got a visitor!" called one of the few maids Hermione had kept on, pounding through the heavy wooden door of Hermione's study—formerly, the estate's smaller library. It had shelves and shelves of books and an enormous window that had an excellent view of the rolling meadows descending into woods in the blue distance. Hermione's eyes ached from exhaustion and she reluctantly set down her quill.
"I'll be right there, Winky," she called before letting out a sigh. If it was Ron or Harry bothering her again, she was going to really let them have it this time. Honestly, it was like those boys were incapable of doing anything without her assistance.
Smoothing her plain dress, Hermione left the study quite reluctantly. It was set on the first floor, and the door opened out to a magnificent marble and brass foyer, showcasing the large marble staircase. In the center stood a table with a glass top, with a crystal chandelier hanging over it, and her visitor stood by the table, examining an orchid that must have been placed there by Winky; Hermione had not seen it before.
"Professor!" Hermione cried, having quite forgotten her annoyance. Dumbledore fit in with the spectacular décor of the manor quite well, with his jeweled glasses and glittering cloak. He held open his arms and Hermione swept into them for a tight hug. "Oh, it has been far too long!"
"The fault would not lie with me, Miss Granger," said Albus with a twinkle in his eye as he pulled away. "I have heard word from Mr. Potter that you scarcely leave your study these days."
Hermione flushed.
"I'm making such headway, though, on my research into immortality," she explained eagerly, attempting to guide Albus towards the study so she could show off her work. Albus, however, resisted.
"Come, let us take a turn about the grounds, Miss Granger—some fresh air would do you well, I believe."
Winky fetched Hermione's coat—ill-fitting and from the fashion of several years ago, when she had gotten it, and of a faded color—and Dumbledore led Hermione out through the terrace doors. The terrace remained empty of decoration, with moss growing in between the slate stones.
"This place was, perhaps, better kept when Minerva was in possession of it," remarked Dumbledore as he offered Hermione his arm, and they set out onto the slightly sodden lawn. Hermione scowled.
"Professor, I do not have time for the foolery of parties and social upkeep," she snapped, a bit harsher than was polite. Dumbledore was, as always, not offended.
"Neither did Minerva, when she was your age. I had to convince her of the importance of keeping up appearances."
Hermione was no longer quite so pleased that Dumbledore had visited, and she began to wish he would leave. Silently, she walked arm-in-arm with him, towards the stream at the bottom of the meadow. "Perhaps you are wondering why I have visited you without preface, Miss Granger."
"No, not at all! It is always a delight to see you," said Hermione automatically, feeling ashamed for sulking. Albus blustered on.
"I have come for two reasons. The first: I am worried about you."
They stopped now, on the bank of the stream. The last vestiges of snow clung to the banks, melting slowly, and grey from having sat there for months. However, tiny green shoots were just barely visible in the grass, and a few snowdrop flowers were poking up along the mossy ground. Albus turned his blue-eyed gaze on Hermione now, looking concerned. "I too mourn Minerva's passing, Miss Granger, but life must go on."
"I have been carrying on," insisted Hermione. "I've been throwing myself into my research, and—"
"Your studies, while certainly valuable, are not the only part of your life. As the mistress of one of the most wealthy estates in England, it is expected of you to socialize with other wealthy Wizarding families," said Albus gently. "And if you do not maintain a good reputation, you will find it more and more difficult to publish your work. That, and an unhappy, lonely life is a waste."
"I'm not unhappy or lonely," Hermione replied tightly, though as she spoke, she sensed that it was in part false. Certainly, she excelled at being alone. She was a focused person and disliked intrusions upon her thinking. But sometimes...
"Miss Granger, your company is perhaps one of my favorite. You should not deprive the world of such beauty and wit," he said kindly, touching her cheek and smiling down at her. Hermione looked away reflexively, feeling embarrassed but touched. "Which is why I have decided to personally deliver this invitation, to ensure that you accept."
Dumbledore now withdrew a small parchment envelope from his robes, with a daub of emerald sealing wax holding it closed. Hermione took the envelope, examining the seal. Set into the emerald wax was an imprint of a serpent coiling around a coat of arms.
"The Malfoys have invited me?" she asked in shock. She did not consort with the Malfoys in the slightest—she never had. They had no time for Muggleborn Witches like her, of course, and she had no time for bigoted Purebloods.
"Why don't you open it?"
Hermione did as told, rummaging through her coat for her wand, and melting away the wax.
The invitation had the Malfoy insignia printed atop it in emerald ink; the eyes of the serpent seemed to glitter in the grey late winter light.
"The most proud house of Malfoy has requested your presence at their humble manor on the fifteenth of March to view their newly constructed greenhouse," Hermione read aloud. She looked up from the parchment and at Dumbledore questioningly. "I don't understand," she admitted.
"I have heard that young Tom Riddle Jr. was most impressed with your recent paper on immortality and convinced the youngest Malfoy, Draco, to invite you. Most of the most illustrious scholars of the Wizarding world have been invited," Dumbledore explained. Hermione frowned.
"But I'm not a Pureblood," she replied, turning over the parchment, as if in search of some proof that this was all an elaborate and somewhat pathetic practical joke. "Draco Malfoy despises me, anyway. He wouldn't listen to anyone to just invite me."
"Apparently, he listened to Mr. Riddle." Dumbledore paused, looking privately amused at something.
"What?" Hermione demanded. Dumbledore chuckled.
"I believe you will find that Mr. Riddle can be quite a persuasive man," he said cryptically. Hermione scowled and stuffed the invitation in her coat.
"Well, it won't be through meeting him at this stupid party, because I'm not going," she said acidly. "I'll not accept a charitable invite from the Malfoys. I'm not so lowly as that." She crossed her arms over her chest haughtily, but stopped when a thought struck her. "How did this Tom Riddle get my Arithmancy paper, anyway?"
"Perhaps I might have given it to him—I can't recall. The troubles of old age, Miss Granger, you simply cannot imagine..." said Dumbledore vaguely, clasping his hands behind his back and wandering a bit down the bank. Hermione scowled at her professor's back.
"Don't give me that, Professor—you and I both know that your mind is as sharp as ever," she snarled. "Why are you going around giving out my work?!"
"I thought you wanted me to," said Dumbledore innocently. Hermione was so mad that she unconsciously crumpled the invitation in her fist.
"Not to Pureblooded friends of Malfoy!" she cried shrilly, waving her arms around. Dumbledore held up a finger.
"Ah, but that's the thing—Riddle is not a Pureblood."
Hermione froze mid-gesture.
"What?"
"He's an orphan; was born in a Muggle orphanage. Quite the brilliant wizard, I must admit—and not so unlike yourself, Miss Granger. However, Riddle has wisely made the most of his Wizarding connections, and now he is one of the rising stars in magical research. I have held the hope for quite some time that you might bear positive influence on him, and he upon you..."
"I must meet him," said Hermione immediately, turning and beginning to stride briskly back towards the house. "I must meet him and demand to see his work—" she stopped and whirled back around to Dumbledore, who had been following her excitedly in an almost puppy-like manner. "Wait... You're manipulating me!"
"No, just giving you a reason to go to the Malfoy's estate," he replied, holding up his hands. "I wouldn't dream of trying to trick someone as clever as you, Miss Granger."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at Dumbledore, but nevertheless continued towards the house. Immediately she sat at her desk in her study and scrawled out a reply to the Malfoys—in red ink, on her own personal stationary, which possessed the Gryffindor lion. And when she sealed the letter, she sealed it with red wax, and the Gryffindor stamp in it. She gave it to her owl and, with Dumbledore, she watched it fly off into the fading light of the afternoon.
"I can't believe I'm going," she sighed, sinking against the window frame. "They'll all hate me, and I'll hate the lot of them."
"But you'll have a prime chance to meet Mr. Riddle, and converse with him on your research," pointed out Dumbledore brightly. Hermione shot him another scowl.
"So is this Riddle really anything special?"
A funny shadow passed over Dumbledore's face, and he turned back to the window to stare out it pensively.
"He is certainly something special, Miss Granger. I predict that we will be seeing great things from this man..." he trailed off, but Hermione was not satisfied.
"What sort of great things?"
"Great things," said Dumbledore simply, the outdoors in all of the grey and brown reflected on his half-moon glasses. "Terrible—perhaps. But certainly great."
He looked back at her. "I suppose it all depends on what you do next."
In the past few weeks, Hermione had spent quite a bit of gold, and she was none too pleased about it. First, she had had to make some updates to the estate, as after Dumbledore's visit she had begun to somehow see the estate through a visitor's eyes and had seen how shabby it was becoming. So she had unhappily hired back a number of the servants to participate in restoring it to its former glory. She tried to bring back the House Elves by tempting them with a salary, but in horror they all, mysteriously, declined...
It was unsettling, to come down to breakfast to find the chandelier in the drawing room being polished, or to go out for a walk and see cartons of unseasonable flowers being delivered.
And then, per Ginny and Dumbledore's advice, she had had to update her wardrobe and personal look as well, in preparation for her appearance at the most stylish family party of the decade. So she'd cut her hair and bought some new dresses, shoes, and robes. She was still no paragon of style, but she simply could not be bothered to spend flagrantly on something as impermanent as clothing. She would do what was necessary. In preparation for meeting this Mr. Riddle, she scoured England for one of his papers, but alas she was able to locate none of them, yet all seemed to have heard his name and of his brilliance.
The suspense mounted.
The Malfoy garden party was to last over Friday evening to Sunday evening, and the guests were to each take a room in the enormous Malfoy Manor. Hermione was uneasy about leaving her home alone in the care of Dumbledore, for fear of him beautifying it further, but he had assured her he would leave everything quite as shabby it was.
And so, Hermione boarded her carriage, for the wards surrounding Malfoy Manor were so extensive that even if she had Apparated to the very edge, she would still have been several kilometres from the house itself. Her favorite servant, Dobby, loaded two trunks into the back of the carriage, and Hermione watched as the estate retreated further and further into the distance. In the pouring rain, the landscape was dismal, and it was hard to imagine how successful a garden party might be in this weather, even with the most well-intentioned drying charms.
Still, she was looking forward to meeting this Mr. Riddle. It had occurred to her to be nervous about meeting him—after all, Dumbledore had implied that he was one of the few young men whose intellect matched her own. As Hermione studied the rivulets of cold, early spring rain running down her carriage window, she wondered with a rare flicker of girlishness if, perhaps, she would meet the love of her life after all...
But Dumbledore's slightly ominous words did worry her. What were his motives, in trying to pique her interest in Riddle? Surely if he genuinely thought Riddle to be a bad egg, he would never advise her to bother with the man at all. And yet...
Surely it will become clear tonight, she decided once and for all. She smoothed her frock coat and hair as the footman called into the carriage that they were drawing onto the Malfoy grounds. Anxiety began to roil in her stomach. Why was she doing this again? The Purebloods of England despised her, for being such a notable Muggleborn and for inheriting such a noteworthy estate. The Malfoys' heir, Draco, despised her perhaps most of all. So why in Merlin's name...?
She said a quick prayer; she was not a spiritual woman by nature but her parents' religion was the only remaining vestige of her brief Muggle life, and she retained it more out of respect for them than any belief in any god. She prayed for wisdom, for the ability to keep her cool; for she most certainly would need these things this weekend.
She peered out the window and watched the looming silhouette of Malfoy Manor draw ever closer; in the driving rain it was as ominous as a raincloud and as massive as a mountain, with buttresses and turrets, and nearly covered in ivy. Had it not been so menacing, it might have been lovely.
The carriage pulled up to the front entrance; a butler in dark green dress robes was awaiting, accompanied by a series of House Elves, presumably awaiting to take care of the carriage and her luggage. She swallowed her disgust—Dumbledore and Ginny had both advised her to keep her sentiments on the treatment of House Elves to herself, at least for this weekend. She was a gazelle in a lions' den, though she preferred to think of herself as the lioness in a den of confused and stupid gazelles.
"Miss Granger, I hope your journey found you well," greeted the butler cordially, holding a large umbrella over her head and helping her out of the carriage (despite her protests) as the House Elves scurried by with her trunks. "Right this way, Miss," he added, directing her towards the door, which he magically opened. A tall, slim woman was waiting just inside, and her appearance took Hermione's breath away. Her hair was a silvery blonde, cut into a chin-grazing bob, and adorned with a magnificent bejeweled headband that took the shape of flowers sprouting from it. Her sleeveless robes glittered even in the meager light; she was both lovely and absurd in all of her finery. She looked like some rare and exotic bird entirely out of place in the damp, grey English countryside.
"Miss Hermione Granger," she greeted, swooping in for a boneless hug and air-kissing Hermione on each cheek, nearly suffocating her in Millefleur perfume. "I am Narcissa Malfoy, the mistress of Malfoy Manor. I was ever so pleased when I received your charming owl that you could make it."
Hermione was so flabbergasted that she almost had no response to supply. Narcissa Malfoy was...not acting like Narcissa Malfoy. And yet, lingering in the edge of her gaze and beneath her words was a certain frosty disdain that did not go unchecked.
"It was so gracious of you to invite me, Mrs. Malfoy," she gushed, thinking it prudent to at least put in the effort on the first day. Narcissa sighed and placed a slim, pale hand on Hermione's shoulder, in a gesture of false familiarity. Up close, Hermione saw that her hands and wrists were adorned with diamond and emerald bangles and rings.
"Please. Call me Narcissa—'Mrs. Malfoy' seems so old," confided Narcissa, though her words fell flat. "Now, come—you're the first of the guests to arrive and you simply must see your room. We've placed you next to the illustrious Tom Riddle Jr..." Narcissa paused to lower her voice and draw Hermione in closer for a tete-a-tete, "who I must divulge was most interested to meet you..." she added in a low voice, and against her will, Hermione's face flushed. Before she could recover, Narcissa was leading her up a staircase; each balustrade was wrought-iron with a brass serpent twined around it, with tiny emeralds inset into its eyes and scales, glimmering wetly in the light from the chandelier. As they ascended the marble stairs, Narcissa's heels clacked loudly on the hard surface and her bejeweled robes jingled and clinked with the movement.
They went down a long corridor, lined with pale green silk and dotted with crystal that cast tiny prisms everywhere. The staggering wealth which drenched the Malfoy home was beyond comprehension—why would anyone ever bother being jealous of her, Hermione wondered, when this estate alone was probably worth at least a thousand times more gold than her own estate? Never mind the enormous, seemingly infinite fortune on which the Malfoys existed.
As they walked, they passed dozens of rooms whose ajar doors displayed House Elves working furiously to put the linens on the beds, finish last-minute dusting, and adorn each room with hundreds of bouquets of flowers. Hermione's temper began to rise.
"All of these House Elves... does it never bother you?" she asked in a falsely bright voice. Narcissa sighed, her thin shoulders heaving.
"Oh, it truly does, Hermione," she sighed, and for one bright moment, Hermione thought she might have found the one decent Pureblood in existence. But then... "I do hate having to see their foul, ghoulish little bodies near my silks and satins, but I assure you, they are completely clean."
"Ah." Hermione deadpanned. "That is such a relief," she added flatly. Fortunately, they had apparently arrived at her room. It was at the very end of the wing, and had several windows on both of the corner walls, with a magnificent canopy bed and décor just as opulent as the rest of the manor. Her trunks had already arrived, and white orchids covered every surface, giving the impression that the room was situated in the clouds.
The sight took her breath away, and for a moment, Hermione forgot about her misgivings about having come to Malfoy Manor. "Oh, it's lovely," she blurted, stepping forth into the room. The subtle scent of orchids perfumed the air and seemed to cloud her mind. "But...Muggle flowers?" she turned to fix Narcissa with a questioning gaze, and Narcissa's pale eyes danced with pleasure.
"Oh, these are no ordinary orchids, Hermione—you'll see. Now, I will give you some time to freshen up—I see the travel did not do good things for your curls." Narcissa gave her a sympathetic grimace before sauntering off, leaving Hermione to scowl at the place where the woman had been standing. She looked in the mirror to see her hair looking as it always did, and scoffed. Narcissa could sneer all she wanted, but there were no magical creams or treatments for being an awful person, were there?
Hermione turned to examine the orchids. She could find nothing peculiar or special about them—aside from their uncommon beauty, of course. They were so fragile-looking that she was afraid to touch them, however.
She began to unpack her trunks, and lovingly set her scrolls of notes on the mirrored surface of the vanity, where makeup should have gone. In spite of everything, she was feeling much like a child on the eve of Christmas—soon she would get to meet this Tom Riddle, and perhaps she would finally find her equal in him...
The party was to begin at seven o'clock; Hermione spent the afternoon seated at the mahogany desk, which was situated by one of the windows and had an excellent view of the drive. Carriages, mostly thestral-pulled, each more magnificent than the last arrived all afternoon, bearing the exquisitely garbed Pureblooded elite. As her excitement to meet Tom Riddle built, so did her worries about being the only Muggleborn at the party—but if Narcissa were so pleased about Tom Riddle being there, then perhaps the Purebloods were growing less obsessed with blood status...
...It seemed impossible, and yet, imagining a world without divisions in blood status was like envisioning heaven. Perhaps she and Tom Riddle, two remarkable Muggleborns, could help to usher in a new era, one of equality and fairness for all...
She dressed for the evening, smirking at how disappointed Narcissa would be with her comparatively plain dress. She enjoyed looking nice, but she would never lose herself to beauty regimens and fashion whims. Still, she admired her reflection in the mirror. It wasn't often she bothered to dress up or apply makeup, and it was even rarer that she wore as fashionable robes as she was now.
To kill some more time, Hermione scribbled off a few owls: one to Dumbledore, one to Ginny and Harry, and one to Ron. She had brought her sealing wax and now went to stamp the letters with the lion of Gryffindor, but discovered she had left her stamp behind at home. She rifled through the desk and located a stamp with the Malfoy coat of arms, but could not quite bring herself to use it, and settled for no stamp.
It was dark outside, and still pouring rain, but the party was not to begin for another hour. She could hear movement in the rooms around her; everyone was trussing themselves up for the evening.
With her letters in hand, she slipped out of her room. The relief from the heady scent of the orchids was surprising; she hadn't realized just how thickly perfumed the air had been. Her mind felt clearer now. The hall was silent and empty, though she could hear voices from behind every closed door. She slunk along the hall, looking for a back staircase. She passed by the marble stairs, to find that glorious magical flowers were set on each step, and flowering vines had been twined around the crystal chandeliers, illuminating the vibrantly colored petals.
She felt as though she were drowning in beauty. Ginny would love to see this, she thought wistfully. But perhaps this was a good reason as any for her being here—if she could make the Purebloods like her, then perhaps Ginny's family would no longer be considered blood traitors... and then Ginny would have access to sights as lovely as this.
Not wishing to cause any trouble, Hermione hurried on, and finally located a plain back staircase of dark wood, nearly hidden behind a thickly woven tapestry. Presumably, these were the servants' stairs, and indeed, they led down to a cramped kitchen that was bustling with activity. House Elves and servants alike were frittering about over steaming pots; knives, charmed to chop on their own, chopped onions and carrots; and in the corner, the tiniest House Elf of all stood on top of a stool, stirring a great big pot of chocolate and pausing only to test it occasionally.
For a moment, she was taken aback by the sheer enormity of it all. Did any of the Purebloods have any idea of what would go into their dinner tonight? Hermione thought of her own dinners, which normally consisted of an egg and some toast and were more than enough, and sniggered before continuing on her hunt for an owl.
The servants' quarters seemed to go on forever, until finally Hermione found a breezeway leading to the stables and owlery. Wand in hand, she managed to repel the rain just long enough to make it to the humid stable and owlery. Pure white horses whinnied in their stalls, and up a rickety set of stairs, a dozen pristine eagle owls were giving dignified hoots. The view from the tiny window here was such that she could still see the front drive. It was getting dark now; Hermione tied her letters to one of the eagle owl's talons and watched it swoop off gracefully into the night.
A black carriage pulled up; it was undecorated but sleek and pulled by two thestrals. Hermione's interest was piqued and she narrowed her eyes, the better to see, as she watched the butler hurry over to the carriage door. It opened, and Hermione watched as a tall, svelte man in a black Muggle suit exited the carriage. She couldn't see his face, but she could guess that this man must be Tom Riddle—who else would dare to wear a Muggle suit at a Pureblood party?
Suddenly she was gripped with a peculiar anxiety that she hadn't felt since her ill-fated crush on Ron, back in her adolescence. Her cheeks flushed and she clapped her clammy hands to them as her heart began to pound. Oh, Merlin. Was she really getting all scared of meeting a man now, after all this time? She'd thought herself above such nonsense.
Drawing in a deep breath and relishing the spray of rain on her face, Hermione mastered herself. This is nothing. That man mightn't even be him. He might not even come. If he does, he'll probably be hideous, fat, old, and a huge bore. Which would make him easier to talk to, anyway, she mused. She'd rather have an intellectual debate than be thrown off by a pretty face.
"Riddle!" a voice that Tom was more accustomed to hearing in a bored drawl caught his attention as he was ushered into the magnificent front entrance of Malfoy Manor, and he was soon greeted by the sight of Draco Malfoy himself. Draco's grey silk dressrobes billowed out around him impressively, and privately Tom mused that Draco must have spent hours in front of his mirror, practicing such an illustrious move.
"Malfoy—thank you so much for inviting me," he said graciously, masking his disdain for the young Malfoy heir. Narcissa Malfoy swept in, looking ridiculous and weighed down by diamond-encrusted robes, followed by Bellatrix Lestrange. Inwardly, Tom groaned. He had no wish to deal with either of these two idiotic old bats, but he would, unfortunately, have to play relatively nice if he wished to get what he'd come for. Judging by the flowers gushing from every surface, at least one part of his plan, perhaps the biggest, was in place.
"If it isn't Tom Riddle!" cried Bellatrix, rushing forward, her overexposed breast heaving and her pale face flushed with excitement. Her long green dress accentuated her curves, however, and as long as he focused on that, he could ignore the rather disturbingly large pink orchid perched atop her mass of dark hair. Bellatrix might be irritating, but no man could not appreciate a figure like that.
"Bellatrix Lestrange—what a surprise," he greeted, as she rushed in to plant an all-too-intimate kiss on either cheek.
"Now now, let's not crowd Riddle—he's had a long journey," said Draco loudly, pulling his aunt away ungraciously. "Mother, show Riddle to his room," he ordered, indifferent to Bellatrix's apparent disgust. Narcissa obediently gestured for Riddle to follow, and, looking like a blonde dragonfly in all of her glittering clothing, floated up the enormous front marble staircase.
Every available surface was covered in Magical flora and the manor seemed to be drenched in its perfume, giving Tom a slight headache. The Malfoys were not exactly known for their restraint, of course, so when Tom spotted magnificent peacocks strutting about, he was amused but not surprised.
"You are looking lovely as always, Mrs. Malfoy," he remarked as he hastened to walk beside her down the long hall of rooms. To her credit, Narcissa simply smiled coyly at him.
"You are too kind, Mr. Riddle," she drawled. Tom hid a smirk.
"Please, call me Tom," he urged in a softened voice. Narcissa visibly melted.
"Of course," she cooed. "By the way—I thought you might find it of interest that Miss Hermione Granger has already arrived. She happens to be in the room next to yours," she added airily as they reached a room at the very end of the hall. Narcissa turned the solid crystal doorknob to reveal a sumptuously decorated room, filled with spiky bloodred flowers.
"You know me too well, Narcissa—I mean, Mrs. Malfoy," he flirted, inwardly smirking at the flush that painted her pale cheeks. "Thank you so much," he added, debating on whether it would be overkill to place his hand on her arm. At the last minute, he restrained himself. Narcissa was a bit cleverer than the other women, and he'd noticed she was faster to pick up on empty flattery and flirting.
"The party is set to begin at seven o'clock; I will give you time to freshen up," she replied blithely. Tom leaned against the doorframe, watching as she sauntered away from him, her beaded skirt clinking with her sashays. When she was several metres away, she looked slyly back at him over her thin shoulder, giving him a coy smile, before continuing on, and Tom had to hurry into his room to hide his sniggering. There were few sports more satisfying than manipulating others; the game was all the better when it was hard-won.
It was coming time to go downstairs, and Hermione's belly began to twist in fear again. She stood in front of the vanity, surmising her reflection. It wasn't that she lacked confidence—it was more like she felt she was going in to a losing battle. Had she been doing it for someone else, it would have been nothing. Bravery for the sake of others was easy; she could march into terrifying situations without a moment's hesitation. It was when she had to do something for herself that she began to feel the fear.
But if I know it's doomed to turn out terribly, then why should I worry? she reasoned, tugging at her dress. It was beyond her control, and, the bottom line was that it would have no effect on her personal life. Even if it went terribly—which it likely would—she would just retreat back to her study and continue filling her days with her scholarly work, and everyone would eventually forget about it.
Probably. Maybe.
Thinking more won't solve it, she told herself, before promptly letting out a groan. She despised situations that could not be solved with thinking. With a final sigh of resignation, she hastily left her room, hurrying before she could give herself a chance to turn back.
The clock struck seven, and yet, no one else was in the hall. Hermione tensed as she walked, straining to hear if anyone else was in their rooms. She heard the sounds of idle chatter, the spray of perfume, the clinking of beaded dresses and jewelry. No one else had left their rooms yet. Was she making a social faux-pas by being on time?
Oh, whatever, she thought grumpily. She had never been one for these silly rules of decorum. Decisively she strode down the hall, her earrings weighty and jangling against her bare neck. It was harder to hurry in fancy clothes, and when she passed by a panel of silver-edged mirrors set into the wall, she was stunned by her own reflection.
She glimmered subtly, like a lovely and mysterious magical creature. Her limbs sensed now the delicious gravity of such heavy clothes, and when she took a step forth, her movement was graceful. Her eyes looked darker, in comparison with the catches of light which her clothing caught and reflected.
Drawing herself up to her full height, Hermione went to the top of the marble stairs. Distantly she could hear lilting music, with strains of violin and plinks of a harp. The soft music was broken by the creaking and subsequent slam of the front door, and a man of walrus-like proportions waddled in, his velvet robes soaking wet.
"Why, if it isn't Horace Slughorn. How are you, sir?" A sensuous baritone voice behind Hermione made her tense and freeze mid-step on the stairs, and she glanced back to find an ethereally handsome man descending the stairs behind her. He was pale, and angular, and the darkness of his suit accentuated the hollows beneath his cheekbones in a flattering way. His hair was dark, wavy, and combed to the side fashionably in gleaming waves. She had never seen a man wear a suit so well. For a moment, he glanced down at her, his lips quirking slightly, and her breath caught in her throat.
"Tom Riddle, m'boy! How lovely to see you—it's been far too long!" the walrus-man, apparently Mr. Slughorn, boomed. Hermione rounded back to see him shaking himself out, splattering everywhere around him with raindrops, much to the chagrin of the horrified butler behind him.
Hermione had to school her features. That was Tom Riddle? Well, that explained why the Purebloods were so enamored of him in spite of his half-blood status—you couldn't not be enamored of a face like that. He radiated cool charm; he was the sort of man that other man tried to imitate with varying—but never perfect—results. Had he stayed in the Muggle world, he would not have been out of place in one of those new silent films. His features would be all the more accentuated in black-and-white.
"Sorry, miss—I seem to have alarmed you," he said as he descended a few stairs down to her. His dark eyes seemed to glimmer with the promise of something—and that something had the very pit of her belly clenching in equal parts fear and excitement. So this is what it feels like, she mused. This was what lust felt like.
She'd never really felt it before.
"Oh, not at all," she replied coolly. "I just realized that you're the man I've heard so much about," she added, as she began walking down the stairs. Tom Riddle reached out and took her arm in a most intimate manner, bringing his head closer to hers conspiratorially and guiding her as they walked.
Immediately, she forgot her lust, as she found herself irked by his presumptuousness. What right had he to touch her like that? This close, she could scent his cologne—a spicy, masculine scent that lingered beneath the over-sweet, heady perfume of the flowers.
"I've no idea of why you might have heard of me, miss, when Mr. Horace Slughorn here is such a legend," he confided loudly, bringing her to the bottom of the stairs where Slughorn stood, beaming at Riddle. Up close, she could see he wore a matching green velvet waistcoat held closed by a gold chain that strained over his rotund belly. His mouth was hidden by an impressively bushy mustache but his head was shiny and bald, and the visible part of his face was red from the effort of movement.
"Hello there, Mr. Slughorn. I'm—"
"I know who you are," interrupted Slughorn eagerly, setting a meaty, sweaty hand upon her bare shoulder. "You must be Hermione Granger—I happen to have read your Transfiguration articles. You're quite the scholar, young lady!"
"Oh, that's—" Hermione blustered, but stopped when Riddle placed a cool hand at her back.
"You're Hermione Granger?" he asked suddenly, awe in his voice. It sounded perfectly genuine, and yet, when paired with those dark cold eyes, it fell flat. Social climber, Hermione surmised. Or, more accurately...a suckup. She began to feel overwhelmed, and longed to step away from these two overbearing men. "I've been dying to meet you," he added, a breathlessness to his voice that would have made a lesser woman swoon. Hermione, as it was, had to fight off a grimace. An irrational dislike for Tom Riddle was replacing the initial lust with which she had been overcome.
"Do excuse me," she said suddenly, pressing a hand to her forehead, "But I suddenly feel faint. It must be all the floral aromas."
She hastened away from them, in a random direction. She hurried beneath a trailing canopy of vines that curled in midair, reaching for her, but not quite catching her. Eventually she found herself in a room so filled with flowers that she was unsure of what to do or where to look. Her senses were assaulted—flowers of every color, size, and scent crowded around her. The room was paneled with enormous cut-glass windows, giving a view of the grey, wet countryside that was strictly at odds with the nearly tropical indoors. She felt dizzy.
The floor was black marble with white veins running through it; at the end of the room was a series of steps of black marble that led up to a large fountain that was almost too big to be indoors. With a sigh of relief, Hermione hurried over to the steps and sat down. The air was less perfumed by the water, and she placed her hand in it, swirling it around and relishing the cool water.
There was a clacking sound of dress shoes on marble, and Hermione looked up to see Tom Riddle approaching, bearing two champagne flutes. The champagne was pink, however, and little white flowers floating at the surface.
"Miss Granger," he greeted. Here, he seemed more relaxed. "I apologize if I overwhelmed you out there. I just realized now how rude I've been," he explained as he reached her. He sat down gingerly on the steps next to her and handed her a flute. Hermione wordlessly accepted it, waiting for further explanation. "It's just that I have been wanting to meet you for such a long time, and I suppose I got ahead of myself."
"Right. It's fine," said Hermione shortly. Why am I being so rude? She couldn't fathom what it was that this Riddle brought out in her. Here he was, being perfectly kind, and yet... She could not quite bury Dumbledore's words. Again she wondered why he had wanted her to meet Tom Riddle, when he clearly found the man worrisome. Did he really think she could have some sort of influence on this man? ...And what, exactly, did he intend for that influence to be?
Their eyes met. "I'm sorry," she sighed. "I'm a bit tense here," she explained, picking the white flowers out of the champagne and flicking them into the pool. With a smirk, Riddle did the same.
"It's not exactly our crowd, is it?" he murmured, so quietly that Hermione had to lean closer to hear him. She studied his features, torn between lust and disgust. There was something shadowy and off-colour about him. She did not like him, but all the same, she could not tear her eyes from him. He was as lovely and strange as the rare flowers which filled the manor—and at the same time was also just far too much for her senses.
"Dumbledore told me he had shared my work with you," she swiftly changed the subject. She looked down at the remaining floating flowers in her champagne and swilled the pink liquid a bit in its flute. She had resolved to drink nothing that might loosen her inhibitions since she was so committed to making a good impression.
"Ah, Dumbledore," said Riddle, and though the tone was perfectly arranged to convey affection and well-meaning exasperation, there was something in his voice that made Hermione look up again. He was perched on the edge of the fountain, his elbows resting on his knees, looking wryly at his own glass. "I sensed that you might be the sort of girl to keep to herself, but when he mentioned your work, I must admit…" he paused, his eyes flicking to hers, and then, for one heavy moment, to her lips, then back to her eyes again. It was as though he had had to physically pull his gaze away from her décolleté. Oh, Merlin—her cheeks were flushing now.
She took an impulsive gulp of champagne, for no reason other than she wanted something cold when she felt so suddenly warm. "…I could not help but demand to learn more," he added, at long last, in so quiet a voice she might have missed it.
The doors banged open; her throat was still raw from so hastily gulping champagne, and she coughed a bit as Malfoy appeared in sweeping, billowing, grey silk robes that were devastatingly lovely.
"There you are, Riddle. There are probably a hundred people who would like to meet you," he said loudly, and it felt like he had shattered ice with his voice. Hermione and Tom each rose quickly.
"I suppose we mustn't ignore the whole world, as much as we might like," Tom said to her in a low voice. He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
Hermione did not take the offered arm.
"We shall," she said, and they followed Malfoy out of the ballroom. To his credit, Riddle did not react to her slight. "I suppose we're to see the greenhouse soon?" she posited as they walked. She keenly sensed Riddle's presence beside her and longed to overcome its power over her.
"That would be the point," drawled Malfoy, glancing back at her. She could tell that his civility towards her was a feat of the utmost restraint, and she almost wanted to goad and taunt him, just to see how far his restraint stretched in front of this special Riddle. Goodness, where is all of this coming from? she marveled. For some reason she was finding herself repeatedly filled with the strangest, most mischievous urges...
No, on good behavior, remember? she chided herself.
They walked through a long hall of gilded mirrors, with an ethereal depiction of Salazar Slytherin's life painted along the high ceiling, evocative of the Palace of Versailles. Hermione wondered how the Malfoys justified modeling part of their home after a Muggle chateau. The mirrors kept assaulting her with her own reflection, yet she looked...different...somehow. She hardly recognized the dark-eyed woman in these hundreds of mirrors, walking with Tom Riddle and Draco Malfoy.
This hall of mirrors was lined with roses in varying delicate shades of pink, and had no apparent magical qualities. Hermione knew her Herbology well enough to quickly recognize most magical plants, but these looked like simple roses.
"Are all of the flowers magical?" Hermione asked, hastening to catch up with Malfoy. He scoffed.
"Of course—not that I could tell you what any of them are," he sneered. "Haven't got time for such nonsense.
"This is amoris mortiferi rosa," Riddle explained behind her. As they reached the entrance to the new greenhouse, Hermione glanced back at him in surprise.
"Deadly love? That's just a bit of a cliché, isn't it?" she snorted.
"Ah, cliché or not, I don't recommend lingering too long in this hall," surmised Riddle, his shadow-coloured eyes dancing with amusement. Malfoy had already entered the greenhouse, and from here Hermione could hear the sounds of the party. "It's named as such for a very good reason."
"Useful for unwanted suitors, I'd imagine," Hermione said, nodding to the heavy pale pink roses nearby, chilled by the sight of them, though she could not help but reflect on the fact that, in all of her many years of exorbitant reading, she had never once come across such a species...
"Perhaps you should bring some along to the party," said Riddle in a low voice, stepping nearer. "I'm sure you'll need all the help you can get, fending the men off."
He brushed past her and held open the door. "After you."
Her skin tingled with the contact of his suit jacket against her bare arm. Hermione took another long swig of her champagne. Please. Was that meant to be a compliment? her bolder inner voice snorted, but her body reacted to him all the same. She despised her traitorous skin for flushing so easily near him. She held her chin up.
"I hardly need the assistance of a flower to ward off men I don't like," she said smoothly, and reached into her bejeweled clutch to hold up her wand. Riddle quirked a brow at her in surprise. "My wand will do just fine for that."
He gazed at her for a long, pendulous moment. Finally, his lovely lips parted, and she hated how she could not resist wondering what it might feel like to kiss such lovely lips.
"I look forward to the moment I can get you alone," he began softly, and her heart gave a great shuddering, "so we can continue our discussion."
"O-of course," she stammered, and before she could make a fool of herself any more in front of this strange man, she threw herself into the party.
Tom watched the woman stride away from him, holding her head high and her slender back straight. Her hair, too bushy and curly and wild for the fashionable bob she must have recently shorn it into, grew wilder as they entered the more humid air of the greenhouse-cum-ballroom, and amidst the heady, overwhelming perfume of the flora, of the many rich women packed into this greenhouse, he could just barely scent her skin as she walked away from him. In the golden light of the greenhouse, which was illuminated with floating fairy lights, which hid in the blossoms of rare flowers, the beading of her dress glimmered and winked and he could not help but follow the way the beading accentuated how the fabric of her dress clung to the perhaps generous curve of her hips. She was not so lavishly dressed as the other women here yet she stood out to him even among the exquisite women and exotic flora, for unlike every other creature in this entire manor, she was brilliant, and, most of all, unlike every other creature in this entire manor, she had something which he very badly wanted, and which he would stop at nothing to get.
The view wasn't bad, either.
Perhaps he'd get more than he had even set out for if he played this game of chess, which she had now started between them. He was accustomed to winning such games. With a slow smirk he took a long preemptive celebratory swig of his champagne, barely tasting the flavor of the tiny delicate flowers, which floated upon its surface. At once he was set alight by the feel of the champagne pooling like molten gold in his belly and in his brain.
He watched Hermione Granger become accosted by another man, watched her nervously pull away a bit, flushing. She was set off-kilter because she clearly rarely left her own manor. She wasn't used to being approached by men, by men who intended on doing more than simply learning her name and exchanging pleasantries. In spite of the incredible finery gushing from every nook and cranny of this manor, there were intentions, wild and dark, teeming from every crevice. The champagne and elf-made wine and firewhiskey were flowing freely and the heavy perfume of the flowers was making people forget their manners. The soft, lilting music had couples swaying to it, and he watched the man take her wrist, coaxing her into a dance. The band, almost hidden by the flowers, switched to a gamely foxtrot, and he watched as she threw her head back and laughed genuinely as her partner helped her clumsily navigate the trendy dance step. It was too warm in this room and her hair curled damply against the nape of her pale neck and temples and her soft skin was flushed with pink.
If he kissed her neck now he would be able to taste the salty sweat upon it.
"Riddle, are you staring at the Mudblood?" Draco Malfoy spat in horror. When had the blond joined him?
"Aren't you?" he mused, glancing at his entre into this heady, strange, powerful world. Malfoy snorted.
"I would rather gaze at fat fucking Slughorn," snarked Malfoy before taking a long swig of his firewhiskey. "Jolly good luck with the Mudblood, though," he added, his voice rough from the liquor. "She's the biggest prude of the century," he continued darkly.
Hermione danced for hours with a devastatingly handsome man with the family name Zabini, whose dark skin was only the more set off by his cornflower blue eyes. He roguishly taught her some of the most fashionable Muggle dances, and soon she felt overheated and sweat was dripping down the small of her back and between her breasts, soaking her already heavy gown.
The tone of the party had changed; all pretenses of manners had been dropped, and there was a dangerous headiness to everything. The fairy lights hidden in the blossoms had dimmed, and it was almost too dark to see properly. Ladies' beaded dresses glimmered faintly like stars in the night as people danced and told secrets and lies.
And the whole time she had felt Tom Riddle's presence, though she'd not seen him since entering the party. Like a too-near flame his presence had scalded her skin and now her nerves were singing with delightful pain. She broke away from the man Zabini in search of something to drink, and though she merely wanted water, more champagne was pressed into her hands, and she impulsively drank the whole thing down, scrunching her eyes shut as she tossed back the champagne.
She had not had this much fun at a social gathering in her life.
She did not recognize herself and somehow she did not care.
She felt a warm hand on her back; she ought to have felt ashamed of how sweaty she was but Zabini's robes were darkened at the neckline with sweat, too. Distantly she was aware that outside the rain had turned to snow. For a delirious moment she imagined going out and laying down in it.
"Come back to my rooms," murmured Zabini in her ear, and she pulled away, swaying slightly.
"No," she said, and she tore herself away from him, her head spinning.
As though her eyes had been searching for him, amid the blur of bodies, she immediately found Tom Riddle's eyes. She left Zabini on the dance floor and stumbled towards Riddle, who matched her gaze from across the room. He hastened and met her in the middle, holding a glass of water.
"You look like you could use this," he said, holding it out to her, looking as cool and composed as he had hours before, unlike everyone else in the room.
"Oh, thank you," she gasped, relishing the feel of the cold glass against her palms. She pressed it to her forehead and closed her eyes, sighing in relief.
"Come, you should take a rest," he said, and she felt his cool, dry hand close over her damp forearm as he led her through the throngs of partygoers. She was too drunk on the champagne and perfume to care much about the contrast between his dry hand and her damp skin, and she followed him, desperate for some relief.
In the hall of mirrors, the cool silence was like a phoenix song and she felt herself slightly sobered. It was dark here, save for the tilting slats of moonlight. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows she could see the late winter snow falling wetly upon the grounds.
"Is there any room that hasn't got flowers in it," she wondered, her voice echoing off the walls. "I cannot bear the scents any longer. It's too much." Riddle glanced back at her slyly over his svelte shoulder.
"One does wonder," he agreed. "Follow me—I know of a place."
They escaped the amoris mortiferi rosa and entered the main hall. Hermione followed Riddle up the marble stairs and down the hall, towards their rooms. Panic seized her as she wondered if they had been seen, wondered what Riddle's intentions were, but her head was throbbing from the perfume and champagne and it made it hard to think straight. Her mind felt strangely darkened as though a candle had been blown out. "Wait here." He left her outside of the room next to hers and came back out moments later wearing a heavy, finely-made traveling cloak, and holding a second one as well. Hermione accepted it wordlessly, wondering what the man had up his sleeve, but nonetheless followed him back down the stairs.
They went through a series of doors and she realized they were moving through the servants' quarters; the halls had grown cramped and dark and the flowers felt worlds away.
Tom masked his smirk as he led the girl along the halls, feeling her still-damp skin slide against his. In spite of his superiority in every other way, he was still a man, and she was still a woman, and though he was not quite so prey to the urges that befell other, lesser men, he still felt the ghosts of their presence nonetheless, and now he felt those ghosts more than he had in some time. He thought once more of the moment her papers had been handed to him by that old fool Dumbledore—he had at once recognized the look in the stupid old man's eyes and known that, as ever, Dumbledore was trying to change him.
He'd been so young when Dumbledore had first met him, just a boy, really, and though even then he had risen above the status of other mere mortals, he had not been so experienced in the ways of idealists then as he was now, and had made the mistake of revealing too much of himself to this man. And he repeatedly paid the price, with varying efforts on Dumbledore's part to change, to convert, to heal him.
His latest attempt was, apparently, to shove as close as an intellectual counterpart as was possible, in his face, which only highlighted their differences. And yet, in this girl's warm brown eyes, deep within, there had stirred a certain darkness—he was an expert at reading people, always had known how to get what he wanted from people by playing on their deepest desires and darkest needs—and he knew he hadn't been led false.
This girl wasn't all pure-hearted and innocent, not really. He'd felt it in every carefully written line of her scholarly works which had given him the idea for his plan in the very first place, and he'd seen it in her dark eyes and now, cloistered from the rest of the world, he felt it in her skin, hot and damp to the touch. She had strength, she had light, but she was far too brilliant to be completely exempt from the seduction of the darkness. No mind of such keen intellect could completely resist its pull—often it would only take a single, well-placed push.
They exploded into the snow, and he heard her gasp in the cold air in relief, and turned to watch her turn about in the snow, tilting her bare, wet face back to receive the sting of the falling wet snow.
In spite of the heaviness of the cloak, the fabric was not impervious to the elements, and in the half-snow, half-rain, it became drenched, and soon she felt not sweat but melted snow dripping down her back and between her breasts. She opened her eyes again and looked at Riddle.
He was staring at her, his eyes dark with predatory desire.
"I've been dying to get you alone all evening," he confessed, advancing on her now. The rain-snow stuck his black hair against his alabaster skin and she felt her own skin grow taut with gooseflesh.
She had never had a man before; she had read plenty on the subject but still didn't know exactly what it ought to be like, in spite of her keen imagination. Confronted by Zabini's obvious but throwaway desire, she had run; in the face of this man's evident desire, she was even more obliged to run somehow and yet all the more reluctant to do as she ought.
She was modern but she'd been raised a particular way and knew that there were certain lines she should not cross without anticipating paying a hefty price. Now that she was somewhat beyond marriageable age her virginity's value was fast decreasing as she quickly, hurtlingly approached spinsterhood: yet she had never felt more comfortable in her own skin than she did in this moment, had never felt so in control of her own sexuality. As a young girl with potential to marry she had been fearful of and wary of her sexuality. Now that she was already becoming a so-called 'old maid' she finally felt she had hit her stride.
"To discuss my works," she confirmed slowly. She watched Riddle perceive the change in the power balance, watched his brows arch ever so slightly in surprise as she straightened her shoulders and approached him slowly.
It was now or never. She would not be a gatekeeper of her own desire, she decided in this moment of hot and cold. She would take control of what she desired, and would revel in it. She would not build a golden cage around herself, depriving herself of the full array of experiences which life held.
Now or never…
"To discuss your works," he repeated, nodding slightly. "I've never been so inflamed by such theories as yours, I must confess."
He was a master of language, of subtlety, and knew exactly what he was doing. He watched her blossom for him, under his gaze, and knew he had won the first battle. He let her come to him, and when she reached him, he took her hand in his and brought it to his mouth and kissed her wrist, closing his eyes as he tasted the clean sweat which mingled with melted snow, and savored the feel of grazing his teeth along the sweet flesh of her inner wrist. "But now, sadly, I hardly feel like talking at all," he said against her skin.
It happened as though someone were holding a swinging lamp over a series of photographs: one instant, she was pulling him back toward the manor; the next instant they were staggering through the cramped, dark halls, breathing heavily as they ran; they exploded into the heady perfume, surrounded by flowers; Hermione moved to ascend the marble staircase but felt Riddle drag her towards the room with the fountain; he was locking the door before throwing her against it, and the sound echoed off the black marble; she was dizzy as he peeled off her heavy, beaded dress, sinking against her body, kissing between her breasts; the door was hard against her bare back; there was a flash of pain like she had never known before as he entered her but pain had never been so sweet…
Somehow they found themselves in Riddle's room, and amid the violent red orchids, he took her on his bed, and she writhed beneath him. His immaculate waves were messy now. He didn't look so cool and composed when she rolled them over and lowered her hips against his, and she felt his strong hands grip her hips painfully, his thumbs digging into her hipbones. The last bit of light in her mind seemed to go out and then there was nothing but darkness.
Hours later she awoke in his bed, alone. She was intensely sore between her legs and her whole body was trembling with weakness as she sat up.
Where was he?
She held her breath, listening to the sounds of the manor, and looked about the room. His jacket to his suit lay draped on a rosewood chair, but his trousers, shoes, and shirt were gone.
She could not locate her dress, but she still had her chemise, so she slid that over her body. She rifled through the wardrobe but found no robes or spare traveling cloaks—when had they discarded them?—and so would have to make do with just her chemise and his jacket.
Hermione slid the jacket on, and the cool silk lining was sensuous against her skin, but the roughness of the lapels rubbed against her skin, through the silk of her chemise, and recalled both the roughness and the tenderness with which he had touched her hours before.
Barefooted and clutching the jacket closed out of some last vestige of modesty, she opened the door and peered out. The halls were quite empty. Had he gone to the lavatory? That must be it. Not wanting to be there when he returned, to avoid inevitable discussion, she crept into her own room.
And gasped upon entering it.
The room had been ransacked—particularly the desk, where her notes had been just hours before when she had gone down to the party. They were missing, now, and the hundreds of vases of orchids had been overturned and smashed; her trunk lay open and on its side, and her clothes were discarded along the floor.
Shaking in horror, she stumbled backwards, then noticed that where the orchids touched anything, it was smoking softly. Poison…
Her wand, too, was gone.
She flew into a blind panic, and banged out of her room and sprinted down the halls, her heart pounding like a trapped bird in her ribcage as she ran. She skidded along the marble, no longer caring that the jacket hung open, exposing her through the thin silk of her chemise.
She burst into the room with the black marble, but her dress and wand were not there, nor were the cloaks. She was blinded with terror and rage.
Shaking and gasping, she went to the fountain, shrugged off the jacket, and slid into the ice-cold water, which cleared her senses with a shock.
But there a peculiar thing happened: like tendrils of black smoke, a dark thought breached her once-pristine mind.
I will take the deadly roses, wait in his room, and smother him until he gives me back my wand.
Calmly she rose from the water, the silk and lace, rendered transparent by being soaked, sticking to her every curve as though she were nude. Dripping wet, she strode along the marble, no longer noticing the headiness of the perfume of the flowers.
The hall of mirrors was silent; most of the roses were wilting now. Zabini, the devilishly handsome man with whom she had danced earlier, lay passed out cold—or perhaps dead—before one of the mirrors, surrounded by the deadly roses. Hermione, unfeeling as she had never been before, walked silently past him, leaving wet footprints along the pink marble.
At the very end of the hall the last vase of roses was still strong and alive. She took the roses from their vase, surrounded in a cloud of their dark scent, and turned.
Riddle was approaching her from the other end of the hall lazily, his movements as graceful and menacing as a serpent. Hermione was unsurprised to see him, and mechanically moved towards him, not feeling the roses' thorns cutting into her skin, dripping blood and poisonous water from her fist and along the marble floors.
"I knew you'd turn," he said by way of greeting.
As they met in the middle, Hermione watched him survey her nearly-naked form with deep approval. He was holding her wand in his lovely, elegant, powerful hand. "It's loyal to me now," he said, following her gaze. Their eyes met once more. "I disarmed you," he added. "It belongs to me now."
It happened in a flash: she thrust forward and grasped the collar of his shirt as she pressed the roses towards his face; he cursed her with her own wand and she was sent flying to the side into one of the hundreds of mirrors; the mirror shattered, slashing her skin, and Riddle loomed over her, his shirt speckled with the dark red of her blood, his magic sparking in the air around him.
"You took my notes," she gasped in pain, writhing on the ground in a motion not unlike what he had made her do just hours earlier, but borne purely of pain and rage. She attempted a nonverbal spell but he hissed something and ropes shot out of her wand and bound her, but these were no ordinary ropes. She felt her magic sealed off.
"Yes, I did, Hermione," he said in a diaphanously icy voice, as he knelt down before her. She twisted and writhed but it was futile. He placed his hand on her skin, on her neck, and his fingers slid along her collarbone until his hand was around her neck. "But I discovered I was wrong: your notes were not the real prize—you were." His lovely lips curved into a smirk. "Do you know," he began softly, and reached over to where the roses lay, and picked them up, holding them under her nose, "I lied earlier. These are ordinary roses. But with a powerful enchantment on them."
It came to her now: the moment he had transformed her. Hours earlier as she had seen her reflection grow dark in the mirrors surrounding her, it had not been a trick of the light. "Only the darkest minds are susceptible to such an enchantment," he continued, tracing the petals along her lips, "and I put the enchantment on every flower in this manor."
He traced the roses down her body and in spite of herself she keened to their touch. Yes.
And the black smoke overtaking her mind turned it opaque, and everything changed, as she closed her eyes to blink; when she opened them again, the ropes no longer bound her, and she was rising towards him, blossoming into the dark rose he had been hunting for all along.