Anagnorisis
By: Atlas May Wood [atlasmay]
The shrill sound of a doorbell reached Hermione's ears as she swung open the bathroom door, heading out into the hallway. The doorbell had already chimed a second time, sounding somehow more urgent than the first, by the time she had reached the living room.
"Patience is apparently a rare commodity," she tutted absently, as she sauntered past the coffee table, strewn haphazardly with well-thumbed pages of the local newspaper.
Dead centre was an article that had dominated the front page, before it had been torn out, before Hermione had turned it over in her hands curiously, reading and rereading the piece, boldly titled, "Spree of deadly home invasions continue in London neighbourhood; locals advised by county officer".
As she turned the corner and reached the foyer, she distractedly kicked aside a rather impressive collection of men's shoes, which one could tell instinctively were always in the way of the door.
The bell rang a third time, the shrill chiming sending a foreboding shiver through her body.
Hermione peered out of the pane of frosted glass that ran alongside the right side of the door and could just barely make out a tall figure clad in black, contrasting glaringly to the swirling white backdrop that threatened to consume him.
Hermione tentatively reached for the gleaming doorknob. It was frigid to the touch, even through her worn leather gloves. As she turned the handle, the door swung open of its own accord and a violent gust of wind burst into the foyer, carrying with it a volley of snowflakes, as if heralding the arrival of a sinister storm.
And amidst the slowly settling snowflakes, Hermione saw the same figure shrouded in black, one hand poised as if to knock.
"I beg your pardon," he drawled in the deepest, richest voice Hermione had ever heard. "I wasn't sure if the bell worked."
Hermione's eyes snapped abruptly to his obsidian eyes, hoping he hadn't noticed her intense perusal of his shapely lips. An amused twinkle passed through them as she smiled sheepishly.
"No, it's my fault," she chimed, as the snowflakes continued their assault. "I was just washing up."
The man offered her a charming smile, though Hermione noticed, with some unease, his eyes remained blank.
"How rude of me," he said softly, barely audible over the wind howling. "My name is Tom Riddle." He extended one hand, fingers reddened from the cold.
Hermione in turn extended her own gloved hand and, all at once, the stranger seemed to tower over her.
"Where are my manners," she choked out nervously. "You must be freezing. Please, come in."
She backed up, tripping over the endless pile of shoes and cursed under her breath as she began to fall. Squeezing her eyes and bracing for the impact, she suddenly found the stranger's— Tom's— arms encircling her waist.
"Careful," he intoned dryly, though that spark of amusement had returned to his eyes. "Your husband's?" He asked, nodding vaguely towards the pile.
"My roommate's actually," Hermione said, a little breathlessly, as she worked to disentangle herself. Riddle, as if suddenly remembering himself, let go of her immediately.
"Right, well..." Hermione began, staring rather determinedly at the corner of the room.
"Right," he said, barely bothering to hide his growing smirk. "I'm here from the ministry, making sure that everyone in this neighbourhood is properly equipped to deal with a potential break-in. I'm sure you've heard of the recent increase of crime in this area."
Hermione nodded, vaguely recalling the article she had thoroughly examined that same morning.
"I thought the county officer was going to be the one making the rounds," she remarked candidly.
Hermione watched, fascinated, as Riddle's spine stiffened, causing him to straighten to his full height. He seemed to catch his mistake and rolled his shoulders back, taking a step towards Hermione to compensate for his sudden instinctual movement.
"Of course, he would have been the obvious choice," he said with that charming, oily smile of his. "However, I think you'll find that he is currently... indisposed."
Hermione watched as he carefully shifted his face into an expression that resembled vague disinterest and professionalism.
"I see," she blinked slowly at him, before straightening and pointing him to the living room to her right. "Well, I see no point continuing this discussion here, of all places. Please, take a seat. I'll bring you some tea."
She turned on her heel, disappearing into the kitchen muttering about the cold chill that had crept into the house, as Riddle reclined slowly into a corduroy loveseat. In the kitchen, a small kettle began to hiss, and Hermione appeared several minutes later, carrying a tray of steaming teacups, a milk pitcher, and a small bowl of sugar cubes.
"I must admit," Riddle said, leaning forward to take the tray from her hands. "This is by far the most hospitable greeting I've received."
"You looked half frozen to death, Mr. Riddle," Hermione smiled, casting her gaze towards the carpet and taking a seat in the adjacent armchair. "I thought something warm— a cup of tea can cure anything."
Tom sunk back into to loveseat, the very picture of casual appraisal and contentment. He hummed in agreement, stretching one arm out beside him, along the back of the sofa. With the other, he reached for a framed picture that had been gathering dust on the side table. The glare had prevented Hermione from seeing it, and so she waited impatiently for Riddle to reveal its face to her.
"Call me Tom," he breathed, and his dulcet tone made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. His eyebrows furrowed into a look of deep thought that was quite obviously fabricated. "How peculiar..."
"What's peculiar?" Hermione asked, shifting in her seat and leaning over the arm to get a better look.
"It would seem as if every picture here," he gestured vaguely towards the generous number of framed portraits lining the walls and decorating the table. "Is of your roommate and his friends. And not a single picture of you. This is your roommate, of course?"
Tom slowly turned the picture around, almost comically, and Hermione's eyes swept over the two grinning faces. A man with a shock of black hair and startling green eyes stared straight at her while a woman with fiery red hair and a mischievous smirk gazed lovingly at the man.
"Yes," Hermione heard herself say as an inexplicable feeling of guilt settled in her stomach. "The one on the left is my roommate."
"I see," Riddle stated, his rich voice condescending and disapproving. Hermione made a desperate grab for her steaming cup of tea.
"And why are there no pictures of you at all?" Riddle continued, as he leaned forward, one eyebrow raised.
"I just moved in," she grinned sheepishly. "Haven't has a minute to unpack yet." She frowned as something dawned on her. "Come to think of it, what does this have to do with your safety talk?"
Riddle grabbed his cup of tea and leaned back once more. "Nothing at all," he admitted, his intense gaze focused on her. "Pleasantries, I suppose."
Hermione snorted, unable to control herself. Immediately, she covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes widened to resemble full circles. Riddle looked on, dryly amused, as he took a sip of his tea.
"If you're so eager to move straight to business, however," Riddle shrugged, the movement emphasizing his broad shoulders. Hermione's eyes followed the movement. "I suppose I'll start by telling you that you've already failed, Miss—?"
Hermione was ripped instantly from her somewhat incriminating thoughts as she turned to face him fully, the intent behind her glare enough to make a lesser man shrink away. "Granger. Hermione Granger. And I beg your pardon?" She demanded, her voice dropping frighteningly low.
Riddle peaked one eyebrow curiously. "You invited a total stranger inside for tea. Suppose I was the one behind the home invasions— "he chuckled humourlessly as he saw the realization in her eyes. "I wouldn't even need to break in."
The wind picked up outside as the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. Hermione's eyes narrowed in further realization. "Passing oneself off as a ministry official to get invited inside sounds like an awfully plausible strategy, indeed."
A twisted smirk grew on Riddle's face. "You look scared, Hermione," he mocked as he stood up, towering over her, and began to walk towards her. "You needn't be," he whispered as he leaned down towards her impossibly small form.
The storm outside built to a sudden crescendo and Hermione could have sworn that she heard hail battering the roof. The snow that swirled outside thickly was, by now, entirely opaque, cutting off the two figures inside the house from the outside world.
"I know."
And suddenly, Riddle's face contorted in pain as he went crashing to the ground. Hermione rose from her chair, collecting his empty teacup and hers: untouched.
They clinked together as she held them both, in her gloved hands.
"I was just washing up."
She returned from the kitchen empty handed, to see that Riddle had managed to roll onto his stomach and was presently attempting to push himself up to his knees. Hermione snorted in contempt.
"I'm afraid it's no use at all, Tom," she mocked coldly. "As we— sorry, I— speak, the paralysis is spreading. Oh, and I should mention that the convulsions will only get worse. A curious little plant, water hemlock."
She resettled herself into the small armchair, crossing her legs primly at the ankles. "Mind you, this is my own special blend. Highly concentrated with a little something extra. Death can occur in as little time as seven minutes. Fascinating, isn't it?"
Riddle made a desperate grab for Hermione's ankle as a choked breath left his throat. Hermione kicked his hand away. "I'll admit, as effective as my concoction is, it isn't perfect. I always knew that, of course. That's why I chose water hemlock, you see. Should the victim survive, amnesia is a sure after effect."
Hermione stood once again and shifted so as to kneel beside him. "You were right to be suspicious, of course. This isn't my house," she whispered conspiratorially. "Better still, you've given me a great new idea. Officer Granger... I do enjoy the sound of that."
She straightened slightly, one of his lifeless arms in her gloved grasp. She began dragging him towards the main floor washroom.
"I suppose you're wondering what my motives are," Hermione sighed almost exasperatedly. "They always wonder. They always ask, 'Why me?'"Her smirk morphed into something sinister as she maneuvered him into the bathroom.
"Personally, I prefer it when they beg," she knelt down, straddling him, his jaw held firmly in her grasp. "Will you beg me to save you, Tom?"
His eyes narrowed viciously at her, though he found himself thoroughly unable to move his jaw.
"No?" Hermione pouted shortly. "Oh, I see. You can't. What a shame. I would have so loved to hear you one last time. You had such a magnificent voice."
She released his head and he fought to keep it up, keep his glare on her.
"It was really nice meeting you," she whispered, swinging one leg off of him and standing up. "Goodbye, Tom Riddle."
The faint tapping of her shoes drifted away. In the distance, a door opened and then closed again. In the interim, a short gust of wind and, most likely, snowflakes, swept into the house and seemed to permeate his very being.
As the rest of his strength left him, Riddle's head rolled to the side. His eyes, which betrayed anagnorisis and something more, focused keenly on the last thing he would ever see. A pair of disturbingly familiar and dull green eyes stared lifelessly back at him.