Author's Note/Warning:
*Story Warning* *Chapter Warning*
Please know that this story will contain DARK themes.
It will have Possessive/Obsessive/Dark Tom, as well as a Naive Hermione.
Because this starts out with them as children, be aware that Hermione Granger will not be the same as you've previously known her.
That being said, this is a story created to bring light to abuse.
It will be realistic. Do NOT expect a sociopath to change.
Please be aware of triggers and continue at your own risk.
Chapter One
Frozen in place, she watches as the pool of deep crimson liquid seeps its way closer to the soles of her Oxford shoes. The ring that once slid loosely around her finger tightens, burning, begging to be freed.
The feel of sticky blood drips from her chin and runs slowly down her dirtied robes, but she barely notes that it's even there. Her body is quickly going into shock, and her mind only registers this as she begins to shake.
It is beginning to grow harder to stand, so she extends her arms in desperation, trying to steady herself— failing as she falls to the floor.
Knotted frizzy hair becomes saturated in red, and she wants to reach out but finds nothing there. He isn't there. Not in the way he once was, no.
Now he is but a corpse, growing colder by the second as the pressure pushing his life force begins to lessen.
It's hot and humid in the room, and she knows this, but all she feels is the cold. It starts off small, almost like a light breeze; but quickly begins to gain in intensity. A metallic taste penetrates her mouth as her shakes soon turn into convulsions, flames of burning dry ice licking its way from her arms, spreading throughout her body.
"Come on, Tom! Give it back!" she hears, her mind pulling her away as she drifts in and out of consciousness. It's her, she knows it, but another her. A gentler her. A her long forgotten and forever tainted.
"No!" laughs the small boy, his thick brow cocking as he regards his bushy-haired friend, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Please?"
"Beg for it," Tom commands, crossing his arms over his chest, a heavy book clutched in his hand.
"I said please," Hermione sneers, gritting her teeth. Reaching for the book once more, Tom loosely tosses the small tomb out of reach.
Huffing, the young girl sits back on the haunches of her heels, shooting him a glare. The spring sun beats down, and a gentle sway of air rushes past, disrupting her chestnut curls ever so slightly. She knows better than to rush after the fallen book, as it'll make him mad. And nothing ever good happens when he's mad.
Swallowing thickly, Hermione looks up to the young boy through thick lashes, heat prickling its way up her spine.
"Well?" he demands, his voice authoritative.
"Please give me—" she began to murmur, dropping her gaze.
"Not like that!" he sneers, glancing around the tree next to them, trying to catch a peek at the small nook of concrete the other children were playing on.
Hermione winced at his tone, taking in a deep breath, and raising back to her knees. Placing her hands firmly behind her back, she lowered her head towards the dull dead grass beneath her.
"P-please," she said, raising her voice a bit so he could hear her. Her hair dropped down covering her face, but she didn't dare move. Not until he told her to do so.
"Please what?" the boy snapped, his tone harsh with a hint of amusement. It was one of his games. She knew as this was one of many they had played over the years.
"Please, may I be allotted to have my book back, My Lord?"
Pain, pain, pain, what is that?
A glowing red heat radiates up her arm, pulling her from her memories and ripping a gurgled scream from her throat. Her left ring finger snarled as the agony bites into her, and Hermione instinctively reaches for it. Doing everything in her might to tear the golden band away, her panicked breaths came in short and quickened bursts as her thoughts reached.
Can't force me out.
Can't force me out.
Can't force me out.
The ring was stuck, tightened so hard around her finger that it was beginning to turn blue from lack of circulation. Blood lubricated her hands, making her grip slick as she yanked and pulled with a vicious fury. A number of times, she had stopped in an attempt to wipe her hands free on the bottom of her robes in order to get some more leverage, but the blood was just too much.
So much.
She was dripping in it.
"Stop!" a disembodied voice boomed, ringing so loudly throughout her head that her eardrums felt as if they had been blown out.
Her body stiffens instantly, just as it always had when that very same voice rung out a command to her. The pain lessened, but the golden ring stayed put upon her finger, never wavering, nor loosening.
Soon, her appendage turned from a bluish purple to a pitch black, crawling its way out from beneath the ring and up her arm. It continued to spread, up and up and up, like a disease replacing milked skin cells with an obsidian nightmare.
Crossing over her shoulder blades, creeping up her neck, Hermione was frozen in terror as the spidery black curse now covered most of her body. It sunk into her skin, like fangs penetrating her flesh. The venom burned its way up, and up, and up.
Screaming.
That's the last thing she remembered as the venom reached her eyes. Turning a soulless, bottomless black, she blinked just once, before toppling over, rendering her body completely unconscious.
London, England
1936
Seven-year-old Hermione Granger trudged home, the leather straps holding her school books slung over her shoulder effectively weighing her down. Her face was tear streaked, her nose stuffy, and her eyes a puffy red color.
As she grew closer to home, the farthest on the corner, she attempted to quiet her sobs in an attempt to hide her misery.
Patrick Herring— a chubby towheaded boy in her primary school who seemed the most intent on making her life as miserable as possible— had absolutely humiliated her in class after she had answered the professor's sixth question in a row.
"Teacher's pet!" he sneered, earning quite a few snickers from the boys— and even the majority of girls— in the classroom.
"Well no one else knew the answer," she quipped back, narrowing her eyes at the bully.
"That's because you didn't give anyone else a chance," he barked back with a laugh. "Bet you didn't even notice, didn't ya? Got yer nose so far up Ms. Berryweather's arse you—"
"Patrick!" the elderly professor snapped. "Detention!"
"What? I was just being—"
"I don't care what you were 'just being', I'll be seeing you after class."
But of course, Patrick wouldn't let the situation go, she should have known. Hadn't he noticed that he had humiliated her quite enough for one day? Must he insist on prolonging her suffering?
Apparently so, considering that the big oaf decided on waiting up for her after school had let out, three of his cronies following closely behind him to get a look at the action.
"Hey, rat's nest!" he called out, causing Hermione's heart to sink into her stomach.
Clenching her jaw, she turned to him, "What do you want, Herring?"
Smack
Before she could react, the library books she had been carrying toppled out from her hands, landing onto the cracked concrete beneath her feet.
Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes, "Now was that very mature?"
Bending down to snatch back her belongings, she nearly fell as Patrick effectively kicked them out of the way from arm's reach. Straightening herself, she crossed her arms and narrowed her glare towards him, tossing her nose proudly in the air. He was a big bloke for a seven-year-old, but Hermione never backed down from a challenge.
Not even when he approached closer to her, standing toe to toe. Crinkling her nose, she held her ground despite him positively reeking of corn chips and body odor.
"What are you going to do, hit me?" she taunted. "I certainly hope it wasn't your mother who taught you to lay hands on a lady."
Patrick laughed, his twiggy friends behind him following suit.
"You're not a lady," he roared. "Mary O'Dell is a lady. You're a beaver, just look at your teeth!"
Hermione's jaw clenched, holding back tears she refused to spill. Not here, not now, not in front of him of all people.
"Patrick!" a stern voice called out some distance away, ringing out above the laughter of the watching students. "Don't you dare try and sneak out of detention! I will not hesitate to contact your mother!"
"See ya later frizz-head," he said with a sneer after a pregnant beat. "Try not to let me catch you alone anytime soon."
And with a final kick to the pile of books littering the pavement, he was gone.
Hermione trudged up the driveway, her eyes far less puffy and her sobbing hiccups now gone. Throwing open the front door, she plastered a faux smile on her face as she called out to her parents.
"Mum!" she cried. "Dad?"
"In here, sweetums!" the voice of her mother rang out from the kitchen.
Plopping down her luggage, Hermione made her way to the kitchen, giving her eyes one more cautionary wipe with the back of her sleeve. It wasn't until she had passed the threshold that her footsteps wavered, coming face to face with the neighbors from across the street, Mrs. and Mr. Harte.
"Hello Dear," Mrs. Harte greeted with a tight-lipped smile, glancing at Hermione's mother.
"Hermione, you know the neighbors from across the street, don't you?" her mum urged.
"Oh, yes, sorry!" she rushed out, forgetting her manners. "How are you, Missus Harte, Mister Harte?"
Polite smiles broke out on the adult's faces, and they nodded approvingly.
"We're very well, thanks!" Mrs. Harte replied. "I've just come over to tell your parents about the new foster boy we'll have staying with us for a bit! He's around your age, and we'll be enrolling him in school come Monday."
"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, a bit bewildered. She knew that the Hartes hadn't any children, despite their age. Though, she suspected it wasn't from a lack of trying.
Betty and Charles had to be at least ten years past Hermione's own parent's senior. Mrs. Harte's eyes sported deep crow's feet and laugh lines, while her husband's hair had already begun to turn grey. She had figured if they planned on adoption, they would have already done so by now.
"How lovely!" she said with a bright smile, trying to hide her confusion.
"Well you see," Mr. Harte cut in, "we were quite hoping that you might be able to help out. You know, walk with him to school, show him around, that sort of thing, yeah?"
Great. So this was basically a scheduled play date.
Hermione glanced at her mother and father, polite smiles still etched into their features as they nodded, urging her to accept the responsibility. It wasn't as if she were oblivious to their slight pushing, hoping she would make some friends her own age. It was the fact that she just couldn't.
No one liked her, and no one accepted her. It's just the way things were. No matter where she went, Hermione Granger was the know-it-all swot with big teeth and even bigger hair. She didn't play outside like other kids did, in fact, she hated getting dirty. No, she enjoyed more intellectual stimulation, something her peers just couldn't possibly understand at that age.
"I'd be delighted to show him around!" she finally managed to grind out with minimal annoyance.
"Fantastic!" Charles exclaimed, smiling proudly at his wife. "He's just in the loo, he should be down any second now!"
Hermione's heart sank to her stomach for the second time within a span of less than two hours. He was here? In her house? Now? This day couldn't get any worse.
Just then, a familiar creak in the third step from the top of the stairs rang out, alerting everyone in the kitchen that someone was approaching.
"Ah, speak of the devil!" Mrs. Harte sighed, closing in the archway as a tall, raven-haired boy appeared. Hermione's cheeks lit crimson as his dark eyes, hidden under a thick layer of lashes, scanned the kitchen before landing on her.
He was attractive.
But wait, she didn't even think boys were attractive yet. Of course, not any her age.
"Tom, meet the Grangers!" Betty's voice rang out happily. "Hermione, Mister and Missus Granger, meet—"
"Tom Riddle," the young boy finished for her, lazily looking to each face in the room before landing back on the young, shy girl in front of him. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Hey... wait up!" Hermione breathed heavily as her legs pushed to a near run. "You're walking so fast, I can hardly keep up!"
The black-haired boy continued to walk at a brisk pace, not once looking back to even acknowledge that she had spoken to him. Hermione huffed in annoyance.
"Tom! Can you please—" yelping in surprise, the young girl's eyes grew round as the foster boy stopped suddenly, whipping around to face her. His heated glare grew inky, and his brow furrowed into a scowl.
"Don't call me that."
Staring back at him, Hermione tried to force down the lump forming in her throat. "But that's your name, isn't it?" she choked out, adjusting the book strap that was slung over her shoulder.
Today was Tom's first day at school, and despite having dinner with the boy twice over the weekend, she still felt uncomfortable in his presence. Although why that was, Hermione couldn't really understand. Sure, he was attractive— something the other girls at school would surely notice— but there was something more to it. He had a dark energy about him that she couldn't quite place and frankly, it made her unspeakably nervous around him.
This was something she had mentioned to her mother not only once, but twice now, and was shrugged off each time.
"He's a foster child," she had said, tucking a thick strand of hair behind Hermione's ear before tugging her chin up to get a good look at her daughter's face. "Honestly, he's surprisingly well-adjusted. The Harte's told me he was born in an Orphanage, don't you know? His mother died giving birth. He probably isn't used to other children quite yet."
Hermione deadpanned. "Mother, I'm not sure if you're quite aware, but orphanages are positively filled with other children."
"Hermione Jean!" Mrs. Granger scolded lightly, her lips thinning while struggling to contain a giggle. "Watch the sass!"
"Sorry, just being logical."
"That is what you do best," her mother muttered with a sigh. "But you know what I mean. I'm talking about well-balanced children. Children like you, that have had a stable upbringing. He seemed polite enough at dinner, albeit, he didn't speak very much."
"But—"
"Just be nice, please?"
"Of course! But—"
"And clear out the rubbish bin from the kitchen," she added, signaling the end of discussion.
Hermione blinked, watching as Tom turned on his heels and proceeded walking without even acknowledging her question. She decided not to press the issue further. Quite frankly, she just wanted to get to school and get the day over with. So, what if he didn't want to talk to her? It's not like it had been a new occurrence in her life. In fact, the only reason Hermione even attempted to keep up with the weirdo on the walk in the first place was to avoid running into Patrick Herring again. At least if the big oaf had seen that she wasn't alone, he might bugger off for a bit.
"Riddle," the boy finally spoke, just as they crossed the small cobbled road to the busy building littered with other students on their way to class.
"Excuse me?"
"Don't call me Tom. Just call me Riddle. Got it?"
Hermione managed a small nod, trying desperately to hide the odd look she was dying to give him. "Sure, yeah, okay... Riddle it is, then."
"Good girl."
Hermione's hand shot up at the speed of light, a permanent scowl etched onto her face as she stared heatedly to the back of the new student's head.
Not only had he taken her seat— which had been in the very front row of the classroom, forcing her to sit in the only available seat in the very back row— but he had also stolen her thunder. Stupid prat.
She wasn't sure if the reason Ms. Berryweather hadn't called on her all class was due to the fact that she didn't see her, or if she had been ignoring her on purpose. To be frank, she had hoped it had been the former.
"Yes, Mister Riddle!"
Hermione huffed, dropping her arm. Was this what it was like for the other students in the classroom before Tom had arrived? No, she thought, shaking her head. At least she gave the others ample enough time to answer. Hermione picked up her stubby pencil, beginning to dot small marks all over the worksheet in front of her.
There had been absolutely no way that she had been this annoying, it wasn't possible. Taking a glance around, Hermione's upper lip twitched in disgust as she saw just about every girl in the classroom making stupid googly eyes at the raven-haired boy. Stupid Tom.
The marks on the page got darker as she slammed the tip of the pencil down, increasing the pressure.
"Good one Tom," she heard Patrick Herring mutter, snapping Hermione's attention to the front of the room.
What?
Herring supposedly hated little know-it-all-swots, and before him sat the king of them, yet instead of teasing him and threatening him the way he did so to her, he was what? Being nice to him? Trying to be his friend?
All the while, Riddle merely sat there. He seemed entirely oblivious to the giggling gang of girls and beaming pride radiating from the teacher at the front of the room, but no... Hermione knew better. She highly doubted Tom was unaware of how everyone had been reacting to him. He didn't seem the type.
"Ms. Granger?"
Before she knew it, the entire classroom had turned around, all eyes on her as they waited for a response.
Snap.
The tip of her pencil broke as she sat there in silence, feeling a pair of charcoal black eyes mixed in with the columns of students before her. Red crept up her cheeks, staining her face in blotchy patches, as the back of her neck started to grow warm. "I—uh..."
Coughing to clear her throat, Hermione gave her head a shake before looking back to Ms. Berryweather. "I'm sorry, I hadn't caught that, what was the question?"
He was in her house again. Why was he in her house again?
It was like she couldn't get away from the boy! He was intruding upon her life. She went to school, he was there, she came home, and he was there. It was getting to be a bit much.
It had been a whole month since his arrival, and her parents had grown quite close to the neighbors from across the street. To say that it rubbed Hermione the wrong way, would be an understatement.
Her parents didn't have friends. They just didn't! So the fact that they had taken so easily to the Hartes— even though they've lived but a stone's throw away from them forever— had taken her by surprise. Every Friday night, the trio would come over for supper at the Granger's. Additionally, on Saturday nights, Hermione and her parents would trudge on over across the street to the Harte's. The parents had insisted on hosting the dinner parties on weekends, just in case Hermione and Tom stayed up late together.
Which was a laugh in and of itself. Hermione had tried on several occasions to play nice with the boy, despite her growing suspicion of him. She had even offered him access to the very small number of toys she did own, which he had outright laughed at. Her suggestion of turning on the small radio in the corner of her room didn't help, either, and the shiny new bike his foster parents had bought him remained completely untouched.
It wasn't until the adults had dismissed the children after dinner, that things started to change.
"What are you reading?" he asked as Hermione had taken out a small book and made herself comfortable on the sofa in the lounge. A look of surprise came over here as she looked up to see him staring at her curiously.
"Oh, uh…" Hermione glanced at the front cover. The sudden attention from the stranger had thrown her brain off course, which she noted happened pretty often around him. "Moonshine and Magic"
Tom continued to stare at her, waiting for an explanation. Hermione blushed, turning her eyes back to the page.
"It's a book of fairytales and folklore from different countries all over the world," she explained. "They're not as common as say, Cinderella, and Little Red Riding Hood, they're a bit more unusual, but it's entertaining just the same."
"Cinda—what?"
Hermione stared at the raven-haired boy, dumbfounded. "You've never read a fairytale?"
"Of course I have," Tom sneered, crossing his arms, and staring angrily down to the floor.
"I—it's okay if you haven't!" she quickly rushed out, "A lot of children aren't as into reading as I am, and I forget sometimes."
Tom didn't respond, and Hermione shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. "Would you like to borrow a few books?"
Almost instantly, the boy perked up, now looking just as awkward as she did herself. "You'd be okay with that?" he asked, eyeing her curiously again.
Hermione looked at him, shocked that he even asked. Usually, her interactions with him were more like short demands, said with enough heat to scare the daylights out of her.
"Sure," she said, lifting herself from the couch and heading over to the large bookshelf in the corner of the room. "Just bring them back whenever you're done."
"Okay," he said, softly, no malice or dictation in his tone as he gently grabbed the small book from her. "You can probably get them back tomorrow."
And then he smiled. A real smile, one that had reached his eyes. Blushing, Hermione smiled back at him.
Maybe he's not so bad after all.
The walk to school the following Monday was exceptional. Interactions with the foster child had gotten a lot more decent than it had been the weeks prior, and Tom and Hermione chatted lightly on the walkabout various stories they had read, occasionally continuing ongoing arguments amongst themselves that had started days before.
"What do you mean you didn't like The Hobbit?!" Hermione had shrieked indignantly, throwing a piece of popcorn at Tom and watching as it bounced off his chin and onto his shirt.
"It was boring," he said, picking the piece up and tossing it into his mouth with an amused smile. "And unrealistic," he pointed out.
"It's not supposed to be realistic!" she squealed. "It's a fantasy book!"
"Yes, but not all fantasy books are boring, like The Hobbit."
"What was boring about it, pray tell?"
"Everything, I'm surprised I got through it." He drawled, looking back through the stacks of books the children had had laying around them, cluttering Tom's tiny bedroom.
It was the first time Hermione had ever been in his room, and somehow, she wasn't surprised about how vacant and devoid of emotion it was. To sum it up, the room reflected Tom himself fairly well. While posters and pictures lined the walls of her sleeping quarters, his walls were bare, painted a pale-blue, most likely a colour chosen by his foster parents. It was also very neat. Impossibly neat, for a seven-year-old boy.
Hermione's face fell, thinking about it. It was likely he hadn't ever had personal things in the Orphanage he had been in and being a product of the foster system and moving around so often, he probably didn't feel the need to hold onto anything in the first place. The thought made her feel guilty about thinking so poorly of the boy previously. Sure, he could be demanding and quiet a lot of the time— but ultimately, he had been more like her more than any other child she had ever met.
"Well… I happen to love the book," Hermione replied, her nose in the air as she leafed through the pages of the tome in question.
"Of course you do," he said with a chuckle. "Because you're a hobbit."
The brunette's mouth fell open in shock, and she crossed her arms at him. "I am not a Hobbit. Everything I like is in moderation. Hobbits do everything to excess."
"You have more books than toys," Tom noted.
"That's because—"
"And your hair is impossibly curly."
"That doesn't mean—"
"And you're awfully short."
Hermione glared at him for a beat, before snatching away the popcorn bowl in between them and holding out of reach.
"Hey!" he scowled, grasping for it.
"Say I'm not a Hobbit!"
"Give it back, Bilbo"
Hermione giggled, plopping the bowl back down and taking a handful before turning back to her beloved books.
"Hey Riddle!" the voice made Hermione freeze for an instant, internally groaning. She turned away slightly, hiding her face beneath thick bangs. The action caught Tom's attention, and his brow to furrowed slightly before he turned toward the voice coming towards him.
"Herring," he said, nodding his head slightly in greeting. Herring's eyes lit up as he approached, the sun blowing through his short blond hair. He was dressed in a loose, off-white shirt, a yellow stain smeared down the front of it, and it was tucked sloppily into a pair of impossibly tight shorts that came up past his hips. His belt looked as if it were screaming, begging to be freed.
"My mum and I were wondering if you wanted to maybe come over for dinner tonight," he breathed, sounding like he was going to pass out just from standing.
"Why?" Tom drawled in a bored tone, catching the big oaf by surprise.
"Well, because that's what friends do?" he replied, confused.
"I had no idea we were friends, Herring."
The retort was said with such flippancy, a chuckle had escaped from Hermione before she was able to effectively bite her tongue. Patrick's eyes snapped to the girl, just now noticing her, and the flubby boy's face instantly morphed into a disgusted scowl. "And what are you laughing at, huh?"
Hermione's heart thudded against her chest as she lifted her face to greet him. Surely, he wouldn't try and attack her in front of Tom, right? Or maybe he would, a sordid attempt to gain some respect for the other boy. Would it work? "Nothing," she replied, her eyebrows lifting slightly. Tom watched the interaction closely, his eyes shifting back and forth between the two, his face giving way to no emotion.
"Look, frizzball," Patrick sneered, stepping towards her. "Just because you've decided to cling to Tom here to escape me doesn't mean that I would have an issue roughing you up right here and now. I surely doubt that—"
"Don't call me that," Tom spoke up, cutting the boy off mid-sentence. Patrick turned on him, his stupid face looking even more dumbfounded than normal.
"Excuse me?"
"Don't call me that," Tom repeated, picking at his fingernails, and then lifting his head to look the tosser directly in his eyes. He looked bored, impossibly bored, and the lax state of which Tom was addressing him radiated dominance. "We aren't friends, Herring, despite the maniacal delusions you've somehow concocted in your head that we are. You can call me Riddle, if, and only if, you must address me. And while you're at it, you can back off of Granger, too. Sod off."
A number of emotions crossed over Patrick's face in that instant, the last and final one, being fury. He lunged for Tom, far too slowly as it would seem. The raven-haired boy stepped to the side just in time to watch as Patrick flung himself to the gravel beneath them, banging his elbows and scratching his knees.
"You little—" the boy started, but his words were cut off abruptly. Throwing his head back, the sound of his skull bouncing off the pavement was one Hermione thought she'd never forget. His body contorted unnaturally, and within seconds, he began to scream. Tom stood above him, glaring daggers at the child, his jaw impossibly tight, his gaze never wavering.
"What's going on?!" Hermione shouted as the screams got louder and more panicked. Making a move towards the boy writhing on the ground, Tom jutted his arm out, stopping her.
"Riddle, there's something wrong! We need to help him!" she tried to push past him, but he held firm, not taking his eyes off the screaming child. Glancing to the building, she watched as students making their way into the school stopped to stare and point.
"Tom—"
And just like that, the screaming stopped, and Patrick Herring laid limp on the ground, completely unconscious, a crowd of adults and teachers pushing past them within seconds.