Title: the heart plunges lower than night
Summary: "If your idea of seduction is trying to shag me with your mousy little eyes, Granger, then let me assure you that you are not going to get laid." A minor summer course in Literature turns out to be a lot more than Hermione expected. And it's all Tom Riddle's fault. (AU)
Pairing: Tom Riddle x Hermione Granger, Tom Riddle x Others, Hermione Granger x Others
Rating/Warning (s): (M) Explicit language, dark themes, sexual content
Disclaimer: There is no Magic in this story - it is set in the present time. Canonically, there is at least a generational gap between Riddle's set and Hermione's set but in my story, there is only a three-year gap between them i.e. Hermione is twenty years old and Riddle is twenty-three years old. Hogwarts is an elite prep academy under Headmaster Dumbledore and Durmstrang Institute is a higher level university run by a Trust. The terms 'mudblood' and 'pureblood' indicate economic differences, with 'mudbloods' being students from poor, lower-class backgrounds. There is large-scale discrimination and prejudice based on these lines of division. Everything else shall be revealed as the story moves forward.
Note: The story title is a line taken from the first verse of a William Carlos Williams' poem called These, published in Death The Barber.
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Fatality of Experience: Sex and Death in Literature is an eight-week course taught across the months of June and July at Durmstrang Institute by leading professors from the Literary Thought and Discourse Department. "Sex and death are the only things that can interest a serious mind," wrote W. in a letter, indicating the creative individual's engagement with two of life's most fundamental experiences. Covering a comprehensive range of poets and writers from the Ancient Period to the Medieval, through the Renaissance to the Modern, the course examines themes of sex, love, power and death in various literary works, drawing links across time-frames and historical contexts.
All students - from within Durmstrang and beyond - are encouraged to apply. Further details are available on the Institute Website.
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one : june 4th, monday
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Her hair looks atrocious.
Bloody hell, atrocious doesn't even begin to cover it.
How on Earth did it get to be this way? How had she let it get this way? This...this horrifying mop of misshapen curls? A deplorable bird's nest that the bird clearly abandoned because nothing would even be able to breathe up in there.
There's a wild, harried moment where she considers how insufferably vain she's being, how the last time she was this bothered about the way she looked was when Ronald Weasley dumped her for Lavender Brown a few weeks ago and then she's scoffing, turning away, zipping up her bag, muttering furious reassurances to herself.
Resisting the urge to look in the mirror, she glances down at her wrist-watch instead. It reads 9:50. She growls an expletive far too loudly than she ordinarily would have and rams into the bathroom door. Of course she has to have a shoddy hair day today and of course, this mess should make her late. Late, for the very first lecture. Just the thought of it makes her stomach turn.
The corridor is thick with a sea of incoming students and she has to plough her way through, muttering a frenzied excuse me every time the crowd thickens in front of her, swelling like an odious throng of too many bodies. She's toeing the fine line between speed-walking and full out sprinting, no doubt making for what Ginny might call a deplorably unattractive picture, what with her disjointed movements and her terrible, terrible hair.
If there's one thing Hermione Granger has managed not to do during her stellar academic career, it's being late to class.
And yet here she is, resembling a harassed penguin as she hurries down yet another crowded corridor, looking around for Room Number 7. It doesn't help that her jeans are absolutely new and thereby extremely uncomfortable or that her flats seem to be making an odd squeaking sound against the linoleum floor. Shoving past a group of younger students, she finally rounds on the door of the bloody classroom and comes to a hurtling standstill. Flicking her wrist, she looks at the watch again, wildly out of breath.
9:55, it reads.
She can faintly make out that someone is speaking on the other side of the door. The lecture has probably- no, scratch that, it has definitely started. The fact of it makes her stomach drop - she is never late. Bloody fucking hair. Stupid fucking Weasley. All of it, stupid, stupid, stupid.
Muttering fuck under her rushing breath as if to offer herself some kind of courage, she reaches for the handle - her mind caught up in a thousand remonstrations - and yanks the door open.
"-know me as Professor Snape. I have taugh-"
Any hopes for a noiseless, inconspicuous entrance fly right out of the window as her eyes find the familiar, intimidating figure of Severus Snape smack at the front of the classroom. Heads jerk to look at her, eyes burning into the side of her flushed cheek and she wills herself not to flinch as the Professor turns to regard the intrusion in an absurdly slow manner. She's sure he's moving that slowly because he wants to make her uncomfortable.
When his gaze does find hers, she feels like a deer caught in the fucking headlights. Nothing indicates his recognition of her and he clicks his tongue in an odd fashion, shaking his head in a picture-perfect demonstration of disappointment.
"Miss Granger," He tuts dispassionately and looks back slowly at the seated students in the class. "...Miss Granger here has provided us with an example of exactly that which you are not supposed to do in my lectures,"
She doesn't let her gaze stray to the classroom- the embarrassment is rising, colouring her cheeks an absurd shade of pink and she feels a desperate, juvenile urge to run out of the same through which she made such a blasted entrance. Distantly, she takes note of the sniggering - somewhere from the black of the classroom. It's almost enough to take her back to Hogwarts. Almost.
The Professor's sharp voice cuts into her reverie- effectively rescuing her from shuffling off into a recounting of how thoroughly shite Hogwarts was, "Take a seat, Miss Granger," He tips his head to the desk right in front of him, the only one still empty. "Lest I change my mind,"
Relieved to the point of weakened knees and in need of no further encouragement, she scuttles - no really, she scuttles - to the seat, curbing the urge to mutter something foul at the sheer hostility of Snape. He's always been like this towards her - right from when he was invited to deliver a series of guest lectures at Hogwarts. It's just her luck that she should not only be burdened with his patronizing, prejudiced self all through her undergraduate degree but also have him teacha summer literature course - of all things. The sheer unfairness of it makes her head throb.
"I would expect, Miss Granger," He continues in that same arresting monotone, levelling her with a look. "...that you would know better than most other students in this class..." He punctuates this statement by gesturing at the classroom. "...given that I have been teaching you for two years now,"
There's some more sniggering - a round of muttering, followed by stifled chuckles. She flushes, reddening at the very public dressing down she's receiving like some stupid child but does not look away from Snape. He can say whatever he wants - she's more thick-skinned than he gives her credit for.
"Sorry," is all she mutters, quiet enough only for him and the first row to hear.
Almost as if pacified, he turns around to walk over to his desk, leafing through the papers arranged neatly on it. Intelligent professor, my arse, she thinks bitterly, more like condescending dickhead and casts a curious first look around the room.
She spots Luna Lovegood towards the back, staring out the window, Seamus Finnigan laughing at somebody's joke - a range of unfamiliar faces, possibly seniors that she doesn't know of or students from other institutions; then Neville Longbottom who gives her a patient smile, and there - Antony Goldstein and Hannah Abbott sitting together in a corner. Momentarily, she wishes that Ron and Harry were here with her - it seems strange to be in a space littered with Hogwarts students and to not have the two of them around.
To her right, she catches sight of the people she has most dreaded seeing; Pansy Parkinson, Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy, alongside three other vaguely familiar faces. Seniors, she confirms to herself. Two very similar looking dark-haired boys, siblings perhaps and one very striking girl with a full, sensuous mouth. She recognizes the girl after staring at the mass of dark, curly hair awhile - Bellatrix. More a stripper pseudonym than an actual name, Hermione scoffs to herself.
They're whispering amongst themselves about something - brows furrowed, mouths downturned and Hermione can't help the ugly anger that flickers within her. There seems to be no escaping them.
The class is drifting to louder interactions, chattering excitedly, a direct result of Snape's preoccupation with the papers at his desk. She turns back around to face the front, ignoring mentions of her name that are proliferating the hushed conversations behind her. She feels an unreasonable surge of fear - Mudblood - and scolds herself internally for having signed up for this stupid course in the first place.
What had she been thinking? That it was summer and all the people she was familiar with would have better things to do than sign up for an extra-credit course? Why are the Purebloods taking this class? That particular phrase makes her flinch inwardly. Furthermore, why on Earth is Severus Snape conducting these lectures? Shouldn't he be abroad somewhere in the 'Tropics' to carry out 'invaluable' research as he'd done in the previous summers?
Her post-school hopes that the Durmstrang Institute would be a welcome change from the bigotry at large in Hogwarts had all but been shredded in the past three years. While nobody insulted her outright with choice slurs or tried to pick actual, physical fights with her as they had in Hogwarts, bias took other, far more insidious forms in Durmstrang- manifesting in the biting remarks of Severus Snape and Alecto Carrow, in the complete social boycott of her by the Purebloods in all spaces beyond the classroom, in the constant placing of her in second position so that Draco Malfoy snagged first place.
Three years at Durmstrang had disillusioned her, rendering her faith in fair and stringent policies obsolete as she picked up on the many covert ways in which she was denied equal opportunity as a result of her background.
However, she had been significantly better off than most other Mudbloods, who faced regular physical violence, verbal abuse and explicit discrimination in other institutes. It's why she'd continued to stay on - despite everything, because her idea of suffering was awfully relative and she would not relinquish the paltry privileges of Durmstrang for the struggle that lay beyond its doors.
Noise dies down as the Professor raises both his hands, commanding silence without a word- she is forced to pay attention. She silently begrudges him this kind of power, this kind of fear Snape instills in his students.
"We're just waiting on a student of mine to arrive and then we shall finally begin," He says quietly.
Hermione bristles - waiting on a student? What kind of special fucking student is he making them all wait for? Her cheeks feel warm and her head is throbbing again. A pureblood, no doubt. What's worse is that nobody seems to have a problem with this, this bizarre display of favouritism. Just as she is about to raise her hand because she'll be damned before she lets this happen, the classroom door swings open.
As he walks into the room, she thinks that he really shouldn't have the right to look this good.
Tall and lean, dressed impeccably in a leather jacket and black jeans, with a mouth caught somewhere between a smirk and a smile, he's a strange, disturbing kind of vision. His alluring features - dark, unreadable eyes, perfect nose, sharp cut of his jaw and the fuck-me hair - make her hyper-aware of just how unattractive she looks today.
Her reflection comes to mind and she tugs at her hair, despite her better judgement. He's devastatingly beautiful, as if carved right from marble with all the perfection of a Michelangelo put to work and she berates herself for drawing a terrible, classical comparison. Next she'll be describing him as a demigod, in the cliched and besotted manner of girls and guys that she'd scorned in Hogwarts.
A warning voice in her head is screeching pureblood over and over again and somewhere also, something is niggling at her brain because she knows this face without ever having seen it before, she does. All that she is really conscious of however, as she watches him come to a stop, pale hand tightening around a bag strap, is the way he moves - like water, powerful and elegant, arresting attention without doing anything at all.
"Here's our very own Byronic hero," A loud, clear voice cuts through the chattering in the class and she looks back to see that it's Pansy Parkinson who spoke, smiling so widely that it's almost comical because she never thought the girl could smile.
Beside Parkison, Bellatrix has a smirk playing on her lips, her eyes fixed to the handsome figure. The two dark-haired brothers cheer loudly, somebody whistles and there's some hooting at the other end of the classroom from a set of students she doesn't recognize. It's almost like having a celebrity walk in and she catches Snape chuckling - chuckling like an actual human being.
It's possibly the most bizarre thing she's seen in her life and mind you, she's seen a bunch. She's friends with the Weasley twins after all and yet their antics have nothing on the scene unfolding before her. Have pigs started flying? Is the sky green now? What on Earth is happening? Is this some kind of a dream? Maybe she needs to pinch herself and th-
"Take a seat, go on," Snape instructs, his voice confusingly upbeat as he regards his favourite student.
Pureblood, her brain kicks in finally and she realizes just who this Byronic hero is as he makes his way towards the back of the classroom, brushing past her seat and sparing no stray glances. A whiff of cologne and smoke. The barest graze of cool leather against her bare forearm.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
She turns her head to follow him in morbid curiosity as he weaves his way through the desks to drop down in a chair - where had it come from? - right beside Bellatrix. There's a familiarity between the two of them that makes her feel like she's witnessing something private and as he leans forward, doomed perfect male specimen, to press a light kiss to Bellatrix's temple, Hermione Granger feels the strangest sense of fascination invading her mind. Sifting through facts and rumours, stories and myths - she wonders how much of what she knows is true.
Who hasn't heard of Tom Riddle? The dark horse. The sanctioned rebel. Famed not only for his philandering, seductive wiles with both men and women but also for his remarkable academic achievements and athletic prowess, Riddle had always been more legend than person both within the walls of Hogwarts and beyond it. Notorious for the enigma that surrounded him throughout his life, Riddle had been a point of interest for nearly everybody. Seemingly, he still is.
She recalls Harry's distrust of Riddle - something about dappling in illicit activities and screwing people over - and wonders what Ginny would think if she were here. Ginny would be over the fucking moon - there had been a point during their Fifth Year when she had so obsessed with Tom Riddle, the charming Head-Boy three years their senior, that she nearly asked him out on a date. Hermione and Harry had had the sense to stop her - fault lines beyond the mudblood and pureblood dichotomy had also existed in Hogwarts.
Slytherin and Gryffindor. Infamous rivalry between the two school houses. Something that been as compelling as it had been terrifying. Something that Hermione looked back at with disdain.
She sucks in a breath, grateful for when Professor Snape finally starts speaking because it brings her back to this classroom, to her humiliating entrance, to all the hopes she'd pinned to this course. There are more sniggers, another mention of Hermione and mudblood that makes her fist clench. She whips out a notebook from her bag, flipping it open to a blank page. Uncapping a black pen, she looks back up at Snape's impassive face, refusing to respond to the hissing behind her.
So much for a peaceful summer.
"Welcome, students, to your extra-credit summer course," He begins slowly. "Since la petit mort is as ubiquitous and infamous as sex-death related phrases go, I will attempt to make no allusion to it in my lectures. I would be an inadequate educator if I made such an error."
The class collectively chuckles, students regarding each other sheepishly because all of them have thought of the phrase as soon as they were told this course would look at the themes of sex and death.
"While some of you-" A meaningful look is cast at Hermione and she schools her expression of disdain into a grimacing smile. "-may be predisposed to question this judgement, given that this course examines the themes of love, desire and death across prescribed texts, I ask that you withhold your objections till the end of this week," There's a pause as Snape lets his gaze flit from face to face, meeting all the attentive eyes fixed to his imposing figure.
"Over the next eight weeks, I hope to engage all of you in discussions that are obscure, challenging and far more fascinating. Do not make the mistake of thinking this a simple course. Literature that explores the aforementioned themes is not perverted or straightforward but in fact, extremely complex. We are going to be studying the most fundamental human experiences and I promise that you will be challenged every step of the way,"
Hermione hates it but his words send a pleasurable thrill down her spine - finally, it begins. The pursuit of knowledge, that one aching passion that she has nurtured all her life. Horrible as Snape might be, he knows how to deliver a good lecture. He knows exactly what to say, where to press and where not to - how best to make use of his snark so as to keep his students engaged. She begrudges him this power too - at one point when her anger had truly peaked, she had wished that his teaching be as disagreeable as his personality but now she is grateful for it.
It's in his lectures that she has learned the most. It's in his lectures that she is most challenged. And it's in his lectures that Hermione Granger can forget everything and focus on the newness of the information, the near-intoxicating pleasure of knowing.
"What is the name of this paper?" Snape finally asks, folding his arms across his chest.
The answer is on the tip of her tongue, her arm mid-way to indicate that she knows-
"Professor, it's c-"
"Fatality of Experience: Sex and Death in Literature," A quiet, commanding voice cuts her off and she doesn't have to turn around to know who it is.
Riddle. The earlier fury at the Purebloods rears in her stomach again and she beats away the urge to complain at the unfairness of this. It's a classroom, people put up their hands - there are rules. She hears Pansy's laugh - a mocking sound, egging her on, provoking her just for the sake of it but Hermione looks down at the pen in her hand, refusing to be so easily stirred.
Snape doesn't reprimand Riddle - why would he? - and in her mounting frustration with the abysmal turn of events, she tunes the professor out as he continues to speak. Long minutes trickle by, dotted with interactions between the students and Snape and if her silence is too obvious - given her propensity to answer all the time - nobody says anything to her about it. So many things swim through her head and she feels another pang of longing for Harry, or Ginny; just that sense of comfort she's always had with them.
At some point, the lecture comes to a close and seats are emptied, students picking off a sheet of paper from Snape's desk as they make their exit. It's probably the syllabus and a reading list. Hermione feels their eyes burning into the back of her head as she slips her notebook into the bag and gets to her feet. Her hair feels like an untrimmed thicket, her sneakers too scruffy, her t-shirt overwashed and she hates the burn of insecurity as a lump forms in her throat, all of it a result of those damned purebloods.
She's twenty years old, for fuck's sake. She should not be intimidated by a couple of inquisitive, invasive looks. Hissing under her breath, she walks over to the desk and reaches for the sheet just as another hand reaches for it. Pale, thin fingers and a silver ring - Luna Lovegood is standing there beside her. The pale, beautiful girl is dressed in various shades of blue - the only person who would actually look good in such an ensemble - and there's a relaxed smile on her face, something that reminds Hermione of Harry a little too much.
"Hi Hermione," Luna's voice has almost always been musical, her accent particular and attractive.
Hermione nods at her, unsure of what to do or say. Luna picks off the sheet from the table, her stunning grey eyes never once leaving Hermione's. "Do you want to get a cup of coffee with me?"
Well, that's unexpected. Hermione spots Malfoy coming up behind Luna and mutters a quick sure before hurriedly grabbing a sheet from the table, turning just as fast to walk out of the room. To her continued surprise, Luna catches up with her - reeking of expensive, wonderful perfume - and links her arm with Hermione's as if they've been friends for years. She's saying something in that musical voice again, dreamy and pretty all at once and Hermione feels overwhelmed at this display of kindness, of kinship. A part of her wants to be suspicious, want to question why Luna is with her right now.
Tears prick her eyes and Hermione Granger resists the urge to cry - mudblood mudblood mudblood ringing in her head. Luna gives her arm a squeeze, laughing in that lovely lilting way that Hermione had noticed in school and she focuses on what the pale girl is saying. There's a watery smile on Hermione's face and she feels like just maybe this summer can be saved.
Tom Riddle pulls out a cigarette from the expensive silver case and offers it to Alphard. The older Black takes it and puts it to his mouth, using his own sophisticated lighter with practised ease. The glow of the flame distorts Alphard's face momentarily - light freckles more prominent in the orange glow - and then with a click, he is all shadows again. Tom lights his own cigarette with a match - he's always found lighters too cumbersome and pretentious and takes a long, fulfilling drag. Evening spills around the two of them in purple, bruising shades, the sun having set behind them, beyond the bus-stop.
"It's been a while, Riddle," Alphard speaks finally, blowing out a ring of smoke, an action that reminds Tom of their school days, of a very specific school day actually.
His eyes linger at the curve of Alphard's mouth - the git has the nerve to smirk - before he looks away to the road in front of them. Tom sees no sense in responding to Black's comment - he's never been one to waste words and he's not about to start now. He takes another long drag, feeling a soft burn at his throat before expelling the smoke in a languid manner that draws Alphard's gaze to his lips.
Then Tom speaks,
"I'm surprised that you and Cygnus took up this course,"
Alphard shrugs, "Snape's teaching it. It would have been negligent on my part to not have signed up,"
"And Cygnus?"
"Enjoys the company of Pansy Parkinson immensely,"
"She is a very attractive woman,"
"Don't even start, Tom,"
He recognizes that exasperated tone of voice - Alphard reveals far more in the dark than in the light, as Tom had learned long ago. The warning is in there somewhere, obscured and discoloured and it amuses Tom that they're still playing these games. He fixes his gaze to the flowering hedge across the road, admiring the way it looks in this particular light.
"Are you warning me off, Alphard?"
"Wouldn't dream of it, Tom," Black returns evenly, stubbing his cigarette on the side of a dustbin near him. His eyes follow Tom's to gaze at the hedge as he shoves both his hands into his jacket pockets.
There's a heavy silence, something awfully familiar about it for both of them and then Tom laughs softly, an odd sound that seems louder than it is.
"I'm not interested in Parkinson so don't worry," He stubs his cigarette on the side of the bus-stop bench. "Your little brother deserves compensation for what happened last year anyway,"
There's a noticeable shift in the atmosphere - from the languid tension of minutes passed to a near-aggressive hostility as Alphard turns to look at Tom, his gaze unreadable, his mouth set in a grim line.
"Don't talk about Pansy like that," He says tightly, as if he's trying very hard to be polite. "Women are not compensation,"
Tom laughs - it's a haunting, delicious sound and fuck, it throws Alphard off. "It's so easy to get a rise out of you, Black,"
Alphard expels a harsh breath, itching to grab Tom by the collar of his perfect button-up and shake him hard enough for his perfect hair to get messed up or something but he doesn't move in Tom's direction at all. Clenches his fists in the pockets. Turns away instead and looks down at his shoes - shiny and black.
They stand in odd silence for several minutes, unmoving. Tom pulls out another cigarette and notes how the hedge across the road is now more obscure, more difficult to look at. Light is fast disappearing and night will soon fall. He feels the first twinge of something in his gut - excitement - and he puts the cigarette to his mouth, lighting it with a match. Alphard looks at him again then and they hold each other's gaze for a restless moment, caught in remembrance before Tom clears his throat and finds the question he's mulled over all through the afternoon.
"What's Malfoy's obsession with that Muggle girl? Grover...Gr-something?"
Alphard looks away to the road stretching out to his left, surprised by such an enquiry. "It's Granger." He pauses, as if thinking. "You don't know what happened between them?" There's a suggestion of something in his voice, Tom notes - an incredulity, perhaps.
It makes Tom uncomfortable - a little angry even, because he, of all people, is not to be questioned. "No, Malfoy never told me..." He blows out smoke and is grateful for how impassive he sounds. "...and besides, he prefers confiding in you, if memory serves me correctly,"
"It isn't confidential, Tom," Alphard seems to be chiding him now and Tom has to restrain himself from spitting out something vile and cruel. He's never been particularly patient.
He twirls the cigarette in his fingers, glancing up at the sky as if to indicate that he's waiting.
When Alphard finally speaks, his voice is light, full of a smile. "She punched him in Fourth Year."
This comment earns him a short laugh from Tom who doesn't look as forbidding as he had just moments ago. Always shifting from mood to mood, never a constant in him.
"Why has he held onto that for so many years?" Tom asks finally, more amused than curious.
Alphard gives him another look - as if saying how do you not know this? - and then speaks in a quieter, more controlled manner,
"She's a Mudblood, that's why,"
Hermione takes a long hot shower. Uses the pomegranate shampoo that Ginny had sent over last week. Scrubs herself particularly hard as if to rid herself of all the stares she got during the day. Lets the water run over her in its own hot fury, slipping between her breasts, down the slope of her back, trickling from her calves down onto the tiled floor. She only leaves the cubicle when it feels like her head might explode from the overwhelming heat.
Grabbing a towel from the rail, she pats herself down. Satisfied with how much better she feels, she twists all of her thick hair into the towel and yanks a white dressing gown on her small form before stepping out into her bedroom.
The desk by the window is covered in books, sheets of paper and other odd tidbits that she hasn't bothered to put back in the wardrobe. There's a bra hanging from the chair that she looks curiously at before dismissing it. The lamp's on - casting a soft, amber glow in the room and the air-conditioning makes a soft humming noise that she'd once had a lot of trouble getting used to. Padding across the room in her grown and a pair of 'hotel' slippers, she makes for the bed.
Her laptop is sat neatly on the covers and she taps the Power button. Watches the screen flicker on and types in her password hurriedly. She clicks to open the browser and pauses then - considering something. She'll meet Harry this coming weekend - that'll be another source of information for her. Nodding to herself, she then proceeds to type out his name - tom riddle - into the search bar. She wonders once more about Ginny and the inevitable hassle there'll be, once she tells the ginger about her new classmate.
She looks at the letters of his name slowly, sighs at her own ridiculous behaviour and pushes the Enter key.
a/n: this idea's been clawing at me awhile now. very excited to be writing about these two, can't wait to share the rest of this story with you. drop reviews, comments, insight. lots of light and love to you!
