A huge thanks to crochetaway for betaing this!
Warning: This fic contains violence,character death, and smut.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
"Tom. Tom Riddle."
A voice disturbs the silence of the college library for the first time in hours.
Hermione looks up from her books; her eyes and mind are tired from hours of reading. She scrunches her brows at the intrusion, although she's secretly glad to be distracted for a moment. There have been too many nights spent in the library lately. She's sitting in her usual place in a side room of the library, at a table in the far corner. Her books and notes are scattered over the entire table.
She's never had someone disturb her, except for the librarian throwing her out, but someone had apparently decided to change that by seating themselves next to her.
The man who has invited himself to sit with her is smiling at her, hand outstretched.
Slowly, a bit suspicious, she takes it.
"Hermione Granger." He gives her hand a light squeeze and lets go.
"Hermione," he repeats quietly to himself, before momentarily stunning her with his smile. He's devastatingly beautiful; his eyes are a vivid shade of powder blue, his skin pale with high cheekbones, and the teeth his smile reveals are perfectly straight. He has dark hair that falls in smooth waves over his forehead.
He says nothing for a few moments; just lets his eyes travel over her face. A blush creeps to her face and she coughs a little.
"Excuse me, did you want to talk to me about something?" Hermione asks.
"I merely wanted to introduce myself. You're the only one who seems to be spending as much time in the library as I do, at least, actually studying." Tom answers with a light smile.
"I like to keep up in my classes," She says.
He picks up the book she's been reading.
"Let me guess, your major is literature?"
She nods. "And yours?"
"Psychology."
They meet often in the library after that first afternoon, sometimes quietly studying, sometimes discussing their various classes, or simply talking about campus gossip. She finds herself looking forward to these occasions, looking forward to seeing him, and when he asks her to meet up for lunch one day, she doesn't hesitate to say yes.
Being around Tom is easy, as easy as the way his smile finds its way to his lips, as easy as breathing. He's the first person she's met with whom she can have conversations with on a higher intellectual level, the first time she feels challenged cerebrally. Though he doesn't brag about it, she can see how infinitely brilliant he is.
Hermione is walking across the campus, headed for her next class. It's the first warm day of spring, and she enjoys the feeling of the sun on her bare arms.
She screams in panic when two hands grab her shoulders from behind and spin her around. She raises her arms in defense, ready to strike her attacker, only to be met with the familiar deep chuckle that she's come to love.
"Tom! You almost gave me a heart attack!" Her brows are scrunched in anger, though she can already feel a smile tugging at her lips.
He grins and slides his hands from her shoulders to her biceps. He steps a little closer.
"Hermione, relax." She shivers when he leans down to her ear and whispers "I'd never let any harm come to you. You know that, right?"
"Right." Her anger dims and her heartbeat quickens for different reasons.
His lips graze her cheek as he pulls back, the touch lighter than a feather.
"He's creepy." Ginny is sitting next to her on Hermione's faded red couch that she acquired at a garage sale last year. It's girl's night, which means that they order pizza from the Italian restaurant Ginny's brother runs, wear sweatpants and watch Ginny's beloved Audrey Hepburn Collection. It also involves 'girl talk', which usually means that Ginny complains about her boyfriend's hero complex.
"Honestly, Gin, you don't even know him! You've talked to him, like, twice!" Hermione defends.
"Still. I don't like him."
Hermione rolls her eyes at her best friend. Ginny is only annoyed because Hermione has been spending more time with Tom than with her lately.
"Sometimes, he's got that look in his eyes, like…" Ginny shivers slightly.
"Like what, Gin?" Hermione asks, a little annoyed.
"That look that little children have when they're burning bugs with a magnifying glass. "
"What?" Hermione gives a short laugh at the absurdity of it, and Ginny's expression darkens.
"Please, Hermione. It's not healthy how much time you spend together. It's almost a wonder that you haven't invited him tonight. And he's… I've got a really bad feeling about him."
Hermione takes Ginny's hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.
"You don't need to worry, Ginny. I know Tom. But thanks for your concern."
She's been to Tom's flat loads of times now, and she's never seen a girl around. He hasn't talked about a girl ever, either. Although when they first met, she would have pegged him as a ladies man.
Sometimes, he gives her these looks, looks with hungry, passionate eyes, and once she could have sworn he almost kissed her. It makes her head spin with giddiness to think about it, to think about Tom and her.
Since hanging out with Tom – though hanging out seems too casual an expression to use for them, she thinks – she is more confident, not only around guys, but in general. It's like some of his personality is slowly seeping into her. She likes the idea of that. Of his personality infecting hers.
The night she gets the call is like any other night. She's up, though it's past midnight, but she's gotten caught up in an essay, when the phone rings.
Tom, says the screen, and her heart begins to flutter. Just a tiny bit.
She answers, and for a few moments, she hears nothing but ragged breathing.
"H-Hermione?" She's never heard him sound afraid before, and her heart clenches immediately.
"Tom? Tom, are you alright?"
He takes a deep breath. She can hear him exhale shakily.
"Hermione, you trust me, don't you?"
"Yes, of course I do, what's wrong?" There is not a single second of hesitation – does she trust Tom seems like an unnecessary question, as if someone was asking her if she loves her mother.
"Hermione, I've done something terrible. I need your help."
She's silent. She doesn't know what to say.
"Please, Hermione," his quivering voice sounds as if he's close to tears.
Her hesitance is gone.
"Tell me where you are, and I'll be there in a as soon as I can."
His sigh of relief is so loud it sounds like he's right next to her.
She finds him where he said he would be, in a dark alley in one of the shadier parts of the town. The night is cold and she's nervous when she approaches the figure she thinks must be Tom, standing over something.
She can't manage to stifle her scream as she sees the thing Tom is standing over. It's a body.
"Hermione." He's in front of her immediately, shielding the dead man from her view. His hand grabs her wrist, his bloody, bloody hand, and she shakes it off, horrified.
"What have you done?" She wants to scream, but it comes out as something less than a whisper, barely audible.
"It was an accident." He says, his voice low and quiet.
"Is he… is he…"
"He's dead." He hangs his head. And she wants to think it's out of shame, but for a second, she thinks it's to hide a smile.
She doesn't ask what happened. She doesn't want to hear it.
It was an accident. It was an accident. It was an accident.
She wants to believe him. More than anything, she wants it to be true.
The dead man's body is slumped on the ground, his arms covering his belly, and she can't see any wounds.
An accident. Accident. Accident.
She turns away from the body. Tom is watching her carefully; his blue eyes seem black in the darkness. He grabs her hand, and she doesn't pull away this time. The blood smears on her skin.
"The river," she hears herself whisper. He nods, a smile of relief spreading over his face. He steps out of the shadow, closer to her, and now the moonlight lets his eyes shine bright silver.
"I knew that I could trust you. Only you, Hermione. It's only ever you."
Her heart beats faster as she hears this.
"Hermione, do you know how much you mean to me?"
Her breathing stops, and she's sure her heart does, too.
His eyes are trained on hers so intensely it makes her shiver. His face comes closer, and closer.
"Tom, this is not... not the place." She swallows and steps away.
"Of course. I'm sorry."
They dispose of the body in the river that makes its way through town. Hermione feels a wave of nausea wash through her when she and Tom heave the body into the water. As she hears the sickening splash, she falls to her knees and retches.
She shakily gets to her feet and Tom's arms catch her, pulling her against his chest.
"Thank you," he mumbles as he presses a kiss on her head.
She tries to banish the thought that she may be in love with a murderer.
He holds her hand the entire time as they silently walk back to Tom's flat, her bloody, bloody hand.
It's dark and Tom lives off campus. No one sees them, and even if they did, they would probably think they were a couple making their way back home after a long night out. Maybe they would wonder why their clothes have dark stains, why the girl seems to need the guy to steady her, why there are tears streaming down her face. But no one sees, and no one wonders.
She stands over the sink, rubbing her hands furiously, watching pale red water disappear in the drain, its color lessening the longer she washes, but it won't get clear, it just won't, because every time she thinks they're clean, she notices another stain, on her wrist, under her fingernails. She can't get the blood off her hands and can't get the dead man out of her head.
Tom steps behind her and turns off the tap.
His own hands are clean – not a single trace of the night's happenings left on his skin.
She turns around; his arms are caging her in. His face is inches from hers, and she sees a smear of blood on his jaw. She reaches up a hand to touch it, to rub it away.
Slowly, his blue eyes fixed on her amber ones, he puts his hand on hers, resting on his cheek, and leans into the touch.
"Hermione."
She notices his white shirt is still stained with red. There shouldn't be so much blood, she thinks. How could there have been so much blood?
"Look at me."
She meets his eyes. His hand leaves hers to touch her face. He's trailing the curve of her lip before leaning in, and her eyes close as his lips touch hers.
They stain the sheets red as they make love, red with the nameless man's blood. As his arms wrap around her in passion, she manages to forget it all, forget her suspicions, which are really her fears. She forgets it all and loses herself in his kisses.
She can't bring herself to care about anything except for him as his hands are on her skin, as his caresses turn into scratches and she knows she's leaving bite marks on the place his neck meets his shoulder.
His kisses wander down her throat over her breasts and lower, her hands are buried in his sable hair as she moans and writhes.
The insides of her eyelids seem red as blood as the waves of pleasure come over her.
She yanks his head back to hers, and kisses him with all the longing and passion that has burned inside her for months, and he whispers, "You're mine." Over and over until she can't think of anything but those words and the glorious feeling of him as he fucks her senseless.
"How does it feel?"
They're lying in bed. Her head rests on his chest with his arm wrapped around her waist.
His voice is low, and she's feeling sleepy and content.
"What do you mean?" she mumbles into his chest.
"What does it feel like?" He repeats, and she's scrunching her brows in confusion. She feels his hand creeping from where it rests on her waist up to her throat.
"I don't know what you mean-" Suddenly, he shifts his weight, rolls on top of her, his hand putting the slightest pressure on her windpipe.
"What does it feel like, to know you've fucked a murderer?"
The world goes quiet in that moment as her eyes widen and her heartbeat seems to stop for a second, before beginning to hammer in a rapid staccato rhythm.
"Tell me."
His eyes have never been silver – she's sure of it as she looks into those black pools, filled with grim pleasure and the hint of a wicked gleam.
"Tom – "Her voice cracks and she wishes, she wishes with all her heart that this is a dream, because this is not her Tom. The whole night must have been a dream, because there's no way that this is actually happening.
"Have you ever heard of hybristophilia? I imagine not. English major." He chuckles darkly. "Hybristophilia, my love, also known as the Bonnie-and-Clyde-Syndrome, is the word used to describe the phenomena of someone being attracted to a person they know who have committed an outrageous crime. The causes of hybristophilia are mainly believed to be the belief they can change a man as powerful and cruel as a murderer, or to share their fame, or extreme forms of fanaticism, or the evolutionary-based attraction to the alpha male. Tell me Hermione, which of these apply to you?"
Hermione feels as if she is suffocating even though Tom doesn't have a lot of pressure on her throat. Cold, naked fear washes through her as she whispers, "You said it was an accident."
He snorts. "As if you believed that for one second. Don't try to fool me."
She closes her eyes and shakily breathes in through her mouth.
"What did you do to him? To that man?"
"Three stabs in the abdomen and one in the throat, aiming at his aorta." His voice is clinical, detached, and his eyes seem to analyze every twitch of expression on her face.
This dispassionate description sets free a rush of panic and adrenaline. She thrashes against his hold. Her legs and arms swinging and kicking – she only needs to make it to the door, to the door and out on the street. She just needs to break free from his grasp for a second – and then, suddenly, she does, but it feels wrong, too easy, as if he lets her go. But who cares, just get to the door, there – she has the doorknob in her hand, she made it. She opens the door, one hand hanging onto the doorframe for balance when a searing, mind-numbing pain rushes through her.
Her mouth opens to form a soundless scream as she looks at the hand still clasping the doorframe. It is pierced through with a knife, a knife that still has droplets of older, rusty-looking blood dried on its blade.
He slams the door shut.
The gleam in his eyes is now not only wicked, it's diabolical. He's towering over her, his arms caging her in, his face is only inches from hers. It's almost exactly like when he had done that only half an hour ago, but Hermione couldn't have felt more different.
The pain from her hand pierces through her with terrible intensity, and she nearly faints when she looks at her hand. Mutilated and pinned to the wood, blood running over it and slowly trickling down the frame, her own blood this time, a surprisingly intense red.
"Now that I have your attention," he drawls, his fingers lifting up her chin to make her meet his eyes. "Tell me. What made you want to sleep with me after knowing I committed a murder? A murder I gave you no sensible explanation for?"
"What does it matter to you?" She's shouting now, the pain and horror making her voice shrill.
"What does it matter to me? Oh, dear. Only everything. This is the outcome of an experiment I invested months of my life in."
"Experiment? You mean…"Confusion slowly turns into disbelief as his words sink in. Tears are now continuously running down her face, both from the excruciating pain and the realization of what he just said.
"Yes, my love, an experiment. Why else would I have been interested in you? I admit the first stages were less dull than I expected them to be, thanks to your clever wit. Your intelligence has been one of the reasons I chose you for this. I wanted to see if I could break through that rationality and logical thinking by manipulating your emotions."
"My…," She can't suppress a sob. "Tom…," It's almost a plea.
"Please, Hermione. Spare me the emotional outburst. Answer my questions and make this shorter for both of us."
Shorter. She shivers. He's going to kill me. Her scream is almost inhuman when he twists the knife stuck in her hand. Her nerves are on fire.
"Answer the question."
" I don't know! I – I thought I was in love with you, I wanted to believe you when you said it was an accident. I thought you were my best friend. I – I – " she breaks into heavy sobs. By now, she doesn't know what's worst – the pain, the betrayal, or the knowledge that she's going to die.
He studies her face, and a pitying smile twists his features.
"Human emotions are so predictable. See, I took a great risk with showing you the dead body – there was the chance your logical mind would overcome your feelings for me. But, like the weak little girl you are, you did exactly what I wanted you to, like you did from the very beginning."
She turns her head away; she can't stand to look at his face anymore, the face she loves and trusts, now twisted into this monster. Sobs shake her body.
"Tell me something, Hermione. Had I not revealed my cards just now, how would you have proceeded in our relationship? Would you have distanced yourself from me? Or kept on denying the facts and turned this into a romantic relationship? And if so, would it have been with the desire to change me?"
"I don't know! How would I know?!" Desperation makes her shout again. "You're insane! You're utterly insane and they will catch you and – and you'll spend the rest of your miserable life in prison!"
He slowly shakes his head.
He leans very close to her and whispers into her ear.
"I'm not insane, my love. I am brilliant."
They find her two days later, in a narrow alley, wrapped in bloodied white sheets – sheets stained with two people's blood. The body is completely bare expect for a little silver bracelet around her wrist. Her hair is mussed up as if from lover's hands, and if you ignored the slash wound on her throat, she would have looked almost peaceful.
He attends her funeral.
He wraps his arm around her red-haired best friend for comfort.