Hello! New one-shot. Hermione has failed to come to terms with the memories of the War and finds herself isolated from her friends and her emotions. Enter, the Lodger.
This story comes from my own struggles with depression, and my love for Tomione.
ALSO: Yes, the smut and dreams are written in a different tense. Tis intentional 'heat of the moment', current thoughts and feelings style. Enjoy!
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It was four years after the Battle of Hogwarts and Hermione Granger's life had taken a turn for the grey.
She worked in 'Tomes and Scrolls', the cramped, but nonetheless charming book shop that was situated in the picturesque town of Hogsmeade, and had done so for around three years. It was a shock decision, or so many people proclaimed. You had so much potential! Could have worked for the Ministry. Could have been something! The prospect of working for the Ministry brought back too many unpleasant memories, and employment within the Auror Academy would have only meant more evil, more struggling against Dark Magic - she was tired of fighting. Besides, Hermione could see nothing better than working close to Hogwarts and amongst her favourite, most reliable friends. Books.
Reliable, indeed.
Harry and Ron had dropped almost entirely out of her life after they parted ways on that fateful day. She knew there was mourning to be done, grievances that they all had to account for, but she hadn't expected to be abandoned by the only friends she would consider talking to, by her brothers in arms. During the nights when the nightmares became too terrifying to handle, she ached to pick up the phone and call one of her best friends, but always paused before her fingers wrapped around the receiver, vividly recalling her previous attempts to speak to them.
"Hermione, it's two in the morning and Ginny needs to sleep, she's pregnant. I'm sorry, we'll speak another time."
"''Ermione? Jesus, it's late, or early, it's just - I was sleeping. I have training in the morning, send an owl. Night."
Since then, she had been afraid to pick up the phone. They had families, partners, people more important than a girl who once accompanied them through a time they'd rather forget. For the first year she had received letters, but these died out as their lives grew busier. Hermione's life was near silent these days. But this could hardly be the fault of Harry and Ron. No, it was her fault that she couldn't move on, that the nightmares still tainted her sleep and left her days crippled with exhaustion, left her face marred by dark circles and worry lines.
She lived alone, in a flat above the book shop. Her intention after the war had been to return to her family home. By a cruel twist of fate, the plane that had been taking her parents to Australia faltered over the ocean. She knew very little detail, only that the fire had killed the majority of those on board. The few survivors drowned in the wreckage. She had been trying to protect them, to keep them from being hurt by the world she had become part of, but in the end she had only sent them to their deaths. The excruciating guilt faded to a dull pain in her chest after a while, though dreams of their smiling faces still taunted her every night.
The flat was wonderful, if a little large for just her. She bought it from the owner with the money she had been given by the Ministry as a gesture of condolence. The reward had disgusted her at first, but she soon found that it was useful. However, Tome and Scrolls was not a particularly lucrative business, and thus she decided to consider letting out the spare bedroom to a tenant. For four weeks her advertisement in The Daily Prophet had gone unanswered - clearly no-one wished to live with her.
With every day that passed, each missing letter, each sleepless night, Hermione found herself her enthusiasm for life slip further and further away. The little girl who had been so eager to learn, who was so amazed by magic, who had courage and love surrounding her even during the darkest of times, had sunk into the Doldrums and it was growing harder and harder to pull herself out. Grief and loneliness snuffed out the Gryffindor fire she had once been known for. Instead, the world saw a quiet, curly-haired woman with bags under her eyes and a strange, haunted emptiness in her eyes. Someone who looked a little like the girl who helped Harry Potter vanquish the Dark Lord, but, no, it couldn't be.
Despite being aware of how depression was affecting her, she never attempted to confront the problem, she never asked for help. No, revealing the crippling mind-set would only make people think she was weak. And far be it from Hermione to make herself a burden, surely she could get over the past on her own. Better to keep it shut away. Solitary life was not so unpleasant; she tended to glide through each day, barely speaking, head stuck in a book. Her life wasn't really anything, it was empty.
That was until he came along.
.0.
She grips the sheets between her fist and lets out a small whimper.
Tonks is screaming, screaming scre - she is silent. Her mouth opens and her tongue, now black and decomposing, falls from her open mouth, her horrified gaze watching it hit the ground. The Death Eater laughs, watches as the woman scrabbles for her wand. Hermione daren't moved. Play dead, play dead, that's what Harry told her. Tonks grunts as her hands crumble in front of her eyes, the wand falls through her fingers, next to Hermione's head. She stumbles, groaning, weeping, a disturbed Lavinia, eyes swivelling manically in their sockets, searching for help, for Lupin, anyone-
Hermione jolts awake and raises her hand to her open mouth, stifling a familiar cry.
.0.
It was October. Snow had fallen heavily over the small village of Hogsmeade, blocking access from the school, and as such, the shop was empty. The owner trusted Hermione to open and lock the building, as she only lived upstairs. She didn't mind, she had her books, and often she stayed in the shop into the early hours of the morning, caught up in literature. On this particular day it was eight o'clock, the sun was low in the sky, and Hermione was sat behind the cash desk, engrossed in the latest Journal of Herbological Studies. She smiled gently as her eyes caught sight of ' ' listed as an author of one of the articles. One of her fingers began to trace the spot that bore his name. It had been a long time since she had seen any of them, but it was reassuring to know that their lives were improving. Her finger stopped circling the page. Their lives were improving without her. They didn't care anymore. Maybe they never had.
For the first time in weeks, sadness began to bubble in her chest. She rested the book on the table in front of her, hands trembling as she desperately tried to stop the tears before they started. Hermione breathed in deeply through her nose and squeezed her eyes shut, leaning forward to rest her head on top of the open book.
After a moment, as the old memories were pushed back into the locked area of her mind, the shuddering in her chest stopped and she sat back upright in her chair. A single tear slid down her cheek and she cursed her weakness.
"Excuse me, Miss?"
Hermione jumped and opened her eyes with a start. Before her stood a young man, around her age. He was dressed in a thick Winter jacket, dark trousers and black, leather brogues. A deep green scarf was wound around his neck, below pale skin, dark eyes and black, neat locks. He was handsome, in an old-fashioned way, she supposed. Worry began to line her face - her misery was a solitary pain, not to be shared or viewed by strangers. She wiped the tear away quickly with the pad of her thumb and smiled weakly at the man in front of her.
"Sorry, I didn't hear you come in," she said, closing the book on the table and getting slowly to her feet. Hermione noted how her voice croaked, as if it was coming from a vintage radio, undoubtedly from the long period of misuse. The man smiled widely, showing two rows of perfectly straight, white teeth.
"My apologies. Are you still open?" he asked, one hand reaching up to pull the strap of his leather satchel higher onto his shoulder.
Hermione looked down at the small gold watch on her wrist and frowned slightly. "Well, we've technically been shut for an hour, but I was planning on reading down here for a little while, so I don't see why you can't find what you need."
"Thank you," he replied, shrugging his bag off and settling it down against the front of the desk. "You must be very fond of your job, to be working so late."
Hermione chuckled. An empty breath came out. "Not exactly. But I like to read and I don't live far, so I tend to stay after hours."
The man nodded, as if appraising her decision. "How refreshing to find someone who enjoys reading for pleasure, Miss - "
"Hermione," she said, lowering herself back into her chair. He stared at her expectantly. "Granger."
There was something strangely familiar about him, but she couldn't place it. The man waited for a moment, as if expecting her to continue with the conversation. There was something strangely familiar about him. Nothing obvious, she didn't recognise his features, but still, her mind fought to place him.
"And you?" she asked, finally. His eyes flicked down to her, dark spots glistening in the candlelight.
"Tom."
"Pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise. Now, I'm not actually here on literary business, for once. I'm here about this," the man knelt down in front of the desk to retrieve something from his bag. Hermione quirked a brow as he stood back to his full height and gently dropped a slip of paper on top of the closed book.
TO RENT: Double Room in shared flat situated above a small bookshop in Hogsmeade. Preferably quiet, neat professional who knows how to hold a conversation. Please visit for more details.
"Oh, you're here about the room!" she said, glancing back up at him.
"Indeed, I'm going to be working in the area, so the position is perfect," he replied.
"Right, well, um - sorry, I'm a little unprepared!" she exclaimed, running a hand through her bushy hair.
"No, my apologies. I realise it is a little late. I had a meeting, and I thought I'd drop by," he said, clasping his hands together in front of him. "But, I am a quiet, young, professional. I don't smoke, I am happy to clean and cook and I'm new around here, so I won't be having any noisy friends over."
"Pets?"
"None."
"What do you do?" she asked, leaning back in her chair slightly, to observe him. He was strikingly beautiful, living with him would certainly be easy on the eyes. Not that he would ever be interested in her. But why not let him rent her room - it just added to her income, that's all she wanted in the long run.
"I buy and sell instruments of magical use for Dervish and Banges. But, I'm in the running for a position in the local branch of Ollivander's, so I could be changing professions soon."
Hermione smiled. "Impressive."
Tom smiled back at her and bowed his head slightly. "I assure you, I am far from impressive."
Hermione laughed dryly. She crossed her arms over her chest and ran one hand under her chin, leaning on it slightly. As she glanced up into his dark eyes, she couldn't stop herself from asking: "Do you have a significant other?"
The candlelight sent shadows across the sharp angles of his face. His mouth stretched into a grin. He looked like a predator.
"No, I'm single."
Hermione nodded and broke their eye contact. "Well, you sound perfect. When would be the best time for you to move in?"
"As soon as possible, if that's alright with you."
"Sure, great," she replied, folding the advertisement in half and tucking it into her pocket. "Final thing, I'm guessing you've no criminal background?"
Tom chuckled darkly. "No, none to speak of."
.0.
Hermione sat across from him, lacing her hands nervously in front of her. They were sat in her small flat, on either side of the dining table that held the stacks of articles she had collected or written over the years. Tom's coat was hung up on the back of her door, his satchel now leaning against the side of her worn leather armchair.
"All signed," the man said, sliding the contract back toward her. He sent her a dazzling smile and leaned back in his chair.
"Excellent. I have to go back to work, but do you need a hand with unpacking?" she asked, getting back to her feet.
Tom raised his wand and winked at her. "What do we have magic for?"
.0.
Quiet. Professional. Neat.
"Did you go to Hogwarts?"
"No, I was home-schooled in Italy," he replied, unpacking the bag full of food that he had just brought in from the market.
"I go there sometimes to visit the Headmistress, perhaps you could come as well? It's a terribly fascinating place."
"Maybe. I hear it has been rebuilt?" he turned to look at her, pausing his unloading.
"Yes, and it's more beautiful than ever," she said. They both smiled widely, pleased.
.0.
Her routine had been altered, somewhat.
The morning was fairly similar - get up, shower, dress, go to work. Occasionally she bumped into Tom, who would be making tea and trying to tame his hair at the kitchen table, but her working day began far earlier than his, so they would often miss one another.
The afternoon she spent in the book shop. Nothing out of the ordinary there.
But the evening was…far more pleasant than before. Tom arrived home an hour later than her, and slowly they had fallen into the habit of eating with one another. They cooked separately, ate different meals, but sat together at the table, often sharing a bottle of wine and speaking amiably about - well, about everything. Magic, politics, ethics, religion, history - she could raise almost any subject and he would be able to speak like one who had studied the topic for years.
The only conversation they had never had was one about the war. About the Dark Lord, and the death, and the destruction. Hermione was more than pleased about this. She was forgetting. Slowly, yes, very slowly, but as the days passed and she started to explore and theorise with her charming lodger, she found herself happy to speak to customers, to smile, and to sleep a little easier.
The nightmares did not stop, no, but there was a brief period of silent peace as sleep took her that hadn't been present for years.
.0.
She grips the sheets between her fist and lets out a small whimper.
"Crucio."
The pain is never the same. It slashes, stomps, cuts, gores, it stabs, rips, flays, it-
A thick sheen of sweat has formed on her body when she awakens. The pain is gone.
.0.
"Oh gosh, sorry!" she shrieked, falling backwards. He wasn't meant to be home! Why was he home?
Tom stood in the doorway to the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, hair dripping and tousled from the shower. Hermione blushed furiously as her eyes raked over his torso, all lean sinewy muscles and pale skin. He smirked knowingly and stepped away from the door to allow her entrance.
"No apologies necessary, Miss Granger," he replied.
"I-I didn't know you were here and I-"
"Oh, not to worry. Day off and I spend half of it laying in bed. I apologise for not telling you."
Hermione mumbled something under her breath and walked past him, slamming the bathroom door shut behind her. As she turned to lock the door she paused and watched him walking back to his room, gaze lingering on the defined muscles of his back and the outline of his arse in the towel. After locking the door, she immediately rushed over to the bath and sat down on the edge, taking her burning cheeks into her palms.
"Uh, god," she sighed. She did not fancy him! It was just the lack of half-naked men in her life up to this point that was making her so embarrassed. A large, unwanted grin crept onto her face - he did have a cracking arse.
.0.
"Did you have a pleasant day at work?" Tom piped up, from the armchair by the fire.
Hermione poured the carton of pea and ham soup into the saucepan, then turned her head to face him. He was lounging sideways, feet slung over the arm of the chair, his dark head peeking over the back cushion. In his lap lay an open book, some nameless cover that she didn't recognise. The boy wore a pair of dress trousers and a pristine navy shirt, presumably his work attire. A dark tie hung, undone, around his neck, and his collar was buttoned down - she couldn't help but stare at the taut, pale skin of his throat.
"Fairly average," she replied, turning away from him to look back into the thick green liquid. A few small bubbles began to appear on the surface. "Yours?"
"Tiring. The thick snow means that we have very little on-site custom. Therefore, I have to Floo every couple of hours to different homes. Barely any time for a break," he replied, turning the page of his book slowly, eyes following the motion. "But I only have a half-day tomorrow."
"Finally time for a rest," she said, transferring the now-boiling soup to a small bowl. With a flick of her wand, the dirty pan began washing itself in the sink. She set her dinner down on the large wooden table and took a seat behind it.
"I doubt it," he chuckled, closing the book in his lap. He pushed himself out of the armchair and moved to the seat opposite her. It seemed he had eaten already, but still he took his usual place at dinner. Hermione subconsciously moved back in her seat and shifted her gaze down to her soup, feeling heat spread across her cheeks.
"How come?"
"I still have people to see, things to do," he replied. "Tell me, do you know a Mr Malfoy?"
Hermione raised a brow. "Which one? The prat or the younger prat?"
Tom chuckled and stretched his legs out in front of him. One of his knees bumped into hers and immediately she flinched backwards.
"Sorry," she mumbled, spooning the soup into her mouth. It burnt her tongue, but she tried to not wince.
"My fault. Anyway, I'm meeting the older Malfoy tomorrow, he has something to sell."
"Ah, I see. Well, good luck with that."
"You don't seem that fond of the Malfoy family. Any particular reason?" he asked.
Hermione finally looked up from her soup and locked eyes with him. An unfamiliar sensation bubbled in her chest. At first she paused, opened and closed her mouth silently, but then she recognised the strange feeling as bravery. Courage. Tom's dark eyes sparkled across the table and she felt safe. She took in a deep breath, and then spoke quietly, but firmly. "Because of their involvement with V-Voldemort, obviously. The Ministry forgave them because they 'repented'-"
"And you think -"
"I think they're rotten to the core. There's no fixing people who thought that monster was anything but a psychotic brat," she finished, coldly. As her words lingered in the air, a sense of pride filled her. This was the first time she had mentioned the Dark Lord, and indeed anything about the war, to anyone other than Harry or Ron. And it had felt so easy, so bloody right. This was Hermione Granger speaking, finally. She lifted the soup spoon back to her lips, smiling slightly, unaware of the way Tom glowered at her from across the table.
"Brat?" he asked, voice tight. Hermione noted the tension in his voice and looked back up at him, raising her eyebrows in question.
"Well, yes. He wanted everything, thought of no-one and bullied anyone who got in his way. And what was it all for?"
"Nothing. It was all for nothing." Tom's lips pursed slightly and under the table, away from her line of sight, his fists clenched. With that, he stood up, chair scraping noisily across the wooden floor. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Granger, I have to be getting to bed. Have a pleasant supper."
He strode out of the living room and into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. Hermione looked back into her soup and set the spoon against the side of the bowl with a clink! There must have been a gust of wind that blew the door shut, nothing to worry about.
A loud bang marked his re-entrance. His face was still sunken in a dark expression as he walked back towards the table. He dropped a small, red package in front of her.
"Merry Christmas, Miss Granger," he said, quietly. Without waiting for her reply, he turned on his heel and shut himself back in his room.
Hermione looked down at the small present, mouth agape slightly. She had completely forgotten about Christmas. With slightly shaking hands, she tore the red paper from the gift - a small red leather journal with 'H. ' emblazoned on the black in bright gold letters. She glimpsed at the tag that was dangling from the strips of torn paper: Dear Miss Granger, Merry Christmas. To keep your thoughts in one place. Best, Tom.
"Oh," she said, a small smile lifting her features. She turned towards his bedroom, stroking the cover of the journal with her fingertips. A tightness clawed at her chest and suddenly she was overwhelmed by the emptiness around her. There should be a tree, lights, even that tacky Nativity scene that her parents used to set up by the fireplace. She should have written cards to Harry and Ron, she should have received the annual jumper from Mrs Weasley. "Merry Christmas."
.0.
She grips the sheets between her fist and lets out a small whimper.
Bellatrix leans over her and smirks, mad eyes glistening with joy. "Pretty Mudblood, you can be mine."
The nightmare ends, but the scar on her arm burns and she does not go back to sleep.
.0.
He kept the door to his room warded.
It was the 31st of December, his birthday, as he had told her during the signing of the rental agreement. Tom had left a note to say that he would be working through until the evening, to not bother waiting for him. Despite his obvious reluctance to celebrate, she still wanted to let him know that someone was wishing him well. He seemed such a lonely character - no letters, no phonecalls, no visitors - just like her, in fact.
She made a cake. Nothing fancy, just two sponges, a layer of raspberry jam and a thick coat of icing. He'd never specified the year he was born, although she presumed he was around the same age as her, so she just jammed as many candles as she could onto the surface area. With a simple spell she charmed the candles so they remained lit without burning through the wax. Armed with cake, card and a bottle of red wine - she had only ever seen him drinking wine - she made her way to his bedroom door and gently pressed her shoulder against the wood.
It didn't budge.
Strange. She had lived here for years and knew quite well that the door pushed open without the need to turn the handle. Briefly, she turned to set the presents down on the kitchen table, before heading back to the door. She turned the doorknob once - nothing. But there was no lock on this door?
That was when she felt it - a low, yet vibrant buzz - the presence of wards. She raised her wand and surveyed his casting. It was magnificent, almost invisible in its magical presence, but stronger than anything she had ever encountered before. Stronger than anything she could have created, possibly too strong for her to take down.
Clearly, though, he didn't want her entering his room. Curious, though unwilling to cause an argument, she turned and walked back to her room, leaving the birthday gifts on the table.
.0.
She grips the sheets between her fist and lets out a small whimper.
The curse burns Fred's insides away until he is just a shell, skin held up by a dry skeleton. The skin-sack collapses onto his brother and George screams and screams and -
With a short screech, she wakes, but clamps her hand over her mouth to prevent it escaping. She already knows there will be no sleeping tonight.
.0.
He knocked on her door a few minutes after, around 1AM.
She wiped her eyes quickly, turning on the light next to her bed. "Come in."
The door swung open and revealed her lodger, face lit by the flickering orange glow of the birthday candles. He held the cake platter in his hands, whilst the wine and two glasses floated in the air next to his head. Slowly, he moved further into the room and gently shut the door behind him. When he turned back to face her, an emotionless mask set on his face.
"Are you okay?" he asked, quietly. "I heard screams."
Hermione sat up against her pillows and sent him a tired smile.
"I was ju-," she began. She paused and ran a hand through her bushy hair - how could she explain? "Nightmare, nothing bad, don't worry."
"You made me a cake," he stated, bluntly.
She raised a brow and nodded slowly, observing his now stern expression. "Yes, I did. Um, sorry, should I not have?"
"I've never had a birthday cake," he replied, setting said cake down on the nightstand next to her bed. He sat down on the end of her bed. The candles illuminated his face, which looked tired, worn-out and yet, more handsome than before.
"Oh. Well, it's not the best looking, but I'm sure it'll taste alright," she replied, smile widening as she saw a weary grin pull at the corners of his mouth.
"Why did you go to the trouble? Wine?" he asked. Hermione nodded - why not, she had the day off tomorrow. He flicked his wrist and the wine opened with a loud pop of the cork. When the glasses had filled, they floated into waiting hands.
"It was no trouble at all, don't be silly," she replied, sipping the red gently. It was tart, but had a distinctly sweet flavour that she adored. She noticed then that she had gifted him with her favourite. "Besides, it's your birthday, why wouldn't I get you something nice, we live together."
"Well, yes, but - I don't tend to receive gifts."
Hermione watched as he lifted the wine to his lips and took a large gulp. It was beautiful, almost, the way he held his glass between his fingers, the way his lips moved against the rim and his tongue caught the rogue drops that clung to the corner of his mouth. She shook her head and smiled at him again.
"Neither do I. But I think it's good to let friends know that they care about them."
The smile on his face faltered slightly, and they finished their drinks in comfortable silence.
"Can I take a photograph?" she asked, opening the draw to her bedside table and removing the small film camera she had received from her parents many, many years ago. She wound the film around with her thumb. "Oh, last one."
"Why?"
"Well, we've been living together for a couple of months now, I thought - I mean, I don't have to," she stammered, pulling the camera close to her chest, defensively.
Tom smiled and nodded at her. "Sure, why not? Perhaps I can upstage Potter on the mantlepiece."
Hermione laughed, not noticing the way his tone soured at the mention of her forgotten friend, and hopped out of the bed. She set the small camera down on the chest of drawers next to the door and pressed the button to start the ten second timer. As the little machine began to beep, she ran back to the bed and sat down next to him.
"Happy Birthday!" she chimed, raising her glass of wine up and plastering a smile on her face. "Say cheese."
Tom raised his glass toward the camera and his mouth stretched into a charming smile, the flash reflecting off his shining white teeth.
.0.
EX-DEATH EATER LUCIUS MALFOY SLAUGHTERS FAMILY IN OWN HOME.
Notorious follower of Lord Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy, was discovered this morning by probation officer, alongside his wife Narcissus and son, Draco. Wizarding authorities have found enough evidence to believe that the man first killed his family as they slept, then turned his wand upon himself. The bodies were estimated to have been over a month into decomposition. More details to come lat-
Hermione jumped and looked up from her copy of the Daily Prophet when the bell above the shop door tinkled softly.
Tom strode in through the door, two styrofoam cups in his hands, a charming smile plastered on his face.
"I was passing so I thought I'd bring you a cup of tea. Earl Grey, right?" he said, placing the cup in front of her.
Hermione smiled and took the drink from him. "Yes, no milk?"
"No milk."
"Thank you, Tom. Just a second, someone is waving me over," she said, placing the cup back down.
"Not a problem, I must be off. See you later on tonight."
The man bowed his head and watched as she shuffled through the stacks of books until she reached the customer at the other end of the shop.
Ten minutes and one satisfied customer later, she returned to her desk. The Earl Grey was still steaming, but the newspaper was gone.
.0.
"Could I borrow a book?" Tom asked, looking back at her from the gargantuan stack of books that were piled in the corner of the living room.
"Sure," she replied, looking up from her position in the armchair. "Do you have yesterday's copy of the Prophet around still? There was a story that looked interesting."
"No, I'm afraid not," he said, crouching down to browse through the lowest row of books.
"Blast. Well, do you know anything about the Mal-" she paused, then snapped the journal in her lap shut. "You must have been the last person to see them!"
"See who?" he asked, still facing away from her, pulling out books at random.
"The Malfoy Family! Did you not see the news? They were murdered."
Tom looked back at her over his shoulder. He looked alarmed, confused even. "No, I wasn't aware of that. How odd. I only saw them the other day."
"It's shocking," she exclaimed. Tom turned away from her again, then stood to his full height, a small book now resting in his hand. "Did you see anything suspicious? What did they have to sell you? Do you-"
"I didn't see anything out of the ordinary," he stated, bluntly. "Do excuse me, Miss Granger, I have an early start tomorrow."
She watched him retreat into his bedroom, feeling the magic of his wards recede as he walked through the door. As soon as he had disappeared behind the glossy wood, she felt the invisible bonds tighten, keeping her out once again.
Tom must've had a bad day, she thought, getting to her feet. Her eyes glanced sideways at the bookshelf, curious as to what the man might have wanted to borrow.
The space that usually held 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard' was empty.
.0.
A strange smell was coming from under his door.
Lacewing fly and, hmm, something else? she thought, inhaling the scent as she moved through the kitchen. What on Earth could he be doing?
Whatever it was, it had the same foul stench as Polyjuice Potion.
.0.
HOGWARTS PERIMETER BREACHED.
Last night, teachers were made aware of an intruder in the grounds of Hogwarts. The intruder was said to have entered the Forbidden Forest, which lies at the bottom of the school grounds. All traces were quickly lost an-
The door to the flat burst open, causing her to drop the newspaper onto the table. She stood quickly, raising her wand, but faltered when she saw a flushed Tom standing in the doorway.
"Tom? Are you okay?" she asked, letting out a deep breath.
The man took three long strides towards her and set a large, brown paper bag down on the table in front of her.
"Chinese food," he said, smiling widely. "I had an exceptionally good day."
Hermione chuckled lightly, still unused to the long-forgotten sound. "Pay rise?"
"Not quite, just an influx of important items," he said, removing his overcoat and throwing it over the back of the armchair closest to him.
"Well, whatever it is, it's good. Did you get that duck thing?"
"With the pancakes? Absolutely."
Hermione flicked her wand towards the table, removing the books and the newspaper that blocked their space to eat.
.0.
That night they drank. A lot.
Well, why shouldn't they, she thought, as he poured another glass. From the second bottle.
He was lounging on the sofa, long legs stretched out in front of him. She was curled up at the other end, knees to her chest, cradling her wine glass like a chalice.
"So, we'll go out f-for dinner tomorrow. My treat," Tom said. "We both need to leave the house more."
"I suppose that would be nice. But, let me pay, it can be for your birthday."
"I'll hold you to that. So, why do you live alone H-Hermi'," he hiccuped violently. Hermione let out a loud giggle and settled back into the cushions, allowing herself to relax a little more in his company. She stretched her own legs out, careful to place them next to his, rather than tangling them together.
"Granger, there that's easier to say. Why you so alone?" he said, slurring his words ever so slightly. "You get less contact with the outside world that I do."
Hermione looked down at the deep red liquid she was holding, then lifted the glass onto the coffee table behind her, eyes dulling at the personal question. "I don't have anyone out there to contact."
"Yea' you do. And all that talent you have, G-Granger. You could be the next Headmistress of Hogwarts of summit'."
"Pfft, as if. I'm not nearly -"
"What? Don't be bloody stupid," he retorted, lifting his drink to his lips once again. Hermione nudged him gently with her legs and laughed loudly when his wine spilt from the glass all over his face.
"Watch yourself," she chortled. He looked at her murderously, then very slowly set his glass down on the floor. Hermione smirked, though her heart began to pound harder at the sight of his clenched jaw.
"Bad girl," he hissed, in a soft, dangerous tone. Suddenly, he leapt forward and pressed his lips against hers. Hermione's eyes widened and she immediately pushed against his chest, sending him crashing back into the pillows of the sofa. His lips had been soft, his motions caring. It stirs something in her.
Hastily, she got to her feet, swaying slightly under the influence of the wine. Tom looked up at her, dark eyes sparkling, face slightly flushed.
"Hermi-"
"No, don't do that," she blurted out, turned away from him and running to her room. She saw him stand shakily, mouth open to speak - just as she slammed the door shut and hid him from sight.
.0.
She grips the sheets between her fist and lets out a small whimper.
Hermione looks across the destroyed courtyard. She used to walk across this quad to get to Charms. Now it was ruined, rubble, an indistinguishable piece of war-zone. It was empty now, very still and silent. No longer could she hear the cries or screams she had become so accustomed to. The battle was over, they had won. She didn't feel like celebrating.
"Hello?" she hears a voice speak from behind her. She turns, and to her surprise sees a boy standing before her. She doesn't recognise him, not his dark hair or dark eyes, nor his Slytherin uniform. He looks worn out, his clothes are torn, his hair mussed and his face and body covered in a layer of ash. A weary smile stretches across his face. She notices that he is clutching his side, hands covering a large red stain.
"Are you alright?" she asks, rushing toward him. Instinctively, without even knowing his name, she wraps her arms around his tightly, but he winces and pulls back.
"Got caught in a fight with a spider. I'm alright, don't worry. How are you?" he replies, voice pained.
"You are not alright, let me see your side," she demands, leading him to an alcove and pushing him gently onto the bench inside. He grunts, but allows her to sit beside him and pull his bloody hands away from his stomach.
"It's fine, rea-" He is cut off by a loud gasp from Hermione. His side is sliced from the bottom of his ribcage to hip, blood pours from the wound and the skin on the outer edges has curled and appears mangled.
"It is not 'fine'. Why didn't you heal this?" she asks.
"Couldn't find another wand," he replies. He brings up his free hand and shows her the remains of a pale wand, cracked in half.
"Okay. Well, let me." Hermione says, eyes tearing slightly at the sight of him. "I need to remove your shirt, is that okay?"
He nods slowly and places his arms at his side. She kneels in front of him and gently unbuttons his shirt. When she removes the garment he hisses loudly, clumps of skin tearing from his ribcage as they stuck to the material. Hermione rips it off quicker, alarmed at the soft cries of pain he was emitting.
"Okay, it's off. I'm so so-"
"Don't you dare apologise. This is not your fault."
"I know," she replies, softly. "Could you please lie down, it'll be easier for me to work on you?"
Tom smiles down at her and swivels his body so he lies on his back, the unpleasant wound now at her eye level. She raises her wand and begins to wordlessly cast the necessary healing charms to stop the bleeding and knit the muscles back together. Tom barely moves, but occasionally hisses in pain when she prods a particularly sore area with her wand.
As she begins to layer new skin over the wound, she hears a strange noise. It is quiet, staggered, almost like a hiccup. But then, whimpers. She looks up and sees that Tom has his teeth gritted together, eyes shut tightly, tears seeping from under his dark lashes.
"Are you alright?" she asks, finishing the healing process as quickly as she can and then kneeling up higher to look at his face. He opens his eyes, now blood-shot and watery, and she sees pain. "Oh god, did I really hurt you?"
He shakes his head. Slowly, he moves, sliding from the bench to kneel beside her. "No, thank you for healing me."
"Then what's the matter?" she says, gently. She moves one hand to his cheek and caresses it gently. He shuts his eyes and turns his head slightly, pressing his lips into her palm.
"I don't want to die," he replies, voice cracking slightly.
Hermione represses a sob and pulls the shirtless man into her arms, keeping him there until the shuddering in his chest quietens. He pulls back at last, and gives her a strange smile.
"Thank you, Miss -"
"Miss Granger," she replies, as both of them get to their feet.
He nods as she hands him his shirt. A silence falls between them as he slips the garment back on and they both take in the destruction at their feet.
"This isn't right, is it?" he says, tone empty. He says it almost to himself, then takes a deep breath and looks back at her. "Thank you for helping me, Miss Granger."
With that, he leans forward and presses his lips against hers-
She awakens with a jolt. Tom had been there. Tom had been at Hogwarts.
.0.
They went for dinner the following evening, as they had planned. Tom came home in a terrible mood, presumably from working all day with a stinking hangover, but insisted that they still went out. Hermione almost hoped that he would decide to cancel, she often felt uncomfortable in such environments and she was eager to question him about the dream she had last night. She was hesitant to ask him outright - it had been a dream after all, perhaps it was not like the others, not a replayed memory, but just a dream.
It was nothing fancy, just a table for two at The Three Broomsticks. The pub was fairly empty, as they chose to visit past 9 o'clock. Neither of them spoke about the kiss.
"I'll have uh- this one here," Hermione said, pointing at an Italian dish on the menu that found difficult to pronounce.
"Spaghetti all'Amatriciana," Madam Rosmerta said, with a kind smile, jotting down the order on her notepad. "And for you, Sir?"
"I'll have the vegetarian lasagne, please," Tom replied, quietly, handing her his menu.
Rosmerta nodded and bustled to the kitchen with their order.
Hermione leant back in her chair and surveyed her lodger. His dark eyes were downcast, one finger tracing the rim of his empty champagne flute lazily.
"So, did you have a good day?" she asked, hesitantly.
"It was…," he trailed off, taking a moment to pour himself another glass of Cava. "…fine."
Hermione frowned - clearly, things were not 'fine' but she was reluctant to press the issue. He looked a little tired, there were dark circles underneath his eyes and his hair was mussed as if he had been stressfully ruffling it.
"Okay. Are you hungover from last night?"
"No, I'm fine," he replied. Hermione frowned again, confused. He certainly didn't seem hungover, his demeanour was far more comparable to someone who was angry with themselves. She recognised the sullen gaze and messed hair - she had often seen it in the mirror on those days when she thought she had failed or disappointed herself.
"Sorry to seem like a bother, Tom," she replied, tone a little colder than she had intended.
He glanced up at her stonily, but his gaze quickly softened. "No, I'm sorry, really. I'm just tired, barely slept last night."
"How come?" she asked, taking a sip of her drink.
Tom fixed her with a stern gaze and let out a deep sigh. "I didn't mean to overstep the mark, or offend you, or um, I am sorry if I came across-"
"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, finally understanding his stammering. "Tom, look-"
"I-"
"Let me speak," she snapped. Tom pursed his lips at her outburst, but remained silent. "You didn't offend me at all."
"Then why did you-"
"Push you away?" she finished. He nodded. She took in a deep breath and twisted her fingers together awkwardly. "I'm sorry, I'm just not really used to…things like that. I mean, obviously it was the drink, and I wouldn't want a silly indiscretion to spoil the way we live together."
"Silly indiscretion?" he repeated. His expression faltered slightly, sinking into an emotionless mask.
"Well, yes. You didn't mean to do it, obviously."
"Why wouldn't I?"
Hermione paused, raising her brow. "Because I'm, well, I'm hardly your type."
Tom chuckled, slightly wearily. "And what is my type, Miss Granger?"
"Well, I don't know! Someone tall and gorgeous. Someone as, if not more, attractive than you."
"Right," he said, leaning back in his chair, smirk reappearing on his handsome face. "And how do you know that?"
Hermione scoffed. "Come on, I mean look at you! You're the type to want some beautiful thing hanging off his arm. To be proud of."
"Is that a fair judgement of my character? Or is that all based on my looks?"
"Um, I-" she stammered, flushing as he raised his eyebrows at her. "No, I mean, well - uh! Someone attractive is going to want someone attractive."
"Physically?"
"Yes!"
"And that's it?" he said. "That's all there is to attraction - the physical side? Of course, because all I want to do is shag something that looks nice, god forbid I should want to talk to them."
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but found herself lost for words.
"There. Preposterous. Besides, why do you think yourself unattractive in the physical sense?"
"Here we go my dears!" Madam Rosmerta appeared at that moment to save her, their meals floating in front of her. She flicked her wand and the dishes settled in front of their respective diners. "Now, can I get you anything else, more drinks?"
"We're fine, thank you," Tom said, flashing her a charming smile. The older witch blushed deeply and scurried back to the bar, mumbling under her breath.
"See - that's it. That's what I mean. You can smile at someone - anyone - and their knees will crumple. I'd smile and no-one would notice."
"You don't smile," he replied, reaching for the pepper.
"Excuse me?"
"You don't smile. Not often, anyway. How can you expect people to notice or care if you stay locked inside, with a miserable expression plastered on your face?" he said, shaking a ridiculous amount of pepper onto his lasagne.
"I don't stay-" she trailed off. "Ugh, never mind. This conversation is pointless."
"The conclusion I was coming to was - you are attractive Hermione. You are an incredibly talented witch, your intelligence is staggering compared to most people your - our age," Tom stated, setting his knife and fork down and looking her directly in the eye. "I don't have a type, in fact, it takes a lot to hold my interest."
The girl scoffed again, rolling her eyes. "Am I supposed to be grateful for your attention?"
Tom glared at her, stabbing his fork into the lasagne. "That's not what I said. I kissed you because I wanted to, not because I was drunk, or delusional. I find you fascinating and stop being so fucking hard on yourself. You're attractive, trust me."
.0.
After shopping and finally getting her camera film developed, Hermione found herself stood outside of the small, red-brick cottage that belonged to the Potter family. It took a moment for her to gather the courage to walk down the cobbled pathway to the door, but as she clutched the brightly coloured bag that held pristinely-wrapped, though late, Christmas presents tighter in her fist, she plucked up the courage to knock.
"Hermione?" Harry peered around his front door, then opened it widely and held his arms open to welcome her into a hug.
She grinned widely and fell into his embrace, tightly winding her arms around his neck. Her face was buried in his shoulder, he smelt like he used to and suddenly they were back in the tent, hunting Horcruxes, holding each other close in the absence of their red-haired frie-
"It's so good to see you," he said, pulling back, with a smile. "I'm so sorry I haven't been in touch much. I've been swamped with work and, y'know - babies."
Harry stepped back and ushered her into the house with the promise of tea and biscuits. True to his word, she soon found herself snuggled into his cushy sofa, cup and saucer in hand. Ginny was bustling around in the kitchen, preparing dinner for the children, who were settled upstairs for their midday nap. She looked as beautiful as ever, plumper, rosier and happier than the war-torn girl Hermione had last seen. The house was cosy. It felt like a home. She noticed that there wasn't a book in sight. She supposed there was no need for them.
They spoke of Harry's role at the Auror Academy, Ginny's pregnancies, the children. They spoke of Hogwarts being rebuilt, of McGonagall and things of little significance. She filled him in on her work, on her single life, on her new housemate, though they did not linger on these subjects for too long. Harry could tell questions on her own life made her uncomfortable, and made sure to steer Ginny onto another topic if she veered too close to the bone. He had always been good at that. They spoke little of Ron or of their lost friendship. But truly, Hermione was thankful for the shallow conversation. Sitting and chatting with Harry and Ginny still felt easy, they conversed just as they had during their school years, there was no need to start a conflict about his lack on contact. He had a busy, wholesome life, and Hermione was happy for him. Hours passed and Hermione noted the soft cries coming from upstairs. Ginny excused herself and left the two friends, sat in happy silence with one another.
"Anyway, I'd better head off, Harry," she said after a while, setting her now-empty cup down on the table. "Oh- and I brought Christmas presents! Sorry they're late. I've been…swamped with work."
"Hermione, you shouldn't have done that!" Harry chided, face flushing red. "We were so busy with Christmas this year that we didn't even find the time to get Ron anything. Sorry, we should be more organised."
"Don't be silly" she said., getting to her feet. "It's my pleasure. Also, you and Ginny….should come over for dinner sometime, it would be nice to see a bit more of you."
Harry stood and enveloped her in a hug, squeezing her shoulders tightly. Hermione wrapped her arms around his waist and held the moment for as long as she could. The feeling of loneliness left, just for a moment, and she could almost believe that she was twelve, that she had just run through the Great Hall to meet her friends, her brave friends who had followed her clues to find the Basilis-
"We would love to. I'm-" Harry paused, pulling out of the hug to look softly at her. "I'm sorry I've been so terrible at keeping contact. I'm not intentionally doing it, I swear, I just needed time to rebuild my life after, well, and -"
"Harry, please," she interrupted, laying a hand on his shoulder. As she moved forward, her leg knocked the bag and the contents spilled out onto the floor below. Four book-shaped packages and three more, which she knew contained Honeydukes' finest pick 'n' mix bags, tumbled out, along with the developed photos.
"Oh, watch out," Harry said, kneeling down to help pick up the fallen objects.
As Hermione gathered the parcels and set them down on the armchair, she noticed Harry staring hard at the fan of photographs which he knelt by. His face had turned pale and she noticed his hands shaking slightly.
"You okay, Harry?" she asked, furrowing her brow.
"I- who is this?" he replied, standing and showing her the stack of photos. His trembling hand pointed to the top photograph. It was the picture she had taken on Tom's birthday. She smiled lightly as she observed the handsome lodger smiling back at her, wine glass raised aloft, birthday cake glowing softly at his side.
"The housemate I mentioned earlier. Why - do you know him?" she said, reaching for the photos in Harry's hand. She tried to take them, but he held fast. Hermione raised an eyebrow and lowered her hand. "Harry?"
"No, no it's just - he looks just like someone," he replied, shaking his head gently and handing the stack back to her. She watched him warily, and quickly tucked them items away in her satchel. After a moment of staring hard at the floor, Harry glanced back up and gave her a strange, weak smile. "It can't be him though. Sorry, I just needed to place his face for a moment."
"Did he go to Hogwarts? I couldn't remember him, but I have a feeling he was there."
"No, I- I don't know," Harry replied, tonelessly.
"Sure," Hermione said, nodding slowly. It must have been a dream then, just a dream. But she was so sure that the memory of mending Tom's side was real, it was as vivid as her other nightmares, so surely…
Harry walked her to the door and let out a deep sigh as she exited onto the porch. "It has been a pleasure as always, Hermione. I'm sorry for all that's happened. I just thought, well, you were always the strongest on their own and I needed to sort out - um - and I swear I'll be - "
"Harry Potter, do shut up!" she exclaimed, jokingly. "You'll always be my best friend, no matter what."
His face crinkled into a smile and he gently pushed his glasses further up his nose. "Same to you."
Hermione chuckled and they both walked to the gate at the end of the front garden. "I'll owl you about dinner."
"Lovely!" Harry said. "Maybe we could invite Ron and Meredith as well?"
"That would be nice, though I've yet to meet, or even hear about, the lovely Meredith. I'll owl him," she said, turning to face Harry as he opened the gate for her. She already knew quite well that Ron wouldn't answer her. It felt good to have Harry acknowledge her at last, to realise that despite her own protests and reassurances, she was not the strongest on her own. "I'll tell Tom to stay out that night, so we can all fit around my table."
"Tom?" he replied, voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.
"My lodger, Harry, do keep up," she tutted, stepping through the gate. She waved at him a final time as she headed down the street, not lingering on the stony expression she glimpsed on his frozen face as she rounded the corner out of sight.
.0.
Tom kissed her again that night. She did not push him away this time.
Hermione thought the house empty when she settled down on the sofa with a large mug of hot chocolate and her battered copy of 'Hogwarts: A History'. After covering her legs with the tartan blanket that was slung over the back of the sofa, she snuggled into the cushions and set the book against the top of her thighs. By the time she had arrived home it was dark, cold, the perfect atmosphere to snuggle up with a book.
A log in the fire crackled and slipped further into the grate. She turned her head to look into the flames, raising her hot chocolate to her mouth to blow on it gently.
You were always the strongest on your own.
Why should she have to cope alone? The horrors of the war surely had lingered in the minds of all who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts - why would they presume she would be unaffected, that she wouldn't need friends to speak to when then nightmares hit, that she would never need a tearful hug, or a friend to remind her that the fighting was done? Because of her intelligence? Her stubborn bravery? Why should she suffer? It wasn't fair! It absolutely wasn't fair!
But - she couldn't blame them. They had their own lives now, ones they had created from the ashes Voldemort had left behind. She could have done just the same, followed a better career, found a partner, other friends, written a book, pursued a project, anything…
But no. She barely spoke. Her days off were spent in bed, staring at the ceiling. She tried to cling on to people who wanted to free themselves from the memories of the War. She had unintentionally lingered on the past, unable to rid herself of the empty, hollow feeling in her chest. Depression bore down upon her small shoulders like lead weights, no escape, no relief, not until Hermione Granger faded slowly, slowly, into nothing. The bookshop and her flat were her only haven, a den of safety where she could avoid reminders of curses, Death Eaters, broken souls, serpents and lions and blood and bone and go-
Perhaps it wasn't their fault at all. Perhaps she had created this isolation to protect herself.
A tear slid from the corner of her eye.
"Oh god," she sighed, setting her mug down on the floor so she could hold her head in her hands. It only took one tear to open the floodgates and soon she was sobbing uncontrollably into her palms. That pain, just there, the clawing, gnawing, tightening in her chest, a scream that ached to be released -
"Hermione?"
She flinched at the sound of Tom's voice coming from behind her. Immediately, she buries her face into her sleeve and wipes the offending tears away.
"Tom, god, sorry, I didn't realise you were home," she mumbled, keeping her face hidden from view.
"Are you okay?" he asked, sitting down at the end of the sofa. She sniffed loudly and turned to look at him. He was clothed in his work attire, as usual, though his collar was burst open and his sleeves rolled up past his elbow.
"Yeah, I'm fine. How a-"
"You're not fine, you're crying," he retorted, fixing her gaze.
"It's nothing, Tom, please," she said, voice cracking slightly. Silently, she begged him not to press the issue, to leave her alone and go back to his work.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Okay," he replied. Slowly, he leant towards her and ran a thumb under her eye, wiping the tear that had escaped. Hermione stiffened at his touch, but did not pull away. He smiled, then moved to gently touch his lips to hers once more. The kiss was soft, it felt good. Her mouth moved back against his and she felt him smile against her lips. The feeling was blissful, her body ached to touch him further, to allow herself to admit the attraction she had been suppressing for so long. For the moment, she didn't feel the terrible sadness in her chest, or the pain in her head, she just felt the movement of his lips against hers.
It ended, much to her chagrin. As he pulled back, smiling gently, her mind began to race. Why was he doing this? True, he had tried to kiss her before, he'd even called her 'attractive'. He was attentive, he brought her drinks, took her to dinner, he…why was he pretending to care? Did he view her as a charity case, someone so desperately in need of love and affection that he was 'selflessly' pretend?
Hermione paused, scowling at him, before hoarsely whispering, "Don't act like you care."
"I do," he replied, quietly, lowering his hand. Hermione stood, legs shaking slightly.
"Don't pretend, why would you pretend?" she said, voice raising.
Tom sighed and stood, glaring down at her. "I'm not, believe me."
"Yes you are!" she shouted, prodding his chest with an accusatory finger. Tom grasped her wrist in his hand and pulled her into his chest. Immediately his lips crashed roughly onto hers, a far more brutal kiss than the last.
Hermione squealed in irritation, pushing against his chest with both her palms. They both stumbled backwards, Hermione falling back into the armchair. She jumped back onto her feet and fumbled in her pocket for her wand. Just as she grasped it, she noticed something from the corner of her vision. Tom had raised his own wand at her, the pale yew trembling between his fingers. The point dug into her chest as she stood back up, turning to look at him.
Something clicked, as he twisted the weapon against her sternum. It was a strange wand, unlike so many others. It was pale, bone-like, with a claw-like handle. She would recognise that wand anywhere. It dawned on her then, that he'd only ever practiced wandless magic, advanced magic, only undertaken by the most skilled wizards and witches, in front of her.
She looked from the wand, back to Tom. His eyes were wide, staring at the wand in his hand. His expression was horrified, panicked, as if drawing the weapon had been a mistake.
Her cogs of her mind pieced together the many strange events of the past year in a final turn.
That was it. The Malfoys. Hogwarts perimeter has been breached. Harry's disturbance. The items in his room. Beedle the Bard. The smell of Polyjuice. The lies upon lies upon fake fucking lies.
Tom. Tom. Tom. That's why he seemed so familiar.
Why him? Without realising, the sadness she has pent up for so many years begins to transform into anger. Faced with her foe, the man who had caused these shackles to fix around her mind, the man who fucked her life, who ruined her - how dare he. How dare he come into her home? How dare he use her, try to make her feel better, fucking kiss her?! Her face flushed a deep scarlet and her fists clenched at her sides.
"Stop pretending," her voice is dangerous and low, her eyes glare at him with a newfound hate.
Tom opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again when he realised the meaning behind her words. "I'm not pretending, Hermione."
"Drop your act, I know who you are."
A deathly silence fell between them for an agonisingly long period. Eventually, Tom lowered his wand, dropping the item to the floor at his feet and stepped towards her, chest brushing her own. A dark grin spread across his face as he looked down at her. "Clever girl."
.0.
Tom shoves her backwards into the wall, roughly, as if to harm her. He probably does, not that she cares by this point. Her hands clasp his shirt and she drags him to her, crashing her lips against his in a manner that could be deemed painful. He doesn't seem to care either.
The kiss sets the tone for the evening, and the descent begins. He strips her of her clothes, layer by slow, slow layer, then drags his nails across her skin until she cries out. Hermione's fingers begin to tear at his shirt, but he merely flicks his wrist and her hands are sent flying back. They stick either side of her head, an invisible force pinning them to the wall. He smirks as she struggles, but doesn't relinquish the hold his magic has over her. Instead, his kiss moves down, over the tender skin of her throat, her collarbone, her chest. One hand encompasses a breast, his teeth attend to the other, tearing at the soft underside before moving to latch onto her erect nipple. The other hand entwines in her hair, pulls on the soft curls hard, causing her to let out a pained cry.
"If you know," he hisses, hand leaving her breast and crawling down over her stomach. "- then you scream my name when you come."
The words are dirty, but she loves the way he speaks them. His hand slides over her cunt, and his eyes narrow with satisfaction at the feeling.
"So wet already, Miss Granger," he comments, pressing two fingers inside of her roughly. His strokes are hard, they shake her entire body, but she finds herself enjoying it more than any sexual encounter form the past. "Do I make you wet?"
"N-No-"
He swipes his thumb up over her clit and lowers his head so his lips are moving against her cheek. She feels him smirk against her skin as she whimpers loudly.
"Don't lie to me, girl," he chides, chuckling darkly. He kisses her sweat-ridden face as she begins to pant harder.
"Don't call me that," she manages to croak, as he curls his fingers inside of her.
It begins to get overwhelming. The heat, the sensations he is causing inside of her, the furious passion behind his eyes, his disgusting, horrible sentiments, the scratch of his clothes against her naked skin, the loss of power -
"Then what should I call you?" he replies, twisting his hand so she lets out another cry.
"Oh god- I can't h- I'm going t-" she mumbles, legs shaking underneath her.
He shoves his chest into hers, traps her between his hard body and the wall, to keep her from falling over.
"Don't you dare come, Hermione," he snarls. She notes that her name sounds different, sinful, it sounds like all the other words he spits. "Not unless you ask."
"Come on-"
"Ask!" he barks, pressing down hard against her sensitive clitoris. She lets out a shriek and her head falls against his shoulder.
"Please, fuck, please let me come," she breathes, screaming again when he adds another finger inside of her, stretching her.
"Please let me come…what?" he repeats, voice closer and dark against her ear.
"Please Tom, please-"
"Tom what?"
Hermione moans again as he slows down briefly, pained as the loss of the oncoming release. Her mind registers something, something she had never thought about until now. "Tom…what? I don't kn- I never aske-"
"You know. You just said you know. You want me to stop pretending, then you say it."
"N-no, I don't!" she gasped, keening as his fingers twisted painfully. Her mind was racing - yes, she knew. She had known for weeks now. Yet, she had failed to act. Why was that? Because she was afraid of what he might do? Because she couldn't bear the thought of it? Because she didn't believe it? Or, even though she didn't want to admit it, she wanted him to stay as Tom the Lodger, the man who kissed her so tenderly, who conversed with her, who finally made her feel like the world wasn't blurred and miserable and grey. He wasn't - he couldn't be - she wouldn't let him be-
"Say it, Hermione. Show me your fire," he whispers, smirk dropping from his face, one hand caressing her cheek softly.
"No."
"Say it!" he says, almost desperately.
"N-no!"
His fingers speed up again and his thumb rapidly strokes her clit until she finally, finally, reaches -
"Tom Riddle," he says, angrily, eyes narrowing as she lets out a guttural, animalistic cry as she comes hard against his hand. She notes that he doesn't say Voldemort, but the thought is lost in the haze of pleasure.
The madness ends and she still rests her head against his shoulder, unwilling to open her eyes, unwilling to acknowledge the name he just uttered. Finally she pulls back and, with a fury that she thought had died alongside Tonks, Lupin, Fred and all those who she had seen as lifeless corpses on the floor of the Great Hall, she spits in his face. The shackles around her mind loosen, she finds the emotions lost. There's anger, rage, passion, god, it hurts to feel! But she pushes the memories back, beats them with all the strength she can muster.
The eleven year old Hermione roots for her, for the resurgence of the same bravery she had shown facing the Devil's Snare in her first year.
"I hate you," she growls, finding her voice, finding Hermione once again. Riddle's smirk falters and he slowly removes his hand from inside of her. The twelve year old brewing Polyjuice Potion in the bathroom toilets smiles at her, eggs her on. "Why the fuck did it have to be you?"
The thirteen year old who punched Malfoy cries out in triumph. She leans forward and bites Riddle's pale throat, hands quickly shedding his shirt and leaving it to flutter to the ground. The man lets out a low moan as her fingers trail down to his belt, nails nicking his flawless skin whenever and wherever they can. He looks shocked, dark eyes wide, her saliva still dripping down his cheek.
The fifteen year old fights Death Eaters. The seventeen year old is part of a war. She destroys Horcruxes, she destroyshim. And she wins.
Roughly, she pushes him backwards, tripping him with one foot and topples them both to the ground. Now straddling his chest, her hands run down either side of his neck, and she finds herself revelling in the breathy gasps he emits, the way his body shakes underneath her.
"It had to be you, didn't it," she hisses, sitting up, hands still splayed against his chest.
.0.
They fuck. It's as hard and painful as she imagined.
She comes more than three times, but refrains from screaming his name. She insists that she ride him, refusing to let him take back the control, but after the third orgasm hits, she goes limp and he quickly flips them. He touches her clit roughly as he fucks her with brutal, rough strokes.
He comes with her name on his lips. She bites his neck, she leaves marks and he moans. When it's over, they collapse in a heap on the floor, neither willing, or able to move. The need to reveal the whole truth is coming, and if he is honest, he is somewhat relieved.
.0.
"Voldemort."
"Tom," he corrected, letting out a deep sigh.
"Did you kill the Malfoys?" she asked, laying her hands on her stomach. The ceiling plaster looks as if it's cracking - she notes to herself to get someone to fix it.
Tom turned to look at her, though she doesn't look back. They were laid side by side, still partially clothed, on the floor of the living room.
"No."
"No?" she replied, surprised.
"No, I did not."
"So what happened?"
"I went to visit them, to buy their goods for the shop. I didn't think these Malfoys would have any recollection of what I looked like as a youth, but apparently Lucius had seen photographs of my school years. I was associated with his father, you see, Abraxas Malfoy. Lucius began screaming 'Voldemort' and I left immediately. I said I would return, thinking that perhaps he was having some sort of manic episode, that he would see sense. He must have thought I meant…"
"Returning to kill him. So he got there first."
"I presume so."
Hermione sighed and rolled onto her side to face him. He looked back at her curiously, as if waiting to decipher her next question.
"How are you here? How do you look like this?"
Tom shut his eyes and took in a deep breath. She moved her hand to his chest and lightly trailed her fingers down his stomach, observing the way his muscles tightened under her touch.
"Horcruxes were not the only option, apparently," he replied, opening his eyes again. "I appear as I did when I was twenty five."
Hermione nodded and continued to draw circles on his skin. "Why were you at Hogwarts? I fixed your chest."
"When Lord Voldemort died and the Elder Wand was broken, I woke up in the Chamber of Secrets. I wasn't really aware of what was happening initally, but as I headed through the school, I began to remember all the things Voldemort had done, I regained the memories from that life. But they seemed separate, alien, as if I were watching someone else's life on a cinema screen, like they were not a part of me. For some reason I was not pleased with the destruction, or the fighting. It disgusted me - why would I destroy Hogwarts, the only home ever had?" he paused, gasping slightly as her fingers swirled lower down his mid-section. "I-"
Tom shuddered as her hand made its way into his underwear, fingers lightly dancing over his inner thighs. A singular digit stroked the length of his hardening cock and a groan escaped him.
"Carry on."
"I couldn't care less about blood. I was a half-blood, yet still powerful. Magic is magic, who was I to stunt its growth? F-felt as if I had been restored, or at least separated from my previous mind. I could feel things. I felt horrified, guilty, I mean, I bloody cried in front of you. I-I was struck by the pincers of a spider, as I said- fuck, stop teasing me, Hermione - and that's when I stumbled into the courtyard. I couldn't believe my eyes. I didn't want that, all that-"
"Then what?"
"I- uh, god that feels incredible - escaped. There were people there who would have remembered my image from memories, or the past, they would have killed me."
"You don't think you deserved to die? For what you did, Voldemort?"
"I'm not Voldemort. I have all the horrid memories from that life, but I have a soul. A whole, stitched together soul. I can die. I am Tom Riddle, and I have no desire to go back to the monster I was."
She crawled down his body, still working him with one hand, and pulled his boxers down with the other. After positioning herself over him, she lowered her head and lightly licked the tip of his cock. Tom groaned loudly, but seeing the glare she gave him, continued his story.
"I went to Riddle Manor, but soon heard talk that the place was going to be demolished within a - fuck, do that again- number of weeks, so I began to look for a different place to live. Upon arriving in H-Hogsmeade, I noticed you walking down the street. I remembered you. The advertisement in the Daily Prophet was the next thing I looked at. It was as if we were f-fated to meet again."
Hermione withdrew for a moment, and licked her lips slowly. Tom gazed at her blearily, bucking his hips upwards into her hand as she squeezed gently.
"And?"
"And that's it," he ground out, fists clenching at his sides. She could tell he was close, and slowed her strokes to stave his impending orgasm. "That's all there will be-"
"You kill without thought or mercy, Voldemort. All you want is power. So don't give me that crap."
"It's not crap," he said, through pants. He propped himself up on his elbows and stared at her, skin shining with perspiration. "And I'm not Voldemort."
"What? Of course you are."
"Uh, god, ple- Vol-Voldemort is dead, I am Tom," he stammered, laying back down and pressing his hands against his flushed face. " And then, I-"
"What?"
"I found myself enjoying your company."
Hermione frowned, ignoring the comment and moved her hand faster again, until he cried out a final time and his body shook violently with pleasure. Thick, pale liquid spurted over her hand and his lower abdomen, and he let out a shaky breath as the orgasm began to ebb away. She retracted her arm and laid back down to face the ceiling, ignoring the slightly sticky feeling between her fingers.
"Did you find the Hallows? Clearly they've been on your mind. Beedle the Bard? Breaking into Hogwarts? All that Polyjuice potion? Presumably to disguise yourself as another to avoid being recognised by Slughorn, or McGonagall." she asked.
Tom let out a few more breaths before turning his head to look at her. "No, I didn't find them."
"Are you still looking for them?"
"No."
"Why were you even looking for them in the first place?"
He hesitated, but eventually rolled onto his side and began to mimic her previous movements, drawing slow, deliberate circles on one of her breasts.
"They had something to do with bringing me back. When the Elder Wand was broken I reformed. Body, soul, memories, everything. I figured that Voldemort had bound himself to the wand in some way, but it's the only thing I cannot remember. I just wanted to know how. And why."
"Why?"
He smiled at her faintly and released her nipple, rubbing it gently to relieve any soreness he might have created. "I don't deserve another chance, do I? Not after all the things I did. I wanted to know why I was brought back."
Hermione sighed gently, as he continued to stroke her breasts. The information she was receiving was addling her brain. Was he real? Did he really regret the things he did in the past? Was he Tom, or Voldemort? The sensations he was causing was making it a little hard to concentrate.
Tom sighed and pinched her hardening nipple between his fingers, causing her to gasp. "I have successfully separated my past from my present. No followers, no resemblance to the serpentine thing I had become, no evidence. I don't want to be that monster. I am NOT that monster."
Hermione arched upwards as he stroked down her stomach, but as her mind raced with the curious things he had told her, she grabbed his wrist and halted him just before he reached her hips.
"So what do you intend to do now?" she questioned, staring up at him from the floor with a hard glare.
"Work, read, breach the boundaries of magic for the sake of making things better, not for misusing. Help to repair."
Hermione's eyes widened and she released his wrist in shock. Tom grinned and slowly moved his fingers to caress the outer lips of her cunt.
"You can't. How can I just - not know I know who y-"
"I'm not him. Do not think me a redeemed angel, Hermione. I still intend to practice dark magic, to test its uses and practicalities. I still intend to add to my magical arsenal - but I do not wish to kill, or hurt. Neither Muggle, nor Wizard. I have seen the consequences twice already, I will not be corrupted again."
"B-but, you'll turn back, you'll try to-"
"The first two times failed. Do not think me idiotic enough to try for a third time," he hissed, running his finger through her wetness to settle on her clit. He rubbed it softly, taking his time to circle the outer edge fully. "Besides, it brought me no real happiness. It brought me nothing real, in fact."
He leant down and placed a soft kiss against her lips. Hermione let out a whimper as his finger brushed her clit quickly, and lightly.
"You selflessly healed me. But when I came here I saw nothing but empty sockets where your eyes should be. The war, my war destroyed a piece of you. You! A talented, intelligent, beautiful witch. Muggle parents or not, you are a witch. I couldn't understand why Voldemort would want to kill such character. I feel responsible for forcing your mind into such a terrible area."
His fingers quickened, swirling around her swollen clit. She cried out again, louder this time and he kissed her ear softly. They did not speak until she came, her hips bucking against his hand as he gently placed his lips to her temple. She moaned his name as the high peaked. Tom.
"So, this is me. All of me. What happens next is up to you, my Hermione."
She stared up at him, letting out a deep breath. Tom smirked at her and lifted his fingers to his mouth to taste the juices that clung to them. Hermione sighed gently and placed a tired hand against his chest.
"You're Tom?" she asked.
He laced his fingers through hers. "I'm Tom."
"And you….you care?"
"I do."
Hermione turned to look at him and flashed a weary smile. "I find one flaw in your words. If you are not Voldemort, you are not responsible for what happened."
"I know that, Hermione. But I have all his memories, it's hard not to feel guilty for your current…state."
"I-" she paused, closing her eyes. "I'm fine."
Tom kissed her lips and she opened her eyes to see him looking down at her with an expression of concern. "You know, it's not a sin to need help. You wake up screaming every night, you don't go out, Hermione, you look like the Dementors have sucked you dry. Now, I know I'm the last person you'll wa-"
Hermione turned on her side, letting her head rest against his chest, curling her knees in and wrapping one arm around his waist. He hugged her tightly, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
She would be foolish to keep denying it. No, she was not 'fine'. The tight shackles around her mind may have loosened, but there was more to let go of, more to heal, before she would be 'fine' again.
"Thank you, Tom."
"You're welcome. But don't rely on me alone, you have friends."
"They have their own lives."
"As you should have yours. That doesn't mean they can't be a part of it, and vice versa. They wanted to get over the past, yes, but that doesn't mean your very presence is going to send them back to that dark place, does it?"
Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but found herself speechless. After a long pause, she said, "Can we sleep here? All this information has blown my brain and I don't think I can move."
Tom chuckled and shifted into a slightly more comfortable position. "Of course, my dear."
That night she didn't dream at all.
.0.
When Hermione woke, the first few rays of sunlight were beginning to stream in through the cracks of the wooden shutters that protected the windows. Tom was still asleep next to her. He had conjured a blanket to keep them both warm, which she cast aside as she slowly got to her feet.
Quietly, so as to avoid waking him, she padded to the kitchen area and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She leant against the counter, looking down at the shirtless male, clad only in his boxers who was cuddling into the blanket. He looked uncomfortable, his face twisted into an expression of pain. Bad dream, she assumed.
Tom. Tom, not Voldemort. Her mind began separate the two and, strangely, she found it awfully easy. This man was not the monster she dreamt of, he had not cursed her, or killed her friends. It seemed he too was haunted by the memories of his past life, if his rough slumber was anything to go by. Perhaps they could help each other forget.
Or perhaps he was destined to turn rotten. Perhaps he would rise stronger than ever, aware of the mistakes he had made before.
He seemed so genuine. He seemed to care. Her hand still itched towards her wand.
The man below her stirred slightly and rubbed the sleep from his dark eyes. He groggily searched for her, until he caught glimpse of her by the counter. A soft, beautiful smile spread across his face and he reached out a hand to her. At the sight of her blank look, his smile faltered and she was shocked to see insecurity and desperation in his eyes. He sat up then, hand still outstretched.
Her fingers rolled around her wand and she levelled it with his eyes. Tom frowned and held his hands above his head, slowly getting to his feet.
"Hermione?" he said.
"Give me your hand," she ordered. Tom raised a brow and steadily walked towards her, placing his outstretched hand into her upturned palm.
"What's wrong?"
"We're making an Unbreakable Vow," she stated, flicking her wand in the correct motion to begin the spell. Thin, glowing threads began to coil around the pairs arms, tying together at their conjoined hands.
"Why?"
"Because I would be a fool to believe you by your words alone. If you mean what you say, you'll follow through with this," she stated. "Will you, Tom Riddle, never harm, unless you have their prior consent, a human soul, or kill a human soul for the rest of your days on this Earth?"
Tom looked slightly confused, but nodded. "I will."
"And will you only practice Dark Magic for academic purposes?"
"I will."
The spell sealed, and the gleaming wires faded from sight. Hermione let out the breath she had been holding and finally sent Tom a smile. She stepped forward and wound her arms around his neck, pulling him down into a hug.
"Thank you. I believe you," she whispered, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. Tom smiled and placed his arms round her waist.
"No harming unless you have their prior consent?" he asked, repeating her earlier words with confusion.
Hermione smirked, so darkly it was worthy of Tom himself. "If we ever duel. And…"
"And?"
"And I like rough sex."
.0.
Woo. Bit misleading all those clues, eh? That's my first ever not-evil-Tom written. ;) OKAY. So that's the first bit and dusted. Could just be a one-shot I guess, but I want to write an epilogue explaining what happened to Tom and Hermione after all this. Like, how they explain it to Harry, how they grow together, the problems faced, discovering how he was brought back, what happens to Hermione, etcetc. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed and will continue to read the next instalment.