DISCLAIMER: I am a lover of Tomione. Therefore, I read Tomione fics a lot. However, when I tried my hand at this drabble (of sorts), I hadn't read Tomione in a while and it wasn't until I explored the pages of well-known Tomione writers, I stumbled across 'Kiss Kill' by provocative envy which, prior to my most recent read, I haven't seen since it was uploaded last year. But I have a sneaking suspicion that it inspired this all these months later so I might as well give some credit if that's the case. :)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: THIS IS LARGELY AN EXPERIMENTAL EXPLORATION OF THE PAIRING. It is purposefully vague because I do not have the patience, time nor intelligence to plan a well-constructed Tomione. It's why it's also pretty short. Please enjoy and give me any feedback - but no flames. I have my eyes on you people ;)
They are a tangle of limbs on the bed. His mouth is hot against her own and his hands explore the canvas of her body, one burrowing into the mass of curls that fans across the pillow, the other gliding over the curve of her thigh to pull her closer. She wraps her leg around him and uses the movement to her advantage, pushing him down until she is above him.
She takes a moment to wrench her lips away from him and toss her hair back importantly. He follows this movement with dark eyes. A delicious smirk curls the edges of his mouth.
"Rather confident, aren't we, sweetheart?"
She raises an eyebrow. "Why, Tom, I was under the impression you appreciated such assertiveness."
He doesn't reply, only pulls her down to steal another searing kiss, perhaps even several. She allows herself to be swept away by the intoxicating rush, to moan yearningly and respond to his touch. His hands skim over the back of her thighs, constantly bringing her closer to him so that she straddles him with the strength of a python.
She never thought it possible but she enjoys this. Kissing him so hard that it bruises, teeth digging into the plump cushion of his lower lip, right hand pulling on fistfuls of his hair. It's passionate. Feral.
Even as she thinks this, she imagines replacing her lips on his neck with a knife, slicing through skin and vocal cords and carotid arteries with a savage swipe, a sharp flick of her wrist. She imagines digging her wand into the same place where her hand presses against his chest - where she can feel the furious beat of his heart - and mutter the two most unforgivable words.
Keep your friends close, she thinks with a cold smirk, keep your enemies closer.
She is certainly doing that.
His hands are everywhere, making her breathless, wild, delirious. She forgets about the weight on her shoulders, the task she has delegated herself - no, these moments are not to be wasted dwelling on the future or the past, but to be spent lost in the waves of pleasure that crash down on top of her. To be spent panting and murmuring his name - Tom, Tom, Tom - and holding onto him so tightly that she will surely leave the dark shadows of her fingerprints behind.
They are to be spent believing that she really is as beautiful as he vows, to ignore the scars that mar her body, the ugly slur torn into her forearm - to forget that the cause of all this is fucking her and to forget how it is cruel that Fate granted him such flawless, aristocratic features.
They are to be spent listening to the way he breathes "Hermione" as if it is one of the loveliest names he has ever had the pleasure to speak.
It is not until minutes after they have both collapsed into a knot of limbs on the bed that she finally moves past the haze of the moment. She knows it was wrong of her to have enjoyed it - selfish and traitorous - but she needed one last moment of weakness.
Because there is some part of her that is full of innocence and takes note of the things she no longer wishes to. It notices how Tom no longer recoils from her forearm, how he looks at her with respect, even admiration when she perfectly demonstrates how to perform a particularly difficult spell or rattles off an impressive fact to a mostly disinterested audience. It notices how refreshing it is to have someone that not only appreciates her intelligence but matches it in every respect. It notices how Tom Marvolo Riddle is merely eighteen years old - not much more than a boy.
But then the rest of her recalls exactly what he has already done. He has already set a Basilisk loose in Hogwarts and murdered a younger student. He has already ruined an innocent man's name and framed Hagrid for his crimes. He has already murdered his family in cold blood and tricked his uncle into confessing to the act. He has already formed the Knights of Walpurgis, a society whose sole aim is to eradicate Muggleborns and watch the world burn. He is already steeped in the Dark Arts and biding his time at one of the darkest shops in Knockturn Alley.
He is already Lord Voldemort.
And he will continue to destroy everything that she holds dear. Hasn't she already seen him do so? Didn't she see Ron - her Ron - dive in front of a Severing Charm aimed at her without a second thought and have his blood drench her clothes, splatter the walls behind them, spurt out of his broken body like a God forsaken fountain? Didn't she scream as Dolohov striked Ginny down and watch helplessly as Harry cradled her cold body, tears streaming down his face as he sent out spells faster than lightning, hitting one Death Eater, two Death Eaters, three, four, five?
And did she not see the last thing that mattered to her die? Was she not forced to endure Voldemort's brutal and merciless murder of her best friend, her brother?
So that is why she must put an end to this now. It does not matter that Tom admires her and believes she is beautiful for he will inevitably destroy her. He already has.
She slides over his body, straddling him with the strength of a python, just the way he likes it. The weapon is heavy in her hands, but she knows that it belongs there now. For weeks, she contemplated how she will do it in the end, wanting it to be poetic and fitting and perfect when they are anything but.
Should she use a knife? No, knives are too messy, too risky. With knives, there is a chance she will miss her mark and have her hands bathed in blood, drown in it in her nightmares for no reason while he still walks.
Then, should she use her wand? But no...she does not want it tainted, does not want to glance at it and remember that she is a killer. Does not want to hold it in her hands and recall the girl she'd once been, young and buck-toothed and naive, executing her very first flawless Wingardium Leviosa and then realise how bitter and twisted she has become in less than a decade.
Now, she knows how it will end.
Part of her greatly admires the irony of killing Voldemort with a cursed gun. It is the perfect blend between Muggle and magical. Primitive yet elegant. Just like him. Perhaps he'll find it humiliating when he burns down in Hell.
She points the gun directly at his forehead. Her heart thunders furiously in her chest for a completely different reason from before. This is no longer passionate and feral - it is cold and calculated.
His eyes shoot open as she pulls the trigger.