So... I've recently acquired a very bad habit of just writing snippets that don't have much explanation behind them. For those of you who're going to read this, it's basically about Hermione/Tom (as you can see from the characters thingy) in Tom's seventh-year at Hogwarts. How Hermione arrived there etc. is a mystery to me as well as you. This scene just popped into my head one day and I couldn't get rid of it. And, yes, it was on purpose that Hermione's name is not actually mentioned in the snippet.
Enjoy!
"I love you," the words were out of her mouth before she had the chance to stop and think. Wincing, she glanced at him, knowing what he was going to do, what he was going to say. Yet she hoped against hope that she was wrong.
Shadows flickered across his face. His eyes had narrowed to slits. Not for the first time, a shivery feeling crept over her. He was the perfect example of the saying 'beauty is only skin deep'. Looking at him, his expression of revulsion, she realised what she had known all along: it was impossible. The whole idea of him being able to love - to even like - another person anywhere near as much as he liked himself. He was ugly underneath all those good looks. She had known it, but hadn't listened to her instincts. How naive was she, really?
"Do you mean that?" harsh, cold. Unforgiving. Words such as these came to her mind. How could she have fallen for that honeyed tone? The perfect words? She should have known better than that; should have known that it was an act. He was a brilliant actor. He had fooled everybody. Why had she believed for even a moment that he wasn't lying to her?
"I don't know," she said softly, but it was a lie. Even just looking at him, knowing he was there. It made her stomach feel odd. Butterflies was the right word, although it sounded really cliche. A small smile from him made her breathless, unable to believe her luck. She was hopeless, really. Knowing that he was going to kill, going to be evil- no, already was evil and already had killed - that didn't change what she was feeling. For the first time, she understood what her mother had told her about love. About how it didn't matter to you what that person did, or had done, what that person was going to be... even knowing all the problems, all the complications, all the impossibilities of everything. It just didn't matter.
He raised his eyebrows, unbelieving. "Let me tell you one thing: you're not the first -" egocentric, she thought briefly, but found she didn't care - "nor will you be the last. But there's one thing that you have in common with all the others: you're not going to get your feelings returned. Ever."
Those words made her feel breathless for a very different reason. She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to have heard. Wishing that she could go back in time again, and not say those words to him. It was too late, now. It had been 'too late' for a very long time.
The disgust in his eyes stayed with her long after he swept away from her.