The bold italics are Tom's e-mails and messages whiles italics are those of Hermione.
E-mails
He was a boy, a misunderstood boy albeit. He was brilliant, far so than anyone else. His mind worked on a very different wavelength than others. He wasn't power hungry, egoist or rude, none of these svelte terms appealed to him. For he was far more intelligent to let people see the desire of power coiling like serpent around him.
He craved control as he desired nothing else.
He was just cynical, pessimist if you please. It was as if he had seen humanity far too closely and what he had seen had repulsed him to such an extent that no tendril of optimism or hope could take a root in his heart; his dark supposedly mangled, and non-existent heart.
He was boy with very clever ideas and clear goals and he never believed he would someday meet someone who matched him wit to wit, beat to beat.
She was a girl, tired with all the pretenses this world had to offer. She was tired of the mask she kept on her face most of the times, a carefully constructed beautiful mask of manners, intelligence and kindness. She had seen humanity, observed it and found it lacking. Fantasy was far more fulfilling with characters that toed that invisible line of morality.
She was by no degrees moral, nor was she an advocate of virtues.
Vices were her addiction and vices were what she cherished.
Her keen, rapier sharp mind was full of ideas and her innocent yet sinful lips could drop lies like drops of honey to be licked. She had a penchant for chaos, for lies and she wanted to be as good a liar as Norse god Loki.
Her deceivingly naïve eyes were full with horrors and secrets carefully hidden beneath the sheen of guile and the rimless spectacles she wore.
She had never thought she would ever meet her match.
They met in college.
They were taking almost all the same classes. And from the first day, their competitive streak demanded that they remain on top.
He was very pleasant to look at. Well pleasant was a very mild term.
If she had been any other girl, she would have fallen head over heels for him. If she were some other girl, she would have found his dark, raven black hair too appealing, his jaw line to die for, his lips utterly kissable and his eyes epitome of gentleness.
If she were some other girl she would have marveled over how tall he was, with slim yet defined physique, she would have wondered how his pianist fingers might feel on her skin.
If she were some other girl she would have keeled over with lust.
But she was not some other girl.
She was Hermione Granger.
Her constant raised hand in lectures amused him. He didn't know why she was hell bent on proving herself in this sea of mediocrity. For a normal human she was good, she was a fucking genius if he said so himself.
She always sat on the second seat of the first row and no one dared to sit near her or on her seat. She was princess prissy and that tilt of her chin annoyed him to no end. He could see the traces of her true persona beneath the carefully cultivated guise.
Hermione Granger could pretend all she wanted but she reeked of sin. It took one sinner to recognize the other.
Now if he was one of her horde of admirers he would have sighed at the sight of that teeth biting her lower full lip, would have dreamt of loosening that wild mane she so regimentally bound in one of her complicated hairdo's. If he was one average specimen of male species, he would have written about her chocolate eyes looking enchanting behind her rimless glasses, would have jerked off imagining her in all her naked glory, all those curves and that Venus like physique.
But he wasn't someone.
He was Tom Riddle.
Maybe fate had fashioned them for each other or maybe it had been their stubborn mulishness but one day they collided and what an experience it had been.
You see dear readers despite being together in most of the classes, despite having numerous common friends; Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger made a point to avoid each other. No one had ever seen them talking, not even for once in the entire year they had graced the hallow grounds of Hogwarts University.
Many of their peers wondered what was it that kept Hermione and Tom apart, for anyone could see how perfectly they complimented each other; except for Tom and Hermione that is.
So it came as a surprise when one day out of the blue Hermione Granger turned in her seat, looked directly at Tom Riddle and said, "Don't you think his lesson of love conquers all is giant load of bullshit?" she obviously referred their esteemed English lit professor Dumbledore.
And it was even more surprising when Tom Riddle gave one of his smirks and said, "I definitely agree."
They laughed together, her lilting timbre being enveloped by his husky one.
They decided they had lot they could teach other, so they exchanged e-mails.
And that's how it all began.
The first mail that she sent him read something like this.
So if you are Tom from Hogwarts, do mail me back. Otherwise my sincerest apologies for wasting your precious time. –Hermione Granger
It was her damn mistake. The shine of his hair had caught her eye and she hadn't properly heard him when he had told her his email id.
Hermione Granger was never nervous but right now she could feel something curiously like anxiety bloom in the pit of her stomach.
When he saw the mail, he laughed.
And realized it had been ages since he had laughed without inhibition.
He sat down immediately to type a reply.
If I say I am indeed this Tom from Hogwarts, will you believe me?
And after he hit send he comprehended that he was anxious to read her answer.
Hermione took one look at the mail and her lips curved in one of those rare smiles when the joy of it reached her partially blind eyes. The conceit of his statement amused her.
Well off course not. Do you take me for a fool? And let me tell you the arrogance of that statement is all Tom Riddle. So if I have passed your test, care to tell me what are you doing?- Hermione Granger.
Tom was impressed and a little bit captivated. Yes a tiny little bit.
Bravo Miss Granger, MI6 could definitely use your skills. I am trying to convince Malfoy that it would be ruinous for him if he took batty Bellatrix's invitation of a night in paradise. What entrancing pursuit is garnering your attention, if you don't mind my asking that is?
Hermione laughed. Batty Bellatrix? More like bratty dominatrix.
Lately I find the drivel they are teaching us quite boring, so I have undertaken a side project. And from your words I find that you are failing in your attempts to persuade Mr. Malfoy? Let him be. When he wakes up to find himself tied to bed with a dog collar around his throat, it would wisen him up pretty good. Not to mention the threat of compromising pictures circulating the dormitories.
Oh Granger had steel, and despite being on the peril of continuously repeating himself, he admitted he liked her. In his own head that is.
How bloodthirsty of you Miss Granger. Might I presume this acerbic answer finds its reason in the last year incident when your friend Mr. Weasley was vehemently humiliated by his on and off girlfriend Miss Bellatrix Black and Mr. Malfoy had been the witness and instigator? Or do you find yourself unrequitedly in love with Malfoy?
Fishing, was he?
Eager to know the details, are you Mr. Riddle? Well if you must; I amn't going to bare my fangs on everyone who tries to hurt ickle ronnikins. He is a big boy, and he can take care of himself. As for Malfoy, I don't take pleasure when a perfidious fool gets his comeuppance. He simply is beneath my notice.
The conniving wench, she knew how to push the right buttons but it was a shame that his were quite different from normal populace.
Beneath your notice? Might I remind you my dear, Malfoy is the heir of one of the largest conglomerates of Britain and apart from that he has a title too? I would assume he would be perfect, as he is perhaps the most convincing candidate for a real life Disney prince and that is without taking in consideration of his pale flaxen hair and handsome visage as Narcissa Black so eloquently wrote in her weekly love letter. In comparison, you my dear are just the Duke's bastard as they say.
Tom Riddle knew how to be mean. What he was saying was right and if he thought he could offend her, he was mistaken. She had heard far more ominous words that his polite bastard and through the years her skin had toughened up.
Bastard? Are you being polite Mr. Riddle? I have been called far worse. And as for Mr. Malfoy, you are right; most society matrons would agree with you. And as for my lineage, I can't change being Duke's bastard as you can't change being Salazar Slytherin's descendent.
Merlin's ass. How did Granger know of his ancestry?
My, my Miss Granger, you surprise me. How did you come to this outlandish conclusion of me being Slytherin's heir? Snooping, are we Miss Granger?
Surprised, was he? She smirked. He was a worthy companion/adversary.
My sources are my own Mr. Riddle, and I do my homework. Furthermore the tone in which you wrote 'Slytherin's heir', it spoke volumes.
Holy hell, she was quick, and someone worthy of wasting his time with; the time left from his myriad plans of world domination that is.
Know-it-all.
It felt different when he used that word. She could envision the mirth dancing in his eyes at this gentle ribbing.
Wise guy.
Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger became pen pals, well technically e-mail pals and there wasn't a minute they weren't writing something or other to one another. It felt good to have someone with whom they could be themselves.
But never once in their long mails did they ever use the word friend.
Seven years passed with them being keepers of each other's secrets; secrets that were equally heinous and unmentionable, trifle and vulnerable. After finishing college they moved in together stating they couldn't tolerate idiots. Better someone they knew rather than a complete stranger.
He got busy with his nefarious yet sneaky plans of world domination and she used that second skin of hers which was all goodness, nobility and justified as a weapon to climb the ladders of political jargon. At the end of the day when they returned to their flat, they weren't Tom Riddle, business magnate extraordinaire and Hermione Granger, up and coming voice of liberals; they were just Tom and Hermione shedding the cloaks they wore for world.
He wasn't charming and gallant as world perceived him to be, he was downright sycophantic and she wasn't good and noble as people saw her, in fact she was tired of being so all the time.
In the duration of these seven years, they moved from an ordinary flat to a luxury apartment to a townhouse and finally to a manor but one thing that didn't change, was their cohabitation.
People often asked if they were involved with each other and they would just smile, shake their heads and Tom would answer that they were 'friends' with that smile that never reached his eyes. He was right when he said they weren't friends because they were far vital for each other than mere friends.
He knew she liked to read before she went to sleep and she was afraid of lightening. He teased her mercilessly when it came to it but his were the arms which held her when lightening jagged the sky in two.
He knew she missed her mother and yearned for her father's love. He knew she was grumpy as cat in the morning before her cup of tea that he brewed. He knew she smelt of cinnamon and books.
He had sugar tooth and she loved to bake. He would sit for hours in kitchen as she moved around doing what usually is done in baking and he would just watch her, his stock reports forgotten. He would watch her like a snake watches a charmer, constantly, intently.
In the dark confines of night and in the prison of his bedroom his hands would sometimes fist in his sheets as desire would course his veins hitting him with the force of an oncoming meteor. But those instances were carefully pushed at the back of his mind come the morning and when he emerged from his room he was Tom who was sarcastic and delighted in riling Hermione before her morning cup of tea.
He dated. Recklessly. There were models, actresses, princesses, heiresses, socialites and even few queens thrown here and there. His sex life was a continuous stream of fantasy compared to any counterpart of his male genus and yet there was this little voice in the back of his head that whispered of caramel colored curly hair and fathomless chocolate eyes in throes of his passion.
Sometimes when being good got too much, she retreated to the comfort only Tom could give. When she tired of the two faced goodness gnawing at the edge of her psyche, he would pull her in his arms and everything would be all right again.
He needed her as she needed him.
She knew he had grown up in a household that felt like orphanage under the neglectful ministrations of an absentee father who didn't want anything to do with Tom and a junkie mother who had died in arms of the pleasure only cocaine could bring.
She knew he had killed his father, or put him in vegetative state in one of his rages. His cold rages. He had made her swear that she would go far away from him if he was in one of his rages.
She knew he loved sweets so she had dusted her rusty baking skills, and he could devour anything she baked in record time.
She knew he smelt like spice and Tom, and that he used copious amounts of gel to fashion that dark hair of his.
Sometimes he would sneak in her dreams and he would do unspeakable things to her body. Pleasurable things. Things that she feared to do in reality. During all the time they had lived together, there had been nothing more than couple of accidental touches, but he still burned inside her with a fervor that was unquenchable and hard to disguise in the light of the day. By no means was Hermione Granger a prude. She could view an orgy with clinical detachment but when it came to participating, she froze.
She was terrified of sex, and so that little issue had left her a virgin at the grand old age of 27.
They still e-mailed each other a lot. Texts were the next best thing. They could be sitting in their living room, with telly on for some invigorating background noise as he called it, she on couch with her legs folded beneath her and his head would be in her lap, his eyes on some report about mergers or acquisitions and suddenly they would be writing to each other.
They found comfort in words and words reminded them that a long time ago words had bandied them together.
She was running late when her phone pinged.
Are you ready yet? Your prince charming might take offense on being kept waiting, and Hermione please hurry. I can't suffer this idiot any longer.
Sometimes Tom could be a prima donna. She was only couple of minutes late and Cedric Diggory wasn't an idiot.
He was seething. He didn't know why Diggory put him on edge? Maybe it was because Diggory was nice and Tom could see Hermione settling with him which meant he won't be the only one receiving Hermione's unparallel attention and that made him furious. Hermione was his. He didn't want to share her.
Don't be a fucking queen of melodrama Tom.
When she came down the stairs, all he wanted to do was cover her up so that Diggory couldn't see her with that panting dog look of his. Her dress was a sleek stylish affair of emerald and black which left her back bare, and her breasts barely concealed. That glorious hair of hers was twisted up in knot with few escaping tendrils. Mouth painted in siren red, eyes smoky and mysterious; she was his temptation.
When she moved to take Diggory's hand and when his hand touched the skin of her back; all Tom wanted to do was kill the bastard.
He didn't know why he waited for her. She was capable of taking care of herself and let's be honest, he wasn't the caring type. But this was Hermione, and call him biased but he didn't like Diggory at all.
When the door opened, he was greeted with a woman who was as opposite as the one who had left on Diggory's arm. The gleam of her eyes was gone and so was her siren red lip color. It enraged him. She didn't notice him and he could see the dried trail of her tears. She had only cried in front of him, in his arms. What had the bastard Diggory done?
'Hermione?' he called.
She turned, as if surprise to see him. She averted her face and that maddened him even further. She was his Hermione, why was she hiding?
She kept taking the stairs as if she hadn't seen him and that just broke his damn fortitude. He walked behind her, fury in his each ascending step. When she started opening the door of her room, he just grabbed her hand and dragged her to his room, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click.
'What did he do?' his voice was flinty.
She was silent for a long time and when his patience started fraying at the edges, her voice reached him in soft sad whispers.
'He kissed me and I panicked. I said I wanted more time and he laughed at me and said it was a damn shame that I was frigid, otherwise he would have won the bet among his friends.'
His arms came around her even when she hiccupped that she didn't want his sympathy. 'Oh sweetheart. I will break his damn bones.' The growl at the end of that statement was sure comforting.
But Hermione knew where the blame lay. 'No it's all right Tom. After all he is right. I am frigid.'
She knew that despite appearing in her countless dreams, Tom wouldn't want someone as inexperienced as her. She was terrified of being rejected. This was Tom. She could never live if he of all people rejected her.
He kissed her. Before she could process what was happening, he had her pinned to his door, his hands spearing in her hair, scattering pins on the floor. He was gentle and soft. He rubbed his lips over hers again and again and when his tongue traced the seam of her lips, she opened her mouth tentatively. His tongue touched the roof of her mouth and desire coiled in the base of her stomach. She shyly touched her tongue to his and he groaned.
She rather liked that sound.
Over and over he taught her to kiss him.
When he broke off, his eyes were at her face, curious and searching.
And then she saw what she should have seen ages ago in his dark eyes.
Love.
'You don't feel frigid to me.' he tugged her impossibly closer where she could feel the effect she was having on him.
She smiled as he tugged her towards the bed. Her frigidity was going to be a thing of past real soon.
Her vibrating phone forced her to open her eyes. Tom had kept her up most of the night and she was sore in the places she didn't knew existed. He was tracing circles on her back and she snuggled further his chest. Her phone vibrated again.
She groaned as she got up from the bed, stark naked.
She fumbled a bit before locating her clutch and digging the currently offensive piece of technology out.
I love you. No regrets?
She smiled as she typed her reply.
No regrets and I love you too.
She looked at him as he read her message. She liked that smile on his face. One that reached his eyes.
He smirked when he hit send, probably his last text for whole day.
So, care for round two or are you too sore? I will be gentle, I promise Miss Granger.
She laughed as she carelessly discarded her phone at his table after typing her message.
You betcha Mr. Riddle.
She was kissing daylights outta him before he reached the end of his message.