Author's Note: if you love a crazy, dark, jealous and possessive Tom, you might be interested in the other Tomione I recently started. It's called This House Has a History, and you can find it on my page. Also, I lied. sixth year is going to be three chapters, not two. Sorry bout that, I just couldn't bring myself to shorten it.
After hitting yet another dead end in his search to learn more about Hermione, Tom decided he needed to break into her office again.
This time, he had requested public records from the Ministry, much like he had done with his mother's family. What he should have gotten was an incomplete history of her life, including almost everything she had ever done within the magical community. OWL and NEWT scores, schooling, family relations, criminal record, work experience- all of that was tracked by the Ministry and could be requested as public information.
And yet it seemed they had next to nothing on Hermione Jean Granger.
They had a file, of course. There was just very little information in it.
According to the little information he got about her, she had born in 1920, on September 19th, making her 23. No parents listed.
But somehow, she managed to get eleven OWLs and eight NEWTs despite having been homeschooled.
Not bloody likely.
It was more likely, much more so, that the records had been fairly recently changed or newly created to apply only to the name she was going by now. It wasn't uncommon for a witch or wizard to register themselves to the Ministry under a new name.
Herpo the Foul, for instance, was certainly not born being called 'the Foul'.
If that were the case, "Hermione" might not even be her birth name. If she changed her surname, she easily could have changed her first name as well.
His primary theory was that she had left a pureblood family. The Blacks, for example, were known to burn blood-traitors off the family tree and disown them entirely. It would make sense that she would disown them back, reject her name, and reinvent herself(that's certainly what he would have done).
He couldn't imagine her groveling for forgiveness. She wouldn't, he just knew that. And he knew she'd never censor her opinions on blood purity politics, because she hadn't done so even for him, even when he could have hurt her.
Not that he had any intention of doing so, but she didn't know that. She was either unafraid of being hurt, or so passionately reckless that she didn't care. In a way, that fearlessness and bravery was admirable, attractive, even, but it still made him feel a bit uneasy.
She couldn't help him if she was too busy being suicidal.
Alternatively, she was a bastard child. In many of the pureblood families, the halfblood children of mistresses(Malfoy always said they "don't keep the mudblood secretaries around because they need help with paperwork", as though that's not completely disgusting) were hidden away, denied the family name, and had their general existence pushed under the rug completely.
That wasn't exactly what had happened to him, but similar. Close enough.
It would unfortunately be beyond impolite to ask her about that. And he knew quite well that she wouldn't tell him shit, given her mysterious and incredibly suspicious "no personal information" policy.
Ergo, he broke into her office again.
First, he started with her desk. He flipped through all the papers that sat on top of it, but seeing they were mostly essays(bad ones, at that), he moved to the drawers. In the top drawer of the left side, he found extra paper, quills, and ink. He moved on.
In the next drawer, he found files containing records of grades. After a brief glance through those(which gave him confirmation that he did, in fact, have the best DADA grade out of everyone in his year), he moved on.
In the bottom drawer of the right side, he found a picture frame containing a photograph underneath all the miscellaneous, teacher related rubbish.
Though she was younger, he recognized Hermione immediately. She was wearing an oversized, fuzzy sweater over a large pair of what looked like men's sleep pants. Sandwiched between two boys who looked to be about her age, she kept glancing between the camera and the boy next to her, the one with red hair. She looked like she might have been fifteen -sixteen, maybe.
There was nothing in the photo he recognized other than her. He didn't recognize the room, nor the boys with her.
He still felt an odd sense of annoyance upon looking at them. She looked comfortable with them. Happy, even. She almost never looked happy at Hogwarts, not genuinely. He could only think of a few rare times he he made her laugh or smile like that. He wondered what those boys had had to offer her, to be able to make her feel like that.
Whatever it was, he wanted to have it.
"What are you looking for?"
Hearing her voice, he gently placed the photo back but did not look up. He continued onto the other drawer.
"I spent the entire summer," he started, still not looking up, "and a decent portion of last year looking for anything I could find about you. But I found nothing. Not even someone with the same last name."
Well, technically hadn't spent the entire summer, but a decent portion of it. After discovering his family was useless, he decided to further investigate hers using the muggle resources available to him.
After a brief moment, she replied, "have you considered that might be intentional, Tom?"
Yes, he thought, yes I have.
He looked up, curious to see if her face would reveal anything. In stark contrast to the photo he had just seen, she looked tired. And not in the way that could be fixed with a nap.
'Coffee if you're demotivated,' she had told him once. Maybe later, maybe while he was studying, he'd ask the house elves if they could bring up coffee. See if that made her look less exhausted.
"And why on earth would you do that? What could be so important that you so desperately hide from it?" He strode over to her, pleased to notice she kept her eyes locked on him the entire time.
Given her exhausted appearance, it didn't surprise him that her tone was lacking of its usual passion. "I never said I was hiding. There's power in anonymity."
That sparked his interest.
"What do you mean?"
No stranger to a desire for power, Slytherin was the house of ambition. The wealthy, the famous, and the politically powerful all often came from his house. But they always sought recognition in some form or another. Hermione was also a Slytherin. Although despite seeking power, she seemed to desire no such acknowledgement. It was unusual.
Then again, she scarcely could be described as 'usual'.
As she moved to sit down, he joined her by moving to sit across from her. "Have you ever seen a puppet show?"
Not entirely sure of where she was going with this, he nodded.
"You never see the puppet master, only the puppets. Typically, you don't remember their name ten seconds after reading it. But that doesn't matter, because they're still in control. Every movement, every line- it happens because they want it to.
"There's no glory, but there's power and the ability to do whatever you want in peace, without anyone ever even considering you."
He didn't know where she came from, or if Hermione Granger was even her real name, but with that comment, he felt like he knew her, past aside, better than he had before.
It made sense. She seem to hate being around other people, feared it, even. Why would she seek their recognition, their approval? To her, power was not about having people know her name, but freedom, having the ability to do as she pleased without so much as needing their notice. She wanted to live her life in peace and control, not fame.
There was something deeply gratifying about knowing she didn't have such a shallow view of the usual Slytherin ideals. While completely different from his own, he related to her on that.
It did, however, remind him of another question. He had asked it before and she had barely answered him. In his frustration, he decided to ask again.
"What happened to your family?"
There was caution in her expression, like she wasn't sure what to say, but then she finally answered.
"I obliviated them."
He remembered that night he first asked, when he found her up on the astronomy tower on New Year's Eve, his birthday, and how he had found a sense of solidarity with her when she told him she didn't have a family, that she didn't have a home. That, just like him, she was alone.
The feeling grew exponentially upon hearing her last answer. Just like he had killed his family, she had killed hers. Maybe not literally, but she did. She erased them.
Rather than continue the conversation, she grabbed a book and sat down. He joined her, but said nothing.
As she read, he watched her, not even the slightest bit subtle about it, but she didn't seem to notice.
He watched the way she kept brushing her unruly curls out of her face, how she pulled her sleeves down, and how she looked completely immersed in the book, as though she could slip away and escape into the pages themselves. He wondered, if she could do such a thing, if she would.
She looked beautiful.
He had always thought she was pretty, and he had acknowledged her attractive appearance before, obviously, but this was different.
It wasn't her face or her hair or her body that he found beautiful in this moment, but her entire existence. The way her life, her mind, her very soul paralleled his was so alluring, he couldn't help but feel a desire to claim it for himself.
It it was obvious why fate had given her to him.
Something so rare and so valuable, so extraordinary, couldn't be trusted with anyone else. And he was the only one worthy of her time, and she the only one worthy of his. Even she knew that, proven by her refusal to have other friends.
But, for now at least, he knew he'd have to be patient with her, for her. Because he knew that if he wasn't, he'd lose her. Maybe not completely, but he didn't want to risk having any less than all of her.
That simply wasn't an option.
Jealousy was a feeling Tom was very familiar with. He knew what it felt like by now, having felt it many times before. Identifying it was easy.
He was familiar with the way it made your gut wrench, and it seemed to boil the blood in your veins. The way it weakened the control over a person's thoughts, making them fixate only on that which they can't have, that which another person does have despite being undeserving of it.
None of that was comparable to how he felt watching a man, Tiberius McClaggen, if he had managed to introduce himself properly(given his apparent lack of brain power, Tom wouldn't have been surprised if the fool got his own name wrong), putting his hands on Granger-
No, he corrected himself, Hermione.
All these months later and he still hadn't completely broken the habit. He was allowed to think of her as Hermione, he didn't have to call her by her surname-
Leaning into her, whispering to her,
Touching her,
And knowing that he himself could not do the same.
Because, even though he had earned her attention, her affection, even(though she seemed to still be in denial about that, it was clear), he was still only a schoolboy to the world. And by those standards, he wasn't allowed to touch her.
Even though she had chosen him, he had less of a right to even place a hand on her than the gremlin currently salivating all over her.
It made him furious.
And by the looks of it, Hermione didn't like it much either. She squirmed under the scrutiny of the other man, and downed her champagne like she was hoping she'd drown in it.
She looked positively miserable.
As she should be.
She should be disgusted by the idea of another man touching her, of another man looking at her like that, because she didn't belong to anyone else.
Never had he consciously acknowledged that she belonged to him, but now that he just had, it seemed obvious. Some things don't need to be said for them to be known as true.
For example: there is water in the Black Lake. It gets cold in the winter. Hermione Granger belonged to him.
All of these statements are known to be facts, existing as such despite any denial or lack of acknowledgement.
When he had first heard Slughorn mention that she would be coming to this party, he had been looking forward to it. Slug Club parties were generally dull, and they existed only as a way to schmooze or brag, but Tom always attended because he was always invited.
And, eventually, the schmoozing might pay off.
Usually he found that having her near calmed him, kept him stable and focused with unusual ease, but tonight was proving to be an exception.
She showed up, just like Slughorn had said she would, in a floor length sapphire gown that seemed to almost glitter as she moved. Though it covered her shoulders down to her sleeves(it didn't shock him to see that she, as always, was wearing long sleeves), the neckline was cut into a dramatic deep v shape that showed off more cleavage than he had ever imagined she'd show willingly.
It also highlighted a deep purple, painful looking scar that started at her shoulder and cut across her breasts; A battle scar, he assumed. A mark left from a serious duel, a curse flung by someone with more than a little experience in dark magic.
She looked stunning. She looked dark and powerful, like one of the goddesses he'd read about in ancient mythology, and breathtakingly beautiful.
And he hated it.
He hated it because normally only he got to see her like that. Normally, her value was kept hidden away just for him, but now everyone was looking at her like they wanted her.
He hated it and he hated how he had no authority to correct the situation, to set the record straight.
Having to sit and watch it all just made him sick. And want to leave. He wanted to get up, to rip her out of her seat, away from McClaggen, and leave and take her with him.
But he didn't have that option, and he couldn't tear his eyes off her.
The other man put a hand on her again, her shoulder(cloth covered, no skin, he noted), as he leaned in to her.
"Where else does that scar extend to, sweetheart? I've always loved such dangerous, pretty girls."
Unable to contain his rage any longer, furious accidental magic lashed out. The man's champagne glass burst in his hand.
It was a pity none of the shards hit him.
The sound attracted quite a crowd, and, desperate for attention as he was, McClaggen ate it up. "Sorry about that," he said with a disgustingly arrogant expression in place. "Quidditch, you know. You get in the habit of gripping things just a bit too tight." Slughorn, who was obviously more than a little drunk, waved it off, cast a spell to clean the broken glass, and it all moved on.
Taking advantage of that small moment of distraction, Hermione pushed her seat away from him.
That's my witch, keep scooting away-
But the distraction only lasted so long, and after only a moment the man had shifted his attention back to her.
"Would you like to go somewhere a bit more, private, shall we say? I'd just love to get to know you better."
And with that, Tom thought he might actually lose it. He had prided himself on his excellent self control, but with that comment, he thought he might actually kill the man. Disregard magic completely, he'd slit his throat with his own broken champagne glass, and obliviate everyone present.
Except Hermione. She would watch. If he had to, he would make her.
Not to hurt her, but to help her, to teach her. So she would understand what would happen to people other than himself who touched her, who spoke to her like that.
She needed to know she was valued, and that she would be adequately protected. How much he could do as a student was heavily restricted, but he would make it work if he needed to. And she would help him.
He knew she would.
She jumped from her seat, almost falling over as she nervously sputtered excuses at the man attempting to bed her. "Sorry, uh, I'm taken. So sorry. I'm not feeling well so, please excuse me."
Her heels made a surprisingly delightful clicking sound as she scampered away like her life depended on it.
Abandoning the party, Tom followed behind, deciding to find her himself. She was stumbling, she was drunk, and she was looking like that, all of which were separately valid reasons he didn't feel comfortable letting her wander around without him.
He found her in an abandoned classroom, bent over on all fours, retching into a trash can. Not exactly elegant.
When her retching had ceased and she was merely catching her breath over the rubbish bin, he moved forward, crouched down next to her, and pulled her hair back, away from her face.
"Slughorn's parties have a tendency to do this to a person, even if they hadn't had as much to drink as you did," he said conversationally, and she turned her head to face him.
Seeing his face, her head tilted just slightly in what he understood to be confusion, or perhaps curiosity. Her hair moved a bit within his fist, but he kept his grip firm for the moment. She must have used a charm to keep her makeup in place, because her lipstick would otherwise not have survived that much champagne or that much vomiting.
"I don't make a habit of drinking like that, but I really needed a distraction."
He held back a smirk. If she really wanted to, she could have just come sit with him. This was her own fault, and to hear that it had been unpleasant was uniquely satisfying.
He let his grip on her hair drop, watching as it once again frizzed proudly, properly, around her face.
"Come on, let's get you back to your office." He offered a hand to help her up, expecting her to take it, but she just looked at it with confused apprehension, like it was a wild animal that had suddenly approached her. "Hermione, you can barely walk. Let me help you," he drawled, but she didn't so much as move.
Rolling his eyes, he bent down and wrapped an arm around her waist, guided her arm around his shoulder, and helped her up. If she wouldn't help herself, then he would have to do it for her.
As soon as she tried to step away, she fell off balance again and he gripped her waist tighter. The entire way back to her office, she muttered grouchy things about "I'm not as drunk as you think I am."
A knight in one of the portraits nodded his approval of Tom's seemingly chivalrous actions, and though he appreciated the gesture, he did not appreciate the way it made Hermione start muttering something about "benevolent misogyny." He had no idea what that meant but he wasn't really listening anyways.
He had never actually been this close to another person before, never touched anyone more than was necessary to be either threatening or polite. It was strange, but not entirely unpleasant.
In general, he liked to keep the possessions that mattered most to him very close. His wand was always on his person. His diary was either in his hand, his bedside table, or his bookbag. The book Hermione had given him stayed with the diary, except on nights where he couldn't sleep.
It would make sense that having her near would bring him similar comfort. It was logical.
And, he noted, that for as much as she was complaining about how she didn't need help, she hadn't showed any signs of either revulsion or fear towards the way he touched her.
Which moderately surprised him, because she really was quite close. Though she had removed her own arm from his shoulder, his was still wrapped around her waist, fingers splayed over her ribcage. Through the fabric of her dress and the flesh of her body, he noticed he could detect the distinct feeling of bone. She felt fragile, like a twig he could crack if he pressed just a bit too hard.
He didn't like that she felt breakable.
Logically, he knew she had to be stronger than she felt underneath his touch. In general, females were smaller and physically weaker, but he knew she wasn't helpless. She was the bloody defense teacher, for fucks sake, not some wilting flower.
The feeling was still disconcerting, though.
As he half carried her along, her hair brushed against his face, ticking the skin under his nose.
It smelled like soap, orchid, and vanilla. Probably her shampoo. Generally, women smelled like flowers or artificial sweetness, or baby powder. He liked the scent of her shampoo better, he decided.
When they arrived back at her office, he placed her gently down onto her couch before moving to sit across from her.
"Why did you call me Hermione?" Despite her inebriated state, her words were surprisingly coherent.
"Because that's your name," he answered blankly, like it should be simple.
"But I'm your professor," she argued.
His initial reaction was 'no, no you're not' but technically that was incorrect, so he didn't say it out loud.
"Not really," he said instead.
She blinked. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like."
She eyed him warily, but didn't attempt to argue further. Satisfied with her passive response, he moved closer. "That guy, at the party," he started, "you told him you were 'taken', whatever that means."
Part of him knew that he shouldn't ask, that it was improper, even if he didn't outright say what he was asking. Really, he hadn't actually asked anything, only made a statement. Still, she wasn't wearing a wedding ring, so he could say he was simply confused by the contradiction of her response and the appearance of a lack of relationship. That he only was asking for clarification.
Even if it was improper, he had a feeling she didn't care much for what was proper. Proper women don't swear, they don't drink themselves sick in public, and they definitely don't abandon their duties to a family in order to study dark magic.
She was an anomaly.
"There's this thing people do, when they don't want to do something. It's called lying," and with that, she actually started giggling.
Giggling, like an inane school girl.
Normally he despised the sound, and out of context he'd definitely still find it annoying, but knowing that she was only acting like this because she was completely sloshed and knowing that he was the only one allowed to see her like this somehow made it amusing.
"Oh, I can assure you, I'm very familiar with the concept. But isn't that usually considered rude?" He asked, tone heavy with mock innocence.
"Oh, Merlin, you're right!" She replied sarcastically. "Next time I'll be sure to just tell him to fuck right off."
You should have, he thought.
He chuckled a bit before leaning forward and tucking a lock of her hair back. "I don't think Slughorn would appreciate that much, but I certainly wouldn't complain."
Since he began Hogwarts, he started actually caring about his appearance. He knew that no one would listen to a little orphan boy with uncombed hair and dirt on his face, but that if he was clean, quiet, and polite, their attitudes towards him would change drastically. As he got older and no longer looked like a boy, the difference was even more noticeable.
It was most noticeable with women, though men were susceptible as well.
A compliment, a polite but intimate touch, and they would melt. They'd fall apart and he could rebuild them however he pleased.
Hermione, it seemed, could not be so easily swayed. She blinked quickly, swallowed, and ever so slightly leaned away from him. Anxiety, he deduced.
In a way, it was interesting that she only seemed afraid now, when all he had done was verbally imply interest in her, and not earlier when he had actually touched her, held her close, even.
Her throat cleared subtly before she spoke again. "Well, regardless, I have no interest in dating."
At that, he scoffed. "Hermione, I don't think a date is what he was interested in."
Instantly, all the color drained from her face and she stared at him like he had just started speaking in tongues. What began as a grin morphed into full, genuine laughter as her expression shifted from that of shock into one of disgusted horror.
"If you keep talking like that, I'm gonna throw up again," she grumbled, clearly not as amused by this as he was.
Again he leaned forward, this time brushing her hair back behind her shoulder. As his fingers brushed over the edge of the scar, she flinched. He wasn't sure if it was out of pain or surprise, but he didn't move his fingers away.
He ignored the way his trousers suddenly felt tighter as he trailed his fingers down, lower, along her scar.
The scar was cursed, he could tell. He could literally feel the dark magic thrumming against the healed skin, residing unnaturally within her body. It didn't match the traces of her own magic, it felt wrong.
"This isn't a natural scar," he stated. "What happened?"
"Someone cursed me," she responded. It was probably the alcohol willing her forward, but he didn't stop her as she continued, "I saw that he was firing at me, and I knew it couldn't be blocked. So I silenced him instead, weakening the spell. If I hadn't, I'd have died. Even with it weakened, I wasn't in good shape."
Remembering the way it felt to touch her ribs, how she felt so fragile and delicate, he imagined someone cursing her. It wasn't intentional, he couldn't control it, but he imagined her bones snapping like the twigs he had mentally compared her to before. He imagined punctured lungs and pained, gasping breaths, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth. The wound over her chest no longer a scar, but open and angry.
It made him furious to think of someone doing that to her. And, in a strange way, he felt nervous. He didn't want to think of her dying and leaving him without any guidance whatsoever. He didn't want to consider what could have happened if she had died before he even got to meet her.
"I heard Slughorn bragging to some of his Ministry friends that you had 'hands on experience' with defense against dark magic," his eyes flickered from her, to the scar under his fingertips, and then back to her before saying, "I take it this is what he meant?"
"I don't talk about what happened. Not in detail," she replied plainly.
That was the line. Again, personal questions was the line she wouldn't cross. It was strange how he could push her and push her for information on the darkest types of magic and she wouldn't so much as blink, but anything about herself made her defensive. What little he knew of her life he had learned because she chose to reveal it on her own, not because he pushed.
Reluctantly, he removed his fingers from her skin, holding eye contact as he did.
For her, he decided not to press more. For one night, he had given her enough to process. If she was that frightened of closeness -of intimacy in any form- he knew that pushing her would only be counterproductive. He would need to be gentle with her or she'd run off. She'd get scared, overwhelmed, and he wouldn't allow for that to happen.
Before he left, he left two additional flowers on her desk. He contemplated the symbolism in that the language of flowers was initially used to say things one couldn't outloud, because it would be improper or have serious consequences, and how painfully true that rang now.
Never had he had trouble asking for what he wanted. It had always been easy for him to express what he needed or what he desired at any given moment. But this was an unusual situation, and she was an unusual person. When he had implied his interest in her before, she became frightened. It wasn't obvious -no shaking, screaming, or crying(thank fuck, that would have been a nightmare to deal with, not to mention deeply insulting)- but he could see it and he knew better than to try that again, not right away.
Perhaps it would be easier for her to read it.
A yellow rose could be used to signify friendship, but she wouldn't read it that way. Nor should she.
Jealousy, infidelity. She'd understand what he meant. That it was maddening to know that he couldn't otherwise express his desire to keep her to himself.
A heartsease pansy could be taken multiple ways as well, but in this case either one would be suitable. Think of me, because I'm thinking of you.
Tom snuck back into the Slytherin common room late, not expecting anyone else to still be awake. When he had left Hermione's office, it was already past midnight.
"You left the Slug Club party over an hour ago."
He looked up and saw that Dolohov was sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, newspaper discarded next to him.
He glared back at the boy. "Are you my mother now, here to lecture me for breaking curfew?"
The other boy seemed completely unfazed by his hostility. "No," he shook his head, "just curious. I just saw you leave right after Granger left and I assumed you came back, but you weren't in the dorm."
"I was helping Granger back to her office."
"Did she break her legs or something?"
Tom's eyes narrowed. "She was drunk. It's not exactly safe for intoxicated women to wander around on their own."
"And you care... Why?"
In comparison to the other boys, Dolohov was actually fairly decent company. He was fairly intelligent, usually quiet and though he most often kept to himself, occasionally he asked Tom questions about whatever it was he was reading or doing. Normally, Tom didn't mind.
This time, however, he was not asking about any bits of rare magic or the inner workings of a curse. He was asking about Hermione. And that was one of the things Tom did not feel overly inclined to share.
He glanced around the common room. It was empty, but he had no guarantee it would stay that way.
"Walk with me," he said, quickly guiding the other boy out into the hall.
It was silent between them until Tom opened the door to an abandoned classroom and they both stepped inside.
Dolohov pushed himself up onto a desk and gave Tom an expectant expression. "What's this about?"
From here, he saw that he had three options: divert attention from the issue, lie, or tell the truth.
While Tom wasn't even remotely opposed to violence, he also knew it wasn't always the best route and had a number of potential consequences. If he hurt someone every time they annoyed him, he wouldn't have half the useful acquaintances he did now, and they'd have no loyalty to him. It would be unwise to burn bridges before you're done with them.
A confundus charm could work, though. But if he used that, he'd be missing out on the opportunity to build the illusion of trust. He knew people would do just about anything for someone who made them feel like they were useful, special, even if they weren't.
Rather than lie entirely, Tom thought it would be best to give half the truth.
"Granger knows about the Chamber of Secrets."
That was enough information that the boy wouldn't think he was hiding anything, but vague enough that the precise nature of his interest in her was concealed.
For a fraction of a second, the other boy went stiff and his eyes widened in shock. "And you were..." He paused, likely thinking of a way to ask without self incriminating, "doing something about it?"
Tom shook his head.
"No, there's no need for that. She's helping me."
"She's helping you?"
Tom nodded in affirmation, but did not verbally reply.
"So... does that mean she's one of us, then?" Dolohov hesitantly questioned.
'Us', he knew, meant the Knights of Walpurgis.
After a moment, hopefully not enough time that Dolohov noticed, Tom replied. "Yes."
No, and if she were here to hear me say that, she'd probably slap me.
Still, it's not as though he could just tell him, or anyone, the truth: that Granger, Hermione, was his. Not yet.
"Does anyone else know?"
"No," he answered quickly, shaking his head, "and as of right now, I don't trust them to know."
The boy nodded his agreement. "Abraxas is still a little iffy on the whole half-blood thing, and he'd likely feel threatened if you brought another girl in." He punctuated his last statement with a smirk.
Hermione would hate being referred to as a girl like that, even if it were only to insult Abraxas, and the thought of exactly how she'd lecture him about it was nearly enough to make him smirk, but he restrained himself to keep up his air of authority.
"Glad to know we're in agreement," Tom replied, tone cordial as ever, "and if you tell anyone, you should know I'm not opposed to using the Chamber to stash corpses."
He turned away, but he still saw the other boy's stiff nod of understanding.
Early the following morning, Tom stopped by the infirmary for a hangover concoction. By flattering Madam Pomfrey, he was able to convince her to give him one "for a friend who over-indulged at Slughorn's party". It wasn't a lie, but she probably thought he had meant one of his roommates.
That was her mistake. Not his fault.
Gently, he opened the door to Hermione's office, and, as expected, found her with her head down on the desk, all the lights in the room dimmed around her.
"Good morning, Hermione," he said as he approached her desk. "I brought you something. I had a feeling you'd be a bit, shall we say, out of sorts, after last night so I stopped by the infirmary for you."
He placed the bottle on her desk. "Here, it'll make you feel better."
Lifting her head, she warily inspected the bottle. He rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Hermione, it's not poison. Just drink the damn potion."
"No, it's not that," she said dismissively, voice a bit groggy. "It's more that I don't want to forget that excessive alcohol consumption has consequences."
He arched a brow. "You're punishing yourself? Seriously? You got drunk at a boring party, not drowned a baby."
"It's more the principal than anything," she grumbled in response.
Sighing, he took the bottle from her hands. "Very well then. Have it your way."
And with that, he banged his fist against the desk, creating a noise he knew would be skull shattering to her.
"What the fuck Tom?!" She shrieked, covering her ears to protect herself from the pain.
He did it again.
"Tell me when you feel sufficiently punished and I'll give you the potion back. There's no use having you incapacitated all day, that's just stupid."
Just as he raised a hand to hit the desk again, she raised her own in surrender. "Fine, fine. I get your point. You're right. Happy?"
He nodded his affirmation.
"Give me the bloody potion," she grumbled.
"As the lady requests," he replied as he handed it back.
After she downed it, shot him a glare. "I hate you."
Laughing, he responded, "no, no you don't, and we both know it."
Biting the inside of her cheek and rolling her eyes, she replied, "you are such a brat."
He saw no reason to deny that, especially when she somehow managed to it sound like a term of endearment.
Almost everyone had gone home over Christmas break, leaving only about a dozen stray students and exactly two teachers behind.
During meals, the Great Hall usually held a table for each house and one for teachers, but over the break it held only one long table in the center of the room.
Dumbledore said it was better to eat with company. Tom found that debatable, but when he saw Hermione take a seat at the end of the table, he decided he didn't care and sat next to her. The thought of leaving her exposed to Dumbledore of all people, was, to put it mildly, unappealing.
Usually over winter break, he had the kitchen house elves bring him food while he studied. It was technically against the rules to do so, but over break the elves stopped caring and they liked him anyways.
Throughout the meal, he watched her again. He recently found that he very much liked watching her, even if at times it became distracting or frustrating.
When she was asked a question, she'd smile politely and subtly divert the attention elsewhere, find a way to shift the focus away from her.
He liked that. He liked that she didn't answer anyone but him unless it was academic, unless she had to for her job.
When someone told a joke, she'd quietly, almost girlishly, laugh along until the appropriate moment to stop.
That's fake, he thought to himself with smug satisfaction, I've seen what she looks like, sounds like, when she actually laughs, and it's not that.
He spent the rest of the meal watching her, analyzing her, and reveling in the fact that everyone around them was completely unaware that she was a liar, and a fake, except for him.
And he was too, except for her.