Tom Riddle was used to lying in wait.
Whether he was waiting to leave that godforsaken orphanage, waiting to find his father—although the only thing he knew about him was he shared his name—waiting to claw his way out of this cesspool of a city; He had learned over the course of his life that nothing was unobtainable as long as he was willing to wait.
He treated Hermione Granger in much the same way.
And when she left him standing in that alleyway—drunk and angry and alone—every particle screamed for her and every thought revolved around forcing her back, don't let her get away, bring her back and make her understand, make her stay, don't give her a choice—
But he knew there were certain things—the things that mattered—that needed to be dealt with in a more particular manner. Hermione Granger had never been a part of his life that he had controlled, but rather an inexplicable miracle of his existence that he had only been able to appreciate through her own free will. In the same way that one could not hold moonlight in the palm of ones hand, he could not bend her will to his to make her stay. He never could.
The fact of the matter was she had always chosen him, not the other way around. He had thought once, when he was young, that he had finally found the way to be certain she would stay when he discovered how to comb his hair and how to speak in a gentler manner. But she had laid beside him at the park, bathed in sunlight, her hair spread about her head like a lions mane and she had told him—
"I like you better this way"
—And he had foolishly considered, in that moment, that she might be his angel. He was twelve years old and had lived a life of poverty both material and social all his life and suddenly this small girl wanted to take his hand and call him her friend—what other explanation could there be for her interest unless she was explicitly and specifically meant for him? Little girls with working parents and large houses in London didn't befriend angry, violent orphan boys, after all.
It had all seemed so inevitable to him, the two of them. It still did.
So when she left him there with the memories of her blazing eyes the way it felt to hold her in a way that wasn't gentle or friendly or soft—he knew that all he could do was wait.
Wait for her to understand what he had realized long ago, wait for her to accept that she was already his, that she had been from the moment he decided he was hers. Wait for her to return to him because if he chased after her he would only drive her away—because he couldn't apologize for something he wasn't sorry for and he couldn't manipulate her into believing he was. Wait for her to understand that she has to come back—that she will come back—because there is no such thing as a life without Hermione Granger.
And he could say with certainty that there was no longer such a thing as Hermione Granger without him.
But waiting for her is certainly not pleasant. There's more than one person to take it out on in the orphanage, but his life is also filled with distractions—A-levels, his job, sorting out where he would live in Hogwarts and what classes he would take, preparing for an accelerated course of study. He took up smoking—Hermione would be appalled—but it calmed him in a way that she had always done. He hadn't realize how much she muted the horrors until he was suddenly without her, and he itched for her.
He kept an eye on her, at first, subtly and in a way that she wouldn't find fault with. But every time he saw her he just felt reminded of her absence so for his own sanity while he gave her time to discover that she wasn't truly angry, he tried to find something to occupy his time.
And he did. He found his father.
Tucked away in Little Hangleton in a fucking manor bigger than anything Tom had ever seen lived Tom Riddle Sr, a man living off of his parents fortune in their manor, no job or responsibilities or anything that might excuse leaving his own flesh and blood to suffer through the system for his entire adolescent life—unless you count his apparent childish disregard for common adulthood responsibilities as an excuse.
Tom went to Little Hangleton and stayed there for three days but he never visited the Riddles. He stayed in a bed and breakfast with the house in view, but he never felt like he was in the right headspace to visit—he was so angry, so outraged seeing that house and knowing it should be his, knowing there is no reason it shouldn't be his except that his father had decided that he was not worth his time and so let him rot in that orphanage—he felt those familiar feelings of rage bubbling up in his chest and he didn't have Hermione there to take his hand and speak to him in her dulcet tones, all he had was a packet of cigarettes to dull the anger—
He stayed there for three days, smoked through five packs of cigarettes, and went home.
Hermione would be proud, he thought. She may not be proud of his smoking habits but she would be proud that he went against every instinct that said to go in there and wrap his hands around that bastards neck until the life left his eyes and instead left.
He could kill him later, he thought. For now he had a future at Hogwarts and a situation to rectify with Hermione and he could not risk a homicide investigation so for now it could wait.
And then sitting on that platform preparing himself for the first chance he was ever given at making a name for himself, creating a life for himself that he had always deserved but had never been given, she returns. She stands before him looking both vindicated and humiliated, a book he hardly remembers in her hands, and suddenly it doesn't feel like five months—it feels like it's been years.
He's momentarily struck by how desperately he wants to touch her. To reach out and hold her small hand in his, to thread their fingers together the way she always did, to trail his fingers over where he knew there must've been bruises, long since faded. He wanted to feel her hair, to twine it around his fingers, to trace the curve of her throat and the soft edge of her jaw, he wanted to kiss her—he had wanted to kiss her since before he truly knew what kissing meant—just to feel her in a way that was more than holding hands or tentative skin-on-skin gestures. He wanted to tear into her, to mold her against him, to melt into her until their bodies matched their souls—irrefutably intertwined, interlinked, impossible to discern one from the other because there was no one or other, just them, together, indisputable—
He shutters the feelings as quick as they come.
None of it feels final or secure, even when she repeats over and over that she is not angry, it still feels unsure. And he tries to tell her, tries to make himself clear, tries to make her understand—that she was his, and he would kill for her as sure as she would lie for him and he refused to be sorry for that, but he didn't want her to fear him, she didn't want her to hate him, he just wanted her to understand—but before he can accurately explain anything, he has to leave.
And then she holds him.
He had to remind himself that he had only just been forgiven. He had to remind himself that his wait was not truly over, not yet, because while she may have returned to him he didn't have her, not yet. She was young and afraid and she needed time, and he could give her that—he could give her anything she wanted—so he reserved himself to this. He indulged himself in the feeling of her, in the smell of her, in the satisfaction that bloomed in his chest when he felt her heart racing, reverberating through his chest as if it was his own.
Hogwarts was waiting for him, waiting to change his life into everything he always wanted it to be. And he was content for the moment knowing that Hermione was waiting to share in those spoils with him.
It has always been inevitable, he thinks. He waits for her to see that, too.
—
If Hermione could attribute her sixteenth year to anything, she would probably attribute it to a year of sexual discovery.
Sort of.
Because of course there's something happening between Victor and her, and sure it's never quite sex, but it is something, and—well—she's figuring out there are certain things she likes very much—
She decides she likes it when his teeth scrape across her pulse. She likes it when his fingers curl around her hipbones and he grips her just a little too tightly. She likes it a lot, in fact, when he presses her against the wall and kisses her, but sometimes she thinks a bit too much about another time she was pressed against the wall, and—
She thought about that moment a lot. She always had, ever since it happened, but in light of recent events—and by that she means…certain sexual awakenings, as she had taken to calling them—she decided not to fear it any more.
When it happened, she had been so frightened by his severe expression and the pressure on her wrists—he had always been gentle, even when she knew he was anything but, he still remained gentle with her—but what had really frightened her, what had kept her anger burning and kept her away from him was the knowledge that she hadn't felt entirely afraid. She knew what it felt like to feel afraid, and it was a cold, anxious energy that left her fingers buzzing and her blood pumping through her legs ready to flee. But the feeling that had coiled in her gut at the timbre of his voice and the way it felt to have him so close and so intense, to feel his hands tightening on her wrists to the point where it hurt—she felt blisteringly warm in spite of the freezing cold night, her head was buzzing, her mouth was dry, she felt dizzy with—
She didn't like to use the word, because Tom was her best friend, and he was also at University, and he would also never be interested in anyone that way.
But she knew how she felt. And she knew that at the moment she had felt so terrified by it because—she thought shouldn't like that. Relationships were supposed consist of butterflies in your stomach and blushing kisses and gentle caresses and not bruises and—but she was starting to understand it wasn't that simple.
Everything she knew about relationships and love had come from romantic movies and books or fairytales. And when she finally figured out how she felt about Tom and then he had reached for her with something akin to violence and she had liked it—it felt dirty and wrong. It felt like the last thing she should want, it felt like she was betraying some kind of moral code, or—
So she ran and she hid and she blamed her hiding on her anger—and she had been angry—but now after a time of self-reflection and thought really she didn't think she had any reason to feel ashamed.
But then…she just didn't know how to voice what she wanted.
Sometimes Viktor would thread his hands into her hair and she would desperately want him to pull it, but she didn't know how to tell him, because it still felt odd to say. And it's not to say that kissing Viktor was anything less than extraordinary—and he could do fantastic things with his hands—but it never seemed like enough, it never seemed like—
Like Tom.
She tried. She tried and tried and tried to love Viktor in the same way—and sometimes she thought she did. Sometimes she would remember the way he pronounced her name—he pronounced it correctly now, but it was over-enunciated, like he was always psyching himself out—and she would smile and she would think maybe this is love, a little bit. And sometimes when he greeted her he would kiss her on the corner of her mouth and his hand would curl comfortably around her waist and she would expect it and she would think maybe this is love, a little bit. And sometimes he would laugh at her stupid jokes or he would listen to her prattle on for thirty minutes about something that he had no interest in and he would talk about his classes and the most recent book he's read but try to never talk about football because he knew she hated it, and she hoped that maybe this is love, a little bit.
She owed it to him to try, didn't she? She wasn't necessarily against a life without a boyfriend, especially if she could spend that life with Tom, but—Viktor liked her quite a lot. He had said so. And she liked him quite a lot, too, she wasn't trying to use him as a filler or as a replacement, she liked him a lot, and she wanted to believe that she could like him as much if not more than Tom—or at least differently than Tom, or—
"Hermione?" Viktor called, and she was snapped out of her reverie to focus on Viktor sitting in front of her. She had zoned out.
"Sorry," She said quickly, "Sorry, I just…have a lot on my mind," She smiled fleetingly, "What were you saying?"
He smiled and laughed, taking a sip of his coffee, "Oh you wouldn't have been interested, I started on about football again,"
She hesitated, watching the slightly teasing curl of his lips, "Oh, uh…" She started, "Who's winning?"
"It is sweet, how you pretend to care." He told her jokingly, laughing when she reached across the table to steal his coffee and take a sip since she had already finished hers.
"Well, perhaps I should start talking about something terribly boring like—the entirety of my calculus textbook? I practically have it memorized now—"
"Oh, that would be fine," He said, sounding far more sincere than Hermione expected, "I like to listen to you talk. It's the accent, it is—what do people call it here?" He waved his hand, as if prompting the word to come to his mind, his brow furrowed in thought, "Posh?" At her practically victimized expression, he rushed to clarify, "I mean that as a compliment."
"I do not sound posh," She denied laughingly.
"You do," He insisted, "It is very sexy."
She bit her lip to stop from smiling. She was about to respond, but her phone buzzed in her pocket. Hurriedly, she pulled it out to see who was calling, and when she met Viktor's eyes it was like he already knew who it was. "I'm sorry," She said, "I'll be right back—he can never speak for long anyway—"
"Of course," He said kindly, smiling, "Go ahead, I will be here,"
She thanked him and bounded outside, wrapping her scarf around her throat—she thinks it might've been his once, but it had been hers for a while—and leaning against the side of the cafe as she answered. "Bonjour," She greeted, and when he responded with a fluent sentence of french far too fast for her to understand, she laughed, "Stop showing off, you prat, I'm not fluent yet."
"Perhaps you should answer your phone in a language you can understand, then?" He drawled.
"I'll hang up on you," She warned, but they both knew it was false, "How are you? How did your exam go?"
"Fine," He answered shortly, "Slughorn is not known for presenting particularly difficult exams."
"From what you've told me about the way he treats you, I get the feeling he would pass you even if you answered every single question wrong."
He scoffed, "He would pass me if I never even sat the exam," He muttered.
"So what about everything else?" She prompted, "Any new friends?"
"You ask me that every time," He told her, his tone somewhere between annoyed and amused, "No I have not made any friends—"
"What about Lestrange?" She prompted, "I may or may not have been stalking you on Facebook, and he tagged you in—"
"I hate Lestrange." He interrupted. She sighed irritably.
"You hate everyone," She told him.
"I don't hate you," He challenged, and though his tone was borderline petulant, she felt warmed by the sentiment.
"I know," She said, "But I'm not at university with you—does it really not bother you at all not to have any friends there?"
"No," He replied flatly. She laughed at his monotone answer.
"Alright, fine," She acquiesced, "I'll stop asking."
"No, you won't," He argued.
"No, I probably won't," She admitted, and then hesitated for a moment. "I also saw a woman named Bellatrix Black in a lot of photos with you—"
"I hate Black as well," He interrupted, and she thought that she probably felt far more relieved than what was justifiable, but his words calmed her just the same.
"Well, I hope you like something there," She said with a smile, but she knew he did. Every time he called her he only ever had negative things to say about the people he knew, but he never had anything negative to say about the establishment. And for him, that meant he loved it. She was happy to see him happy. "I miss you," She admitted after a time of silence.
She didn't expect him to say it back, but she was mildly surprise when, after a beat, his voice carried through the phone, "I miss you," Echoed back to her, a finality to his tone that sent a warmth blooming in her chest. She took a deep breath.
"You'll be home for Christmas, won't you?" She asked, "That's only a few months away,"
"I'll be home for a week," He assured her, "I have to go,"
She frowned. He never had much time to speak on the phone—jumping between lessons, his job, and his time for studying, their phone calls were always very short—but she sighed and said, "Alright, well…I'll talk to you later, then. I have to get back to—" She stopped herself from saying Viktor's name. She knew she should just say it, should just tell him, but—she didn't particularly want to. "—to Harry and Ron," she lied.
He hummed in response, and she was glad to know he hadn't read into her brief hesitation. "I'll call you tomorrow," He assured her.
"Goodbye," She said, and hung up, feeling ridiculous for lying but knowing that was probably for the best anyway. The last thing she needed was Tom knowing she had a boyfriend…he would freak out.
She would freak out.
She pocketed her phone and pushed the lie from her mind as she walked back inside, smiling at Viktor as she took a seat across from him. Caught up in her thoughts, she didn't notice Viktor's thoughtful expression, or the way he didn't greet her when she returned but observed her in silence for a moment before he spoke.
And when he spoke, Hermione wished he hadn't.
"Do you love him?" He asked, forthright, as if that wasn't the worst thing he could possibly ask her, as if he actually wanted to know the answer when—of course he didn't, of course he wasn't interested in hearing her wax poetic all the things she feels when she thinks of Tom—
"No," She blindly denied, "No, I—" But she stopped, because Viktor was examining her in a way that wasn't suspicious, wasn't angry. He watched her with a quiet sort of concern that prompted her to tell the truth. "Yes," She admitted, and when his eyes dropped from hers to the coffee in his hands she hurried to explain, "But he doesn't love me, at all, and—"
"It is okay, Hermione," He told her with a comforting smile, "I had a feeling, when you were so hesitant to call yourself my girlfriend, that there might be someone else."
"But I do like you Viktor," She stressed, "Very much." He smiled, still, and reached across the table to take her hand. Was he breaking up with her, she wondered?
"I will gladly be yours for as long as you will have me," He admitted to her, and she felt so overwhelmed by the statement she couldn't garner a response. "But you should not be with me simply because you cannot be with him,"
"That's—that's not it," She promised, "Honestly, Viktor, I love being with you—
"It is alright," He assured her. He was too good for her, she realized, and not in the way that she wasn't good enough for him, simply in the way that he was too kind and understanding when he should be angry with her. "I will not be angry if you decide you cannot—"
"No," She cut in sternly, and he seemed mildly surprised at her tone. He stopped talking. "No, Viktor, I want to be with you."
He smiled wide and she wondered just how long she would have to keep trying before it finally came naturally for her to be with him.
But then he kissed her and she thought that maybe it wouldn't be long.
—
Tom had not been lying when he told Hermione that he hated Lestrange.
Lestrange was everything that Tom had grown up to resent: rich, spoiled, entitled, everything handed to him on a silver platter, and on top of it all he stands in front of Tom and thinks that he is in control, thinks that he holds some sort of power over him because of his lineage. Tom has never been able to withstand people exerting authority over him for long, and he has been trying to wait, not to be reckless, to insure that his place above Lestrange will be steady and sure.
But that's hard when Lestrange is always such a piece of shit.
He had been exaggerating when he said that he hated Black, however.
Bellatrix Black was irritating, surely, she sticks her nose here it doesn't belong, she enjoys petty drama far too much, and she is engaged to the very cretin Tom wants to destroy. He thought he would hate her.
It wasn't until she approached him in the library that he found her interesting at all.
He had pegged her as an intelligent but largely unambitious woman, with an obsession for drama and unnecessary violence, likely prone to affairs in an attempt to get her husband angry. He turned out to be correct on all accounts, except—
"I could help you, you know," She told him, and he assumed she had been sent, assumed Lestrange might be ushering her his way in an attempt to get one over on him. Tom was coming to understand that Hogwarts was filled with people like him—ambitious, violent, conniving—the schools as filled with future businessmen and politicians with borderline sociopathic tendencies, and he thrived on it. The challenge excited him—rising to the top of those who were just like him, only he was better—and they didn't think he was better because to them he was nothing more than a lucky orphan. They wouldn't know until he proved them wrong, until Lestrange was crushed under his foot—
"I'm certain your fiancé would not be pleased." He parried calmly, watching her reaction. Surprisingly, she laughed, and the laugh—as far as he could tell—was genuine.
"I could care less what pleases that man," She told him, and after a brief hesitation, smiled at him and added, "Or any man,"
"And yet you are engaged," He observed, "To a man,"
"Think of it as a marriage of convenience," She drawled, "Just until poor Rodolphus falls terribly ill and I inherit everything,"
"Wouldn't his brother inherit it?" He prompted, pleasantly surprised but how genuine her hatred to Rodolphus seemed to be.
After a single, thoughtful moment, she shrugged, "Car crash?" She offered.
He smiled.
And thus something of a partnership was born. She would find out whatever she could about Lestrange that he could use against him, she worked as something of a secret go between. She was still woefully irritating—she would constantly try to incite violence even though it wasn't the time, not yet. She was always touching him, too, looping her arm through his or setting her hand on his arm or his leg and—he knew she did it because she could tell he loathed it. He entertained the idea once or twice of breaking her fingers to make her stop, but her cooperation at this point was favorable, so he just shrugged her off.
When she was less useful, he could.
Until then, his time at Hogwarts was spent quietly planning his path to power—because if he could have power over the people here, he would have power over everything. Most of these students were second generation business tycoons or politicians—he could have everything. Equally, he spent his time studying, learning, ensuring he was at the tope of his class, making sure that he forged his own path while tearing down the plans of others.
And he also spent time calling Hermione. Every day.
It started out he would just call her when he could, once after a test when he had nothing else to do before he went to work, when he had a few extra minutes. But whether it was because she started to get snappy with him if he didn't call for a few days or because he found that his temperament was generally calmer and easier to control if he spoke to her for at least a few minutes, something prompted him to make that phone call a daily occurrence.
He had thought it would be easier to be apart from her now that she wasn't angry—to be apart from her knowing that she looked forward to his return. But somehow it made it worse. Left with nothing but the memory of the way she felt pressed against him, with nothing but her voice, tinny and echoey in the reverberation of the speaker on his phone.
She told him she missed him every phone call, and while he didn't say it every time, he always missed her just the same.
So walking up to his room, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called.
"Hey, Tom!" She greeted after a few rings, her tone excited but breathless. His brow furrowed just slightly.
"Why are you out of breath?" He asked, only mildly curious.
"Oh—am I?" She asked—breathlessly, again—and cleared her throat, "Oh, nothing I was just—running."
He paused. "Running" He echoed blandly.
"Yeah, I ran after the bus—How are you?" He noted how she tried to change the subject, and a bit curious as to why, he continued to question her.
"Are you on the bus now?" He asked.
"No, I missed it," She said dismissively, "And you didn't answer my question,"
"I'm well," He answered vaguely, "Which is the same answer I give you every day."
She laughed. His mouth was fighting to turn up at the corners, a knee-jerk reaction to hearing her laughter, but he kept it at bay out of habit. "Well, every day is different," She argued, "And you only say you're well because you know it's polite."
"What should I tell you, then?" He asked indulgently.
"I don't know…" She started, but it was obvious she did know, so he waited for her to finish. He ascended the stairs to his building holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder while he fished his key out of his pocket. "I saw you went to a party last night—how was that?"
He sighed irritably, "Facebook, again?"
"Of course," She said, "Why do you have a Facebook if you hate it so much—"
"It's useful for networking." He answered flippantly.
"Networking?" She echoed laughingly, "How about talking to friends—"
"You know perfectly well you are my only friend," He told her. He reached his door and turned the lock.
"Well—I mean—you looked particularly friendly with that girl Bellatrix in her photo—"
He may have answered, but Bellatrix was lounging in his desk chair in his room, looking as if she belonged there when they both knew full well she didn't. She smiled.
"One moment," He spoke into the phone, and before he could hear her response he muted the phone call to direct all his attention on Black. He clenched his jaw and willed himself not to strangle her. "How did you get in?"
"Oh, please," She scoffed, "You think I'm incapable of picking a lock?" She grinned as if that was supposed to be funny, but mostly he was just annoyed, so he continued to glare.
"I'm busy," He told her simply.
"Yes, alright," She began dismissively, drawing herself to her feet, "But I have some particularly devastating news about Rodolphus that I'm certain you'd be interested to hear."
He hesitated, because while he was not particularly fond of being interrupted—ever—he was especially not fond of being interrupted while speaking to Hermione. However, Bella could be particularly temperamental when it came to possessing information, and while he could call Hermione back any time, it was likely that whatever Bella knew she was willing to tell him now and only now. And given that his attendance at Hogwarts was too new to start forcing information out through violent means, he had to play her game.
Still fixing her with a fierce glare, he unmuted the call. "Hermione, I have to go."
"You have to go?—I know, Viktor, one moment more—what happened, is everything okay?"
He swore he felt his blood run cold.
It took a moment for him to reign in his thoughts, to regain control of his mind enough to hold a single finger up to Bella signaling her to wait. "Hello?" He heard Hermione call, "Are you still there? Did you mute me again?"
He turned away from Bella who was watching him closely with a bemused expression on her face, and he stepped outside, slamming the door shut behind him. He tried to control his tone, truly he did, but suddenly the thought that she had been flustered and out of breath at the beginning of the phone call and now—one moment more, Viktor?—so when he spoke it was much angrier, much harsher than he intended when he asked, "Who the fuck is Viktor?"
There was a brief pause. "Uh—what? He's—he—are you alright?"
"Hermione," He said slowly, warningly, "Who is Viktor?"
"He's just—uh—well, he's my…boyfriend, actually—" If he thought his blood had run cold before, now it was ice. He felt his head spin, he actually had to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose and call some control back into his mind—familiar feelings of anger and jealousy were weaving their way through his veins as the word echoed in his mind—boyfriend? When the fuck did she get a boyfriend?
"When did you get a boyfriend?" He murmured, his instincts kicking in and masking his fury behind a carefully constructed ease.
"Uh—Well—actually…since April." His hands were shaking he was so angry. "I know you're mad," She said, and he just stopped himself from biting out what an understatement that was, "But you have to know why I didn't tell you—I mean, we both know how you react when I—"
Coupled with his anger was the fear, the fear that she had been dating this—this Viktor—since April. The fear that when she had fallen 'in love' with Ron it had only been a couple months but this cretin—this Viktor—she had remained with since April. It had been nearly seven months, and she was—she was still with him, out of breath with him, he could only imagine what they were doing, and the image of someone's hands on her—
He had the terrifying thought that he had waited too long. He had the horrifying realization that he may have been wrong, he may have misjudged—it was entirely possible that Hermione would not come to the same realization he had, and the thought that she might be taken from him—
"Can we just not talk about it?" He heard her say, though his mind was already far off. "I don't like talking about this stuff with you. Let's talk about something else."
"Right," He agreed blankly, "I'll call you tomorrow."
He hung up before she could respond, and when he barged back into his room Bellatrix was standing in the center looking all too innocent and all too pleased. "I didn't know you had a girlfriend—" She started.
"Shut up," He seethed, "I need your nephew's phone number. Now."
He ignored how absolutely amused she looked.
—
Hermione knew Tom was angry. She knew he could have no other reaction, that was just the way Tom was. He never liked the idea of her dating, but…somehow now, coupled with the her feelings for him, it was all so much worse. And now being with Viktor brought with it some degree of guilt, but—
Damn it, either Tom could date her or he could let her date other people. If he is uninterested in dating, then he could let her live her own goddamn life.
So if anything, it just made her try harder with Viktor.
He certainly didn't complain, even though she's certain he understood from her phone conversation that she had literally kept him a secret from Tom for seven months, because her version of trying hard in their relationship mostly consists of aggressively throwing herself at him every time she has the chance, so—
It's probably not the best way to try in a relationship, but Viktor is a very good kisser, and he is very good at wiping her mind clean of guilt that she doesn't even need to be feeling. She did not need to feel guilty for dating just because it made Tom upset.
"Are you alright?" Viktor asked her, and she's snapped out of her thoughts, turning to him with a smile while he walked beside her.
"I'm fine," She assured him, "It's lovely out,"
"It's freezing," He said with a laugh.
"Well, yes," She agreed with a wide smile, "But lovely just the same. Should we stop for a hot chocolate?" She asked, gesturing to the little stand in the park. He nodded, taking her gloved hand in his and pulling her quickly toward the stand. It was while they waited for their coffee to be made that she slid her hands around his back and pressed her lips against his freezing cold ones. He responded excitedly, pulling her lower lip between his teeth in the way he was finally understanding that she liked, his hand pressing gently at the small of her back.
"Uh—here—" A voice interrupted, and Viktor pulled away grinning to thank the barista who was holding out their drinks, thanking them and handing one to Hermione who was smiling shyly back. It was when she glanced over his shoulder very briefly that she saw someone sitting at one of the benches who looked awfully familiar.
"I think…" She started, furrowing her brow. "I think that's Draco Malfoy," She said. Viktor turned to glance at the boy sitting alone on the bench.
"Oh," He said simply, "I know him."
"Do you?" She asked. In all their time dating, Malfoy had never come up before. In fact, ever since the incident on New Years, he had left her alone. She was never certain if it was for fear of Tom or because he felt like he really did owe her for saving his life. She assumed it was the former, however, considering she wasn't sure Malfoy had any honor.
"I have played against him in football," He explained, "He is good, but he also got knocked down and did not take it well."
"Was he threatening to call his father?" She guessed, smiling a bit sardonically and glancing over Viktor's shoulder again. This time she met the boy's eyes before he looked away. "Is he looking at us?"
"Ignore him," Viktor offered flippantly, taking a sip of his hot chocolate as she followed suit. "How did you know him?"
"Oh, he tortured me in primary school," She said with a laugh, "Until—um," She still felt uncomfortable mentioning Tom, ever, with Viktor so she paused and reformatted her sentence, "Until we got older and he bothered me less and less. He just liked to annoy me."
"Perhaps he liked you?" He guessed, "He is very boy-pulling-pigtails type, I think."
She looked at him for about twenty seconds as if he had grown a second head. "I sincerely doubt Malfoy ever had any feelings for me other than hatred," She said blandly. Viktor smiled, his hand finding her waist again as he pressed a kiss against her temple.
"Well, he would have to be a fool, then," He told her. She smiled up at him for a moment, touched by his words, but then her eyes jumped to Malfoy who turned his head when she met his eyes.
"Why does he keep looking over here?" She muttered irritatedly.
"It does not matter," Viktor insisted calmly, tipping his hand under her chin to turn her head away from Malfoy, "Let us go, if he is bothering you,"
Hermione hummed an affirmative but before they could move, she moved up on her toes to kiss him, her arms curling around his neck, one hand carefully clutching her hot chocolate so it didn't drop or spill. She smiled when she pulled away, "Okay," She said.
But then she glanced over again, just to check, just out of curiosity, and Malfoy had his phone held up almost as it—"What the hell—" She was out of Viktor's arms and storming toward Malfoy before he even had the chance to stop her.
"Malfoy," She greeted tersely once she was near enough. He looked suitably terrified, though he tried to hide it.
"Granger," He greeted in a similar tone.
"What are you doing?" She demanded tersely. His eyebrows rose high on his forehead and he pursed his lips into a frown.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Granger—" He started to deny, but she cut him off.
"Did you take a photo of us?" His eyes narrowed. "I can't believe—why the hell are you taking—give me your phone."
"No," He refused, clutching his phone to his chest.
"Give me the phone!" She demanded, leaning over to try to wrestle the phone from his grip. It was around this time she heard Viktor's footsteps approaching from behind, as if he was about to intervene, but before he could she wrenched the phone from Malfoy's hands.
There was a passcode.
"Unlock the phone, Malfoy," She demanded, holding it out but not letting him hold it himself. He glowered at her.
"Fine," He said, "You crazy bitch, here—" He entered the passcode, and she offered him a mocking smile before turning the phone screen toward herself and looking through his photos, but—
Nothing. At least nothing of her and Viktor.
Malfoy looked irritatingly smug while she handed his phone back. She offered a very terse, completely insincere apology, and turned back to Viktor after a deep, calming breath.
"Let's just go," She snapped.
She had been certain she saw him taking a picture.
—
If Tom were not miles away, he would have stalked her himself. However, he had business to attend to here and he couldn't exactly just take a train back just because—
Anyway, he didn't have to.
"Yeah, I saw them—" Malfoy said over the phone, already drawing on Tom's last nerve with his tone, "Krum was bloody useless when your girlfriend started assaulting me—"
"Malfoy," He interrupted tiredly, and he seemed to get the message.
"Right," He said quickly, "Right, right, uh—well, she seemed happy, to be honest?" Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. "I mean as happy as Granger can get, she always has a stick up her—"
"Malfoy." He said, more sternly this time, and Draco was silent. "I did not ask you to see if she was happy, I asked you to find out about Krum."
"Yeah, but I've told you everything about him already," Malfoy said, sounding a bit afraid, "And, uh—well, I figured you'd want to know if Granger was—uh—okay, so—I—"
"Hermione is fine," He assured Malfoy, his voice barely more than a growl at this point, "I need more about—"
"I got a picture of them?" Malfoy interrupted. And while normally Tom did not take kindly to being interrupted, he paused before he snapped. "If you want?"
It was silent for a very long time. "Send me the photo," He told him, "I will call you when I need something else."
He hung up. He waited two torturous minutes until the vibrations of his phone alerted him to a new message and he had to count slowly down from ten before he could open it.
He saw her first. He saw her eyes shut and her hair wild and her cheeks flushed pink and then—and then—then he sees him. Viktor Krum, football prodigy, moved to London less than a year ago, virtually unimpressive on all accounts except football, for which he is revered, spoken of as if he is offering the world something glorious simply by existing and—
And Hermione has her arms wrapped around his neck and she's smiling.
He picked up the thing closest to him, which happens to be his bedside lamp, and he hurls it across the room. It hits the wall and shatters along with his resolve.
Every bit of anger and fury and frustration that he had kept just under the surface was now bursting through his skin in violent waves. The lamp wasn't enough, his fingers were twitching and his body felt coiled tight and—how could he have been so careless? Leaving the two of them up to fate as if fate had done anything right by him his entire life.
He should have known. He should have seen. He should have predicted that when he left she would search for someone else. Hermione who had talked about romance and love and boyfriends the moment she became a teenager, Hermione who read love poetry and called it beautiful—that was who he had left behind. Without even reminding her, without making sure she knew that she was his, without—
All this waiting and waiting and waiting and still he ends up at the end with nothing.
Seven months. The thought of what Viktor might've done to her in those seven months, the things she let him do—the thought that Viktor might know more than Tom ever would about what she liked, the way she wanted to be touched, what it felt like to kiss her, what she tasted like, the way it felt to be completely and utterly overwhelmed by her, with her, in her—
He couldn't do this. He pulled his phone from his pocket and he dialed Bella's number, and when she picked up she barely had time to greet him before he was barking out a demand. "Take Lestrange somewhere private, I'd like to meet with him."
"Already?" She questioned, "Rather sudden."
Something familiar coiled in his abdomen, something he hadn't felt in a while. The excitement, the anticipation of broken bones and blood. "I've had enough waiting," He answered.
He hung up before she could comment further.
—
Hermione wasn't on Facebook for much reason other than stalking Tom to find out what he was up to.
He never posted anything himself, only appeared in pictures tagged by those he met at Hogwarts, but it was enough to see what he did and who he associated with. To see if he had friends or…a girlfriend.
This Bellatrix Black character certainly seemed attached to him. And she was beautiful, all sultry smiles and messy curls that somehow look purposeful in a way Hermione was never able to do. In every picture with Tom she would have her arm wrapped around his waist and—Hermione was not jealous, she was not—
Bellatrix friended her. Which was odd, but Hermione accepted, because it meant she could find out more about her.
But the first thing she finds out is Rodolphus Lestrange is in the hospital due to severe injuries form some sort of attack, and—
(She also saw that Bellatrix was apparently engaged to Lestrange, which she really didn't think she had the right to be happy about that yet)
She called Tom immediately, but he didn't answer. She waited through his automated message until she heard the beep and spoke in a rush, "Tom, I was on Facebook, and—well, Bellatrix Black friended me, for some reason, I don't know—but, I was looking through her wall and I saw that Lestrange is in the hospital because he was attacked, and—I wanted to make sure you were okay, since you know him, and…I mean, since he was attacked, Jesus Christ…anyway call me back." She hung up, and spent the next twenty minutes worried obsessing over Bellatrix's page.
Bellatrix messaged her, interestingly enough.
Hello, it read, You're Tom's friend, right?
Hermione hesitated only for a moment, before typing back quick response. Yes, I am. After a moment, she added, I read about Lestrange. I'm sorry.
He'll live. Was her quick and perfunctory response. At any rate, it's nice to finally put a face to your name. Bella replied. Hermione paused, pulling her lower lip between her teeth as a bemused smile stretched across her lips.
Has he mentioned me? She asked.
How could he not? Bellatrix wrote, You are certainly well worth mentioning.
Hermione felt a bit confused by that comment, unsure how to response, so she merely typed back, Thank you.
I wish I could have found you sooner, Black continued, I do hate being cheated out of meeting a beautiful woman.
Hermione sat for a time in complete confusion before a sort of joyous laugh built up in her throat. I'm sorry, she typed back a bit excitedly, are you flirting with me?
Was I not obvious enough? She replied immediately. Hermione thought, for a moment, that perhaps her inane jealousy was unnecessary not only because Tom was not hers, not in that way, and he could date whoever he wanted just as she could, but also because—was Bellatrix a lesbian?
Remembering her fiancé, however, Hermione thought she might not be so lucky. And in fact, if Bella was flirting with her while she was engaged, she would most certainly be flirting with Tom, too. Feeling bold, she asked, Do you like men?
I like men like I liked dogs, Bella answered, neutered and trained to do exactly as I say.
Hermione laughed a bit unsurely, her fingers hovering over her keyboard momentarily. And Lestrange? She prompted.
Well trained. Bella answered.
Her phone rang, Tom's name flashing on the screen, and she immediately slammed her laptop shut to answer. "Hello? Tom?"
"Bellatrix friended you on Facebook?" Was the first thing he asked. Hermione gaped for a moment, silently.
"Your friend was attacked and is in the hospital and that's what you're most concerned about?" She asked, bounding to her feet so she can pace the length of her room while she spoke, feeling nervous.
"I admit I did not listen to the rest of your message."
"Are you alright?" She pressed. He took a moment to respond, and when he did, he sounded oddly confused.
"I'm well," He told her, "I'm not the one in the hospital,"
"Well, yes, thank God for that," She scoffed, "I just—you knew him, and he was attacked which is—"
"He'll live." He answered simply, echoing Bellatrix's sentiments from earlier. Somehow, with his nonchalant tone, it made everything feel a bit off at that moment. Hermione fell silent for a time, considering, before carefully asking.
"Tom," She began slowly, "Are you the one who attacked him?"
He was silent.
"Oh for god's—Tom!" She scolded, "I thought you were going to behave!"
"I am," He assured her evenly, "It's not as if anyone knows it was me."
"Does Bellatrix know?" She pressed. She wasn't entirely sure where the suspicion came from, but the fact that Bella had friended her immediately after posting about her fiancé being in the hospital, and the fact that their answers regarding Lestrange mirrored each others—
"She does," He admitted, and Hermione was thankful that he was at least being honest.
"Is that why she was messaging me?" She asked. Tom fell silent for a moment.
"She messaged you?" He finally asked.
"Yeah," She agreed, "It was kind of—" A nervous laugh bubbled up out of her throat, "—She was flirting with me, I think—well, I know. I don't understand, if she's engaged, then—"
"Don't speak to her again." He said evenly. Hermione's smile immediately fell from her face.
"Excuse me," She began cuttingly, "I can talk to whoever I please—"
"I am not asking for your sake, I am asking for mine," He said tiredly. "Do not involve her any more in my life than absolutely necessary." Hermione wasn't sure whether to be annoyed that he was telling her what to do, or a bit flattered at the idea that involving Bellatrix with her was involving Bellatrix with his life. She decided on the former, in the end.
"Well, I like her," Hermione said firmly, "So I'll talk to her if I wish," She heard him sigh tiredly, as if he was about to argue, but she hurried on, "Anyway, we're not talking about her, we're talking about Lestrange—his injuries are insane, Tom—what did you do?"
"Oh, would you like the details?" He asked cruelly, and Hermione immediately bristled.
"Don't snap at me," she warned, "That's not what I'm asking, I'm—I know about Lestrange okay? His family is famous, and I don't particularly like him, he's a racist and a sexist and a homophobe, but—I mean, you broke so many bones, Tom—"
"Lestrange was a problem that needed to be rectified," He explained evenly, "He fancied himself the top of the food chain—"
"And, what," She interrupted, "You fancy yourself the top of the food chain instead?"
"Yes." He affirmed sternly. She let out a loud sigh, something a bit closer to a groan, and ran a hand through her hair.
"Won't he tell someone?" She asked, feeling like she was losing this argument already—why did he have to be so bloody stubborn?
"He won't," He assured her. "You're overreacting,"
"Do not—" She snapped, her voice much louder than she originally intended, "What is it with men telling me I'm overreacting—first Viktor tells me I'm overreacting about Malfoy, which I was not, and now you—"
"What?" He pressed. She huffed.
"Malfoy was stalking me or something. I thought he took a picture but—never mind." She sighed again, this time just to calm herself. There was no point getting angry, really. She thought if it were anyone else she might be angry, but Rodolphus Lestrange was always in the papers for doing something horrible and ridiculous, and while she didn't necessarily agree with Tom using such horrendous violence…if he was going to target anyone, Lestrange would be it.
That was probably horrible, but she was too tired to care.
"For once, can we have a conversation on the phone where one if us isn't angry?" She asked with a bit of a laugh. She expected him to give some nonresponse, a hum or a grunt or something that required no actual words, but she was startled by his response.
"I just like to hear your voice," He admitted quietly, "Even if you're angry with me."
She felt something constrict in her chest, like his words had wound their way through her ear and dropped down to her heart and just squeezed. Warm and breathless and a bit confounded, she was only able to respond with, "Really?" He hummed in agreement, a quiet, thoughtful sound. Hermione knew that the natural thing to do would be to return the compliment or change the subject, but she felt so thrown by his sincerity that she felt a bit choked. "Well, I—I—uh…" She cleared her throat and mentally berated herself to get her shit together, "I'm glad. I—I have to go but I'll talk to you later—it'll be Christmas, soon."
"Yes," He agreed, "I'll see you soon."
She hung up the phone and prayed to god he didn't notice how flustered he made her when he spoke like that.
—
He noticed.
With his anger redirected at Lestrange, who probably got more of a beating than he truly deserved but Tom wasn't going to feel sorry for it, he viewed the situation with Viktor Krum in a new light.
Hermione was still his. Krum didn't change that, Hermione's stubbornness didn't change that, the fact that Tom had left it until this moment to decide to claim her didn't change that. She was his, had been his, would always be his, there was no changing that. But he could no longer count on waiting for her to come to him.
He had decided it when he heard the hitch in her breath when he admitted his addiction to her voice, he had decided it when he heard her stumble over her words and—that had been him, he realized. That hadn't been Krum, it had never been Weasley, it was him. And he thought she might know, he thought she might already be aware of how they are already entwined, but for some reason she holds herself back, she shows restraint. He decided he would rip that restraint away from her if it is the last thing he does.
He had never toyed with the art of seduction before, but he's certain it can't be extraordinarily difficult.
So when he goes home for the holidays—he has words with Bella before he leaves regarding what he assumed was her attempt at angering him by contacting Hermione—and he arrives on that platform to see her waiting for him, he has every intention of enacting his plan there, to start his path to push her over the edge, to make her come to him, but—
She runs to him, throws her arms around his neck and clings to him and he just forgets.
He wraps his arms around her, too, envelopes her while she also somehow seems to envelop him. He's lost for a moment in the texture of her hair when he dips his chin to her shoulder, he's lost in the smell of it—honey and cinnamon and—he's lost in the feeling of her fingers, one hand digging into his back, the other winding through his hair. He turns his head so that his nose is pressed into her hair just behind her ear, so that every breath is her, but it's not until his hand is pressed flat between her shoulder blades that he feels her heartbeat racing as quick as his own. And it's not until he trails his nose downward, not far, he stops just below her jawline, a quick and indulgent motion before he remembers what he should be doing, remembers that he can't seduce her if he is out of his mind with want for her.
But he feels it. The stutter in her pulse, the quick intake of breath. He pulls away and she is breathless and he smiles.
—
WOO
SO FIRST OF ALL! ! ! GUYS WHAT TEH HECK…..300 REVIEWS? Literally it was JUST last chapter i was thanking you guys for 200 and NOW WHAT THE HECK THIS IS INSANE THANK YOU SO MUCH I love reading your reviews I read every single one some of them i read like seventeen times I LOVE. YOU. GUYS.
So ahhh idk I hope this chapter is satisfying! I know we didn't get a whole lot of Tomione action really…That's next chapter. Next chapter is going to be more inntteeennnsseee(finally lol)
I think kind of a lot happened here sort of? Half of Tom's first year is over, my babies are spending Christmas together, Viktor and Hermione are still a thing but that won't be a thing for long. I just want to assuage any worries that Viktor is going to be hurt or heartbroken like—I don't really like cheating tropes, first of all, so that's not going to happen. And while Viktor is definitely in love with Hermione and no split will be easy as pie, I'm not going to like…unnecessarily hurt him or anything. I love him too much tbh
OKAY! Anyway I love you guys so much! THANK YOU TONS FOR 300 REVIEWS! I am so overwhelmed I appreciate your support so much! I love yooouu!
Please Review! Let me know what you think!