After the Slug Club party, Tom had been thinking a lot about all the things McClaggen had said to Hermione, about his stupid Ministry job(which was hardly significant; he was a puppet, really. Nothing to brag about), about Quidditch(which Tom also played, and it wasn't like it was hard), and he thought about how the man had been trying to impress her by showing her everything he could offer her.

Knowing her, she wouldn't be interested in anything he had to give her. She wouldn't want it. She wouldn't care for all the gold in the world if it was being handed to her by someone with no skill and half a brain. For that reason alone she wouldn't want him-

but it still left Tom with a sense of frustration, and a feeling that he needed to remind her why she had been given to him, even if she didn't understand that. A glimpse of more to come, something she could remember and hold onto.

So early, very early, Christmas morning, when most of the school was gone and the remaining strays asleep, he went back to her office, found the bookcase he knew concealed her private room, and knocked.

Well, perhaps "knock" was putting it lightly. He was practically pounding on it, trying to wake her up, until she finally opened up, the bookcase swinging away to reveal a noticeably disheveled witch.

"Happy Christmas, Hermione."

While he could barely contain his excitement for what he had planned, she didn't look equally as enthused. Her hair was a damn mess, and she was wearing only her sleep clothes(which looked odd, even by muggle standards -no frilly nightgown, just a pair of oversized pants and an undershirt) with a robe haphazardly thrown over them.

Well, her state of dress hardly mattered.

"Happy Christmas, Tom," she said, exasperated, "any particular reason you woke me up? I don't even know what time it is."

"It's 2:37 a.m.," he replied, checking his watch to get the accuracy of his answer down to the very minute, "and yes. Come with me."

He didn't even wait for a response before he gripped her arm and pulled her out into the corridor with him.

"Wait, Tom! What are you-"

"No," he interrupted, not allowing any questions at the moment. "We have to do this now, when no one is awake or around. Stay quiet or Peeves might notice and that would be most inconvenient."

Giving her a glance, he saw that she hesitantly nodded and continued following him of her own accord. Satisfied with her reaction, he loosened his grip slightly.

Only slightly.

He brought her through several halls, and then down a few flights of stairs, all with her following along, fine albeit slightly hesitantly. However, once they neared the second floor girls lavatory, she began to thrash against his hold and opened her mouth to scream.

That absolutely could not be allowed.

Holding her tighter, he pulled her close and clamped a hand over her mouth, using a silencing charm to shut her up.

"You're smarter than I thought you were if you already know where we're going, and I've always known you're intelligent," he told her, continuing to drag her into the bathroom. "I did tell you that we need to be quiet, though."

Tears began to fall down her face, though the silencing charm still kept her unheard. Rolling his eyes, he used his sleeve to wipe them away. "Stop being so dramatic. If I wanted to hurt you, I'd have done it a long time ago."

With that, he leaned forward towards the sink, hissing to it in Parseltongue. As the entrance opened, he snaked his arm tightly around her waist and pulled them both inside.

As they went down the slide, she clung to him desperately, as though her very life depended on it.

In her mind, it probably did.

When they landed, she wobbled a bit, but he quickly helped steady her. Having done this before, he now landed perfectly on his feet, but he'd admit to no one that the first time he fell flat on his arse.

Pulling his wand from his pocket, he flicked it in front of her face to lift the silencing charm.

"I haven't told anyone!" She blurted out as soon as she was able to speak again.

"I know," he assured her, making sure his voice was warm and gentle, to convey there was no need for all the drama and angst. "This isn't a punishment." He reached out a hand to smooth down her hair, nearly petting her as he attempted to soothe her.

"Then what is it?" The disbelief, suspicion, was written all over her face.

That was much better. Dealing with crying people had never been something he enjoyed.

He tilted his head and gave her a boyish grin before saying, "consider it a Christmas present?"

Placing his wand back in his pocket, he pressed his hand into the small of her back, urging her forward. He was particularly eager to get to actually show her the Chamber, not the hallway leading to it.

The Chamber had been left to him. He may not have a proper home( though, to be fair, she didn't either), but he had this. More valuable than any pureblood manor, the Chamber had been left to him by Salazar Slytherin himself.

In there, the standards of authority that usually restricted them didn't apply -they couldn't, since there was no way to reinforce any authority on her end(he, however, could tell the basilisk to eat her, if he wanted to. So in this case he had the upper hand).

They wouldn't be student and professor anymore, not for that period of time. It was his opportunity to show her just a sliver of what he had to offer her as an individual, and how no one else could compare.

A short distance later, they reached the snake covered door that was the true entrance, and he leaned forward and whispered the command to unlock it.

As soon as the snakes began to move, he saw her eyes slam shut.

"Clever," he said, leaning in and reveling in the way she startled and shivered at the feel of his breath against her skin, "but it won't come until it's called." She still didn't open her eyes.

"I told you to stop being so dramatic," he chided her gently. Slowly, she reopened her eyes and looked over to him. He motioned to the now open door. "Ladies first."

She rolled her eyes, always keeping up with that attitude of hers, but stepped through the door.

He allowed her to go through first, and for several moments he simply stood back and and admired her reaction.

For the first time in all that he'd known her, she was utterly speechless. Her eyes had gone wide, brimming with what he knew had to be excitement and awe, and her lips and quirked upwards as she took the time to admire the stone statues. Not unlike his own reaction to seeing it for the first time, he noted.

This is what he had wanted to give her. This was just an example of what he could give her that no one else ever could, money and Ministry authority aside.

"Incredible, isn't it?" She turned back to him, that breathless wonder still evident on her face. "This was built a thousand years ago, and yet only three people have ever seen it," he continued, stepping closer to her, "you, me, and Salazar himself."

A moment later, he heard the serpentine hiss of parseltongue, the basilisk calling out.

"Master? Is that you I hear?"

In response, he hissed back. "Yes, it's me."

He felt Hermione shuffle closer to him, and he turned to see if she was alright. Her breath hitched and she looked up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

Suddenly, he understood. "I'm not calling her," he clarified, "but she can hear us and she asked if I'm here."

It was pleasing to know that, in her fear, she moved closer to him, that she sought him for protection. Underneath her cold demeanor, underneath her fear, she was still his and her body, her instincts, didn't deny it even if her consciousness did.

With his response, she visibly relaxed. He liked that too- that he could relax her. No one else seemed to be able to. "Why did she ask?"

"She gets lonely," he explained. "During school last year, she'd follow me through the pipes. If I was alone, I'd find a drain I could use to talk to her. She hasn't seen anyone since Slytherin left, so she's a bit desperate for company. Basilisks are actually quite misunderstood."

"Are you alone?" The basilisk asked, obviously having heard his conversation with Hermione.

"No," he hissed back, "I brought a friend with me."

"A girl?"

"Yes, she's a girl."

"What's she saying?" Hermione asked. "I can't even hear her."

"She's asking about you. She can tell I'm not alone and she's never met a girl before. She's curious."

Her eyes flickered through a series of emotions as she processed the information, before settling on curiosity. While he appreciated that she was quick to learn, he wished he could slow it down, observe the process a bit more, read her mind just like he might read a book.

He didn't like not being able to guess what was going through her head.

She spoke again.

"If you called her, would she, you know?"

While she didn't outright ask, he understood. The unspoken 'would she kill me?' was clear.

"Not unless I tell her to," he replied. "Would you like to see her?"

She seemed to be thinking it over for a moment, until finally she nodded, fascination dominating fear.

"Shut your eyes," he commanded. Instantly, she obeyed.

"Are you feeling social?" He asked the creature. "She'd like to meet you. She's nice, I promise. You'll have to face away from her though, otherwise you'll hurt her."

He heard the snake begin to move, coming out towards them.

"Yes, master."

Hermione still had her eyes closed.

"I told her to face away from you," he explained, "So you can look at her without worrying about eye contact."

She nodded, opening her eyes slowly.

Her reaction to seeing the basilisk for the first time was not much unlike his own cautious wonder. The beast was gigantic, with rippling scales and menacing looking fangs. Beautiful in its own right, but that did nothing to diminish the ferocity it had.

While Hermione continued to admire it, the basilisk continued to speak with him. Quite chatty for a snake, she was, but he didn't mind.

He never minded that snakes liked to talk to him. Generally he found their company preferable over people.

"Does your friend look like you?"

"No," he replied, unsurprised by the question as it couldn't see her, "she's a girl, so she's much smaller than me. Her hair is also different, and so are her eyes."

"Is she pretty?"

Casting a glance at the woman next to him, he smirked. "Very."

"Is she yours, then?"

While he had already accepted that Hermione belonged to him, the question still caught him a bit off guard. 'Mate' was a very animalistic word he didn't feel accurately described the situation(especially since there had been no mating involved), though it was the only term the animal would recognize. The closest human equivalent to that would be 'wife', but that was also inaccurate and attempting to explain human laws to a snake was a pointless endeavor(he had, in fact, tried to explain already that he could not simply kill a man, steal his home, and somehow not be an orphan anymore. The snake couldn't grasp the concept).

"Yes," he settled on, semantics aside, "Yes, she's mine."

Not technically a lie.

"What's she saying?" Hermione suddenly asked, ever the curious creature.

"She's just asking a lot of questions," he replied. He bit back a grin, content with her response to his 'gift'. "Snakes have a hard time comprehending the way humans live, just because it's so drastically different from how they live. So she's asking me to explain."

Suddenly curious, Hermione asked, "what does she want to know?"

He paused for a moment, debating how much he should tell her, before saying, "Most people think basilisks are solitary by nature, but that's not true. There's just so few of them that they're never seen in pairs, which is how they prefer to live. She asked if you were mine."

"And what did you tell her?"

"The truth."

As her expression shifted into a morph of shock, confusion, and curiosity, he couldn't bite back his grin any longer.

That's mine, he thought as he glanced over her, appreciating every bit of reaction she gave him.

Eventually, she'd come around. He knew it would take a while, but he could be patient.

New Year's Eve, he found her on the astronomy tower again, like he had last year.

"Happy birthday," she said, though she didn't even turn around to greet him. It was cold, freezing, but she wasn't wearing anything suited for the weather. If it hadn't been for the way her cheeks looked more rosy than usual, he'd have assumed she didn't even notice.

"Thank you," he replied, approaching her where she stood against the railing. "Seventeen, now."

An adult.

She nodded, but still didn't look away from the railing.

"You know, the traditional coming of age present for a wizard is-"

"A watch," he finished for her. "I bought myself one in Hogsmeade, during the last visit before break."

Between every school year, he sold his second hand robes and school supplies back, choosing to pocket the extra money. Hogwarts didn't give him a lot of money, but he got enough to cover his expenses for the school year. And, apparently, enough to make a slight profit. The school didn't demand money back as a loan, so he took it.

"It probably shouldn't surprise me to see you so eager to provide for yourself, should it?"

"I've always provided for myself," he answered. "No different now."

"You'll still have to go back, over the summer," she muttered.

"Don't remind me," he snapped. During the school year, he did his best not to remember the orphanage he was forced back to every summer.

"Sorry," she apologized, and it sounded like she actually meant it. "I was just thinking out loud."

"It's alright," he assured her. If she was thinking out loud, he wanted her to do that more often, not less. "I just don't like thinking about it."

She cracked a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I can relate."

Just as he opened his mouth to ask what she meant, the clock tower went off. Just like last year, she shot a firework into the sky for New Year's, and just fucking left him there, wanting to drag her back.

Next year, he'd break the fucking clock before coming to find her. Next time, he wouldn't give her such an easy excuse to walk away.

"She's a cunt, I'm telling you."

After the holidays had ended, Tom strolled into the common room late, after his Perfect rounds, and that was the first thing he heard as he saw his Knights gathered around the fireplace. Waiting for him, as usual.

Rarely did he actually need them for anything, but they waited around like lost puppies regardless.

"You're just pissed because she didn't accept your obviously plagiarized paper," Avery retorted back to the boy who had made the original comment, Malfoy.

"What's going on here?" He asked, noticing how Mulciber immediately moved to the floor to give him his usual chair.

"Abraxas got detention from Granger."

Unsurprising.

"Well, what did he do?"

Malfoy spoke for himself this time. "She didn't like my paper, apparently, so she gave me a 'T'. My parents would kill me if they saw I got that grade, so I decided to handle it reasonably and go talk to her. I get to her office, and her bloody menace of a cat nearly ripped me to shreds, by the way, but back to the point. I get there, try to talk to her about it, and she gives me detention along with threatening to remove me from her class if I ever turn in a paper like that again. Like I said: cunt."

Tom knew he had to be very careful about exactly what he said, as well as how and when he did.

He was still building a reputation, still chaining all these people to him in any way he could to ensure his rise to power. It always would go best if they were willing, if they followed him on their own. Loyalty was(unfortunately) stronger than fear, after all.

For that reason, he had become excellent at reading social cues and responding according.

He had learned that there are both acceptable and unacceptable ways to verbally express a desire to fuck one's teacher senseless.

It was acceptable if it was a show of masculine bravado, a way of expressing a male desire to conquer the fairer sex.

It was unacceptable if your desire stemmed from a feeling of longstanding attraction or a sense that she was worthy of your time and attention.

For that reason, he found himself unable to accurately explain exactly why Malfoy should stop talking immediately if he had any desire whatsoever to survive.

"Yeah, I've gotta say I agree with you there," this time it was Lestrange who spoke up. "The bitch hates me. Always has, and unlike Malfoy I haven't even done anything to deserve it. I reckon our dear Professor Granger needs to be taught her place. Punished."

"Can't say I disagree. In fact, I think we can come up with several punishments fitting of her crimes," Malfoy added with a snicker.

Dolohov kept looking over, eyeing him nervously, like he were a bomb that could go off at a moment's notice.

While his anxiety wasn't entirely misplaced, Tom knew better than to just blow up. It would have consequences far too inconvenient to be easily handled. The accidental magic fueled by rage or frustration couldn't be helped, though. He was still working on getting that under control.

It was mostly well managed, though.

The way the flames in the fireplace began to flicker higher and higher, licking out towards the offending(though unaware) boys, was testament to the 'mostly' part of that statement.

If Hermione weren't a teacher, this wouldn't be a problem. He would simply express that she belonged to him, and no one would ever question it. To do so would be a heavy sign of disrespect, and he had them all under his thumb. They wouldn't test him. They wouldn't dare.

It wasn't as simple now, with her older than him and technically in a position of authority over him. The social stigma wouldn't help. He had never much cared about standard social expectations, but the problem was that other people did. To keep them, he at least needed to pretend to agree, to be one of them. Ambitious or not, people were suckers for solidarity.

Rather than retort, he stayed quiet and simply listened.

As a child, he had learned how to make people hurt without so much as lifting a finger. He knew how to cause aches and pains, even bruises using only magic. But in this case, that wouldn't be gratifying enough.

So he sat there, listening to whatever lewd things the two boys could come up with, and seethed. For now, he'd let them speak, oblivious to the hole -no, grave- they were digging themselves, let them say whatever they wanted.

Later, he'd make them pay for it in blood.

"Can you just imagine those bossy little lips of hers wrapped around my-"

"Seriously, Malfoy, shut the fuck up." Dolohov finally spoke up, probably in response to the way the air began to crackle with rage induced magic.

"Why? Got a crush, have you, Tony?" Lestrange sneered.

"For fucks sake, she's a teacher! Show some respect."

Tom blinked. He blamed his anger for making him forget that he could demand respect for other people unrelated to their standing by him. He probably should have thought of it sooner, truthfully.

Malloy and Lestrange wouldn't have had half the chance to incriminate themselves if he had, though. Even the thoughts made them worthy of punishment. Waiting was justifiable for that reason alone.

"Antonin is right," Tom said, composing himself enough to speak up. "She's your superior, whether you like it or not."

With Tom's comment, both the boys went silent except for a few mumbled apologies.

That wouldn't be enough to spare them, but they had no need to know that.

The following day, both Malfoy and Lestrange ended up in the infirmary. 'Tragic accidents' being the cause.

It had been almost too easy, and neither so much as suspected it was him. He hadn't had to touch them or so much as take his wand from his pocket to get his revenge.

As Lestrange made his way down the steps on the third floor staircase, he simply "slipped". The fact that it was moving, dropping his worthless body all the way down to the first floor, was merely coincidental.

"Tom, was that...?" Dolohov didn't even finish his sentence.

"Come on, Tony," he said, ignoring the obvious question, "or we'll be late to potions."

He didn't so much as spare a glance to the terribly clumsy boy bleeding on the stone three floors down.

During Quidditch practice, when Malfoy suddenly lost control of his broom, Tom made no move to help him and neither did anyone else. Practice wasn't supervised by teachers, after all. No need to play the part of the dutiful Prefect.

As he watched Abraxas plummet towards the ground, the movement of a bludger suddenly caught his eye.

As a wicked grin crossed his face, the bludger changed course, colliding against Malfoy's head with a resounding smack that could be heard all across the pitch.

Dolohov shuddered at the sound.

As Tom came down off his broom, he approached the boy who now lay on the ground, sobbing, blood leaking from his lips. "I think you might need to go to the infirmary."

The boy couldn't even nod, only made a weak gasping noise in response.

As Abraxas was levitated to the infirmary, Dolohov approached him again.

"Tom, you, uh, you know they were just joking, right? That they didn't really mean any of it."

He nodded. "I'm aware."

"Then why bother with all this? They don't even know what they did wrong."

Because she's mine.

"Because, regardless of whether or not they know, they were being disloyal to us as a whole. Part of being a group, a community, is unified protection. To turn on each other can't be tolerated, no excuses. Discipline must be handled accordingly."

He knew he was talking like a politician, using lots of pretty words that he meant almost none of. Dolohov most likely knew it too, hence his apprehension.

"Your loyalty will be rewarded, Tony. I can promise you that."

With that, he left the Quidditch pitch.

He found Hermione on the Astronomy Tower again during his perfect rounds the following night. Usually, he didn't bother to check up there, but he saw wandlight and knew someone had to be there.

As he approached, he saw her dim her wand, shove the book she was reading down, and press herself into the wall. It looked like she was holding her breath, refusing to so much as make a twitch if it might give herself away.

Entirely unnecessary, of course.

"I'm sure you're aware that teachers don't have a curfew. You didn't have to stop reading," he told her.

"Sorry, it's a habit."

Bit paranoid, she was, but then again, he already knew that.

As he approached, she spoke again.

"Dumbledore is getting worried about the recent accidents, you know."

Rolling his eyes, he nearly scoffed. "I'm sure he is. I'm also sure he knows they weren't accidents, and that there is nothing he can do about it," he retorted.

"Oh? Care to enlighten me?" Judging by her tone, she obviously already knew it was him, she just wanted to hear him say it.

Fine. If that's what you want.

"I hexed Malfoy's broom, and I tripped Lestrange down the stairs." He told her plainly. She had asked, after all.

"I assumed you did, but you never told me why."

"You didn't ask. If you do, I'll tell you."

He wanted her to ask, wanted her to know why. That he had done it for her, that, if she wanted him to, he'd do more for her. With the Chamber, he had shown her that he could offer her power. With this, protection. He wanted her to know, almost desperately, but she needed to ask.

"Why did you do it?"

Finally, he thought, though she hadn't even made him wait a minute.

"Because they were talking about you," he said as he knelt down, meeting her where she was sitting on the floor. "Specifically, all of the things they wanted to do to you. Malfoy actually said he wanted to put his cock in your-"

"Stop! I'm well aware teenage boys are disgusting. I don't need to hear about all the vulgarities they can come up with," she nearly shrieked back at him, her face the very picture of revulsion.

The vulgarity was mostly for shock value, but if she didn't want him to talk like that, she shouldn't respond in a way that made it so tempting.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" He replied, as though none of this was inappropriate at all, "It's hardly polite to talk about a lady that way. Manners are important, as I'm sure you know."

Enjoying her speechlessness, he continued. "Trust me, you don't have to lecture me about that. I know better than to say such things about a woman. Whether or not I'd do such things is more about the lady in question-"

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you deserve to know."

And she did. She didn't just deserve to know, she needed to know.

"Why?" Her voice came out so small, it was practically a squeak. Being timid didn't suit her.

He took a moment before responding, to try and figure out exactly how to explain what he wanted to say.

"You protected me," he settled on, hoping she'd understand. From the very beginning when she had bought him that fucking book, it had all been about reciprocation. Even back when he still lied to her to maintain his image, he reciprocated her actions towards him in ways he hadn't for others.

She protected him, and so he'd protect her in turn.

"So that's it? I cover up your murders and defend your character, and you terrorize boys who say mean things about me?"

"I'd cover up your murders too."

She glared at him. He smirked at her.

"You'll never have to," she said, and he cocked an eyebrow in skepticism.

But, of course not, he decided. She'd be too clean to ever leave so much as a trace of evidence behind. If she killed someone, he liked to think she'd completely destroy them. Eviscerate them, then burn it all to ash. There would be nothing for him to clean.

He liked to think she'd be even more vicious than he had been. Unlikely, he knew, but it was a pleasant thought nonetheless.

"And," she continued, "you know they never would have actually touched me. They're just stupid boys trying to seem, I don't know, tough or edgy or something."

"Good thing, too. I'd have had to kill them then. That really would have been inconvenient."

"You would not have had to kill them and you know it," she retorted.

"Yeah, I would have."

Perhaps not kill, but torture and obliviate, at the least. Point still standing: they got off easy.

"Why?" Her tone shook just slightly, and he knew, for certain this time, that she was finally starting to understand.

"I don't share at the best of times. Had they so much as laid a finger on you, it wouldn't be tolerated. And now, they know that."

Actually, they didn't, but Dolohov did and he would keep them in line. Same thing, essentially, so there was no need to explain the whole hierarchy to her.

"No," she replied furiously, practically spitting at him. "I'm not an object. I'm not something to be owned or shared or used or passed around or whatever else."

I know, he wanted to tell her.

She was so, so close to understanding, and yet missing the point entirely.

"Then tell me what you are," he said instead.

Pushing herself off the wall, she moved to face him with a look of pure, emboldened pride. He watched with curiosity and anticipation as she held out her left arm and began to roll her sleeve back.

His curiosity morphed to anger and shock as he saw what she had now displayed to him.

Carved into her skin in red, angry letters, was the word 'mudblood', furiously screaming at him through the scars.

He understood her pride now, that she was trying to show him, and by extension, blood purists in general, that she defied them. That by her very existence she was proving them wrong.

She displayed that scar, that ugly, hideous word, like a trophy, proof that she was better than all of them no matter how filthy they found her blood.

She was mocking him, and yet he could hardly find it in himself to care right now because someone had fucking butchered her, branded her, hurt her, and it made him livid.

"Who did this to you?" He demanded, barely able to speak through how much he was gritting his teeth.

She blinked, clearly not expecting him to ask, to care. Well, she was brilliant, but she was wrong this time.

"Someone who is now dead."

It brought him some level of comfort to know that she had killed whoever had done this to her, that she hadn't let it go. That she wouldn't tolerate people hurting her either.

Feeling as though he needed to touch her, needed that calm and focus that she usually inspired in him, he reached out for her arm. Reflexively, she jerked back, away from him, and he tightened his grip on her wrist.

A yelp of pain left her throat, and he ceased all movement. It hadn't occurred to him that the scar might not be fully healed.

"Does it hurt?" He asked, already aware of the answer.

Perhaps to be defiant, she stubbornly refused to answer him. Instead, she just grit her teeth and held eye contact. He loosened his grip to alleviate the pain, but continued holding onto her. He had reached out to her for a reason, and he didn't feel ready to let go yet.

"I always knew I was different -special," he started, deciding to just say it all out. He understood now that if he didn't, she'd come to the wrong conclusions. He needed to figure out how to rectify that, but he'd think it over later.

"Dumbledore came to see me when I was eleven and I thought I understood why. The magic. I thought being a wizard was what made me special. And he told me about a school where there were other people like me. I thought he was right. I thought I'd come here and I wouldn't be alone anymore. I was, disappointed, to say the least.

"But, I was able to understand that it wasn't the magic. It wasn't the genetic gift that made me special. There was something else. My mind. My soul. It wasn't like everyone else's."

He looked up at her, searching for a sign of recognition or understanding in her eyes. All he saw was confusion.

So he kept going.

"But you're like me. And you know it. Third year, when you helped me with the boggart, do you remember what you said to me? You said we both knew I could get rid of it. You didn't say that to anyone else. Just me. Because you knew. You always knew.

"And now we both know," he finished, never breaking eye contact, pleading with her to understand.

Pulling his wand, he placed it against her palm and conjured a single stem of heliotrope. Gently, he curled her fingers around the stem, securing it in her grasp.

"I don't have the book on me," she said, surprise and confusion evident in her tone.

Devotion, and loyalty. A promise. Technically it also could mean eternal love, but she'd know he wasn't that sappy.

"It means," he said, gently taking her hand and more firmly closing her fingers around the stem, not allowing her to let it go, "that my loyalty is not dependent on the 'purity' of your blood. I understand if you don't trust me now. But you will. I'll prove it to you."

He left her on the Astronomy Tower and retreated to his dorm, unable to think about anything other than how royally he had fucked this up and how he desperately needed to figure out a way to fix it.

The coldness, the hesitancy, the paranoia -he had always thought that it was just because she knew who he was, that she knew what he was capable of.

And she did, but it was so much more than that.

He had opened the Chamber of Secrets and killed a girl just for existing as a muggleborn. It hadn't been personal, but obviously Hermione would take offense to that. Obviously she'd be angry.

If someone had begun killing halfbloods, he wouldn't have been thrilled about it either.

It was no wonder she refused to trust him, to allow him close. She had no reason to believe he didn't mean her harm.

He was actually surprised she wasn't more cold to him, given what he had just learned. But she was logical, and despite her personal feelings, she still appreciated his value.

And the way she always pulled down her sleeves, that made sense now too. She was personally, painfully, aware of how dangerous it was to exist as she did, and even though she wasn't ashamed, she had been made to hide for her own safety.

A sick, twisted part of his mind was angry not only that someone had hurt her, but that they had marked her.

If it had been a mark that he had left, he might not hate it so much. Might even like it, actually. A symbol to show to everyone that she belonged to him. A trophy she could be proud of for better reasons.

Obviously, he wouldn't use the word 'mudblood'. To think of someone calling her that, deeming her filthy and unworthy, made him feel like his blood might actually be boiling.

No, he chose something different. Most likely not a word.

And she still wouldn't like it. He'd probably have to restrain her, and when it hurt, he would have to kiss away her tears, quiet her sobs, promise her it would be over soon, that it was all-

No, no. That was crude. Crude and unnecessary.

He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't need to do that. If he wanted to mark her, he'd just give her a tattoo. Knock her out, if she wasn't compliant. He wouldn't need to resort to anything so violent.

Either way, that mark was the very least of his problems.

He had shattered her trust in him before he even had the opportunity to build it, and that was something he desperately needed to fix. Fate has given her to him to guide him and help him grow, but he refused to let that be all she was. He wanted more from her, and that would require her voluntary compliance.

He fell asleep that night running his fingers over the spine of the book she had given him all those years back, from before he knew what any of this had meant.