Twelve Days of Christmas
Author's Note: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!
On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
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Six mischief nargles
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No one speaks to her about her embarrassing display of emotions in the Great Hall. She is just relieved it was only the professors and the choir there to witness it instead of the entire school.
And of course, Tom Riddle himself.
Flitwick stammers his profounding apologies, and it takes Hermione at least seven times to insist that he is not to blame. She enforces that it was a lovely gesture, but she is a fickle thing.
She hasn't directly seen Riddle since. Though he has been lingering in the shadows like an afterthought that refuses to be completely forgotten, much to her dismay.
Hermione's heels click against the stone floor as she walks across the halls distractedly, her eyes trapped in a distant memory.
Harry and Ron are by her side, Ginny is ahead. They are all laughing over something so small, so trivial, snow still dusting their hair from the outdoors. If she remembers correctly, they had just visited Hagrid and gotten themselves wrapped in a snowball fight.
The thought seems childish, but it is a treasured memory. It doesn't show Harry's thin frame and tired eyes from his nightmares. It doesn't show Ron looking over his shoulder in paranoia every moment or so. It doesn't show Ginny's haunted face from the lingering effects of Voldemort's horcrux.
She cherishes the moments when they can be carefree and playful, even if it were only for a moment. War wasn't far from their minds, but they were able to ignore it for just a little while.
And it was bliss.
She remembers Luna running up to them, easily falling into step with Harry, her absurd Christmas hat was far too large for her head.
Her blue sparkling eyes fall on Ginny and she calls out, "Watch out for the nargles! They are very fond of mistletoe—"
—the memory dissipates as Hermione's feet are suddenly immobile and her entire body lurches. Before she can become an indignified heap on the ground, she manages to steady herself. Her memory is wiped away as her eyes fly skywards, glaring at the white mistletoe. Honestly, she has been able to dodge them all over the castle as five have already invaded her at every step. But now she is stuck on the sixth because of her silly little daydreams! She idly wonders if Luna would turn the corner in her ridiculous hat and babble about her beloved nargles.
But she knows that will not happen.
A sudden lump sits in her throat and tears are stinging her eyes. Hermione huffs irritably at herself and forces the surging emotions to wither away when her fiery eyes land on Tom Riddle.
Anger is slowly boiling her blood at the sight of him.
Again she notes that he is taller as her head tips back and he is looming over her with a perfectly crooked smile that she damn well knows the female population of Hogwarts swoon over his impressively straight, white teeth.
It just antagonizes her.
"Why, Professor Granger," his very breath on her forehead is far too irritating for his own good—just when did he get so damn close? "It seems that we're stuck." His tone sounds free of worry and filled to the brim in amusement.
Her face pales dramatically and again her eyes sweep upwards to stare at the mistletoe branches. Then she dumbly lowers her gaze to their feet. When she focuses back to him, he has the most smug smirk on his face.
Why that infuriating little snake!
There is no one in the hallway to come to her aid and she watches with wide eyes as Riddle leans a bit closer. His magic is cracking around her, and her own is buzzing instantly, almost in a hum in anticipation.
Wide, doe like eyes watch as he leans closer—closer ankd suddenly they are breathing the same air. Her breath comes out in shaking puffs and Tom's eyes give away his calm facade. His body heat is burning her and she feels him inch even closer, connected just so slightly as their noses brush.
The contact makes her magic soar.
As if Riddle can sense it, his eyes fall shut and his nostrils flare, sharply inhaling. Her entire body is quivering as he tilts his head just a tiny bit more.
"I've been waiting for you," his whispers almost inaudibly, his lips just barely brushing hers as he speaks. There's a tremor in his voice, vibrating with an unnamed emotion.
The gentle skim of the lips is enough to unlock the mistletoe's hold and Hermione places her hands on his chest and gives him a mighty shove.
He stumbles back before gaining balance, his face slightly flushed and eyes wide. But Hermione ignores his startled expression and her magic cracks in anger around her.
"This game," she spits out venom in every letter, hoping that she has toxins to kill him. "Has gone too far!" Her chest is heaving. "Beyond far! I do not understand what delusional thoughts are numbing that incredibly smart mind of yours, but for the last time; I am your professor. Do not touch me. Do not speak to me unless it is appropriate. I have no qualms in involving the Headmaster and your Head Boy privileges will be evoked!"
She ignores something that curls in her gut. Perhaps it is fear, it would be the easiest explanation. He is Voldemort. So many good people, wizards and muggles alike, die because of him. Him and his disgusting hatred that plagues his entire being.
But there is a small, tiny voice in her head that tells her she actually likes the attention, the lengths Tom has been striving for, and she is undeniably curious to know what is behind these romantic gestures—
She shakes her head.
This is Voldemort! Seduction is manipulation.
She almost bares her teeth like the lioness she is when Tom takes the most smallest steps forward.
"Does. . . does it not please you?" His voice is light, nearly an air of a whisper, almost with genuine shock that reflects his confusion and it clouds his exceptionally handsome face. The emotions wavers ever so slightly before he turns into a dark, stony facade. "I apologize, Professor Granger."
And with that, he turns around, storming down the hall.
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