The Scientist
Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I was incredibly busy, and then was rushing to catch up on my other fics.
Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.
Chapter Seven: House of Cards
Tom shrugged into a plain cotton long-sleeved shirt, narrowing his eyes at the weather outside. It was late evening, and looked like it was beginning to rain. He disliked rain more than anything, and running in it was just plainly irritating. But he needed to do something to take his mind off of things, and for once, work wasn't helping. For a moment he debated just giving another hack at working, but recalling the success (or lack thereof) he had been having so far this evening, he made his decision.
His trainers clapped against the wet pavement outside and immediately his shirt became stuck to his skin. Still, it was a welcome distraction from his inner thoughts. All evening he had been unable to remove thoughts of Hermione Granger from his mind, and it was beginning to progress to something beyond irritating.
He had finally found a routine for his life that was stable and acceptable. He woke up every morning, got ready for work, taught the annoying law students and usually destroyed at least one student's unrealistic hopes or dreams each day, and then worked on cases until his eyes burned from exhaustion each night. Once in a while, an appearance in court or an outing with Bella and the others was necessary, and occasionally (such as tonight) he even exercised. It was his life, and he'd finally figured out how to make it work for him.
But Hermione Granger was throwing a monkey wrench in it. His debates with her had reminded him of something he'd forced to forget: he had missed having a real challenge in his life. Bellatrix and the others were under the impression that they were intellectually stimulating, but they were fools to think that. He practically fell asleep listening to her coo over him sycophantically.
Hermione...she was an oddity to him. He couldn't figure out where she stood in his life. She wasn't a friend—the very notion was hilarious for a number of reasons—but she wasn't just a student, either. He had never been attracted to his students before. She wasn't a woman, because she was too damn innocent to be a woman. She wasn't a colleague, but then again, a colleague was probably how he felt about her. Which he considered a huge compliment, because he rarely considered people to be on par intellectually with him. Yet he had seen her during his lectures, those intelligent brown eyes flashing as she reacted inwardly to his deductions.
But it wasn't just that she was fun to debate with. Dumbledore was fun to debate with, but he didn't have this problem with Dumbledore (though he had on occasion suspected that Dumbledore himself had a taste for the less-than-fair sex). There was something pulling him, really. Ever since the first time he had seen Hermione, he had felt like there was something connecting them. From the very first moment it had been so plainly clear that they were the same, though how he knew that, he couldn't say. He recognized a whole lot of himself in Hermione, and it was unsettling to see how those traits could be interpreted so differently.
The difference was that Hermione was compassionate. She saw the world through an idealistic lens, in a way he never had. And while he enjoyed telling her she was foolish, he also enjoyed seeing how she toed the very thin line between compassion and logic, never falling too far on either side. He respected her for that. And Tom Riddle respected very, very few people in his life.
Then there was the more shallow layer of attraction, in which he found himself taking note of her soft lips or the way her lashes looked against her cheeks when she looked down. He liked how she walked; her hips moved in a feminine manner that, judging by her posture, she was not aware of. She was always bent slightly by the heavy satchel of books she carried, so it was hard to tell that she had confidence. But she did. There was something stronger and steely hidden behind her hand-wringing exterior, and he longed to bring it out into the open. Tom was very sure that the real Hermione Granger never took 'no' for an answer, and would fight tooth-and-nail for what she believed in.
And now you're turning sappy, and it's revolting, he scolded himself. So he broke into a sprint along the city blocks, ducking between and around passerby and relishing the way thought was soon banished from his mind. All that was left was the burn of his lungs and the ache of his legs. His muscles begged him to stop or slow down, but his indomitable willpower surged him forward. At this level of exhaustion, nothing was left but his ragged breathing and the spray of the rain on his face.
He passed by Hermione Granger's apartment complex and found himself slowing to a stop as a familiar redheaded girl stormed down the front stoop. She was screeching as a black-haired boy followed after her. He recognized them as Hermione's friends that had been waiting for her that day a few weeks ago.
"I can't believe she didn't tell us. Sneaky bitch," the redhead was ranting, her heels clicking wetly along the sidewalk as she stormed along. The blackhaired boy was looking hesitant and unsure of what to do. What a moron, Tom observed, bored by the exchange. He considered picking up his run, but the blackhaired boy reached out and grasped the back of the girl's camel-colored coat. Finally, he's doing something. Hidden by a line of cars on the other side of the cramped street, Tom found himself watching.
"Ginny, you're really pissing me off right now," he said loudly, his cheeks flushing with anger. The girl—apparently Ginny—whirled around, her eyes very narrow as she glared at the boy.
"I'm pissing you off? Aren't you the least bit upset that Hermione and Fred were going behind everyone's backs? They were cheating on Angelina, and I'm pissing you off?"
"Calm the fuck down. You know Hermione wouldn't ever be 'the other woman' and Fred would rather die than cheat on anyone."
True, Tom agreed. He couldn't say anything about this Fred character, but Hermione didn't seem the type to settle for being a mistress. A part of him was urging himself to keep running, because he was spying on Hermione's friends and it was getting ridiculous. But the much louder part of him—the part of him that was like the devil on his shoulder—crowed that this was more interesting than prime-time television.
"Why didn't she tell us, then, Harry? She's been hiding it from us, and that's just—"
"Her business. It's just her business, and not yours," said Harry coldly. "Hermione's relationships never work out. She deserves this, and you're being a bad friend by interfering."
Ginny was beginning to cry.
"Hermione's relationships never work out? You're sympathizing with her when we never work out. I've turned down so many guys because I'm waiting for you, Harry."
Snore, Tom thought emphatically, rolling his eyes. So that was what this was about. Bored by the turn the conversation had taken, he slipped away and resumed running again.
It seemed that Hermione and this Fred boy had been caught. Tom mused at how dramatic it all seemed, and yet, a part of him was irritated by it. You're not jealous, idiot, he scolded himself.
After another hour of running, he was feeling marginally better. His muscles felt weak and he grimly noted that it was not as easy to just pop out for an hour and a half long run now as it had been twenty years ago when he had been in high school. The memory of how often he had slipped out to run out all of his frustration he had had at living in foster homes and orphanages sunk his mood further.
Unfortunately, he remembered he had literally no food in his kitchen, and, grumbling to himself the whole way about it, stopped at the nearest grocery that was open late.
Hermione sat on the couch, unseeing, as she listened to Fred's footsteps as he hurried down the stairs. There was the consequent bang of the door as he left, and then silence.
"Well, that went about as poorly as it possibly could," she said sardonically to Crookshanks. As usual, the orange tabby was perched on top of her television set, looking quite unsurprised. "And don't say I told you so, because I don't want to hear it," she added in a snappy tone. Crookshanks hissed a bit lazily, swishing his tail as Hermione sighed and rose from the couch.
After Ginny had stormed out with much shrieking bouncing off the walls, Fred and Hermione had wordlessly began picking up the smashed pieces of the case of butterbeer. They had said nothing until they were done, and then agreed to lay low for awhile. With the half-hearted promise that he'd call her, Fred shrugged on his jacket and left.
Hermione was feeling too keyed-up to sleep, and too upset to do work. Bidding Crookshanks goodbye, she slipped on her old peacoat and left her apartment. Her hands were shaking from what had happened as she made several faulty attempts to lock her door. Some chocolate would be welcome right now, she decided.
Outside it was misting and quite cold. As it was midnight, not too many places were open, and she was forced to stop at the nearest late-night grocer. Inside, the fluorescent lights cast the place in an unhappy pallid glow as Hermione wandered up and down the aisles in search of a decent chocolate bar.
She was rounding the bend of the last aisle when she stopped short, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum tile.
Dr. Riddle was looking deeply hassled as he examined two different brands of pasta, his eyes narrowed. His dark-blue long-sleeved tee shirt was sticking to his skin, his shorts revealing lightly muscled and somewhat hairy calves. His hair was sticking to his skin and was looking messier than she'd ever seen it, water droplets running down his temples and neck.
In short, her mouth was watering at the very sight of him.
"D-Dr. Riddle," she stammered. He looked up, eyebrows raised, and something—something unreadable—flashed in his eyes.
"Miss Granger," he greeted as he set down one of the brands of dry pasta. "Couldn't stay away, could you?" he said dryly, his smooth pale lips curling in amusement.
"Actually, I came here looking for a chocolate bar, so I'll just be out of your hair," she snapped irritably. She glanced at his hair again, "since it looks like it could use a break."
"You're the very last person to be allowed to criticise someone's hair, Miss Granger," he sneered as he matched her stride as they walked along the aisles. The freezer units hummed loudly and Hermione shivered as they passed the frozen food section. In Dr. Riddle's red plastic basket was a box of dry pasta, several bags of an expensive brand of pre-ground coffee, and a carton of eggs.
"So that's how you maintain that sickly-pale look and the zero-percent body fat," she observed snidely as they reached the candy section. Hermione was in too foul of a mood to worry about being self-conscious, and began snatching chocolate bars at random from the shelf. Dr. Riddle's dark eyes twinkled in amusement at her. Wearing the dark blue shirt made his eyes seem almost navy, and for a moment she forgot herself and could not tear her eyes from his. Water droplets were clinging to his lashes too. Does he have to be so damn beautiful?
"So that's how you maintain your womanly physique," he countered with a smirk. At that, Hermione's cheeks really did flush.
"Don't you dare call me fat," she said grumpily, hitting him with one of the larger chocolate bars. "I am in no mood."
"I would never call you fat. I was simply remarking on your curves," he said in an injured tone. Hermione rolled her eyes at him broadly. "Why the chocolate bars, anyway? That time of the month, is it?"
"No. Bad night," she groused. Without really thinking of it, she found herself following him as he distastefully picked out a few kinds of yogurt. "Men suck," she blurted out. Dr. Riddle paused mid-grab for a yogurt and looked back at her.
"You might want to tell that to a non-male audience, darling," he mused, smirking at her. "You'll find I don't particularly agree with you."
"Right. Well, just let me know when every single guy in the world decides to stop being a prat."
"Things didn't work out with ginger boy?" he sounded hardly surprised and even had a hint of humor in his voice. Hermione glowered.
"Who knows!" she threw her arms up in the air. "Since boys never manage to let me know about their feelings, all I can do is guess!"
"How submissive of you."
They were standing there staring at each other for a moment. Under Dr. Riddle's stare, it occurred to Hermione that she perhaps could have demanded information from Fred. She could have even demanded that they deal with their problem upfront. Instead...she had been submissive, and it was a bit embarrassing. "Let me guess—you clammed up and just let him make the decisions, without so much as an argument?"
"Shut up," Hermione growled. "Stop being so damn intuitive. And what are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were a slave to your work. Don't tell me you've got hobbies such as exercising?"
Dr. Riddle's expression was mysterious to Hermione. He looked at her heavily before turning and leading her further down the aisle.
"Only when I need a distraction from my thoughts," he said cryptically.
"Oh, so you do think about things other than your work?"
"On occasion," he quipped with a grin. "It's not a common occurrence, I will admit."
"And what were you thinking of?"
They neared the check-out line. He flashed a grin at her.
"None of your business," he said simply before gesturing to the check-out line. It was the only one, and a very bored-looking clerk was waiting for them to begin. "After you. You've got less stuff."
Hermione wished she could find an excuse to prolong their interaction. She had been cheered up by seeing him, and she really had no desire to return to her lonely apartment. Reluctantly she dropped her chocolate bars on the conveyor belt and fished for her wallet. After paying for her items, she was unsure of whether she should wait for him or not, and awkwardly waited at the end of the line, watching the cashier bag Dr. Riddle's groceries.
Maybe she should have just bid him good-night and left, but soon they were standing outside in the light rain, both shivering slightly.
"This is a bit weird, but seeing you cheered me up," she confessed awkwardly, the icy rain stinging her warm cheeks. Dr. Riddle arched an elegant brow at her. His dark hair was sticking to his forehead, the rain dripping from his bangs and down his face in rivulets. He really is beautiful, she thought a bit sadly, not sure of why she was filled with melancholy at his beauty. Maybe because I wish he were mine, just a little bit.
"Seeing myself usually cheers me up too," he agreed, smirking down at her. Hermione rolled her eyes, unable to banish the silly little giggle that escaped at his joke.
And then suddenly her eyes were wet. She hoped that the rain covered it up.
"I just don't understand. Our friends found out about us, and— and—" she couldn't bear to finish the sentence. Dr. Riddle's gaze was heavy as he regarded her thoughtfully. "I'm sorry. I'm being ridiculous," she added, wiping her eyes on her sleeve rather futilely, as the rain was coming down harder now.
"Yes, especially over a ginger," he said mildly, earning another chuckle from her.
Seeing her standing there, looking so small and sad, incited something primal in him whose origin was a mystery to Tom. She was trying so hard to hide the hurt from how her friends had betrayed her. He wanted to make her stop crying. It was a ridiculous urge but when he came up with a solution, he realized it benefitted him as well. "If it's not too late for you, I happen to plan on working late tonight on my case. If you're interested in gaining a bit of experience, I'd allow you to come and help out." Only after he had spoken did he register the possible sexual connotation lying beneath the surface of his words. Thank goodness he never blushed.
Hermione's eyes went wide and he was pleased that she now no longer looked like she was on the verge of tears.
"R-really?" she stammered, looking eager. "I mean, if it's not too much—"
"Miss Granger, either accept or not," he said impatiently. "You'll recall I dislike the rain," he added, narrowing his eyes at the sky. Hermione laughed again, and the sound pleased him.
"Right. Just let me get my things. Where's your flat?"
"Near yours. I'll just walk with you and wait outside. Less trouble that way," he sighed, making a show of finding the task to be a huge drag. Hermione didn't take him seriously and playfully batted at his arm. Inwardly the devilish side of him rejoiced in the victory. It was never a bad thing when a girl playfully slapped you, he noted with pleasure.
Hermione forgot all about the evening's awful events as she and Dr. Riddle hurried through the city to her flat. Soon it was a downpour, and by the time they reached her flat they were both soaked.
"Come in. Wait—you're not allergic to cats, are you?" Hermione said as she unlocked her door. Dr. Riddle scoffed.
"Does disliking them count as being allergic?" he wondered aloud. Hermione just snorted and let him inside.
Her flat was cozy. It was starkly unlike his flat, which was usually quite chilly even in the summertime. All of the furniture looked pleasantly second-hand, and an orange tabby-cat was regarding him warily from a shelf. "You may as well get a change of clothes," he pointed out. Hermione flushed.
"Er, right. Just a minute. Make yourself at home," she stammered before hurrying down the hall to her bedroom.
Tom was left alone with the orange tabby cat, who was now purring at him, swishing its tail as though expecting to be patted.
"Not a chance. I despise cats," he told the cat with a smirk. Still, he wandered over to the overflowing bookshelf, noting the titles. Most of the shelves were packed to bursting point with impressive titles. Many of them were classics. Good girl, he thought with satisfaction. So the girl was more than well-read, judging by the worn quality of the books. It looked like she really read her books. He slid a title off the shelf at random and flipped through it, noting the way the pages were dog-eared, with different passages circled or underlined. Scrawled notes in the margins bled through on either side.
She was more intelligent than he had initially observed, if her notes were anything to go by. Tom shut the tome with a snap and slid it onto the shelf again, winking at the cat. At the very bottom of the shelf were a number of suspicious-looking novels that he belatedly realized were cheesy romances. And perhaps she's a little more of a woman than I realized, he thought, smirking even more broadly. He rose from his crouch just as Hermione came out of her bedroom.
"Got us some umbrellas. Want a towel?" she offered him a fluffy pink towel and Tom wrinkled his nose in distaste.
"No point, it'll just—"
"Take it so I don't feel bad," ordered Hermione bossily, and she threw the towel at him as well as one of the umbrellas. "I take it you've met Crookshanks?"
"Well, Crookshanks has been trying to catch my eye, but I play a little more hard-to-get than that," he said with a smirk as they left the flat.
"Usually Crookshanks hides when strangers come in. He's not shy...more like foul-tempered. He always attacks my friends' pets."
The rain had let up a bit now, though they still used the umbrellas, walking a bit more leisurely, chatting as they made their way to Tom's flat. Her towel was slung around his shoulders. It smelled like her body wash, and he found himself inhaling reflexively. It was a simple, clean scent that he favored above the heavy, clove-like perfumes that Bellatrix always wore.
He changed when they reached his flat, and immediately Hermione set to work reading over his case notes. By the time he came out of his bedroom, glad in a fresh pair of jeans and a fresh white tee-shirt, Hermione was engrossed in the notes, her brow furrowed as she scanned the pages.
As they worked together, it took a lot more effort than it should have for Tom to keep focused. Hermione Granger was in his flat. He knew that, had she been any other young woman, an attempt at seduction on her part would have already been made. Girls were always falling all over themselves for him, and while her attraction to him was evident, he appreciated that she had not made any passes at him yet.
Of course, he was also slightly hurt that she hadn't yet. And it made it all the more difficult to not reach across his kitchen table and tug on a lock of her hair or some other similar move to draw her attention back to him.
They worked late into the night. Hermione was a surprising help, noting things that he, in his exhausted state, had not picked up on yet. He glowed with pride whenever he had the chance to correct her, and because she was there, he found himself working even harder on the case.
For Hermione's part, she had forgotten completely about the problematic relationship with her and Fred. She was totally focused on the case, although once in a while she did get distracted by the sight of Dr. Riddle in just a white tee shirt, his glasses glinting in the light of the apartment, one lovely hand fisted in his dark hair as his other hand gripped a pen, the tip of the pen scratching against the paper occasionally as he made notes. Hermione wondered if he knew that he sometimes mouthed words as he thought.
Eventually, however, her exhaustion won out, and around dawn her eyes finally drooped shut.
Tom looked up at the sound of Hermione's pen dropping to find her slumped forward, eyes shut and hair in her face. She had fallen asleep. Smirking to himself, he waited a moment for her to wake. When she didn't, he felt guilty letting her sleep upright. Reluctantly he rose to his feet and gingerly picked her up from the chair. He didn't have a couch—what use did he have for a couch? He was always either working or asleep in his flat, never relaxing—so the only place to put her was his bed.
Should he do it? She was stirring now and something that he didn't want to examine made him unwilling to wake her. He made his decision and gently carried her into his bedroom, laying her down carefully on his bed.
She mumbled something in her sleep and he fought back a snicker when she snored a bit. Her hair was splayed on the pillow, and when he stepped back, she grumbled something and frowned before curling up on her side and snuggling closer into the pillow, her small delicate hands curling against the edge of the covers. Should he have put the covers over her? It was too late now; she was lying on top of them. A lightweight blanket lay folded over the radiator and he grabbed it last minute and threw it over her curved form that he was trying very hard to not stare at.
Raking a hand through his hair, he did not allow himself to think on the fact that the object of his desire was lying in his bed. He poured himself a glass of ice water before returning to his work with enthusiasm.
When Hermione awoke, she awoke with a start in a darkened room. Fumbling for her own lightswitch, she was not greeted by the feel of the pull-chain on her own vintage lamp, but instead the cold metal of a streamlined modern bedside lamp. Where the fuck am I?
Her hand hit a switch at the base of the lamp and she clumsily hit it, bathing the room in a pale glow. She was lying on plain forest-green covers in a mostly empty room. A closet with a few items in dry-cleaning bags and a radiator beneath a window were the only things in the bed. She shifted, a tantalizing scent filling the air around her. It was a clean, musky, male scent.
Oh god...
She tentatively rose from the bed, pushing away a thin woven blanket and squinting out the bedroom door.
A single lamp was on in the kitchen-dining area, under which stood a table piled high with papers and manila folders. Dr. Riddle was slumped under the lamp, cheek in hand, jaw slack. He was asleep sitting up.
Slowly the evening came back to her. Hermione blinked, trying to remember when she had crawled into Dr. Riddle's bed. The only conclusion she could come to was that he had put her there. It was a notion that made her knees weak and her heart flutter in her chest. Hesitating a bit, she walked to the table and stood by his sleeping form. His glasses had slid to the end of his nose and were on the verge of falling off. He had been in the middle of writing something, apparently, because she could see the line where he had suddenly fallen asleep. She smiled to herself and moved the pen and paper from his hands, which caused him to jolt awake.
"Hey," Hermione said gently, unsure of why she was keeping her voice down. For someone as ruthless and vicious as Dr. Riddle, he certainly looked quite cute when he was waking him. His glasses clinked as they hit the table and he straightened in his seat, blinking. Hermione hastily stepped back. "You fell asleep. I was just moving the files away," she explained.
"No, you fell asleep," he argued, though his voice was a bit raspy from sleep. It was a sexy sound. "What time is it?"
They spotted the digital clock on the wall at the same time; it was just after five in the morning. Outside they could hear the rain and the sounds of cars rushing down the still-lonely street. Soon the city would wake up and fill with noise again. Hermione had always loved the privacy and quiet of this time of morning.
"I should go," she said unconvincingly, though she still didn't want to leave in the slightest. She watched hungrily as Dr. Riddle rubbed at his eyes, apparently still waking up.
"Or you could make me some coffee," he pointed out, "Since you're so damn chipper."
Happy for any excuse to stay longer, Hermione hurried into the kitchenette and began rifling through his cupboards, looking for the expensive coffee she had seen him purchase the night before. She heard him stumble into his bedroom and the squeak of shower knobs before the rush of water running. Her mouth watered as she pictured him showering and she had to bang her head against one of the cabinets to get the image out of her mind.
Meanwhile Tom turned the knobs of the shower as cold as they could go, grateful for the iciness of the water. Anything to staunch the sudden and unexpected desire he had felt at seeing her when he had woken was welcome.
He brushed his teeth and dressed again. His flat was filled with the rich aroma of coffee, and Hermione was making eggs.
"Morning. Thanks for letting me sleep over," she babbled as soon as he had entered the kitchen. "I figured the least I could do was make you some breakfast. I'm sure I wasn't much of a help, and probably more of a distraction, so I'm sorry."
Tom didn't respond as he filled a mug with coffee, still waiting for the fog of combined sleep and desire to lift from his normally sharp mind. Hermione's hair was mussed from sleep and her cheeks were flushed and damn it he could smell his aftershave on her. "Er, how do you like your eggs?"
"Edible," he managed to utter, turning away from her tempting lips and wishing he was still under the icy flow of water. He stumbled to the thermostat and turned it as low as it could possibly go.
They ate breakfast in silence, standing in the fluorescent lighting of his kitchenette. "You were helpful. After you fell asleep I looked over your notes. They were good," he said, after his wits had returned to him.
"Oh thank goodness. I'm so sorry about falling asleep. I just haven't been sleeping lately, and usually I need a lot of caffeine to pull all-nighters—" she stopped short when he held his hand up, signaling her to stop rambling.
"It's fine. Forget it," he said shortly.
There was an awkward moment after they had washed the dishes, when Hermione had to leave his apartment. Neither was sure how to bid the other goodbye, and in the end he simply made a snide remark about her untamed bushy hair, earning him another slap on the arm as Hermione flounced down the stairs and out of his building.
And after she was on the street, and he was in his flat, they both let out sighs of pure frustration.
