He leaned on the doorframe, watching her with rapture.
His little bird.
She was facing the large windows of his room, bathed in the sunlight. It was warming her already warm skin, highlighting its tan. Her longs legs were bent, their shape only perceptible through the thin satin sheets. He stared at her tantalizing golden arms with yearning. They circled her legs, curving her back in the most sensuous way. He wanted to lick her spine, to taste her perfectly unscarred skin, to mark his territory by letting his fingers inking the gold, tainting it purple, blue and green. It would be like flowers marring her skin, jewels worthy only of queens and empresses.
She turned to look at him looking at her. Her eyes mirrored his carnal ones. Her wild hair framed her face, black, brown and gold interlacing luminously. Her lips, delicate, thrilling, fervid, corrupt with sin, parted. She straightened her spine lasciviously not breaking eye contact.
But what really threw Tom into the chasm of lust were her curls. Her damn, blazing, curls which were wildly luring him back to her. He was voracious for them. He wanted to grab them in his fist, to crush them, to crush her in pleasure. He craved her.
Hermione's face was covered in sweat. She tried to dry her skin with her hand but only succeeded in coating her hand with the acid sweat. She had been playing for two hours in her small room and the sun dripping from the window only accentuated the heat of July.
She sighed and turned the page of her music sheets. It was useless, she already knew it by heart. Her eyes skimmed over the notes without seeing them. She fingered her violin, fidgeting. She could feel hands on her cheeks. She shook her head.
She settled the violin on her shoulder and brought her bow closer. Slowly she began the descent until the chords touched. She closed her eyes and pianissimo, she started to caress the chords.
The harmonious notes rose from the instrument. Music began to fill the room, once more. She did not have to look at the music sheets. She did not need the orchestra to back her up. She knew Tchaikovsky like the lines of her own hand, sinuously making arabesques on her palm. The languor of the music sent her tumbling into her own memories of the previous night.
The music skimmed her like she wished he had.
She drowned in the sound of her own making. It was powerful and made her throbbing with an unknown force. She was abruptly overwhelmed by a turmoil that came with a particularly high-pitched note. She felt like she was foundering in an ocean of tumultuous sound. She could not breathe. She frowned and continued to play, play the piece perfectly, as though it had been written solely to be played by her. She breathed out. Her arm was beginning to hurt her.
A crashing wave of pure ferocious, unbending and yet sinfully thrilling, disharmony crashed upon her. She smiled. She recognized the feeling from the night before. She was on the edge of the precipice and all too ready to fall in it with open arms.
Suddenly the sound of someone knocking on her door had her stop her playing. Slowly, she opened her eyes and blinked when faced with the harsh light of the sun. The silence was deafening. She set her violin carefully on her bed before opening the door.
Parvati glared at her.
"It's 8 a.m."
"8 and a half," smiled Hermione luminously.
The girl snorted and glanced at her room. Her nose scrunched up. She did not like how messy Hermione's room was. She turned back to the woman in question.
"I'm trying to get some sleep, I had a night shift."
She nodded. "Alright I'll stop, anyway I wanted to go and see Ron. Do you want me to bring you something to eat from the bakery ?"
Parvati narrowed her eyes. "Did you do something to my dress ?"
"No ! I'm just nice."
"It doesn't become you."
She made to leave but quickly turned back to the bushy-haired girl. "I'd like a mince pie and some flapjacks."
Hermione chuckled and closed her door. Parvati had a weak spot for pastries or rather food in general. She went back to her violin that she put away in its case. She patted her hands on her skirt to dry them. Thankfully, the fabric was black. She took her small tin basin filled to the brim with cold water and put it on her small table. Diving her hands into the water, she washed her face, neck and hands with the small cake of soap she had left. She took linen on the side and dried herself before taking off her nightshirt and passing on a new one. She tucked it into her clean skirt, she had put it on before starting to play. Without putting much effort into it, she wrangled her hair into a more or less tight bun.
Finally, she was as ready as she would ever be. She grabbed her small leather cross-body bag, a gift of her late father, and put her key and a bit of money into it. She gave one last look to her room. She would have to tidy it soon. She shrugged, not today.
Swiftly, she hurtled down the stairs sending hellos to other awaken residents complaining about her music.
"Ms Granger !"
She sighed and turned to look at the caretaker who was glaring at her. She put on a sweet smile on her lips.
"Yes Mr Filch ?"
"Ye' must pay rent today ! An' stop doing whatever it's ye' do up there ! Ye' woke up me cat !"
She clenched her teeth. Of course. How could she forget she constantly needed to pay for things with money she did not have. Thankfully as today they had no rehearsal, she could go work at Ollivander's shop and try to earn some money. Still, she would need an advance from the Opera. She would get it before the small SPUW protest. As she walked determinedly in the busy streets of the morning London, she thought about Madame Maxime's proposition. It seemed more appealing every minute. But still, Riddle was so talented. However, yesterday's events had shed a whole new light on him. She could feel it burning her insides.
She once again shook her head and forced herself to focus on her steps. When she arrived at the Weasleys' bakery, she had only though about him thrice more.
She pushed the glass door and instantly a smiled bloomed on her pink lips and all inappropriate thoughts about her conductor vanished. Fred and George were behind the counter, dealing with a customer, and she could see Ron in the tiny opening of the kitchen. He was red and sweating profusely, facing the blazing ovens.
"What do we have here George !"
She brought her focus back to the twins who had dealt with the customer. She was now their only one. They grinned mischievously, knowing they could tease her with little to no consequences. She liked bantering playfully with them. They were quite serious when they wanted to but she also liked their careless attitude.
"Well," said George exaggerating his pointed look to his twin, "I think it's the best violinist in all London !"
"Really ?"
Fred's mouth was shaped in a perfect o and Hermione could not help but laugh softly.
"What's the mighty musician, no artist !, doing in our modest and poor bakery George ?"
"It's all charity work Fred ! Her presence pays us !"
"Indeed it must gentlemen ! After all, it's not everyday that I grace a shop with my look let alone with my presence !"
Fred smirked. "We know, 'Mione," he sighed dramatically, "you're deserting us !"
"Abandoning us !"
"Betraying us !"
She burst into a joyful laughter, they always managed to get it out of her.
"Oi ! They bothering you ?"
She glanced at Ronald who had stepped into the shop through her tears of laughter. "No, they never do."
"Yeah Won-Won, 'Mione likes us, she can fight for herself !"
"You're damn right George !"
"I know Fred, you too !"
She cleared her throat and gave them a pointed look. She liked their banter, but she also had other things to do. Today SPUW had a protest planned in McGonagall's rehearsal. She had to get back to her room before leaving for the orchestra in order to get into her trousers. And she had to buy Parvati's forgiveness with food.
"I'd like a mince pie, scones, and three flapjacks."
"Yes my Lady," snickered Fred bowing.
George chuckled but began to prepare her order. As he did, she took a look around the shop. It was still as clean as the last time she had been in it, the glass case sparkling and displaying colourful and mouth-watering pies, tarts, and other delicacies. They were talented. And the excellent state of the shop, all coloured in a creamy beige, showed they knew how to handle business too.
"How's the business ?"
Fred shrugged and crossed his arms. "It's going well. We have more and more orders for catering so that's good. We'll soon need another employee if you were thinking about taking yet another job."
Petulantly she stuck her tongue out. "I only have two jobs !"
"That's one too many, you have circles under your eyes."
She brought the tip of her fingers to the aforementioned zone. They were right. She could feel the skin mollified and hurt by her lack of sleep.
"I need them," she shrugged.
"You might not anymore."
She frowned. Had they found a billion pounds during the night ?
"Ron told us about the offer you got, probably pays well," smiled George as he put the pastries in a carefully crafted paper box.
She blushed. She had not yet made her decision, she did not feel like talking about it.
"We think you should take it."
"Yeah," she sighed, "I'm not sure yet."
"Tough decision."
George leaned over the glass counter to give her the small box. "It's on us," he winked, "see it as a congratulations present, if only for the offer !"
Hermione could not help but give both of them a fond smile. She loved the Weasleys. They were the family she had been deprived of.
"Thank you so much !"
"No need," snickered Fred, "as we said before, your presence is enough for us !"
She laughed one last time before waving them goodbye and leaving the small shop. As soon as she had left the quiet and calming scenery of the bakery however, her face turned to steel, for now, she had to go stand up for other women thanks to SPUW.
She moaned and Tom almost lost his mind. He did not think pleasuring a woman could be so rewarding and yet, so tantalizing. His little bird sung in the most enthralling way.
A knocking sound caught Hermione's attention, interrupting the delicious sounds she had been making. He turned towards the door, scowling. Who dared interrupt him ? The sound was growing louder and louder, as though slowly drilling through thick wadding.
"Mr Riddle !"
Tom abruptly stood up from his bed. When he turned, she had disappeared. He gritted his teeth. It had only been a dream. Muttering, he took yesterday's shirt and trousers and quickly put them on as the knocking continued.
He opened the door to his bedroom and faced the small toadish woman. He forced himself not to show the disgust her overly flowery perfume awoke in him. She was drowning in a sea of pink wool. It was positively hideous.
"Yes, Ms Umbridge ?"
The creature's waxy skin was overcome with a blush. Tom felt bile rise from his stomach.
"One of your musicians is asking for an advance on her salary. As you know we only pay musician next Wednesday so in about eight days. What should I do ?"
Did she think he was a bloody accountant ? He resisted the urge to sigh but could not help but scowl. There was after all only so much contempt he could hide. He was not a superman.
"Who was it ?"
Probably Avery with how much he was drinking. Or Longbottom, he seemed like the type to forget he did not have enough money to pay for things. Bloody fools interrupting his dream.
"A certain Ms Granger sir, I don't know if you remember her she came here last night, quite rude of her if you ask me but -"
Tom blanched abruptly. Of course it had to be her. She had been much less irksome in his fantasy.
"Yes," he cut coldly, "I do."
"So ?"
"Send her to see me tomorrow and tell her that only then will I pay her for yesterday's concert."
It was a good plan. That way, he could let the heat from yesterday and that night die down. Hopefully forever, he did not need to lust, that much was beneath him, for one of his musicians nonetheless !
"Sir !"
That time, he did not refrain from letting out a growl. Of course his little bird would want to see it for herself. What a fucking mistake he had done when he had accepted her in his orchestra.
As he saw Umbridge's pinched lips he realized he could get out of here without having to see her, and therefore avoid reviving much too recent memories. She could not enter his apartments to his bedroom like Umbridge had done. She would wait outside.
He smirked. If she thought he would move to see to her small money problems, she was to learn she was sorely mistaken. After all, he was the conductor. She was mere violinist, talented, yes, but definitely under him. In the hierarchy of the Opera at least.
"I'll be in my room," he smiled to Umbridge.
The insufferable woman gave him a conniving smile, as though they were in the same state of mind. When he closed the door, he shivered. What a terrible idea.
As he advanced in the room, he noticed that his shirt smelled. His nose scrunched up. He hated to be so common so as to smell. He needed to wash and to change. Quickly he took his shirt off and made to go into his small bathroom when the door of his bedroom opened with a loud bang.
Dumbstruck, he looked at the nuisance that had dared disturb his privacy. She did not surprise him. But he was astonished by the rapidity with which his body answered to her presence. She was heaving and glaring at him. And of course, because it had become a bloody habit of hers apparently, half of her hair was in the air, as though electrified by her sheer will.
"I need my money," she panted, eyes flashing, "now. Not tomorrow."
He blinked. Of course, she was there for her money, not for him. Not yet for him.
He saw the exact moment when she noticed his torso was bare. Her eyes widened and quickly she looked at the bed, then, a blush crept up her face and she began to stare at the window. He smirked. So maybe she was there for him.
"I don't have your money on me right now as you've well seen."
Tom was delighted to see the blush deepen and now spread to her slightly exposed collarbone. She cleared her throat, deliberately still focused on the window.
"I have."
Her voice was slightly wobbling. He loved the sound of it. Well, he loved it less than the moans she had made in his dream. The throbbing resumed. Would he love her real moans more than he loved music ? He did not dismiss the possibility altogether.
"Ms Granger," hissed Umbridge, "this is not proper at all ! You'll be fired !"
He could barely see the top of the toadish woman's head up Hermione's shoulder. His little bird scowled and turned towards Umbridge.
"You can't fire me," she spat, "you're no one."
The throbbing was slowly morphing into hunger. He heard a gasp of outrage from the insufferable woman. It was like the best concerto to his ears.
"Leave us."
"But, sir ?"
"I said," he drawled not bothering to look at the woman, "leave us. I'm sure you're needed elsewhere seeing how essential you're to the good functioning of this Opera."
The toad blushed furiously and left with a sharp nod and one last glare to Hermione. The latter turned back to him, face still contorted in righteous anger.
"I need the money from the concert."
"Alright," he said with a sly smile, "but I can't give it to you this instant, as I said, I don't have it with me."
"I'll be in the Opera House 'til the end of McGonagall's rehearsal. I'll wait."
She followed the path Umbridge had taken only a moment ago. He blinked. She was wearing trousers, again. Tom was quite sure he was one of the most self-controlled men in England, no, in the world. But even him, could not stay indifferent to Hermione Granger wearing trousers.
Bloody hell, how he hated to be a man with physiological responses.
"Granger !"
Hermione spun around, grin firmly fixed on her pinkish lips. Pansy Parkinson was determinedly walking towards her, a smirk of her own adorning her face. She was also wearing trousers.
"Ah you're late ! McGonagall started ten minutes ago !"
She blew a raspberry.
"I'm not late, she's just early."
"What are you doing in this part of the Opera House ?" frowned Pansy putting authoritatively her hands on her hips.
"I had to talk with Riddle."
"Ah, alright. Well, let's go !"
They began to walk in order to get to the room where McGonagall's orchestra rehearsed. Hermione felt a wave of nostalgia engulf her. It had been a long time since she had last set foot in this aisle of the Opera. Well, to be truthful, it had been since the end of May but still, with all that had happened, she felt that it counted as a long time.
"So, ready for the summer ball ?"
Hermione frowned. She had completely forgot about that. She shook her head.
"Yeah sure, what is there to be ready for ?"
Parkinson chuckled. "Wow, so innocent ! That's when alliances form."
"Alliances ?" scowled Hermione, "this is an orchestra not the bloody House of Commons ?"
Pansy sighed. "It's not political but still, if you make the wrong ones, you're usually not in the orchestra the year after..."
"What ?"
"Yeah," she shrugged, "I'm quite good at it, I've been in Riddle's orchestra for six years !"
"I suppose I should listen to you, you've got more experience..."
"Don't imply that I'm old, I'm only twenty-five."
"And yet unmarried, spinster."
"Since when does a woman need marriage ?" winked Pansy.
"She doesn't."
They both chuckled.
"Well you can be my ally ?" asked Hermione after a moment of silence.
"We'll see at the summer ball Granger."
"When is it ?"
"Friday night."
"Bloody fantastic," she clicked her tongue as they entered McGonagall's room and joined other trousers-wearing members of SPUW. She would need yet another dress from Parvati.
"Oi Ron ! Your fiancée is here !"
The redhead wiped his hand across his sweaty forehead, even though he knew it was no use. Anyway, Lavender knew what he looked like when he was working. So he made his way out of the kitchen and joined the refreshing cool of the shop. His brothers grinned at him. He frowned and gestured to the kitchen with his head. They grumbled but agreed and left them alone. Finally, he turned to his fiancée.
As always, he was left gaping. She was standing in a puddle of sun, skin fair, cheeks pink and curls as golden as the faux décors in the shop. Her faint pink ensemble only flattered her. He could not help but break into a beam and she followed in turn. God he loved her.
"Hi Won-Won..."
"Good morning Lav'..."
He fell into another contemplation of her. Her kindness and pride shone through her.
"Oi we need the shop don't take too long !"
His two irksome brothers snapped him out of the reverie. As usual.
"Won-Won," she blushed, "I wanted to talk to you about our wedding."
Immediately he paled. Did she want to cancel it ? Did she not love him anymore ?
"We should bring it forward."
He let out a sigh of relief. She chuckled, aware of the small emotional crisis she had just caused.
"God, you're so easy to trouble !"
"Only you can do that !" he smiled, "but why bring it forward ? I thought your parents could only get here in October ?"
She fidgeted with her hands. "I know, but I also know you would like Hermione to be there and you know... Since she might go to Paris..."
Ron gave her a fond look. Lavender had always been quite comprehensive of his previous relationship with Hermione, even though at first she had been a bit possessive, she had calmed down seeing that Hermione did not intend to steal him from her.
"Lav' that's... incredible."
"I know," she laughed tinkling, "you'll owe me a great deal after that. A honeymoon in Italy perhaps ?"
He leaned over the counter, his eyes slightly darkening with desire at the mention of the honeymoon.
"For you my luv ? Anything."
She gave him a satisfied smile before leaving, accentuating her walk in order to flatter her shape. She had won yet another round of their couple life. But it was not a fight. It was just their life.
Fred slapped Ron's head.
"Oi !"
"Stop dreaming you've got bread to make !"
Ron swore under his breath, which earned him another slap, this time from George.
"You kiss our mother with that mouth ?"
"You swear all the time !" quipped Ron back petulantly.
"Because we're older, we're adults."
Avoiding another slap, Ron slipped in the kitchen to snort at Fred's remark. Alas, George had anticipated the move. Bloody fuckers.
Hermione did not listen to McGonagall's rehearsal at all. The piece was not one of her favourite, it was Il Barbiere di Siviglia, ossia l'Inutile Precauzione, they would only accompany an opera. She knew her colleagues would think her pretentious if she voiced her thoughts. She kept them to herself but she wanted much more. She wanted to be a soloist and to be admired. She wanted to end her piece, look at the audience, smile slyly and tilt her head. Then the public would break into thunderous applause. Newspaper would admire her playing.
In other words, she wanted what Tom Riddle had lived. The prodigy pianist who turned out to be an even more brilliant conductor. He had conducted his first orchestra at the age of nineteen. And it had been the Royal Opera. She was already late.
But maybe the Opéra de Paris was her Royal Opera. She gnawed on her lip.
"Granger !" whispered Pansy.
'Hum ?"
"Riddle's asking for you outside."
She nodded and gave a small smile to her friend. As discreetly as possible, she exited the gallery into the corridor. Riddle was indeed standing there. Dressed. She felt her cheeks heat up at the memory of him in his rooms. She could be so bloody impulsive sometimes. She should force herself to think things through more often.
"You asked for me sir ?"
He gave her a piercing look. She felt naked under his scrutiny. But she did not know why. Knowledge haunted his eyes and she had no idea what it might be.
"Yes, I wanted to give you the money you so... bluntly asked me for."
Her cheeks were probably now as red as her dress had been. She took the envelope from his hand. His fingers barely grazed her knuckles but she had felt their now familiar coldness. She met his eyes. They were still a dark grey. Had he not been affected by yesterday ?
"Thank you."
"It's only right."
They stood in uncomfortable silence. It was as deafening as the silence right after a piece was finished. She wanted to break it. She did not want to leave.
"Sir..."
"Yes, Ms Granger ?"
Suddenly the thought of Madame Maxime's offer seemed to be the only thing she could conjure. But with it came the idea of staying in Riddle's orchestra. Yet, she felt it would be foolish to do so if she was not made soloist. With Avery sick and, clearly incompetent, she needed to take her chances.
"I was wondering what you would do about Avery's sick leave ? Who will replace him ?"
Had she not been watching him closely, she would not have noticed the way his posture straightened and his jaw ticked. But because she knew he knew what she was implicitly asking, she noticed. Those were not good signs.
"You'll learn in time, like the whole orchestra Ms Granger."
She stepped back and nodded, face closing. Yesterday's memory slowly faded. She remembered all her rehearsals and his sometimes atrocious attitude towards her. It was never outright, it was always sly and so much more painful. This man did not think her to be talented. He did not believe in her. And yet, he had asked her to replace Avery in his quartet. She did not understand him. Maybe that was what it meant to be genius.
"I'll see you at the rehearsal tomorrow," he said coldly before departing.
Hermione stayed in the deep-red corridor. She was getting more and more confused. For the first time in her life, she realized she had absolutely no idea what to do. And she could not pretend she did anymore.
