Author's Note: Thank you to anyone who has added this to their alerts and their favorites. A big thank you to the reviewers of the previous chapter: , mega700201, Jade, AnnaOxford, mama123, Lady Akane Jim, Someone's Charm, , and several guest reviews. Thank you all so much!
WARNING: This chapter contains some mildly triggering scenes. Nothing is shown, nor does anything occur, but intent of abuse is implied. I understand how difficult it can be to come across something without any warning, and would feel remiss if I did not mention ahead of time.
Disclaimer: I am receiving no monetary compensation for this work of fiction. All properties belong to JK Rowling.
Chapter Nine: Indulge
"There is love in me the likes of which you've never seen. There is rage in me the likes of which should never escape. If I am not satisfied in the one, I will indulge the other."
-Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
(One Month Later...)
"I hate the cold," Hermione hissed, shivering as she wrapped her arms around her frame. It was now the second week of November, and her jumper was too thin to properly protect her from the cold, her silver and green scarf wrapped tightly around her neck with her chin tucked underneath, her mouth hidden behind it. She walked beside Tom on the frosted grounds of Hogsmeade, Mulciber and Rosier several meters in front of them while Dolohov and Nott had disappeared into various shops.
Tom looked at her trembling form, an elegant eyebrow raised. "I quite like it," he answered, his cheeks rosy from the chilling air.
She snorted. "Good for you."
He stopped, sighing heavily as he removed his wool blazer, revealing the dark gray sweater of his uniform. Stepping behind her, he slipped the jacket over her, smoothing down the shoulders of it. "Don't expect such kindness next time. I will expect you to dress appropriately from now on," he said, his tone mockingly commanding.
"My hero," she said sarcastically, quietly thankful for his offering. Tugging the jacket closer to her, the fabric thick and warm, she raised her chin as they began walking once more, her eyes narrowing. "Tom? Why are you always in your school uniform? Even on weekends?" she asked, her eyes flicking forward to the two boys in front of her, each dressed in their own pair of slacks and jumpers while Tom still sported the wool pants and sweater-button down combo of Hogwarts.
She could feel him grow rigid beside her, his jaw clenching. She frowned, opening her mouth to take the question back, knowing she had asked the wrong thing of him. But before she could hastily apologize for her tactlessness, he said curtly, "I don't have anything else. I wear a uniform at the orphanage, and I wear one here. Never really had a need for other clothing."
"Oh," she said, the word forming a puff of air in front of her, freezing before dissipating to nothing. "I'm sorry, I didn't think-"
"Quite alright," he interrupted, but his voice suggested otherwise.
She stared at him for a moment longer, her wide brown eyes lingering on his still locked jaw, on the bright rouge flushing his otherwise pale skin. It had taken some time, but she was finally getting used to the idea of walking side by side the Dark Lord, of having conversations with him regularly. She had controlled herself enough to not flinch at his touch, to not betray herself to him simply because each press of his skin to hers was fire, burning on her flesh. It was quite a silly thing, she thought, and there were moments where she wished she had a friend in this time, someone who knew her in her previous life, just so that they could discuss the absurdity of it all. Gossiping over a cup of tea, perhaps share some embarrassing stories of Lord Voldemort. 'Last week during Potions he was so distracted by something that he cut his hand while dicing dragonfly thorax! He was so flustered and angry that he hadn't been paying enough attention he wouldn't speak for the rest of class!'
"Can we head into Zonko's?" Mulciber asked, turning around to look at Tom with bright eyes.
"You can. We'll meet you at Hog's Head," Tom drawled, sounding bored. The two Slytherins ahead of them were suddenly gone, losing themselves in the crowd of students forming around the joke shop. He sighed. "Good to know the future of this world is left in such mature, aspiring hands," he muttered, causing Hermione to giggle.
"You're only young once, better to enjoy it when you can," she answered with a shrug, her smile slipping somewhat. If there were ever a piece of advice she wished she could pass onto her younger incarnation, it would be that very thing. Slow down, she would say. Laugh at Ron when his clumsy and awkward nature messed something up, smile when Harry spoke loudly and hurriedly about Quidditch plays. Set the book down, live in the moment. Before you knew it, it would slip through your fingers, lost and buried within a thousand other moments gone too soon.
Tom looped his arm through hers as they crossed the cobblestone street, the Hog's Head just ahead of them. Unlike all the other shops and haunts of Hogsmeade, it was near empty of any patrons, the windows grimy and dark as though it were closed off. Go away. You are not welcome.
A bell rung as they walked through the door, the pug faced waitress turning to look at them as they entered, as did two other customers of the establishment, a drunken middle-aged man with straggly hair and missing teeth, and a younger, plain looking boy with a sour expression. A group of seventh year Slytherin girls sat quietly against a wall, their heads bent together as they discussed something heatedly. Hermione bit her lip, moving closing to Riddle and squeezing his arm tighter as the intoxicated wizard at the bar roved his beady eyes up and down her body, muttering softly to himself as he leered.
"Over here," Tom said, pulling her towards a small corner of the bar. He released her arm, pulling a chair forward for her and waiting until she was seated, pushing her in as she whispered a thank you. He turned to the waitress, ordering drinks for them, before he sat beside her, running a hand through his hair to ensure it had not fallen out of place.
"Charming little place," she said. She had meant to sound sincere, she truly did, but when Tom chuckled lowly, she knew she had failed in her attempt.
"Well, it's certainly less crowded than other places," he said. The waitress came over, saying nothing as she placed a dingy tumbler of apple cider in front of Tom, a mug of tea for Hermione. The tea leaves were burnt, but she decided it best not to say anything, not wanting to make enemies with the already unpleasant looking witch.
They sat in silence, sipping their respective drinks, Hermione barely containing a laugh at the grimace Tom made after he first sipped his. The room wasn't much warmer than outside had been, and she idly began to button up Tom's coat, the fabric bundling around her tighter.
"How are you tutoring sessions with Crane going?"
She looked up from the buttons, fumbling with them clumsily as she refused to remove her gloves. "Um...alright. We just started on patronuses, but I'm not really the best person to teach that particular spell," she said, shrugging her shoulders.
"Why not? You seem more than capable."
"I...used to be able to produce a corporeal one, but ever since...well, I just haven't been able to do it. Sort of the blind leading the blind on this one." He gave her a peculiar glance, but chose not to press the matter further, running a finger over the smudged surface of his glace. After a moment, she asked, "How are your study groups going?" Study groups, of course, being a euphemism for his Death Eater meetings. Or so she had assumed, as any time she expressed interest in joining him and the four other boys, he would shake his head, telling her perhaps another time. She had been disappointed, even though she knew it would take some time before he would extend an offer to her. Instead, she chose to cling to the hope in his words, that promise of perhaps another time she could join. It wasn't much, but it was something.
"Alright. Since your impressive defeat of Dolohov at the Dueling Club, we've been practicing just that. They're improving, so that's good. I would hate for them to fail any of their NEWTs."
"Still can't join you lot, can I?" she asked teasingly, watching his expression carefully from over the cup of her mug. He smirked, his eyes lighting up.
"Another time, I'm sure," he purred, his voice getting deeper. She had come to think of his deeper, seductive voice as the one belonging to a different person, his Dark Lord persona. She had gotten quite good at deciphering the Dark Lord stirring beneath the surface, of when he switched out his charming charade for his more sinister identity. His eyes filled with storm clouds, dark and chaotic, and would turn stony. His voice would drop an octave or two, a slight gravelly quality to it, and he would trade in his wide smiles for crooked smirks. A part of her was drawn to this identity, against her chagrin. He would come and go so quickly, and she would become upset, wanting to study him a little bit further. Thus began her careful cataloging of him, trying to find the triggers that called his Dark Lord forward and attempting to employ them.
'You wouldn't believe it, but I've taken up a new hobby of trying to lure the Dark Lord out of hiding,' she imagined herself saying to her nonexistent friend.
"I'm going to the bathroom," she said, rising from her seat.
Riddle watched silently as she disappeared down the hallway beside the bar, her head raised high as though hoping the confident air would conceal her discomfort in the dirty tavern.
"So, are you and Dumbledore a thing?" a feminine voice called from his side.
He turned his head, inclining it in greeting to the seventh year Prefect of Slytherin, Athena Zabini. She had her hands pressed down flat on the surface of the table, leaning across it as she looked at him with expectant eyes. She was quite pretty, with dark, smooth skin and long black hair that fell to her waist in tight ringlets. Her eyes were slim and almond shaped, a light honey color to the iris. Her face was soft and rounded, with high, sculpted cheekbones and large, plump lips.
He rose a brow at her. "If by 'a thing' you mean tied together, no, we are not. She is just a friend," he said, his eyes looking back to the hall where Hermione had disappeared.
"True, you've never really been one for tying yourself down to someone, have you?" she asked, raising her hands when he narrowed his eyes at her. "Not in a bad way, mind you. You at least have some class." Her hand reached up and grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling it out so that the curls unwound, strands of uneven hair springing free from her grip. "So, what's the deal with her? She's a little strange, but I guess that comes with the territory of being a Dumbledore."
"Not being the product of inbreeding will have that effect," he snapped at her, something growling in the depths of his chest. Since when, exactly, had he become so defensive of Hermione? Of course, he had been protective whenever Crane was involved, but that was different. He was certain the the boy was using her for her knowledge, and had only allowed his near daily courting attempts to continue as he provided a suitable distraction to Hermione. She hadn't noticed him disappearing to work on his potion, which was nearly completed, and until it was done, he had conceded to allow Crane to pursue her. He would take care of him after, once his usefulness wore out.
But Athena was not Crane, and wasn't attempting to seduce Hermione away from his side of the chessboard. So why did he feel the need to snap at her?
Athena frowned. "I'm not a product of inbreeding!" she hissed, taking a moment to compose herself as she added, "So, is she with one of the other boys you hang out with then?"
"Any reason for this interrogation?" he asked, his eyes flitting back to the hallway. How long did it take to use a bathroom for Merlin's sake?
She smiled, batting her eyes coquettishly at him. "Well, I noticed that we were scheduled to do rounds together Wednesday night. I was wondering if maybe you'd give me a chance to see if the rumors about you had any truth to them," she said, her voice breathy.
"Rumors?"
"The few girls lucky enough to be with you, well they talk," she said, giggling flirtatiously. He had to resist rolling his eyes at the noise, wondering how a giggle could sound so different. Hermione's wasn't nearly as high-pitched, or forced seeming, and he found he actually enjoyed the sound when coming from her lips.
"I need to remember to start obliviating them after," he muttered, making Athena giggle once more. She seemed to mistake his genuine sentiment for a joke.
"So, what do you say?"
He opened his mouth, prepared to say no- perhaps throwing in a cutting insult just for good measure- but paused, his eyes settling on her smug smile. Nearly a month after the dream that stirred the hunger within him, he was, regretfully, beginning to feel quite exhausted from the need. Just the other day he had cut himself in Potions class, so distracted he was by the curve of Hermione's bare neck, the supple flesh glowing in the light of the room, that he nicked his thumb instead of the dragonfly thorax. She spent the next five minutes asking him if he was alright, and what had distracted him so much. He was quiet for the rest of the class, angry at himself for his lack of his control. Being constantly surrounded by a brewing love potion- or at least some aspects of one- were wearing down on him, clouding his mind and judgment. He was becoming concerned, fearful that his anxious state would cause him to ruin his potion. That would certainly be problematic.
He looked Athena over, appraising her features. She was the exact opposite of Hermione; a voluptuous frame in place of Hermione's slim and petite one, narrow eyes opposite Hermione's wide ones. Tight and controlled curls, very much different from the loose and untamed ones framing Hermione's sharp and angular face- something to make any hairdresser scream in anguish. If there were anyone to abate his need, all while diverting his frustratingly growing attentions to Hermione, it would be Athena.
"I'm sure we could arrange something," he said, allowing his voice to deepen to a purr, one that he knew caused delightful tremors down the spines of any woman to hear it.
She grinned. "Great. I'll look forward to it," she said, pulling back. Her eyes bore into his, heated and passionate, before she walked off, joining her friends across the pub. With a sigh, he rose his glass of apple cider to his lips, pausing when his eyes fell on the empty bar. Hermione was still not back yet, and the inebriated wizard who was fixing her with a lecherous look since she walked in was gone.
Slamming the cup back down to the table, he quickly rose from his seat, pulling his wand from his pocket as he strode to where the narrow hallway was placed. His heartbeat quickened in his chest, a pressure filling him and threatening to make him explode, as he moved towards the end of it, two doors on either side for the respective lavatories. He turned sharply to the left- the woman's restroom- and wretched the door open, uncaring that he was potentially invading the privacy of its occupant.
"Hey!" Hermione yelled, startled.
She was standing in the corner of the room, wedged between the dirty pedestal sink and the two walls meeting in a perpendicular angle. He wand was out, and a look of relief washed over her as he entered the room, his own wand at the ready. "Oh, Tom," she breathed, placing a hand over her chest.
His eyes followed the point of her wand, looking to his right to find the plump and gray wizard unconscious, slumped against the wall. He stared at the form for a moment, his jaw clenching as rage filled him.
"He...he followed me in," she said, her voice small. "I panicked and I...he's not dead, just unconscious," she said, and he could her the nervousness in her voice, the slight fear blurring the edge of it. Turning his gaze back to her, he saw that she was trembling, face flushed.
He cross the room in two bounds, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into him, tucking her head beneath his chin. Her tuft of frizzy curls tickled him, and he could smell the clean scent of her shampoo, something generic and vanilla. She was hesitant and stiff in his embrace, but slowly she relaxed, her muscles unwinding as she returned the gesture, her arms clasping behind his back.
"You did well, no need to justify your actions," he murmured into her hair, his breath whipping the strands around. "He was foolish to go after such a talented young witch, and deserved nothing less."
She relaxed further at his words, sighing as though she were exhaling all of her concerns. He pulled back, holding her at arm's length as he inclined her head, her chin clasped between his thumb and forefinger. "Get yourself another cup of tea, Mulciber and Rosier should be here soon. Wait for them at our table, and don't talk to anyone. I'll make sure he gets out of here," he said, his voice commanding.
Her brown eyes cast over to the unconscious man, chewing her lip in what looked like sorrow and deep thought. "Maybe just leave him-" she started, but he cut her off, speaking sharply and matter-of-factly.
"No. I'll make sure he stays away from you."
She nodded, shrinking away from his harsh tone. Moving away from his touch, she slipped her wand up her sleeve, the tip of it disappearing in the coat, as she walked to the door, giving the man a long glance before walking through.
Tom waited until he was sure she'd be in the main room of the pub, out of ear shot from what would occur. Still, he took the time to place several wards over the area, a silencing charm and a locking spell included. After everything was settled and he was certain he would not be disturbed, he knelt in front of the wizard, his nose crinkling as the smell of stale firewhiskey and body odor filled his senses. A trickle of blood fell down the man's heavy, sloped brow, a result of the impact he made with whatever spell Hermione had used to fend him off. With his elbows propped on his knees, he jabbed the tip of the gnarled spare wand into his chest, muttering 'ennervate!'
A quick jolt ran through the body, the wizard jerking awake. Dark, beady eyes, rimmed red and bloodshot, sought out Tom's, his lips smacking together with cotton mouth.
"Who'r ya?" he slurred, the acrid scent of alcohol growing more overwhelming.
Tom smirked, raising his wand so that it pressed deeply into his thick neck, the man gasping in pain with the action.
"I'm Lord Voldemort."
-xXx-
"I'm fine, Nott, really. Nothing happened," Hermione said, her voice clipped as she sat between Tom and Mulciber on the sofa, opposite one of the many fireplaces in the Common Room. She had been surprised to discover just how worried the boys had been when she told them what had happened, with all but Dolohov treating her like a fragile China doll, asking her over and over again the same four questions. Are you sure you're okay? You're not lying, are you? You can tell us, if something happened, you know that right? Do you need more tea?
She had had, she thought, more tea within the past four hours than she had in her entire life, her teeth uncomfortably warm and fuzzy feeling, her belly full of the liquid. It was strange, to see such concern from individuals who she sometimes forgot to regard as humans, and, in a way that made her feel quite conflicted- she found their fret and their attentions rather endearing. People have often said that it takes great threat to life, a trauma, to rouse the monster hidden within a human, but it was almost always forgotten of how much needed to occur to rouse the human within a monster. And somehow, she had accomplished it.
"Should I get you more tea?" Mulciber asked, and she had to bite back a laugh.
"If I drink anymore I think my bladder might explode, but thank you," she joked, making sure to give him a warm and gracious smile.
"Well, I'm glad you're alright," Mulciber said, finally relenting.
"I assure you," Tom spoke, not tearing his eyes away from the book he was reading, his head bowed as it sat open in lap, his right ankle crossed over his left thigh. "She handled herself quite admirably. He made a grievous mistake, attempting to attack our Hermione, and I am certain that, when he wakes up from his stupor, he will never attempt something so barbaric again."
'He's dead, of course he won't,' Hermione thought, her eyes lingering on Tom's face as she turned to him, his right hand holding his chin as he read. Back in Hogsmeade, when Hermione came back to sit at the table she and Tom had shared, it took only about a minute for the others to join her, Mulciber and Rosier coming in first, breathless and shaking, asking if everything was alright. Dolohov and Nott followed, with the latter assuming the role of her caregiver while Tom was away, his arm wrapped around her shoulder and buying her more tea and biscuits than she could reasonably consume. She had been confused at how they seemed to know to come to the Hog's Head at the same, exact moment, and how they had all seemed to know that something had occurred. But then she remembered that, while perhaps it was still in the early stages of creation, they had all had something similar to a Dark Mark hidden on their persons, and Tom had presumably summoned them.
The thought was enough to remind her that the dotting men around her were not quite as they appeared, and she sat stiffly for the rest of their time there, her quiet and rigidity being mistaken for shock and fear at what had happened. More tea was placed in front of her.
Tom was gone for nearly forty minutes, and when he returned, Nott moved away from her, Riddle taking his place as he sat close to Hermione, his hand wrapping protectively around her waist. He had told them that he dragged the drunkard out the back door, to one of the nearby inns in Hogsmeade. Had stolen the man's purse to pay for a room and told the innkeeper to make sure each room was thoroughly locked, for good measure.
Twenty minutes beyond that, Professor Adalbert stormed through the doors of the Hog's Head, eyes glancing over the two groups of students within as he spoke to the waitress, bits of their hushed conversation being heard. '...No, no one has left. They've all stayed here...' 'I haven't heard or seen anything strange, isn't my business anyway...'
When they were finished discussing whatever it was, Adalbert rounded them up, informing them that all students were to return to within the safety of Hogwart's walls, even the grounds around the castle were off limits until otherwise specified. There was a wild animal running around, he explained, and a body was found on the outskirts of town, mangled beyond recognition.
'How do we know it was an animal?' Violet Parkinson asked as he escorted them to the gates, her eyes wide in fright. Adalbert gave her a tight, forced smile in reassurance. 'It was rather gruesome, I don't think anything but an animal could do such a thing.'
He was right, Hermione knew. Only an animal could do something so horrific. But animals came in many deceiving shapes and sizes, and was, she had learned, an entirely too broad and general term.
"I wonder when they'll let us outside of the castle. I hope we can still go to Hogsmeade tomorrow, I didn't get to have any custard," Mulciber said, frowning in thought. Riddle looked up from his book, a look of both exasperation and annoyance on his face.
"Surely, you're not still thinking about how you missed out on such a horrid treat after everything else that has occurred today? I would think it rather selfish if you were," he drawled. At the sound of his voice, Hermione's body shivered involuntarily, her shoulders rolling, as they she often did when he spoke in that deep and velvety way. Blue eyes flicked over to her for a moment, and Tom reached over, his arm resting on her shoulders and pulling her closer, as he returned his gaze to Mulciber.
"N..no. It was just a joke," he said, ruefully.
"It wasn't a very good one," Tom chided, the words causing a vibration in his torso that Hermione could feel, his body radiating heat as it always seemed to do, quite contrary to what she had always suspected of him. Perhaps that was why he seemed to be so warm, not because he was particularly hotter than anyone else, but merely more so than her expectation of him. That he in fact wasn't ice cold to the touch, like a human being sculpted from hate and ice and stone.
She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder as the conversation, thankfully, changed, Dolohov talking about the products he had seen while shopping, the interesting artifacts he discovered. Tom began to drag his fingers over her shoulder, drawing lazy circles as he spoke about some books he planned on getting as well.
'I killed a man,' Hermione thought, the very weight of the implication pressing heavily on her so that she leaned fully on Tom for support, her face buried in the jumper of his uniform. She wasn't the one who held the wand, who watched as the last few ounces of life left the man's face and eyes. But she had been the reason he was dead, that even though she did not see the body or had known for a fact what Tom had done in the time he was absent, she knew he had killed him. Had done so to protect Hermione.
The though both thrilled and terrified her. Thrilled not that she had made someone kill for her, as that part was a fact that certainly fell into the terrified category. But, horrifically and against her better want as it stood against all her morals, she was thrilled that he considered her worthy of killing for. That he was becoming close enough to her to feel the need to protect her and defend her honor. Surely, she was succeeding in her plan if that had been the case.
But by the same token, she was terrified at the notion. That she had the power to have someone killed simply by Tom noticing someone meant her harm, that someone was trying to do her wrong. She berated herself, knowing that she should have left the room as soon as the man was unconscious, pretend nothing had occurred and that no one followed her. She should have known Tom would realize her extended absence, as she stood paralyzed in the corner of the room. She had not meant to stand, unmoving, for so long, but the moment the man had slipped in through the door, a demented look on his sloppy face, she had reverted back, just like that, to Hermione Granger. Prisoner of War several times over, Undesirable no. 2, second only to Harry. She was, rightfully, overcome by the need to defend herself and the means to do so, her wand slipping down from her sleeve and into her palm easily. Had she simply left, willed herself to come down from the high of reliving her place in the war, the man would still be alive.
'But did he deserve to be?' The thought was enough to silence her inner turmoil, deciding that this internal monologue was best saved for another day. She never liked the idea that sometimes, the world was better off without certain people in it, a part of her wanting to find the good within that had to exist somewhere in everyone. She liked even less that she was beginning to question a man's purpose in the world, especially when she was snuggled up to perhaps the one and only wizard that most would unanimously declare deserved to die.
"Tired, Hermione?" Rosier asked, noticing the way she was slumped into Tom's side, her mass of curls concealing her face from view.
"Actually, yes," she mumbled, lifting her head. "I'll think I'll turn in early tonight."
"The reminds me," Tom said, watching her as she stood from the couch. "Will you be needing anymore Dreamless Sleep?"
She shook her head, smiling gratefully. "No thank you, I should be good for another month."
He nodded. "Sleep well, then. If you need anything you know where to find me," he said.
'You've done enough,' she thought scornfully, but instead she smiled, bidding goodnight around the group before turning down the hallway for the dormitories. She had been the reason a man would not wake, the reason Tom Riddle had ensured that to be the case. She suspected there wasn't enough Dreamless Sleep he could offer her that would stop the nightmares from plaguing her.
-xXx-
"You're not enjoying it," Athena Zabini said, pouting her lower lip out at Tom as he opened his eyes at her. She had been, up until twenty minutes ago, patrolling the corridors of Hogwarts with Tom for their nightly rounds. However, they now sat within one of the empty classrooms that ran through the third floor, Tom sitting in a transfigured armchair that had previously been a tiny, wooden desk chair. Athena sat a top him, her skirt bunched up in her lap to reveal the skin of her upper thigh. Her cloak, wool blazer and jumper were all discarded in a pile on the floor, her green and silver tie lying across it all. Her white button up shirt was popped open, pulled out from her skirt waistband so that her chest was exposed, her large breasts covered by a lacy white bra.
Tom frowned from where he sat, his hands draped over the arms of the chair. No, he really was not enjoying it, to be perfectly honest, despite Athena being a more than beautiful girl. Much to his irritation, he found every noise the girl made grating on his nerves, that he was already beginning to regret how much he allowed his control to slip from him. That every time he opened his eyes, he was disappointed to find that she was not the little Know-It-All, with slightly buck teeth and hair doing a marvelous impression of a tumbleweed. He had never before been so furious at himself- for the first time in his entire existence, the need within him was specifically directed to another human being, and it seemed it would not be fooled by another in her place. 'What on earth is she doing to me?' he thought, wondering how much of it was to blame on his constant preparation of the potion, and how much blame laid within his own mind.
Sighing, he reached up and cupped Athena's face in his hands, and she leaned into it, her eyes closing. Pulling her towards him, he placed a chaste kiss on her forehead, the thick tendrils of hair tickling his nose. "I'm sorry, Darling. I think my mind is elsewhere tonight," he said, gently trying to push her off of him. But she did not move, folding her arms over her chest as she rose her chin at him.
"Then why would you even bother?" she asked, her tone sharp and angry. Suddenly, she lifted herself up from his lap, hastily pulling the hem of her skirt down to cover herself before she carelessly began re-buttoning her blouse, accidentally missing a hole so that the fabric was messy and uneven. Swooping over, she threw her robe on and grabbed the rest of the bundle of her clothing up in her arms. Turning to him with heated eyes, she said, "You can finish the rounds yourself, Riddle."
She stormed out of the room, her cloak swishing behind her. Standing, he fixed himself back into his slacks and straightened his blazer. His cloak was hanging over the back of the armchair, the Prefect badge shining from the light of the torches around the room. 'That could have gone better,' he thought with a sneer, rubbing his hand over his face.
He shirked his cloak back on, flattening the lapels. In several weeks, the potion would be done, and he was certain that these impulses and desires would fade. He would finally be freed from the thoughts in his head that surely were not his own, the needs in the pit of his belly that were of course spurred by outside influences.
He wandered the halls, his footsteps echoing as the sound bounced off the large, stone walls. He did not truly care to finish his rounds, and was in fact taking the moment of peace to check on the very potion responsible for his current state.
As the completion of it approached, his mind was whirring with the possibilities of how he could use it, what information he would get from the girl. If his theories and calculations were correct, she would become enamored with him, and feel a pain-inducing desire to please him and give into him, and he would use that to make her withdraw her mental barriers, allow him access to her mind- her thoughts and memories. He would command her to answer his questions with honesty, and she would be forced to do so, the potion having wrecked havoc on her faculties on a deeper level than any veritaserum. The possibilities were limitless, and he had taken to writing a list of everything he wanted to glean from her when the time was right. He was meticulous in that way.
Of all the things he desired to know about her- and there were many- one stood out the most in his mind, the question burning embers: Why did she seem so constantly at war with herself, her eyes a conflict of anger and laughter, disgust and intrigue? In a single sitting he counted no less than twenty times he would see her eyes switch between emotions, changing them out faster than he could make out the reason. She was calm one minute, than overcome with guilt the next. She would allow him to place a hand on her shoulder, on her knee, without any indication she was upset, only to pull away moments later- as if she suddenly realized he was touching her and was horrified.
'It's a good thing she's such an accomplished occlumens, I can practically read her mind through her eyes alone,' he thought, entering the Room of Requirements to find everything the way he had left it. Yes, should she pass his test regarding the potion, that was one thing he would have to train her on. It did not do her much good if she betrayed herself so frequently, her eyes saying what her mind and tongue would not.
The room was filled with the smells of love and lust, apples and sage. It wrapped around him like a blanket that should have been warm and comforting, but he instead considered stifling, suffocating. He approached the cauldron and looked at its contents, pleased to find the silver surface unperturbed and glossy. His head bent over, the smell was practically overwhelming, filling his head so that it felt like someone had replaced his brain with cotton balls and his throat with lead.
'If this is what love feels like, I truly pity those pathetic enough to be imprisoned with it,' he thought, having to move away from the effects of the potion.
He had used his time over the past weeks to truly ruminate over what it was that Hermione was doing to him, and had decided that it was not love, not in the slightest. Love was what made otherwise strong men into weak-willed fools, giddy with the hope and dreams and passions that accompanied it. It was what made you feel as though you were walking on water, swimming through clouds; Only to learn that water would not hold your weight, and you were pulled in to drown in the oppression. That you could not fly and you would plummet down, gravity and reality hitting you all at once as your body broke on impact. It was what made witches from otherwise noble pure-blood lineages trade away any potential for power, handing over real magic for the illusion of magic, for a nobody, a muggle. All in the name of an illusion that only lasted so long, dissipating in your hand like a snowflake that was brilliant and perfect until you yourself took hold of it.
That was love, the great and mighty force that Dumbledore claimed could heal all wounds. But what Dumbledore did not know was that, all to often, love was responsible for those very same wounds that it healed. Love was a sadist who inflicted pain and then sewed you up, kissed away your tears, only to tear you down once more.
No, he was certainly pleased to say that he indeed did not feel that way for the girl. What he felt instead was only an extension for his need of power, his need to dominant and rule. She was to him, as ice was to fire- opposing in how they burned, but burning all the same. She was the flame, impassioned and unbidden, her emotions and power unyielding and uncontrolled. And she complemented him quite nicely, he thought, their extremes colliding in a way that they fed off what the other could offer. He was certain that, unlike love, she could add to his potential, expand the possibilities before him.
And he could do the same for her. For when she let him- when she was ready- he could show her the euphoric high that came with dark magic. He could teach her the pleasures that came when someone laid before you, begging for mercy, their life and death held within your palm. That nothing- not the thrill of your first time holding a wand or even sex- could compare to the immeasurable amount of relief and joy you felt with each and every spell of dark origin you uttered. The darker the magic, the greater the delight.
People are born selfish, he had learned through his short time on earth. Sympathy and kindness for others were something that had to be taught to a child, something that society did endeavor to teach its children. They were taught to deny the part of their brain that lit up at being the sole source of anguish and agony, the part of the brain that reveled in the ability to hurt others and have them fear you. Society had tried to teach him that, had tried to cut off that part of him, tried to stopper his one source of true joy. But he did not bend, he was more intuitive than that. And even as a child he knew that they were wrong, that they were the odd ones out for denying themselves something so great.
And just like Hermione had been taught by her parents and society that she did not need to cause pain and suffering and fear in order to feel that rush of pleasure, he would undo it all. He would undo her.
He wanted her- needed her- not for something as paltry as love, but because he truly believed that she completed him, that she would bring to the table of his men and his army and his kingdom something no one else possibly could. She was something special, and who was he to deny himself of someone so rare? She was fire, and he was ice. She burned with the heat of raw passion, and he seared with extreme cold, so frozen was he that it confused your senses into paradoxically believing you had came in contact with the flame.
-xXx-
(Three weeks later...)
Tom Riddle ladled the potion, deep purple in color, into several different bubble shaped vials, carefully filling each one with the use of a funnel. Two weeks ago, the horrid aroma and the drug like effects of it had since subsided, the room smelling unusually clear after so much time. There was a slight smell that could be detected, if you held the potion directly beneath your nose and knew to look for it. He wasn't worried though- after all, he had quite the assurance that Hermione would be none the wiser to it when she consumed the potion. Felix had that effect on people.
"Is it done?" Rosier asked, his golden eyes looking nervously over Riddle's shoulder.
The boy nodded as he began corking each vial. "First, we'll have to test it. Wouldn't do us any good if we send her to St. Mungo's," he said, narrowing his eyes when Dolohov muttered something under his breath. Choosing to ignore it for the time being, feeling generous after his copious amounts of time and effort had finally paid off, he added, "We'll find someone to do a trial on, and if everything goes well, we'll slip some to Hermione."
"You never did say how you planned on doing it," Nott asked, his head resting in his hand.
Picking up a vial and giving it a shake so the the liquid sloshed up against the sides, he asked, "Look like anything specific to you?"
Barely missing a beat and with a growing grin, Nott responded, "Dreamless Sleep."
Riddle nodded. "Some time ago, I gave her a large supply. I'm certain she had to have tested them before using them, and finding nothing wrong with them the first go around, she would have no reason to test them every night. It can be exhausting and draining to your magic to use such powerful detection spells, even Hermione wouldn't waste her time or power into it."
"Brilliant," Mulciber breathed, his large hands grabbing hold of one vial and bringing it up to his eyes to examine it, the deep violet color reflecting in the shine of his eyes.
"And you can't even smell the amortentia in it, not strongly at least. Thank goodness, I was feeling rather randy for a while there, after spending so much time in here when it was brewing. I was ready to court a tree up until a week or so ago," Rosier said with a grin, an admiring look thrown in Riddle's direction.
Frowning, Riddle looked into the now filthy cauldron, congealed masses of his creation clinging to the golden gilded surface. A question that he rather not have asked fill his mind at the moment, a rather heavy weight settling into his chest. The effects of the potion on his and the other boy's senses had faded some time ago. So why on earth did he still find her filling his thoughts, closing his eyes to see her body writhing beneath his in not pain but pleasure as her eyes fluttered backwards?
'Peculiar,' he thought, but decided not to dwell on it. Within two days, he would have all the answers he needed. He would unravel the enigma that was Hermione Dumbledore.
-xXx-
Author's Note: In the next chapter, he will finally give her the potion! The entire plot point will be separated into two chapters, Part One and Two. I hope you all enjoyed, and I apologize for the wait. As always, any reviews are appreciated and they help fuel the inspiration fire.
