Nightmare

By: Provocative Envy

OOO

CHAPTER EIGHT

It took less than a minute for the tenor of our kiss—oh, that fucking kiss—to completely change. He pushed his tongue between my lips, scraped it against my teeth, sent it roving over the roof of my mouth—and then he moaned, almost disbelievingly, as if he couldn't quite understand how it was that this was happening, as if it wasn't real, couldn't be real—

He slammed me back against the wall.

And then his hands traveled down until he was kneading my backside, yanking me up closer, closer, yes, rolling his hips, thrusting his erection between my thighs—hot and hard and thick, impossibly so, yes, even through his trousers, even through my dress—God, yes, again, again, yes—

And still—

Still he kept kissing me.

Scalding molten heat pooled in my knickers, soaking them, inspiring an unfamiliar desperate clenching ache—I needed something, needed him, needed him to press up, yes, yes, right there, that spot, yes—he just felt so fucking good—but I wanted more, yes, I wanted him inside of me, fast and rough, yes, more, yes, please please please don't stop, don't ever fucking stop—

His mouth trailed down my jaw, over my neck, his teeth latching onto my throat, biting, nipping, tugging—it stung, but as his tongue darted out to lap at the marks he was making, soothing the tortured skin, I couldn't help but gasp. Because every inch of my body felt inflamed, unstable, like I had wandered head-first into a trembling, rumbling volcano on the cusp of a deadly, earth-shattering eruption, and I was suddenly certain—beyond certain, far past the tedium of merely knowing something to be true—that I would explode if he didn't alleviate the telltale pressure building up rather tremendously in my abdomen—yes, yes, keeping going, like that, yes, God, so fucking good, yes, please, please

And then it felt as if my blood had been replaced with liquid fire, and my veins were engulfed, inadequate, paper-thin and disintegrating quickly—it should have been unpleasant, and maybe it was, maybe—yes, too good, so good, yes, please

He shifted his body, drawing his knee up gradually, tentatively, and rested it for a second between my thighs. He hesitated, his lips hovering above my collarbone. And then—gently—slowly—he moved his knee again.

He moved it up.

He pressed it forward, the fabric of his trousers and the hard muscle of his leg brushing lightly against my cotton-covered clit, and my knickers were damp enough to cling stubbornly, erotically, to my skin—

But then he rubbed.

Once—yes, yes, just there, God, please, yes, there there there

Twice—close, so close, there, yes, there, please, close, so fucking close, please, there, don't stop, never stop, yes yes yes

I came.

I came, and I might have screamed. I might have said things I didn't mean, things that didn't make any sense—I might have done a hundred things, a thousand things, but none of them mattered, no, not in the slightest, not when my entire world was centered rather fantastically—fanatically—on him and me and the helpless hapless spurts of adrenaline that were flaring out and up and through my spine, not when my muscles were drowning, abruptly, in a tidal wave of bright tingling crumbling fucking somethingyes yes yes—it wasn't right, it wasn't right that this felt so good, it wasn't right that it was with him, but my heart was beating fast, too fast, and my brain was spinning, floundering, and even if I'd forgotten how to, even if I couldn't manage it, he was still breathing against my neck, murmuring soft, barely there platitudes, words, endearments—yes, sweetheart, yes, come for me, just like that, taste so fucking good, I knew you would, yes, yes, come for me, yes, sweetheart, yes, so good, like that, just like that—and then his hands were creeping around, gripping my hips, sliding under the torn hem of my dress, headed straight for my knickers—

"Stop," I said hoarsely. "Please, stop."

He did.

And I swallowed.

And he pulled back, his hands falling away.

And I held my breath—

And then we stared at each other, wide-eyed, for several long, tense minutes. I felt my gaze drift down to the obvious, rather impressive, bulge in his trousers.

Oh, God.

Oh, my God.

Oh, my fucking God.

"That was—" he started to say, running a hand through his hair. It was uncharacteristically disheveled. Had I done that?

"Yeah," I whispered. I realized, vaguely, that acknowledging what had just occurred between us was unwise. I couldn't hear it. I didn't want to hear it. I couldn't hear it. I couldn't. That would make it real. That would make it an event. Something that had actually happened. Something that I couldn't pretend was some kind of eerily realistic daydream. No—not a daydream. A nightmare. It was a nightmare. I was going to wake up. This wasn't real. This hadn't happened. It fucking hadn't.

He scratched the back of his neck, frowning.

"Is kissing always so…volatile?"

I jerked my head up.

"What? You mean you've never—" I asked, stunned.

He immediately flushed.

"Why would I have ever wanted to exchange saliva with someone I more than likely can't stand?" he demanded defensively. "The whole concept is…disgusting."

I gaped at him, nonplussed.

"You're not a romantic, are you?"

He sneered.

"Romance is for imbeciles."

I bit back a semi-hysterical giggle. This conversation wasn't happening. It simply wasn't. It was all in my head. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

"And kissing?" I asked. Just because I could.

His eyes darkened.

"Is unhygienic."

I scoffed.

"Right, because that certainly explains the past twenty minutes," I remarked sarcastically.

"I got—carried away," he retorted. "Overwhelmed. Your knickers are on display, in case you didn't know. Bit distracting, that."

A blush slithered its way across my cheekbones.

"Well, then. We can just agree that this is never going to happen again and go our separate ways, can't we?"

"I didn't say that's what I wanted," he drawled. "Don't put words in my mouth, Granger."

I bristled.

"No, you'd much rather my tongue was there, wouldn't you?" I shot back.

His face went blank.

"Was that meant to be clever?"

I didn't reply.

He cleared this throat.

I fought the impulse to flee—I was brave, wasn't I? Everyone said so. I could do this. I could face him. I didn't have to run. I didn't need to run. I could do this.

"I'll find you tomorrow," he blurted out, his voice echoing in the dauntingly high ceilings of the entrance hall.

I choked.

"What?"

He smirked. I paled.

"Tomorrow," he repeated. "We're supposed to talk. About the mysterious hardened criminal that attacked you tonight. Remember? He ruined your dress. Surely you haven't forgotten about him."

I nearly had. God.

"Oh," I said dimly. "Of course. Tomorrow."

He continued to watch me impassively while I struggled to organize my thoughts. I wondered why I was still standing there. I wondered why he hadn't left. I wondered why Edmond Lestrange had been the one to rescue me, and I wondered about the faint, delicious tremors that were still restlessly attacking my nervous system. I wondered what I was doing and what he was thinking and why, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to escape him, ever. Mostly, though, I wondered why I couldn't stop fucking wondering.

"I should walk you to the common room," he suggested curtly, straightening his tie. It was loose and crooked. Had I done that, too? "You need to get cleaned up."

"I think—I think I can get there on my own," I said, stumbling over my response. I wasn't speaking clearly. I wasn't thinking clearly. My skull felt compounded, fractured, the pieces flimsy, insubstantial, rather like cardboard, and there was a faint buzzing sound lurking around my ears. I didn't know why. I wasn't thinking clearly. Except—

I did know why.

Of course I fucking knew why.

It was sinking in, the enormity of what had just happened, the intensity of what it meant—and I needed to be alone. I needed space. I needed to process the fact that Tom fucking Riddle had just given me an orgasm in the middle of the Hogwarts entrance hall. I needed to get away from him. I needed his frustrating, enigmatic smirk to disappear. I needed to be alone. I needed to try and figure out what had happened that night. I needed to understand. I needed to know. I didn't want to wait for tomorrow. I didn't want to have to trust what he said.

But that didn't matter. Not right now. Not when my knickers were still sticky and he was still standing so close.

Bloody fucking hell.

What had I done?

"You can't possibly think I'm letting you walk all the way to the dungeons on your own," he argued, clenching his jaw. "Not after what happened to you tonight."

"Then I'll just wait for Edmond!" I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to ignore the way my hands were shaking. Why were they shaking? "He can walk me back. You don't need to."

Riddle narrowed his eyes and took a step backwards.

"You hate Lestrange," he pointed out, his voice low. "You can barely stand to look at him during meals."

The tenuous hold I had on my temper was severed.

"Then that should tell you something, shouldn't it?" I hissed. "That I'd rather have him walk me back than you?"

His expression flickered—microscopically—before shutting down altogether.

"Tell me, then, Granger, are you going to thank him for saving you the same way you thanked me?"

His implication was clear. My stomach lurched. It was almost—but not quite, not quite, that was all I could think to make it better, not fucking quite—painful.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I replied coolly, lifting my chin.

He snorted.

"I was calling you a whore," he clarified, shrugging.

I gritted my teeth.

"How funny. The boy who's killed people but never been kissed is casting aspersions on my character."

He eyed me with obvious disdain.

"How funny. The girl too stupid to recognize a trap when she sees one thinks it's appropriate to insult the boy who orchestrated the entirety of her rescue from aforementioned trap."

I stiffened.

"Last I checked it was Edmond who found me."

He straightened his shoulders.

"And last I checked Edmond doesn't breathe, piss, or wankwithout my express permission."

My lips parted of their own accord.

"Is that something you're particularly proud of? Being a—a—tyrant?"

He exhaled loudly.

"Tyrant is a rather tame word for what you really think I am, isn't it?"

I clamped my mouth shut.

But he didn't say anything else, and as the silence stretched on—grew thicker and bleaker and more obvious—I realized that he didn't have to.

He'd won.

He'd won, even if he didn't understand what game we were playing. Even if he didn't know the rules. Even if I succeeded in getting him away from me—he'd already fucking won. His unnervingly exhaustive fixation with me had saved my life. He'd saved my life, even if he'd used Edmond Lestrange to do it, and—

He'd won.

What was the point in antagonizing him? Lashing out? He could protect me. He would protect me. He'd made that clear. And it was apparent—in a way that it hadn't been before tonight—that I needed protecting. Because someone knew. Someone knew that I wasn't who I said I was. Someone knew that I had a valuable, extraordinary secret—and that meant that I was in danger.

The irony was astonishing.

Tom Riddle—fucking Voldemort—wanted to keep me safe.

"Look. I just—this shouldn't have happened," I finally said, looking away, around—anywhere but at him. I couldn't look at him. Not now. Especially not now. "I don't do things like this. I can't—I don't—it was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened."

"But it did."

I wrapped my arms around my waist and gazed resolutely at the floor.

"It shouldn't have," I repeated.

"But it did," he said again, more insistently.

"And I'd like to forget that fact, thanks ever so," I spat sharply, looking up. I was startled by the tense, almost angry set of his jaw.

"Don't be—" he started to snarl before being interrupted.

The double doors leading outside had slammed open, admitting a tired, mud-spattered Edmond Lestrange. His wand was hanging forlornly from his right hand, and he looked defeated and maybe a tiny bit sad. He came to a halt as he registered our presence.

"You're still here?" Lestrange asked, his surprise evident.

"Just talking," I replied quickly.

A vein throbbed mercilessly at the base of Riddle's neck.

"Alright, Edmond?" he said, his tone suspiciously bland.

Lestrange hunched his shoulders and nodded slowly.

"Alright, Tom."

Riddle stepped away. The air surrounding me suddenly felt cold.

"Good. Walk her back, will you? I have something I need to do."

And then, with one last lingering glance at my bare legs, he had swept outside, his stride long and languorous and graceful and—buggering fucking hell. Not again. Never again.

"So—ah—should we go, then?" Lestrange asked awkwardly, shuffling his feet.

I grimaced.

"Sure," I responded, turning on my heel and heading for the stairs. His footsteps sounded loud and heavy as he walked next to me.

"Are you—um—okay?"

"I'm fine."

He stared at me disbelievingly.

"You and Tom, then?" he tried.

I scoffed.

"No," I said vehemently.

He flinched.

"Alright, then."

I swallowed.

"So—what happened? Outside, I mean. Who was that man? Did you find out?"

He leveled a shrewd glance in my direction.

"Thought Tom was going to explain things to you tomorrow."

I sniffed impatiently.

"Did you…hurt him?" I pressed.

He snorted softly.

"What do you think?"

I chewed the inside of my mouth.

"I think you did what Riddle told you to do."

"And what is it you think he told me to do?" He sounded amused.

"He said—well, he wanted you to—to—" I stammered.

He cut me off.

"That man—the one who attacked you—he didn't know anything, Hermione," he said quietly. "He was a squib. Couldn't even do magic."

"Who was he, though?" I persisted.

"Didn't catch his name," Lestrange replied uncomfortably. "But I left him for Tom, so—I imagine he'll be able to…find it out."

"You mean you didn't—"

He pursed his lips.

"I did what Tom told me to, Hermione."

"And do you always do whatever he tells you to?"

He scrunched his nose up.

"Usually. Tom can be…persuasive. I'm sure you'll understand eventually."

I clenched my hands into fists. My palms were sweaty.

"I'm quite sure that I won't," I said defiantly.

He smirked.

"What do you know about Gellert Grindewald, Hermione? Quite a bit, I'd wager, considering you lived on the Continent for so long, but—humor me."

Baffled by the abrupt change of subject, I considered my response carefully.

"His agenda is rather…anti-muggle," I answered haltingly. "He thinks that it's our responsibility as magical beings to—well, to control muggles—sort of lord over them, if you will. For the greater good. That's his motto, isn't it?"

He cocked his head to the side.

"And do you agree with him?"

I ran my tongue over the edge of my teeth.

"What does he have to do with Riddle?" I asked, deftly ignoring his question.

He arched a brow.

"Have you ever heard of the Elder Wand?"

My heart jerked unpleasantly.

"Of course."

"There's a rumor that Grindewald has it," he said softly. "That that's how he's accomplishing so much in Europe. So long as he has that wand, he's unbeatable, you understand."

I licked my lips. This was a bit too close to home—my Voldemort had been obsessed with that wand. He'd gone to unspeakable lengths to acquire it. Is this when all of that had started? Had he really spent fifty fucking years chasing absolute power?

"What's your point?" I asked, tugging the ends of Riddle's jacket closer. The air had turned frigid as we approached the dungeons.

"You've noticed, I'm sure, that Tom is…ambitious?"

"He's a Slytherin," I pointed out. "Of course he's ambitious."

He smiled grimly.

"That isn't what I meant, but I think you know that."

My nostrils flared.

"Yeah. I do."

He quirked his lips.

"We—the boys and I—have been with him for a long time, Hermione," he said. I noted that he didn't call Riddle a friend. "He's…brilliant, as I'm sure you've figured out, but more than that—he's—different. He gets what he wants. Always. He's a good person to have on your side, if you get what I'm saying."

I felt like he was handing me small, seemingly unrelated pieces of very different puzzles—was there a pattern that I wasn't seeing? A connection I was supposed to being making?

"What, exactly, are you trying to say?"

He sighed impatiently.

"Be careful around him. That's all. Just—watch yourself."

We'd arrived at the common room. I looked up at him, confused by this unexpected kindness.

"I will," I replied. "Thank you for walking me back."

He forced another smile.

"It wasn't a problem."

He watched me walk towards the girls' dormitories, his expression troubled.

"Have a good night, Edmond," I called out.

But before I could disappear down the hallway, he had rushed towards me and grabbed my elbow.

"Hermione—wait."

I turned to face him.

"What is it?"

He cast a covert glance around the common room. It was empty. My pulse sped up.

"If you're going to reject Tom, you need to be smart about it," he mumbled, his eyes solemn. "I don't know what's happened—and, please, don't fucking tell me, either—but—you need to be careful around him."

"Why are you telling me any of this?"

His mouth twisted.

"Because we've all got plans—plans that involve Tom, I mean—and I've a bad feeling that whatever he's getting himself involved in with you…that bloke that attacked you tonight, he was bloody dangerous, wasn't he? Or at least whoever hired him is."

My forehead creased in a frown.

"You're saying—what—that you've got too much invested in him to let him get distracted?"

Lestrange chuckled darkly.

"Hardly."

"Then I don't understand."

He shook his head and moved away.

"Just be careful, Hermione. That's all I'm saying."

I furrowed my brow.

"Alright, then."

He winced suddenly.

"Oh—and Malfoy's in the hospital wing, if you wanted to visit him tomorrow," he said. "I wouldn't go tonight, though, because Tom might—well. I'd just wait until morning. I'm sure he—Malfoy, I mean—would really like to see you."

And then he disappeared down the boys' hallway. Dazed, I wandered towards my room. Lestrange had left me with more questions than answers—it had been difficult to tell if he was warning me away from Riddle or trying to convince me to join him. Join them.

I shivered.

I stepped into my dormitory, letting the door click shut behind me. I stood still for a moment, attempting to process everything that happened in the past few hours. I'd been tricked, attacked, rescued, and nearly ravished—I tried desperately to identify what I was feeling, but it was fucking hard, wasn't it?

It occurred to me that I was still wearing Riddle's jacket.

Bile rose in my throat.

I rushed into the bathroom, hurtling towards the sink, belatedly remembering that there was a mirror right above it and that the last thing I wanted to catch a glimpse of just then was myself.

Too late.

Always too fucking late.

I stared, almost unseeing, at my reflection—but wouldn't it be better if I couldn't fucking see myself? Couldn't see my red, swollen lips, the faint purple beginnings of a bruise at the base of my neck; my eyes were dark and luminous, flashing defiantly, hungrily; and my hair was falling out of the sleek chignon I'd had it in earlier, a messy mass of tangled curls tumbling down my back. My breathing was still ragged and harsh, my chest heaving, my breasts pushing up against the flimsy constraints of my dress.

God.

It would be better if I couldn't see any of it.

But—

When Riddle had held me, I'd forgotten all about the nightmare of an evening I'd had—I'd forgotten about where I was and who he was and why it was wrong, so fucking wrong, for him to make me feel the way I did, desperate and warm and like an army of fireworks had burrowed into my bloodstream and begged to be set off. Because how could I be attracted to him? He was evil, and cruel, and more than likely insane, and—and—

He'd made me come without even touching me.

Tears burned in the back of my eyes.

Ten minutes alone with Tom fucking Riddle and I'd been weak enough to betray Harry. Betray Ron. Betray everyone. He'd moved his knee between my legs and rubbed, just for a second, and I'd been done for. He hadn't even taken off my knickers. What did that mean?

I knew what it meant.

It meant that I was a traitor.

A fucking traitor.

I snatched a washcloth off of the nearest shelf and returned to the sink, furiously twisting the tap and waiting for the hot water to emerge. I was angry. Furious, really. And my anger was violent, directed solely at the girl I had transformed into practically overnight—because I was supposed to be loyal. I was supposed have standards. Principles. I was brilliant and logical and good. I protected my friends. I crusaded for house-elf rights. I swore in my head, but never out loud. I had—what was it?—strong moral fiber. Yes. That. I had that.

A strangled sob clawed its way out of my throat. I clapped a hand over my mouth, dropping the washcloth in the slowly filling sink. It floated to the surface of the water.

What was I doing? Who had I become? Every time I tried to hold onto any part of myself that connected me to the future—I failed. Miserably. It was as if I wasn't capable of even pretending to be that version of Hermione any longer. She was gone. Trapped. Was it time to accept that? If Dumbledore somehow managed to find a way to send me home—would I actually be able to go back to normal? Would anything be the same?

I picked up the sodden washcloth and wrung it out. It surface was rough and scratchy against my skin.

I was just so fucking tired of feeling vulnerable. And kissing Riddle—that wasn't really what was wrong, was it?

I ran my fingertips over the bright white enamel of the sink.

He could have done anything to me. He had me pressed up against the wall, quite literally rutting against him, and he could have done anything. I wouldn't have said no. I wouldn't have been able to. He'd made sure of it.

I leaned forward.

He could have done anything. He could have hurt me. He could have done anything.

I exhaled sharply, watching with waning disinterest as my breath swathed through the thin film of condensation that had settled over the mirror.

But when I'd asked him to stop, he had. He'd stopped.

And that was what was wrong. Really wrong. I was rational. I was intelligent. I knew what being a traitor meant, and I knew that I wasn't one. Not really.

I closed my eyes, suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

That wasn't what was wrong. Not at all.

A steady stream of water began to drip onto my feet. The sink was overflowing.

Tom Riddle—Voldemort—was what was wrong.

I curled my toes into the cold linoleum floor.

After a night of paralyzing fear and confusion, I'd let him kiss me. And I'd kissed him back, choosing not to dwell on the reason why—

I almost laughed. The washcloth fell to the ground.

I knew why.

I blindly turned off the water.

I'd kissed him back, and I knew why. And that was what was wrong. It was all wrong. It was all backwards. I had it all fucking wrong.

I listened to the sink drain, the sticky gurgling squelching sounds pounding unrelentingly into my eardrums.

I'd kissed him back—

I sank to the floor, ignoring the lukewarm puddle seeping into the fabric of my dress. My ruined dress.

I'd kissed him back, because for the first time in ages—since I'd arrived in 1944—I'd felt safe.

I drew my knees to my chest.

Tom Riddle had made me feel safe.

I opened my eyes. The fluorescent bathroom light was harsh.

What did that even fucking mean? Nothing good, certainly.

I wiped my nose with my sleeve. I froze. And then my lips curved upwards, just the tiniest bit—

I was still wearing his jacket.

OOO