I know everyone ignores author's notes but please actually read this: Yes, Damage Control was deleted. I posted an explanation as to why on my blog. I'll also post a shortened explanation in my profile. From here on, the plot will not be identical to the original. I want to extend it and spend more time on the student/teacher relationship aspect(which, since people keep asking, yes, that means more smut than before. You're welcome.), because in the original that was all quite rushed.


After his deeply disconcerting encounter with Mrs Cole, Tom had taken to avoiding the woman completely. Fortunately, she did not seem to feel the need to talk to him about it, because he was nearly certain that she would use this opportunity to blackmail him if given the chance. In response, he began staying out later, leaving earlier, and sleeping less just to avoid ever seeing her or any of the other orphans again.

It could hardly be considered a loss, even if he was more tired than usual.

When the Hogwarts owl delivered his exam results and Head Boy badge, he wasn't surprised.

He also wasn't surprised that there was a letter written to him personally from Dippet congratulating him on his OWL scores, which were the highest the school had seen in over a century.

The studying paid off, it seemed.

Slughorn had been promising him a Ministry job for the past three years, citing his brilliance and charm as making him a perfect candidate for politics. Tom had politely indulged his fantasies despite having no desire to be a Ministry puppet.

He had other plans.

Since he had first learned about Nicolas Flamel and the Sorcerer's Stone(courtesy of Hermione), Tom had decided to learn alchemy(which unfortunately was not currently a class at Hogwarts). The stone wasn't a foolproof path to immortality, but it was valuable, and he had no doubt that he could use the knowledge of how to create it to go further, to build upon it until he found something that would truly make him immortal, no if's, and's, or but's.

He thought that having multiple horcruxes would work, but Hermione's argument as to why that wouldn't be a good idea was compelling. Temporary invulnerability was not the same thing as immortality, and if it cost him his sanity, the cost would outweigh the benefits.

So, he used a copying spell on his OWL scores, created a list of the NEWTs courses he was taking, and wrote a letter to Flamel requesting an apprenticeship. Flamel had never taken an apprentice, and likely received hundreds of applications, but it was worth a shot.

He made his way into Diagon Alley, found the public owlery, and used one of the owls there to send it off.

If he didn't hear back from Flamel, or received a rejection letter, he'd write to other notable alchemists and start there, but Flamel was obviously his first choice.

When he got back to his room at Wool's, the Head Boy pin was still on his bed where he had left it.

Running his fingers across the smooth metal, he wondered how Hermione would act, or what she would say.

She'd probably make some comment about how his grades were the best, but that typically people are not rewarded for killing their fellow students.

He also imagined taking her, tying her up with nothing but his Slytherin tie wrapped around her wrists, and sticking the Head Boy pin directly in the knot for the irony of it. She'd scowl at him, and it would be adorable.

Yes, best Head Boy the castle would ever see, and yet he murdered another student, and he was about to fuck his professor. And with her all tied up and marked for him, he could do whatever he wanted to her.

Though he had never bothered to test it out(the idea of using Parkinson or any of the other girls who would gladly volunteer for this seemed repulsive) there were several books in the restricted section about sex that were quite detailed about where women took pleasure in being touched and all the various ways(and there were many) to make them shatter.

What better time to try it out than with the object of his fixation tied up just for his entertainment?

His imagination -among other things- ran wild as he imagined placing her flat against the desk she graded papers on and pinning those bound wrists above her head with a sticking charm. Her meddling hands would be out of the way, but she would still be able to squirm freely, to react fully to every touch.

At first, she would be clothed. She'd be wearing one of the outfits she always did in class -preferably his favorite. The black button up blouse(he knew it was short sleeved, but she always wore a robe over it) with white lace on the collar, and a black skirt that hit just below her knees, legs covered by sheer black stockings.

The blouse would go first. His fingers would slowly unbutton it, one by one, taking his time until he got tired of it, ripping it open halfway down, and then ripping again at the pieces that held it on her body until it was in shreds next to her. Then her bra, cutting the straps and severing it down the middle, allowing it to fall and leave her bare for his inspection.

Only taking a moment to admire her(he had plans to do so much more thoroughly later), he would move down lower. Able to tell she was expecting him to go for her skirt next, he simply slipped it up and unclipped her stockings, which he then would guide down her legs.

All that would be left now were her skirt, bunched up around her hips, and the black knickers(she looked good in black -he was sure they'd be black) that were finally revealed. Holding eye contact with her, he'd place a soft, chaste feeling kiss to the line between skin and cloth, and then he'd rip them down. As he undid the zipper on her skirt, her final barrier of protection, he'd watch her chest rise and fall. When he tore that down too, he knew it was time to begin for real.

As he took his time exploring, he'd demand that she look at him, that she never take her eyes off him. His fingers, his lips, probably even his tongue, would trace over every bit of her, reveling in the way she reacted. His mouth would glide over every scar she had -the ones on each knuckle, the one over her chest- until he finally used his tongue to trace the letters on her arm. Gently, but with enough pressure to make sure she really felt it.

He'd take note of her every reaction. Every twitch, every clenching of her muscles, every moan, every whimper, every bite of her lip or sharp inhale, it would all be documented, mentally filed away for future use and experimentation.

If she opened her mouth, if she tried to plead with him to stop, to keep going, to give her more, he would ignore her words and simply watch her in fascination, acknowledging her as the most interesting thing he'd ever see.

Eventually, he would take pity on her and give her exactly what she was begging for, but only after he had left every inch of her explored, leaving her bathed in his presence.

When he finally let her fall over the edge, let her shatter for him, she would look exquisite. He'd watch, memorizing her expression of pleasured torment.

Beautiful. He knew not even his wildest imagination could do the real thing justice. She would look glorious.

When he unbound her, she'd have bruises on her wrists. She'd finally be wearing his mark. And when they started to fade, he'd tie her up again, play with her again, until they came back.

He thought about it until his entire body was perspiring, his hand felt sticky and his cock felt limp.

Only another week until school, and he could hardly wait.


On the train back to Hogwarts, he learned he immensely enjoyed being Head Boy. Having the privilege of bossing around all the Prefects was truly a wonderful experience.

He got to tell them what to do, how and where to patrol, and he had to do almost none of it himself anymore while still enjoying the perks of having no curfew and being given his own private room.

He also got to take points from other people's houses now, not just his own. Though he rarely took points anyways(it's best to make sure people like you), he still enjoying knowing that if he wanted to, he could.

Being the last one off the train, his friends had waited for him. He had had to double check each car, each compartment, for any stragglers. Occasionally people were stupid enough to fall asleep and not wake up upon arrival. This time, that hadn't happened.

When he had gotten off the train, he saw his friends gathered around the entrance, waiting behind a short line of other students who were all being documented and then sorted into carriages to be taken up to the school.

"What's she doing?" Whispered Avery as he leaned into to Mulciber.

"Dunno," the other boy half scoffed, "but she looks insane. Think she's gone mad?"

As he came closer, he saw what they were talking about.

Professor Granger, Hermione, was gently stroking the snout of of a thestral before she ushered it away, the carriage moving back up to castle.

To Avery, Mulciber, and probably most of the people here, it must have looked like she was petting the air.

"She can see them," he murmured, not aware of the reverence held in his tone. At the odd looks from the other boys, he clarified. "The thestrals. The carriage doesn't pull itself, it's pulled by thestrals. She can see them."


After his initial announcement as Head Boy in front of the school, he got permission from Slughorn to excuse himself from the sorting ceremony so he could sort his things out in his room. He'd be back in time for the feast, surely.

The first thing he had to do was pick a password for his door. There was no portrait on it, just a lock that would open only to whatever he chose, be it a word, a spell, or something else. For him, this was ideal. If he used parseltongue, no one but himself would be able to get in(other than the teachers who had a general password that would unlock anything in the castle except the Chamber, obviously).

With that in mind, he chose the password "Winter's Tale", translated into the serpentine language only he himself could speak.

When he entered the room, he saw his trunk had already been placed on his bed.

The walls were a deep, but vibrantly rich shade of green, most likely charmed to match the house colors of the current occupant of the room.

On one side of the room stood a large, black wooden bookcase, with two shelves holding all the books he needed for the school year, as well as books that correlated to the classes he had elected to take. The rest of the shelves were empty, giving him space to put his own books if he had any.

He had a few, but the book Hermione gave him would be living in his nightstand like it always did. He liked keeping it close to him.

In the center of the room was a large(much larger than the usual student beds) four poster bed, made of black wood with silver engravings covering it. Even though the room itself offered privacy, it still had green curtains attached. It seemed the furniture was charmed to match the house colors as well, not just the walls.

The room also had its own bathroom attached, with a basic sink, toilet, and shower. It wasn't as luxurious as the Prefects bathroom, but since he still had access to that it made sense it wouldn't be. It was nice nonetheless, and most importantly, private.

When he made his way back to the Slytherin table, just in time for the feast, he noticed that a note had spontaneously appeared on his plate in front of him.

Opening it, he saw it was from Professor Dumbledore, requesting to meet with him in his office after the feast. His first instinct was to ignore it, pretend he didn't see it, and then not go.

However, when he looked up and saw Dumbledore making direct eye contact with him, note still in his hands, he knew that was not an option.

Fuck.


When he stood in front of Dumbledore's desk later that night, he was offered a lemon drop. He didn't take it.

He was also offered a seat.

He didn't take that either, choosing instead to stand in front of the desk, stand over the man in front of him, and try not to show how tense it all made him. He was not a dog. He would not sit and stay and come when called.

"You never told me what this is about, Professor," he said politely, quietly, using a tone far too submissive for his liking.

"Of course," the man said, eye twinkle and patronizing smile just as present as always. "Mrs Cole and I have been in contact for several years now, Tom. Perhaps you were unaware, but it is considered standard for students who reside amongst muggle families to write to be with any questions or observations they may have."

Tom kept his face blank, impassive, and didn't comment. He had been unaware, but he wouldn't give Dumbledore the satisfaction of knowing that.

'Perhaps you were unaware,' he had said. As though a person is generally aware of a secret that is actively being kept from them. As though somehow this were a failing on his part.

He stayed silent, doing his best to control his temper.

The man, seeming to realize that he wouldn't reply, continued.

"She told me you used magic over the summer."

Tom felt his teeth clench, and his fingers itched to grab his wand, but he held still.

No reaction. He refused to give a reaction.

But he knew what this was. This was not an innocent meeting, it was not even an interrogation. It was a vivisection, a vicious, cruel attempt at dissecting him and finding the proof he had needed to get him expelled. Tom would not be giving him the satisfaction of seeing how he ticked, of giving him the necessary evidence.

"Now, of course this is not illegal in and of itself as you are of age, but you used it not only in front of, but towards, a muggle. This is very serious business, Tom, as I'm sure you are aware. I think we need to talk about it."

I disagree, he almost said. But he didn't. He knew he could likely justify what he had done because it was a healing spell, and the child had no comprehension of that had happened. He had made her close her eyes. He hadn't actually hurt her at all. Quite the contrary.

"What is there to talk about, sir?"

"Were you aware of its illegality?"

"Yes, sir. But-"

"And you did it anyways."

"Yes," he replied, practically hissing the word with annoyance at being interrupted. "But-"

"Thirty points to Slytherin."

"She was injured, I was just healing her. It's not as though -Did you just say points to Slytherin?"

Dumbledore smiled a wide grin of amusement. It was irksome. "Yes, I did. We can teach many useful things in school, but we as teachers rarely get the opportunity to teach the most valuable of lessons. It is truly a delight when, despite our own hindrances, students continue to learn on their own.

"Rules and regulations exist for a reason, of course. But sometimes what is right and what is legal are not the same thing. That is a subtlety I cannot teach, but is immensely important to know. After meeting you the first time, I confess I wasn't sure you'd ever learn it. I'm glad to say it seems I was wrong."

Subconsciously, Tom found that he had leaned away from the man. Dumbledore had never given him points before. Never. No matter how good his work was, or how quickly he had understood it, or how perfect his response to questions, he was never awarded points from Dumbledore.

It was suspicious.

Not to mention, he had hardly done anything. It's not like it had cost him anything or had been some great risk. He had also spent the summer confunding street vendors, and the summer before he had killed three people - he found it unlikely the Dumbledore would have been happy to award him points if he knew about that.

If this is what happens when you're nice to someone, Tom decided he never wanted to be even remotely nice again.

It was somewhat gratifying to hear Dumbledore say he was wrong, though.

"Is that all you wanted to talk to me about, sir?"

"Not entirely, no. You see, over this school year, you will be turning eighteen. By muggle standards, that is an adult. Therefore you will not be able to return to your orphanage, and it is in your best interest that you find a place to reside following graduation."

"Forgive me, sir, but isn't this a matter that should be discussed with my head of house?"

"Generally, yes, but since you're already here-"

Dumbledore was cut off by the sound of a knock, then the door opening, and the little clap of footsteps entering on the other side of the room.

Both men turning their heads, they were met with the sight of a certain petite, curly haired young woman.

"Professor Granger, always a delight to see you," Dumbledore greeted warmly. "May I help you with anything?"

"Actually, Professor, I was wondering if this meeting was urgent. You see, I actually needed Tom to help me with something. It it's important I'll find someone else, but I was hoping you'd allow me to take him."

'Take' - as though he were a object, a toy to be passed between the two of them. He hated it, and yet if it meant he would get to be excused from this, he would gladly hold his tongue on the semantics.

"Of course, dear. It's not urgent at all. Tom, you're free to go with Professor Granger, and as you suggested, I'll remind Horace to discuss this with you later. Have a good evening, and that's to the both of you."

Tom crossed the room, over to where Hermione was waiting for him. When he reached her, she placed a hand on his back.

Teachers innocently touching students was not unheard of, or even uncommon. Slughorn had a tendency to do a fatherly-like clap on the back even when he wasn't drunk. During lessons, Dumbledore often took the hands of students to readjust the hold they held on their wands. For most people, casual touch was normal.

But for Hermione, this was very abnormal. She hated touching people, and he had very, very few memories of her touching him. Many of him touching her(he very much enjoyed touching her), but only two off the top of his head where she initiated physical contact.

One, when she had healed him in fourth year. And the second, when she had thrown him into a wall and held him at wandpoint for opening the Chamber of Secrets.

Neither of those times were like this(thankfully).

The way her hand pressed firmly in between his shoulder blades, to the way she was giving Dumbledore an utterly indifferent expression(in contrast to the usual polite facade she wore), this was different in a number of ways. First, it wasn't threatening, nor did it serve a practical purpose as the other times had. Second, it was performative.

This was protective, but more than that, it was possessive. He was sure of it. She was staking a claim on him, displaying it to anyone(in this case Dumbledore) who may mean to bother with him that he belonged to her.

Feeling the gentle push of her hand against him, he allowed her to guide him forward with a concealed smirk on his face.

He had never been claimed before. Normally, the idea would enrage him, because he had no desire to be contained or controlled. But again, this was different. With her, everything was different.

Never had he been wanted for who he was, rather than what he could do or what he could offer. Slughorn sought to collect him as a tool to be used. His friends needed an enabler, and someone to guide them. The girls his age only liked him because he was attractive and charming.

It was all political, and though he didn't mind that(preferred it, even, given who these people were), he harbored no delusions it wasn't.

Hermione wanted him, and unlike them, she actually knew him enough to truly want him.

If she wanted him, he decided he'd allow her that. She did already belong to him, after all. They needed to be even.

When they had walked a bit farther through the corridors, she removed her hand. Though he felt an urge to reach out, to make her continue the touch, he restrained himself.

"Where are we going?" He asked instead.

"I am going back to my office. You may do whatever it was you were planning on doing before Dumbledore interrupted you."

"You said you needed me for something."

A wry smile formed on her face. "I lied."

"Why?"

"You looked like you were in need of rescuing."

His lips pursed as though he had just eaten something bitter. He did not need to be rescued, and especially not by a girl who couldn't have weighed more than eight stone. The thought itself was insulting. But also…. No Dumbledore was always a good thing.

So rather than comment on it, he reached out, stopping her as she walked away.

"Why are you able to see the thestrals?"

She gave him a curious, and somewhat suspicious, expression, shown with slight tilt of her head not unlike an intrigued cat. "If you're asking, it means you already know the answer."

"Who?" He clarified. "Thestrals can only be seen by those who have seen death. Who did you see die?"

"My best friend."

It made sense - her friends needed to die so they would have no one to come between them. They had served a purpose and died when they no longer did.

He almost jumped when he felt her reach out, distracting him from his musings. Her slender fingers absentmindedly toyed with the Head Boy pin on his chest. She lightly tapped against the metal, traced along the edge, and he watched her intently.

"Head Boy," she mused, "Well, I can't say I'm surprised."

Then her eyes snapped back up to him, but her fingers still lingered on the pin. He was pleased that she didn't remove them immediately.

"What did Dumbledore want you for?"

"He wanted to ask about what I'm doing after graduation," he replied, deciding not to mention the odd conversation about morality and how apparently breaking the law is sometimes a good thing.

"Let me guess: you'll be working in the convenience store where Satan buys his cigarettes, living your life as everyone's favorite shopboy, though unbeknownst to the public you'll be racking up a body count?"

That was a mildly disconcerting thing to hear, especially because she didn't sound like she was joking.

Quite odd indeed.

"Preferably not, no."

She shrugged. "My mistake. What are your plans, then?"

Flamel apprenticeship. Learn alchemy. Use the Sorcerer's Stone to become rich enough to buy both the Ministry(unofficially) and Hogwarts(making him her superior, rather than the other way around). Become immortal.

"I don't have all the details worked out yet."

Not technically a lie.

She gave him a smirk and a knowing look, which was preposterous because no one knew he had applied for the Flamel apprenticeship, but he ignored it.

"How did you know I was there?" He asked, changing the subject.

Her lips pursed. "I didn't, actually. I was coming to tell Dumbledore that a few of his Gryffindors were missing from the attendance list, probably missed the train. But you were there, looking particularly miserable, so I helped you out.

"It's your last year here, you know. Tonight, you don't have to worry about classes and you can just enjoy the castle. Go have fun. Preferably without any bloodshed."

Then she removed her hand, and she hadn't been touching his skin, but he swore it felt colder without her, and then she turned and left.

He hated how she always left.


While he hadn't been expecting to see her again until the following day, fate had seen to force them together again later that night. On his way back to the head dorms, he ran into Slughorn, who had asked him if he might be able to help set up some potions for his fourth year students.

Apparently, they were doing a lesson about potion contamination next week and Slughorn was too lazy to make the potions himself despite that literally being his job. Because Tom was the ever dutiful and helpful Head Boy(and this was the perfect opportunity to steal ingredients for his own experimentation), he agreed.

When he made his way down to the potions lab, he hadn't expected to see Hermione already there, standing over a boiling cauldron, hair frizzing out in a million directions from the humidity.

"What are you doing?"

He watched as she stirred her potion, counted how many times(seven), and then halted, allowing it to simmer until it was ready for the next step. She didn't look up at the sound of his voice.

"Usually when someone stands over a cauldron adding ingredients and stirring, it is because they're making a potion. I thought you'd have known that by now. What are you doing?"

He crossed the room and placed the cauldron and ingredients he needed for Slughorn on the table across from her. "Extra credit for Slughorn."

She scoffed. "Like you need extra credit. If a severed head fell out of your bookbag in his class, he'd probably give you ten points for bringing such a creative ingredient to class."

His face scrunched in disgust. Now that was just gross -why would he risk letting his books get dirty like that?

"I'm not disagreeing, but I'd never actually be in that position to begin with."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Quite."

She made a hum of acknowledgement, then dropped what appeared to be a single flower petal into the potion, and then stepped away, allowing it to simmer. She sat back onto her stool and pulled out a book he couldn't see the title of.

Ignoring him. She was ignoring him. He was right in front of her and she wasn't even looking. That wouldn't do.

"What are you making?"

"You're Slughorn's star pupil, why don't you tell me?"

Accepting the challenge, he walked over to her cauldron and began to examine the ingredients she had laid out(many of which had already been cut and deposited into her potion, but the remains were left behind).

Aconite. Asphodel. Orange blossom. Bicorn horn. River water. Powdered moonstone.

While this brand of magic was something he had limited knowledge in, he knew enough to identify this. Looking up at her, he scowled. "A contraceptive potion? Why would you even need this? You're a teacher. And why wouldn't you just get one from Madam Pomfrey?"

"Poppy has enough to deal with, I'd rather not bother her. Also, I prefer to make my own potions. That way I can be certain they haven't been tampered with."

"You're paranoid."

"I prefer 'vigilant'."

He moved back and began cutting his own ingredients. "You didn't answer the rest of my questions," he muttered under his breath.

Why the bloody hell would she need a contraceptive potion? She could barely stand to touch anyone but him and it's not like they had actually done anything(yet -he had plans for that).

Then again, she was paranoid. If this was some sort of preventive, self protective measure against rape, then he fully approved.

He noted the way she bit her lip to hide her amusement. "Why would I need it? I'm a healthy female of reproductive age - the usual demographic these potions are marketed to. There's also the whole thing about contraceptive potions being excellent for general hormonal regulation. Why I personally take it is none of your business."

It was entirely his business, if you asked him. Her refusal to accept that was inconsequential.

"Hormonal regulation?"

"It regulates the menstrual cycle, decreasing the pain of cramps and making bleeding more predictable and thus less inconvenient."

This entire time she still hadn't looked up. How was she being so casual about all of this? Normally women would blush and sputter at the very mention of anything related to female specific health. Why did she not seem to care?

Social awkwardness, perhaps? Unlikely. Maybe she just didn't feel the need to hide such things from him. He liked that idea better.

"You're awful candid about all of this."

"It's science. A normal, albeit unpleasant, part of being a healthy woman is menstruation. I'm not going to censor myself or pretend otherwise simply because men are pathetic and squeamish about the subject."

Ah. So there it was.

Then, she finally looked up at him. "Can I ask you something? And, please, be honest with me."

"Yes." He didn't even hesitate. There was no need to hide from her. No reason to lie. "But I want to ask you something too, and if I'm honest then you also have to be."

She shifted her weight, placing one hand flat against the table and leaning against it. "Why Alicia? Why did you pick her, instead of another student, say, Myrtle Warren, for example?"

The corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. "Making requests now, are you?"

"No. Please, Tom, don't. That's not what I meant and I really-"

He stepped towards her, not worrying about his potion as the cauldron needed to heat up anyways, and tucked a bit of her hair back behind her ear. "Hush, I'm only teasing you."

Unless you really do want it, he thought. If she did, he'd find a way to make it work. If she asked him to kill for her, he knew he wouldn't hesitate to do it.

The icy glare she gave him showed exactly how unamusing she found it.

"I picked her because she fit all the necessary criteria. She was muggleborn, which I don't much care about but it fit with Slytherin's agenda, and she was isolated. No one was around to see her, to protect her. No witnesses. And killing her wasn't the goal, but I knew it was a possibility. It wasn't personal."

She looked away from him, towards the floor, and he could see exactly how deeply she was breathing. She practically shook with repressed energy. Then, suddenly calm, she looked up, and she scoffed.

"I shouldn't be surprised by that, should I? No empathy, no real reason behind the senseless brutality. Only ambition. Only power. Congratulations, Tom. You truly are a Slytherin."

He pursed his lips. He would hardly call giving someone a quick, painless death 'brutality', and he had had a purpose at the time. However, it would not be wise to explain that to her now.

"You're both right and wrong," he said instead. "It was about power and ambition, yes. But I do possess empathy. It's just selective - cognitive rather than affective. And I don't care for senseless brutality; It's a waste. There always has to be a reason."

"You think you're capable of empathy?"

"I think I'm capable of anything."

She gave him an odd, unreadable look then. A tilt of her head, a furrow of her brows, and a sharp glint to her eyes. It made him feel like he was being examined. "You know, unfortunately for the rest of us, I think that's true."

Then she turned away from him, and went back to her potion to add the final ingredient. What was odd though, was that he hadn't seen it on her table with the rest of them.

"You're missing an ingredient."

Witch's blood.

Magical blood was used regularly in potions, though the use of human magical blood was something many people ignored because it made them uncomfortable. Though the subject had been addressed briefly in his sixth year potions class, he had never personally worked with it as an ingredient. It was most common in healing potions, anyways.

She said nothing, but it dawned on him when she raised her potions knife and brought the blade to her own forearm, making a thin, but precise incision.

She didn't so much as flinch.

"No, I'm not." The blood steadily dripped into the potion, and he counted each drop.

One

Two

Three

And then she pulled her arm away, and though she very hastily halted the bleeding with a bandage, a fourth drop had dripped onto the table below her. She hadn't seemed to notice.

She quickly disinfected it and applied a healing charm, the same one she had used on him years before, while he watched, completely transfixed. Then she emptied the contents of her now finished potion into a phial, put away her supplies, and left without another word.

With his potion still simmering, and no one around to see, he walked over to where she had previously stood and examined the small bit of blood she had left behind.

He dipped his thumb into it, gathering it onto his skin, and rolled it between his fingertips. In a moment of impulse, he brought it to his lips and tasted it.

He wasn't sure what he had expected. Maybe for it to be disgusting, fitting of the title 'mudblood', or maybe for it to be sweet, because it was her.

It just tasted like blood. Tangy and metallic, the taste stuck to his tongue the rest of the night.


The first day of classes were usually pretty boring. A teacher would explain the curriculum, review the basics of what was learned previously, and assign some reading.

Having read his books the moment he bought them, he rarely bothered to re-read them again. For him, it was just a way to fill time before the real lessons began.

Hermione never followed the other teacher's protocol, much to his satisfaction. She was better than that.

"I thought, that since you're seventh years and my most advanced NEWTs students, we could do something a bit more hands on than just reading or review. You all know the rules and what I expect of you by now, and you should already know what we're learning this year if you so much as flipped through the table of contents in your textbook.

"So today we're going to be doing practice duels. Unlike dueling club, this is not going to have as many restrictions. You are, after all, my most advanced students. I expect you to be mature and responsible enough to handle this, but rest assured, if you are not you will be removed from this class. I expect you to know and use your shield charms and to dodge if need be. This is one of the only times I'm giving you permission to actually try and hurt each other."

Tom could feel his pulse literally thrumming with excitement, like a buzz in his veins screaming to be released.

"This is not anarchy. There are rules to this. Minor damage only. Minor cuts, scrapes, burns, and bruises will be tolerated. Any serious damage will not. Pain inducing spells will be allowed, but keep it to the milder ones. Cramps and headaches: fine. A spell that mimics the pain of organ failure: not fine. It should go without saying that unforgivable curses will not be allowed.

"Some of you will likely be injured. You are in defense class. I cannot teach you to defend yourself without exposing you to the risk of harm. Any injuries will either be healed by me personally, or by Madam Pomfrey(who has been warned and is rather unhappy with me right now). Any questions?"

Most of the class shook their heads, already glancing around the room looking for a partner. Tom already had one in mind.

No one spoke up.

"Good. Partner up, and remember to look out for stray curses. Sometimes duels can get messy and it's important to be aware of your surroundings. Constant vigilance."

Everyone stood up, and with a wave of her hand the tables were gone.

(Impressive use of both wandless and nonverbal magic, Tom noted. That being said, he couldn't say he was surprised. He knew she was exceptional.)

Immediately, Tom paired up with Malfoy. The boy seemed utterly flattered to have been picked by him, which was ridiculous considering he was chosen only because he was the best candidate for target practice. Also, the boy was excellent as flinging curses so he really could practice defense with him. He avoided picking him in dueling club because he wasn't allowed to actually hurt anyone, but now…

Malfoy would be leaving bruised and bloody, without a doubt. And Tom wouldn't even be punished for it. Might even be praised, actually.

They went through the standard niceties of dueling, guided by Hermione. Bowing, waiting, the whole traditional dance. And then it began.

Chaos erupted throughout the classroom, everything from fire casting spells(easily avoided with a fire freezing charm), to body bind jinxes, to dark, somewhat dangerous curses were flying back and forth across the room.

Whenever a stray curse was sent flying across the room towards Hermione(who was now systematically pacing the classroom to observe the duels), she always blocked it effortlessly.

To Tom, this was utterly delightful.

While at first he was having fun practicing blocking(Malfoy was quite good at offensive spells), after a few minutes he decided he had had his fun and he wanted to win, to cast the final blow and finish it in its entirety.

The fact that Hermione was right bedside him, watching, may have had something to do with it.

Sadistic smirk in place, he cast a body bind jinx at Malfoy, knowing the boy would erect a shield to block it. Then, only a second behind the last one, he nonverbally cast a curse designed to impact the target with the force of a ton of bricks. After blocking the body bind, his shield was down, leaving him vulnerable to the attack.

As expected, it hit him straight in the chest, throwing him two feet back until he fell, hitting the floor with an audible smack.

It left him sputtering, coughing, and shaking on the ground, having literally knocked the wind out of him.

Tom wondered if maybe his ribs were broken(he hoped they were). Just as he began to cross over to perform a diagnostic spell to check, he heard a frightened gasp and looked up.

On the other side of the room, Dolohov had obtained a rather nasty looking laceration, crossing from the top of his right shoulder to down about four inches across his chest.

In his fourth year, when he had gotten hit with a stray slicing hex, it had barely scraped him. There was a decent amount of blood, but it was due to the fact that it was a magically inflicted wound, not the actual severity of said injury. Dolohov looked down, wide eyed, at the way the blood began to pour out of him, like someone had cast a diffindo on a full goblet of wine.

A steady, streaming flow leaking all the way through his shirt, sweater, and then dripping down to the floor.

Tom wondered what it would have looked like if it had hit his throat instead. It wasn't enough to have decapitated him, surely, and most people actually survive having their throat slit anyways, but what would it look like?

He didn't have any more time to ponder it, because suddenly a blue shield formed a wall stretching from one half of the room to the other, completely dividing the duels and stopping them in the process. He had never seen a shield -or was it a ward?- like that before. He'd ask about it later.

"I did warn you that some of you would most likely be injured." Hermione's voice rang out throughout the classroom, amplified by the wand she had placed under her chin. "Overall, that was excellent practice. No points lost. If you got hurt but are capable of walking, go to the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey will help you.

"Class dismissed early today. Homework is to go through the first chapter of your book and make a list of questions to be addressed in class. Dolohov, stay."

Though everyone else began to quickly gather their things and file out(Malfoy was hilariously limping), Tom stayed back. He always stayed back. Though instead of approaching Hermione, he stayed in his place by the wall and watched.

Dolohov shuffled back, away from her. "No, ma'am. It's alright. I can walk to the infirmary with everyone else."

She shot him a stern look. "Nonsense. You're injured, and unlike the rest of your classmates, you'll bleed all over the castle on your way there. We don't need a Bloody Baron impersonation terrifying the first years."

The boy cast a frantic look towards Tom, and then back to Hermione. His face went pale. "No, really. I'm fine. I'll have Madam Pomfrey do it. Please."

"Antonin, spare me the theatrics. I'm a perfectly competent healer. Tom can tell you, I've healed him before too. It didn't even scar. You don't have to be scared. Now, will you please just-" Then she reached out and placed a hand on him, making Tom feel like his blood might actually be boiling.

"I can take him to the infirmary, professor." Tom spoke up, cutting her off. "I'm sure it's nothing personal against you. Right, Antonin?"

She wasn't supposed to touch other people. No one but himself. She wasn't supposed to call students by their first names. No one but him.

He remembered fifth year, how he had wanted to lock her up. Keep her safely kept away for his own pleasure, where no one but himself would be able to have the luxury of looking at her or hearing her or touching her or enjoying her in any manner.

The feeling greatly intensified now, and he mentally began to run through places he might be able to stash her in the castle.

"Right. Nothing personal, Professor. Please let me go with Tom."

She gave both the Slytherin males a look of indignation before making a resigned sign and shoving a cloth over the wound on Dolohov's shoulder. He winced. "Fine, but Riddle, please make sure to limit the blood loss."

Riddle.

Riddle Riddle Riddle Riddle Riddle

Not Tom, Riddle. Not Dolohov, Antonin.

His eyes flashed dangerously to the injured boy, who in return swallowed nervously.

"Of course, Professor. I'll make sure he arrives there in one piece."

Hermione cast him a wary glance, and then another back to Dolohov(why did she keep looking at him?) before nodding.

The injured boy quickly crossed the room over to Tom, and they exited the class together.

The walk to the infirmary began mostly silently. Dolohov kept as much distance as possible while still being polite, but kept giving Tom nervous glances. Tom stared straight ahead, jaw tense, but otherwise not giving any reaction.

Until they passed a tapestry Tom knew held an alcove(with a built in silencing charm), and he roughly pulled them both inside and slammed the other male into the wall, ignoring his pained gasp. The cloth that had been pressed against his wound fell to the floor, leaving it open and exposed.

Though he couldn't see bone, he could see that the curse had cut through all the layers of skin, down into the muscle, and the bleeding had now slowed, pulsing steadily out of the opening. Part of him wanted to stick his fingers in it, to rip it open and tear at it until he heard screams.

But he didn't. He knew better than to torture his friends this early on. He was still in the process of irrevocably binding them to him, and torturing them would be counterproductive.

Even if it was well deserved right now.

He was just about to open his mouth, to remind Dolohov that he would not hesitate to make him disappear, that he had the means and motive to do it, when the boy opened his mouth.

"Tom, it was an accident! You know me- you know I wouldn't- I mean, you've practically pissed all over her to mark your territory. I wouldn't cross that line, okay? I'm not the type of guy to go after another man's girl. You know it. I'm loyal. Please."

Begging already. Boring.

But, it was worth something that he had acknowledged Hermione as belonging to him. That was good… but also suspicious.

"I never said she was mine."

Not to you, anyways.

"You didn't have to. It's bloody obvious. And even if it wasn't, I wouldn't try. I wouldn't have a chance. You're the only one she doesn't seem to merely tolerate. Come on, Tom. You know this."

Dolohov, it seemed, was not an idiot. Not a complete idiot, anyways.

Somewhat satisfied with the submissive, pleading response he was given, he gave the boy a cold, but indifferent expression before pushing himself off the wall, and turning away.

"Get yourself to the infirmary," he said as he pushed aside the tapestry and stalked off.


Having a free period following DADA, Hermione's class was technically the last one he had that day. Still seething with frustration and poorly restrained energy, he unlocked her office, sat down in her desk chair, and waited.

He rummaged through her desk, once again finding the old photographs he saw before. They made him angry, much more so than before, and he wanted to shred them, burn the pieces, and then vanish the ash.

But he didn't. Because Hermione wouldn't want that.

She should realize that her friends had existed only as a placeholder, to watch over her(though if her scars were anything to go by, they'd done a piss poor job of it) until it was time for her to be given to him, but he understood that she didn't see that, so he humored her.

He moved onto the next drawer. It was boring(does anyone actually need that much paper?), so he tried yet another one.

He found a half empty bottle of firewhiskey(he wondered when she had gotten it, and if she had already had half of it within one night of being back at school. He didn't like that thought.), and, out of curiosity, he opened it.

Wine and champagne he had had before(both at Slughorn's various events). Firewhiskey, however, he had never tried. Other students occasionally ordered it at Hogsmeade, and the Gryffindors were notorious for sneaking it into the castle for parties, but Tom himself had never had it.

There was a lipstick print on the edge of rim, perfectly marking exactly where sweet and proper and oh so dutiful Professor Hermione Granger had taken the bottle, pressed it to her lips, and attempted to drown her sorrows.

On impulse, he held the bottle up, aligned the mark of her lip print to his own mouth, and took a swig.

It burned. He knew it would, but somehow that did very little to prepare him for the feeling of liquid fire flowing through his mouth, over his tongue, down his throat and then finally blooming into his chest. When it burned into the center of his chest, feeling like it had burned to the very core of him, he felt funny. Not drunk. He knew what it felt like to be drunk: fuzzy, dizzy, sloppy. This was not usual alcoholic intoxication(nor should it be, considering it was one drink he took only seconds ago).

Suddenly, he felt emboldened. Brave. Reckless and unashamed.

Following the feeling, he repeatedly pressed her lip print against his mouth, greedily swallowing down more and more of the burning liquid just as he was sure she had.

Hermione would be coming back soon, having finished her last class of the day, and he had an idea. Possibly a bad idea, but it didn't register at the time as the burning in his chest, the buzzing in his blood, was cheering him on, telling him to go for it. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do, but that seemed mostly inconsequential.

Professor Granger was in for a surprise.


When he heard the distinct clanking sound of her shoes outside the door, he dimmed the lights and pressed himself against the wall. As soon as she opened the door and shut it behind her, he made his move.

In one swift movement of his hand, the door was locked. In another, he grabbed her wrists in one hand and pressed her back into the wall. At no surprise to him, she began to struggle in his hold.

And then he turned the lights back on, so he could see her in all her glory.

Face flushed, amber eyes practically crackling like fire, hair wild, robes ridden down her arms to display her scar, and wrists bruising under his grasp, she did not disappoint.

One hand on her shoulder, keeping her pressed against the wall, he cocked his head. "Hello, Hermione."

"Firewhiskey is the last thing someone like you needs," she replied flatly, seeming utterly unimpressed by his display of dominance. "And don't deny you've been drinking it; I can smell it on your breath."

An utterly wicked grin formed on his face. "What does it say about you that I found it in your desk?"

"That I'm a sad adult who needs it. What does it say about you that you stole it?"

"That I'm a curious adult who wanted it. And it's quite interesting you say that, you know. Because firewhiskey doesn't create happiness. It doesn't instill bliss. It inspires courage. Why do you need courage? Are you afraid, Professor?"

He moved his hand from her shoulder, gliding it closer to her collarbone, to the base of her throat. He felt her pulse under his fingertips, felt it increase as he continued moving his hand up the column of her throat where it finally rested.

She lifted her chin and looked him directly in the eyes. "No."

Her heartbeat told a different story.

"No?"

He moved his hand again, this time to press his thumb under her chin, running it along the underside of her jaw. With her looking at him so directly, he took the time to study the planes of her face. Her little, slightly turned up nose and the freckles that scattered across it, the exact curve of her lips, the slope of her cheekbones. And all the various patterns of amber and caramel and limbal rings of chestnut that made up her iris.

Pretty. Very, very pretty. And entirely his.

Her wrists strained against his grip, and he remembered the image he had had of her a few weeks before. In his head, he had both his hands free and he had bound her with his tie. But in both his fantasy and the reality before him, her wrists were bruised. She was wearing his mark now. The sight of it sent a pleasant twitch below his belt, and inspired of strong feeling of possessive greed.

He wet his lips. She was still looking up at him, and he found that it sent a thrill through him that even the firewhiskey had not.

"I don't like other people looking at you. And I especially don't like other people touching you. But even worse, is when you look at them.

"Worse still, was watching you touch Antonin. Did you know that? I wanted to kill him. He's my favorite, you know. Other than you, but you're hardly comparable. Of all my friends, he is the most useful, and the least annoying. But when you put a hand on him, I wanted to slit his throat and make you watch."

"Let me go."

She didn't move again, didn't struggle, but he felt her pulse quicken even more. He smiled down at her, wicked and predatory.

"Does that frighten you?" He asked, ignoring her demand. "Knowing the lengths to which I would go to protect you? Does this-" he punctuated the word with a press of his hand, pushing her restrained wrists further into the wall," -frighten you?"

"I've been through worse. Now let me go."

He gripped her wrists tighter, able to more clearly feel the bones beneath her delicate skin. He wondered how much pressure it would take to break them. Not wanting to actually harm her, he mentally noted that he needed to remember how fragile she was.

"Why should I do that?"

"Let me go and you'll find out."

Following her lead(or maybe it was the firewhiskey's, he wasn't sure), he let her go.

Her wrists fell to her sides, and her sleeves along with them. In the process, it once again covered both her scar and the marks he had been all too happy to apply to her.

She stepped forward, until she was close enough he could almost feel her breath, and he waited. Then she slowly raised a hand and placed it against his jaw, her fingers lightly cupping his cheek. He reflexively closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Her other hand began to gently muss his hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp to create a delightful, pleasantly soothing sensation.

This was why she was allowed to touch him. Just her, no one else.

Before he could register, the hand in his hair gripped, hard, and pulled at the roots while the other hand ceased it's gentle touch and replaced it with a resounding smack, leaving his face feeling hot and stinging in its wake. His eyes snapped open furiously, meeting hers.

"Stop being stupid," she hissed. "You do not," she stressed her point with a shove to his shoulder, "get to pin me to a wall simply because you're jealous that I touched your friend instead of letting him bleed all over my classroom floor. I'm a teacher. I have a job to do. Get over it.

"And for fucks sake, take a calming draught before you leave here. If that is what you do the moment your already poor impulse control slips, I don't even want to imagine you walking through the halls."

She had staked over to her desk, and when she came back, she was holding out a small phial containing a light blue potion. She was also glaring at him.

"You can drink it willingly, or I can shove it down your throat. You choose."

"Do you really think it's wise to threaten me?"

"You have ten seconds to make a choice before I make it for you."

For a moment, he did nothing but simply hold eye contact with her in a passive aggressive staring contest, but when she moved to unstopper the phial, he conceded and took the potion willingly.

As he swallowed it, she smirked. "Good boy."

Then, before he could tell her off about ordering him around(the slap was not entirely underserved, so he didn't blame her for that. Also… it wasn't entirely unpleasant.), she reached out again and began to straighten his hair back into place. Feeling annoyed about being bossed around and then rewarded like a dog, but also rather enjoying that she was touching him again, he held his tongue on that subject.

But not entirely. "Yesterday you told me I could ask you a question, and that you'd answer it honestly. But then you left before I could."

Seeming satisfied that she had rearranged his hair properly once more, she pulled her fingers away. "And you want me to answer it now?"

Obviously.

"Last year, on the last day of school, you said, 'maybe I'm just broken.' What did you mean by that?"

She let out a soft sigh, almost like she were grieving, but then she looked him in the eyes with resolution.

"It means I've been through a lot. I could give you entire books on how trauma changes the brain and affects the body, but to sum it up shortly, I've been hurt a lot and it has not left me unaffected. I used to be different. I used to think that if I just tried hard enough, everything would be alright. And when that all shattered, it hurt.

"I've felt a lot of pain before. I'm no stranger to the cruelest aspects of magic, of torture, but that was nothing like this.

"And, eventually I reached a point where I had to ask myself 'am I going to kill myself, or am I going to get over it and keep trying even if it might not make a difference?' Since I'm here, you already know what I chose."

As though she hadn't just admitted to having been tortured, to having contemplated suicide(something Tom himself had never understood and never wanted to understand), she turned towards her bookshelf without so much as another word.

Before she could walk away, he grabbed her wrist. Much more gently, this time, being mindful of the bruises he had left, and halted her movement. "You're not broken, Hermione. You're resilient. Strong. And you should be proud of that."

She looked down, to where his hand and her wrist were joined, before looking back up at him and nodding. Then she pulled away, her body slipping from his grasp bit by bit, wrist and then hand, palm, until finally only her fingertips were touching his own and then she was completely free of him.

He still watched her as she pulled a book from her shelves, curled into her favorite chair, and read.

Watching all of this, it occurred to him that he did not understand her brain in the slightest. He'd have to find a way to remedy that.