Twelve Days of Christmas
Author's Note: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!
On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me
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Three red quills
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Her office is a bit cluttered for her liking, but she ignores it.
Tom Riddle is plaguing her brain and often renders her brilliant mind useless.
Through her constant worrying, she has gnawed through at least three of her quills. Her eyes flickers down to another broken quill with a frown as ink stains her fingers. With an irate huff, she furiously swipes her hand over her lips, pulls back, and glares at the black ink smudges along her skin.
While the thick haze of confusion surrounds Riddle, Hermione also has to get through the Holidays that are far too cheery for her to handle after war, and also deciding on gifts for her fellow professors.
She had been writing out Christmas cards when her quill had snapped in her musings. And that was her spare!
"Honestly Hermione! Pull yourself together!" She chastises herself.
A knock on her door pulls her angry muttering to an abrupt stop.
She holds her breath; her magic tingles.
"Professor Granger?"
His voice is both irritating and oddly pleasant at the same time.
"Come in," she croaks out.
The door creaks open, but upon seeing her, the man pauses in the doorway. "Are you. . . alright?" Tom Riddle asks her, his eyes straying on her lips, causing heat to flood to her cheeks. "You have a bit of. . ." His low velvet voice trails off, and he uses his long pale fingers to gesture to his mouth.
Oh Merlin! The ink!
"Y—yes!" She stutters before waving her hand in a flourish, the black smudges disappearing from her face and fingers in a light shimmer of magic. "I apologize. . ." She mumbles awkwardly. "Horrible habit, I'm afraid. I keep chewing my quills." She glances at the pile of broken pieces.
Tom's dark eyes follow hers to the pathetic pile that represents her sanity at the corner of her large desk. He remains quiet and Hermione braces herself.
Finally, "You sent them back."
His statement is quiet and smooth. She forces her eyes to settle on his and keeps hold. She's not sure if he is referring to the absurdly expensive rings or the owls last night.
"I did."
His magic is swirling in his gaze. "Why?"
"Mister Riddle," she sighs his name in a tired, exasperated breath.
His eyes flash in anger like a crack of lightning before it disappears.
"Is it. . . due to the fact of my poor lineage?" His voice is as sharp as a whip and Hermione's eyes widens.
"What? What on earth gave you that impression?" She retorts, her eyebrow arching slightly at the sheer hypocrisy that would have made this situation be, as bizarre as it already is. But then she shakes her head. "No, no. It is the fact that I am your professor and you are my student."
"I am graduating this term," he bites out.
Hermione thinks he sounds like a prudent child.
"Mister Ridd—"
He slams his hands on her desk, rattling in dead quills and his anger finally sparking over from his pores. His nostrils flares and his magic spreads through her office and she nearly gasps.
But he wasn't suffocating her.
Instead she feels her skin shiver in goose flesh, her magic dancing over her skin.
"Tom," he insists with a growl.
"Tom," she forces out through clenched teeth. But then she sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose to alleviate the pressure of irrational aggression. She finds herself unable to get words past her lips. What does she truly want from him?
Leave her alone.
Her magic shutters at the thought.
"I have never met a witch like you." Tom is speaking again, his voice quivering and his magic rolling over her skin to meets hers. "Someone who is like me. The moment you stepped into this school I could feel your magic. You're just like me."
Hermione feels fire spitting up from her throat as she bares her teeth like the Gryffindor from her past. "I am not like you."
Is she? Yes, their magic is similar. . . Dark. She came to terms with the fact that her magic leans a little on the darker side a long, long time ago.
But she is not a murder. . . She's killed on a battlefield before. . .
But she's not. . .
She wants to bang her head on her desk. Repeatedly.
Tom is watching the internal battle, his shoulder leaning casually against the door frame, though his body stiff with thinly veiled irritation.
"What can I do—"
She quiets him with her hand. "Tom," she tries again. "I don't want you to do anything. I am exhausted, trying to manage with loss, dealing with overly jolly holidays, and juggling all of this," she gestures to her desk where a pile of student essays are graded and waiting to be returned. "I. . . I c—can't handle this . . ." Her voice trails off at the end and she keeps her stare on her poor broken quills.
She hears his footsteps shuffling closer and her magic spikes in warning just for the sake of her sanity. Her hand is waiting for her wand just in case and she keeps her stare fixed.
But his magic is calm.
Instead of an attack, Riddle—Tom places a small bundle that is wrapped in brown paper and tied with a gold ribbon. When she is about to open her mouth and protest with every fiber of her being, he says, "try not to break them."
When she looks up abruptly, he is already out of her office, his magic leaving like the ocean for low tide.
She turns towards the little small bundle and sighs heavily and waves her hand. The simple brown paper is whisked away and the gold ribbon untied itself carefully revealing three lovely Gryffindor red quills.
Hermione leans against the chair and refuses to touch them.
She breaks down and uses them not ten minutes later when she snaps her last quill.
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