Thank you for all your very sweet reviews ! One of you asked why I didn't like the previous chapter and ... Well I don't have a clear explanation. I just felt weird writing it. It took me more time than usual and when I reread it I was not entirely satisfied. But I still love this story, don't worry, and will keep it going til its end !
Tom kept staring at her, sprawled on the messy floor of her small room. He remained there for what felt like hours, even though he knew only a few minutes had passed when he got on his knees. He quickly turned her on her back, hands fumbling.
She was paler than usual, how had he not noticed it before ? Dark rings had grown under her eyes. Her lips were parted. The colour was quickly fading. He brought his hand to her mouth, a wilting flower. He could barely feel the air escaping and then being sucked into her lungs.
"Hermione ?"
She did not react. He softly patted her cheek. Once again, no reaction. He heard his own breath fill the room and quicken, alone when it should not have been. He closed the door, careful not to hit her head, before pulling her upper body on his knees.
As he drew her closer to his chest, to his warmth, he grasped her arms tightly. Her skin was so cold. For a moment, he doubted she was still alive. Her usually golden skin was almost as pale as his. He checked for breath again. He then remembered what physicians did and took her wrist to check for any pulse. He could barely feel it, humming underneath his thumb. It was not humming; it was fluttering, fighting to keep on going.
He closed his eyes, feeling a wave of panic wash over him. He crushed her hands in his. Maybe the pain would wake her up.
It did not.
But he felt warmth under one of his hand. He glanced at it. His eyes widened. The tips of her fingers were cut. There was blood on her hand. Warm, vermilion blood. It was on his too.
Tom looked around the room to find the source of the superficial injury. When his eyes fell on her violin, lying on the ground next to her, wood lightly streaked with screaming red blood, his heart swelled. She had been playing.
He felt his lips tip up in a smile. Of course she had been playing. That awful tune, if one could call it that, that he had heard in the hallway had been hers.
He carefully took her in his arms; it was terrifying to hold an unconscious person, limbs heavy, drenched in death like a heavy slumber, before standing and laying her on the small cot. His smile died as he was faced once again with her terrifying paleness. She was still not moving.
He left her side to rummage through the mess. He picked up every piece of linen that was not clothing and carefully placed them on her. It should warm her.
Tom stared at her face, the only part of her not covered in white thick linen. Her brows were furrowed. He softly buried his hand in her hair. It was dry. He leaned in. It smelled like sweat. It smelled like her. He took in deep breaths.
"My little bird," he whispered, lips moving against the crescent of her ear, "why would you want to sing for anyone else ?"
Her only answer was her breath. He could hear it again. He had saved her, from her own talent. He had been the lifeline she had needed.
He felt a rush in his ears, blood suddenly pounding. He imagined her playing to the point of bleeding, brown eyes wide with wrath, hair sparkling with adrenalin.
He imagined her playing only for him.
Caged in his apartment, singing her violin song for his pleasure. He imagined she would like it, would like to be pampered by him. She would dress in trousers and kimonos and would never tie her hair.
His lips found her cheek. It was warmer. He felt himself set ablaze.
Her shallow breath fanned over his face. He blinked. She was still unconscious. He leaned back. Her cheek had scorched his lips. Her own lips were quickly reddening. The flower was blooming. The rushing blood coloured them red.
He did not know why he felt so hot.
He stood and glanced around. The window was closed. He scoffed. That explained his strangely elevated body temperature. He strode across the room and opened the small square of glass. No fresh air surged inside the small room. If anything, the air was heavier, more humid.
He looked at the infuriatingly unconscious woman. He had not come to her home to play the caring nurse. He had come to convince her to stay. He had come to show her that he would not take it lightly to lose her. He had come to admit he had been mistaken. He rarely did that. But the bloody violinist had fainted when she had seen him.
A smirk graced his lips. So he too affected her. He rather liked the idea. He had already known it of course, she had not pushed him away when they had kissed, but not to the point of fainting. That set a personal record of his he guessed.
But he had not come all the way to a working-class area to see her faint.
He sat beside her. He knew what he had to do. She would probably hate him. He shrugged. She already did, after all she was entertaining the possibility of leaving his orchestra.
He raised his hand, eyes firmly fixed on her less pale mien. The sound his hand made when it made contact with her cheek was astounding. He had not expected it to be so loud.
At least it worked.
As soon as the blow had been delivered, Hermione had gasped and raised to a sitting position, eyes widened in confusion and pain. Her hand immediately went to her deliciously turning pink cheek.
"What the bloody fuck ?" she whispered.
He saw the exact moment she realized it was him, sat on her bed. Hand very red. Her lips pinched and she frowned. She glared at him hatefully.
"You were unconscious."
Her face turned incredulous. "So you slapped me ?"
"It worked."
She scoffed and tried to push him off the bed with a groan. He contained a laugh. The attempt was quite pitiful. It was as if she had not heard that she had fainted mere moments prior.
"Get off my bed," she said through gritted teeth, hands pressing on his side, in vain.
He chuckled and shook his head no before making a move to lie down on her legs. She shrieked slightly, trying to move out of his way. Of course she was currently too weak to do so. He sent her a grin.
"I rather like it."
Finally seeming to notice how useless her attempts at removing him from her were, she fell back on the cot with a sigh. He could see her profile, framed by delicate curls, no, nothing about them was so much as delicate.
"Why was I unconscious ?"
He pinched his lips. She was staring at the ceiling. She knew he guessed. She just needed to hear it aloud.
"Exhaustion. Hunger."
She closed her eyes. He straightened to a sitting position. Her eyelashes were short. He had never noticed how black they were.
"Yeah that happens," she whispered.
Tom frowned. "How can you be so casual about it ?"
She met his eyes. There was a determined glint in their depth. He had never noticed people's eyes had depth before. He guessed she was not just anyone.
"Because it's normal isn't it ? We're passionate people."
A thrill went through him. Like electricity.
We.
She had finally seen how similar they were. He had to contain a victorious grin. It was harder than he would have thought.
They stared at each other for a moment. Her eyes were hard, unforgiving. He liked it.
"I guess we are."
"So you understand, don't you ? The need."
He inhaled sharply and leaned unconsciously towards her. "What need ?"
Of course he understood. But he was now the one who needed to hear her voice it aloud. She unrelentingly kept looking into his eyes. He was thrumming with greed.
"The need for sound," she breathed out, "we need to create perfection."
She glanced at his lips. He could hear a crashing sound in his ears.
"We bleed, but we're ready to sacrifice so much more."
She was devouring him, pouring molten lead in his veins, singing her siren song to his ears. She had never been a bird. He should have seen her as she really was. Dangerous. A flame licking his skin and daring him to step closer. And it was so... tantalizing.
"What are you willing to sacrifice ?" he whispered.
Her eyes widened slightly. But she was neither afraid nor surprised. She was just as thrilled as he was.
"Everything."
He wanted her to be his. In every way. She could never go to Paris. She could never leave him.
"Then sacrifice your pride."
He realized how close they had been when she jerked back. She looked at him, in horror, as though he had just burnt her. As he made a sudden move to grab her arm, he had trouble bearing the sudden distance, she recoiled against the wall.
Her cheeks suddenly drained of all colour.
"My pride ?" she whispered incredulously.
He frowned. Did she not realize just how bloody proud she was ? He had asked her to stay in his orchestra and she had said no. It was of course just to spite him, because he had hurt her ego. He understood.
"What else would push you to Paris ?" he snarled.
She scoffed. "To an environment where people tell me I'm talented ? God, I have no idea."
He rose. Her neck and cheeks were quickly reddening. How dared she be angry at him and use sarcasm when it should logically be the contrary ?
"I've told you countless times that you're talented," he coldly stated.
"Countless times ?" she laughed.
He hated that laugh. It was insincere. It sounded too much like the one he used at balls and whatnots.
"Do I need to stroke your little ego every bloody day ?"
She stopped laughing immediately, turning a hard gaze on him. He could almost feel the anger itching his skin. She was so ungrateful. He had come to her home. What else did she need ? She would probably be dead by then had it not been for him.
"No. You only need to do it once. Sincerely."
"You're talented."
She scowled openly. He glanced at her mouth before looking back into his eyes. They were ablaze with what he guessed was hatred.
If he had to truly disclose once what he truly thought of her playing for her to stay, he would gladly do it.
"You played Tchaikovsky like I had never heard it before. It was not perfect but, with the correct conductor, you could near perfection."
"I'm guessing you'd be that correct conductor."
"Who else ?"
She straightened. "Madame Maxime seems good."
He scoffed. It was almost insulting to be compared to that poor excuse of a conductor.
"So you came here to beg me to stay ?"
His gaze hardened. She smirked. She still looked much too tired.
"I do not beg."
She rolled her eyes. "You came here. Might as well be on your knees."
He wondered for a second if it would help. Probably not. She was right, he had made one hell of a gesture coming here. She shook her head and sighed before settling her eyes back on him. They were tired, empty of the hatred that was previously filling them.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Why ?" he blurted out.
She shrugged and glanced at her mess on the floor. He followed her gaze. Her violin was still there, strings lightly tinged by the red of her blood.
"For coming. For saying that I've got talent."
"Did you ever doubt you did ?"
She raised her head sharply, eyes narrowing. "Did you ?"
He was taken aback. He actually never had. He thought she was the same. He moved closer to the bed. She shook her head.
"Please, leave me alone," she breathed out.
It was like lightning. It was deafening. She could not be serious.
As he was about to answer her, the door opened. Tom turned, frowning, to face a young man with messy black hair and crooked glasses. He eyed Tom warily before turning to her.
"Hermione, you alright ?"
She beamed. The man had made all her exhaustion and overall sadness go away. Tom had never thought she could have a fiancé or a husband. He had never thought she could have a life outside of the Opera House. Outside of him.
"Yeah, Mr Riddle was just leaving."
She gave him a pointed look and he thought it best not to insist. It tore him apart. As he turned to leave, he saw that the man was looking at him suspiciously. He brushed past him to leave but still heard the barely veiled threat.
"Don't come back here."
He swallowed and ignored the man. As he stood in the corridor, alone, he felt like there was not much more he could do to have her stay. His jaw hardened as he realized what he could still do.
Hermione sighed and lied back down as Harry looked at her disapprovingly, arms crossed across his chest. She frowned.
"Don't look at me like that ! I didn't ask him to come."
"I've got no problem with you seeing people Hermione, but he's the guy you've been complaining about for more than a month."
"So ?"
He shook his head. "So you didn't seem close. Why is he paying you a visit ?"
"To keep me from going to Paris."
Harry gave her a pointed look. She did not waver.
"You mean to keep you from leaving him."
She pinched his lips. He had phrased it that way to. Or in a similar fashion. He had said "Don't leave." She had heard the "me". She knew it had almost escaped his lips.
"Of course not Harry," she snapped.
She could only imagine how he would react if he learnt she had kissed her boss, boss that she thoroughly hated. He would be pissed and worried. She did not need that. At least not about that. He frowned.
"You look like a fright."
She scoffed. "Have you ever heard of politeness ?"
He ignored her quip and sat by her side on her small cot. He carefully took her face in his hands and examined it. She noticed he unconsciously mimicked Molly's gestures whenever one of them had fallen or done something that might have harmed them. He dropped his hands to his knees and glared at her.
"When was the last time you slept ?"
"Last night."
"Liar."
She winced. It was not untrue. She had slept last night, it had been a fitful and hardly resting sleep, but it had been sleep nonetheless. When Harry glanced at her hands, she knew she was in for a homily.
"You have blood under your fingernails."
Hermione sighed and wrung her hands together, willing the red crust under her nails to go away. She could feel Harry's worried stare on her. She regretted that Riddle had left. Harry would not have dared remark on her frayed state had there been an outsider there.
"Was it something he did or said that pushed you to... do that ?"
"I don't need anyone to push over that edge Harry."
He visibly shivered. She guessed he was disgusted by her actions, by her propensity to act like a bloody mad woman. She looked at her nails. Anywhere but at him, she did not want to see his disappointed expression. It was true that it was kind of horrifying, those carmine crescents against her pink nails.
"Are you going to keep doing it in Paris ?" her friend softly asked.
She felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She smiled tiredly and looked at him. He was not disgusted. He was worried for her and not unbearably so.
"Can't say that I won't."
He nodded and gave her a timid smile before embracing her in a tight hug. "You know we'll always be there for you, don't you ?"
She shook her head in the affirmative, not trusting herself to speak. She could feel tears of gratitude, and probably of exhaustion, gathering in her eyes. As he let go of her, she quickly wiped her eyes with her hand, sniffing lightly. He chuckled and did the same. The two friends then shared a fond look.
"I came to ask you to play at Ron and Lavender's wedding," he said thoughtfully putting one of her wild curls behind her ear, "but now I'm not so sure I want you to do it."
"I will. Who asked ?"
"Lavender."
Hermione gave a little smile. "That's nice of her."
"She's nice."
"Yeah she is."
"But," teased Harry, "I'll never forget 'Won-Won'".
She burst out laughing. It was true that the nickname was ridiculous. He chuckled before his face turned serious again.
"Hermione, promise me you won't seek him, you won't regret his torture in Paris."
Her laughter immediately died. Of course she was aware of who he meant. She did not like it. Of course she would not do any of those things. She knew that Harry only cared for her but this was not any of his business.
"Of course."
As she said it, she knew the words had been lies. She could not promise such a thing. After all, as she kept repeating herself and others, Tom Riddle was a prodigy.
And that day, she had learnt he was a prodigy who thought her talented.
She wanted to go to Paris. To leave his toxic vicinity. But she was also aware, she had been from their first meeting, that she could not resist his siren song for long, should he, as he had put it, "stroke her ego".