Chapter 24 – Masquerade
October 31, 1943 - Halloween
Hermione did not finish brewing until morning. With dark bags beneath her eyes and the ever insistent shrieking of the voices inside her head, she snuck through the halls to return to Ravenclaw tower. The hour was still early yet, particularly for a Sunday morning, but Hermione still slunk and crept about as quietly as she could on her lack of sleep. Her energy was waning- the efforts to quiet the warring personalities in her mind utterly draining-so she went about deftly switching out some vials in Heather Darby's trunk with her tonic without the aid of a silencing spell. Sparing as few minutes as possible on the task, Hermione tucked evidence of her tampering away into her bag and set her sights on a bite to eat and as lengthy of a nap in the library as she could get away with until sundown.
Upon reaching the Great Hall, Hermione expected the usual overenthusiastic invitation to breakfast by the ever annoying Lawrence Pettigrew. What she hadn't prepared for, however, was for one of his housemates that typically sat with them, Annabel, to come running up at the sight of her.
"Persephone!" Annabel wheezed, taking a moment to catch her breath, "Persephone, it's awful—just awful! I didn't hear until this morning! Professor Waldorf came to us this morning with it—oh MERLIN!"
Hermione blinked tiredly at the girl, eyes tracing over her excitable and frantic features. "Annabel," she said flatly, "What's awful?"
"LAWRENCE!" the girl shrieked as though she should've known the answer from the start.
Her brows rose at the name and, even in her groggy state, Hermione was able to piece together a handful of scenarios that could have led to Lawrence being absent and this classmate of his flailing and bawling on his behalf. A slight sneer twisted her lips and her gaze floated towards the Slytherin table and back.
"What about Lawrence?" Hermione attempted to make her question as sympathetic as possible, but she was sure it fell very short of giving a damn.
Annabel didn't appear to notice. "He fell down the STAIRS, Persephone! The Professor said he'd slipped and fallen and, and, and—"
"Is he dead?"
The curt, plain way in which the girl asked finally seemed to register as 'odd' to Annabel and her mouth clamped shut. Eyes wide and the newly made obvious realization that he COULD have died in such an accident was rushing across her face in waves of emotion. "No!" Annabel squeaked. "Thank goodness, no! He's just recovering in the Hospital Wing."
Unable to contain the scowl upon her face, Hermione's attention drifted back to the smattering of bodies that'd gathered at that early hour from the snakes' den. She searched the crowd for the familiar head of Tom Riddle or any of his minions but found none of them up or out and about just yet. Narrowing her eyes, her hand tightened on her bag strap and she muttered, more to herself than the other witch, "How fortunate for him."
Having decided to skip breakfast altogether on account of the heightened screeching about her failure courtesy of the heckling elder voice in her mind, Hermione detoured to the Hospital Wing to check on the Pettigrew boy. Perhaps she should have known better than to dance so closely to the solution with her clue, especially considering Tom Riddle's propensity for reworking anagrams with disgusting ease, although a most primal piece of her brain delighted in the territorial display. Persistent stomach flutters aside, Hermione chastised her sloppiness the entire way to the Hospital Wing.
Her trek was filled with trying to figure how much effort would be required to patch up his new reputation for baffling clumsiness to something more appealing so that his Gryffindor princess might still spare him a glance. As she neared the entry way to the wing, however, Hermione heard a familiar bout of ragged laughter coming from within. Brows knitting together in confusion, she peered in to check on the occupants. It seemed that the Mediwitch that ran the wing was away from her desk and the only two figures entertaining the main space were Lawrence — whose limbs were elevated and suspended in a very interesting contraption with a huge bottle of Skele-Gro next to his bedside – and none other than his beloved little Hazel.
"How on earth did you manage this, Lawrence?"
"Ah…just not meant for heights, I suppose." Lawrence's voice was hoarse and ragged and just positively awful. "You know me; I belong in the dirt."
Blinking slowly at the both of them, Hermione idly wondered if all boys were truly this stupid, regardless of the decade or their personal predisposition towards just or nefarious behavior.
"Oh, hush," Hazel chided, swatting at him so very lightly. "It could have happened to anyone. Besides, the whole thing has left you looking a bit…rugged." She nodded, pleased with herself at the observation. "I happen to like it."
Hermione could make out Lawrence's blushing cheeks from her half-hidden spot near the entrance of the resting area and chose that moment to duck back out into a shadowed corner. The couple's awkward chatting continued and, at least by her observation, it was lighthearted and tinted with a fondness that seemed well enough on its own. The particular realization that at least one thing seemed to be on track despite her muck ups helped greatly to muffle the yammering of her Elder consciousness.
With the lull in the discord in her mind, Hermione made a quick decision to flee to one of her private library nooks and try her hand at the rest she so desperately craved.
. . . . .
Sleep, thankfully, had not eluded her in those hours leading up to sunset. Hermione was able to lock down what faint internal whisperings had remained for a few hours of shuteye and awoke renewed and refreshed.
Hermione returned to the dorms after snagging a small snack from the kitchens and had taken up position in front of a long, full length dressing mirror to begin her preparation for the Masque. Already having slipped into the dress that she'd had Ruthie owl her, she'd moved on to tackling her makeup. It had been so many years since she had to worry about spells to set rouge and gloss or had to task herself with the completely demoralizing task of drenching her hair in potions and tonics to get it to smooth and twist as she commanded, but she reminded herself that she would make it all worth it.
This was how Heather Darby and her troupe of resident bitches found her: muttering into existence some of the most persistent sticking charms she knew to tack her curls into an intricate updo.
The girls stopped short, just inside of the doorway and Heather Darby caught the eyes of Persephone in the very mirror she was occupying. "Well, well! Callaghan, you certainly do clean up nicely, don't you?"
Hermione sharply flicked her wrist at the last curl that had been evading her magic for the past several minutes, finally succeeding in pinning it in place before turning to offer an even smile to the girl. She looked Heather up and down, noting the over-the-top sequin dress robes she was sporting. "Thank you," she replied, ignoring the slight against her with a practiced ease. "You're looking very nice tonight, yourself." Hermione let a confused look furrow her brow and she set the board. "Are you wearing that to the Halloween feast this evening? It's a bit on the extravagant side for it, don't you think?"
Darby scoffed, placed a hand to her barely covered bosom, and glided further into the room. "Oh, no, dear. I'm—" She paused, chancing a look to her companions who appeared to be stifling signs of piteous laughter that—Hermione would have guessed—was directed at her. "—well, I suppose there's no sense in keeping it secret anymore. I'm attending Professor Slughorn's Halloween Masque with Tom Riddle."
The Heather girl tackled and swiped the pawn Hermione had laid out for her so beautifully that she found it much harder to pull the shocked and dismayed look to her face than it had been when she'd practiced earlier. "Th-the Masque?" she asked, a slight quiver in her voice.
"With Tom," Heather Darby confirmed, an ear to ear grin stretching across her fool face. She watched Persephone carefully, savoring the way the girl stood stock still, trying not to tremble and shake at the news. Darby allowed her eyes to linger before moving towards her corner of the room to summon a small expensive looking purse that clinked and clanked with the muted noise of glass vials. "I'm sorry, Persephone but, really, this is the sort of thing I was referring to before. Your talents—" She said the word with a near tangible venom to each syllable. "—may be novel and praised by covetous professors, but sooner or later, the fact of the matter is that there is a hierarchy. A natural order of things. The sooner you understand that, the better off you'll be." Heather fiddled in her bag until she found the vial she was looking for and pulled the dipper from it to make a show of swabbing the liquid on her wrist and behind one ear.
Hermione tracked all the spots of skin where the liquid touched, hiding her delight from her housemate with a tremulous frown. "Tom doesn't think like that," she objected with less conviction than she meant to.
Heather finished dabbing to return her full attention onto Persephone and with an openly vindictive smile, she said, "Of course he does, dear. We all do. Some are just better at hiding it than others."
Clenching her jaw and summoning the faint memories of those very same doubts that had plagued her throughout her original school years, Hermione made a very convincing show of the burgeoning tears she'd always sought to keep at bay once upon a time. Heather Darby's enjoyment over her perceived hurt was clear as crystal. Her distaste, her eager maliciousness was painted in every grinning line decorating the girl's smirking visage and, in so many ways, it reminded Hermione precisely of why she was there in the first place.
Heather, barely maintaining poise so as to not laugh straight in Persephone's face, opened her mouth to send another, ostensibly more hurtful remark her way, though what actually came was a sudden, sharp intake of breath. Heather Darby staggered on her feet, one arm out, hand swiping and clawing for something close and near to stabilize her balance.
"Heather!" One of the other Heathers exclaimed, moving in just in time to catch her friend as she collapsed in a heap of rouge and sequins to the dorm room floor.
"Heather! Oh my—what's going on?! What's wrong?!" Another of the gaggle yelled, crowding around the fallen alpha bitch.
With the attention now removed from her direction, Hermione let her face return to a more neutral state and moved in behind the girls. Peering over their shoulders, she saw the most wondrous sight of Heather Darby curled in on herself and moaning with growing tiers of pain. Her skin reddened and glistened as she broke out into a terrible sweat. Mounds of translucent flesh began to grow all over her skin, filling and swirling with pus and her minions both let out terrified shrieks.
"Maybe someone should fetch Madam Aubrey," Hermione said without the faintest hint of concern in her voice.
One of the Heathers shot up from where she'd been kneeling, so used to being ordered about, and took that as her task while nodding frantically to herself. The other couple girls remained, blubbering in a panic as their friend started to twitch and her moaning grew more frantic and pained.
Crouching next to the girls, Hermione placed a hand on both of their shoulders, giving them her most empathetic of looks. "You two go alert Professor Ogden as to what's happened. I'll keep her comfortable until Madam Aubrey arrives." With hardly any protest, the girls nodded and scrambled from the room to accomplish their task as well.
Heather Darby, to her credit, was clinging on to consciousness despite her growing temperature and the building, blinding pain. Still crouched, Hermione wrapped her arms around her dress clad knees and smiled down at the girl, eyes so frigid they alone would likely have been able to temper her fever.
With a wave of a hand and a silent incantation, Darby's mouth clamped shut and Hermione leaned forward to whisper near her cheek, "Relax, love."
Hermione plucked a decorative comb from Heather's hair and dragged it teasingly down her exposed arm. The teeth scraped tiny white lines into the girl's flesh until they came to rest butted up against a series of tough, liquid filled pustules. The bubbles of skin flexed and wobbled beneath the harsh pressure of her attentions, the boils denting and shifting but never breaking from the force.
The boils did, however, appear to be quite painful if the way Heather Darby's eyes were spasming in their sockets and the foam gathering at the corners of her mouth were any indication.
"I'll keep you company until they return…"
. . . . .
Of all the idiotic…
…ludicrous…
…PETTY tactics!
Tom was silently huffing to himself all the way from Ravenclaw tower back to the dungeons where Slughorn's overly extravagant party was already in full swing. He'd started well in advance to outfit himself in the finest and sleekest black dress robes that Abraxas' galleons could buy. He'd done a suitable amount of primping, he even added some extra touches to his serpent mask so as to look impeccable upon arriving early enough to pick up that nattering Darby girl so that he might catch Persephone's eye as she, too, attempted to meet with her accident prone escort only to come to find that the bloody witch had somehow already sabotaged everything!
Preposterous…
…conniving…
…HARPY!
"Tom! Tom, my boy! There you are!"
Slughorn's jovial voice interrupted his grousing and Tom finally looked up from the stone tiles he'd been glaring holes into moments before. When his eyes fastened onto Professor Slughorn, it was obvious the man was already several cups in to his own event despite the fact that Tom had not even arrived all that late.
It took a great deal of effort to pull his mouth into anything other than an agitated sneer, but Tom managed. "Professor," he greeted cordially, nodding to the older man's complete lack of a costume, "you look well this evening. Had I realized that my meager serpent guise would be due to compete with this extravagant and most esteemed Headmaster garb you've donned, perhaps I would have put more effort into my costume."
Slughorn blinked blankly at Tom before the compliment registered and he let out a bubbly laugh, waving him off good-naturedly. "Don't be ridiculous, Tom, the costume fun is just for you young ones. I'm a trifle too old to gallivant around in fantastical fripperies and fobs even under the guise of a Masque, don't you think?"
"Merlin, no," Tom replied smoothly, "after all, Professor, you can't be more than, what? Late twenties? Early thirties at most."
The older wizard guffawed and clapped Tom on the back. "Oh, Tom, lad, you should save that for the witches, eh?" All at once, Slughorn's face sobered—all except for his glossy drunken eyes—and he prodded Tom in the chest with one stubby finger. "Speaking of that. Imagine my surprise when our young Miss Callaghan arrived, not only not on your arm this evening, but entirely alone."
"Alone, sir?" Tom intoned innocently. "Why, she'd already implied—rather indelicately—that she had other plans for the Masque that had not involved me." He feigned a look of intense disappointment and worry that Slughorn followed with a sympathetic understanding from one man to another. "Had I known—"
"Listen, Tom," Slughorn began, leaning in so closely that if Tom had been unable to smell the booze wafting off of the man before, he most certainly could then, "I understand you may think that I know nothing of this…young love, as it were, but here is MY advice to YOU: suck it up." Slughorn stifled whatever reflexive reply was about to come out of Tom's mouth with an insistent shushing until his jaws finally snapped together with a clack. He continued in a near conspiratorial whisper, "Whatever it is that she did, whatever it is that you did…suck it up. You'll both be better for it come the morning." And before Tom's sputtering really ever got started, Slughorn turned him to face a lone figure standing near a long refreshments table, nursing a lightly tinted liquid from a champagne flute. "You need not take my word, but I assure you, you don't come across as brilliant of a witch as that one more than once in a lifetime."
Tom wanted to argue, he really, truly did, but his eyes were having a very difficult time processing the jarring sight before him. The witch that he was still trying to comprehend as Persephone Callaghan, stood, arms awkwardly folded across her front as though she partially regretted her daring choice of attire for the evening.
The gown she tried to hide was strapless, wrapping snugly around her form in layers of elegant black fabrics with solid color broken up only by whirls and stretches of shimmering embroidery and dark crystals. The details of her dress bled down the length of her thighs until the skirt flared out into some sort of feather-light, sheer material that floated around her in a perpetual flutter as though she, herself, was born of a jet black flame. Perhaps the most entrancing piece before him was not her choice in dress robes at all and, instead, the contrast of her skin against the darkness of it all.
Her scar, he knew, would be hidden by her magic, but the rest of her lightly tanned flesh was out and exposed and likely the most delicate and delectable thing he'd ever seen. The firsthand knowledge of the power that lay in that deceptively fragile figure led his heart in an elevated beating. His eyes traveled a path over the supple curves of her exposed shoulders and up that distractingly long, graceful line of neck. He could see, even from that angle, the cut and theme of her mask, and how it was worked in spider webs of bone white lace. The mask stretched across both of her dark, kohl rimmed eyes yet clung to just one side of her face to create a haunting image of a cool, skeletal visage accented by lips so deep a burgundy they may as well have been painted in blood.
Hel. Persephone, namesake to one goddess of the underworld, had attended the Masque as a different goddess of the underworld.
Tom felt a terrible warmth blossoming in his chest alongside the unwilling admiration of her clever display.
He failed to notice, however, when the weight of his professor's hands left his shoulders to shove him in the direction of Persephone, his feet moving of their own accord to swiftly close the gap between them. As he neared, Tom was able to make out more of the familiar features of the witch he'd come to know and loathe and, as such, was able to pull himself mostly out of his absentminded stupor. By the time he finally reached her and she deigned to notice his presence, he felt almost confident that he'd collected all of his bearings.
Almost.
"Miss Callaghan."
"Tom."
"You are…a vision," he said honestly, preening a bit when she had to stifle her small, surprised look. "Imagine my shock, however, to see wondrous Hel having risen from her dark throne only to be standing here, in Slughorn's room of fanciful whimsies, entertaining a glass of—what is that, anyway?"
"Apple juice, sadly. Because we are apparently infants."
"Of course," Tom agreed to the disdain evident in her tone more amicably than he'd agreed to anything she'd said in weeks. He continued with a look of concern upon his face that somehow still managed to be remarkably smug. "Whatever are you doing here by yourself, Goddess? What, pray tell, happened to your…'plus one?'"
Hermione pointedly ignored the title he purred at her in that smooth taunting timbre. "My escort, you mean? Funny you should ask. He came down with an unfortunate and unexpected affliction last night."
"Oh?" Tom drew back and tsked sympathetically and in a most convincing manner. "What horrid luck! I am so very sorry to hear it. May I be so bold as to ask what affliction found him so close to this event?"
Hermione drained her glass of the rest of its contents and waited for one of Slughorn's specially employed wait staff to flit by in order to rid herself of the thing before she leveled a serious and unamused look at Tom. "Stairs," she said flatly, "The entirety of the stairwell that leads up to the astronomy tower as I understand it. Lawrence Pettigrew is currently in traction in the hospital wing waiting for his bones to reset and mend properly with the assistance of Madam Aubrey's potions."
"Ah," Tom hummed, caught a full glass of juice from a different waiter and took a long, thoughtful sip from the flute. He pursed his lips, running his tongue along the tops of his teeth and hollowing his cheeks as if savoring the flavor of the fruity drink before finally saying, "Stairs…slippery things. Especially so late at night. They do tend to keep the corridors so poorly lit for those that partake in the course—it's a shame, truly. And it is really but one reason why I am not taking astronomy this year."
"Yes." The single syllable was drawn out in a skeptical tone that matched the look she'd turned his way. Hermione watched as he finished off his drink and passed his empty glass off as well then re-folded her arms, tilting her head keenly to one side. "Forgive me—" She looked over his serpent inspired attire seemingly for the first time since they'd greeted one another. The smile at his predictability threatened to overtake her face, but she wrangled it in to provide him with a coolly smug look of her own. "—I can't help but notice that you are unaccompanied as well, Mister Riddle. May I also inquire—"
"Boils." His expression sobered with his curt reply. "And fever. Or so I was told. Just before I had arrived to pick her up, in fact." The last was full of open accusation.
Hermione made a knowing "mmmh" noise, nodding. "Stairs, fevers, and boils. Pity. Must be the season for them, I suppose."
"I suppose."
"Well, I do hope that dear girl's condition improves swiftly," Hermione said with feigned worry.
"You shall likely hear before I, she was one of your housemates, after all. However, the boy who answered my knock at the tower advised that she was in such terrible and excruciating pain due to the severity of her affliction, it's unclear how long it will take her to recover."
"That is so very unfortunate, Tom. You have my sincerest condolences. Poor, poor Heather Darby."
Tom watched her tartly smug expression for several heartbeats before he inhaled deeply, stretching to his full height and settling his dark stare upon her. "Miss Callaghan," he said, "I don't recall telling you her name."
Hermione was entirely unmoved and gave him the sweetest smile, coated with sugar and perhaps a touch of poison. "She was wrapped up in some gaudy number this evening when I returned to the dorms to get ready and was positively gushing about coming to this party. She might have mentioned you. Call it an educated guess."
"Right," he said with a sneer. "Sometimes I do forget how small a world it is within these school walls."
"It truly is. In any case, I will gladly inform you of her status once I hear from the other Heathers since they will, most likely, have news sooner than either of us. You must be so concerned, what with how close you two were before the dance and all."
"Yes." Tom smiled tightly and he really shouldn't have been savoring every lash and whip of malice Persephone cast his way with each comment about the idiot girl. He shouldn't have…it didn't mean he wasn't. "In an entirely unrelated subject, what did you think about Slughorn's lecture the other day regarding targeted brewing?"
"Targeted brewing?" Hermione asked with a slight shrug. "I'm afraid I don't recall that particular lecture."
"Perhaps it was in a book I'd read then." Tom rocked on his feet a moment, head tilted back and to one side as though he were searching for a specific memory. "Yes…yes it was. 'Most Potente Potions,' I believe. It was an interesting article and, for some reason, made me think of you. Did you know that, when brewing a potion with a specific target in mind, if you were to, say, include an article belonging to them within said brew—nail clippings, eyelash, severed limb, you know, those sorts of things—it would make the smallest dose exponentially more potent?"
Hermione had settled onto her painfully awkward shoes in as comfortable a fashion as she could. She had her arms crossed in front of her with one hand up and her delicate fingers brushing idly back and forth the pad of her bottom lip as she looked and listened intently to Tom. "Ahh, I do think I may have read that one. Adding something to give it a little kick—" She curled her hand into a fist and mimed a "strong" motion. "—something to really focus it onto someone's essence."
Tom nodded, eyes narrowed. "That's the one. I believe there was something about it tethering the potion to said target, as well. No nasty little mishaps on the unintended that way. A little spill here or there? Not a matter, so long as you're not the target."
Her smile was catlike. "How positively clever, don't you think?"
Even when being at odds with her, Tom could not deny that she was a genius in her own right. Her intelligence was fluid and graceful and her darkness remained delicious. He hated her in that moment—hated himself for being so internally gleeful and even somewhat physically "bothered" by just how clever it was.
With the paltriest air of aloofness ever, Tom said, "Indeed."
The pair of them looked at each other for a long stretch of minutes, neither of them budging from the spot they occupied together along a quiet section of the room. The dull chatter around them muted further until it was successfully a mere afterthought to either of them as they stood, half a pace away from the other, staring, silently, waiting for the other to make a move.
It was Tom that broke first with an irate sigh. One of his hands had wedged itself into a pocket while the other came up to smooth his fingers over the black silk cravat peeking out from beneath his coat. "Miss Callaghan…"
"Mmm?" Tom's expression soured and what parts of his neck she could see were starting to redden from his temper.
"I've sought to speak with you for many days now—"
"Then ask me to dance, Tom," Hermione cut him off before he could build any steam. "For I have several words to share with you this evening."
Flustered by the command, Tom found himself aggravatingly unable to refuse and with surprisingly little protest, he took her hand and led her to the dance floor. The band had just settled back in, readying themselves to start a new song set and so when their waltz began to play, Tom adjusted the witch in his arms appropriately and began to move.
The two of them had barely just found the rhythm in their steps before Tom spoke. "Persephone—"
"If you even begin to think about speaking to me regarding all that ridiculous 'charm' nonsense you've been on about for so many days, you can just keep that fool mouth of yours shut," Hermione interrupted immediately. Without even sparing him a second more for thought, she added, "Actually, no. I am taking the floor. I have absolutely had it up to my eyeballs with your fatuous behavior. I have invested more years than you've lived into planning and plotting every aspect of your rise to power. I have offered you your most splendorous dream on the proverbial silver platter with what is, in the greater scheme of things, a microscopic request for your respect and your loyalty. And yet, even after helping you harness some of the darkest, most complicated magic accessible to you at this time, what is it that you repay me with?"
Tom made to answer but she came up sharply from one of their turns with a fierce look in her eyes.
"Your sophomoric attempts at killing me!" Hermione hissed lowly.
"I had not intended to actually kill you—"
"No, right. You're right, of course. You've only intended to kill my date as of late. My sincerest apologies, my Lord."
With a scoff, Tom led them both in another swaying circle around the floor. "I can't be held accountable for that one. You did give me the riddle containing his name."
"Yes, well," Hermione sniffed dismissively, "I hadn't really expected you to figure it out in time what with how much of an imbecile you've been recently. AND, if you did, I had not expected you to nearly bloody KILL the boy because you were jealous."
"I was not jealous."
Hermione stepped out of the circle of his arms with the music, waiting until her steps brought her back in to snipe at Tom again. "You were. You were a jealous idiot."
"Persephone, you shall STOP insulting my intelligence or I'll—"
"You'll what, Tom? Avoid me to death?" They swayed, she spun, and she gnashed her teeth at him once more on the return. "Your stupid temper is getting on my nerves and it is jeopardizing YOUR life. If you had killed that timid little shite, he'd never father one of your most snivelingly loyal followers that will be imperative to your reign, leading to a fault in the timeline whose repercussions I'd sincerely rather not have to deal with! Did you ever think of that?"
That did cause him a bit of pause.
Six three-quarter time steps of pause, to be specific.
"…well, no," he admitted stiffly. "I was not aware—"
"Of COURSE you weren't! And why? Because you were too busy evading me, ignoring me, and decidedly NOT seeking my counsel, despite that being precisely the opposite of what we had agreed you WOULD do during all of our past private discussions!"
"Oh, forgive me," Tom snapped tartly, jerking her with him in a tight circle around the edge of the dance floor. "But your instructions seem to be just a hair on the hazy side. Maybe, if you had not been so busy saturating my attention with your underhanded entanglement of my senses at each and every one of those meetings, your commands would have come out more clearly!"
She scoffed with a roll of her eyes. "What are you bloody on about?"
"I am speaking of the spells you've been working upon me! As IF you were unaware!"
Hermione was spun around in the outermost stretch of his arms and once she'd returned to press so near to his front, she dipped her head forward and bared her teeth in a ferocious snarl. "WHAT did I say about mentioning those bleeding 'charms'?!" They spun again and her anger was crisp and clear once their steps resumed their more typical circling sway. "I've not touched your blockheaded self, Tom! Though you are correct about one thing: I have been working. I have been working—HARD—to secure OUR future, trying to keep our key players alive, trying to cultivate that sad, pitiful shadow of a relationship between Lawrence and his oblivious teenaged twit, but meanwhile, YOU are sitting on your arse generally being a fiery little twat over whether or not you want my help! Perhaps, if you weren't so egregiously short-sighted, you wouldn't actually need me to assist you."
Tom's mouth came open to rebut her statement but he found himself jerked around with Persephone's steps as they grew angrier by the second.
"And THAT is another thing, then, isn't it? Speaking of pitiful shadows of relationships, your constant wavering between heeding my guidance and dodging me in the bloody halls has reached its peak of tolerability!" Hermione was practically spitting her words in the harshest, most forcefully heated whisper she'd ever hissed out, to date.
The ripples of Persephone's magic, normally so tightly contained and metered, had finally bubbled forth and were fighting the bonds she placed upon it. At such close a proximity and with overwhelming clarity, Tom could feel the roiling, pulsating wash of power thrumming against every inch of his body. That the smattering of the surrounding crowd didn't seem to notice was a shocking abnormality. It was as though her magic had attuned itself to him, and only him and yet, as divine as it was to have that darkness sliding along his body like a touch starved lover, the steadily growing glow in the depths of her pupils bore more of an immediate concern.
"I am not some sort of awestruck teenager admiring your ability—or lack thereof—to grow facial hair!" Hermione growled through grit teeth. "I have commanded more from time and space than you can realistically fathom to lend you my services! To be your salvation from your own faulty planning! And, if you're so much of a clueless buffoon that you think I am going to lie down and accept your casual dismissal after I have done ALL this work, then Tom—THIS is where you twirl me!"
Hermione's thought derailed briefly in favor of her frustration over the fact that their steps had gotten a half beat off from the music and it was just ONE more thing that he was doing that served to make her crazy.
"I KNOW how to waltz, you cantankerous termagant! Contrary to your myriad complaints, Persephone, I am-not-daft!" He did know, and so he twirled the nagging witch while sporting the nastiest, most petulant scowl he could muster.
And she was so bloody beautiful, Merlin damn it all.
His Persephone spun before him, the delicate lines of her limbs made longer and more elegant by clever drapes of fabric and lengths of tulle. Her magic continued to lick over his skin, sending electric sparks between them like a prickling of static discharge. It hummed through his body, through his bones, did things to him that he hated and craved all at once. Everything about her called to him and his thoughts circled back to this burning eyed beauty and her bold glare that could sunder mountains.
She was beautiful. And terrible.
And insufferable.
And infuriating.
And, he had to remind himself, the bossiest, most stubborn, most ornery woman he'd ever set his sights upon.
Tom sneered, twirling her again with more of a firm snap to the movement to send her off balance out of spite.
"NO!" She exclaimed in a shouted whisper, wobbling free of his hold and stopping their dance to prod him right in the cravat. "YOU, Tom Mar-VO-lo Riddle, are just a capricious, impudent BOY!"
Tom stepped into her space, shattering any pretenses of propriety, meeting her fiery stare with his own. He worked hard to keep his voice level, "Perhaps if you weren't such a nattering hen—"
"A hen?!" Hermione squawked, the harsh whisper-shout cut off by the way Tom jerked her back to him to resume their dance. She waited all of a few beats before she resumed railing into him.
Tom, for his part, was leading them aggressively in a twirling, whirling pace alongside the music and around the dance floor. He pushed her to the very limit of her dancing ability which, if he were being honest, was surprisingly good. Though her feet kept up quite well, she was rigid in his arms. Her breast brushed his with every turn and sway and her anger was evident in every huff and puff of air that she was breathing down his neck. Her eyes were positively furious, blazing from within the rings of dark liner and the skull visage. Her burgundy painted mouth barely ever paused in whatever raging tirade she was spouting at him and the oppressive, reoccurring thought that kept flitting through his head was a simple: Salazar she truly was a vision.
Tom's mind wandered to the imagery of this delicate witch razing the land of any that were so foolish to earn this sort of wrath. He imagined her luxuriating upon a throne fit for someone filled with such magical talents. They were very…intriguing images to cross his mind at so inopportune a moment.
"Tom!"
He snapped out of the daydream, realizing that those ferocious fire-lit eyes were fixated on him and they'd stopped dancing again—likely due to the music having ceased—at some point in favor of lingering off to the side of the dance floor.
Hermione's glare narrowed impossibly further. "Have you even been listening to a word I've just said?" She scanned his face long enough to see the faintest twitch of muscle that schooled his expression into something smooth and cool and aloof and her breath shuddered out of her in the most incredulous scoff she was capable of producing. "Unbelievable. You're even ignoring me while you've got your hands on me and I'm shouting in your face?"
"I've not been ignoring you," Tom said quickly as if to prove just that.
"Really? What'd I just say then?"
"Before screeching at me about not listening to you?" He repeated to allow himself time to replay the "conversation" over in his head, hesitating just long enough to see her face beginning to turn shades. "You were vociferating, of course. Calling me names. Attempting to dress down my intelligence yet again in your repeated diatribe of limited insults."
Although the answer was correct, it was slippery and evasive and it pulled another exasperated noise from her alongside a halfhearted smack to his chest that he sidestepped easily.
The thoughts and memories of all her trials, all her efforts up to that point, mingled with the ever present and taunting laughter of that wretched life she was determined to leave behind until they'd finally boiled over. She'd done everything she could to make herself as technically appealing as she'd ever need to be to ensnare and enlighten such a monstrous man-to-be and yet she was still fighting this adolescent battle for his attentions AND IT WAS DRIVING HER BATTY!
"What do you want from me?" Hermione said at last in a breath of tired exhaustion over him, over their arrangement, them, the whole thing! Her voice was low but the ferocity was still clear enough to make her point in the scant space between them. "I came here prepared to give you the power to create the world you crave and one minute, you welcome it, the next you toss it aside! Well, I am done trying to suss out your dizzying feelings on the matter, Tom. Answer me, plain and true: DO you or DON'T you want me?!"
Her eyes widened, as did his, at the question.
That was not at all the question she had MEANT to ask…
"THIS," she amended quickly, face turning beet red, "Do you or don't you want this?"
Tom's mouth opened and closed a few times as he attempted to formulate a witty reply but found himself lacking terribly. It seemed, at that particular time, that the task of formulating articulate words and noises was a task beyond his capabilities. Or, perhaps, more accurately, the fact that an unbidden answer had immediately sprung to mind that was dreadful and awful and horrid and obviously UNTRUE – one that he had to first stifle to think up another – was actually the culprit.
"Am I…interrupting something?"
Tom was startled out of his floundering for a response by the sound of a deep, sensual voice that, by his record, could have been the audible equivalent to the sensation of a smooth draw of a perfectly aged wine. His lids fluttered in surprise, head turning to see a tall—very tall—pale skinned gentleman in disgustingly fine violet clothing, sporting a matching velvet half mask, sidle up next to Persephone. While he'd admittedly been distracted, the fact that he had not even noticed this man approach, along with his apparent familiarity with the witch between them, made Tom immediately suspicious. What's more, the bit where this individual looked at him as though he were an intruder on a very private event raised his hackles.
"Sorry," Tom said, flashing that too proper, too polite smile that he'd perfected over some time, "Do I know you?"
"I rather think not," the man said in a warm timbre, "I am not, how one might say, local. I am an old friend of Horace's—Professor Slughorn as you know him. I was just catching up a bit with the old man before rejoining in the festivities." He swept further between Tom and Hermione, holding his hand out in one of greeting. "Ephram Lustgarten."
He didn't care for this man, Tom decided quickly. He didn't like him at all. There was something that was off about him. "Right. Brilliant, that," Tom pointedly ignored the proffered hand. "Quite good to have festive friends and what-all. However, if you would excuse us, my date and I—"
"Date?" Hermione scoffed, loudly this time, reasserting her presence.
Tom's side-eye was fierce and immediate; his tone was one of warning. "Persephone—"
"Oh no, Tom. My 'date' is in hospital, remember? Or, at least, my original date." She huffed, her anger renewed, and threaded an arm through one of Ephram's, who seemed thoroughly amused from behind his elegant mask and allowed himself to be tugged neatly to her side. "This is my date. Allow me to properly introduce you to Herr Ephram Lustgarten. I understand that the name may be unfamiliar to you, however, I assure you, if you'd bothered expanding your sights anywhere outside of your immediate vicinity, you would know that his family has quite an impressive lordship in Berlin that he presides over."
Ephram cleared his throat and said, "Forgive me for the correction, Lady Hel, but I am, technically, no longer eligible to rule the land due to my particular 'ailment.'"
"Ailment?" Tom echoed the word, eyes darting between Persephone and Ephram. The man's presence was making all sorts of unwelcome feelings spike within his being and he just couldn't quite pull his attention from the way Ephram's hand covered her tinier one where it rested on his opposite forearm.
"Affliction, some might say?"
Ephram's clarification was puzzling and when Tom looked up to his face he saw that the man was smiling slyly with two very prominent fangs decorating his upper row of teeth. "Vampire," the word escaped him, not in surprise, but almost in relief; it was the missing puzzle piece to the picture of his discomfort and yet, knowing now what it was, was not truly relieving at all.
"Don't be rude!" Hermione hissed. "And anyway, that is an archaic and idiotic law," this was directed at Ephram. "How stupid is it, really, to punish someone for having an unfortunate run in with the undead? It's not very well your fault now, is it? If I had my way, I'd have such a barbaric display of rules stricken from the records! Revoked! What's needed is a complete reworking of the laws and guidelines."
"I am not complaining," Ephram said with a shrug. "Also, to be fair, there is a great deal of excitement happening in Berlin at the moment, even on the Wizarding side of things, for them to look into it."
Hermione further scoffed at the concept of not being outraged over all the aforementioned ignorant acts of oppression and insanity.
Tom was not nearly so invested, nor was he at all amused by the odd tangent. "Persephone!" He hissed back at her. "How did you end up on the arm of a dusty noble?"
"Tom!"
"I believe I can answer that one," the vampire cut in smoothly, unfazed by Tom Riddle's offhanded insults. "When our Lady Hel arrived, so beautiful yet unattended, Horace and I simply could not abide the criminal idea of her remaining so. It was fate, truly. What better escort to the Queen of Hel than one of her subjects?" Ephram's broad shoulders shrugged in a most graceful manner and he patted the hand on his arm once again. "The rest, as they say, was history."
His neck felt hot. His cheeks too. Everything was scorching, actually, and all Tom wanted to do was chain the tall, lanky, creature to a tree and leave him out for the early morning sun so he could watch him writhe and twitch and burn in agony until he was nothing but a disgusting, miserable little pile of dust. The thought made Tom smile a most frightful smile. "Aren't you a bit ancient for someone as vivacious and alive as our dear, sweet, delicate Persephone?"
Hermione blinked incredulously at Tom.
Ephram gave another of those languid shrugs and a smile that oozed far too much charisma than was natural. "With age comes wisdom, young Master Riddle." Tom bristled. "And, for such a clever girl, I would like to believe that she would choose to look beyond these upsetting age lines to appreciate such things." He gestured sullenly at his immaculate face.
"Please," Hermione swatted at Ephram lightly, "you are stunning."
A derisive snort escaped Tom before he could stop it; not that he cared to. "Ludicrous," he muttered, "absolutely, positively—"
As though the very stars themselves were plotting against him, it was then that the band began to play, loudly, over Tom's agitated grousing. Ephram visibly brightened and stopped paying any semblance of attention to him at all.
"Ahh, wonderful. Another waltz. I do so love waltzes. Would you care to dance, my beautiful Queen?"
Tom blinked rapidly, as though it would clear the red haze from his vision any moment now. He watched Persephone's jaw set and her chin jut ever so slightly skyward. She held his eyes defiantly and he knew her reply before the words even left her pretty little throat.
"I would be delighted."
And it was with that that Tom found himself sizeably snubbed by the most intolerable witch ever to come into existence and her vampire pet.
The blinking didn't help with his haze.
Neither did the storming from Slughorn's party, fists balled and wand at the ready.
Nor did the destruction that found its way into the Room of Requirement's manifestation of wall to wall breakable objects and statues that bore a strong resemblance to a certain vampiric Lord.
It was a magical room; it would be fine.
. . . . .
A few hours later, Hermione trudged her way back to her tower barefoot, tired and drained from the evening. Her fancy dress shoes dangled from the fingertips of one hand while the other fisted in her hefty skirt train that had, at least at one point, seemed as though it'd been a good idea. For being as old as he was, her vampire escort was certainly spry, keeping her dancing for most of the night and Hermione was almost positive that her feet were about to fall off at the ankles. That or simply explode. She supposed that his untiring state could be considered a boon as far as immortality went, though a part of her regarded it as nothing but a wide open range for a world of restlessness.
No, thank you, she'd thought to herself all night. She would stick with her non-undead version of immortality, thank you very much.
"Persephone."
Hermione looked up, pulled from her thoughts by that well known, and currently unwanted, voice. Her mouth twisted in a frown before she managed to at least pull it into a more neutral state at the sight of Tom Riddle, who had apparently been waiting for her perched at the bottom of the tower stairs. When he was sure it was, in fact, her, he rose and began walking forward.
"Tom," she said mildly, padding forward to meet him halfway with a cautious look, taking in his more casual appearance. He had since shed his mask, dress coat, and lost his cravat somewhere between then and now and Hermione was entirely unsure what to expect from him considering how they'd last parted. "It's late and you're far from your den…shouldn't you be tucked all snug and tight in your blankets by now?"
Her jab was weak and lacked snap, she knew, but the fact that he barely showed any inkling of a reaction to it anyway unnerved her immediately. He didn't speak, he didn't respond to her question. Not with sarcasm. Not with anger. Nothing. He just looked at her. In fact, he was looking at her intently, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. They breezed over her form and figure, her dress, her shoes hanging from her fingertips, but mostly he lingered on her face, on the mask that covered it.
Feeling uneasy, Hermione shifted her weight from one swollen foot to the other, her gaze darting off to the side long enough for her to miss the slow, careful movement of Tom's hand coming to reach and tug her mask from its spot, dissolving the sticking charm with nary even a whisper. She stifled the gasp that tried to slip past and instead, swallowed, priming her throat to ask, "What are you doing here?"
Tom didn't answer her immediately, he just continued to look, to stare. His eyes were studying hers. He looked at her with an intensity that she wasn't sure she cared for, as if trying to memorize every fleck of color in her irises and though the urge to scoff and turn her head at his inspection was prominent, she steeled herself and held his gaze. When several seconds more of silence stretched between them, she opened her mouth to speak again. "I said, what—"
"I've been thinking."
Hermione's mouth snapped shut at the quiet, eerily calm response. Her head canted to one side in question. "Thinking? Here?"
"No," he said, finally dropping his stare to shake his head, the smallest of quirks to his lips visible with the quick motion. "I was thinking elsewhere and it led me here."
"Ah." She was watching him now. She was eying how straight he stood with his shoulders back, head up, still as the night save for the smallest circling motion of his thumb brushing across the lace of the mask he still gripped. Hermione swallowed again, feeling something stir in her belly that was cold and sour. "May I inquire what you have been thinking about since we last… 'spoke?'"
Hermione wasn't sure, but she thought that the corner of his mouth had twitched at her phrasing. For all she knew, though, it could have just been her imagination because there was no humor to be found in that steely expression of his.
Tom's chin tilted up at her question and the muscles in his neck and jaw flexed minutely before he gave a measured answer. "I was thinking about the things you said at the Masque. I came here to finally have a moment to speak with you. No wands. No spells. No music, dancing, or…other interruptions."
"Ah." That sour feeling began to fester. Hermione straightened, releasing her train and smoothing the fabric back into place, more for a need to do something with her hands than anything else. "I suppose I did dominate the floor at our last opportunity…perhaps unfairly," she conceded with hopes that it would thaw the chill spreading between them. It didn't. "What is it that you have to say?"
"I am putting an end to our arrangement."
The words were something that Hermione had expected for some time now, since the start of the year, actually, however there was something about the way he had said them—cool and calm and devoid of discernible emotion—that made the frigid air cling to her. She felt her skin prickle with gooseflesh yet canted her head in understanding and perhaps a bit of defiance.
"Really, Tom, don't be daft," she said with more confidence than she felt. "These foolish words tell me that you've not been thinking at all. To end our 'arrangement' would be a fabulously idiotic way to give up on your cause. You can't do this without me." Her prodding had no effect.
"On the contrary," he replied evenly, "you yourself have told me that you come from a time where I have succeeded in my vision. If I have done so once, I surely can do so again." She began to retort but he was not through and Tom continued smoothly to clarify, "Without your help."
Hermione's teeth clacked together with how hard they shut this time and she could feel the dark whispers in her mind growing. "Come now," she heard her voice rise slightly, "I thought you were smarter than this! You may succeed, but the wretched creature that you become, all wrecked and bereft of your mental faculties by your similarly poor decisions, is barely you at all. Our arrangement was to protect this, to keep you as whole as you could be while we take our seats at the top of the ladder! The top of the world!"
"I can assure you, Miss Callaghan," Tom scoffed—his first outward display of emotion, "that I am in no need of direction from one who is clearly in such poor control of her own faculties." And as though it required more clarification, he gestured at her, sweeping his arm from head to toe and back. "What's more, having experience with me in the future, you should know better than to think you could overwhelm me with such an embarrassingly coquettish display."
She was trembling, she was sure. Her palms were wet and her neck and back ached from how tight and rigid she stood.
"Be it a charm… or womanly wiles… or whatever you sought to distract me with, I can assure you it hasn't worked."
Those blasted voices were back, circling around in her mind. Her older consciousness was fond of laughter while the young one, the one that had been forcibly locked down and away and still managed to plague her in the nights, looking, working, waiting for the opening that would turn this entire operation completely onto its ear, spoke up too.
Stop this madness! Said the quaint little Gryffindor. Even your partner doesn't want this! It's time to stop it! Now! It's not too late!
Hermione's eyes glazed as she tried to tune out the buzz of conflict in her mind. She settled the delinquents enough to refocus on the present. Her hands twitched at her sides, urging to wipe themselves on her robes but the stubborn piece of her resisted showing any sign of weakness before this boy. "I—"
She started to speak but Tom squared his shoulders, gave her another once over, and met her eyes with a cold, shuttered look. "I'd thought you were cleverer than all of that but perhaps your master was right and you're only good for the one thing."
Hermione felt her breath hitch, her heart fluttering in her chest, her gut roiling with bile and worse things. She knew her gaze was frantic, darting from one of his features to the next, looking for the punchline, looking for the quip that would tell her that he was just being his normal, typical prattish self. Looking for something to show that—
"The question of whether or not I want you is irrelevant for, the fact of the matter is: I do not need you,"Tom said with his even and clear diction, never once removing his focus from her face.
She slapped him. Hard.
The sound of Hermione's slap echoed in the hall, sharp and heavy. Tom's head snapped painfully to the side but, aside from that, he did not move. If anything, his lack of reaction only made everything that much worse. He looked so calm, shoulders just rising and falling through his even breaths, even as her blood was pounding through her ears in a rush. She might have said something but she couldn't really be sure.
Her hands were trembling, palm stinging from where it had connected with his face.
Her cheeks were wet.
And he was just standing there, looking cool, looking collected, looking perfectly handsome in his neatly tailored shirt and slacks.
So she hit him again.
And again, though past the first, the blows were hardly slaps and more of ragged smacks of desperation.
Each time she hit him, he barely budged.
Each time she hit him, her stomach turned.
Each time she hit him, she grew more and more aware of the heat in her face and the tears that had transformed from a slow trickle into a flood.
It wasn't until the last that he finally turned back to her, his eyes shining from the pain she'd inflicted and his cheeks sucked in as she watched him remain utterly, infuriatingly calm.
"You," Hermione's voice wavered and cracked under the strain of her anger and embarrassment, "are a FOOL, Tom Riddle."
Tom took in a deep breath, watching as the witch—once upon a time his witch—clumsily gathered her skirt and turned her face away to hide the emotions she could no longer even begin to reign in.
He had thought that the look of fear upon her face once before was a horrid sight, that there could be no worse thing to behold. Tom was, of course, grossly mistaken as the imagery of his Persephone, red faced with tears and a look so hurt and raw twisting her expression, burned itself into his memory with certain permanency.
Tom shut his eyes against it, bolstering himself against the poisonous instincts racing throughout his limbs. They would have him running after her to fall at her feet in a plea for forgiveness. They would make him slave to her, to her smiles, to her laughter, her happiness.
Love is a weakness, Tom reminded himself.
He couldn't allow it to fester any more than it already had. The fact that he denied its existence that long had allowed it to take root and grow and he wouldn't—he couldn't have it if he was to succeed in his plight.
Love was an incalculable force and so he would remove it from the equation entirely.
He reminded himself yet again of what was at stake, working himself further from the urge to find where she'd fled to all while desperately trying to ignore the lace he was now holding in a white knuckled grip. He allowed his gaze to wander over the intricate patterns of loops and knots that had adorned Persephone's face so perfectly. To say she had been more beautiful than he'd ever recalled seeing her would have been a lie; she was just as gorgeous as she'd always been. The only difference that evening was that she'd finally been dressed as a goddess, as the queen of her domain, HIS queen, not that filthy vampire's—
Love is a WEAKNESS.
"Incendio."
The mask caught fire and Tom watched the flames lick over the lace with violent swiftness. He felt the heat grow unbearable and the fire singe bits of his skin, but he held onto it still, transfixed on the colors that resembled the ember like light he would sometimes see in her eyes as she gazed at him. He held onto the mask—far longer than he should, he knew—until he could no longer ignore the pain and let the thing fall to the stone. He looked at his blistered skin, already on the mend thanks to his horcruxes, but the pain remained.
Tom turned his attention back to the small burning pile. "Love is a weakness," he murmured, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. Sparing the mask one last glance, he turned his back on it and left it there to burn out on its own.
. . . . .
He didn't bother returning to the dungeons.
In fact, Tom lingered near Ravenclaw tower all night, tucked away in a part of a hall that appeared largely untraveled. He curled in his spot, back to one small column with his legs stretched out so that his shiny dress shoes planted against another. The reasons he made up for staying were flimsy and laughable and so he eventually just ceased all attempts at making them. Instead, Tom settled his gaze outward, through one of the open areas of the hall that looked out towards the viaduct, pretending to find interest there.
Tom's head knocked back against the column and muttered once more, "Love is a weakness…"
"Yes."
A single, solemn word sounded from out of nowhere, causing Tom to leap to his feet, his wand brandished in record time.
The owner of the voice materialized beyond his wand point as a silvery cloud of mist. It emerged from a solid wall to stretch into the figure of a tall woman with waist-length hair and a long flowing cloak. She carried herself carefully, head tilted, chin out, hands clasped elegantly at her breast as she floated by. Moving past Tom, she gazed out upon the landscape not bothering to acknowledge him beyond the act of speaking within his general vicinity.
"Love," said the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw, "can be a treacherous and deadly thing."