Bad Romance
Author's Note: This took a while to post because I had a wedding to go to in another state. Guys, there have been so many weddings this fall. It's kind of annoying, actually. Every weekend is taken up by either a wedding or a bridal shower. Argh!
Anyway…. thanks for all of the feedback from last chapter. This chapter moves the plot in its true direction, and now this story is finally getting on track where I originally wanted it to be. It's much darker from here on out, and there is a lot more from Tom's POV now, as it is necessary. As usual I'm terrified that you guys will hate it, but…oh well. So far you guys have been INCREDIBLY supportive of me and what I have set out to do, and it brightens every day.
PLEASE REVIEW! (and enjoy!)
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Papillon
The door was creaking noisily with their combined weight against it; Hermione was grateful for the raucous crowd downstairs as it masked the embarrassing noise. Physically she had never been this close to a person; the fact that it was Lord Voldemort that she was so intimately pressed against was a fact that she did not wish to examine more closely. The unfairness of it all built up inside her. Even beyond the friction caused by their brilliant minds interacting, even beyond the forces of good and evil that rammed into one another between them, was a pure, raw, brutal attraction that Hermione had never before known. Ron's love had been pure, sweet, and gentle. Alphard's attraction had been exciting and fun. But Tom… This was not love, but it was so far beyond attraction that Hermione, the perennial bookworm, had no words for it. Attraction implied that she had a choice, but Hermione had never before felt more powerless in her life.
"I can't surrender," she said against his lips, her fingers slipping inside the collar of his cloak, beneath his sweater and undershirt, and coming to claw at the smooth, hard planes of his back and shoulders. She loved the way his hair slipped through her fingers when she reached one hand into his dark waves, loved that she was ruining the style he so carefully swept it into every day. Finally, she could tell that Tom was out of breath too, and she loved that best of all. The acute feelings of powerlessness that she had been experiencing were somewhat mediated; making Tom breathless was a victory, and not a small one at that. She heard the squeaking of the knob as he opened her door with one hand, the other clutching her body to his. "The clothes," she gasped, and he absently kicked her garments into the room with them. The candles were lower now; soon they'd burn out. Hermione caught their reflection in her mirror and it seemed that the mirror acted as a window into reality. "Wait. Put me down," she interrupted suddenly. Tom ignored her and carried her to the bed. "Stop it," she warned him mid-kiss. "I don't want this."
"Give up the lying, silly witch. It doesn't suit you," he simply said, his weight pinning her against the old mattress.
"I'm not lying," she said louder, attempting to push him away and sorely wishing for her wand. "We can't do this, Tom." Hermione was beginning to feel frantic now; as reality set in and she realized that she had only herself to blame for getting caught in this situation.
"You've always lied before. Why should I listen now?" Tom parried softly, though he did pull back slightly, his hands gripping her hips uncomfortably tightly. His eyes roving over her body, Hermione had never felt more exposed in her life. Indeed, she had never before been this exposed before in her life, not even to Ron. She hated herself for how the desire in his eyes warmed and flattered her; was even that part of his act? He sank against her again, his lips capturing hers. For a split second, Hermione forgot herself and got lost in the kiss. But once again, she remembered herself before things progressed further, though this time she acknowledged that simply asking Tom to stop would not be enough. Pretending to undress him further, she slipped her hands inside his robes, distracting him by tightening her legs around his hips. She delighted in the barely audible groan that escaped him just as her fingers closed round his wand hidden in his robes; she slipped it out and pulled back to point it at his throat, both of them panting.
"Let me go and get out of my room," she ordered in a hiss. Tom looked amused and even a bit surprised as he looked down at his wand.
"Well done, Hermione. I didn't even realize you were stealing it," he congratulated her, and Hermione tried to not enjoy the breathless quality of his voice too much. His dark eyes searched hers, but Hermione looked away before he could perform Legilimency; she was not sure she could hold up as well this time. "But I am tired of this game," he continued, irritation quite evident in his voice. His grip on her hips was painful, and he did not relinquish even when Hermione winced in pain.
"Cry me a river," she said coldly. Tom did not smirk at all as he continued to stare at her levelly. "Get off me. Now." She clutched the sheet in front of her body as she and Tom both rose from the bed slowly, with Tom's yew wand still pointed at his throat. As she prodded him to keep moving, she adjusted the sheet to wrap around her form. At the door, she resolved to not try and have the last word. Hiding partially behind the door in case he chose to try and get back in her room, Hermione returned his wand to him. As he accepted it, the look he gave her was like fire behind ice.
"I could use the Imperius curse. I could perform Legilimency. I could torture the truth out of you," he began in a hiss, his nostrils flaring as he apparently struggled to remain cool and collected. "But still I would not possess the deepest, darkest corners of your soul. I could find out the truth this very moment. I could force it out of you. But…" he turned more towards her, his eyes sparking with an energy that Hermione could not identify. "It would not be enough. You still would find ways to hide things from me!"
"Why do you even need to know?" she retorted, her cheeks aflame under Tom's burning gaze. He reached out, holding his wand against her collarbone. "What's the difference between me telling you and you forcing the information from me?"
Tom did not seem to have an answer for her; he retracted his wand and turned on his heel. Hermione watched him stalk down the hall in silence, and when he had disappeared down the stairs, she could finally tear herself away. She went back inside her room, shutting the door with a trembling, weak hand, and stared at the mussed bed, the shattered ink bottles, and her shredded garments scattered across the floor. Yet the most she could bring herself to do was close her eyes, inhaling his scent that still lingered in the air the way his magic had lingered in the air of the Riddle mansion.
Scowling, Tom left the Hog's Head Inn that night, winding his way through the jostling, drunken crowd and casting them looks of deepest disgust before stepping out into the New Year's Day snow. It had been his most troubling birthday yet. He looked up once more at the little square of golden light above that was Hermione's window. From here, he only had a view of her wall. Her shadow moved across it a few times, but he never caught a glimpse of her face. Giving up, Tom warily walked to a secluded corner of Hogsmeade and Apparated to the town that housed both of his ancestral homes.
Little Hangleton was silent in the night; it seemed that the townspeople were not nearly as celebratory of the new year as the Hog's Head patrons had been. The snow swirled around him as he set off for the dilapidated Gaunt shack, a mixture of disgust, shame, and perhaps a sliver of pride lighting him as he moved along the hill. The sky was red; tomorrow would bring another snow storm.
The door still was decorated by a snakeskin, and it only took a simple spell to unlock the door as Tom entered the depressing shack. Dust coated every surface; remnants of piteous Morfin's last meal lay in frozen crumbs upon the splintered tabletop. It took a few moments of searching before Tom found what he was looking for: a large pot was hidden in the cupboard, its last traces of Amortentia still apparent on it. He was grateful that magic left behind traces no matter what. He retrieved his beloved wand from his heavy robes and, standing over the large pot, Transfigured it with ease.
He could not help but admire his work. His mother's only signal of greatness, her powerful love potion, had given birth to his second Horcrux's holding. His mother would still, in a twisted way, hold Tom inside her. The pot had become a black and gilded box. With a wave of his wand, it creaked open, and Tom set the ring inside of it with reverence. After a moment of appreciating the way it looked inside the box, and appreciating the wonder of his own incredible magic, he shut the box and hid it under a floorboard in the shack. As he left his mother's old home, he smirked to himself. No one knew of his connection with the Gaunts; no one would ever suspect that he, the great Lord Voldemort that all would one day respect and fear, would hide a part of his most precious soul in a lowly little shack in a muggle town of all things… Just as no one had suspected that Salazar Slytherin's last descendants had once dwelled in the same shack.
He was glad to be rid of the Horcrux; the more separation between himself and the thing that he put gave more and more relief. Most likely it had to do with the protective properties; keeping the Horcrux too close to oneself defeated the very purpose of the Horcrux. Still, as he returned to Hogsmeade, a more troubling thought returned. The memory of the scarred lettering against Hermione's arm was revolting, and yet… He glanced again at Hermione's window as he passed by the Hog's Head Inn. Revolting above all was his humiliating and unrelenting desire for the filthy-blooded girl.
His one last comfort was that perhaps he was mistaking simply curiosity for desire. Now that he knew Hermione was a mudblood, he knew that she was the least worthy woman for someone as him. Yet why must he continue to be so intrigued by her? How had she successfully blocked his attempts at entering her mind? How had she resisted him? He could tell it had been a struggle, for certain, yet she had still prevailed in the end, and that was the thing that bothered Tom most.
It's most certainly curiosity. I do not truly desire a Mudblood, he told himself as he slipped inside the castle. When he entered the Slytherin common room, Black was there, staring hollowly into the fire. Tom did not wish to interact with the Seeker at a time like this. Lately he had noticed a change in Black, and it was worrisome. Not because he cared about him in the slightest, but because sometimes, he thought Black's cleverness was catching up with him…
"Happy new year, Black," Tom greeted. Alphard dropped into a sort of reluctant bow that irked Tom.
"Happy new year, my Lord," Alphard replied sardonically. For a moment, Tom wondered if Alphard was drunk..but no, he was not. Tom took his place in the armchair by the fire; Alphard returned to his seat. Tom wished to reprimand Alphard for his failure at alluring the giants, yet it was too risky to do it here. Better to get Black when they were truly alone…Tom thoughtfully fingered his wand. He cast a heavy look to Alphard, and used Legilimency when they made eye contact. Tom was still not as skilled as he would like in performing subtle, undetected Legilimency, so he could only catch fragments and shimmering bits and pieces of Alphard's thoughts from this distance. His stomach turned when he caught the Mudblood's face, her wide brown eyes and pretty little mouth more pronounced in Alphard's memory. Alphard shifted; perhaps he did not know what, precisely, was occurring but Tom knew he realized that something was happening to him. He looked away into the fire again, and Tom resisted the urge to simply curse him here and now. Still, Legilimency and other forms of magic were not the only ways to gain knowledge, and Tom certainly enjoyed testing the limits of his own charm. Slyly, he looked away and then back to Black again.
"I saw Hermione tonight," he ventured, waiting with bated breath for the Seeker's reply. Alphard flinched; it didn't take a Legilimens to see the jealousy and resentment clouding Alphard's features. Further, the use of Hermione's first name implied a level of intimacy that Tom knew Alphard would both appreciate and dislike.
"Oh, how is she?" he asked with forced nonchalance. For a moment, Tom recalled how the witch had cut their activity short. His own frustration with her nearly bubbled over, but he managed to shoot Alphard a victorious grin. Alphard's brown eyes flashed with hatred that even he could not hide.
"She's…excellent," Tom replied with heavy insinuation. Alphard pressed his mouth into a thin line.
"Good for you, my lord," he said coldly as he rose to his feet. With a bow so low that it was quite clearly sarcastic, Alphard excused himself. "I'm tired. I'm off to bed. See you tomorrow."
For a while, Alphard's jealousy was a point of enjoyment for Tom, yet as he continued to gaze thoughtfully into the flames, the events from earlier returned to him in graphic detail. The feel of the Mudblood's soft curves in his hands, the little whimpers she let out every time he found a sensitive spot, the jarring white scar tissue against her smooth, creamy skin, the heady musk of her natural scent. The usually frigid air of the Slytherin common room now felt suffocatingly hot; he had to remove his cloak to make it bearable.
He gripped his wand tightly, letting out slow, seething breaths. He did not desire a Mudblood. He was simply curious. And the only way to sate his curiosity—for it was not desire—was to get the truth out of her once and for all.
Tom simply had to determine the right, most satisfying way to do it.
Lying on her mussed bed, still twisted in her sheets, the sharp tang of ink mixing in the air with Tom's scent, Hermione came to a startling conclusion: she could not go on like this. She could not patiently wait until the right time to destroy the Horcruxes, for she was having more and more difficulty reconciling Tom with who he truly was. She thought of Regulus, and decided that was the only way: she would have to replace the Horcruxes with replicas.
Clutching the sheets tighter against her bare skin, trying to rid herself of the memory of his hard body against hers, Hermione decided that tomorrow was a new year, and indeed, she would begin it by replacing the ring with a fake one. She would even put a curse on it, so that the manner of Dumbledore's death would not change. She did not know why she had not figured this out before.
She changed into fresh clothes, and threw out her garments—including the red dress. Immediately she set to work researching curses, for if she did not occupy her own mind, she knew that without a doubt, thoughts of Tom—and all of the unbearably satiating things he had and could have done to her—would instead.