Bad Romance

Author's Note: Thanks for all of the well-wishes from two chapters ago. It was just a very busy week, but luckily the work has evened out a bit and I am feeling quite awesome :) And FINALLY, this chapter has Tomione interaction :)

Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me.


Chapter Fifty-Two: The Engagement


"So this is home now. Weird, isn't it?"

Alphard's voice bounced off of the icy marble floors. Inside of this frigid vestibule, it was impossible to tell that outside, summer was around the corner, the bright sun beating down from a cerulean blue sky on fresh green grass. It may as well have been the dead of winter. Heavy dark evergreen-colored drapes blocked the floor-to-ceiling windows that might have otherwise let in light. The decor was beautiful but cold, and Hermione personally preferred cozy warmth, like the Burrow, to such frigid perfection.

The walls were a pale olive green that rose up to elaborately coffered high ceilings, with crystal chandeliers occasionally sending glimmers of prisms about the room. Hermione shivered, wrapping her arms around her body for heat. How was it that just a few moments ago, walking up the path to the front door, she had been sweating so heavily under her dark green robes that the cloth had been plastered to her skin uncomfortably?

"It's like a mausoleum," she said distastefully. Alphard sniggered as he walked past a grand piano and absently plunked his fingers down on the keys, the chaotic noise echoing about the enormous drawing room.

"Fitting for the model Death Eater couple, though, isn't it? Come on, let's look upstairs."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her up the front staircase, which was an oversized marble affair with silver railings. Upon closer inspection, each baluster proved to be a thin, delicately carved serpent winding its way up to the banister. Tiny rubies glinted in each serpent's eyes.

"It must have cost a fortune," Hermione said doubtfully, following him up the stairs, her shoes clacking on the marble. Alphard turned back to her and smirked.

"The odd thing about being filthy rich is that you rarely have to pay for anything," said the Slytherin boy cryptically. Hermione frowned but decided she'd determine exactly what he meant by that later. For now, he was leading her in and out of rooms more fabulous than the last, although all were just as uninviting as the drawing room had been. Finally, they came to the master bedroom suite.

It was at the very end of the hall on the third floor. Behind a carved door with a crystal handle was a long hallway with plush emerald carpeting. Gilded mirrors stood along the corridor, intermingled with floor-to-ceiling windows mostly masked by heavy emerald velvet drapes. Slivers of summer sunshine made their way into the corridor, refracting off the mirrors and giving the hallway a sparkling feel.

Inside was an enormous canopy bed of mahogany and more emerald velvet. This room was so overly decorated with gilding, crystal, and emerald velvet that Hermione felt she might suffocate in it. The walls were covered with an ivory silk that cast the room in a sort of melancholy beauty.

A thought occurred to Hermione: would she and Alphard be sharing a bed? Considering the enormity of this mansion, it wasn't as though they had to worry about having enough room. But would it seem...ungrateful, perhaps, to not share a bed with him? No way. I am not sharing a bed with him, she thought stubbornly.

"I still can't believe this is happening," murmured Hermione as she sank down onto a dark cherry chair that was trimmed with a silvery-green brocade. Alphard knelt beside her, grinning.

"I think there's a library in here somewhere. You can have it to set up your stuff for your mission. We can plan there." He laced his fingers with hers. Her engagement ring glinted in the light. "We need to get servants—"

"No house-elves," warned Hermione, and Alphard rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

"Fine," he sighed. "No house-elves, Lady Black."

"Oh, so you're Lord Black now?" Hermione teased. Alphard chuckled and rose to his feet.

"I can't decide if I should be Lord Black or Master Black," he said thoughtfully as he strolled about the room, examining the finery scattered about. "I already thought of our family motto."

"I thought it was Toujours Pur?"

Alphard scoffed at this.

"No, silly girl. We need our own, since we're not living in my mother's estate. Look, here's our motto." He turned and unfastened his robes. Hermione dryly wondered if Alphard could stand to keep his robes on for more than five minutes as she was greeted with his bare wiry chest. She gasped at the fresh tattoo surrounded by red angry skin. Toujours Impur was scrolled over his heart in elegant script.

"Oh, very funny. I'm sure you thought that was exceedingly clever, didn't you?"

"I did," said Alphard a bit bossily. He pulled his robes back on. "If you're a good girl, I'll let you look at it again later."

"Oh will you?" Hermione asked in a fake-girlish voice, batting her lashes at him. They sniggered at each other before continuing their exploration of the house, though Hermione was filled with worry for several reasons. Surrounded by all of this splendor made their plan seem so finalized. The Black family ring felt heavy on her hand; she felt she might be drowning in the robes that she had picked out to impress Alphard's mother. They were well-made and heavy, and laced tightly, constricting her breathing slightly. She was eager to change into something more comfortable.

Somehow they came to the unspoken agreement that they would sleep in separate rooms. It had just sort of happened, and it was a relief to Hermione. Still, there was something depressing about crawling into bed on one's own when one was indeed wearing a ring. Shaking off her melancholy, Hermione borrowed the owl Alphard had retrieved from his home, and sat at the dark cherry desk in her room, staring out at the starry evening sky.

Dear Geoffrey,

How did you recover from your hangover? I was wondering if we could meet sometime in the near future, perhaps in Hogsmeade or something. I have a lot to tell you and I have something important to ask of you. I really miss you and Rupert and Amelia, and I'm sorry for having to leave Hogwarts.

Love,

Hermione

Hermione tied the letter to the owl's talon and watched it swoop off into the night, disappearing past the black silhouette of enormous trees. When she could no longer see it, she crawled back under the heavy blankets and silk sheets of the canopy bed, trying to grow accustomed to the buzzing silence. Usually she had the rustling of trees, the distant roar of the sea, and Alphard's even breathing to break the silence. But Alphard was several rooms away, and she felt as isolated as if she were on a remote island.

She was lonely and confused. All she wanted was for this plan to work, but the more she thought of it, the more she realized that this was the stupidest plan she had ever agreed to in her life—and thanks to Harry and Ron, she had agreed to some very stupid plans in her time. This, however, took the cake. Why had she ever thought they could get away with this? Tom would see through them immediately.

Or, perhaps, she thought grimly as she stared at the emerald velvet, she simply wanted Tom to see through them. She wanted him to stop the wedding, she wanted him to claim her as his own. And this is sure proof that you are a sick and twisted human being, she chastised herself. But it didn't take away from the ache in her heart. She wished that they had had more time together. Recalling the night she had spent in his arms made her mind fog up until it was difficult—in fact, damn near impossible—to remember her purpose.

They had only had a few months together. Why hadn't she enjoyed it more? Hermione berated herself for feeling so guilty at the time for enjoying Tom's attention. She had known it would all come to an end anyway, so why had she not made the most of it? She remembered his lips moving against hers on Halloween, remembered his tongue against her inner wrist, remembered his voice on the shell of her ear as they had waltzed.

"Hermione?"

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of her voice. Alphard was standing in the doorway, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Alphard, you scared me. What's going on?"

"I heard an owl." Yawning, he came into the room and absently waved his wand, lighting a few candles. "Sleeping in this house is creepy. I almost miss the tent."

"Me too. It's so quiet," agreed Hermione, shifting over so that Alphard could have a spot to sit down on. He was wearing a pair of loose-fitting black cotton pants to sleep in, showcasing his inky black tattoos.

For a moment, they were silent, both just staring into space and getting lost in thought. Finally, Alphard surprised her again by extinguishing the candles. She expected him to leave, but instead he turned on his side and pulled the covers over him before turning over and drawing her close to him. "What are you doing?" she asked, attempting to wiggle out of Alphard's arms, but he tightened his hold.

"You've got to stop thinking about him, Hermione," said Alphard into her hair.

"I'm not—"

"You are. Who did you send that owl to?"

"Geoffrey, to tell him we're getting married," said Hermione tartly. "And anyway, when are we going to tell him?"

"When we send out invitations for the engagement party, obviously. Now go to sleep."

"I will when you get out of my bed."

Alphard made no move to let go of her. "Alphard, why are you in my bed?"

"Because my room is creepy," he complained. "At least at my parents' house there were a few ghouls around to make some noise when things got too quiet. We need to get our own ghouls."

"I'll get right on that," Hermione said dryly, rolling her eyes. "I cannot believe you're afraid of the dark."

"I'm not! I just think that room is creepy, and you're in this one."

"Okay, you can stay in here, but we're not— we're not cuddling."

With a long-suffering sigh, Alphard finally let go and rolled over. After a while, his deep, even breathing became a comfort to Hermione, and her eyelids finally grew heavier, signaling that sleep was almost upon her.

Just when she was in that peculiar state between waking and sleeping, she felt something warm against her back, and snaking around her hips. Hermione's sleepy brain tried to process what was going on, but all she registered was the feel of someone pressed against her back, a hand at her abdomen, holding her close. Sensing no immediate danger, Hermione drifted into sleep.


Over the next few weeks, becoming a married woman consumed Hermione's time. She never did find out how Alphard had gotten the enormous manor, but she guessed at a very well-done Confundus charm. Under different circumstances, she would never have turned a blind eye to such a deed, but this time Hermione decided to view it as a lucky break. Every day was filled with sending out invitations, picking out decorations with Irma, and in general setting up her new life. Alphard had gotten a job at the Ministry that involved a lot of socializing, so Hermione spent several days interviewing servants on her own, as she refused to have House Elves. When Irma agreed that they weren't fashionable and rarely did the work correctly, Hermione kept her mouth shut despite her blood boiling in rage. She was going to be doing a lot of that in the years to come.

And soon, she and Alphard were eating dinner at the long table in the dining room every evening, with servants coming and going with mouth-watering dishes. They would make small-talk over dinner—how was your day, dear? that sort of thing—and then retire to the library where the servants were ordered to not disturb them.

In the library each night, they would spend hours plotting and planning and strategizing. The fruits of their labor became visible when, after Hogwarts graduation, Tom and Alphard got in touch again. Alphard had been begging for Tom's forgiveness, and finally it seemed Tom had relented. Alphard was back in the inner circle, though Hermione wondered just how much Tom believed of Alphard's story.

It was a blustery evening in late June when the engagement party was held. It wasn't the first reunion of the original Death Eaters since graduation, but it seemed significant—probably because Hermione was seeing Tom for the very first time in months.

In the days leading up to the engagement party, Hermione didn't know what to do with herself. She was restless and slept and ate little. Thankfully Alphard had the sense not to comment on the change in habits, especially since they were still occupying the same bed. It was a routine which they had fallen into, and one that Hermione found no reason to not tolerate. They were married, after all, and she was making use of his surname and bank account for her plans. And though Alphard never expressly made a move, she got the vague sense that he was holding back, or merely biding his time.

"No need to be nervous. You're perfectly acceptable as a bride for my son," Irma consoled her unconvincingly the evening of the party. She was 'helping' Hermione dress for the engagement party, which was being held at the Black estate, where Alphard had grown up. She, Irma, and Walburga were in one of the many opulent guest suites, a room bedecked in rich velvet and dark wood. Hermione stood in front of the mirror as Irma circled her, vulture-like, adjusting aspects of Hermione's clothing. Irma had picked out form-fitting emerald robes for her and Hermione was tired of seeing emerald everywhere she went.

What Irma didn't know was that the prospect of seeing Tom was making Hermione nearly faint with nerves.

"Almost time," Walburga announced as the bewitched grandfather clock chimed seven o'clock. Hermione anxiously pressed her clammy palms to the fabric that skimmed over her hips.

"We'll come fetch you when guests arrive. It's so embarrassing to be on time to a party," Irma drawled as the two Black women sauntered out of the suite, leaving Hermione on her own.

For all of their planning, Hermione still had no idea of how to act around Tom. The last time she had seen him, they had made love in a brothel next to her fiancee. Hermione smirked at the irony of the situation—humor was her only comfort at this time.

Even from the remote suite she could hear the sounds of the music and the laughing of guests. Her heart thrummed a steady tattoo upon her ribcage as she stood in front of the enormous silver mirror, pressing her hand to her mouth to quell the nausea building up. Tom.

At long last, a house elf was sent to fetch her. Hermione took a last long look at her reflection. Hermione Macmillan, soon-to-be Hermione Black. With her hair pulled back in a severe chignon, the blood red lip color, and the emerald choker to match her robes, she certainly looked the part. But she still felt like Hermione Granger, and the disconnect between her inner identity and her appearance shook her.

The house elf disappeared as Hermione reached the enormous front staircase. In the front area of the house, people that she had never met before milled about, clutching crystal glasses of the finest elder wine. All pure-bloods. I wonder how it would feel to find out that their beloved Alphard's fiancee is a mudblood of the worst type?

"Here she is," Irma announced, magically magnifying her voice as Hermione lifted the heavy skirts of her robes to walk down the stairs. Immediately her eyes alighted on Tom. He was standing with Alphard and Abraxas, and at that moment her throat seemed to constrict. The music, the talking, the people—they all melted away. She could not read the expression on Tom's face; it was a perfect deathmask to her. Yet his shadow-colored eyes were flashing with something, freezing her momentarily, one hand gripping the banister, the other still clenching the fabric of her skirts.

What was there to communicate with their eyes? She thought she had longed for Ron, she thought she had shared passion with Tom and even with Alphard. But this...this moment was different. How would it feel to see him on her wedding day, as she spoke her vows to Alphard, able to simultaneously look upon Tom?

She had never before been filled with such longing.

"This is Hermione Macmillan, my fiancee," Alphard explained as Hermione stepped down the stairs. There was clapping, and Tom's lips twitched along with hers. One hundred Pure-bloods clapping so eagerly for a no-name Mudblood. It was hilarious, really.

She waited for him to approach her the entire evening. She was introduced to more people than she could keep track of. Alphard played his part perfectly, and she played hers just as well. For all of the awkwardness of her teen years, Hermione found she could charm and delight just as well as Tom himself. Still he did not approach her, though often their eyes met across the room. His silence was excruciating.

As the evening was in full-swing, Hermione began to feel he was just going to ignore her. It's better this way. Now you don't have to decide how to act. You can't possibly mess it up if you don't talk to him.

"Alright, 'Mione?" Alphard leaned into her and muttered in her ear in a low, private tone. His cheeks were flushed with too much elder wine and Hermione fought against stepping away reflexively.

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied unsteadily. Alphard pulled back and studied her heavily.

"You're miserable," he murmured. Hermione's voice was no longer working, and she just offered a weak smile. Why isn't he speaking to me? "You wish he'd talk to you," he continued. There was a resigned quality to his voice that was heartbreaking. Again she could not reply.

Alphard sighed, regarding her with a heavy stare, before he leaned in again, pressing himself against her intimately. "I know how to get him over here," he whispered. His hand tightened on her arm and he pressed his lips to her temple. The gesture was so private and intimate, despite seeming innocent, that Hermione blushed. "Knew it."

When Alphard drew away, Hermione was greeted with the sight of Abraxas being led by Tom over to them.

"I never did get to congratulate the lovely lady," mused Tom.

"I noticed. I'm a bit offended," jested Hermione. She prided herself on how steady, how light her voice was. It completely masked the pain she felt at this interaction.

"I hope my engagement present makes up for it. Black, mind if I borrow your fiancee for a moment?"

"Not at all," said Alphard, raising his glass of elder wine to show his acquiescence. Hermione's eyes widened at Alphard meaningfully, but he turned away pointedly and drew Malfoy in for small-talk.

Hermione and Tom stared at each other.

"It's nice outside. Come," he ordered, and without waiting for a response, grasped her wrist and began leading her through the throngs of chatting guests. They slipped out of the drawing room and through the large kitchen, where servants and house elves were cooking and cleaning in a hurricane of activity. They went unnoticed and wound their way to the kitchen door, leading out to the very private kitchen garden.

The night air was balmy, and the scent of herbs heavy around them. It was late now; the stars were out. The sounds of the party and the kitchen faded away and they were left alone in their private universe, the night breeze through the trees as the only noise. They were staring at each other; Hermione could think of nothing to say that would convey everything she was feeling. And what was the point of such sentiments, at any rate? This was Lord Voldemort. To differentiate between Voldemort and Tom Riddle Jr. was childish and stupid.

"You said you were going to make up for the silence?" she prompted, her voice sounding surprisingly haughty. Tom did not grin or laugh.

"Hold out your hand," he said plainly. Tentatively, Hermione raised her left hand to him, and Tom took her hand in his cool fingers. With his other hand, he slid up the edge of her sleeve. Goosebumps prickled along her skin as she let out an involuntary shudder. He paused before grasping a bit of the english ivy trailing the wall beside them and wrapping it around her wrist. He drew the yew wand from his pocket and murmured something nearly inaudible: the vine shrank and hardened, until it was the most delicate, tiny silver bracelet of ivy leaves. There was no clasp—she knew it would never come off.

"You know jewelry doesn't fix everything," she teased when she found her voice again. Tom raised his eyes to hers.

"No? Then what is it you truly want from me?" his voice melted into the wind. Her hand still rested in his. Abruptly she snatched it away; her eyes burned.

"I'm not sure," she confessed, turning away. She began to turn to the door before looking over her shoulder at him. "It's lovely. Thank you."

And before he could speak another word, she had fled back to the party, the ivy bracelet cold on her warm skin.