Mature themes mid-chapter.
Chapter 19 – Seaborn Estate - December 31st, 1944
Theodore prowled throughout his packed home for the new year gala he was hosting, looking for a specific face, that is, one Helen Riddle. He noted some politicians, some generals, and nodded and chatted politely with the Prime Minister himself, before excusing himself to wander, and he considered briefly that she would not show, despite her RSVP.
He thought back to two weeks earlier when he'd received a most unusual letter, an invite to lunch with one Tom Riddle Jr.
At first, he'd considered that perhaps the lad had needed advice, he was, after all, scant eighteen years old and surrounded by women, with the weight of a massive arms empire on his shoulders, but once he'd met him, he was surprised to realize that that was not the case.
He remembered when Helen snubbed him at her own Christmas dinner a year ago, he'd been angry then, but had later understood her ire, as she had assumed that he'd thought her incapable. Perhaps he'd had a tiny bit, but stock reports of Riddle Arms he'd sneaked a peek at had proven him incorrect. He had attempted to convey his apologies and explain his true motives, however, hell truly hath no fury than a woman scorned.
No, his true motives had been behest at the honest curiosity from the young lad he had been, when he'd fancied her many years ago.
They had been teenagers, and he'd, personally, assumed them to be decently close, as were all the children of big company owners, they were encouraged to make lasting connections with each other that would transcend to when they were older. He'd gone to school with a few of the male heirs, but Helen, like many other heiresses, had been sent to an all-girls finishing school, so he'd only ever seen her during functions.
His fascination for her started when his father had impressed upon him the need to marry well, and that if there were any girl whose affections he should have been chasing, it should have been those of Helen Riddle.
His younger self, of course, always eager for his father's praise, had instantly latched to the idea, and so at every opportunity, he'd written and flattered her, and he had liked to think that she'd been receptive to the idea of marrying him, as he, her.
Then her father took her away to the Americas, and she had never returned, though his mind had continued to play juvenile scenarios in which she'd return and fall into his arms, becoming so very thoroughly in love with him, as he was certain she was meant to. Unfortunately, she hadn't, and he, disappointed, had married the next girl his father had snapped his fingers toward.
Her name had been Josephine, and she'd been all wrong, too short, too blonde, too shrill, he found he could not stand his bride solely based on who she wasn't. She'd given him a daughter, he had named her Helena, but she had tragically been a victim of cradle death not six months into her life, and he had self-piteously raged that she too had left him.
Her mother, his wife, had not lasted long after, in his grief, he had said some harsh words, blaming her for the death of their daughter, she had already been suffering from post-natal hysteria and had taken her life during the Autumn of 1923.
He'd thought the world a dark place, for years refusing to look for another wife, he'd felt disgusted by his inability to move on from a boyhood infatuation, as it continued to brutally tear apart his ability to care for another woman.
That is until he heard old Thomas Riddle speak her name during a gentleman's dinner in London during the winter of 1928, and it was as if a part of himself had been revived, the room had instantly become brighter. Riddle fouled her name to anyone who would listen, bemoaning her audacity of marrying a black man, and giving birth to a disgusting "mutt", but Theodore hung onto every word, hungry for news of the woman that should have been his.
When he'd gotten back to his hotel suite that night, he'd broken every glass insight, he had been enraged when it had finally sunk in that she had married someone else. He'd then wondered at the parallels between them, and wondered if her daughter too would die early, and if so, would she come back?
With lightning under his skin, he'd travelled to the Soho district, towards the first brothel that he was familiar with, anything to scratch the itch that had seemed to take over his entire psyche. He'd been quite drunk at the time, throwing far too many pounds down for their 'blackest' prostitute available. He had wanted to know what Helen had felt, what she had been thinking, and so that night, he had buried himself in the girl given to him, with skin as dark as the night, and had lost himself to his mind's obsession.
It was three months later when that same prostitute showed up to his estate, three months pregnant. He had almost thrown her out, the idea that a woman of the night could track which client impregnated her had seemed preposterous to him. She'd explained that the night he'd visited her, it had only been her second night working, being only seventeen years old and that none of her other clients had 'finished' inside her, as he had. She begged that she was not asking for money for herself, only that he cares for the boy.
It was at the mention of a boy, a potential heir, that he'd relented. The boy, who he'd name Leonard, after his father, knowing that it would make the man turn in his grave, had become his legitimized son and heir. This had earned him the mockery of his peers for having a dirty child, but he hadn't cared, it had briefly made him feel more connected to her, the she-devil that held his thoughts and heart.
He circled the room, greeting guests, recalling that Christmas dinner of 1943 where he'd laid eyes on Helen Riddle for the first time in twenty-six years. For years, he'd taken women to bed that he was sure had looked like her, anything to scratch the itch, but nothing had compared to seeing the real thing. She'd still be lovely, of course, she had, to him, it was impossible for her to be anything else. Her face had lost its softness of youth, however, there was a steel and viciousness in her eyes that he hadn't recalled before, and it drew him like a moth to a flame, to where he couldn't help but ask her intentions to remarry. She had snubbed him in the misunderstanding of his intentions, but it was as soon as her cat-like eyes narrowed on him, that twenty-six years had fallen away, and he was once more a lad vying for her attention.
He had attempted to gain her favour throughout the year, having worked closely with her to supply the British Army and Navy armed vessels for Operation Overlord, but she'd been generally stoic to his overtures of reconciliation. So, imagine his surprise, upon lunch with Tom Riddle Jr, who in not so many words, insinuates that should Helen remarry, he would be happy to step down from his role in the company.
Theodore had to admit, the boy could play him like a fiddle, or like a mouse, he'd follow the flute, especially if there was the promise of Helen at the end of the line, the potential merger of companies as incentive certainly didn't hurt either. How the boy had guessed his most secret thoughts that, admittedly, bordered on obsession, he didn't know, and in this instance, he found he didn't care.
Finally, seeing her through the crowd, he felt his breath leave him, she was as beautiful as always. Her dress was long and black, making her pale skin stand out, she was as tall and elegant as ever with her dark hair in an intricate up-do, accessorized by a diamond-studded hair net that fell across her eyes. She looked positively deadly, or ready for a funeral, and he hoped it wasn't his.
"Here I was under the impression that you'd reject my invitation after all." he bent down to speak lowly in her ear. She didn't startle, only turning to him and taking a slow sip of her drink, appraising him evenly, before answering.
"Since the success of Operation Overlord, I may have come to the decision that you might not be completely awful," she responded with a hint of playfulness, and he put a hand over his heart in imitation of being shot.
"What could I have done to earn such ire? Meanwhile, I've been nothing, if not inspired by you," he spoke both jokingly and earnestly, hand still over his heart. Noticing her drink was low, snapped a finger at the closest waiter to refill it.
"Oh don't take it personally, all you English are so stuffy," she chuckled, holding her glass out to be filled, he quirked an eyebrow.
"Says the born and raised Englishwoman in her crisp Queen's English," he retorted jokingly, grabbing another drink for himself from another passing waiter who levelled their tray at him, she titled her head to regard him and narrowed her eyes.
"Born and raised Englishwoman that spent three-quarters of her life in the Caribbean," she began, "I am a born and raised Englishwoman, and yet, here among my contemporaries, I am an outsider to them." she gave a small wave with her unoccupied hand to gesture at the crowd around them.
"They are simply jealous at how beautiful you've remained, while the rest of them our age are being held together barely with alcohol and narcotics," he jibed, delighted when she almost spat out her drink to laugh.
"You flatter me, sir, but what makes you think I too am not being held together by alcohol and narcotics?" she asked with a raised eyebrow, tapping a perfect nail against her flute. He tapped the side of his nose.
"Oh that would be the catch, the secret is that we all are, some just hide it better than others," he replied as he raised a glass to her. Both of her eyebrows shot up high and a spill of laughter fell from her lips that he felt he'd never be able to savour enough.
"Such honesty, if I may ask, what is your goal for all of this?" she gestured between them, indicating that she meant their conversation. He knocked his glass against hers in salute before leaning down to whisper in her ear.
"Perhaps I am simply looking for the company of a beautiful, accomplished woman tonight." he watched as she blinked in surprise for half a second before righting herself.
"You're quite forward, sir," she flat-lined, with one eyebrow cocked.
"Am I? At our age, what could possibly stop us? What rules are we being held to?" he asked, eyes taking her in, not so subtly, to inform her that he was quite serious.
"Hmm, perhaps you should keep talking then, and I may find an answer to that," she answered, his heart thudding in his chest because it wasn't an outright rejection, he nodded, rising to the challenge.
"Fair enough."
Malfoy Manor
Tom wandered through the massive ballroom, inserting himself here and there, strategically into conversations, generally working the floor, gaining sympathizers. His plans recently seemed to have stagnated, oh, he was just about finished shadowing Lord Black for the Wizengamot, and he was half a year into his apprenticeship in the Department of Mysteries, officially in February he would begin his claim for the Slytherin seat, and if all went according to plan, he would have it by July. What wasn't going according to plan was Hermione, and it made him want to grind his teeth into nothing, how could one muggleborn be so difficult?
His gift for her birthday had gone over better than expected, it had taken him two months to complete, mixing lineage potions and charms from different families. From the Malfoy family, he'd asked Abraxas for a way to find names of one's lineage, claiming it was to ensure there were no other of Slytherin's line that could blindside him once he made his claim (besides his uncle who was still rotting in prison) and if he sweetened the deal by sleeping with the other boy, that was his business and his alone.
From Antonin, and his own family's grimoire, he discovered a potion that could turn blood into memories, and that hefty bit of blood magic came with a price from Antonin, who had needed another wand for his own less than legal ventures, though to Tom, legality was usually the least of his concerns.
It was simply the way of Slytherin house that nothing was free, and Tom was all too happy to play by those rules if it got him something in return.
From Orion, his own price was the most dangerous, for an elf with artistic ability, that would not betray his confidence, two favours that he could ask at any time in the future, and they could be anything, and to ensure he did not go back on his word, he was requested a magical vow.
So, her gift had come at a generally hefty price, but it had only progressed his relations with her in that she didn't openly distrust him, and was willing to speak to him civilly, if anything, sometimes in a friendly manner.
His release of his imperius over Weasley had gone to plan, as to his knowledge, the other boy hadn't attempted to get back together with Hermione, in fact, he was still courting Dubois, last he'd heard. If he had, he hadn't heard of it and Hermione never spoke of it. He'd spent the last few months doing his level best to be kind and sociable to her, and truly it was exhausting, how anyone did it on a day to day basis, baffled him.
He'd instead focused his manipulative ways on neutralizing Helen, in a way that left her alive, that is. Months ago when he'd gone to the dinner hosted by the man, he had delved into his mind to find a plethora of issues that he could spend hours going over, but most importantly, he found that old Seaborn was quite smitten with Helen, and by smitten, he meant foaming-at-the-mouth obsessed.
Kaa, who'd finally gotten too big to sit around his shoulders, and spent all of her time in his rooms had somehow come to learn human sayings, and when he'd told her about Seaborn, she hissed something of a pot calling a kettle black, he liked to think he took the insinuation of his own regard for Hermione rather well, all the same, he decided it was probably a good idea to stop leaving the radio on for the snake.
Regardless, after discovering Helen's telegram, he'd played with the idea of simply killing that Innocenti woman, but refrained as it was a sure-fire way to ignite Helen into full action against him, so he decided he would use the opportunity that Seaborn so generously handed to him on a silver platter.
He'd sent a letter (the muggle way) to the Seaborn Estate, inviting the man to lunch, weaving the whole conversation into an understanding that would benefit both of them. Tom did not care to run a muggle company for the long haul, as he had too many plans to implement, and too much in the magical world that needed his attention.
He passed by and nodded briefly to Bella, who was on the arm of her new husband, Rudolphous Lestrange, their recent nuptials had taken place in October, before Samhain. Her marriage had put a complete stop to their shenanigans, at last, something he'd planned originally to do whilst still in school, but hadn't cared to persist with when she sought him out through the summer. Rudolphous Lestrange was an imperious wizard, at twenty-six years old, he was quite tall with a broad figure, dark hair and amber eyes. He was the older brother of Rabastan, who was now in his seventh year at Hogwarts with the other junior knights, Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle.
He was disturbed from his thoughts by a ping in the wards at Riddle manor, Hermione had just arrived home, and curiously he glanced at his pocket watch to see that it was only eleven. He decided to leave it, continuing his rounds, and raising his flute of champagne with all the other guests at the stroke of midnight, toasting as well, silently, to his nineteenth birthday. He checked the wards again, and seeing that she never left, decided to cut his night early to investigate.
Upon stepping out of the floo at a quarter after midnight, he checked the wards to find that she was in the sitting room, so he departed Helen's office, charming the ashes from his robes, not bothering to change into muggle clothing, to join her.
He heard a tinkling sound of music from the room as he walked towards it, the door was ajar, and he could make out from the light spilling into the hallway that she had the fire going in the hearth. The music he heard was coming from the radio that sat on the mantle, playing the crooning voice of that Italian-American Sinatra fellow she'd mentioned to him before.
The room looked cozy as he entered it, Christmas decorations were still up, with twinkling fairy lights along the mantle, and the giant tree in the corner lit up like a beacon. Hermione was on none of the couches, instead, she'd propped herself on the floor in a mess of blankets and pillows, with a side table that she'd dragged closer to her that held two bottles of wine, and a single-stemmed glass.
He peered at the bottles, realizing one was empty, and cast an eye at her. Her hair was unbound in all it's glory, with her head rested back against the seat of the couch she was leaning against, a hand placed over her eyes. Her other arm was slung over a bent knee, and her shoes and stockings had been tossed to the side.
She was wearing a formal dress that was hitched up just passed her knees, and with her feet bare, the scene she portrayed depicted a fanciful type of domesticity that sent a surge of something through his spine. He carefully sat on the love-seat to her right, now wanting to startle her.
"It seems you've had quite an interesting night," he drawled slowly, watching as she moved her hand away from her face and loll her head to look at him, her eyes were red, indicating that she'd been crying.
"Oh yes, ringing in the new year with me, myself, and my misery," she retorted, words slightly slurred. She was clearly inebriated, as if the empty bottle of wine hadn't already tipped him off, she picked up her glass from the side table and raised it to him.
"Happy 1945," she chirped, before taking a sip. He quirked an eyebrow, curious as to what had happened to relegate her to such a state, so he voiced said curiosity.
"I feel like there is a story as to why you're here, as you are." he gestured vaguely to the array of pillows and blankets, supremely amused by her antics. Her gaze followed his hand and she gave a quizzical look to the display she'd created, she quirked her head to the side, slurring out her answer.
"It seems I've made a mess even here." she grabbed a pillow that had been by her foot and hugged it to her chest.
"Oh? And what else is a mess?" he asked, charmed at seeing this side of her, but wanting answers all the same.
"Ron announced that he and Géraldine have become engaged," she answered, taking a breath, "he came back to me at the beginning of October, saying that he never stopped wanting me, but I, in all my infinite wisdom, turned him down," she further explained. Tom stayed silent when she looked like she would say more, secretly delighted at the news.
"When he first broke up with me all those months ago, I would have taken him back in a heartbeat, but now? How could I do that to Géraldine? She doesn't deserve that duplicity," she finished, attempting to take another sip from her glass only to find it empty, though she peered in it for good measure, she reached over for the bottle and began to refill it.
"Then why does the engagement bother you, if you turned him down?" he asked, taking the bottle as she offered it to him, waving his wand at the cabinet against the wall to open it's door, carefully levitating his own glass towards him, pouring himself a decent amount once it had reached his outstretched hand. She had a pensive look on her face from the question.
"I think it upsets me because it makes me feel easily replaceable, that no matter how hard I try, I'm still a refugee statistic in a country that doesn't want me," she responded, despondently gazing into the fire. Tom was mesmerized by how it turned her already warm eyes into cutting pools of amber and burning fire, regardless that it seemed at that moment that her inner fire was smothered.
"You are irreplaceable, Hermione," he replied, and seeing how effortlessly it came out of him, he surmised that he might be speaking the truth, for once. She turned her gaze towards him, confusion clouding her expression, brows furrowed that made him want to smooth his thumb over the line that had appeared in between them.
"Why do you say that? You hate what I am, if there is anybody to whom I should be deemed replaceable to, it would chiefly be you and your friends." her words were soft and accusing, though she scoffed before he could answer.
"It must kill you to want me as you do," she jibed, levelling him with a baiting stare. He tilted his head, always intrigued when her brutal honesty came to play, daring her to continue, he stayed silent, and she did not disappoint.
"I mean, why else would you kiss me all those months ago?" she continued, smiling wryly, glancing critically down at her wine, before swirling it, "your ancestor would be rolling in his grave."
Tom thought she certainly had a point, Slytherin would be turning in his grave if he knew that his descendant wanted a muggleborn, if he wasn't already spinning from his mother's actions, that is. He decided to rise to the challenge and take her bait.
"Yes." she snapped her eyes back up to his, apparently surprised by his honesty.
"Does that bother you? That someone wants you enough to let it be known," he asked, as she looked back at the fire almost guiltily.
"No, it doesn't, what bothers me is that you don't care for me," she replied, taking a small sip, keeping her gaze on the hearth, as though she might lose this newfound nerve of hers if she looked at him.
"I want to be wanted, Tom, everybody does, you included, but I want to be cherished with dignity and respect." she put her glass down.
"I want love," she finished, and he scoffed, the idea of love, to him, was foolish, and she glared at him.
"Love is weakness," he retorted, though lowly, he tilted his head at her, "I've had to learn the hard way that to let people into your life in such a way is to give them power over you, and that they will use it to tear you down at a later date." he thought of the many aids at Wool's who had loved and cared for him as a child, only to turn around and treat him with scorn and hostility at the first signs of his accidental magic.
It felt like there was acid in his stomach at the indignation of having once craved their affection, just once more. He felt a hand on his own and looked down in surprise, noting the stark contrast between his skin and her own.
"No, it's not, and there will always be people who claim to love you, who don't actually, but they are not indicative of what love really is," her voice was soft as she spoke, though still a touch slurred.
"It's give and take, freely and happily," she continued, he took hold of the hand that was on his, and gently brought it up to brush a kiss against her knuckles, hearing a sharp intake of breath that almost undid him.
"And sex?" he asked, smiling slightly as she sputtered, though she hadn't wrenched her hand away yet. He placed his glass down on the table beside him, allowing his other hand to finger the snake bangle on her wrist, satisfied that she seemed to wear it often.
"Sex is after love and marriage, it's wrong beforehand," she answered, face darkening with what he assumed was blush, as she didn't turn red. His lips against her hand stretched into a smirk.
"Did you learn that from your bible? Tell me, what did it say of same-sex relations? Didn't two of your male friends recently get married? Or do you only cherry-pick what you want to believe?"
"No, it's a personal choice, a promise between myself and my faith," she pulled her hand away, and he let it go, watching as she held it to her chest, but Tom was not finished with the discussion, he levelled a stare at her.
"How can you have faith in so many contradictions? What has faith done for you? What has it done for your friend Géraldine, and her family?" he asked, not mentioning that he'd looked into all of her friends thoroughly back at Hogwarts.
Mature themes start here
She stood quickly, as if trying to eject herself from the conversation, but stumbled and tripped on the blanket that had twisted itself around her foot, falling right into him. He caught her, and like a snake, lunged immediately to grip at her hips to hoist her up into straddling his lap, the skirt of her dress riding up to her hips. She sputtered and pushed at his chest, but his hands cupped around her waist, holding her down.
"I want you, but you deny yourself everything I can offer you for such superficial things," he whispered against her jaw, wrapping one arm around her waist to keep her seated, his other hand he brought down in front of her, brushing his thumb against her center over her knickers, surprised to note that she was a bit wet. She froze at his touch, and he looked up at her, noticing that her pupils were dilated, and her breathing became choppy.
"Kiss me," he demanded gently, looking up into her face, studying her conflicted expression.
"It doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want it to, as biological humans, this is the most natural act," he whispered, returning to kiss her jaw, lightly applying pressure with his thumb, caressing her clit through the fabric. She gasped, and unconsciously ground herself down on his hand, bringing a hand up to grip the back of his neck as if to steady herself from the onslaught of new physical sensations.
"This is wrong," she breathed, before giving a small whine when he moved his hand in a circular motion.
"No, it isn't, because this isn't sex, this is just me making you feel good with the parts your god has given you," he paused, considering gleefully for a moment that she might not be a creationist, "or do you believe in Darwinism?" he joked, very much aware of his own straining erection in his robes, while she panted on top of him. He pressed harder and her eyes snapped closed, and her mouth opened in a silent cry.
"Stop talking." she angled his head up with the hand that had cupped the back of his neck and slammed her lips down onto his, his arm gripped her tightly against him, as her hips moved with his hand. He felt feral at that moment, biting at her lips until he felt her legs grip against his tightly and shudder, she broke their kiss to cry out.
He felt like an acolyte praising a goddess, holding his hand still to allow her to ride out her orgasm, mesmerized at the sounds she made, yet cursing that it hadn't lasted longer.
She opened her eyes to look at him, wearily as she panted from exertion, her eyes were glazed, and she was still very much inebriated, in fact, he was sure that had she been sober, she'd have fought him tooth and nail. He tried to adjust his position to relieve pressure from his own arousal, something he'd have to take care of when he got back to his own rooms.
"Was that so bad?" he asked, and her answer was to drop her head onto his shoulder, continuing to try and regulate her breathing.
"Everything is spinning," she mumbled, turning her face into his neck, lips brushing against his adam's apple.
"You did have a lot to drink, I'll help you to your room," he murmured, adjusting her position to carry her. He restrained a wry grin because the last time he'd carried her like this was almost exactly a year ago. He didn't hear an answer, so he figured she was out, and with a few flicks of his wand, the fire was out, the radio was off and the room righted itself.
He carried her to her room, carefully arranging pillows on her bed and laying her on her side, his proficiency at dealing with inebriated teenage boys during his time in Hogwarts becoming convenient.
He refilled the water jug on her nightstand and headed out. It wasn't until he was back in his own rooms, undressed, and once again, like last year, in the shower, did he palm himself and begin stroking, one hand steadying himself by clutching the shower curtain around him.
He imagined that, instead of his hand, that it had been his cock buried deep inside her and she sat atop him, grinding and jerking her hips against his pelvis to find her release. His hand moved rapidly, until his knees buckled at the rising crescendo, causing him to kneel awkwardly in the clawfoot tub, his other hand moving from the curtain to grip the edge of the tub.
He remembered the cry she made as she reached her orgasm and came immediately after. When he was finished and he could see straight again, he leaned back so that he was reclined against the back of the tub, the water from the showerhead still spraying down on him.
"Happy birthday to me," he chuckled wryly, staying there for a few more minutes, before washing himself and going to sleep.
Mature themes end
Hermione's Room – The Next Morning
Hermione woke up in her bed to the bright sun from her window and vomit crawling up her esophagus, she stumbled out of bed and ran to the washroom, just barely managing to throw herself to the toilet on time before whatever she'd eaten and drunk the night before came screaming back up.
When she was done, she rested her cheek on the cool toilet seat, not even caring how disgusting it might be, because the room was spinning and she was positive that she was still a little drunk anyway. Once she wasn't seeing double of everything, she reached from her vantage point on the floor and turned on the shower, she noticed she was still wearing yesterday's dress, and for some reason, her stockings were gone.
Slowly, memories from the night before came trickling back, she'd gone to Potter manor last night for a new years celebration, and the Weasleys, of course, had been there, and everything had been great, until Ron announced that he and Géraldine were formally engaged. She remembered smiling and congratulating them and then leaving, refusing to ruin the moment for her friend. Géraldine had looked so happy and hopeful, and besides, she had turned Ron down when he re-approached her, telling him that she was more comfortable staying friends.
Besides, there was her on and off thing with Kai, they've been essentially testing the waters of courting, and had kissed a few times, but her whole brain became messed up when Ron approached her that she had automatically put him at arm's length.
She knew Kai was disappointed, especially considering she was basically keeping him a secret, she just felt that she had jumped the gun with Ron, thinking she jinxed their relationship that way, causing it to fall apart. She knew that it was childish and foolish to think like that, but she really did not want to go through another breakup as she had with Ron, because that had been incredibly unpleasant.
Kai was sweet, despite his disappointment at the pace of things, he hadn't pressured her into doing anything she wasn't comfortable with, and he always made sure she was consenting before he so much as kissed her.
She undressed, tying up her hair into a bun before climbing into the shower. She remembered flooing home, stealing two bottles of wine from her mother's shelf and wholeheartedly treating herself to a pity party. She'd drank a whole bottle and a half by herself, feeling more and more depressed as she went, until Tom showed up.
At the thought of Tom, she froze, suddenly remembering how the night ended.
'No, there's no way,' she thought, the warm water spraying down on her did nothing to prevent the chill of mortification that gripped her then.
Had she? She must have hallucinated that, there's no way she would have done that. Her hand trailed down to her private area, she'd never actually touched herself before, at least, not for masturbation purposes, the voice of her mamie reaming through her head anytime she got the urge. Years of being told that it was shameful and dirty had generally put her off of it.
She prodded the area curiously after washing herself, it didn't feel different, she expected it to be sore or something, but it felt normal. She turned off the shower and plugged the tub to fill it so that she could soak her hangover away in a bath. The shower had cleared her head a bit, but her brain still felt like it was pulsing and she was still incredibly nauseated and dizzy. She dropped some oils into the water filling around her legs and sat down, lounging against the back of the tub.
She tried not to think about how Tom had restrained her on his lap, or how he pressed a hand against her core, especially not when she had always redirected Kai's hands when they'd travelled too far south. Guilt raced through her and she splashed some of the water on her face, what was wrong with her? How could she let him do that?
When he'd kissed her all those months ago, she'd been terrified of him forcing himself onto her, especially after that midnight visit from her mother, the gun still hidden away in the bottom drawer of her side dresser, unused, as for months, nothing had happened. Tom had apologized for the stunt and had respectfully, as much as could be expected of him, kept his distance.
Yesterday, he hadn't exactly forced her, she'd done most of it on her own, overcome by those new sensations, he'd just kept his hand there and moved it a bit, though, in her defence, she'd also been quite drunk.
Irritably, she conceded that it had felt good, incredible even, hesitantly, she brought a hand to the area in the water, imitating the same motions she vaguely remembered him doing. Almost instantly, she felt the pressure rise, and gasped, arching her back against the wall of the tub, the water swishing over the edge and spilling onto the floor as she moved her hips with her hand until she realized what she was doing and wrenched it away, panting.
A knock on the bathroom door startled her, and she relaxed when she heard her mother. She unplugged the tub, wobbled out and grabbed her robe. Tying the rope around her waist, she wondered if she should tell her mother what happened, she felt embarrassed and ashamed by it and felt a bit alone, but it was rather new and serious, so perhaps she could? She decided that moment to do so before she lost her nerve.
"Maman, can I talk to you about something?" she asked, opening the door, feeling self-conscious. Her mother was in the sitting room, so she made her way over, still in her bathrobe.
"Of course," she started, eyeing the robe, "Why don't you get dressed, I've already asked for tea, coffee and scones to be brought up." Hermione nodded, not really feeling the scones, but looking forward to some coffee.
While dressing, and fastening the buttons of her blouse, she thought about what to tell her mother. She felt if she told her about what Tom and she did, that she may worry and overreact, however, as with anything involving Tom, she knew she should tell her. She nodded to herself, resolved to tell her everything and walked back to the sitting room once she finished slipping on a pair of trousers.
The coffee and tea hadn't been brought up yet, but she began talking, about Ron and Géraldine, everything that happened with that and how it made her feel, Tom's kiss months ago, all about Kai and her guilt, ending it all with what had happened last night, only briefly pausing when the maid did come with the promised drinks and snacks.
Her mother sighed through her nose and pinched the bridge between her eyes in irritation.
"Putting aside Tom's actions for now-" she pointed at her, "-there is nothing wrong with masturbation, and there is nothing wrong with sex before marriage, in fact, I encourage it." Hermione made to cut her off, but her mother held up a finger to stop her.
"Listen, I know what you're going to say, but your mamie had very...strong ideas about sex, marriage and religion, and I am sorry you've come to think that as the only way," she began, "not even your father played by her rules, and she was his mother." Hermione repressed a smile at the thought of her papa, remembering all the times he joyfully, and in an optimistic manner, turned people down, or disagreed with them with a smile on his face.
"Religion and faith have no place in the bedroom, that is what I came to believe for the longest time. It is fine to have faith, but you cannot let it control your life to such an extent." she began to make herself a cup of tea, while Hermione started on her first cup of coffee, sighing in bliss at that first sip.
"Choosing to save sex for after marriage, let me put it bluntly, is bad. It puts pressure on the marriage itself for the sake of sex, and it also opens you to be manipulated by your spouse, and this can happen regardless of whether they are a good person or not," she paused, levelling a stare at her, "when has a lack of information ever helped anyone?"
'Absolutely never,' she scoffed in her mind but stopped her train of thought because she understood what her mother was saying. She wrinkled her nose.
"So you and papa...? Before you were married?" too scandalized at the idea of her parents having sex to even think of saying the word in the same sentence as them. Her mother snorted and repressed a goofy grin.
"Not that I ever want you to think of myself and your papa in such a way, but since it pertains to the topic at hand, yes," she paused, possibly for dramatic effect, "in fact, we got married mostly because we found out I was pregnant with you," she chuckled wryly.
"Your father was an extremely handsome doctor that I helped as psuedo-nurse during the second wave of the Spanish flu, honestly, it's basically a story fit for a harlequin novel." Hermione put down her coffee cup and slapped her hands over her ears, refusing to hear anymore before it sent her back to become reacquainted with the toilet, while her mother laughed.
"On a serious note, having sex or not, should be a personal decision, and you should only do it because you want to, and your partner is willing, full stop." taking a sip of her tea, "and if you do decide to wait until marriage, you may find that you dislike it, simply because men's pleasure is generally easier and faster to reach than a woman's."
"Which leads us back into masturbation, there is no shame in wanting to know your body, it doesn't make you less religious, or a bad Catholic, it just helps you understand your body, and what you like, so that it may enrich your marriage when you are eventually ready to take that step," she finished, and Hermione looked into her coffee, pensive of what she'd just heard.
"Now, as for Tom, what he did yesterday was wrong, you may have gone along with it, but he knew you had been drinking and that you were not of a clear mind, and he used that to his advantage." Hermione nodded, understanding, feeling both miffed and confused about what she felt at all, about anyone, Tom, Kai, and brief flashes of Ginny's smile and Jaismine's dark eyes fluttering through her brain, causing her to flush, remembering Tom's word from last night.
"Is it wrong to like the same sex?" she asked, she knew she didn't care that Seamus and Dean were together, or Lavender and Parvati, but she felt exempt from that acceptance due to her faith.
"Have you been feeling things for girls?" her mother asked, her expression curious, and Hermione shrugged, feeling self-conscious again.
"I don't know," she answered, "I don't know how I feel." she took another sip of coffee, finally plucking enough hunger to grab one of the scones, a blueberry one.
"Well, there are a lot of laws against it in many countries, though I cannot speak for the magical world, and those laws are generally put in place by those afraid of those different than them, remember darling, the law is not infallible," she paused, as if trying to come up with a better answer, "I do not personally think that it is wrong, homosexuals have existed for as long as there have been humans, so how can it be? I think it's just another thing you shouldn't allow your faith to control," tapping her nail against her teacup.
"You have to separate religion and faith from your daily life if you want to better understand these things about yourself because in delicate cases like these, your faith can hurt you, which it should never do." Hermione nodded again but decided to change the topic, understanding that it would take a lot more self-reflection before she was comfortable with an answer.
"And Tom?" she asked, and her mother sighed wearily.
"I don't like it, regardless of what you feel for him, you need to be careful because he will absolutely set you on fire to keep himself warm, as all self-serving people are capable of. Why don't you try to continue things with that Kai fellow? He seems nice from what you've told me about him," she answered, biting her lip.
"If Tom does get to be too much though, tell me, I may have a plan, though the war has tied my hands a bit. It will be hard, but I have somewhere you can go to when he hopefully cannot follow." Hermione gaped at her mother's insinuation.
"You want me to run and hide from him?" she asked, stunned.
"To keep you safe? Absolutely," her maman answered, with a hardline to her tone, and Hermione fidgeted her hands before nodding.
"Hopefully it won't come to that?" she asked, the idea of having to start over again seemed deeply unpleasant but would go along with it if her mother was confident in it.
"Mon coeur, I hope so too."
Authors Note:
A glimpse into seaborn's mind and Kaa is a sassy snake
Have some comprehensive sex talk with mama. I may have based a lot of Hermione's issues on those that I myself had growing up, I mean, write what you know, right? I wish I had someone sit me down for this kind of talk when I was nineteen, would have saved me a lot of self-hatred and years of confusion. Of course, its not a perfect sex talk, I did try to filter it as much as possible both through a 1940s lens and Helen's general personality.
Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed the chapter.