Just a note: Hermione is not meant to be some raving beauty in this fic. She's very pretty, and yes, beautiful, but she's not like a model. She's relatively true to canon. And Fawkes' presence hasn't changed the way she looks - he's only brightened everything, so to speak. So her features haven't changed, per say, she just is a little more eye-catching because of her "inner glow" (or some such rubbish - I don't really know how to explain it). So this isn't one of those stories where she's not only super awesome and powerful but suddenly angelically gorgeous as well (have you ever ready those annoying fics where all of a sudden Hermione has blue eyes and black, luscious curls and a "perfect hourglass figure" with a "D-cup" and all that rot? Ugh. So tacky. Like, way to strip Hermione of all of her defining physical characteristics).
Anyways, I just wanted to bring that up. I won't promise not to fall prey to all cliches, but I'll at least try to avoid the stupid ones. Please, y'all, give me some credit.
Also, don't you worry: Tom isn't always this mild. He is simply watching, waiting, observing, because he doesn't quite know what to make of Hermione. But believe me, he's a bad guy. He's just not always bad to her; he's way to curious and, I'll admit, enraptured of her to risk unleashing the darkness just yet. But he's bad in a sophisticated way, you know? He's diabolical and clever and way too cool for the "rape pillage and burn" sort of thing. But he's no pansy, don't worry. It's coming. I'm just biding my time.
oooo
The safest road to hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts. – C.S. Lewis
There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain, the mind must leave reality behind. –Patrick Rothfuss
Everything that's realistic has some sort of ugliness in it. Even a flower is ugly when it wilts, a bird when it seeks its prey, the ocean when it becomes violent. –Sharon Tate
You and I, you and I
We're not that different, you and I
Oh you and I, you and I
We're not that different, you and I
- "Two Evils" by Bastille
oooo
Saturday, September 25, 1999
Malfoy Manor
"Have you managed to get her to talk?"
Hermione stands as still as a stone, her chin lifted proudly. She stares stubbornly at the decorative tapestry that hangs on the wall above the throne that Voldemort sits upon. It is red. A color that has recently become very prevalent in her life.
Bellatrix is bowing and scraping and equal parts adoring and nervous. "No, My Lord. Only useless babble."
Voldemort hums. Hermione must not look him in the eye. She must not. "And you, Dolohov, have you managed to get inside her head?"
Hermione sees Dolohov swallow out of the corner of her eye. She mentally smiles. Wouldn't it be a breath of fresh air for her tormentors to be tormented?
"No, My Lord," the Brit of Russian descent says. One of his dark eyes, surrounded with heavy wrinkles that show his age, twitches minutely. "She has a very…unusual mind."
Voldemort does not have eyebrows, but if he had they would be high upon his forehead. "So unusual that my best Legilimens cannot crack it?"
Dolohov shifts on his feet. He has been loyal to his Lord since the very beginning, but Voldemort is no longer as sane as he once was, his mind is no longer as clear, and Dolohov knows this. The favoritism that would have saved him from harsh retribution once upon a time has little place in the Death Eater ranks now.
"Unfortunately, My Lord."
Voldemort rises from his throne, and Hermione tries not to tremble. Voldemort has been away, doing Merlin knows what, and this is the first time he has been back since she'd been captured. She only hopes that she can protect her secrets from his spectacular Legilimency. He is unparalleled when it comes to the mind magics, and after a week of consistent torture Hermione is afraid that he will glide through her brain with ease and pluck out all of the important information about the Order. It will be a death sentence to them all if she cannot keep this red-eyed demon from her thoughts.
When he comes to stand in front of her, she stares at her feet: bare, dirty, her toenails long and cracked. When he lifts her chin and uses a wandless, nonverbal spell to force her eyes to meet his gaze, she prepares her mind for his assault. She knows her walls will fall in due time, and so she readies her own Legilimency for attack, hoping that she will catch him off guard strongly enough to make him think twice about attempting this again.
His eyes are liquid crimson, the exact color and luster of a puddle of fresh blood. It is disgusting and unnerving, and she struggles to keep her mind from entering panic mode. Somehow she manages.
When the Dark Lord begins his assault on her mind, she lasts nearly six minutes before she feels him start to disassemble her Occlumency brick by brick; it is far longer than she had expected to hold out – she holds on for as long as she is able by sheer force of will. When he makes a hole wide enough to push through, she is waiting for him.
The tendrils of her consciousness screech in anger in the face of his own dark psyche, and she feels him shudder in surprise before she pushes the enraged shadows of her mind past his invading presence, through the fissure he has created and into his unsuspecting, unprotected brain. For who would think to guard their own mind when they are expecting to be the only one attacking? This is her greatest talent, when it comes to the magics of the mind. And it is the only thing standing between the Dark Lord and the Order.
She is not in his head for long before he forces her out, but the things she sees in there immediately make her want to vomit and run for cover. She has felt her own psyche become dark and damaged even over just a week in captivity, and it continues to cloud as each miserable day goes by, but it is nothing compared to the blackness and utter evil that festers within the mind of the Dark Lord. She forces herself to push through for as long as she can manage, but is admittedly relieved when he shoves her out – she is just beginning to lose her way in that jumbled, psychotic mess, and if left any longer she may become irreversibly tainted.
His scream of anger is a terrible thing to behold, and when he rips her from his mind he also throws her across the room with his rage-fueled power. Her body hits the far wall and she feels her head crack against the stone. She does not need to feel the wet trickle of blood on her neck to know that she has a nasty concussion. She crumples to the floor.
She manages to look up once more before she loses consciousness. Feeling a small amount of smug satisfaction, she smiles at the furious dark wizard, puts up her Occlumency walls (though she knows Voldemort will not dare to enter her mind while she sleeps, his own sanity at risk of fracturing even further if trapped inside her unconscious mind; while he may have attempted this once upon a time, and while he is still an unparalleled Legilimens, he is no longer sound of mind enough to not get stuck inside the darkness of a sleeping brain), and slips into slumber.
oooo
Tom Riddle was only a shadow of the creature he would become, but he was still a force to be reckoned with. And Hermione respected that. She would be a fool not to.
The realization that she was not afraid of him, however, was a rather unexpected one. Respect, yes. Wariness, yes. Caution, yes. The more than occasional flutter of her nerves, most definitely. But, oddly enough, not fear; at least not that full-blown, nausea-inducing septic sort of terror that his older counterpart had inspired.
The difference: this Tom Riddle, the young one that had not yet been ripped into eight pieces, only three – this version of him was sane. He could be reasoned with. He was not yet wholly sure of his own power and talents, and this gave her an advantage. For while she certainly knew what he was capable of, he was not yet aware of just how unstoppable a force he could, and would, be.
Hermione, though, knew exactly what she could do. With the exception of Fawkes' magic and her odd new wand, which she was slowly becoming accustomed to, Hermione knew her own magic inside and out, and she was comfortable with her abilities. She knew that she would be able to withstand whatever might be in store for her here in 1944…hopefully.
Now there was a complication that she hadn't foreseen, however. She had more than effectively piqued Tom Riddle's interest, and she didn't quite know what to do with the fact that he seemed to actually like her. Hermione wasn't usually in the business of being liked. Her know-it-all ways and acerbic wit tended to rub people the wrong way, not to mention the cynicism that tainted her world view these days. And yes, she was putting on a good show for the students here, especially her housemates, and she seemed to be liked well enough, but that wasn't the real her. The genuine Hermione was the one that Tom Riddle had talked to in the halls just a few minutes ago, and while she knew she had irritated the hell out of him, he also seemed to be genuinely interested in her, and it wasn't with the negative vibe that she'd been expecting; her interaction with him had been mostly rather cordial, if not laced with a few mean-spirited barbs, acidic humor and an undertone of challenges and dark promises. He seemed to appreciate those qualities.
Hermione guessed that Tom Riddle had never actually been challenged, and that he'd become rather bored over the course of his Hogwarts education. She could use that.
She would have to be careful, though. She'd been shocked at just how easy it was to talk to him, how much she'd enjoyed their banter. Getting too comfortable around him could prove to be very dangerous indeed.
The question was: just how close did she want to get to Riddle? Did she keep him at arms length, or attempt to get into his good graces and perhaps spend more time with him? The prospect of being in the presence of the young Lord Voldemort again had her simultaneously nervous and excited. And that terrified her, because there should have been nothing appealing about the man who was responsible for all of the death and loss and misery in her life. Nothing.
She thought again of Ron. She wondered how horrified he would have been to see her walk through the halls with the monster that had orchestrated the deaths of him and nearly his entire family. She could not help but feel a profound and overwhelming sense of shame.
Then again, this Tom Riddle hadn't done any of those things yet. He had only just murdered in cold blood this past summer, in the case of his father and grandparents (Myrtle's death two years ago had been unintentional, though it was considered murder all the same – enough for him to make a horcrux, at least). He had a small group of followers, but he had not amassed an army, he had not taken over the Ministry, and he had not tortured and killed thousands of people. He had the potential for these things, of course. He would grow up to become that monster. In fact, she knew that the monster was already taking shape – he just hadn't ceased to be a man yet. And the man – the human part of him that could be reasoned with, that still had some feelings, however muted and detached they were – could be exploited.
Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort were not yet completely one and the same. And the rift between the two, though small, could perhaps be widened.
Hermione had no illusions that she could change him, make him better. She didn't want to. She knew that his soul was beyond saving. But if she could somehow keep him from becoming the red-eyed monster from her future, things might be different. If she could divert his attention from his prejudice so that he could focus on something more productive, things might not turn out the way they had in her time. It had never been his original intention, after all, to eradicate muggles and muggleborns – merely to subjugate them, to rule over them. But perhaps he could be moved to a different path? He had never had any positive experiences with muggles and muggleborns. What if she could show him their worth? What if she, using herself as an example, could get him to see the truth – that muggleborns were just as worthy as purebloods and halfbloods? What if she could show him how they could be used, just like anyone else, to further his chances for power? What if she could provide him with a carrot big enough to tempt him into working with muggleborns, or at least tolerating them, rather than attempting to make them second-class citizens unworthy of their magic?
Of course, the only carrot she could think of that would be flashy enough to catch and keep his attention was her. She would have to be the carrot. If she could show him just how useful she could be to him, what kind of an ally she could offer, and then reveal her heritage to him – would it work? Would it be enough to sway his prejudiced opinions? Would the truth shine through the bigotry and hatred?
Of course, if she were to attempt such a thing she would royally fuck up the timeline. She had already changed things, however minutely, just by being here – to meddle in such a significant manner in the affairs of one of the most influential figures in wizarding history might backfire horribly.
Then again, it wasn't like it could be a whole lot worse than how it had ended up.
She would have to talk to Draco about it. When he woke up. Everyday, she felt his absence more keenly. And God, Harry, her Harry…
She may never see her best friend again. The thought of living out the rest of her life here, alone, in an era where women did not often get Ministry positions of any importance, was daunting and depressing.
She only had her revenge to keep her company. And Fawkes, although having a single friend that couldn't actually carry on a conversation did not sound much better than being completely friendless in the first place.
"And the Statute of Secrecy was first implemented in…? Miss Granger?"
Hermione looked up, returning from her inner thoughts to reality once again. This version of Professor Binns – very much still alive – was slightly different than the one from her generation. Though he looked incredibly old, and he was still horribly boring, he did ask his students questions. It was a strange sort of thing. The ghost from her time had just droned on and on and on until he fell asleep in his own class.
"1692, sir," Hermione answered. Honestly, this was second year material!
"Actually, Professor, I believe the correct answer is 1689."
Hermione rolled her eyes. Leave it to Tom Riddle to try to one-up her in class. What a pompous arse.
She turned around in her chair, allowing an amused smile to play across her features. "The Statute was signed in 1689, Tom. It was implemented in 1692. Do try to keep up."
The way in which she said it wasn't exactly intentional – it was just in her nature to want to be the most knowledgeable person in the room, and when combined with her ever-present hatred for Riddle (no matter how intriguing she found him and how much she enjoyed talking to him, she would never not hate him), she could not stop the barb from passing through her lips.
She was on the fence of whether or not to regret it, however. On one hand, the look Tom gave her was absolutely murderous – she could tell by the tightening of his lips and the hard flash of his eyes. Of course, to the rest of the class he would look impassive; Hermione knew better.
On the other hand, it got everyone in the class to quietly gasp and turn to look at her. She guessed that, in addition to the insult against their precious, perfect Head Boy, people were not in the habit of using his first name. She'd suspected it before, but this confirmed it. Which was still a mystery: why was he allowing it? In fact, why had he encouraged it? He'd only spoken to her twice, and briefly at that, before asking her to call him by his given name, and then had not corrected her during their interaction today (though she suspected it was because he didn't want to lose face in front of her). Why would he grant such a boon to someone he didn't even know? Even though Voldemort was known for making the odd impulsive decision - he did have something of a rage problem, after all - young Tom Riddle was far more controlled, and it seemed slightly out of place.
Regardless, she couldn't help but feel a sense of smug satisfaction. While Hermione would never gloat over someone's failures or mistakes, that did not apply to Lord Voldemort. Few of her rules applied to him – including her code of ethics and morals, however bent they might be these days. And so she relished in his obvious discomfort, and though she somewhat feared retribution, she also was curious to see what he would do about her blatant slight. She was almost…excited.
She was sure that that alone pointed to madness.
She also enjoyed the subtle tones of disbelief and awe that came from the rest of the students in the class. She wanted to be on equal footing with him in whatever ways possible – this included their respective places in the eyes of their peers. Clearly someone who was willing to snub Tom Riddle was either crazy or unflinchingly brave; someone who should be respected in either case.
"I'm sorry, Hermione, but it is somewhat difficult to pay attention when I'm so distracted by the living, breathing thing that you call hair." He gave her a scathing look. His voice was smooth and perfect and utterly deadly. It dripped with dark promise. A handful of girls tittered, looking at Tom with longing in their eyes. Druella Rosier and Primrose Selwyn (who Hermione assumed would become Posy Parkinson's mother and Pansy's grandmother, they all looked so similar) sat behind Tom, looking completely enraptured.
In her past life Hermione may have found his insult wounding. As it was, she couldn't help but chuckle gently and smile at him, and she did not miss the flash of surprise and uncertainty that registered in his dark, bitter eyes. She patted her ponytail fondly. "I do admit it can be rather distracting. It obviously takes someone with a good work ethic to ignore such unsightly distractions, don't you think? Perhaps that's an area that we all have room in which to grow," she said. She made her tone kind and gentle, smoothing her expression into one of calm concern and nicety.
Simply because she knew it would piss him off.
As if he knew that she was purposefully needling him, and recognizing the laughter around her eyes that he'd gotten acquainted with on their walk through the halls, he made an effort to relax, though one of his eyes twitched. She allowed a small smirk when he sent her a charming smile. Though she often struggled to read him, she could tell he was battling with both anger and amusement, much as he had during their interactions a few minutes ago.
"You're absolutely right, of course," he said smoothly. "I will certainly endeavor to pay better attention next time. As you said, maintaining a good work ethic is something that we students could all improve upon."
"Quite right, quite right," Professor Binns said, looking between the two as they smiled at each other from across the room: he on the left side, towards the back, and she on the right side in the front row. "And what was the main cause of this very necessary law?"
Both Tom's and Hermione's hands flew up. They looked at each other once again, and shared a secret smile. She instantly hated herself for it, but pushed her self-loathing back to the darkest corners of her brain.
"Mister Riddle, please enlighten us," Binns said.
"Persecution of wizardkind by muggles, sir. Most notably the Salem Witch Trials in the American colonies."
"Very good, Mister Riddle. Ten points to both Slytherin and Gryffindor, for not only correct answers but also healthy, amenable interactions between rival houses. May you be an example to others," the ancient professor said. Though he seemed to be pleased, there was very little change on his face – he just looked old and bored, as usual.
Hermione very purposefully did not look at Tom for the rest of the class, though she could feel his eyes slide over her form in a slithering caress that had her stomach tied in knots. She could also feel the hum of his magic, though he kept his aura concealed, much like she did. Still, she was now attuned to it. During their interaction in the hallway, when he'd threatened Draco and her emotions spiked enough to dispel the containment of her magical aura, she'd touched his magic with her own and was immediately both taken with it and disgusted by it.
If Tom Riddle's magic had a color, it wouldn't be black like she had expected. It was rather like a mottled mixture of very dark green and purple. The color of a basilisk's scales next to an eggplant (an odd comparison, she thought, and she giggled to herself; never would she have used "basilisk" and "eggplant" together in the same sentence). And though there was plenty of darkness and, she would admit, blatant evil, there was also something conflicted about it. Perhaps it was because of his split soul; or perhaps it was because he did have something of a conscience – or at least the shadow of one – and was struggling on where to draw certain lines. For example: she doubted that this Tom Riddle would be able to kill a defenseless child. She would bet money on it, actually. After feeling his aura with her own, even for such a short time, she just knew that there were still lines that he refused to cross, though they were certainly few and far between.
But the fact remained that they were there. Those lines existed. Perhaps they weren't entirely solid, and some of them surely wavered, and she knew eventually they would disappear altogether as the man became the monster – but they were fucking there. She could use them.
She was slightly overwhelmed, however, by the pure raw power that he held. Hermione had power. Hermione knew people with power. But no one she'd ever met had had the sheer force that Tom Riddle possessed. Albus Dumbledore was very powerful, she knew. Harry's magic, after he'd learned to really embrace it, packed a huge punch. Her own magic, especially with her rightful wand and Fawkes' odd presence in her body, was a force to be reckoned with. But nothing could ever compare to the power of this one man.
She hated to admit it, but it frightened her with its intensity. Not in the sense that she was fearful of what he would do to her with that magic (what could he do to her now that could trump what he'd done to her in their future? Nothing. There was little he could scare her with now); she was simply afraid of the overwhelming magnitude of it. It also excited her. She had felt it. It was spectacular, and addictive, and she couldn't wait for the opportunity to arise where she might get to touch it again. She was ashamed that she felt this way, but try as she might she could not stamp down her greed for it.
This is why people always said that power corrupted. Because it did. In any form, even those thought to be benevolent, power could become an out-of-control monster that destroyed all around it. And while pre-war Hermione would have sniffed in disdain and claimed herself above such a thing, post-war Hermione was very aware of just how susceptible to it she was. She was mature enough at this point in her life to admit to her shortcomings. No one could claim to be unaffected by the dark draw that the promise of power seemed to emit. And while Hermione might be less inclined to fall prey to its allure than some others – Voldemort, Dumbledore, Grindewald – she would not, could not, claim to be a saint either. She would have to watch herself. Within a week she had been exposed to a very high concentration of power: with her pink ivory wand, Fawkes' magic melding with her own, Dumbledore's sudden renewed presence and now Tom Riddle's incredible magic. It was a lot to take in at one time, and she would have to be extra careful not to get carried away.
But it wouldn't hurt to get one more brush with his magical aura, would it? Surely not. Just once more, and then she would cut herself off.
Right.
oooo
"She. Said. What?"
Edmond cringed, trying not to cower in fear. He knew how Tom hated displays of weakness from his followers, and that applied to while in his presence, as well. He often said that he was well aware that they were all afraid of him (as they should be), but anyone who wanted to be in his circle better get used to feigning bravery, because he'd be damned if any of his friends were weak, spineless fools.
Edmond swallowed. "Primrose said that she'd heard from Felicity Carmichael who heard from Virginia Abbot who heard from Temple Bones who heard from Misty McGill who heard from Iris Fawley that you might be…gay."
Rosier snarled from the corner. "That we all might be gay, Lestrange," he said, his scowl ferocious. "For each other. Bloody ridiculous. Not that there's anything wrong with that."
Tom fumed. "And Fawley was the start of this absurd rumor?" he said, his voice tight and seething with anger. Edmond did his best to not look away from those compelling dark eyes. Contrary to what many people thought, Tom's eyes were not black. They were a very, very, very dark bluish-greenish-grey – like the color of the sea during an evening storm. Sometimes when they caught the light they would glimmer with color. But most of the time they just looked black.
And sometimes, when his Lord was really angry, Edmond would swear that he saw a flash of red among those flinty depths.
"We're not sure whether it was Fawley or one of her roommates or all of them together," Mulciber said, perching casually on the edge of the chair in Tom's Head Boy suite. He looked relaxed, unfazed, indifferent; as he usually did. But Edmond knew him well enough to see the tightness of his jaw and the flash of anger in his olive green eyes.
Tom sat down stiffly on his couch, looking around at his followers. "Why do I get the feeling that Fawley isn't the mastermind of that little group?"
Dolohov snorted, using a small knife to clean underneath his fingernails. Edmond thought it made him look especially menacing. "Probably because she's not," the Brit of Russian descent said. "Fawley might be a manipulative little cunt, but she's not smart."
Thoros shook his head. "Give her some more credit," he said, looking oddly uneasy. "She's smarter than she looks. However, I agree that Fawley isn't the brains behind the monster that is the Gryffindor's girls dorm."
Rosier still sat over in the far corner, looking like he wanted to strangle a small creature. Avery sat next to him against the wall, eating an apple and looking like he had not a care in the world. Nothing ever seemed to bother Conan, though. He was as unshakable as the moon and as slippery as a fish. He did not seem in the least bit fazed by the implication that he might be attracted to men.
Not that there was anything wrong with that. Edmond couldn't care less if someone was gay or straight or somewhere in between. That hardly mattered. It wasn't something people talked about. It was personal.
But Edmond still did not appreciate the slight against his masculinity, nor did any of his colleagues, it seemed.
"McGill, Limpley and Sapworthy are little gossiping nightmares," Thoros said. "Perhaps it was them."
"No," Rosier said curtly. "It started in the seventh year dorm."
"Granger," Tom said.
Edmond froze. For some reason, the Granger girl made him uncomfortable. He wasn't sure what it was, but he couldn't help but feel threatened by her. Intrigued at the same time. She was…different…than most girls. That was apparent.
Rosier snorted. "The new girl?"
Dolohov looked over at Tom with a cool gleam in his black eyes. "I heard that you were seen escorting her to class earlier today," he said, his mouth quirking up at the corners. "My Lord," he added as an afterthought.
Tom's eyes flashed. Edmond wondered if he knew the extent to which Dolohov envied him. Probably. There wasn't much Tom didn't know.
"She was lost," Tom said, shifting in his seat. "However…I learned a bit about her during our walk in the halls together." He looked over at Mulciber. "Tell me Ambrose, how do you feel about Hermione Granger?"
Edmond watched, both entranced and horrified, as his friend became faint and began to sweat profusely. His hands clenched and unclenched, and his eyes looked terrified. The muscles in his jaw spasmed as if he was in pain. His eyelids blinked away moisture.
"My…My Lord?" Mulciber said shakily.
Tom snarled in an uncharacteristic display of emotion and looked around at his followers. "Like I said, I spoke with Miss Granger in the halls this afternoon. I got an idea of how she managed to turn one of my most talented and most consistent friends into a sniveling wimp at the mere sound of her name."
"I was wondering what that was all about last night," Thoros said, leaning forward in his seat. He grinned. "Did that pretty little slip of a girl get the jump on you, Lestrange?" he said to Edmond.
Edmond scoffed. "I've never interacted with the girl," he said.
"You were Obliviated, Edmond," Tom said, his jaw ticking. "She used the Cruciatus on Mulciber and then Obliviated both of you."
Edmond paled. "But My Lord…how can that be?" He swallowed. "She's a woman." How could a witch have disarmed him and taken his memories so easily?
"I have a feeling that she is a little more than that," Tom murmured, steepling his fingers and resting his elbows on his knees. Tom looked around the room. Edmond and his classmates looked back, waiting for direction. What to do about the girl that had more skill with a wand than any witch should have? What to do about the girl that could cast the Cruciatus curse on a fellow student? What to do about the girl that turned her nose up at age-old school rivalries, crossing house boundaries where few, if any, had gone before? What to do about the girl that challenged Tom Riddle in class, called him by name, and got away with it?
What indeed.
"I want you to watch her," Tom said, slowly. "In classes, at mealtimes, walking in the halls with her little Gryffindor friends. Bribe other students if you need to, and Obliviate them afterwards. I want to know what she talks about, who she talks with, how she takes her tea, what bloody perfume she wears." Tom stood, tucking his hands in his pockets. "And the first person who can tell me exactly what her relationships with Dumbledore and his fucking phoenix are will be rewarded handsomely."
Edmond took note of the gleam of interest in Rosier's blue eyes. Gavin had an unfortunate habit of wanting things he couldn't have. While he was handsome enough to charm many a girl into his bed, he hated it when he was rejected – notably by girls from other houses that were above tumbling into bed with a Slytherin jerk like Gavin Rosier. As such he had a nasty penchant for using the Imperius curse on the handful of girls that didn't take kindly to his advances.
Edmond found the act despicable. Gavin liked to say that he was simply "helping those girls in the right direction." Edmond called it rape.
"However."
The boys all froze. Edmond's dark eyes snapped to his leader, pulled from his thoughts of his amoral classmate. Tom looked pensive. "None of you are to engage with her, besides when you might find yourself working together in a class. And she cannot know that you are following her. Is that understood?"
Rosier frowned. "Exactly what do you think will happen if she does, My Lord?" One golden eyebrow was raised in the sort of skepticism that would likely get Rosier killed one day. Edmond knew that it was not a good idea to underestimate someone, even if said someone was a witch. He'd already made that mistake once, it seemed, and now Mulciber was a sweaty mess because of it. He would be far more careful in the future. He'd leave the foolishness to Rosier.
Tom smiled, seemingly to himself more than to them, and Edmond was surprised to find that it was bordering on…fond. Odd.
"Well, I'll leave that up to your imagination, Rosier," he said silkily, walking towards the stairs that led up to his bedroom, a clear dismissal. "But I wouldn't be surprised if you found yourself, I don't know…turned inside out, or something of the like."
"Turned inside out?" Conan said, speaking for the first time all night. His voice was soft and hoarse.
Tom's smile was slow and wicked and entirely too genuine for Edmond's taste. "Yes, Avery. Quite literally."
Edmond could not help the nervousness that bubbled in his gut as he walked through the portrait hole and out into the hallway. He just had a bad feeling.
A very, very bad feeling.
And it had nothing at all to do with the rumor going around that he was gay.
Not, of course, that there was anything wrong with that.
oooo
Fifty points to the house of whoever spotted the Seinfeld reference. (Come on, all my fellow Ravenclaws!)
I know this is a short chapter, and not a whole lot happens in it, but the next couple of chapters will be pretty eventful. Thanks to all those who are still hanging in there!
Giraffe :)