The devil ain't got no power over me. The devil come, and me shake hands with the devil. Devil have his part to play. Devil's a good friend, too... because when you don't know him, that's the time he can mosh you down. –Bob Marley
The high-spirited man may indeed die, but he will not stoop to meanness. Fire, though it may be quenched, will not become cool. –Ovid
I'll speak for myself, but there's a lot of humor to be found in sarcasm and darkness. You talk to any paramedic, they survive by developing a pretty off-kilter sense of humor. –Nicolas Cage
Fever 'cause I'm breaking
Fever got me aching
Fever, why won't you explain?
Break it down again
Fever got me guilty
Just go ahead and kill me
Fever, why won't you explain?
Break it down again
-"Fever" by the Black Keys
oooo
Friday, August 13, 1999
Number 12 Grimmauld Place
"If you ever undermine my authority out there again – "
"Oh come off it, Malfoy, they were going to kill Nev – "
"I don't CARE who they were going to kill!" Draco bellows, throwing his crystal tumbler into the fireplace. The firewhisky in it makes the flames flare up.
Granger shrinks away from his anger, her eyes going wide.
"They're always trying to kill ALL of us, Granger!" the blond continues, exasperated. "Every single goddamn one of us has a giant fucking X on our back. We are all marked for death. The only way we survive is that we communicate, we work together, we draw out plans and each play our part. We do NOT go off script and pull some stupid Gryffindor shit where you rush in to save the fucking day like some goddamned hero! You abandoned your post – you left your partners behind to save your friend and you think it's commendable and brave but it fucking ISN'T, it's reckless,and selfish. In trying to save one person you nearly got the rest of us killed. Wake the fuck up, Granger. This is a military operation. You are no longer out in the world with just Weasley and Potter, the Golden Trio, making shit up as you go along, flying by the seat of your pants and relying on dumb luck to pull you through. You are in MY world, now, and under MY command, and when we are out in the field and you are working under MY plans and with MY people then you will follow MY orders. Which means that if I tell you to shoot, you shoot. If I tell you to duck, you duck. If I tell you to run, you run."
He is breathing hard, his eyes pale and terrible in the low light of the fire. "You're a good fighter, Granger. One of the best. And you're an incredible leader. But you aren't always the boss. You aren't always the commanding officer. This was my mission, and when you decided to play hero you almost blew the whole thing. I'm glad it worked out, and that Longbottom is alive. You pulled it off. But you left the rest of us in the lurch, and if it hadn't been for Ron's quick thinking we would have all been dead. Longbottom included." He scrubs his hands across his face, feeling bone-weary all of a sudden. "Go apologize to the rest of the group. You're grounded for the next two missions."
Tears of shame streaking down her face, she nods silently and leaves, brushing her fingers against his wrist in a silent apology. When she is gone, Draco turns. "I was too harsh, and I'm sorry. I know she's your wife, but – "
Ron Weasley holds up one large, freckled hand. He leans casually up against the doorframe, his trousers mud-stained and his hair wet from the rain. "She needed to hear it," the redhead says quietly. "It's a good chance for her to learn. Hermione's a proud creature. I love her, but her ego and her sense of righteousness can sometimes make it difficult for her to see. You weren't too harsh. Not for her. She needed that."
Draco sits heavily at the kitchen table. He blinks the blur of exhaustion from his eyes. "When did you grow up, Weasley?" he asks, marveling at the wise words of his not-quite-friend. He and Ron will never be friends, though. It's just how it is.
"About the same time everyone else did, I expect," Ron says, taking a sip of whisky and sitting down opposite Draco. "None of us ever really had a choice, did we?"
"No," Draco says bitterly, thinking of his own lost childhood. "We didn't."
It is minutes later before Weasley speaks again. "I know how you feel about her, you know."
Draco's blood runs cold. "Pardon?"
Ron snorts into his drink. "Don't play dumb, Malfoy. As much as it pains me to say it, it doesn't suit you."
He swallows. When Ron's cornflower blue eyes come up to meet his own silver gaze, he looks away hurriedly, mortified. "And?"
"And I want you to do something for me."
Draco narrows his eyes at the redhead he'd once loathed. "I don't follow."
"If anything happens to me," Ron says. He does not elaborate. It is not a question, nor an open-ended statement; it just is. He lets it linger in the air for a moment. "Look after her."
His brow furrows. "Surely Potter – "
"Oh I know," Weasley says, cutting him off. "I know Harry will always have her back. But…" He pauses, staring at the peeling, faded wallpaper. "It's different, when you love someone. When you are in love with someone. There's a sort of franticness about keeping that someone safe. It's different from what you feel with a parent, or a sibling, or a friend. It goes deeper. While I know Harry will look after her, and that he loves her more profoundly than anyone knows, he has a bigger mission. He has so much on his plate. But you – you're naturally selfish," he continues with a smirk. Draco's lips quirk at the corners; he isn't wrong. "You'd keep her safe no matter the cost. You'd look out for her first, before anybody else. You aren't fickle enough to sacrifice this entire operation – the fate of the wizarding world – for her, but there isn't much else that you wouldn't sacrifice to keep her safe. To you, there'd be nothing or no one more important than her."
He looks into the man's blue eyes and understands. He understands. He remains silent. Words are not needed.
"And if ever she were to…move on…" Ron trails off. "You would be good together. You and Hermione, I mean," Ron clarifies needlessly. He swallows. "If she gets to a place where she is ready to move forward with someone else, you better snap her up quick, Malfoy. There isn't much of anyone better suited for her."
Draco literally cannot keep his mouth from hanging open. "I – you – what?"
Weasley rolls his eyes and stands, knocking back the rest of his firewhisky with a wince. "I'm not repeating myself. It was painful enough the first time. Just…" He sighs, and puts his glass by the sink. "Goodnight, Malfoy." When he gets to the door, he turns back. "And go take a shower – you look like hell."
He scowls and makes a juvenile face at the redhead's retreating form. When Weasley has disappeared up the stairs, Draco goes to the cabinet and pours himself another glass of whisky to replace the one he'd chucked into the fire so recklessly.
Fucking temper tantrum, he thinks sourly. I've been around too many Gryffindors for too long.
Staring into the fire, he sips at his whisky until it is gone. Setting his glass by the sink, he climbs the stairs to the room he shares with Terence Higgs. On his way past the library, he nods at Adrian Pucey and his father, who are still awake playing a game of chess; Adrian's leg is in a magical cast, and there is a bottle of Skele-Gro on the table next to him.
At least Draco is not the only Slytherin in the Order. He has Pansy, and Higgs, and the Puceys, and his mother, and Tracey Davis and Niles Hanley and Gemma Farley.
We aren't all rotten, he thinks.
When he is in the shower, he stands under the scalding spray and turns his face up to the ceiling and thinks. He thinks about his dressing down of Hermione, he thinks of Weasley's odd and unexpected request, he thinks of his past and his present and his future.
When he is finished, he is no closer to figuring anything out than he was before.
oooo
"You missed Dueling Club last night, Tom."
Tom cleared his throat and looked to his left. Autumn Rookwood stood there clutching her History of Magic book, her hooked nose turning red and her beady brown eyes staring up at him in adoration that was slowly dulling to embarrassment. The tendrils of his mind invaded her own and, for the hundredth time, he subtly suggested that using his first name was not permitted. Head Girl or not.
Honestly. She was the worst of the lot – she thought that just because she shared the same title as he that they were alike. That they had things in common.
She was painfully dull. As was every other stupid bitch in this God-forsaken school.
Not every one…
He silenced the insidious voices of his brain and turned fully to face his classmate. He opened the door for her, rolling his eyes internally and wishing he could act on the strong urge to Avada the hideous Ravenclaw. Instead, he merely waved at Professor Binns and continued to hold the door open for the rest of the seventh year Slytherins and Ravenclaws.
History of Magic. What a bloody waste of his time.
"I did miss Dueling Club, yes," Tom said, giving the tall, lanky girl a tight smile. "I had other things to attend to."
Rookwood smiled nervously. "I hope you don't feel like any of the things that girl said were true – "
He noticed Bertha Higgs' clear blue eyes subtly shift to their conversation as she scooted out the door and hung back to wait for her friends…time for a little play-acting.
"That girl is my friend, Rookwood," he said, cocking his head. It was an art: being able to sound polite and threatening at the same time. One that he had perfected over the years. "And I'd thank you not to insult her in front of me. Let's not be cruel. It was wrong of me to antagonize her the way I did, and she had every right to defend herself. She made a lot of valuable points."
Rookwood's angular face reddened. "I was only trying to – "
"Yes, thank you," he interrupted, giving her a small smile. "Your kindness is appreciated." He cleared his throat and let the door go after the last student, resituating his bag's strap on his shoulder and straightening his robes. "Enjoy your lunch, Rookwood – I'll see you in Ancient Runes."
He did not wait for her to reply, did not wait to hear whatever asinine response she would come up with; just strode off down the corridor, fully intending on hitting the library briefly before lunch.
At least, that was his intention. It just so happened that he didn't make it to the library – instead he was stopped cold up in front of the boys' and girls' lavatories on the second floor corridor. There were only a handful of people that weren't at lunch at this point, and they all passed by quietly until none but four were left. Curious, he stood in the shadows behind a pillar and watched the scene before him unfold.
Dolohov and two other Slytherins from his year, Alphard Black and Hadrian Flint, stood in the corridor, sneering down at an unusually small Gryffindor first year whose books were spread all over the floor and whose cheeks were tear-stained. A muggleborn boy, if he was not mistaken. Tom smirked and watched on as his three housemates loomed over the little mudblood.
Well, Black didn't really loom – he looked bored, actually, leaning against the wall and rolling his eyes as Hadrian put his hand on the small boy's face and shoved him backwards so that he stumbled and landed hard on his butt. Antonin held the Gryffindor's wand in one hand and his own in the other, and wielded the latter towards the kid, a spell on the tip of his tongue.
He sent a nasty Anteoculatia towards the boy…
…Only to have it bounce harmlessly off of a pale blue shield.
"Picking on first years, Dolohov?" a cool voice said lowly. Tom peeked out from behind the pillar – Hermione Granger stepped out from the girls' loo, hitching her bag up onto her shoulder, her bright wand held loosely in her still-bandaged right hand. "I should have known. I hear it's all you Slytherins are really good for around here: bullying children. And to think," she continued, her voice like ice, "I was almost one of you. Good thing I was able to make the sorting hat see the error of his ways."
She was, as usual, looking rather fit, her hair wild and unbound, her uniform impeccable. Even from his position down the hall, he could see how her eyes blazed with the fire of justice that only a Gryffindor could house.
Suddenly, the humiliation of yesterday returned full force. Oh, how he wanted to kill her. Wrap his hands around her pretty, delicate neck and throttle her; torture her until she begged for death; watch the light leave her eyes as a flash of green light stole the life from her body.
Such a waste, though.
Then an unwelcome flare of furious jealously swept through his bloodstream; he'd seen them this morning – Granger and Mallery – down in the courtyard…he'd seen the way they'd looked at each other, seen the way the handsome blond had brushed his lips so easily against her forehead. He'd noticed the effortlessness of their embrace.
He'd been shocked at how much he'd wanted to kill Draco Mallery in that moment. That had been when he'd realized he was in trouble – that Hermione Granger, in two weeks' time, had scratched her way beneath his skin and now ran, rampant and unchecked, through his veins.
She was a distraction.
"Leave off, Granger," Flint sneered. "This isn't your business."
She grinned. The expression was made far less friendly by the look of cold hatred in her eyes. "I've made it my business. Besides," she continued, buffing her fingernails against her jumper, "what business could you possibly have with a Gryffindor first year?"
Alphard left his station at the wall, walking forward and looking aloof and like he was above such nonsense. Tom noticed that the blue-eyed boy looked disapproving of his two classmates. He also noticed the spark of uncomfortable respect in his gaze – like he new he was in the presence of a much more dangerous creature, and wasn't going to push his luck. "We were just – "
"Getting him to help you with your school work?" Granger inserted smoothly, a wicked smirk crossing her delicate features. "If you need a tutor, Black, I know a few second years that would be better suited for the job. I can talk to them, if you like – get them to help you with your spell-casting."
If Tom hadn't hated her so much, he would be bent over with laughter.
Black's lip curled, but Tom knew the boy didn't favor conflict. He was annoyingly passive, actually. Part of the reason why Tom had not collected Alphard was because the sixth year couldn't commit. Black was charming and roguish and smart, and the best seeker Slytherin had seen in years, but he was no dark wizard, and wouldn't be someone Tom could count on to see something through. He was…soft. Softer than any of the other Blacks Tom had met. His little brother, Cygnus, and younger cousin, Orion, would be better suited to Tom's plans. But they were young yet.
And Flint…Flint was just too stupid for Tom to want.
Alphard turned away. "Very funny, Granger. But I'll just be going. It's lunchtime, and I'm feeling a bit peckish."
Hermione's lips twitched, and she inclined her head at him in farewell. He bowed his head back in respect.
Black was no fool.
Dolohov wasn't either, though he had a sort of confidence in his magic that Black lacked. Antonin was the second best duelist in the school, amongst the students. He was secure in his belief that he could beat her in a duel. And he also probably thought that, with Flint by his side, it wouldn't even be a fight.
Tom was curious to see whether he was right. He did wonder about her abilities…her casting in classes was skillful but nothing spectacular; but he was beginning to think she was faking a certain amount of mediocrity, what with how easily she'd cursed that Russian man to die and how nonchalantly she'd disarmed two of his own followers in the forest last week. Currently, she was looking at his Knight like he was something to eat. Tom could almost see her lick her chops.
Once again, he thought of a cat and mouse, and of the little dark box of pain that was still lodged in Mulciber's mind.
"And you, Dolohov?" she said, leaning over and hauling the young boy to his feet. "Are you going to give the boy back his wand and scamper off as well?"
Dolohov did not reply. He and Flint both sneered.
She gave a long-suffering sigh, and looked up to the ceiling. "Very well." She crouched down to the floor, coming eye to eye with the little muggleborn boy. "Khalid, right? Khalid Amari?" she said gently, straightening the boy's tie with a smile. It was a genuine smile, kind and gentle, and Tom saw it reach her eyes. It was interesting, watching how her expression softened whilst addressing the boy. It was a vast difference from the cold masks of indifference, scorn and anger that he'd seen most often, or even the confident, pleasant, cool countenance she sported whilst amongst her friends.
The boy nodded his head, swallowing.
"Why don't you take your bag and go on down to lunch?" she suggested kindly. She waved her wand, and all of his books and school supplies righted themselves and flew into his bag. "I'll get your wand back and meet you down there, all right?"
He nodded and, without looking back, grabbed his bag and flew off down the hall towards the staircase.
She straightened, and cracked her neck. The sound was oddly ominous. She turned towards Dolohov and Flint.
"I've always loved watching bullies humiliate themselves," she said softly, a smile playing around the corners of her lips. "You don't even need any help. Picking on a muggleborn first year half your size?" She snorted. "It's pathetic." She held out her hand towards Dolohov and looked him dead in the eye. "Give me his wand. Now."
Her voice sent delightful chills down Tom's spine. He shuddered. He saw a muscle twitch in Antonin's cheek.
"Or what, you stupid bint?" Flint sneered, his voice rough and stupid, just like his dumb, brutish face.
She didn't even raise her wand, only smiled at them, looking amused. "Or feel free to find out." She tapped her wand against her thigh, and it drew Tom's eye there, to the smooth skin he'd felt only forty-eight hours before.
Flint raised his wand, but her sharp laugh cut him off before he could say anything. He hesitated.
"Oh no, please," she said mockingly. "Be my guest. Please do it." She took another step towards them. Dolohov's wand was nearly touching her breastbone. "It would give me an excuse."
Dolohov did not move. Flint looked less than certain. "An excuse to what?" the thick boy asked.
"To kill you, you daft creature," she snarled, her hair crackling with orange sparks. "Or at least permanently disfigure you. I'd claim it was an accident, of course. That you attacked first, and that I was only defending myself. The poor little orphaned refugee, you see – only acting on instinct…" She trailed off, her words and intentions ringing out clearly in the silence of the hall.
She held out her hand again. "The wand, Antonin," she said lowly. "If you wish to avoid a duel that you will most certainly lose."
Dolohov hesitated, but brought the little boy's wand up and placed it in her hand. "Perhaps you'd like to test that theory out in Dueling Club on Saturday night," the Russian said, his lip curling up in disdain.
She grinned and swiftly pocketed Amari's wand. "That sounds delightful; unfortunately, I will be out of the country. So it'll have to wait until Monday evening." She boldly put a hand on his outstretched arm and pushed it to the side. She stepped past the pair, looking entertained. "Be careful with your arrogance, Dolohov."
He sneered and turned to look after her. "I could say the same to you."
She chuckled, pocketing her wand and continuing further down the hallway. "I'm not arrogant. I'm confident. I am ninety-nine percent certain that I can, and will, beat you in a duel. That's not arrogance." She turned her head around. "That's fact." She smiled at them. "Enjoy the rest of your day."
After she was finished and had turned the corner towards the staircase, Tom stepped into the light, surprising the two sixth years that still stood there, looking humiliated.
"Riddle," Flint said in acknowledgement, looking uncomfortable. "We didn't see you there."
"Leave, Flint," Tom said with a sneer. "Go to lunch. I wish to speak with Antonin alone."
Tom saw jealousy flash across the younger boy's face for a brief moment, but he obeyed and headed off towards the staircase.
"My Lord?" Dolohov said in question. His inky black eyes were intense and cruel as they always were. There was a spark of mortification in them now, however.
"You were wise in choosing not to engage," he said, motioning for Dolohov to follow him. He would have to hit the library after Ancient Runes – he was famished, all of a sudden, and once again felt a spark of irritation at the knowledge that he was human and therefore had to participate in the mundane practice of eating.
"You were very clear in your instructions not to," Antonin said, his voice soft and gravelly. "I do hope you plan on giving her a lesson in respect sooner rather than later."
Tom's lips quirked. "As soon as the proper opportunity presents itself, yes," he said, looking sideways at his follower. "But a situation like this calls for a bit more delicacy than usual."
"She is a…mysterious woman, it seems," Dolohov said with a sneer.
"Yes," Tom confirmed quietly. "Best to use mitts when handling a hot cauldron, Dolohov," he said, thinking the analogy was especially appropriate. "You will most certainly be hurt if you don't."
oooo
The next two days were torture for Tom. Granger and Mallery both were avoiding him very purposefully, it seemed – Tom had been so sure that Granger would make a move. He'd been so sure that she was craving the same confrontation he was. He hadn't even been able to catch her alone at all; she was always with Mallery or with one or more of her little friends from the new, ever expanding clique that was forming around her – usually Flynn, Peabody, Higgs, Snowborn and Prewett. He'd also seen her down by the lake with the muggleborn boy Khalid Amari, patiently teaching him Protego and Expelliarmus. It was way beyond first year magic, but she seemed to be a good instructor, and the small boy was slowly but surely getting the hang of it.
He'd also noticed a lot of interest on the parts of various boys – Granger, it would seem, had become something of a celebrity. Magnus Macdonald and Colt Diggory were absolutely ridiculous in their pursuance of her, and to Tom's delight it seemed to make her more than a little uncomfortable. It was not the same discomfort she displayed around him: the nervous startled rabbit followed up by the flash of desire followed still by the snarling cornered tiger. With them, it was a genuine "I don't want to be around you" sort of discomfort – not the "you make my heart beat a thousand times per minute" discomfort.
He would admit, knowing he made her feel that way was a heady aphrodisiac.
But even so, he could not stop the odd twang of possessiveness that pinched whenever he saw Nott's hungry gaze follow her as she sashayed away, or the pathetic puppy-dog eyes Macdonald made when he asked her to sit with him, or the way that even Black, after their little interaction in the hall on Tuesday morning, had taken to watching her curiously.
He didn't care for it…and he hated that he didn't care for it. He hated that he cared at all.
He was glad when circumstances finally forced them together – she had agreed to partner with him in Potions, after all, and on Thursday morning he made a beeline for her table, Thoros trailing in his wake.
Raven greeted him with a cool smirk. "Morning Riddle."
"Flynn," he returned with a nod. He liked the dark-haired American. She had transferred in as a second year, and though they had never talked much in the six years they'd gone to school together, he knew that, for a woman, she was clever and magically gifted. He might consider recruiting her…if she were male.
Of course, as he'd gotten older, he'd realized that not all women were magically inferior. Some of them had a good bit of talent and were interested in more than landing a husband and having babies and going to high-society functions. He certainly respected many of his female professors. Professor Merrythought was very sharp, and certainly skilled with a wand. Professor Fancourt had invented the lunascope by age twenty-four – though she wasn't much good for anything other than astronomy, if he were being honest. Professor Rohn was a gifted teacher, and smart. But on the whole, women did not possess the raw power that men did, magically or physically.
It didn't mean that they couldn't be useful, however; or that there mightn't be exceptions.
Either way, he wasn't certain his Knights would be open to having a woman thrust into their midst. Ultimately, of course, it was his decision, who to induct and who to not, but he did try to keep them content.
If one did not feed the dogs, they were liable to turn on their master.
"How are you this morning, Tom?"
Tom was jolted out of his musings and looked to his right, where Hermione had just appeared with her Potions book. Her eyes were bright and cheerful and full of cool humor, as was usual.
"I'm well. And you? It's been a couple of days since we last…spoke." He could not help the tinge of sourness that colored his words.
She winced. "Listen, Tom, about that – "
He waved her away. "Water under the bridge, Hermione. No worries. We all say things we don't mean."
She chortled. "Oh, I meant every word," she said, gathering her ridiculous hair in both hands and tying it up into a ponytail with a Gryffindor red ribbon. Typical. "I just should have taken our conversation to a more…private…location. And been more tactful about my delivery. But, as you say, water under the bridge."
She fluttered her eyelashes at him teasingly, and he glowered. "I'm not so certain, Granger, that it would have ended as a simple conversation had we been in a more private location."
Her smile was quick and dazzling, almost as distracting as the newly bared skin on the back of her neck. She did not say anything in response, just shook her head amusedly and turned to greet Thoros. "Hello, Nott. Doing all right this morning?"
Thoros smiled at her. "Can't complain, Granger. And you?"
Hermione shrugged. "Well enough, I suppose. Are you all ready to start on the Polyjuice? I've already cleared a space with Professor Slughorn to brew – there's an unused office just down the hall that I thought would make a good place to set up shop."
Tom's eyebrows rose. "You certainly move fast."
Hermione shrugged, gracing him with a small smile. "I figured I'd get a head start on the other three groups – this way we don't have to hike up to an upper floor to an empty classroom every day to check on the brew. It's close to the classroom, as well as just a short walk away from the Slytherin dorm."
"Quick thinking," Nott said with a bow of his head. "Shall I start to grab ingredients?"
"I'll help," Raven said. The two brunettes headed off towards the storeroom.
Tom snorted, looking around the room. Many of the students milled around each other, trying to figure out their next steps. "Looks like most people haven't even figured out their groups yet," he said amusedly.
Hermione smirked. "Perhaps they'll have started brewing by the time we get all of ours finished," she said sarcastically.
He snorted in amusement. "Perhaps," he murmured in agreement. "You want to get a cauldron? I'll grab measuring cups and a stirring rod."
"Actually, I have a couple of cauldrons that are better quality than the ones that the school owns. I've already got Slughorn's approval to use them, as long as we don't openly advertise it." She grinned. "He certainly has no compunctions about singling out his favorite students."
"No, he doesn't," Tom said with a raised eyebrow. "But I thought noble Gryffindors were supposed to be above that sort of manipulation. You know, in the interest of being fair and all that rot."
Hermione barked out a sardonic laugh. "Yes, well, life isn't fair. Once I figured that out, I realized that being noble and fair about everything was a futile effort. If you want to do well in life, you use what tools are available to you to get ahead."
Tom looked at her, taking in the flash of her eyes and the stern set of her jaw. "How very…Slytherin of you. Not to disparage my own house – I happen to admire those traits, and possess them in spades myself. Still. I watch you get all soft around the younger students, and I see you help your classmates when they are struggling in classes. Predictable Gryffindor behavior. Not the kind of person I would expect to admit to climbing over other people to make it to the top of the heap."
"Ah, but you see, I never admitted to climbing over other people," she said with a smirk. "I admitted to using my own strengths, manipulation among them, to succeed. I would never trod on somebody else's chance for success. I work hard, Riddle. If I outperform others, it's by my own merit, using my own skills. Do I think it's fair?" she asked rhetorically. She shrugged. "Not really. Everybody is given different gifts. We are not all created equal. If I'm better at something than someone else, I'm not going to feel guilty about it. And even though I have a terrible competitive streak, if someone else is better at something than I am, I'm not going to begrudge them their success. Once upon a time I would have. Then I grew up." She sighed. "I'm going to go grab a stirring rod and tools. If you'll help Raven and Nott carry ingredients, we can all walk together to our designated room."
Tom gritted his teeth and resisted the overwhelming urge to ask her more questions. He wanted to know more. He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted her to be his – to be his to command, his to use…
His to fuck.
And she would be his. He would own her. He just had to be patient.
As he scooted by her to make his way to where Flynn and Nott were exiting the storeroom, he put his hands around her small waist and maneuvered her out of the way, pushing her forward into the desk and brushing his chest against her back as he squeezed by. He delighted in the shudder that pulsed through her body as soon as his fingers encircled her ribcage.
"Pardon," he murmured smoothly, relishing in the flush that crawled up her neck and cheeks. She did not respond, but he heard her swallow. Reluctantly, he let his hands slide from her person and moved away towards the storeroom, not looking back for fear that the certain blush on her face and heat in her eyes might prompt him to do something…foolish. He already felt bereft as the warmth of her body faded.
"Oh, thanks Riddle," Flynn said as he reached out to take some of the jars from her hands. He took a couple from Thoros as well. The boy nodded his gratitude.
When they got back to the table, Hermione was already toting the proper tools, two books and a curious purple bag that looked like it had been to hell and back. "Ready?" she said, faint traces of her blush still clinging to her cheekbones.
"Show us the way, oh fearless leader," Raven said cheekily. Hermione gave her a sassy smirk. Flynn grinned.
Granger turned on her heel and strode out of the classroom, not even looking in his direction once; his lips curved in satisfaction.
It took them less than a minute to reach the office she had reserved for them. It was small and lacked windows, but it had a large desk and enough sconces to provide adequate light. With a simple snap of her fingers all of the torches flared to life.
Nott's eyebrows shot into his hairline at the display of wandless, nonverbal magic. Tom was not surprised; after she'd nearly disarmed him in the bathroom two weeks ago, he'd realized that she had a fair knowledge of wandless magic. Still, fire was notoriously difficult to control, so he couldn't help but be impressed.
They began to set up shop, discussing the best place for everything. Raven looked up sharply. "I thought the two of you were going to take care of cauldrons?" she drawled, raising a disapproving eyebrow.
"Oh! Yes," Hermione said quickly. Immediately she pulled out her beaded purple bag. "Give me one moment." She opened the bag, and immediately stepped down into it. She smiled. "Just put the stairs and a light in last week. I was tired of rooting around in the dark."
Tom looked down after her, but admittedly he couldn't see much of anything besides the quickly disappearing top of Hermione's head. The light inside was muted. He saw some rickety wooden steps, and what looked to be a giant cache of books. Other than that, it was all obscured; only vague, shadowy outlines. He thought he heard the opening of a vault door, and wished desperately to see what was in it.
"I thought undetectable extension spells were illegal, Hermione," Raven called down to her, sounding more amused than anything.
He heard Hermione chuckle as she ascended the stairs. "Yes, well, war-torn China isn't exactly a place that encourages legal practices. Murder is illegal, and there's tons of that going around right now…I hardly think that a simple, rather harmless charm is going to hurt anyone, wouldn't you agree?" She grinned mischievously as she stepped daintily out of the bag. "And anyone who doesn't agree will quickly find their memories unreliable."
The threat hung heavy in the air. None of them said a word against it. Firstly, Slytherins were all about self-preservation, and anyone with a brain could see that Hermione Granger could be dangerous – though to what extent, Tom wasn't sure. Secondly, they were a tight knit group, and knew the value of secrets; they also knew the power of potentially having something to hold over someone's head. Thirdly, Slytherins were generally loyal to their own, and whether intentionally or not, Hermione Granger had settled herself very firmly in good standing with all houses, including, to an extent, the exclusive serpents. Tom wouldn't lie: it irritated him.
With a wave of her wand, the bag closed and shrunk down to the size of his thumbnail – she promptly tucked it into her right sock, and Tom saw Nott wince as he got a glimpse of her scars before she settled the cotton back in place.
She set a heavy seven-gallon cauldron on the middle of the table. Nott whistled and flicked it with his finger. "Solid gold, Granger?" he asked. "I shudder to think about how much that cost."
Hermione raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're filthy rich, Nott. Don't pretend that you couldn't buy a hundred of these without batting an eyelash."
Nott shrugged. "Still. That had to cost at least two thousand galleons."
Hermione frowned. "I never asked. It's Draco's. His mother gifted three of them to him a few years ago – a four-gallon, a seven-gallon and a ten-gallon. I have to admit: they really do improve the quality of the brew. And though I've brewed Polyjuice a million times, and it's really not as hard as people think it is once you get the hang of it, it can still be tricky. Timing is everything, as well as good ingredients and good equipment." She rubbed her hands together. "So has anyone brewed it before?"
"My mother is a potioneer," Raven said. "I used to watch her brew a lot of things. I know the process, but I've never participated."
"A potioneer?" Nott asked with a raised eyebrow. "I didn't think women usually…" He trailed off when Hermione gave him a scathing look.
Raven snorted in amusement and rolled her eyes. "America is light-years ahead of Great Britain…on pretty much every front. England has slid significantly backwards over the last few decades. Wizarding women can be pretty much whatever they want to be in America. Here, the Wizengamot has paralyzed any sort of forward movement."
"Centuries of progress, unraveled in a matter of years," Hermione muttered sourly. "This Wizengamot is a fucking travesty."
Nott, who was still unused to her inappropriate language, blinked rapidly. "My father has some influence in the Ministry. He's always told me that while witches aren't as powerful as wizards, he still doesn't agree that they should be so shut out from job fields, and even politics. There's only one woman on the Wizengamot right now, and it's because the only two living males in the Bones family are too young to take their aunt's place."
Suddenly the air in room became thin, crackling magic stealing the very oxygen from the atmosphere around them. Tom watched, somewhat breathlessly, as Granger's eyes blazed orange for a moment, watched as the hair in her ponytail cracked with little shards of lightning…watched as a ripple of red-orange light flushed underneath the skin of her hands and neck. It was over almost before it had begun, the sharpness of her magic, so tangible he'd almost been able to taste it on his tongue, winking out of existence like it had never been there in the first place.
Flynn and Nott were both staring at her. Hermione blushed, in anger or discomfiture or a combination of the two. "Next time your father says something so embarrassingly obtuse, please feel free to invite him to a duel with yours truly," she said, her voice thick with barely restrained anger. "Not sure if I would win, but I'd sure as hell give him a couple of nasty scars slow to heal. And then when people ask about them, he can tell them that a powerless witch gave them to him."
Nott held up his hands in supplication, but his eyes flashed with an unidentifiable emotion. "All right, Granger. I'm not saying that that's how I feel. Just repeating what I was told."
"Isn't it though?" she said accusingly, a cynical smile curving her lips. "Isn't that how everyone feels in this backwards society? Women aren't as strong as men, not fit to work anything but menial, low level jobs…they might be lucky to be a teacher. And muggleborns have it even worse. Mudbloods, everyone calls them – don't have a good grasp on their magic, don't belong in your special, privileged society." She sneered hatefully. "It's rubbish. Almost everyone I've met since I've been back in Britain is a bloody child about it. Even the adults. I feel like I've been dropped back in time by half a century; and that's saying a lot, because China isn't exactly the most progressive place, either." She shook her head, and her shoulders slumped. "We should get to work on this potion. I could talk for days about this nonsense."
She snapped her fingers again, and a tiny blue flame popped up underneath the cauldron, shaped like a perfect teardrop, its heat only rising upward. Tom stared at it. Clever.
He was still reeling from the flash of magic that she had unleashed. Even now, he watched her skin for signs of the lava that ran in her veins, watched her hair for the shards of lightning that had cracked among the lustrous curls. But everything had gone still.
His own magical aura was thrumming with the energy that she had released. It had been burning hot, blindingly bright…but there was a depth to it that spoke of dark things. Though Raven was working next to Hermione, engaging her in conversation about the Slug Club party that evening, he could tell that his curly-haired housemate had felt it and was equally unsettled. Nott did not let much emotion peek through, but his eyes flickered with discomfort.
"So will they all be this formal, or is it just this first party of the year?" Hermione was asking Flynn. "And how many people will be there, do you think? I've really no idea what to expect."
Flynn responded. "Sometimes they're more casual – the parties often have themes, and Slughorn will make appropriate attire known to us a couple of weeks in advance. The first and last parties of the year are always the largest," she continued. "Twenty to thirty students are invited, and they each get a plus one. So we'll say approximately fifty students. Then others are invited from outside the school, usually thirty or forty: important Ministry figures, people who have made incredible accomplishments in their given fields, recently graduated students who were members of the Club when they were here and are just starting out in the real world."
"Sometimes it's just as simple as having the right last name," Nott added, coming to face them across the table and pointing his wand to fill the cauldron up with water to the halfway line. "While the Blacks have a lot of political influence, many of them are invited simply because their surname is Black. It's as simple as that."
"And I assume the Malfoys will make an appearance as well?" she said, one eyebrow rising in what looked a lot like disdain.
Nott shrugged. "I heard Abraxas was out of the country recently – I'm not sure if he'll be back. But you can bet his father will be there. Father says he and Pollux Black have taken an interest in you and Mallery, and are anxious to meet you."
Hermione rolled her eyes and huffed. "How delightful. And I'm sure the first thing to come out of their mouths will be something pertaining to my tainted pedigree. I'm practically brimming with anticipation." Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.
Raven chuckled. Thoros looked a tad bit uncomfortable. Tom merely stared at Hermione, keeping all traces of emotion from his face.
He would be lying if he said he didn't care about blood status. He did think it made a difference. Muggles were unworthy of associating with wizards; and mudbloods were tainted by their heritage. They did not always fit in with the rest of wizarding society, and from what he had noticed they were rarely able to adapt well enough in the new environment to succeed and become skilled in the art of magic. And it was obvious that it did not come as naturally to them, and that they weren't as powerful. But, like Hermione, he had a general disdain for those who were so heavily entrenched in blood purity that they were blinded to all else. There were many powerful wizards who were half-bloods. And though Tom abhorred the thought of any witch or wizard stooping low enough to breed with a muggle, they often produced healthier offspring than the so-called "Sacred 28"; offspring that were just as gifted as pureblooded children.
Suddenly he remembered her words after breakfast on Saturday morning; when he'd dragged her into a shadowy alcove and then been forced to breathe in the infuriating scent that clung to her skin and hair. He remembered the deadly gleam in her eyes as he'd grabbed her wrist, remembered the way her hands had singed the skin of his forearms.
Come now, Tom; you're much too brilliant to truly hold on to the ideal that excessive, fanatical inbreeding alone intrinsically begets power.
He had always believed that the more magic in a bloodline, the more powerful a witch or wizard would be. He'd always assumed that his relation to Salazar Slytherin was what made him exceptional; that the pure, magical blood that ran through his veins was what gave him his power. But he'd never stopped to think about just how pathetic the rest of the Gaunt family had been: his mother, who was practically a squib with a knack for potions; his uncle, who was as stupid as he was ugly; his grandfather, who he had never met, but had gotten himself locked away in Azkaban for assaulting a Ministry worker, of all things, and then died young in the pathetic lean-to that he'd called a home.
If your mother had ended up fancying her brother instead of the local muggle lord with the pretty face, and they'd had a child together, you wouldn't be as you are now. You'd be little more than a squib, physically misshapen and magically unimpressive, and you know it.
Tom gritted his teeth and grabbed the fluxweed to begin chopping it into pieces. Was it true? Was she right? He listened with half an ear as they continued to talk about the party, mulling the subject of his lineage over in his head.
It was an interesting thing to think about. What was more pressing, however, was just how she knew all of these things. He had taken every precaution to keep people from figuring out who he was; he'd told his followers that his father had been an obscure wizard from France, and his mother was descended from the line of Salazar Slytherin. He'd opened the Chamber of Secrets and released the basilisk within just to prove it. He'd told them that he'd been adopted as a child, but any time they thought to ask him about his adoptive parents they would find themselves…effectively distracted. He was good at planting concepts in other peoples' minds. And so they figured that his real parents were both wizards, and his adoptive parents were both wizards, and they never speculated.
He thought, perhaps, that Edmond knew the truth. Sometimes the way he looked at Tom…well. Edmond was far more perceptive than people gave him credit for. And now that Tom was getting to know Avery a bit more, he wondered just how much the younger boy knew. But Thoros didn't suspect, nor Antonin, nor Ambrose nor Gavin. They followed him because he had insinuated himself into their world, and he fit in. He'd made sure of it. They followed him because he promised them power, and the realization of their dream – a world in which purebloods were in complete control.
Mostly, at this point, they followed him because they feared him. They followed him because they knew he could crush them if he wanted to. They followed him because they could feel his power when he tortured them, could feel his power when he dueled them, could feel his power as he slept and ate and read and put his socks on in the morning. They followed him, because if they didn't, he would destroy them for their abandonment.
If your mother had ended up fancying her brother instead of the local muggle lord with the pretty face…
…the local muggle lord with the pretty face…
…the pretty face…
Wait.
How did she know what his father had looked like?
A new wave of anxiety and anger came crashing over him. It was impossible for her to know. There was just no way that she could know who his father was and that his face had been an exact replica of his son's – almost unnaturally perfect. His father had been dead long before Granger and Mallery had come crashing through space. And no one here in Hogwarts knew what his father had looked like; they didn't even know who his father was. Even if she knew Legilimency – which was doubtful, considering how rare of an art it was, and how difficult it was to master – there would have been nothing to pluck from anyone's mind. And if she'd tried to invade his mind, he would have known it immediately. He was not as good as Occlumency as he was Legilimency, but he was still better at it than most, and if he was good enough to feel the masterfully subtle probing of Albus Dumbledore on the rare occasion that the old man tried, then he was good enough to recognize the attempts of a mere girl – no matter how much supposed experience she might have.
He needed to speak to her. He needed to get her in a position where he could look into her mind, delve into her secrets – because she had secrets. Her eyes were full of them; full of secrets and mysteries and knowledge, so much knowledge – a thousand years worth of wisdom, it seemed. Bitter experience seemed to leak out of every pore; cynicism and pain and a deep, dark anger dripped from her words.
He would probably have to use the Imperius. He was not yet comfortable entering the mind of an unconscious person, and he didn't want to be surprised by any Occlumency skills simply because he was foolish enough to underestimate her. If she caught him in the act and was somehow able to push him from her mind, then she would never trust him; she would distance herself from him, and he would lose his chance to collect her.
No. He would have to Imperio her, and then wipe the experience from her memory, as well as any unsavory knowledge that she somehow had about him. And then they could continue on as if nothing had happened, and his secrets would be safe again.
He could also use the opportunity to affirm her desire for him in her mind, to make her practically fall into his bed –
But no. He considered that rape, and if there was one thing that his conscience just wouldn't stand for, it was rape. He was the product of rape, and any and all curiosity or potential respect for his mother had faded instantly when his uncle had confronted him with the disgusting truth of his conception. He would not stoop so low. Hermione would come to him of her own volition.
Besides…he'd always liked a challenge.
oooo
I know it's a short and rather lame chapter. I'm sorry. I've been struggling with a bit of writer's block. Ugh.
Next chapter will include DADA class, which might get a bit interesting, and the first Slug Club party. It'll be a much longer chapter, and towards the end things will start to really heat up. The first real conflict of the story will start in the next couple of chapters. It isn't hugely central to the plot, but it will set the stage. Get ready to see Hermione…upset. Very, very upset. She's going to get a bit violent and vindictive. And Tom will want to kill her more than ever, but he'll also want to own her more than ever, and the confliction in his mind will only get worse.
A little snippet from the next chapter:
"A shame," Draco drawled as he shook Avery's hand, his voice a perfect blend of forced politeness and I-don't-give-a-fuck. "I would have liked to know how he did it." Hermione hummed in agreement. Tom wanted to snigger at the looks on the three men's faces; equal parts intrigue, disbelief and disgust.
So, get ready for champagne, dancing, Tom and Draco looking very dashing in their dress robes, and a familiar knife that we all love to hate. (Doesn't anyone ever wonder what happened to Bellatrix's cursed knife? Yeah. Of course Hermione kept it.)