"Fuck."
Hermione will kill him.
Stone dead.
She holds the hallway in suspension like chaos frozen in time.
He recognizes the cranked-up song from the other end of the hall, but only because the chatter and the whining hinges have fallen silent.
...She's got a body like an hourglass, it's ticking like a clock...
She swans through the parting sea of reactions. Chin up. Devil-can-fuck-himself.
And there it is.
(This is what really gets him.)
Right there, set above her rude little skirt, framed by her casually knotted button-down...
...the pearl of naked, glowing skin.
His trophy.
Anger floods him like a steaming plume of heat.
A textbook slips out of his fingers and bangs against the metal locker on its way to the floor.
... But God, does it feel so good, 'cause I got him where I want him now...
His heart is punching through his ribcage.
This is outrageous—a gross abomination! Strutting through the school like that.
He should have snatched her up sooner.
He should have locked her up.
He should be unwrapping her every night in the heathered dark of his bedroom, drinking in the sight of moonlight shimmering on her. Measuring her growing breasts and belly with his lips. Holding her down and licking her cunny until she screams.
Hermione Granger, you wicked, wicked little minx.
He would punish her for this.
Severely.
...but I wear the biggest smile...
Her hips sway as she passes, her skirt splashes against the juicy curve of her ass, her legs caught up in fishnets.
Two dark-clad lackeys trail behind, glaring out from under their feathered fringes, snarls fixed on their lips like perfect little soldiers.
Potter shoots him a murderous glance. Well, good for him; "the boy who finally gave a shit about someone other than himself."
But Hermione doesn't bat an eye in Tom's direction. Not even the ghost of a cold shoulder.
Ambivalence.
And that is something Tom Marvolo Riddle will not stand for.
She's headed straight for AP Calc but he stalks down the opposite hall, doubles around and cuts her off.
His Sperrys come to a halt in front of her, the confident breadth of him blotting out all escape like a black hole. He looks down into her precious, wrathful face, consuming her feisty spirit like a dying star.
"Leave me alone, Riddle." She juts her chin at him.
They have fewer spectators here, only a few scoffing junior varsity dolts and a wide-eyed freshman. Weasley and Potter stare daggers through their heavy eyeliner.
He slows the thudding in his temple and speaks softly; sweetly menacing.
"You are subjecting my flesh and blood to the derision of our school, and I will not allow it."
She laughs bitterly.
"You don't own me, and besides, your opinion hardly matters."
Little bitch. He wants to tell her his rights under Washington State law, but she'd only just think of a counter-statute. And besides, arguing is no winning strategy. Not with her.
Up close, she smells like the luster of summer on golden skin. He can almost taste her lushness, dripping from her flowering pussy.
No. Debates will not do.
He smooths his movements. Fingers raking through his thick waves, shoulders square and looming over her. The pitch of his voice drops.
"I can take care of you," he says. He's almost close enough to touch her.
Her pink mouth draws apart; pupils seize with darkness and a touch of red creeps up from where the curves of her breasts meet to strain against buttons.
A little closer.
A warning growl issues from one of the sycophants.
"You'll have everything you need, Hermione," he murmurs, stepping into the inch of warmth hovering around her body.
Her brows pinch with conflict, lip trembling.
"I promise."
And he's there, his jealous palm skimming down the side of that perfect, blossoming swell.
It's softer than he imagined.
"Back off, Riddle!" Potter barks, shattering the moment.
It takes all the strength Tom has not to deck the pompous bastard, scoop up Hermione onto his shoulder, and carry her home, ass over tits. What a perfect end that would be to her naughty little exploit.
Instead, he pulls away, knowing the cold air now replacing the heat of his hand has left its own memory on her sensitive skin.
Indignation stains Hermione's cheeks.
She collects herself with a haughty roll of her shoulder and a,
"Stay away from me!"
He lets her pass, Weasley and Potter practically snapping and hissing at him as they go.
Fine.
He can let his cherished have her parade of shock and awe for now. He's patient.
Always patient.
A glance at the clock tells him there's still ten minutes to AP Calc.
Tom steps into the school counselor's empty office like he belongs there.
(Who would question the class president, rowing and debate captain, and most definitely—almost assuredly valedictorian?)
The phone burrs in his ear.
He leans back in Ms. McGonagal's desk chair.
"Yes, hello," he says. "I'd like to report a mistreated child."
It's not that Hermione expected the day to go well, she just wanted it over with.
But, as usual, Tom spoiled her mood and now she sits in calculus, a fluster winding around her clit. She squirms in her desk chair, sweat gathering in the palm of her pencil-clutching hand and trickling to her wrist.
She watches the back of Tom's bent-forward head, his glossy swoops of hair moving with his quick note-taking.
Normally, he'd glance every so often at her reflection in the corner: the dead monitor of the giant TV strapped to a cart. But today, Homecoming King is all eyes forward and crisp notes.
He touched her.
Her quim clenches.
It was possessive and sweet and creepy and… fuck. It felt safe.
Ugh, are you for real, Granger?
She bites the end of her eraser and tries not to think about the twist of his gorgeous face while spending between her legs. Shiiiiit.
The day isn't over yet.
When she marched into class earlier, Mr. Lupin had paused over his desk. His mustache twitched once but he said nothing—besides calling on her twice when the rest of the class was lost in Reimann integrals.
"Very good, Miss Granger," he said, turning back to the white board without so much as a second look. Fucking bless him.
The rest of the class couldn't fathom that kind of discretion.
She'd counted on the disgust and schadenfreude, the whispers and notes left on her desk, "whore, slut."
Completely unoriginal.
Hardly worth noting.
What she hadn't expected is the outpouring of toxic kindnesses: the efforts her classmates went to quell their own discomfort at the sight of her.
"Hermione…" Lavender Brown sweeps up to her desk after the bell rang, her ringlets bobbing anxiously. "We have an old bassinet in the attic from when I was a baby and well, it's dusty and broken but I'm sure with a coat of paint…"
Parvati Patil jumps in,
"Hermione, you look so good, girl! My older sister had a baby—oh but of course, she's married—and she got so hideous!"
"Are you avoiding caffeine?" Cho Chang asks.
A hand reaches out toward her exposed bump and Hermione jerks out of her seat.
She snatches up her backpack, giving the swarm of piranhas a feral look.
Fake cunts.
Ron meets her at the door.
Throughout the morning, false well-wishers and gather around her between classes, mostly to leer or pour out their condescensions.
Exhausting.
But the real fuckery doesn't descend on her until lunch.
"Oh, shit!" Harry stops short as they enter the cafeteria.
Hermione's throat grips like a fist.
No. No no no…
Across the two large columns, visible from every table, a sign had been hung.
FUNDRAISER FOR HERMIONE'S BABY, Friday January 8
Acid floods her stomach. She might hurl.
The letters were decorated with cloying pastels, pink and blue. Pictures of pacifiers and strollers were printed on neon cardstock and pasted at grotesque angles. A hackneyed lampoon.
Ron wraps his arm around her.
"'Mione, let's just go, you can have my lunch in the hall."
But Pansy Fucking Parkinson blocks the exit.
She flounces toward them, wheedling,
"Hermione! You are so brave showing your face here like this!"
Harry and Ron freeze like mannequins, dumbfounded. The noisy lunch room seems to grow quiet with stares.
Pansy clasps her manicured fingers together, her pink Juicy Couture tracksuit shhhing with each malicious step closer. Her shining high pony and long bangs sway with the sympathetic tilt of her head. False lashes flutter.
A homicidal buzz starts to ring in Hermione's ears.
"I'm assuming you made the sign, Parkinson," she says, holding her ground.
"It was no trouble, the whole yearbook class is helping put on the fundraiser. We hope the entire school can understand just how much you have to overcome, Hermione."
Her lips spread in a carnivore's smile.
"You're an inspiration," she says, the pitch of her voice rising in an affected quaver.
Ron looks like he might interrupt.
But he doesn't get the chance.
Hermione's knuckles meet Pansy's snub nose with a sick crunch.