The second the elevator opens, Hermione contemplates leaping out of the wheelchair and making a desperate waddle for the door.
Ding. Get the fuck out of here.
But she doesn't get the chance.
Lestrange attempts an ambush in the lobby.
She clacks up with all the bureaucratic decorum of a reptile terrarium, her curls wilding furiously about her head.
Her shriek echoes off the hospital entrance's cool, glassine surfaces.
"Show me the marriage certificate, the parental release papers for a non-emancipated minor!"
Tom stops Hermione's wheelchair in the center of the laminated floor and leans against the handles. Unhurried. He gives her a diplomatic smile.
"All the pertinent documents are available in public records," he says dismissively.
That's right bitch, pull your own damn paperwork.
The clacking stops short and Lestrange's magenta mouth bobs open and closed. She blinks like a broken slot machine.
With a squeak, Tom rolls Hermione past her troubles and on to the exit. To freedom.
But she can't resist swiveling around in her seat.
Fuck you, bitch.
Hermione flips Lestrange the bird, her tongue sticking out.
"Manners, Mrs. Riddle," Tom murmurs, sounding entirely pleased.
The automatic doors whisk open, revealing a black Lexus SUV parked on the curb.
The glossy, unblemished door reflects her face back at her as he opens it.
Mrs. Riddle, though. Damn.
The acid bubbles back up her stomach.
How? How had he done it?
Was this permanent, or just a trick to get her out of a jam?
"Easy," Tom croons, helping her out of the wheelchair.
He tut-tuts scoldingly as she tries to climb on her own into the Lexus' delicious leather interior.
The temperature is a perfect 73, the expensive-smelling air against her fearstained skin like a breath of "you're fine now."
Her cashmere sweats slide against the seat—yes, he had one of his household staff bring her something to change into: a cream silk cami with a long cashmere cardigan in heather grey and matching track pants. All perfectly, suspiciously her size.
Hermione sighs and clicks the seatbelt in place, baring her teeth at Tom when she spots him leaning in like he wanted to do it for her.
Creep.
Tom gets into the driver's seat and she remarks,
"Where's the Bugatti?"
"I wanted something comfortable for you," he says, turning over the ignition. "We'll go pick out something more suited to car seats when you're off bed rest."
He winks at her.
A full-on, cute boy wink with dimples; his stupidly wavy hair falling about his eyes.
Her heart flutters like an idiot bird, and worse, the tiny wings in her belly patter with the sound of his voice filling the interior of the Lexus with its bassy warmth.
They hop onto the freeway and Tom weaves them through traffic with the commanding steadiness of a man who has never doubted the priority of his destination over the other travellers'.
"I'm sorry," she says, her tone laced with sarcasm. "You're talking about car shopping as if we're actually married. And I agreed to no such thing."
"Of course." Tom nods. "Well, I could hardly allow that deranged social worker to cart you off."
"Then why didn't you just ask me what you could do to help?"
"Hermione," Tom says, lips slanting lopsided, "I know you would never have agreed to the methods necessary to keep you safe. You're too…"
He trails off and Hermione laughs acerbically.
"No, finish. Really. What am I?"
For a quarter of a second, he glances at her, and she knows that look. He sees her the way her own soul lit up when the lambda method clicked into place in her brain.
Her chest tightens. She's his calculus.
And he knows her.
"You have too low an opinion of your own needs and wants," he says softly.
"That's ridiculous," she scoffs.
"You enmesh with other people and take them on like a project," Tom presses. "And you let them eat up all of your time and your…" He waves his hand in the air. "Your physical room until they're crushing you."
Anger pinks up Hermione's neck.
"That is such a cruel thing to say!" she snaps. "Of course being a good person looks pathological to a self-centered asshole like you!"
Tom's mouth twitches with amusement but he stays focused on the highway.
"You mentioned that you fell yesterday," he says, his voice dropping.
Deadly serious.
"I can't imagine a clever girl like you would just happen to have an accident worth feeling so guilty about."
Hermione's throat closes.
Her exit flies by.
"Wait," she says. "That's my turn."
"Not anymore."
"Tom!" Her voice shrills. "You can't kidnap me!"
"Alright, tell me somewhere else to take you." He speaks with a harshness that makes her skin prickle. "I'll bring you anywhere you can safely stay: on bed rest, and without garbage falling on you!"
Tears of shame flood her eyes but she looks out the other window so he won't see.
She can't afford her own place. And she could never stay with Harry and his evil relatives, nor Ron with his sweet, but over-abundant ones.
Under the fine layer of silk, she watches her belly blip with the edge of a shoulder or heel. It's not just herself to think about anymore.
With a hard swallow, she's ready to bargain.
"What do you expect of me? Tell me what you're getting out of this."
A curious light flickers in his dark eyes.
"I get the privilege of caring for the woman carrying my child. And I get Hermione Granger," he says through a polite smile, glimmering at its edges with victory, "as much of her as she'll give me."
Oh, is that all?
A prickling flush swarms across her skin. The warmth of his voice drips with poison honey; God it would be so fucking good to be cared for, just once.
Careful, Granger.
"You'll get very little of me," she huffs. "And mostly my bad moods since I'm stuck in bed forever now."
"Two weeks."
"And I won't have sex with you," she blurts. "If the condition resolves, or whatever."
Tom smirks up at the road, his lips parted, the tip of his tongue resting rakishly on the corner of his mouth as he makes a hard right turn at an intersection.
Her clit pangs just looking at him.
"You absolutely will have sex with me, of your own volition," he says. "I wouldn't force such a thing. But I won't have to."
Heat flashes in every corner of her body.
"Ass!" she bleats. "You p-presumptuous, pompous motherfucker!"
He smiles sweetly.
"Exactly."
Hermione would laugh if she wasn't so angry. And aroused.
"Ugh, you're impossible. I should have gone with that crazy social worker bitch."
Tom chuckles.
"Well, I'll admit there's a certain charm to that wild hair, but she'd never fuck you as thoroughly as me."
Hermione bites on her lip to keep from letting out any hint of the ridiculous smile threatening to split across her face.
The Lexus stops at a wrought iron gate and Tom hits a button on the dash, propelling the thing open.
A tall ivy hedge hems one side of the driveway. On the other side, an endless lawn stretches out toward an enormous, modern Frank Lloyd Wright style dwelling, built into the hillside overlooking the Puget Sound.
The driveway ends at an eight car garage, an environmental nightmare, Hermione decides by way of nursing her jealousy.
Oh, but wait, if he really did file all their marriage paperwork, it was all hers too.
For now. He probably already forged her signature on an ironclad prenup.
Whatever. She doesn't need his money.
"Carefully now," he chides, holding her arm as she clambers out of the Lexus.
"I won't break!"
He replies quietly,
"You nearly did."
She allows him an arm under her shoulders. The moment they step out of the carport and into the kiss of afternoon sun, a whisper of brisk, salty air breathes up from the bay and toys with her curls.
"God, that's nice," she sighs.
"There's a balcony in our room."
She bristles.
"I'll have my own room."
"Fine." He shrugs. "I figured as much."
Hermione keeps up that aloof facade, even as they step into a vaulted entryway leading down into a sleek living room with crisp, cubist lines. She breaks character to steal a greedy look at the kitchen—not for its top-tier appliances and slab granite everything, but for its glorious, gargantuan fridge.
Fucking yeah.
A staircase leads up to the second floor, where Tom opens a set of double doors.
"Here we are," he brings her to a California king floating with a lofty, eiderdown bedspread.
She can't resist flopping onto it, sinking deep into the enveloping yes of things made to be enjoyed.
Tom makes a satisfied noise and begins lowering a few shades to temper the afternoon sun blaring in through her floor-to-ceiling windows.
"I had your things put into this room already," he says idly, gesturing at the walk-in closet.
She raises her head off the bed.
"You went by my house and got my things?"
He blinks twice.
"No."
Hermione sits up quickly, heart pounding.
He has things for her.
Already.
Before yesterday.
"Tom." She grows cold. "Why do you have things for me? Clothes in my size?"
He snorts.
"So that you would have something to wear when you lived with me."
Okaaaay… creepy, but…
"Why were you at Malfoy's last night?"
He pauses.
Tom drops the blinds lever in his hand and crosses the room, sinking onto the edge of the bed.
He speaks calmly, Mister Matter-of-Fact.
"I had the police find you in a compromising location, which would trigger the social worker to effectively remove your mother's home as an option for you to live."
Hermione thinks she might pass out again. She fixes on a single point until the sparkles around the edge of her vision clear.
Her words come out choked,
"And was hurting me part of your plan?"
"Christ…!" Tom turns away, cursing. He comes to the edge of Hermione's bed where she's curled up and kneels by it like a prayer.
"Hermione, that was never supposed to happen," he says, sounding hoarse. "I swear. I meant to bail you out of jail, I had my lawyer on standby to get them to drop the charges."
For all Tom's insane fuckery, at least he sounds truthful.
He could have lied about it.
Played the good guy.
Why the fuck should he get points for that, though?
She's too overwhelmed and tired to deal with this shit.
"Let me sleep," she says, rolling over on the bed.
Away from him.
"Do you want—"
"Nope. I need you out of here."
Tom gets up, with a rustle of bed linen. He crosses the room and hesitates. No telling what he's thinking as he casts a final glance at her before shutting the door.
But Hermione doesn't give a fuck.