London, England
1936
A man named Dumberton – or something like that – comes to take Tom away.
Hermione listens through the door to Tom's room, pressing her ear against the glass cup she's got there and struggling to make out conversation. She hears Tom say I'm not mad! and something about the new kid Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson, too. She bites her lip, listening harder.
What if Dunderbore is one of those crazy shrinks? What if he makes Tom go to some horrible hospital, to strap him up and do evil things to him?
They'll have to escape.
She can make a plan. She's smart. She'll think of something. And with Tom, a boy slippier than quicksand and just as fast, there'll be no stopping them-
Footsteps approach the door and Hermione leaps away, grabbing her sponge and bucket and pretending like she's been scrubbing the perfectly clean floor all along. She tries not to look up when Dumblyore steps out, but can't help staring when she sees his vibrant purple suit.
"Miss," Dudlemore says, and she freezes. Reluctantly, she looks up to see the man staring at her with twinkly blue eyes. She blinks. "I believe you are supposed to scrub the floor with that sponge there, not the bucket." He beams.
Hermione frowns, looks at her cleaning instruments – which are in the wrong hands doing the wrong things – and she flushes, mumbling oops and fixing them quickly. She thinks her catastrophic hair has turned red from all her blushing. Doomblere chuckles and moves right on along.
As soon as he's gone, Hermione springs up and dashes into Tom's room.
"What'd he say?" she gasps, hands dripping with soap-water and thick hair practically crackling. She shoves a frizzy, itchy tuft out of her eye. Tom is sitting on the bed, staring at something in his hands, and he momentarily lifts his head to look at her. She rushes over.
"You don't have to go," she says quickly. "They can't make you. I mean, I think they can't. I read a law book once and you can get a lawyer to defend you, you know. It'll cost a bit of money but I'm sure we can scrape something up if we look around–"
"I got in." It's just a murmur.
Hermione stares at Tom, confused. "Got in what?"
"The…the school." He's looking at her, but he's not looking at her really. His eyes are shining right through her – seeing something she cannot. "They accepted me. They gave me a scholarship and I'm going there next month, to–to–to-" He can't finish in his wild excitement. He's grinning big. He's in awe.
She doesn't get it.
"Tom, what d'you mean?" Hermione asks, frustrated. Tom's eyes clear and he looks at her. Really looks at her.
"I mean," he says lowly, in a fierce whisper, "I've been accepted by the Hogwarts Institute of Fine Arts."
"Oh." She's surprised. Then it sinks in and she's thrilled. "Oh, Tom! That's amazing. But how? I mean, how did they know about your art?"
"I don't know." He stares down again, at what she now understands is an acceptance letter. "Professor Dumbledore says he's seen me drawing out and about though. You know, when we go into the city…" he trails off, and he's gazing into the distance again, eyes glossy and faraway.
"Tell me more," Hermione says, snapping him out of it. "What're you gonna learn there? Where is it?" She remembers when she went to a girl's charter school, in a time that feels very far away from now, and is endlessly happy for Tom.
That feeling diminishes when he tells her Hogwarts is a boarding school.
"I'll be back for holidays though, I suppose," Tom says, reading through the letter he's already read twenty-six times in the past hour and frowning in thought. "Or at least, I'll be back for summer vacation. That's what it says here anyway-"
"That's it?" Hermione says, horrified. She feels cold. She feels like someone has dumped a big ice bucket all on her world, making things slippery and topsy-turvy and…and ruining absolutely everything.
Tom looks at her, still grinning. Seeing her expression, his smile disappears. "What is it?" he asks, scooting over to her across the sea of papers that have come out of a thick manila envelope stamped with the Hogwarts crest and now lie all over his bed. He tugs one of her hands free, intertwining it with his. "What's wrong, Hermione?"
"I…" She hesitates. She doesn't want to tell him. To be a bad friend. "Nothing. Never mind."
Tom scowls. "You know I hate it when you don't tell me things. Tell me the truth."
Hermione sees the dark look in his eyes, sighs, and does. "It's just, what am I going to do without you?" she finally finishes. "I don't have any other friends here and I'll be all alone-"
"You don't need other friends," Tom says immediately. He puts his head on her shoulder and uses the full force of his angel eyes to rid her of any doubt, with a syrup-sweet smile to boot. Hermione finds herself melting like a popsicle in the middle of July. "Besides, I'll send you letters all the time," he promises. "You won't even know I'm gone."
Hermione frowns. She isn't so sure about that.
Tom's breath tickles as he whispers into her ear, softly. "Be happy for me, Hermione. This is meant to be."
The months, as predicted, pass very slowly. Hermione goes to Sunday services at the chapel with the other orphans and sits in the pews alone, reading along as directed. She eats by herself in the eating hall (Martha wouldn't sit with her when she asked and neither would anyone else, for some reason) and no one besides Mrs. Cole ever talks to her really. She marches with the others during bomb shelter drills. She spends a lot of time reading in the makeshift library.
She's very lonely.
Tom sends her letters, like he said he would, and she learns all about Hogwarts through them. He tells her how wonderful everything is there, how new everything is, how many people there are. She knows all there is to know about the whacky professors, the classes, the students, his friends and his enemies. Tom says he has so much to tell her when he gets back.
She counts the days until he does.
And then, at last, Tom returns.
London, England
1947 – present
Hermione is stocking shelves when she notices a man looking at her.
He's tall, with broad shoulders and burly arms under his sports jacket. He's rather cute too. All blonde curls and blue eyes.
She averts her eyes hastily, moving onto the next aisle to look for a display she can fix. She finds one quick and makes a beeline to it. She tidies the strewn necklaces and color-coordinates the earrings the way Madame Pomfrey trains all her employees to do. She reprimands herself for being such a chicken.
A minute or two later, the man from before walks into her aisle. He looks nonchalant. He pretends to examine a selection of scarves and she watches him curiously, distracted by the dimple in his cheek. He sees her looking and smiles.
Hermione looks away so fast her neck cracks and she blushes hard, because she's being an idiot. Because she's letting him rule her life still, even though she hasn't seen him in over six years. Because she's afraid every time a man her age looks at her.
Working as a seamstress in a store that strictly only receives female customers has always fit her perfectly.
But, for some reason, there's a man in the shop today.
Stop it, Hermione berates herself. You're being stupid. You can talk to men.
Before she can lose her nerve, she spins around and pastes on her best what-can-I-do-for-you? smile. "Can I help you, sir?" she says springily. Like nothing would please her more than to help people pick what color underwear best suits them.
It's all about being artificial in this business, she reflects.
The man blinks at her optimistic beaming and scans her, briefly. He grins. "Actually, yes." His voice is very deep. Hermione crosses her fingers behind her back. "I'm shopping for Mother's Day, but I haven't got a clue what to get my mum. Maybe you can help me out?" His smile is definitely flirtatious.
Hermione opens her mouth to reply, to say yes readily, but…
She can't.
Paranoia hits her on all sides, crashing and tormenting and making her swallow thick. Questions she's spent years shoving into the darkest corners of her subconscious come rolling in like waves. What if he sees? What will he do? The man will be hurt for sure. Tom hates it when boys look at her… He hates it when others touch her… She doesn't need friends. All she needs is him, him, and no one else ever-
Stop.
The memories evaporate, along with the terror. Hermione breathes a sigh of relief and thinks to herself, I'm not a child anymore. I am a full-grown adult, independent and deserving. I am not irrational. I am in perfect control.
She looks up at the man, whose smile is faltering now, and she helps him find some lipstick for his mother. His name is Cormac McLaggen. While he browses through the different brands and shades, she finds herself looking over her shoulder more than once.
As expected, there's no one there to look out for.
London, England
1937
He's a bit taller. And he talks different, like a character from a Dickens or Jane Austen novel. So Hermione starts talking that way too, which isn't too hard since she reads so much 19th century literature anyway. He tells her awesome stories. He makes her laugh and smile and envious and awed all at once.
She's really missed him.
It's picture day and the fourth day since Tom's come back when… trouble starts up again.
They all stand in line, each waiting for their turn with the photographer behind the black screen, and most of the boys – who are much wickeder now – put the tiny mirrors they've been given on the black-and-white tile floor, angling them with their toes so they can look up the skirt of the girl standing in front of them. Hermione is worried someone might look up hers at first, but Tom takes care of that by bunching her skirt in a fist and holding it while they wait in line.
Not that anyone would dare to peek at Hermione Granger's knickers when Tom Riddle is around.
It's almost her turn. Hermione peers into her little mirror and tries to smooth down some of her horrible frizz without success for a few minutes. She meets two dark eyes in her mirror and grins. Tom grins back.
But then his face goes sour.
What's wrong? Hermione frowns and turns around, to see what he's glowering at, and gasps when Tom's fist connects with the face of the boy behind him with a crunching crack. It's Peter Kowsakowski, who hits the ground solid and cries out while Tom yells above him in a shrill scream: "What are you looking at her for?"
Everyone's staring. Peter, who's crying on the floor, grabs his bleeding nose and cowers. Tom's unreachable in his blinding white rage.
"Don't you ever – ever – let me catch you looking at her again, filth," he hisses, kicking him hard in the ribs. They all flinch at the blow and kids start shouting, 'fight, fight!' "Or else I swear to God I'll tear you apart and really make you scream-"
"TOM RIDDLE!" Mrs. Cole screeches, coming down on them like an avenging angel. She's furious. "What the devil are you doing? Have you gone mad? Come with me, right now. Jennifer, wash Peter off and get him an ice pack."
Tom scowls and Mrs. Cole gives him an evil look, pointing one shaking finger down the opposite corridor, away from the photo op. He shuffles down, and Hermione and the others look on, stunned. All of them jump when Mrs. Cole whips back around.
"What're you all looking at, eh?" she demands. The children immediately spin the other way. "And you, Hermione, you come here as well."
Hermione gapes at Mrs. Cole. She's in trouble? But she hasn't done anything. She never does anything!
"Don't give me that look, get going," says Mrs. Cole sternly, starting down the hall again. Hermione follows, well aware of the many eyes on her and catching up to Tom quickly. She sends him a worried look. He doesn't meet her eyes and glares ahead of them, balled fists shaking and hunched shoulders rigid.
"Stop right there," the matron behind them finally calls, and they do, turning around to face her. Mrs. Cole puts her hands on her hips and scrutinizes them.
Then she asks it. The question.
"What's happened here?"
"Peter was-" Tom begins, schooling his handsome features into a Mary-and-Joseph-innocent mask, but Mrs. Cole shakes her head and points. Points at Hermione.
She gulps.
"No, no, not from you, Tom," Mrs. Cole interrupts. "I want to hear the story from Hermione here. I know she'll tell me what's really happened."
Tom scowls.
Hermione squirms.
"So, dear," Mrs. Cole says, in a controlled, kind voice. "Can you tell me what's happened just now?"
Hermione is staring at her matron in frozen horror when Tom sidles up just behind her, bending his mouth to her ear. "Lie," he whispers. "Tell her he was trying to look up your skirt and that I stopped him."
She bites her lip. It's a good idea. But it means lying to Mrs. Cole. She doesn't want to do that.
She doesn't want to be a bad friend either.
"Come on, Hermione," says Tom impatiently. "Do it now and make it good."
"Well, Hermione?" Mrs. Cole raises both eyebrows expectantly. "I'm waiting."
When the lie passes Hermione's lips, finally, Tom squeezes her hand. In encouragement. In approval. He smiles at Mrs. Cole, who is red with fury and telling one of the helpers to get the paddle for Peter.
Hermione remembers Peter's broken nose and knows she hasn't made the right choice.
Tom chuckles quietly.
The summer with Tom is a rotation between Sunday service, trips to the seaside and their secret pool, and stolen outings to art museums. The first time they sneak off, Hermione is nervous about being caught, but Tom gets them in and out easy. Mrs. Cole is none the wiser. Tom's sketchbooks fill faster now.
Tom draws the Last Judgement by Michelangelo into his sketchbook. Every other minute or so, he squints at his picture and his face screws up in displeasure as he chews the nasty-tasting eraser of a pencil. He's concentrating. Hermione asks why he's copying the artists.
"I'm not copying," Tom corrects, squinting at Guernica. "I'm learning through repetition. You learn from the Masters."
"The Masters are the earlier artists? Like da Vinci and the rest?" Hermione guesses.
"Yes." Tom erases something, then fixes it with a swift stroke of lead. "And Professor Merryweather says I should practice my observation drawing."
She nods and retreats back to her side of the bench, where they both sit back-to-back. She's cross-legged with a large tome in her lap. He's long-legged and sprawled about carelessly, with a sketchbook and pencil in-hand. They're inseparable.
Tom likes it that way.
Hermione sees a group of children pass by, laughing and pointing at the artworks. They're having fun, all of them. They goof off. They giggle at the pictures of naked women. They're like a big family.
Hermione moves closer to Tom, wishing he'd let her have other friends.
Moody comes back.
Hermione hasn't seen the oddball retired police officer in nearly two years, so to say that she's surprised when Mrs. Cole shows up at the eating hall with the trench-coat-donning man in tow would be a complete lie. She's stunned.
"Hermione," Mrs. Cole calls out, over the chaotic jumble of shouting and laughter. "Hermione, come here please!"
Tom frowns. "Who's that man?"
"It's Moody." Hermione stands up, excited and grinning. She knows why he's here. He's here to take her back, back to her Mum and Papa. They've gotten back together and they regret everything they've done. They want her back. They're going to send her to school. She's going to have everything she's lost again.
"Come on," she says eagerly, hurrying to Mrs. Cole and Moody with Tom close behind. "You'll like him. He's really interesting."
Tom nods, but he doesn't look convinced.
"Hullo again, missy," says Moody, once they arrive, and he holds out a clawish hand for her to shake. She shakes said hand happily. "How're you these days?"
"Good, sir."
"Good." Moody rolls back on the balls of his feet, looking a good deal uncomfortable, and his glass eye fastens onto Tom, who is holding her hand possessively and trying to hide her behind him. He raises two bushy brows the color of yellow rust. "Who's this here, eh?"
"Tom." Hermione smiles at the boy in question, who is watching Moody with suspicious eyes. Tom has successfully gotten her behind him. She stands on her tip-toes and peers over his shoulder at Moody, beaming. "He's my best friend." And he can come with us when I go back to my parents, she thinks. All Mum and Papa have to do is sign the papers.
"He is, eh?" Moody nods, extending a hand Tom shakes firmly. Moody eyes him. Tom eyes him back. "Righto, chap," he says at last.
"Yes, yes," Mrs. Cole interrupts hastily. "Ah, Moody, perhaps you would like to speak to Hermione somewhere…private?"
Moody looks even more uncomfortable at this. It's an odd expression on him: uncomfortableness, Hermione observes. His chin sinks into his flabby neck like it's trying to disappear and his glass eye kind of whirs around, like the needle of a clock gone kooky. He does indeed look very uncomfortable.
"Er, well, yes, I suppose," blusters Moody. He stamps his wooden leg and jerks his shy chin at the double doors leading out of the cafeteria, marching off abruptly. Mrs. Cole tells Hermione to go with him.
"Wait one second, Tom Riddle." They both turn around, to see their matron clucking her tongue and waggling a disapproving finger at them. "I didn't say you needed to go. This is Hermione's business, not yours."
Tom pouts. "But she needs me."
"She'll be just fine on her own, dear."
Tom changes tactics then, putting on his angel eyes and giving Mrs. Cole a miserable look that would make the Devil weep with pity. "Please, Mrs. Cole? I promise I won't bother anybody."
Mrs. Cole sighs. "Now, Tom," she lectures. "Hermione needs to do this on her own. You can see her later, alright?"
"But-"
"Off you go, Hermione, my dear." Mrs. Cole clamps a firm hand on Tom's shoulder, to keep him from going after her. "No, no, you're staying right here with me, Mr. Riddle."
Tom hisses like a spited cat.
Hermione glances back at her irate friend, concerned, but then the doors swing shut and she goes after Moody. He has news for her. Tom will have to wait.
When Moody finally decides the outdoor, sad-looking courtyard is better than all the other places they've paced and hastened through to tell Hermione her news, he has her sit down. She wonders why – how can she sit down when she's so excited? Is sitting supposed to help her somehow? Or does it just make him less uncomfortable? – but she does anyway, because Moody looks like he might keel over at any moment.
The squirming man goes back and forth before her in sharp, stern steps. His right wooden leg clunks against the sidewalk heavier than his left one.
Just when she's getting a little bored, Moody stops and gruffly says, "Missy."
"Mr.," Hermione replies.
Moody looks surprised at this, then shakes himself and continues, "I have some news for you. It is not of the most pleasant kind, but in a way, it is, because it's all about the way you look at it. I hope you look at it in a sort of happy way, but I understand if you don't, because you are very young and may not learn to look at it in a happy way until you are much older. Do you understand?"
"I suppose."
"Good." He nods, then starts pacing again. He stops. "Well damn."
Hermione frowns. "What is it, sir?"
"I'm not very good at this."
"At what?"
He hesitates. "At…at informing you that your…" There must be something large and painful in his throat, because he swallows thickly and goes a little purple in the face. Hermione watches him curiously. Moody gathers himself.
"My dear… Your… your mother has passed away," he says at last.
Hermione doesn't understand at first. Then, her heart goes heavy and the world narrows until all she can see is Moody's glass eye, jumping around and bouncing like a nervous chipmunk. There is something large and painful in her throat now. She stops breathing.
She is sure the world has stopped spinning, too.
She doesn't really hear the rest of Moody's words. He talks about funerals and deeds and other morbid things. About Heaven. About God's forgiveness and suicide. Hermione thinks he says her Papa is still missing. It doesn't occur to her to wonder how Moody found out her parents haven't really been dead all this time.
And then Moody is gone and Mrs. Cole is there, trying to reassure her, but it doesn't work so she leaves and comes back with a little handsome boy. The boy sits down beside her in the empty courtyard and puts his arms around her, laying his head on top of hers and rubbing her back. Never saying a word.
A tear slips out of her eye. It's different than the usual tears. This one means more somehow. It isn't shed because she's scraped her knee or because Eric Whalley said something stupid about her hair.
It's because she's never going to see her parents again.
For real now.
She cries into Tom's shirt and he holds her while she cries, for hours and hours. Until the blue sky turns grey with rain clouds and she can't cry anymore. Until she lies against him, feeling small and empty and abandoned. Orphaned.
"It'll be alright," Tom murmurs, petting back her thick hair. She won't pull her face out of his shirt. "It's alright." He rests his cheek on her head, smiling. He likes holding Hermione. He likes the way she clutches him like she has no one else to hold onto. Like he's the only one in the world. "You've always got me, Hermione."
She sucks in a shuddering breath. "Really?"
"Really." Tom kisses her sticky cheek and licks his lips. They taste salty. Hermione watches him with big, sad eyes. He stares at the different shades of brown and the ring of yellow around her small pupils. They're tiny dots in a whole vat of caramel. He wonders what sort of paints he could use to make that color. To capture the miserable wetness in her eyes.
Hermione closes her eyes and starts sobbing again before he can figure it out.
London, England
1938
Tom returns from art school handsomer and taller. He does his hair a different way. His voice is deeper. He tells Hermione stories about Hogwarts and the girls he's kissed there, about Professor Slughorn who teaches ceramics and about all his different studies. He doesn't just draw anymore, but paints and inks and sculpts out of the wet sand on the coast during their monthly trips to the seaside.
Over the year when Tom was gone, Hermione had started to sneak off to the big city library and check out books there. Mrs. Cole doesn't notice the novels she now carries aren't from their makeshift library. If she did, Hermione doesn't know what she'd say. She's not a good liar like Tom.
In the museum, Hermione looks up from Through the Looking Glass and peers over Tom's shoulder, trying to catch a peek of his picture. Before she can though – like always – Tom swiftly flips the cover of his sketchbook down and smirks at her, cocking a brow. "Can I help you?" he asks.
She pouts. "Why won't you let me see it?"
"Because it's not finished." He turns back to the object of his attention, Madonna & Child, and studies it. "It has to be finished before anyone can see it."
Hermione sighs. "Alright, alright." She wriggles back over to her side of the bench, resting her back against his and reopening her book. Her head comes to just between his shoulders. He really has gotten taller.
Sometime later, Tom leans his head back against hers and sighs. "Your hair is like a pillow."
She scowls. "Shut up."
He sniggers.
"Are you done yet?" she says curiously, twisting around. In response, Tom offers her his sketchbook. She takes it, noting that his long pale fingers are tinged black on the tips from charcoal. She examines the picture and then gives it back. It's extraordinary, as always.
Tom stands up, pulling his messenger bag over his neck and slipping his supplies inside it. He holds out his hand to her, a silent command she knows well now, and she slips her hand inside it. He twirls their fingers together and tugs them toward the exit, where the critical whispers and strolling observers of the art museum are traded for busybodies on the city street. Hermione sees a kiosk selling drippy ice cream and her stomach growls. Tom catches her hungry look.
"Do you want some?" he asks, nodding at the vendor.
"Yes." She bites her lip. "I wish we had some money."
Tom grins like Peter Pan. "Money? What do we need money for?"
She looks at him questioningly, but he's already let her go and is weaving through the buzzing crowd to the kiosk. She watches anxiously. What if Tom gets caught? What will she do then? What will she tell Mrs. Cole?
She wishes she never said anything.
Minutes later, Tom returns, two strawberry ice creams in hand and a smug smirk plastered to his handsome face. People look at him curiously as they pass. But then again, Tom has the kind of face you look twice at.
"Here you are," he says regally, like he's a knight presenting the head of an evil dragon to his queen. Hermione frowns.
"You stole that?"
He shrugs.
She bites her lip. "You shouldn't have done that. It's illegal. You could get into trouble, you know-"
"So? You're the one who wanted the damn thing," he says, annoyed, and Hermione winces at the curse. She stares at her ratty shoes.
"Take it, Hermione."
She shakes her head.
Tom glares at her. "Are you saying no?"
Hermione darts a nervous look at him, then glances away hastily. She nods slightly.
Tom steps closer and she's afraid, afraid of what he'll do and what he'll say. He can be mean when he wants to. Scary. "You can't say no to me," he declares quietly.
She looks away.
"Look at me."
Hermione won't.
"Stop being so stupid," Tom snaps. "Just take the damn ice cream, won't you?"
"You stole it," she repeats. "I can't."
Tom stares at her. Waiting for her to take it back. To beg him for forgiveness. To fall back into his arms and accept that she's in the wrong.
But she doesn't.
"Fine," he hisses and throws both ice creams on the ground. He stomps on them and kicks them and says nasty things to her, slicking his feet all on the sidewalk until the summer treats are nothing but dirty slush and cone crumbs. He shouts at her. He yanks at his hair and roars like a rabid animal. Hermione's lip quivers.
"What are you crying for?" Tom spits, seeing her tears and sneering. "You're the one who made me do it. You wanted the blasted, stupid, god-damned ice cream!"
"Why are you acting like this?"
"I said stop crying." He storms back over to her and she does, abruptly, but that doesn't stop him. Tom grabs her cheek and pinches it hard, twisting the skin harshly. She shrieks. "When I tell you to do something," Tom snarls, "you do it. Got it?"
She nods quickly, eyes watering.
"Good." His narrowed eyes slowly calm and he lets go of her cheek, which feels raw and bleats painfully. Hermione sobs miserably and cups the purpling skin. "If Mrs. Cole asks about that, you fell, alright?" Tom says quietly.
Hermione nods.
They walk back to the orphanage in silence. Hermione wants to be far, far away from Tom and his mean fingers. He's hurt her. She never wants to see him again. She hates the way he holds her hand so tightly. How his fingers twist through hers like they belong there. How handsome he is.
"Hermione," the boy himself says softly.
Hermione glances at him, sees his angel eyes, and looks away fast. No, he can't make her like him again. No, no-
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean it. You just made me angry."
She frowns.
"Hermione."
Her eyes almost stray to him, but then snap away quickly. She can't look. No, she can't-
"Please forgive me, Hermione." Tom stops them outside the back door to the orphanage and gives her beautiful, earnest eyes. They're deep and creamy-pure like dark chocolate, with long straight eyelashes any woman would kill for. The eyes of an angel. Hermione's breath catches just from looking at them.
Tom sees her expression change and smiles slowly, victoriously. She tentatively smiles back and he hugs her. She melts against him. He's sorry. He won't do it again.
So she'll forgive him.
"You know I didn't mean it," says Tom, resting his forehead on hers and whispering. "I'd never hurt you on purpose." Hermione nods, because she believes him. Because Tom's voice is so sweet it makes candy canes look sour.
Because he's got her heart in his faery fingers.
It's sweltering hot in the chapel. The pews seem closer together. The lot of them look like grey wax figurines, melting in the heat and panting their verses back to Reverend Richard. He preaches at them as if he thinks he's the holy prophet. Hermione is pretty sure he does. Tom is bored again and he slouches down in the bench so Mrs. Cole doesn't see him doodling pictures of serene-faced angels on the Bible. It's blasphemy, technically.
Looking at his drawings though, Hermione can't help thinking that Tom makes blasphemy look beautiful.
She doesn't give a start when Tom abandons his doodles and moves onto the next object of entertainment, which is her – naturally. She's used to it now. She knows why the other children won't hang out with or talk to her. She knows what Mrs. Cole calls her when she drinks gin with the helpers in her office.
Tom Riddle's living doll.
She's used to it though. Or so she tells herself.
So Tom dances his long fingers up and down her stocking-clad leg, playing with the pleated folds of her skirt. They're all dressed in Sunday-best: a grey blouse and grey skirt for girls, a grey dress shirt and grey slacks for boys.
Tom somehow looks rather dashing in the dreary garb.
He keeps his eyes on the Bible balanced between them, mouthing the verses and scooting closer to her. It's blistering hot, but Tom feels cool as still water. She knows because he traces his fingers along her spine, under the back of her blouse where no one can see. Sometimes he does it absent-mindedly, but then there are other times when he touches her just to see what she'll do in response. He toys with her. She's his little experiment.
Hermione sighs and continues chanting, more loudly. If Mrs. Cole sees, she'll think it's Christian passion. But it's really just her trying to ignore Tom.
Tom never gives up though.
He smooths down the waistband of her skirt a bit, skimming his nails along the perspiring flesh there. He traces the ridges of her spine, pressing deeper, tugging the fine hairs for kicks, digging in to get her to jump and squirm. He grins triumphantly when he feels goosebumps break down her back. Hermione snaps at him and Mrs. Cole whips around, hawk-like eyes scanning her charges vigilantly. Tom slips his hand out of her shirt just as the matron finds them.
Seeing nothing amiss, Mrs. Cole slowly turns back around.
Tom whispers in her ear. "What made you shiver?"
Hermione tries to ignore him. He asks again.
"The nails," she says at last, quickly, and resumes the reading with a blush on her face. Tom chuckles. He goes back inside her shirt, to lazily scratch her back with his nails, and she shivers again. It's hard to concentrate. He knows she likes it best when he rubs her back and soon he starts to, making her eyes flicker. She feels drowsy in that sleepy cat way, in a way that makes her want to curl up under the sun and take a nap.
Tom slides his hand around to her soft stomach, tracing the delicate flesh there. Hermione giggles when he tickles her. An elderly man sitting in front of them slowly turns around and sends her a withering death glare.
The service is over.
Everyone congregates to the vestibule, to the gentler air outside, in a slow shuffle. As she and Tom join the line of duckies that Mrs. Cole leads, Tom twirls his fingers through hers and makes sure she doesn't bump shoulders with the other boys. He doesn't like it when other people touch her.
Only he is allowed touch.
They're in the art museum again.
Hermione puts down Jane Eyreand looks around, wondering why Tom is taking so long. He said he had to go to the loo twenty minutes ago. She goes searching for him.
Walking through the museum and exhibits she knows well now, Hermione doesn't pause to reflect or examine as she tows along. She finally finds Tom inside an in-construction exhibit, hidden behind a dusty tarp in an empty corner of the vast showroom. She hurries over, but then slows when she sees he isn't alone.
There's a girl here.
Hermione freezes, watching Tom and the girl bend and twist messily. The girl is pretty and looks to be a year older than him. She giggles and laughs while they French kiss. Hermione blushes, because she knows Tom kisses other girls - he's told her so – but seeing him do it is another thing entirely, and it makes her feel strange. Like she's on the outside. Like she's been forgotten.
Tom opens his sleepy eyes from behind the girl's wavy golden hair and sees her watching. He blinks. She bolts.
Hurrying away, Hermione curses herself. Why did she have to stay and look? Why did Tom have to see her? Oh, this is so embarrassing…
Slapping herself down on the bench, she finds she feels quite put out.
Tom comes back.
He sits down and picks up his sketchbook and pen, like nothing's happened. This makes Hermione angry. She turns on him. "Your hair looks like a rat nest," she states unkindly, then whirls back around and pouts at a Berlin.
Tom frowns at her, fixing his hair. "What's your problem?"
"Nothing," she says waspishly.
He blinks at the sharpness in her tone and cocks his head, trying to get her to look at him. But she won't. She knows he has his angel eyes on and she's not falling for it. So Tom tries to wriggle his hand into hers, but she snatches it away and crosses her arms, hiding her hands under them. When he puts his chin on her shoulder, like he used to do all the time when they were really little, she just goes stiff.
"What's wrong?" Tom says at last, bewildered. "Why are you acting like this?"
"I'm not acting like anything."
"Yes you are." His eyes slant into jaguar slits. "Why are you lying to me?"
"Why do you have to know everything I'm thinking?" she snaps.
Tom's expression goes dark. He looks around at the people surrounding them. They're not paying attention, so he sneaks his faery fingers up to her neck and pinches her hard. She yelps. He twists hard and tears spring to her eyes.
"You're being rude." His voice is strangely soft for all the fire in his eyes. He whispers in her ear. "Apologize."
"N-no."
"Hermione," he warns. "Apologize or else I'll make you regret this."
She juts out her bottom lip, giving him a miserable look. His eyes narrow further.
"I'm going to count to three." He sounds like Mrs. Cole. Hermione scowls at him. "One… two… two-and-a-half…"
"Sorry."
He raises a brow. "What was that?"
"Sorry," she spits again, nastily.
He eyes her and unsnaps his fingers from where they're cinched around her flesh. She rubs the tender skin, moaning softly. It's going to bruise. She'll have to lie to Mrs. Cole again.
"Let's go," Tom finally says, with a strange little smile. "You've ruined my mood."
I don't care, Hermione thinks, but she doesn't say it. She doesn't want Tom to pinch her again. She has half a mind to pinch him.
But that would be dumb.
And Hermione is anything but dumb.
Tom Riddle is everything but sweet.