Tom Riddle hasn't changed much.

He has the same strong dark brows, confidently posed over full-lashed eyes pretty enough to be a woman's, a heart-like jawline, high rise cheekbones and lips that invite you to listen for days on end. He's made up like a present in a white velvet suit, the pants an inch or two longer than they would've been when he was seventeen. A green silk handkerchief peeks out of the breast pocket. Hermione breathes in and the dizzyingly familiar scent of mint and acrylic paints slams into her chest like a punch.

When she reaches his eyes, she wants to die.

The eyes induce a flash flood of memories. Memories she's tried to suppress, memories that torture her subconscious mind when she sleeps, memories that threaten to consume and drink dry: the good and the bad, they all swirl together until they're homogeneous, racing, flashing, taunting things. What she's tried so hard to block out is rushing back, taking her by storm, shoving ahead, demanding confrontation. It's like being hit by a freight train, slammed into the shoulder by a ton of metalwork and steel beams and steaming hot iron. It knocks the breath out of you, tries to mow you down so you won't get back up, to take over-

"Hermione... you look very pale."

Does she? Well then, she must have been gone for some time, because when Hermione looks up it's to find Tom on the sofa and one of his hands deftly brushing some flyaways behind her ear. She abruptly remembers that this is what he does - no, what he used to do when he was worried about her. But he was never worried, not really. That would imply he had cared.

"Hermione? What is it? Tell me, please. I'd like to fix it." Tom is murmuring into her forehead where he's tucked his mouth, holding her against him, stroking her hair reassuringly. It's a seductive mantra, but backwards - a lion tamer petting his trained beast on the tawny mane instead of striking it - and it makes her head snap back. Tom's hand hovers in the air and he stares at her, hurt - no that's not right - surprised. He repeats, "What's wrong?"

Of course he knows something is wrong, Hermione thinks, still rattled that the monster put his hands on her. Nothing ever gets by people like him. People like him. But that is incorrect, too. There is no one in this world or any other like Tom Riddle. Except, perhaps, the atom bomb.

God, she hates him.

But what she hates the most is how much she missed him without even realizing it.

When it's clear her silence isn't going to end, Tom speaks again. "I missed you." He pauses, gaging her blank stare before making an additional statement. "And I heard you were having trouble."

I've only ever had trouble because of you. The thought is instant, but Hermione only feels...detached. As if she's watching herself from a distance, breathing and talking with the phenomenon of every childhood horror, of every loaded insult and malignant threat, of the first and last kiss, like it's all a dream. It feels like a dream.

This must be a dream. There's no other way.

Tom holds out a hand. It's pale and has too long, tapered fingers that are elegant and slightly alienish. They're too delicate to be on a man, but there they are. His hand asks a question, and there's an endearing wariness in his eyes. Is he afraid? Of me? No, that can't be possible. Her brain can't even juggle such a preposterous concept for more than a moment. Tom Riddle simply does not do fear.

He inspires it.

Suddenly, Hermione feels something shrivel up inside her. Numbness disappears and in its place surges something quite toxic. It feels like bees trapped under her tongue, buzzing and swarming furiously, a heat in her veins that won't stop, rushing into her face and turning it an unbecoming shade of tomato. Her teeth clench and her hands roll into fists and she blinks rapidly to try to get rid of the burning behind her eyes. A clarity bursts through the fog that had previously made her passive, like a break in the clouds, and she thinks how hasn't this happened before? Why didn't she realizeit?

How did she never figure out that past all the fear and the longing she was positively furious?

There's a pause in the swing as the musicians tune their instruments and Hermione glances at the sweating crowd, noticing they're being observed by a small party made up of Cygnus, Pansy, and Crabbe and Goyle. When the onlookers see they've been caught in the act, they hurry to dissipate. She doesn't care. She has been played so many times she hardly feels affected by their intrusion.

"Why am I really here, Tom?"

Tom mulls over his response, but only for show. It's apparent that he's been planning for this for a long time. "To keep a promise, I suppose."

"You suppose?" She sounds condescending, but she doesn't give a damn. Six years werespent without a letter, without a word or sliver of knowledge that he was even alive, and he sent her on this wild goose chase to keep a...a silly promise? She should feel surprised, shocked even, angrier. She only feels a vague resignation however.

Tom smiles faintly. "Yes, you see, I promised to come back for you. I let you try to lead a life on your own, to have the space away from me that you wanted so badly, for as long as you could stand on your own two feet." He spreads his hands. "When you failed, I sent for you."

"'Failed'?" Hermione repeats indignantly. As the pieces she'd already suspected of connection begin to come together, horror and disgust replace the emotion. She shakes her head. "No. That's not possible... Madame Pomfrey... she thought you were someone else, Mr. Malfoy or whomever. She did not deliberately send me to you-"

"She did," interrupts Tom. "Because I told her to. She works for me, Hermione. She has since 1943." At her look of pure bewilderment, he adds, "Someone had to keep an eye on you. How do you wager your paycheck justmanaged to pay the obscene rent for that rotten Dursley family you stayed with, and your living expenses at that? If you'd talked to any of your co-workers, I'm sure you would've found their wage very different from yours, Hermione." He pauses. "But you didn't. You were never very good at making friends, were you?"

It's a low blow and he knows it.

"Now that you're here," Tom goes on, "I need you to make good on your promise to me."

It takes Hermione a minute to respond. She closes her eyes briefly, opens them. "Do you now?" she finally says. "And what promise is that?"

"Yourself."

Well. You'd have to be blind, deaf, dumb and damned to believe Tom Riddle doesn't have nerve. That was for sure. Hermione rubs a hand down one side of her face, choking back a sudden, bizarre spurt of incredulous laughter - or vomit. "Pardon… me?"

"Yes."

"Ah." She nods, like a morsel of this conversation is reasonable. "And you expect I'm going to keep a promise I made when I was sixteen as well. Is that right?"

"No, I don't." He looks thoughtful. "At least not right away."

Hermione struggles for an adequate response that doesn't involve screaming. Meanwhile, Tom examines the open hostility in her expression like it's a half-interesting specimen, his gaze skimming back and forth over her face. The angel eyes are copious, but strangely enough, they have no effect on this burning rage lurching through her veins. After a moment he leans forward, gently touching the inside of her wrist - experimentally. She freezes.

He's a lunatic. Don't let him get to you. Hermione breathes in deeply, trying to recover some sort of composure - but the air hisses on the way out. "You are..." She struggles for a politer adjective. "Inconceivable."

"I disagree." He inches closer, as if attracted to that strange furious specimen dying to escape her, to mutilate and take hold of its generator. His fingers play on the back of her hand, a tender caress, and Hermione automatically snatches it away. But his touch incites an inevitable shudder - of revulsion? of want? - and she tries to hide it, but he sees. His eyes narrow a touch.

"Why so cold, Hermione?" he inquires rather frigidly himself. A bleak smile appears at the answering silence. "Oh, I see - I took all the warmth out of you when I left, did I? You rotted away without me."

Hermione's lip curls against her will. Don't let him provoke you, she thinks, but the verbal whips snarl out anyway. "Not at all, Tom. In fact, I think you have the opposite effect on my person: when you come near, the worst parts of me creep out." She smiles menacingly.

Tom laughs - astonishingly loud - and then he's abruptly close, so close Hermione can count his harsh breaths and has to hold still - just as one must when faced by a territorial, rabid dog - to keep from running away. She shuts her eyes, trying to envision herself some place far from here, but it only makes things worse.

"You cruel thing!" A finger carefully touches Hermione's hair, followed by Tom's sigh. "I forgot how charmed you were by verse... I'll make my words pretty for you then." No heat comes off his cheek, hovering an inch over her own. He is cold to the touch, as if he has walked inside from a blizzard, but it is summer and Hermione feels the sweat pooling on the small of her back when he whispers to her.

"your broken heart
on my canvas
sets a price
that only I can pay."

He pauses. "If you'll let me."

"Never," Hermione says, spinning away from him. She doesn't want him close enough to hear the way she pants, like a dog out in the heat. "You're an artist, not a poet, Tom."

A quiet descends, or at least they're quiet. The party is still in full swing. Tom has gotten handsomer somehow and she hates that, she hates how she notices it. He's studying her expression. Those dark eyes are softening behind the mean front, and it's abominable, because they're softening at her.

When Tom speaks next, his voice is painfully soft. "Baby..."

Baby. That name is tied with too many evils. It's heaven and hell all wrapped into one. It's an addict mother, beckoning with a pair of pliers and saying "baby, please don't give me that look," and it's Hermione's pathetic childhood love story whispering"kiss me like you miss me, baby."

"This is all a game to you, isn't it?" Hermione says quietly.

The smile doesn't leave Tom's face, but his eyes lose some of their artificial warmth. He stares at her and for once, she sees what he is really feeling - not the cool, collected Tom Riddle presented to the elite class around them in their white tie and pearl-embroidered dresses - but the Tom she knows from years ago. The same boy who has suddenly realized this is no longer a child's game. A furious Tom, at the moment. "You were never a game to me," he sneers. "You know that."

"If I were daft enough to believe you for a minute..." She stops and sighs. "I'm disposable to you, aren't I? A trinket you grew tired of and only just remembered. Maybe you'll use me up and throw me out again, then come along a few years later claiming that all this time 'you've cared.' Lucky me, I'm you're back-up plan!" The bitterness in her voice is palpable, if not utterly mortifying. She finds that she's too angry to give a damn.

Tom considers her. "Is that what you think?"

"It's what I know," she says.

"I suppose I'll just have to prove you wrong then."

"Good luck with that," Hermione snorts, tossing her hair. She doesn't know where all this righteous behavior is coming from - it must be the anger, or adrenaline, or maybe someone put something questionable in the sip of ginger ale she had earlier. Still, she feels triumphant.

Until she sees the smirk on Tom's face.

Before Hermione can question it, he suddenly says, "It's just that you're so... different."

Her eyes narrow at the stench of a trick. "Different?" she repeats.

"Yes, you are." Tom moves forward before she can move back and tugs a lock of hair playfully. Twists the curl around his finger so tight it ends up locked against her scalp. "It isn't only your hair, which is hardly so fluffy now." Hermione yanks her head away from him. She can't tell whether it's a complaint or an approval, but it doesn't matter. She can't tell where is up or down. Tom's eyes drip down her body like too much paint. "But that shade of lavender makes your skin this wonderful hue of brown - it's sort of olive-toned. You know, I've always liked purple on you, it does wonders for your color." He lowers his voice. "Of course, I would prefer you out of the dress."

Hermione's hand jerks across his face. But Tom only laughs at her. He shakes off her slap and traces a chart of her skin idly, right above her elbow and right below the shirt sleeve. She doesn't move as he circles the tip of his finger there. She is not sure why. Perhaps it is because a secret, malicious part of her enjoys how his skin longs for hers so hungrily, and that she is able to deny him this pleasure if she wishes to. Like she's the medicine to some terminal disease he's cursed with, or the evil dose of morphine that keeps him crawling back. And then another part hates how he touches her without any hesitation at all, as if it is his own skin he is caressing, as if she is a mere extension of himself.

Or maybe she only sits still because he has come back for her - and done so to such extremes - just as he promised he would six years ago. He never truly left, in fact. It can only mean he could not get her out of his mind, just as she couldn't get him out of hers. Did she haunt his nightmares, too? she wonders.

She prays to God she did.

"Your eyes are just the same though," Tom says, whispering in her ear just as he did when they were children. Hermione realizes he's not kidding around anymore. When did he get so close? She hasn't the faintest idea. His head turns and - before she realizes what he intends to do - their mouths quietly brush.

Hermione's eyes close for a split-second before she remembers herself. She twists away. "Stop that."

Tom smirks. "Make me."

She slaps him across the face a second time - with real force behind it. He mutters a surprised curse and she jumps to her feet, but he grabs her before she can make a run for it. She kicks his shin and he trips her around the ankle. Hermione falls on the floor, where forgotten wine and champagne glasses punch her stomach and legs like a dozen unrelenting, pointy fists. She grunts at the bruises that are sure to form while Tom's right cheek flares angry red-violet at the second- at the third slap. Then they're kissing.

They're kissing hard and fast, and it's not sweet at all - lord, it's not even natural. Tom's lips shape around hers and inhale the air coming out of her lungs in sharp g-g-gasps like he's trying to suck it out, a CPR in reverse that forces her tongue into a wild tango. They roll off the pool of spilled cocktails and smack into the leg of the coffee table. Trumpets blare and bass chords are plucked and drunken laughter dances around them. Tom pulls Hermione tight to his chest. A sticky trail of alcohol - or is it blood? - snakes down her leg, somehow having found itself hitched around Tom's hip. She hisses expletives between the rough, frantic kisses Tom bestows on her and smacks the side of her head into his face.

"God!" Tom pulls back, touching his bloody nose delicately. He gives Hermione a disgusted look. "You head butted me."

"And?" she says (though she has to admit, she could stand to be a little more mature), but the bright red on his usually pristine teeth makes her smug. She was aiming to knock one out, but blood will do, she supposes- Tom's dark eyes narrow and a thrill of terror shocks through her-

Hands grab hair, mouths meet and she tastes rust - there are fingers rubbing up her back, curling around and shoving her closer - Tom's body is narrow and hard, all traces of soft teenage flesh scraped clean off - she kisses wildly and harshly, not for affection, but out of a child's spite. His tongue takes what it wants, persistently driving through her mouth, stroking suggestively, mocking. She's going to scream.

It's only when Tom's kiss gentles a tad and his fingers twist with hers that Hermione finally pulls back. Her hair is sky high where he's yanked at it. His face is bruised yellow-blue where she slapped him various times. Seeing her hand trapped inside his hurls her back a decade and bile surges up her throat.

"You still have it," Tom says softly. His eyes are on it. On the ring she never had the heart to throw away, on the proof that some measly part of her has always hoped for his return, that some sliver never wanted to let go really. She feels his heart miss a beat, and then pick up speed under her palm. When did she grab his shirt? "I thought you might've…" he murmurs.

"Let go of me."

He looks up, taken off guard. "What?"

"Let go of me," she repeats, and the words are dull knives. Tom blinks.

"But I-"

"I said, let go!" Hermione rips herself out of Tom's grip, wrenching to a stand. She cannot believe this happened. She can't believe she just let him…that she… and he...

Oh bloody hell, she's going to cry.

Tom watches the back of Hermione's hand saw its way back and forth across her mouth expressionlessly. Once Hermione is satisfied the contaminating taste of him is gone, she fixes her arms over her chest and glares at a point on the ceiling like the glimmery golden shade of paint had mortally offended her. Or maybe she's keeping down equally offensive tears.

She states, "I need to leave."

Tom nods, but his jaw juts and twitches. "I'll call a taxi-"

"Not with you-"

"Black will escort you."

"Black?" Hermione starts to ask, but then remembers - Cyg. Right. She thinks of the entire day that has transpired and wants nothing more than to go back in time, before Mr. Malfoy was just a front for Voldemort, before Madame Pomfrey wasn't an exceptionally kind French woman, before Tom Riddle was anything more than a common name. She visibly sags. "Fine."

Belatedly, as Hermione is maneuvering through the tipsy frenzy, she realizes that Tom Riddle probably thinks she is going to stay with him in his swaggering mansion until he dismisses her - or until the end of time. She comprehends fully that it is foolish to go back to that beautiful, sprawling estate on Long Island even when she has nowhere else to go. She has nothing in the world beside it. Yet, she promises herself she'll set Tom straight tomorrow. She has no plans of sticking around. She just needs one more night, to plan, to think, to prepare, to verify that this is all hasn't been a very vivid nightmare.

Hermione passes the bar and pretends not to notice the chain reaction of Tom casually waving a hand and Cygnus instantaneously gliding out of the shimmying masses to her side. Cyg says nothing as they move toward the exit. Hermione is surrounded by enemies and strangers.

Around them, the dance floor pitches under thrilling moves and daring lunges, the raining silver confetti swarming like shiny bees at each step. All the white is at odds with the Fat Lady's neutral color scheme interior, but it somehow still manages to look good. Hermione stumbles and Cygnus steadies her, but she shoulders his hands off with a few choice words Mrs. Cole would have stuck soap in her mouth for.

Cygnus looks sorry. His mouth moves, but she doesn't hear him over the whining violin. She glances behind them to see Tom on his feet and watching them with his hands in the pockets of those creamy slacks. The combed-back thick, dark hair on his head is another one of many sharp odds against all the white.

The crowd shuts up like a hungry beak and swallows him.

"Come on! Move it, move it!" Cygnus shouts, impatiently thrusting people aside. A cup of that weird green drink is dumped on Hermione's blouse and a body throws itself at her, jostling them both. They topple up the stairs and only breathe a sigh of relief when the portrait of the Fat Lady closes behind them.

Hermione surveys her stained blouse with aggravation. But then she's ridiculously pleased, because Tom liked it and he bought it and now it's good for nothing. Ha! her brain shouts toward the Fat Lady, cocky as a rooster. She's officially lost her wits.

Snape's herbal shop that smells of pot and too many lavender candles is strangely peaceful after so much chaos in the Fat Lady. Hermione and Cygnus exit onto a pitch-black street and head somewhere more active, each lost in their own thoughts. Hermione sighs heavily. She's trembling, but the brisk evening air has nothing to do with it.

"What time is it?" she finally asks, in an exhausted scratchy voice that sounds nothing like her own. She decides it's no use to be mad at Cygnus, not when Tom - or Voldemort or whoever he is - is the actual instigator. Hate the cheater, not the mistress. Cyg wrestles his arms into the sleeves of someone's leather jacket he mysteriously ended up with before answering.

"Three AM." He sounds as tired as she feels. "So, uh, what happened between you and…?"

Hermione feels herself go red. She stares at the cement sidewalk they walk over, dotted with wads of dried-up gum and lost pennies here and there. "You, er, saw us?"

"Sorry to break it to you, but I'm not the only one."

Excellent. She rubs her temples. "I'm not a call girl, if you're wondering," she says defensively.

"I wasn't wondering." Cygnus smiles lopsidedly at her pleasant surprise. "I was sort of assuming, up until now."

"Drat."

They laugh warily. Hermione thinks it feels strange to laugh with a stranger.

After a thoughtful moment, Cygnus asks, "So what's going on with you two anyway? I've never seen Voldemort like that before."

"Like what?" she says, perplexed.

"For one, I didn't know he could smile." He waits for a beat and Hermione realizes she was supposed to laugh a minute too late. They endure another awkward silence before Cyg clears his throat and asks, "Do you know him from before or something?"

"I have the feeling you already know," she replies. Cygnus blushes. Obviously, he's been doing some of his own digging. She sighs, kicking at a glass Coca Cola bottle. "I didn't mean to." Unnecessarily, she adds, "To kiss."

"Um…"

"Never mind." Now she's blushing too. "I didn't mean to unload all my girly problems on you either-"

"No, no, it's alright." Cygnus smiles hastily. The awkward bubble swelling between them suddenly doubles in size. "I don't mind. I'm kind of used to it anyway. I grew up with two brothers and a crazy niece who liked to take out all her female drama on my unfortunate person," he babbles.

She nods. "Thanks."

The rest of the night – or very early in the morning, she supposes – passes very quickly after that. Before Hermione knows it, she's back at the mansion and all alone with her guilty thoughts. She gets ready for bed and lies down, but sleep evades her. And how can she sleep? Her pulse is flying, the blush stubbornly refuses to fade from her cheek, and she can still feel his lips on hers, the sting of her palm hitting his cheek and the satisfaction she feels at that sharp pain…

She never realized that she missed him, that she was angry at him. She's missed him just as much as she's hated him, in fact. But how can you love and hate one person? That doesn't work. They don't work. It was proven six years ago.

No one in their right mind would be with someone like Tom. With someone so controlling, so possessive, so seductive they could make murder look right. Hermione stares at the shiny brand-new typewriter on her desk, gleaming threateningly in the dark. It calls to her, a gift with many, many strings attached from Tom Riddle. Tomorrow, she could write. Tomorrow, she could talk to Cyg again. Tomorrow, she could… leave. She could leave just as she should. That's the smart thing.

Before Hermione can decide which she should do first, she's fast asleep.

Hermione's trunk is packed. She grasps it and moves into the hall, walking briskly through Tom Riddle's mansion with the full intent of leaving it forever. Her heart bleats painfully, but she ignores that. The pain will fade. It has before.

She strides into the foyer and Kreacher sees. His yellowish eyes widen to see her suitcase and he scrambles up, breaking away from a group of servants he'd been issuing orders to and hastening toward her. She picks up pace.

"M-Miss Wilkins!" he ribbits, getting her name wrong again. "Where are you going?"

"Away." Her reply has no wriggle room.

Kreacher blots his suddenly perspiring forehead with a handkerchief, attempting to keep pace. "P-perhaps you should wait another hour. I believe it is going to rain and I know you wouldn't like to ruin such a fine dress in the storm-"

"I like the rain. In fact, I love it." Hermione drags open one of the towering front doors before a maid can beat her to it. Kreacher looks on agitatedly. "Good day, Mr. Kreacher." For always.

Hermione goes outside into a full-blown sunny day with blue skies that begin to clot with thunderheads bruised violet in the distance. Another summer lightning storm is coming. She feels so sick she knows she'll throw up if she stays another minute, that she'll lose it and burst into tears, beg to stay, beg to leave, or worse.

She goes to the private car waiting on the sleek driveway for her and throws open the door, jamming herself inside. "Where to?" the driver asks from the front seat.

She's sobbing. "Anywhere."

The driver turns around, leaning over the console and toward her with an amused glint in his handsome eyes. She fixes the lock of black hair that's fallen over his temple automatically. He kisses her wrist as she pulls away. "Anywhere, baby?" Tom repeats softly.

"No, I changed my mind." Hermione's tears are dry. She kisses Tom's nose, then his chin and Adam's apple, and he smiles. She smiles too. "I want to go with you. Let's go to the pool at the cove. We can kiss all day under the water."

"We can live underwater, baby." Tom lets go of the steering wheel and climbs over the partition, tugging off his shirt...

Hermione's eyes pop open. She stares at the gauzy top of the canopy above her, blinking. She's still here in Voldemort's mansion. She kissed him in her dream.

What is she doing?

Something scratches against the door from the other side and she sits up, heart picking up speed because it sounds like questions – no, like hope. She doesn't say anything. The knocking eventually stops. But a minute later it picks up again, in the wind that rattles against the French doors leading to the balcony, scratch-scratching the underside of her mattress as she tosses and turns, scuttling over the floorboards and catching in the canopy netting when it tries to rip through.

Hermione closes her eyes in the darkness, petrified and too drowsy to stay awake any longer. She thinks she feels an animal's claw wrap around her hand and draw its wicked-sharp talons down her cheek, breathe wet-warm huffs against her throat and ask for a taste of blood... but it's too dark to tell. To tell if it was Tom at the door or some monster, if the banging of doors down the hall is him roaring out his rage or the rain.

It's too dark to tell anything, and yet against all odds, Hermione suddenly knows that getting away from here won't be as easy as walking out the front door.