"Now what are you doing holed up in here all day?" an eerily familiar voice taunts.
Hermione nearly leaps out of her skin at the unexpected – not to mention, unwelcome – interruption. She hadn't even heard the door open. How long was he standing there? she thinks, but she chokes the thought so it doesn't show on her face when she turns around. Tom is leaning against the doorjamb with a Shirley Temple in-hand. For once, he's not in his swanky suit, but wearing an open button-down over an undershirt and slacks held up by suspenders. He looks hot off the press.
Hoping she is discreet enough not to be observed, she smoothly shuffles the article of job listings behind her back out of sight.
"Ahem." Tom arches a brow at her stare. "Hermione?"
"Oh, yes." She searches for a more impressive response. It's both irrefutable and strange to be so formal around him, constantly at a loss for words – but it's been this way for the past week, since they came to the terms of their agreement. If they can be friends and play nice, then Hermione will stay here in the mansion with Tom until she finds her own accommodations. The only trouble with that is she's got to find a job first, and none too many are inclined to see a woman her age outside of the kitchen… or doing anything other than popping out ruddy, blue-eyed babies.
On top of that, Tom has a reputation of falling short on his promises.
Tom's cheerful expression dims. He wades over and her muscles coil when he stops beside the desk she sits at, peripherals zooming in on a poorly concealed Help Wanted! ad for Marley's milkshake bar. But he only looks at her, absent-mindedly running his fingertip along a blue glass paperweight strapping down a pile of this week's newspapers. "You're not avoiding me, are you?" he asks.
Hermione laughs, and the sound rings as repulsively false even to her ears. "Of course not. Why would I do that?"
Tom's eyes narrow a touch, but he doesn't press the subject, and she awkwardly shifts her gaze to somewhere else. "Warm, isn't it?" she says, which is a ridiculous understatement. The summer heat is downright baking them, even with the tall formidable windows wheezing in a tuft of breeze here or there, and the French doors thrown wide open. Sweat drips down her leg, cold and slow. The catastrophic bun that she's wrestled her hair into is frizzing to astronomical proportions, she can feel it floating around her ears like a thunder cloud in the humidity. She grabs a magazine and starts fanning herself with it, trying not to pant.
"I thought it was rather cool in here," Tom says, smirking at the bead of sweat on her forehead. He tips his glass toward her, the golden liquor inside swirls entrancingly. "But if you're uncomfortable, you can have a sip. Champagne," he adds, at her questioning stare.
She blinks at the glass dangling from his fingers. It looks delicious. "I don't drink in the morning," she says coldly.
"Suit yourself." Tom meanders around the room – Hermione refuses to think of it as her room, even after all these weeks – and he leaves the glass on her desk. She snatches it off an article before a stain can set in. When he isn't looking, she sips at the champagne lightly, sucking an ice cube into her mouth to rub over her teeth. She tries to ignore the reminder that her mouth is where Tom's rested a minute ago.
He pauses in front of an end table, where a metal sculpture of what may have been a man or a very skinny elephant stood a few days ago, until Hermione had Winky remove it and help her put the typewriter there in its place. Tom fingers the buttons, glossy and untouched. "Why haven't you used this?" he asks her.
Hermione keeps her eyes on the champagne, which is nothing but ice now. She feigns nonchalance as she corkscrews her finger around the ice cubes. Clink-clink, they sing, before she pops two between her lips. "Oh, I don't need it," she replies.
"But you love writing."
"I did." She hurries on before he can interrogate her. "And it's so expensive, I'd feel guilty for using it."
"That's preposterous," Tom snorts. "It's for you, a gift."
"I don't want any gifts." Her voice is too sharp for small talk. His dark eyes narrow at her.
"Why is that?" he says, in a low, cold voice.
"Because I… I find them insulting. I can fend for myself." She stares at him hard. "You should know that I don't like charity." Because even though you pretend otherwise, you were once a nobody from Wool's Orphanage. Just like me.
Tom seems to be about to argue with her, but instead he bites the inside of his cheek and slides a hand through his black hair, turning his back on , she feels satisfied by his frustration. She crunches on an ice cube contently.
"Don't you still want to be a writer?" he mutters.
She starts, so taken off guard that a shocked laugh escapes her. "Me, a writer? What ever gave you that idea?"
"You always read…" He turns toward her, looking accusatory. "Or have you given up on books, too?"
She flinches. It isn't fair, the way he throws her old, precious dreams at her like swords. "Reading requires time, which I don't have a lot of lately," she says tonelessly.
Tom stares at her. His brow creases and he looks so boggled that it is almost charming. Apparently, a Hermione Granger who reads less is a Hermione not to be conceived. He presses, "But you still like to read, don't you?"
"Of course I do." She sighs. "I do. Books are… were… They're everything to me. Of course, anyone enjoys a good story, like Wuthering Heights or The Lady of Shallot or-" She realizes Tom is staring at her intently, like he really cares about what she is saying, and she breaks off. Why is she going on like this? "Never mind."
She clears her throat, reaching for another ice cube. They all melted. "I just don't have the time for that sort of thing anymore. It's pointless anyway, reading stories. They're not real. They don't matter." Her voice is low.
Feeling very, very hot all of a sudden – why did the ice cubes have to melt, blast it? – Hermione stands up and goes onto the balcony outside, hoping for a sympathetic waft from the Hudson River below. It doesn't come and she stands there, slinging sweat off her forehead and cursing herself for opening up to him. What does Tom Riddle care about her interest in books for? He doesn't care.
But he comes outside anyway, casting a distasteful glance at the cooking sun, as if its brilliance offends him.
"Let's go somewhere," he says out of the blue. She looks at him. Tom cocks a thumb at the city skyline, a stumpy forest of metal across the river. "I know a little place I think you'll like. We can relax, chat some more." His eyes skim her skirt, and although she knows it's only because there are water stains on the expensive striped silk from the ice, she still blushes. Luckily, he doesn't see. "You can eat more ice cubes there, if you'd like."
Hermione pretends not to have heard his last comment. "Is this place anything like the Fat Lady?" she says cautiously.
"Not at all." He smirks. "It's much more…your speed."
He means conservative. Bastard. She restrains a fierce glare, just barely, and Tom's haughty smile grows in size. "Will it only be us?"
He shrugs. "That, and the other customers, I suppose."
Going out, having drinks, making conversation, just the two of them: it all sounds frighteningly like a date. And judging by the mischievous gleam in his eye, Tom thinks so too. Oh no. "Well, I do have a lot of work to do today," Hermione hedges. At his disbelieving look, she reluctantly adds, "But I suppose…we could go, for a little while."
"Excellent-" he begins triumphantly.
"That is, of course, if we invited Cygnus along."
Tom scowls. "Cygnus?" The way he says it immediately brings to the mind the image of a large, slimy worm or slug.
Hermione rolls her eyes. "He's a person, not an extraterrestrial subspecies. Besides, I thought you two were friends."
He raises a brow. "Do you honestly believe I have friends, Hermione?"
She blinks, thinking of how derisive he was when she brought up his friends last night, how Cygnus referred to him – elusively, sometimes carefully, but never endearing. She frowns. "Point taken." Doggedly, she persists, "Still, I'd like it if he came with us. We could have a swell time." Internally, she winces at her words. Calling their outing swell is probably more than a stretch.
"Black…" Tom sighs heavily, like a put-out child who's been told he's not getting the toy Corvette he asked for Christmas, but a wooden truck instead. "Must we invite him?"
"Yes."
He sneers at her sharp tone, fixing his arms. Sleeves down and every inch of his body covered save his neck, feet, and head, he should by all means be at melting point by now, but instead he seems immune to the suffocating heat. Hermione scans his immaculate pale skin critically, noting the light sheen of sweat misting his hollow throat. Good, she thinks, at least he's somewhat human.
"Hermione."
"Ye-es?" She lifts her eyes, frowning in confusion at his expectant look. "Sorry. What is it?"
"I said we'd better get going if you want to catch your friend," Tom replies, smirking around the words in a suspiciously smug manner. "And you ought to change your outfit to something a little less…wet." Again, the dark eyes assess her wardrobe.
Wet. Even though he's talking about the water stains, Hermione's body temperature kicks up another ten degrees. She mumbles a hasty, senseless excuse, and escapes to the bathroom before Tom can make any more wise cracks. Cygnus, she chants. At least Cygnus is coming.
But whether or not Cyg will be enough to make Tom keep his less-than-welcome thoughts to himself is another gamble entirely.
As it happens, the "little place" Tom has in mind ends up being one of the most popular joints in all of New York City. Called Flourish & Blotts, the lounge resides on the twenty-eighth floor of a high-rise on 42nd Street, and a line of at least two hundred people hug the length of the street as they wait to be let inside. When Tom and Hermione arrive, however, Tom whisks them right by the never-ending line without a second glance, straight to the entrance where a doorman lets them inside. Hermione is about to ask how they could jump the whole line like that when she remembers just who she is here with: Voldemort.
They ride up a brass elevator and Hermione glances sideways at Tom, trying to see where the orphan boy ends and the world famous artist begins. She realizes she hasn't even seen any of his work since they were teenagers, and briefly wonders whether she wants to at all.
Inside Flourish & Blotts, it's not jam-packed like Hermione had thought it would be, but airy and wide-spaced, with gleaming granite floors and natural light streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows. Hundreds of old-fashioned chandeliers stocked with candles instead of light bulbs trail from the ceilings, but it's too warm for them to be lit. Stoic-faced wanderers are dressed to fashionable perfection where they sulk in corners or slurp drinks at the bar, and a wall of balconies gate cool wind inside. A single trumpet player puffs big band jazz in the background. Hermione scopes the floor of leather booths, frowning.
"I don't see Cygnus," she says. "Do you?"
Like her, Tom scans the lounge, but then his eyes light on something, narrowing marginally. And unless her eyes deceive her, Hermione is almost certain he grinds his jaw. She follows his gaze to find a young, gawky man in a V-neck sweater vest and glasses at a booth with two other companions. "Who's that?" she asks, surprised by the tension in Tom's suddenly stiff shoulders. She has the bizarre urge to put her hand on one and flatten it down until all the hot air inside depressurizes.
She clasps her hands behind her back.
"No one," Tom replies, very softly. He adjusts his tie – he changed before they left – and straightens, nodding toward the right side of the room, where a hatted Cygnus Black sits at an empty booth. "There's Black," he says absently, barely looking at her. "Excuse me, I'll be…just a minute." He strides off.
Hermione stares after him for a minute, bewildered, and glances back at the gawky man. He's pointing at the chandelier above his booth, talking animatedly. She frowns and turns away.
"Hello Cyg," Hermione greets, sitting down carefully. The crepe dress she stuck herself in makes her feel more uncomfortable than usual, and she resists the instinct to glance down at her chest and make sure all the buttons are done every other forty-five seconds.
"Hermione." Cygnus looks up with a resigned expression that surprises her. His overgrown bangs have fallen into his eyes and he pushes them back absently, squinting at her. "What the hell did you drag me along here for? All have you know I'm nursing a dynamite hangover. Your little friend really knows how to put it away."
"My friend?" she repeats.
"That maid." He waves a hand. "Wizebell."
"Oh, you mean Winky." She nods, although the idea of tiny Winky downing booze befuddles her. "Actually," she begins, "I invited you here because I wanted to ask you some…questions."
At the word question, a guarded shadow Hermione has never seen before sucks the light out of Cygnus's face. His eyes go hard and he automatically reaches for a cigarette in his coat pocket, but then seems to remember her aversion to the smell, and stops. "What kind of questions?" he demands.
Hermione rears at his aggression, stunned. Angry men are one combination that set all her nerves on high-end, and Cygnus has never struck her as the intrepid type. To see him like so now unnerves her. She swallows. "I only wanted to ask you about Voldemort."
"Voldemort?" The guarded look fades, but only slightly. "What about him?"
"Things I'd rather didn't get back to his knowledge," she says slowly, meaningfully, and stares him dead in the eye. The last of Cygnus's hackles flicker out of sight, leaving only uncertainty behind. He rubs his stubbly jaw thoughtfully.
"Well, you better hurry then," he finally says. Cyg glances nervously at the bar across the lounge, where Tom is bent on elbows over the glass counter and giving a clearly flustered barmaid a request. Whatever he went off to do before is obviously over now. Time's almost out. "Ordering drinks doesn't exactly take long."
"Right." Hermione breathes in deeply. "First question. How did Tom become Voldemort?"
Cygnus's eyes widen slightly. His eyes dart, down to the table, then up, and he says, "Well... I don't know the whole story. I mean I was only there for part of it-"
"That's fine," she quickly assures. "Just give me the condensed version."
Cygnus stares at her, looks at Tom, then swallows. "Alright. I can do…condensed." His voice is faint. "This isn't getting back to him, correct?" Hermione nods, although inside she is filing away the fact that Cygnus is concerned by Tom's feelings on their intervention. He nods. "OK. As you know, Tom and I knew each other back at Hogwarts. We ran in the same circle, along with a few other blokes I've since lost touch with, and the lot of us were…well-known at school. We were expected to do big things."
"Big things?" she questions.
"Get rich, marry young, make investments, get richer." He shrugs. "That all changed though, when Tom left Hogwarts. As far as I know, he went off the radar after going. He lost his scholarship and the whole Myrtle blow-out ruined his reputation - do you know about that? Yes? - well, I didn't see him for years afterward. In fact, about two years later, I was working at my father's law firm when he suddenly walks in one day and says 'Black, what the hell are you doing stapling papers?' See, I'd been quite invested in art once upon a time, but my family didn't believe art made any money, so I had to drop the hobby and join the family business… Long story short, Tom somehow convinced me to join him on this crazy scheme for us and a bunch of other guys to make it big. It's impossible to say no to him, I'm sure you know that."
"I do," Hermione assents.
"Well, he had the talent and I had all the connections to exploit that, so as they say…" He spread his hands. "The rest is history."
"And he became famous just out of that?" she asks skeptically.
"You asked for the short version."
Hermione purses her lips, contemplating that, but before she can say another word she sees who is making his way toward them with a tray of drinks. The interrogation is over. She'll have to ask the rest of her questions to someone less inclined to lie to her.
"Hermione, Black." The liquid inside the drinks Tom brought is amber, green-colored sugar circling the lip of the triangular glasses where a lime wedge dangles off the edge. "Drink these and weep."
"What is it?" Hermione questions, scrutinizing her glass. Cygnus has already downed his and is most decidedly not weeping.
Tom's smile is seraphic and toxic all at once. "Poison."
Brows raised, she slides the drink back.
He laughs quietly, pulls over another, and swipes a finger around the crystallized edge, coming up with a tipful of sugar. "Try some."
She grimaces. "No thanks."
"Come on, Fuddy-Duddy," Cyg laughs. Hermione glares at him.
Sighing, she tactfully transfers the sugar from Tom's fingertip to her own. She winces at the flare of sour-sweet on her tongue. It's good, but potent. She looks back up to see Cygnus staring at her with an inscrutable expression, and Tom gazing at a faraway couple swaying on the edge of the scene. His eyes hold no interest in what they see. He glances away, and finding her watching him, raises the poison's sugared lip.
"Want another taste?" he says innocently - but Hermione feels like he's asking another question completely. One that isn't innocent at all.
Why did Cygnus lie about you? What did you do to get expelled from Hogwarts? What did you do after you left the orphanage? They're all questions she has to find the answers to, but the most important question of them all looms over the rest like a knife over a chopping block. Why is everyone so afraid of you?
"No," she says, sitting back. "That's quite alright."
"Dobby, have you seen Winky?" asks Hermione.
Dobby, the head chef of a long list of kitchen attendees, is oddly intimidated by her question. He nervously scratches one of the huge ears poking out of his crepe chef hat, and the gesture makes Hermione briefly wonders if he and Winky are related. They're both extremely short, with slightly bat-like ears and the same large, froggish eyes. Come to think of it, Kreacher looks a bit like them, too…
"Me, seen Winky?" He smiles widely... the smile of a big fat fibber. "No, not since she whipped up the batch of Shirley Temples this afternoon."
"This afternoon? That was over four hours ago," Hermione says, flabbergasted. She squints at Dobby. "But… if you say so." The last bit is aimed to guilt him, but it doesn't seem to work.
He nods rapidly. "Yes, well, I do say so, so I guess you'll be on your way then?" He makes a desperate grab at one of the confections littering the pristine counters, nearly decapitating a woman peeling carrots when his hands fasten around a cannoli. He offers the pastry to her. "For you, Miss Wilkins?"
"Miss Granger," she corrects. She catches herself and adds, "I mean Hermione. Just call me Hermione."
"Of course, Miss…" His eyebrows – which are barely there, so white they are from old age – mesh together in perplexity. "Er, Hermione."
Hermione takes an appreciative bite of the cannoli as Dobby attempts to hurry her out of the kitchen, but once they reach the door, she stops and turns around. "Dobby, do you know what would go perfectly with this?" she says, with sudden revelation.
Dobby pauses, glances at the cannoli, then at her, with some intrigue. "Milk?" he suggests.
"Maybe." She sighs. "Though I have a bit of a sweet tooth tonight… Ah, I know! A Shirley Temple would go splendidly with this. Don't you think?"
Understanding dawns on Dobby's wrinkled, genial face, along with chagrin, and Hermione feels temporarily ashamed of herself for forcing him. Still, she wouldn't have to trick the poor man if he hadn't driven her to it. Why couldn't he just bring her to Winky?
"Yes, you're probably right," Dobby says heavily. "This way, Miss Wilkins."
This time, she doesn't bother to correct him.
Hermione follows him to the back of the kitchen, where there are two double doors he tells her lead to the storage closet. She hesitates on the threshold, feeling light-headed for a moment at the prospect of going inside, but when Dobby gives her a questioning look she quashes the emotion. Boiler rooms and storage closets have nothing in common, she tells herself.
Dobby pauses before opening the door. "Miss," he says uneasily. "I know I couldn't possibly ask you for any favors, but... but just know that Winky is a fine member of our staff here and one of the best housekeepers you could ever hope to find. Ever! Even if she does sometimes fall into a bit of a slump, she's still very dear to me, and to Mr. Voldemort, I'm sure. You should really know that." By the end of his declaration, Dobby's eyes are feverish and his cheeks are pink with passion. Hermione stares at him, not sure what to make of his statement.
Dobby sees her puzzled look, deflating. He mutters, "You'll see. After you, miss."
Hermione steps ahead of him and puts her hand on the door, wondering what she'll find on the other side of it, and pushes it enough to let her wriggle inside. She finds the storage room is large and neat, stacked with crates of food bought from local vendors and lit by drawstring light bulbs. Luckily, it's not at all similar to the one at Madame Pomfrey's seamstress shop, which had been dusty, dark, and claustrophobic.
"What is it?" she asks, not understanding, but stops when her eyes fall on the limp form strewn over a pile of flour sacks. She rushes over to it, grabbing a shoulder and shaking it. "Oh my- Winky? Winky, are you alright?" When the only noise Winky makes is a faint, insensible wheeze that smells strongly of Shirley Temple, Hermione pulls back, nostrils flared. Your little friend really knows how to put it away, Cygnus had said... but she hadn't imagined this was what he meant.
"Does this happen often?"
Dobby, whose taken off his hat and is now crumpling the material between his knobby-knuckled hands in agitation, shrugs. "Only when Mr. Voldemort throws parties here, miss, and then some on Sundays." He casts a worried look at his unconscious friend. "But she's a hard worker."
"She is an alcoholic," Hermione says carefully.
Dobby frowns and straightens (or he straightens as much as arthritis will allow, that is), sharply poking a finger in her direction. "Miss Hermione, I don't hold it against you for not knowing this, but that right there is a woman who has been hurt, hurt badly. And if sometimes taking a drink or two helps her remember that the world hasn't all gone to shit - excuse my language - then why hold that against her? But if you get her thrown out on the street, then, then-" He swells, puffing up to nearly twice his size, and Hermione steps back. "-Then you are not as compassionate as I thought you were," he finishes boldly.
Dobby beams at himself, apparently very proud of this speech, then falters, as if remembering something. He flushes and mutters, "Of course, it's not my place to judge you, Miss Hermione… or tell you what to do or…" Turning redder, he quickly says, "Oh, I'm very sorry! Please don't get us fired, Miss Wilk- sorry, Hermione-"
"Wait, wait," she interrupts, startled. "Who said anything about getting fired?"
Dobby freezes. "So...you're not going to…?"
"No. This is your business," Hermione says firmly. She frowns at Winky, who looks very awkward on the flour sack. "Is this really the only place you can put her?"
"Unfortunately, it is," Dobby sighs. "At least until the staff leave. For now, I can't risk taking her out of here. Someone could see us, and then we'd be done for – or at the very least, she would be."
Hermione bites her lip. "If this isn't too…invasive, what happened to Winky to make her like this?"
Dobby's expression darkens. "Her last employer was unkind." He shoves on his hat, which is wrinkled and a little limp from his fidgeting, nudging her back out the door. "I'd better leave it at that, it's not my place to tell you. Besides, you should get going, miss. Dinner starts soon. It's beef stew and quite good if I do say so myself, although I'm sorry about the Shirley Temple. Needless to say, we're out."
"No, that's fine." Hermione glances once more over her shoulder at the pathetic-looking Winky, before the door swings shut and cuts off her view. The hustle and bustle of the kitchen sweeps them up almost instantly, and she has to leap back to avoid being singed by the piping-hot breath of an oven when a nearby cook sweeps one open. Dobby brings them to the other side, leaving her on the exit. Before he can turn away, however, she calls him back once more.
"Yes, Miss Hermione?" he queries.
"Dobby, I was wondering…" She pauses and leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. Luckily, the people around them are too loud for her to be overheard. "Where is the telephone?"
Dobby's invisible eyebrows lift, folding the sallow skin on his forehead into rolls, and she can see in his shifting eyes that he's remembering Mr. Voldemort's request that she be denied access to the telephone. He lowers his voice, too, whispers, "Top floor, near the entrance to the attic, by the portrait of fruit."
Victory seizes Hermione and she has the all-consuming urge to laugh out loud in triumph – but she barely contains herself, settling for a brilliant smile at Dobby. "Thanks, Dobby," she says.
He blushes. "Thank you, miss."
Hermione lays in bed that night, listening to the distant prattle of crickets floors below, taking assurance in the set of Dobby's instructions she wrote down and stuffed inside her pillowcase. The stack of useless ads on her desk depresses her, but the potential of unraveling Tom's secrets dares a thrill down her spine. She's not sure what she's looking for in finding out more about Voldemort, finding out what she missed in the years they've been apart – closure? satisfaction? justice?
She just wants to know.
She remembers the way sweat tread down his neck on the balcony when he argued about Cygnus, how his cheek ticked at Flourish & Blotts, black eyes transforming into seething slits. His anger should have terrified her, made her vomit right then and there, but all she'd been thinking about was what could have set him so on edge…and if she touched him, whether he would forget about the fury, think only of her.
Bizarrely, the sight of sweat on him, in his jet-black hair, beading on the edge of his sharp brow, beating on his collarbones, makes her toss and turn as she claws for sleep. Suspenders tightening his pants around his thighs, accentuating his shape in both the front and back. She beats down the lump in her throat, pressing a hand to her jutting heartbeat and screaming at it to shut up. None of this means anything. It was so hot today, all that heat got to her head, made her think crazy things, that's all.
She squeezes her eyes shut in the darkness. Winky's face flashes behind her eyelids, as she followed Cygnus to the bar last night, as she lay strung like garland in the storage room. A hurt woman. Had her former employer been a man? Her stomach turns at the thought of what he could've done to turn Winky into a drunk. What would it have taken for Tom to make her like that? She had thought herself so ruined, but maybe she is not so destroyed, after all.
Maybe Tom is not as terrible as she thought. Before she can be certain of that, however, she needs to do her research… starting with a phone call to Abraxas Malfoy.