II. Vipera Berus
Part I.
1948
The common European adder.
In late autumn the timid creatures liked to drift slowly into hibernation, but this one he had summoned for a reason. Tom nestled the snake within the warm crook of his fingers, lifting it up gently by its underbelly. The dusk light was still soft on its mottled skin, and its delicate tongue flickered rapidly in the frozen air. Yes, his choice of weapon was a measly little thing; Simple, Slender… but for his purposes, Sufficient.
Vipera berus.
Common, like Tom.
Ssshow me. He commanded. Sssshow what you have sssseeen.
.
A gentle prod, and the adder succumbed.
He delved, hungrily, into the murky depths of its mind.
.
.
.
They lay frozen in the rustling sawgrass, bodies flat against the earth and watching through crimson, reptilian eyes. She was blurred at the edges, a familiar mass of buttery golden heat: Hermione, reading against the willow tree.
A moment of renaissance.
"OI!"
Birds scattered overhead as the voice flung past the dead wands of grass. Her focus shifted at the disruption, head lifting to meet the unfazed stare of Amy Benson.
"Y'wanna join for a game of hide-and-seek?"
A beat of silence. She tied back her mane hastily with a ribbon, "Well I don't see why not!"
This, followed by a quicksilver grin - the very one he had coveted for himself… one he'd assumed was for him alone.
And still, patiently, he watched.
He watched as Hermione crouched awkwardly behind the bramble bushes, away from the other children. He watched as her restless limbs quivered at the littlest sounds: the agitated shrieks of crows, the dark hiss of snakes in the underbrush.
"There you are!"
He watched as she yelped, flailing her arms clumsily before stumbling away. He watched as Dennis Bishop chased her through the fields. (He cursed the name).
And he watched her run, feet thudding the dirt as if they were the paws of a lioness.
How dare she. Dull pangs of jealousy stole his breath sssslowly, ssteadily, until rust-tanged venom pooled in his throat.
He cared for her.
He was the only one who did.
.
~.~
"The traveling festival is coming to London today!" Excited whispers shivered through the supper hall. "Please, oh, please Mrs. Cole - do tell us we can go!"
The old matron was the very picture of benevolence to the others, but Hermione could never forget. Whips and lashes. Snap. Crack. Her spine racked at the memory.
"Would you want to go to the fair, Tom?"
She sat with him, slouched into the splintered and worn end of the cafeteria table, away from the others.
"Not particularly."
He observed with cold, assessing eyes before adding, "Though if you're going, I suppose I might."
Hermione's heart leapt with joy. But she hid her smile well.
Mrs. Cole let them out early, just as the sun began to set. The autumn air cast them in a shimmery glow, draping their dark world in a veil of burnt gold: an incandescent glimpse of heaven.
Their excitement mounted as they walked through the fair. Neon paints, carnival games, and ghastly freak shows promised endless entertainment that night: "Circus Arcanus: Experience Magic like Never Before!"
"There's a massive snake in there," he said, pointing it out, "I can just tell."
If that was the case, Hermione didn't want him anywhere near it.
The scent of warm toffee lingered in the air, and their lips sparkled with sugary excess. "Tomm, it's a haunted house - we save that for last," and, "What about the South America exhibit instead?" and, "No, let's go on the pendulum ride next!"
"Not yet, I want to finish my candy floss first, please."
He huffed in annoyance, and she couldn't resist a sickly sweet smile, flashing candy-stained teeth.
Gourmet, blue raspberry.
"Ugh, you're revolting." Yes, but he said it so fondly that her poor heart couldn't resist… A stutter, a skip. Oh, you're perfect.
She smiled wider - this day was special. Untouchable.
.
"Hermione!" They both turned, caught off guard, "Hermione Granger!"
It was Dennis Bishop. The scraggly boy approached with comfortable familiarity, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.
"Oh, hello Dennis!"
(And Tom was once again reminded of the games she played without him. How they stole her away... Fucking thieves.)
"This is my friend Dennis, and that's Amy, and Freddie, and Richard, see?" He nodded, watching with sedate interest.
"Good to see you, Riddle!"
"You too, mate." You too, and a charming smile.
.
Dennis wanted to go apple-bobbing, but she wasn't so convinced: "Tom, what about our pendulum ride?"
"Oh that can wait, I'm sure."
.
.
They walked to the booth, and she couldn't hide her unease at the sight of the big metal basins, filled to the brim with water. The dark red fruit floated innocently above, interwoven with beautiful threads of brown.
Ripeness sliding into rot.
Tom held her candy floss politely: "I'll sit this one out, I think."
Her breath caught in her throat, but Dennis tried to ease her jitters: "Don't be nervous 'Mione - it'll be fun!"
(Darling Eve... so terribly naive.)
.
.
.
When she came up triumphantly for air, with her hair dripping wet and the apple caught firmly between her teeth, she saw that it was Dennis who was not so lucky.
His head lay trapped beneath the surface, choking on water and apples, and god-knows-what-else. The air was… palpable with fear and panic. But it was subtler this time. No chaos, no hospital visits.
Her golden boy waited patiently, a honeyed smile on his handsome face.
She counted the seconds.
Ten.
"How COULD you, Tom?!"
She was angry, but still she stood close to him, stopped right outside the orphanage gates. He lifted his eyes at the accusation, gaze flitting to the dreary building behind her. Guilty. "Hermione-"
"Don't tell me you don't know what happened. We agreed-" Her voice shook with irritation, fingers trembling. "I deal with MY friends. My problems."
"Stop bloody lecturing me." He sneered. "I wasn't acting on your behalf."
She turned to leave, to march inside before he could anger her further, but he lunged after her. Desperate. Tom crowded her against the gate, body pushing with deliberate force, squeezing the air out of her lungs.
The iron prongs ground into her skin like devil's pitchforks.
A wheezing gasp. "Let go."
"Not yet." He snarled low in her ear, breath curling into her skin like a vice. "I didn't lie to you. I didn't cheat you. I didn't even hurt you."
It doesn't matter, she thought bleakly, when you hurt others.
"And what about me, hm?" He continued harshly, almost self-pitying. "You went running off with Dennis Bishop behind my back."
"I'm allowed friends other than YOU, you dumb prick!"
She shoved him desperately, palms and knuckles slamming against his body. Flared nostrils. Gritted teeth.
But he gave in without resistance, and her jaw clenched at the disappointment in his eyes: dark, sunless eyes. He was hauntingly beautiful, she realized, even in anger… exotic and hellish, all at once. It was the kind of beauty that inspired terror.
Warmth flooded her cheeks just before the panic set in.
"Piss off, Hermione."
When he turned and stomped off, she felt the nauseating dread like a gut punch. She knew what he was going to do. The bloody git was going to ignore her.
He was going to abandon her.
.
.
And despite knowing, Hermione just stood there - frozen in place. Her mind swirled in a jumbled tangle of memories: Billy Stubbs and a snake; Tree roots and words; Tom Riddle and his offer of revenge, his offer of friendship. An implicit promise of forever.
But romance is for fiction, you silly little girl.
How stupid she was to have believed that her friendship with Tom was any different. And somewhere in her mind, she wondered if she was doomed to end up alone.
Because everyone leaves, in the end.
Mummy. Da.
… Tom.
.
.
.
Yet a part of her still asked, curiously, persistently: could Tom be made to return?
.
~.~
Part II.
Spring, 1949
"Hermione Granger…"
Her name sounded gentler these days, warm and soft as kitten fur. Wistful, some could say.
This was difficult but necessary, Tom had told himself. He had to prove to Hermione just how much she needed him - Tom… mean streak and magic included - not some lapdog like Dennis, who listened to her every whim.
But it was impossible not to miss her. (Not to return to her.)
.
Seasons changed.
Autumn bled into winter, and winter bled into spring. Three full months passed with no Hermione Granger doing brash and bold things; no snide comments, no angry shoving.
Absolutely nothing, which was altogether rather alarming.
Give it up, you swot. I've stopped ignoring you. -TMR
He tried tapping her shoulder and passing forward a note in class. But the only acknowledgement it received was when she crisply tore it to shreds before placing the scraps neatly at the corner of her desk.
His blood fizzed in a noxious mix of irritation and embarrassment.
.
And still he tried with gentler methods, catching her in private as she lay sprawled on the library sofa, spindly hands tightly gripping a mended copy of her precious Dickens: "If you're going to be angry at me, Hermione, you should at least tell me off."
Maddeningly, her angelic eyes never once flitted his way.
He could've been mean. He could've grabbed her by the shoulders right then and there, shook her until her brain rattled and she was forced to talk to him. To look at him.
But no. (Why?)
.
He tried sneaking her food after curfew. He tried gifting her things: books from the library, expensive-looking trinkets from Mrs. Cole's personal quarters, all wrapped in newspaper and placed delicately on her bed - he'd hoped they'd be a gentle surprise and that she'd recognize the truce he was offering.
Nothing.
Another week of absolutely nothing.
.
.
Hell, he'd even contemplated saying sorry.
And so, a month passed. Excruciatingly slowly. (Steadily.)
.
But Tom Riddle could not let go. He wanted her company as a friend because, really, Hermione Granger was his only friend — His best friend.
Of course Tom wanted her, still, for a promise not yet fulfilled between friends…
…And if he really thought about it, he wanted her for no reason at all, other than that she was Hermione.
.
.
Her hair glinted marvelously in the dappled sunlight, a waterfall of liquid bronze.
.
He reached for those gossamer threads unconsciously, in Latin class. And then she stiffened in front of him as though she felt his hands before they even touched her. As if he disgusted her.
Something inside him snapped.
He was tempted suddenly to grab her beautiful hair and yank her towards him until her scalp wept little pinpricks of blood - and to keep her there. Force her to stay. Yes, for a moment he was tempted to control her mind like one of his snakes, make her sick and bedridden, until he could taste her submission in the salt of her tears. Until she was weak, feeble and entirely dependent on him, him alone.
The idea was pleasurable. But then some inane part of him suggested: No, you wouldn't like it then.
"Alea iacta est: does the translation ring a bell, anyone?"
Hermione shot up her hand, inching her body forward.
.
Oh, cruel angel.
.
~.~
.
.
.
Tom watched the sleeping lioness closely, just as he had in class, in the library, in the fields outside.
A snake in the grass.
.
This time she was too tired to bare her teeth, lost in the aether between reality and dream… too weak to resisst him. His fingers slithered over the ridges of her vertebrae, underneath her thin nightdress. She shuddered delicately at the contact, and he felt his own spine convulse in response… She was so fragile, his Hermione. (But she wasn't his. Not yet.)
Yes, Tom was forced to change strategy, but he was willing to do it for her.
.
.
Sorry.
Even as he lay against her, relishing the heat of her blanket-warmed body, Tom was hesitant to say the word.
.
He watched her awaken slowly, cuddling into his gentle hands even as her jaw clenched in stubborn resolve, honey-butter gaze narrowing in alertness, permitting nothing until he gave her that precious apology.
Sorry, this lioness would demand.
"Say sorry."
.
He had the sudden urge to kiss her.
"I know."
.
But he didn't because on occasion, and for Hermione Granger alone, Tom Riddle was compelled to surrender. "I'm… I won't ever do that again, Hermione."
It was out of character.
But he looked her in the eyes, so she knew he was speaking to her with uncompromising sincerity… and so she knew he was wrong to leave her in his anger, and wrong to hurt her, and wrong to make her cry.
So she knew his regret (but not exactly what he regretted, because yess, he would operate well beneath her notice next time).
"I'm… sorry."
So she would take him back again.
.
.
Nothing at first.
But then, ever so slowly, her doe eyes bloomed with a strange emotion: acceptance… and a fondness that would have been damn near unrecognizable had it not so poignantly echoed his own. Oh, what glorious relief.
His angel had forgiven him.
.
.
And so, he gave in.
It was an awkward and bumpy kiss, lasting all of two seconds, because he was unable to suppress the tidal surge of victory.
And she responded, his Hermione, with shy surprise: a warm rush of air, a breathless smile, with timid fingers twining tenderly at the nape of his neck. A buck-toothed Diana, curling innocently into him until her warmth seeped into his soul and there was no point in leaving ever again. She was so heavenly, so simple… so treasured, so cherished, so loved.
.
Loved.
The word echoed in his head with a startling clarity.
.
.
Tom wondered for the first time, feeling the lilting thud of one heart other than his own: can a child fall in love?
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[A/N: I literally read and re-read your reviews CONSTANTLY for motivation! So thank you, endlessly.]