Chapter 9: Tom Attends to Business
Tom casually strolled down the fire-lit stone corridor leading to Professor Meadow's office, filled with an almost giddy sense of anticipation. None of it showed in his expression, naturally, except for the bright manic gleam in his eyes. He stopped momentarily to inspect his appearance reflected in a polished shield held up by a random suit of armor (to triple check that everything was as it should be), only to frown when he noticed a rather large dust fluff stuck to the bottom of his pants.
He shook his pant leg, but nothing happened.
He shook it more aggressively.
Still nothing.
His eyes narrowed in aggravation.
Then the sound of female voices echoed from around the corridor corner, and Tom threw himself into a nearby alcove. He tried plucking the dust off of his pants with his fingertips before they approached, and then shook his fingers. The dirty lint clung to his digits stubbornly. His frown deepened as his irritation grew.
Fucking dust. Fucking dust made of dead magical skin cells that stubbornly resisted cleaning spells and stuck to anything close by that had the slightest magical signature…
Voices closing in. He swiped his hand on the dank castle wall and suppressed the urge to grimace as his fingers came away saturated and grimy. Then he leaned nonchalantly against the corner, ensuring as little of his body was actually touching the wall as possible, his dirty hand carefully hidden under the crook of his other arm. It's not as if he had a dozen spare uniforms, like some of his housemates. All fucking useless of course, given their propensity for mediocrity…
The girls cooed at him as they passed, and he winked flirtatiously. They tittered together like baby birds, loud and stupid and forever clamoring after his attention. He was well accustomed to hiding his derision, though, and smiled charmingly.
The tittering got even louder.
Fools. As if he would be interested in them. Or rather, interested in wasting his time with domestic pursuits when he could be engaging in his political ambitions, scheming and plotting and manipulating the people around him. Which is infinitely more entertaining than pandering to their melodramatic delusions propagated by overbearing institutions. Love (the unrealistic, fairytale kind of love these chits adored, which always seemed to feature ineffable amounts of infatuation dressed up as devotion, sacrifice, and grand gestures) was a lie fed to the masses to encourage them to procreate and thus settle with their lot in life. Stem their ambitions, as they were dragged down by ankle-bitters.
This was not for Tom. He could feel it in his bones.
Not to mention that these girls were just so boring…
He notably ignored thinking about the blaring exception to this rule as the girls kept walking.
As soon as the chits stumbled out of sight, Tom cast a wandless, nonverbal charm to clean his hand and robes (ignoring the slight itch between his shoulders from the freshly starched shirt) and continued his saunter down the corridor. Arriving at the door, he gave a polite knock and waited to be let in. Professor Meadows did so with her typical brand of passive aggressive, contemptuous over-indulgence. Tom ignored her in lieu of locating the ever-estimable Hermione Granger.
He couldn't stop the smirk as his anticipation grew, which finally reshaped his lips as he took in Hermione's scowl. Not directed at him, which was unfortunate, but the clear misery on her face as she took in their detention activities was just as appealing. Tom's interest grew as he witnessed magical sparks begin to glide down her chocolate colored ringlets, a rosy pink of color rising in her cheeks, both sure signs of her rising temper. It lent her a degree of beauty that only the addition of power could achieve, and Tom licked his lips in alacrity.
"Miss Meadows?" Hermione's tone was saccharine, but Tom could easily denote the underlying tones of anger and impatience. "What is this?"
"Why, Miss Granger," their pathetic excuse for a Professor cooed at her from the other end of the classroom, "I thought you could read."
Tom wasted no time sidling up behind the curly haired brunette to look over her shoulder. His eyebrow rose curiously when he saw a thin copy of a book titled, The Ladies' Book of Etiquette and Propriety, For Beginners. Reaching behind her, Tom casually flipped through a few random pages and found that the many illustrations and simplistic vernacular was best suited for engaging a small child.
Tom heard Hermione take an impatient facsimile of a deep breath. "Forgive me if this doesn't seem self-explanatory."
Miss Meadows' beady little eyes lit up with malice. "I want you to read that book and copy it, line for line, onto the parchment beside you." A pause, and then her pert, overpainted lips turned up. "I thought, perhaps, the basics would be an appropriate beginning for you. Considering how uncouth your behavior is, it's very apparent you were brought up by uncivilized beasts. I suspect muggles? Little difference, of course."
Tom circled the desk Hermione sat at so he could better see her expression, quite aware of how predatory the action made him seen. But she ignored him in favor of glaring at the older woman seated imperiously behind an egregiously ornate desk. Ah, there was that barely controlled fire. Her eyes burned with hate, and her lips were pressed thinly together in some vain attempt to stem that detestation.
The silence stretched on as Hermione struggled to reign control over herself, which Miss Meadows felt compelled to fill. "I admit, it was a trial to find a book you might actually be able to take in. Wizarding customs can be so complex… I was very fortunate to find one with pictures. As I thought, something simplistic will serve you best."
More silence.
"And I am so blessed to have the sympathies of fellow faculty members. Most of your professors are quite appalled at your brash behavior during class. An overbearing braggart and a poseur, possessing none of the natural deference and dignity of a proper young lady. They were quite supportive to hear about my little intervention."
The woman's beady eyes flicked to his in an implicative manner, and Tom felt his eyebrow rise in question. "And that is ignoring your more… promiscuous tendencies. But I suppose it isn't surprising that, uneducated, you have devolved to cater to your baser needs..." Tom easily ignored the slight, intrigued by her wording. It stank of Dumbledore's interference.
She turned back to Hermione with a sarcastic simper, "Hopefully this book will help."
Tom followed the older woman's gaze, and surface legilimency was reflexive as Hermione met his curious stare. Her mind featured another of her homicidal fantasies, and once more Tom had to give the girl credit for her meticulous attention to detail. The blood pouring out of the woman's severed limbs as she was brutishly dismembered by the Devil's Snare was incredibly realistic; not excessive (in contrast to the belied, almost cartoonish tendency of his peers), which gave Tom the impression that she had witnessed someone bleed to death before. And the glossy film covering the dead woman's eyes reminded him starkly of Myrtle's untimely demise.
Supported by her demonstrated nerve and the level of personal involvement in these fantasies, Tom suspected that she had killed before. The mere thought sent excitement and anticipation riveting through him.
He had a few critiques. She was rather straightforward with her premeditated murders, and they were regrettably short. Perhaps she would be receptive to some constructive criticism by way of recommended texts? How lovely would it be to see her fantasizing about performing the Entrail-Expelling Curse, or perhaps a retribution ritual?
His stark appraisal and appreciation were soon overcome by the joy and potential of unbridled power inherent within these dark thoughts. And from the roots of that, attraction. All of these emotions were stemming from her, of course, but there was something sympathetic about his magic that reveled in the feelings and reciprocated in turn. Tom watched with interest as Hermione's pupil's dilated and the soft pink of arousal softened her cheeks. Pretty, but more importantly it didn't take away from the intensity of her gaze.
He barely noticed that their faces had been inching towards each other when their professor felt it necessary to intervene. Loudly.
"I can see what Albus was insinuating. Clearly you are both in need of a chaperone, lest you completely discard what little virtue you have left. Come along, Mister Riddle, your assignment is on this desk over here."
Tom glanced back at Hermione just in time to see an embarrassed blush further redden her already pink cheeks, before he made his way over to the desk opposite. It would seem that he had a similar assignment, if the small illustrated book on the table demonstrated anything. Peter the Pureblood Leaves Home. Tom had a general idea of the content even before he fingered a few pages open, but what he saw on page six confirmed his suspicions.
Peter saw another boy at the market, dressed in shabby apparel and missing traditional robes. He turned to his mother and asked, "Why does this boy look so poor?"
His mother answered, "His parents are muggles, Peter. That means he has been raised without the knowledge and support of the magical world. He has no idea how to be a proper wizard."
In his innocence, Peter asked if something could be done to help the poor boy. His mother quickly corrected him, smiling at his naivete. "That could be dangerous. He wasn't raised right. He doesn't know how to be good or respectable."
Peter frowned. "Couldn't we teach him how?"
"Oh darling. That wouldn't be enough. He wasn't born with your intelligence or wit. Trying to teach him anything would be a pointless endeavor. Just remember to avoid him in the future."
Tom quickly catalogued his own feelings in response to this. There was some anger and some resentment. To be so bluntly reminded that the exclusion was so thorough. But he had already come to terms with the intolerance of purebloods, as well as noted the lack of any regimented systems of assimilation that could work to bridge the cultural divide and promote tolerance. This was not new information. And he had dug meticulously enough into his genealogy to confirm that he was not, in fact, a muggleborn, so the stereotypes hardly applied.
Although.
Tom's eyes flickered back to Hermione. It was well known throughout the school that Miss Granger had muggle heritage. The crude profane curse mark on her arm that he had witnessed during a couple of her rants proved as much. Tom had to admit that for the most part, the muggleborn stereotype crassly laid out in this small book held true, as most of these students lacked any true brilliance. But her.
Tom couldn't help his growing amusement, lined with vindictiveness, as he considered how his pureblooded peers were handling the fact that they were regularly bested by individuals with muggle heritage. There was something delicious in the thought that their obvious exceptionalism completely undermined these ridiculous teachings.
Naturally his gaze met hers, and he was intrigued by the curiosity fairly beaming from her face. Ah. Little Miss Granger was used to a version of himself with apparent self-control issues.
That was a problem. He had captured a glimpse of this supposed future version of himself during Hermione's petulant reveal while they "negotiated". And he could understand her reservation. So blunt and hamfisted with his approach that he might as well be Godric's descendent instead of Salazar's, and ugly as sin. While he could appreciate the reptilian aesthetic, it was not a look he could pull off.
Thankfully for him, he hadn't yet reached the point of no return. He was blessed with foreknowledge wrapped in such a pretty, petty, potentially homicidal package. His previous state of giddiness returned as he thought about it, and he couldn't resist the eager shiver that ran between his shoulder blades.
So much potential. Something he had long suspected, but was recently confirmed by prophesy.
They would have their moment.
In the meantime, however, he was forced to play nice with the tittering imbeciles and overly eager Pureblooded sheep. Something he found so much easier to do now that he found someone who held everyone else with as much contempt as he did. Someone he could count on as an ally, someone to share his struggles, rather than just another antagonizer. He picked up his quill and began to mindlessly copy the script from the small picture book, his thoughts still spinning as he basked in that unusual feeling of comradery.
Practically birds of feather. Partially due to magical compatibility, something he had confirmed weeks ago when he had thought to trace some of the Granger girl's reading material. Of course, he had read everything there was on the subject, initially disturbed by the idea that this random girl could be granted so much privilege on mere coincidence. A greater likelihood of physical compatibility was one thing, but sharing his power and using his wand? It also meant that she was less likely to trigger his curses, more likely to be ignored by his wards, and experience his offensive spells with less intensity. As she had previously been considered an adversary, this was dangerous and unacceptable.
But now that they had reached an accord, now that prophesy was on their side, he could allow himself to trust the oath and adjust to the idea of using this for his own purposes. Their power would be much easier to join, their wards easier to layer, their rituals more likely to come to fruition. And yes, as a teenage boy who had dabbled with exploring his sexuality, he was curious about whether or not sex with the witch would prove to be less underwhelming than his previous experiences.
He couldn't suppress another shiver of anticipation as he thought about it. Her soft, supple skin flushed pink with arousal, those shocks of electric magic sparking from her hair into his fingertips as he pulled- her growl, her eyes fierce as she fought for dominance. The sweet satisfaction as he slowly manipulated her soft capitulation, as she let out a breathy noise that was in between a sigh and a moan and completely surrendered her body.
Fuck. The potential.
He finished with a flourish, and sat back to once again examine the witch across from him. She had evidentially already finished, and was sitting back into her chair with her arms crossed and her expression mutinous. He smirked at her reaction, which stretched wider as the girl's eyes narrowed at him.
Finally her attention was where he wanted it to be.
Unfortunately, he only had to wait several moments for their charlatan of a professor to intercede once more. She was donning her pink monstrosity of a cape again, which trailed dramatically on the floor behind her, the sequins sparkling merrily from the fire's reflection. He could hear them slide across the stone floor as Miss Meadows made her way behind him, eventually looking over his shoulder and tsking disappointingly at his work.
Tom's eyes narrowed at the inherent chastisement within that sound. He reminded himself that this woman was hardly worth his respect, and therefore her opinion on his work was hardly his concern. He thus ignored the small sting and watched as Hermione was exposed to the same treatment. Tom was pleased to note that the girl handled the woman's derision with just as much grace, based off the sickly sweet smile she had adopted, even as she was clearly grinding her teeth. Tom considered, for what felt like the dozenth time, how appropriate her House placement truly was. Enough nerve for a Gryffindor, yes, but bookish, ambitious, and clever in a way that wasn't really representative of her house, and with decent self-control to match.
It made him wonder.
"So, children. What did we learn?"
Hermione's forced smile widened, displaying her teeth aggressively. "That bigotry of sex, class, and magical heritage is demonstratively perpetuated at an institutional level?"
Hm. She was a bit of a smart arse. The demonstrated lack of deference, though, especially for someone so undeserving of their respect made Tom smile.
The older woman's painted lips turned down in an exaggerated manner as she tutted at them. "It would have to be unreasonable to be considered bigotry, and I assure you that these divisions you find so abhorrent are only natural. Of course, individuals of different genders and from different stations of life have different roles to fulfill. I never stated that one was inherently better than the other, just that the division should be respected."
Tom felt the need to speak up in Hermione's defense. An unusual reaction for him, but there was something about this woman that inspired insurrection. "Actually, the book you gave me clearly stated that certain groups were better than others. Explicitly, those of a specific magical heritage, but the description alluded very strongly to class distinctions inherent within that divide."
"Ah, well magical heritage is a bit of a different case, isn't it? Those lacking magical power and proper cultural integration will never be able to truly coexist with the rest of wizarding society. They are doomed to subsist within the confines of society. I would imagine that their retreat into the muggle world, then, would be something of a repose."
Hermione's frown easily took up half of her face, and she barely waiting for the woman to finish before she started her rebuttal. "But Muggleborns spend years in wizarding society, and in the meantime, miss attaining important qualifications that would allow them to actually integrate with muggles. They also miss out on experiencing muggle culture, so their return could put them as much in danger of ostracization out of ignorance as they might experience in the magical community."
Miss Meadow's smile sweetened, as if she had finally caught the girl in some undoubtedly poorly-laid trap. "So you admit that it may be perhaps better for Muggleborns to stay in muggle society?"
Hermione looked at the woman like she was an idiot. "And wreak havoc with bursts of accidental magic that the Ministry doesn't have the time or resources to properly circumvent?"
"So we bind their magic." The woman shrugged in an exaggerated manner, as if attempting to bypass their understanding of how extreme the position she just stated really was. Tom's eyes narrowed at the woman in contempt at her lack of subtlety, and he couldn't help the habitual sneer as he considered what his life may have looked like if Dumbledore had chosen to bind his magic rather than invite him to Hogwarts. The thought alone was enough to spend panicked fear running through his body, and he had to tamp down on instinctually responding to that fear with violence.
Hermione was not faring much better. Her hands were clenched in frustration, magical sparks tingling down her back, and her face was contorted in anger. "You do not have the right to decide who is worthy of receiving the magical gift."
"Why not? These outliers are putting the rest of our society in danger. The sacrifice of the few to save the many is not such an outlandish idea. Besides, it is not as if there isn't precedent. What do you think happens to the Muggleborns born into families who are not willing to cooperate with our magical representatives?"
The look on Hermione's face made it clear to Tom that she had never considered such a thing before. To be perfectly honest, neither had he. Was this woman suggesting that the Ministry endorsed binding the magic of a child over perhaps magically coercing their parents? Fully knowing that doing such a thing before the child's magic was allowed to properly mature could seriously disrupt their physical and mental development?
Hermione seemed to be thinking along the same line of thought. "That isn't safe."
The woman performed another exaggerated shrug, as if attempting to physically demonstrate her indifference. "Necessary sacrifice."
Tom felt a heavy weight settle somewhere inside of his body after hearing those words -something sick, hot, and desperate- thudding in the confines of his flesh that felt like fear and anger wrapped tightly within a slimy sense of foreboding. There were several problems with the widespread political adaption of utilitarianism, foremost that the manufacture of politically defined conflicts necessitated the degradation of morality that eventually allowed for things like mass exploitation, slavery, and genocide, all in the name of protecting the majority. He normally wouldn't care, considering his own abandonment of conventional moral principles, but the implications were clear.
He was going to be forced to operate within a world that was infinitely more hostile than he had previously considered, all because he was raised as a muggle. He had thought he could maneuver his way into some position of power- it had been easy enough to do within the confines of the school. Although without wealth, he had good looks, charm, intelligence, an abundance of magical power, and institutional recognition of his academic and extracurricular achievements (thank you Hagrid). But within a government that could easily justify purposely stunting and disabling a small child with magical potential simply because of fear and ingrained prejudices, he doubted that he would be hired for any of the internships he was intending to apply for.
He could admit to being something of a fool. He had witnessed Hermione's pitiful attempts to make contacts and network during Slughorn's event, and saw the way she was repeatedly rebuffed. He had mistakenly thought he would receive different treatment, simply because he had always been exceptional, but now he wasn't so sure.
He could see now the reasons why his campaign in Hermione's past had descended into terrorism. Excluded completely from the system, there was no way to change it from within, so he would need to perform some sort of coup in order to establish power. Which would require brute force, backed with appropriate manpower and wealthy benefactors.
Hm. This would require him to reconsider his future strategy, something that would be more efficiently done with constructive feedback. He would need to hunt Hermione down and engage in another tête-à-tête sometime in the near future.
Evidentially their Professor considered their silence as a form of concession (although a quick scan of Hermione's surface thoughts demonstrated that she was merely deep in thought considering the potential ramifications, something Tom could sympathize with). She gave them both with a satisfied simper and dismissed Tom first. "You two hardly need additional opportunity to canoodle, the least I can do is separate your return to your dormitories."
Tom gave Hermione one last parting look, taking in her pale pallor and stressed eyes, before he swept from the room and walked with a determined stride to his next destination. Carefully paying attention to his surroundings and casting various spells to ensure he wouldn't be followed, it took him only a few minutes to reach the abandoned classroom, and he slipped inside as unobtrusively as possible.
What he saw there, neatly tied to a chair in the middle of the dusty room, caused him to smirk.
"Elijah, wasn't it?" Tom let out as a drawl.
The boy merely raised one rather unimpressed eyebrow.
Tom carefully noted the signs of light torture he had asked his knights to attempt before his arrival. A damp head of hair and soaked shirt, evidence of their attempt at waterboarding. Some bruises and shallow cuts, still slightly bleeding. Tom noted that the rope was tied too tight in some areas, as the surrounding skin was actively discolored in a clear display of cut circulation. An involuntary twitch, which demonstrated a round or two of the Cruciatus curse. But for all of that, his followers looked more disturbed than the boy did.
He glanced at Malfoy in question, and the blonde wasted no time taking him aside. The line of the boy's mouth was thin in obvious discomfort, which brought out the point in his chin. "He seems to enjoy the pain, sir. In, ah, a decidedly sexual manner." Malfoy then proceeded to wipe his hands along his pants in distaste, as if attempting to wipe away the associated memory, although the dried semen clinging to the boy's pantleg from previous attempts was hardly aiding in his efforts to improve his hygiene.
Tom rolled his eyes and banished the mess with a flick of his wrist. He then walked back over to his temporary hostage and took a minute to consider him in intrigue. He honestly couldn't remember ever having this problem before. "Are you having a pleasant evening so far?"
Elijah grinned unabashedly, apparently pleased at his predilection. "It's been a fucking treat, yeah."
"Do you even know why you are here?" At this point he couldn't really trust his knights to have appropriately communicated the severity of the situation.
"I imagine you discovered I overheard your conversation with 'Mione? And you're here to scare me straight." The boy then let out an inane giggle, as if amused by his own wording.
Tom was not amused. "I intend to protect my secrets, yes."
"Why did you assume they wouldn't be safe?" The boy asked the question as if he genuinely couldn't conceive a world in which he would snitch.
Tom didn't waste time trying to place whether this was daft but sincere Hufflepuff loyalty, or if the boy was simply skilled at hiding his dishonesty. "Better to be sure."
"So you want an oath?" The boy's expression became disgusted in a grossly exaggerated way. "Please don't tell me it will turn us on like it did with you and 'Mione? I'm sorry if you've been harboring any feelings, but I'm not really that attracted to you." He jerked his head meaningfully. "Malfoy at least looks a bit like a girl, with that long blonde hair and pretty eyelashes."
Tom turned to find the Malfoy heir looking at the boy in horror, turning his body away towards the walls as if to protect it from these lewd claims. Tom had to admit that the action was a bit amusing.
"No, that won't happen."
"Thank fucking god for small mercies then."
Tom stared at Elijah for another long minute, curious and considering, something the confined boy seemed to read. "You want to try for yourself?" he seemed to guess.
Tom nodded, and sauntered over to the chair. Looking more thoroughly at Elijah's disheveled appearance, Tom could see the ways in which misplaced cutting spells had cut the boy's shirt to tattered and released the boy's wrinkled cock from the confines of his pants. He spent a good minute trying to understand how that had happened, locating the placement of the spells, only to watch as the boy's penis slowly grew erect.
"I thought you weren't attracted to me?"
Elijah scoffed. "Well, you're fucking staring at it. And I like to be watched? Not my fucking fault."
Tom wasted little time muttering the Unforgiveable, out of inquisitiveness rather than any real sense of malice, and watched with interest as the boy's cock became thick and red. The boy squirmed within the confines of his bindings, obviously seeking friction rather than helplessly convulsing, and moaning helplessly into the mostly empty classroom. It took less than three minutes for him to orgasm, spraying spunk onto the floor in front of him, after which the boy merely sighed with arousal into the painful twitches. Tom purposely upped the ante, pumping more raw magical power into the spell, and watched as the boy's sighs ascended into screams. Relishing the tendrils of power and joy that curled around his frame from truly pushing the dark spell. But even then, there wasn't the same sense of desperate panic he received from other people he had tortured, merely an overwhelming sense of sensation.
Tom cut the spell, and considered the boy in front of him. "Interesting."
The still shaking boy managed to shoot him a cocky, twitchy grin.
"Are you willing to take this oath willingly? Or will I have to force you?"
That same grin widened. "And how would you force me? Magical oaths operate on more than just manufactured intent, which is why magical compulsion has such limitations. And your torture isn't working."
Tom pointed his wand down at the boy's crotch. "We could always cut it off. I wonder if you would experience pleasure in quite the same way?"
The boy's eyes widened in panic. "Low blow, fucking Christ. Deprive me of my life, sure, but not my fucking manhood. What kind of a man are you?"
"Someone interested in protecting what's mine from the inanity and disloyalty of her supposed friends."
The boy's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Wait, you're doing this for Hermione's sake?"
Tom frowned at the presumption. "Our interests are hardly mutually exclusive."
But the boy obviously ignored his words, looking at him as if he had never really seen him before. "I knew it, I fucking knew it. Alright, I'll agree to an oath under one condition. I get to cater at your wedding."
Tom's eyes widened in surprise as his internal thoughts stuttered to a stop. "What?"
Elijah rolled his eyes in exasperation, still looking far too comfortable to be bound and abused than any person had a right to. "Oh please. As if that isn't fucking happening. But I call dibs, you hear? I want to be in charge of everything food related, from the cake all the way to the fucking hors d'oeuvre. Deal?"
Tom couldn't help the rising suspicion that he was dealing with a complete idiot. But fine, that was no large compromise. In the incredibly unlikely event that he and Hermione ever agreed to partake in the faulty and pointless institution of marriage, this boy could cook the food necessary to turn their sycophantic guests complacent. "Fine."
The stupid boy let out a victorious grin, and Tom couldn't help feeling a deep sense of foreboding, a stray thought that suggested that perhaps- perhaps- he may have to deal with this idiot for decades to come.
But surely not.