Chapter 12

She tells him he must leave first. They can't be seen walking back together, she repeats.

Tom clearly likes the worried note in her voice. He smiles a strange, contented smile as he steps away from her. He thinks he's gotten what he wanted. He thinks he will get more.

He just might.

He looks back towards the castle's shivering lights set against a crown of dark mountain peaks and his smile becomes illicit.

"Let me help you back to your rooms," he insists, softly. He knows she will say no, but he likes the taste of intimacy on his tongue. Whatever she may say or do to discourage him, she has already allowed him into a forbidden space.

Hermione knows this. It's difficult to slip back into the measured coolness of 'Madam Granger'. She does her best.

"There's been enough excitement for one night. We will talk again soon. Off you go, Tom."

Eventually, reluctantly, but also rather happily, he takes his leave of her. Deep down, despite his protectiveness, he relishes the thought of her in a small amount of pain.

The forest doesn't abide snow. It only starts to cover the ground past the gamekeeper's hut. She can see his footsteps in the glimmering white. He's become a shadow.

Hermione heaves a sigh, leaning back against the tree. Her foot feels caught in a bear trap. The ache is a mouth full of teeth. She is terrified, and the terror runs through her like a delicious, reckless current. She waits for her heart to stop beating so loud. The long journey to her room will be a trial. These heightened emotions will only make it harder.

But she might be excused. She'd almost died tonight. It seems hardly possible now as she's standing here, breathing in the cold night air. She'd gotten used to the relative safety of Hogwarts. This is a rude awakening, or perhaps a reminder that the school is only a gilded cage. Who sent that creature? Did they truly want her dead or merely forewarned? Whoever it was must have known about her plans tonight, or they must have been following her… But how much did they know? Had they been listening in on her and Firenze, despite the centaur's promise of privacy?

These questions chase her across the snow on the long trek to the castle doors.

Though Hermione did her best to set her ankle to rights and ease the swelling, her pronounced limp is a clear indication that her ministrations were barely adequate. Madam Erwin certainly agrees when she goes to visit her in the morning. The elderly witch shakes her head in disapproval after seeing the effect of Hermione's shoddy spells. "You might have done better with Muggle remedies."

Hermione doesn't mention that by the time she got in bed, she was so exhausted that she fell asleep halfway through swaddling her foot.

Madam Erwin blessedly does not ask any more questions. It takes her no more than ten minutes to restore mobility to her ankle, though Hermione still feels a small twinge when she stands up.

"You'll need to rest for a while and not be on your feet so much," the healer advises, looking her over. "Fewer library patrols, perhaps."

Hermione smiles. "I suppose I'll manage."

"Madam Erwin, she's hitting me again! Ow, you lunatic!" a plaintive voice calls out from a bed further away.

The aggrieved healer raises her eyes to the heavens. "There's nothing I like more than noisy children."

Madam Erwin pulls the curtains back and rushes across the ward to reprimand the troublemakers. Hermione spies two students, still dressed in their Quidditch gear, lying in beds across from each other. The red and green uniforms already give her a fair guess as to the reason for their animosity.

"How could I hit him from across the room?" the Gryffindor, a young girl with sharp blue eyes and lovely dark hair demands. "He's obviously lying because slander is the only weapon available to him. His wand work is deplorable and I can outdo him in fisticuffs."

The boy points his finger at her, incensed. "I'll have you know I can hex you right off your broomstick and wipe that smirk off your face."

"Mr. Mulciber! Do you wish to serve detention? How dare you threaten a student with physical harm in my ward?"

"Me? What about what she said? She's the one who started it! She should not be allowed to play Quidditch, anyway. The sport's been ruined since they allowed girls to join."

"Yes, it must hurt to be bested by a girl. Then again, you've always been bested by everyone, Mulciber, so you should be accustomed to the feeling by now," the Gryffindor girl shoots back with a teasing smirk.

Hermione recognizes her now, despite the Quidditch gear. Though many of the students who frequent her classes and the library tend to only bear surnames to her, this girl is slightly more memorable. Minerva 'Minnie' McGonagall is the best Sixth Year student in the school and a very spirited one, to boot. Hermione has seen her on Prefect duty. She has a certain natural inclination towards authority, though she's never too hard on the younger students, as some Prefects are wont to be. She also excels in Transfiguration.

Hermione studies her with interest. You would want someone like Minnie on your side, rather than against.

Mulciber presents far less interest. He is one of those Slytherin boys who thought she was rather 'brazen' for not treating Riddle with respect. He's not so different from his older brother. Mulciber, the Elder – he was the boy Myrtle Warren was utterly obsessed with, though Merlin knows, she had no good reason to like him.

Myrtle.

Hermione feels a small tremor in her hands. She hasn't thought of Myrtle in years. Maybe because it's less painful that way. Maybe because her untimely death still feels like someone's idea of a horrible joke. Maybe because she's a coward.

She died in that very bathroom – that same bathroom where they'd had that awful argument –

"Will you be needing a pain-relief potion?" Madam Erwin asks her kindly when she returns to her side.

"Oh, no… thank you, I'll just be on my way."

Madam Erwin gives a rueful sigh. "Actually, I might need one myself with those two on my hands. Remember what I advised, and keep your feet up."

Hermione nods, smiles, turns to leave.

She looks back at the bickering students one more time. All young people find death utterly impossible. Myrtle must have too.

Hermione should know better, by now. Death is always right around the corner, waiting for you to slip up and fall.

In class, her eyes fall on Minerva more often. She is interested to see who her friends are. She seems to be well liked by her peers. 'Minnie' is effortlessly funny and effusive. She's not as bossy or high-strung as Hermione used to be. But she's also more vocal, more comfortable sharing her opinions. Hermione often had to keep silent and strangle her temper in the cradle, and only let it out in private.

Myrtle.

She chases the thought away.

No, Minerva is not burdened by any hidden rages. She is clearly the leader of her dormitory group. The other girls follow her like ducklings. Some of the boys vie for her attention, some stay away, but watch her from afar. She attracts people, though she certainly creates enmities too. She is a Half-Blood, whose father is a Muggle, but whose witch mother is well-regarded for her Quidditch career, as she learns from Madam Erwin on her next visit.

Minerva McGonagall is, in other words, someone worth recruiting.

To top it off, she used to look up to Professor Dumbledore. She was one of his star pupils, just like Hermione. She might be more than willing to help his cause and bring others to the fold. The problem is…Minerva doesn't seem to trust Hermione. She is respectful to a fault, but she wants to remain loyal to her beloved Professor and Head of House. Madam Granger feels like a temporary usurper, which is why Minerva is always quite reserved in their interactions. It did not bother Hermione before, but now she wonders how she might draw 'Minnie' to her side.

Her shifting attentions do not go unnoticed.

One evening, soon after, the Gryffindor Prefect is beset by an invisible hand. Her studying session is rudely cut short when her parchments and books suddenly erupt in flames, unprompted. The poor girl's startled shrieks rouse everyone in the library. She conjures water out of her wand in vain; the green flames have been charmed against it. Soon, they spread over the entire table. It's only Hermione who, having arrived on the scene in due course, manages to put them out with a more advanced Finite Incantatem.

"Heavens…how awful," Minerva breathes out, wiping cinder from her cheek. "I've never seen such a horrid fire."

Hermione frowns, surveying the surrounding tables, looking for the culprit. The occupying students have all gathered round to witness the spectacle.

"Did you happen to see who cast the hex?" Hermione demands.

Minnie shakes her head. "I didn't see anyone. I thought it might've been one of the books. I know some volumes sometimes combust." Her lovely face suddenly darkens. "Do you think it could be Mulciber, trying to exact his petty revenge?"

"If it is him, I will make sure he pays for replacements for your books and spends the rest of term in detentions for damages against the library alone." Though, Hermione is quite sure Mulciber had nothing to do with this. Minerva hadn't lied when she'd called his wand work deplorable.

The girl looks at her sceptically. "Will you, really?"

"Certainly. I will speak to Professor Slughorn directly. He and I are on very good terms." Well, we ought to be, after that infernal party. "Now, shall I see if we can recover any of your essay work from the ashes?"

Minerva gives her a rare smile. "You can do that, truly? I'd be very indebted to you, Madam Granger. Thank you."

Hermione brushes her gratitude aside, but she secretly rejoices at the small opportunity which has landed in her lap. The incident has somehow worked in her favour.

And she knows exactly who to punish for it.

The knock is, as always, light.

"Come in, Mr. Riddle."

Tom slips in quietly. The verb 'slither' comes to mind.

It is quite unfair how casually handsome he looks in the dimmed light of the chandelier's candles.

Hermione looks down at her book to hide her prying eyes.

"Madam Granger." He bows his head. "I am here for my detention." He raises a small summoning note between two fingers. "Though I must plead ignorance as to my supposed misdeed. Would you care to inform me what I have done wrong?"

"I'm sure you can work it out yourself."

Tom smiles coolly. "I cannot read minds."

"Yes, you can."

"Well, I cannot read yours so easily."

"What a shame," she drawls, turning a page.

"May I take a seat?"

"You may not, not until you admit your transgression."

Tom looks about him, unperturbed. He scans the walls of books around them. The shelves have been rather depleted by the Aurors, but one may still see the signs of an impressive collection. Dumbledore liked his curios.

"Mulciber is quite distressed, you know," he says, matter-of-fact. "He keeps raving about Minerva McGonagall being a lying cow. He swears he wasn't even in the library that night. Now, why would he lie about that?"

Hermione suppresses an eye-roll. "Why did you do it?"

Tom shrugs. "You've been watching her lately. No doubt, you see some potential in her. I only wanted to show you she's not a very talented witch."

"She is a talented witch. You're merely jealous."

Tom scoffs. "Minnie is small game. Yes, she's not entirely inept, but her mind is rather boring." He smirks. "She used to be infatuated with me, you know. Like most Gryffindors, she lacks subtlety. She was quite obvious with her long stares and breathless hellos. We snogged once or twice in a back alley in Hogsmeade. I can't say it was very memorable, though I hear she got upset afterwards because I apparently snubbed her. She then tried to pretend she'd never liked me. Silly, isn't it, what people do to conceal their bruised egos?"

Hermione gives a mirthless chuckle. He's one to talk of bruised egos…

She studies him carefully. He is clearly expecting her to be bothered by his little confession. Hermione can't deny that the thought of him snogging someone else is, unfortunately, rather…irritating. But she won't give him the satisfaction.

Instead, she cocks her head, pensively. "Do you think she still harbours feelings for you?"

Tom frowns. He is not happy with this turn in the conversation. "Who can say what these idiotic children think or feel? It is of little interest to me."

"You're lying. You routinely break into their minds to look for secrets."

"That is purely pragmatic."

Hermione leans forward in her chair. "It shouldn't be. You claim to be the leader of your little Slytherin group. You ought to care about your followers beyond their utilitarian function."

Tom's elegant shoulders shake with laughter. "How droll. Why would I care beyond that?"

Hermione rests her chin in her hand. Lecturing him on morality and plain human decency would fall on deaf ears. Besides, she's in short supply of decency, herself, these days. She tries a different tactic.

"Because that is how you keep them. You mentioned bruised egos. People are willing to do a lot for their pride, yes. People are also willing to do a lot more for attention." She stares at him pointedly. Tom clicks his jaw. The not very subtle remark has hit home.

"They want to be appreciated," she continues undeterred. "They want to be valued. You told me you'd like me to teach you, so I am. You shouldn't have discarded Minerva McGonagall. That was a mistake. You don't cast aside valuable people. But I suppose you are young, so your errors of judgement must be excused."

Tom's temper flares. His eyes brim with warm fury. Not hot, not yet. Her insults always affect him in such curious, complicated ways.

"Would you have me seduce her again, Madam Granger?"

Hermione only hesitates a moment. "Yes."

He parts his lips briefly. His sharp intake of breath tells her he hadn't expected that. He is seduced by the notion of seducing, especially when it comes from her.

Tom stares at her like a man starving.

"What would you have me do to her?"

But Hermione isn't going to play that game. Yet.

"Do you remember what I told you in the forest?"

"Of course," he says, breathless. "Every word."

She suppresses a shiver of pleasure. "I told you I'll need your help. We'll need quite a few like-minded people on our side for the upcoming fight. Your Slytherin underlings… can they be counted upon?"

Tom tilts his head. "You haven't told me much about this future conflict. This gathering of followers, does it have anything to do with Professor Dumbledore?"

Hermione raises an eyebrow. "And what if it does? Very few of us will be spared the Ministry's wrath. You must leave aside your petty dislike of him. Can I count on your Slytherin underlings?"

He does not seem happy with her cavalier dismissal of his concern, but he nods all the same. "They do as I say. And so, they are yours."

"That's what I like to hear. We will need Gryffindors, too. As many students as are willing to fight. Minerva, if we can persuade her, should be a nice addition. She will bring others with her, especially if she understands Dumbledore is a key figure in this movement." She pauses for breath. "And we will need to train, of course. The practical portion of your Defence against the Dark Arts classes is hardly sufficient for any actual duelling. I will think on the best means to do that. In the meantime, we must keep our heads low and not attract unwanted attention."

Tom's brow is furrowed in thought. "You want to gather dissenters, and you want to train them. You are, essentially, planning an insurrection."

Hermione shakes her head.

"No. We are nowhere near as strong as that. I am only building defences. Sand bags around edifices and ammunition caches below ground," she murmurs sadly, thinking of the endless Muggle war. "The bare minimum, really."

A grim and silent understanding passes between them. Tom has seen his fair share of war-ridden London during the scorching summers at the orphanage.

He clears his throat. "And you are willing to trust me with this."

Hermione regards him coolly. "Does that matter to you?"

"Quite."

She smiles a small smile. "Do you see? People want to be valued. They yearn for a purpose. Professor Dumbledore did not appreciate you as he should have, did he?"

Tom's eyes burn with want. He must know he is being manipulated to some extent, and is unable and unwilling to resist it.

"You know the answer to that."

"That was his mistake. You were his Minerva, in a sense. But I won't underestimate you. I know you can be an effective leader, Tom."

"…as long as I am under your munificent guidance," he adds, with a teasing, spiteful smile. Hermione rather likes that smile.

"Of course."

Hungry and willing, Tom approaches her desk. "Will you teach me the evisceration spell? The one you used on that wretched creature in the forest?"

Hermione had expected this. She steeples her fingers above the desk. "I will. After you've served your detention for the night."

"My –"

"You did not think I'd forget, did you? That fire was no small trifle. You must learn to respect library property and your fellow students' wellbeing. You may take a seat over there." Hermione points to a small alcove hidden within the walls of Dumbledore's personal library. Inside there is a small writing desk, with quill and paper on top.

Tom chuckles. "Merlin, you won't make me write about Dumbledore's virtues again, will you?"

Hermione smiles. "Oh, no. This will be a much simpler affair."

Tom is curious. He likes games, and he particularly loves her games. He saunters to the appointed desk and takes a seat. He picks up the quill. "What shall you have me write this time?"

" "I will not set fires in the library again " fifty times, if you please."

He pauses with the quill in hand. He senses a trick. A catch. Something out of order.

But he bends his head and begins to write. The only sound in the room is the even scratching of feather tip on parchment.

After a few moments, she hears a muffled gasp. Tom stills in his chair, holding out his hand.

"Problem?" Hermione asks sweetly.

"Not at all," he replies tensely. "This is a very interesting quill. Might I ask whence you got it?"

"I made it."

His voice falters slightly. "Did you? How clever."

She can hear resentment in his voice. Envy and admiration too, and something like lust.

"I think so too."

In truth, Hermione had only charmed it the previous day. She had been thinking of appropriate punishments for his behaviour. She was becoming increasingly good at coming up with punishments.

"Is it too difficult for you, do you think?" she asks softly.

Tom grits his teeth. "Hardly. I commend your ingenuity. It is a very effective tool."

He continues to write, seemingly unbothered. His elegant frame does not flinch or recoil, even as the charmed quill takes more of his blood and digs little furrows into his flesh. The undue tension in his locked jaw is the only sign of his suppressed pain.

His fortitude is an exercise in pain toleration, but it is also one in restraint. Will he actually finish the task? Will he sit there and let her do this to him?

Hermione watches him, feeling more and more unsettled. Guilt and doubt begin to nag at her mind as Tom continues to write. Has she perhaps gone too far?

What was she thinking, charming a quill to do something so terrible?

This isn't like her.

Is it?

She had been pleased with her quill yesterday, but she can't remember why anymore.

She rises from her chair and climbs down the short flight of steps. She will tell Tom to stop; she will tell him it's enough.

But Tom, sensing her approach, bends over his task furiously, doing his best to occlude his writing from her. The quill flies over the page with flesh-mortifying speed. He writes with a kind of stubborn zeal. His bleeding hand is trembling, but he ignores it. She can see his rather laboured breathing, the way he is struggling to remain dignified. And from her vantage point, Hermione notices something else.

He's not trying to hide the parchment. He's trying to hide his treacherous body.

"That's enough, Tom. You may stop."

"I'm not quite finished yet," he says, voice tight, quill sliding angrily along the page.

"Yes, you are."

"I'm perfectly able to withstand your little punishment -"

"I said stop."

The quill flies from his hand into hers.

A ripple of fury disturbs his otherwise perfectly still back.

"Turn around, Tom."

"I'd rather not."

Hermione folds her arms, leaning back against her desk. "I know, but you must do it."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to."

It's as simple as that. It is the game and the agreement and the unspoken tug of war between them.

The small chair scrapes against the flagstones. Tom sits before her, his erection quite visible against the lining of his trousers.

He stares boldly into her eyes, a muddled mixture of shame and desire reflected in his.

Hermione's throat dries up. She forces herself to meet his gaze.

"I knew you enjoyed pain, but I didn't know you liked it that much."

Tom's right arm is bleeding. It's staining his white shirt. He lifts his chin angrily. "Suffering fortifies. What shall you have me do next, Madam Granger?"

She swallows thickly. Nothing.

She should clean his wound first. Then she should tell him to leave. That is what she ought to do.

Oh, God. She's not going to do that, is she?

"I …can't let you walk out of here like that. It would be rather cruel."

"I thought cruelty was rather the point," he replies huskily.

Hermione licks her lips. The problem is, cruelty comes in many forms.

"I think you've suffered enough. You must be quite uncomfortable, Mr. Riddle. You might unbutton yourself."

Under different circumstances, it would have been amusing to examine the dumbfounded expression on his face. But these are the circumstances. His surprise is quickly replaced by a mixture of undiluted lust and agony.

Tom exhales softly. "Is that what you want?"

No. Say no.

"Yes."

He does not need a second invitation. Tentatively, he begins to unbutton himself. He is not exactly gauche, but she can tell this is not a task he has performed often in front of others.

Tom waits for her to continue.

"You know what to do next," she says hoarsely.

"I'm afraid I will need clear instructions," he says slowly, deliberately.

Hermione can see how hard the erection strains against his underclothes. She crosses her legs at the ankles.

She finds refuge in the pedantry of the librarian. "Relieve yourself, Mr. Riddle. I'm sure you know how. Use your hand. Stroke to completion."

Tom Riddle shudders before her, wracked by her clinical words. It is fascinating. She wants to see him shudder again. She wants to see him undone.

He sinks his hand inside his underclothes and releases a small hiss as his hand wraps around his cock. It must be so hot to the touch.

"Take it out," she adds, horrified with herself, yet unable to stop. She must see it, she must see everything.

Tom's cheekbones are rather flushed. He does as he is told.

Hermione has not been privy to male anatomy before, and never this close. She stares and stares and stares.

She has studied drawings before in certain books. The male penis always struck her as ugly and negligible and not worth the bother. But she can't take her eyes away from his cock: the colour, the shape, the size, the swollen veins, the already leaking mushroom tip, the foreskin and the way it snags against his restless, trembling fingers– all horribly, terribly appealing. She clenches her hands around the desk's edge behind her back.

There is something intrinsically erotic about a young man's parted lips as he strokes himself. His face is a study in degrees of violence. It's as if he's hurting himself repeatedly and the gaping wound only makes him want to hurt more. His fingers move haphazardly over the shaft, unable to find proper rhythm. His cock keeps slipping from his grip. Hermione realizes it's because of her. Because she's staring at him doing it. It's too much to bear. He will lose all control. His eyes stray down for a moment.

"No. Keep your eyes on me," she says, quickly, shamelessly. "Only look at me. And grip harder."

Tom releases a long-suffering, lewd groan, tilting his head back, meeting her gaze with abandon. Hermione can hear the blood rushing in her ears.

He truly is a beautiful boy.

"Does it feel good?" she asks, eyes darting from his face to his cock.

Tom tries to bury a second moan in his throat, but it comes out anyway. He can no longer stay silent. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

He glares at her. He wants to tear her to pieces. He wants to be torn apart by her. A third moan escapes his lips.

"Yes what?" she repeats, pressing for what she needs to hear.

"Yes, Madam Granger. Fuck, I'm close–"

The obscenities are wrenched from his lips like a curse. It makes her toes curl. "How close? Tell me."

"Too close…ahh...fuck…almost…there…"

Watching him struggle with words is a thing of beauty.

"Don't go too fast, or you will make a mess," she warns, eyes lost in the image of a blurry hand, trying to slow down. Tom hisses in pain. He can't slow down.

She is tempted to tell him he can't come yet, not until she says so. But she has already been quite cruel tonight and she doubts he can master that much self-control at this point. Perhaps another time…

No, no, you can't ever do this again. It's vile. It's sick.

It's mesmerizing.

He is fucking his hand with her name on his lips. Broken syllables of her name roll off his tongue. But he can't even say it, not really. The sounds are strangled in his throat.

She decides to be kind.

"You've been very good tonight, Tom," she says softly. "So good."

He shuts his eyes as the echo of her approval reverberates through him, fist pumping his cock.

So good. So fucking good.

A low wail scratches at his throat for release, and he comes all over his hands and thighs, staining his trousers. Making a mess.

Hermione can't help a small moan at the sight of him, covered in seed and the blood she's wrung from him. Her thighs rub against each other painfully. She is soaked through, almost unable to move. She is shocked by the strength of her arousal and the lengths she went to, to have it satisfied.

"Clean yourself up," she mumbles, turning her body away, trying to regain some form of decency

Tom is attempting the same thing, poorly.

They're both panting. They're both trying to come down from a high. They both want more.

Hermione knows she needs to put some immediate distance between them, because they are both teetering on the edge of something dangerous, and it would only take one push. Very much like death, pleasure.

Without looking at him, she forces herself to walk back to her desk.

She flicks her wand and the door to Dumbledore's office opens with an incriminating creak. "Have a good night, Mr. Riddle."

The young Slytherin doesn't reply.

When she turns her head again, she sees the door closing softly behind him.